Thomas Harlan - The shadow of Ararat

On his hilltop, Baraz's quick eye caught the flex in the enemy lines and saw too that the enemy right wing had continued its slow advance, leaving it only two or three hundred yards from his own right wing and the heavy cavalry there.

"Signal Salabalgus," he shouted at his banner men. They raised the lurid green banner of the House of Lord Rhazates and waved it in a figure eight. He looked to the left where the Roman equites and lanciarii were still sitting patiently, waiting for the outcome of the infantry melee in the middle of the field.

Heraclius must be there, he thought. Being unusually patient too.

He waved a dispatch rider over. He leaned close to the boy. "Message to Lord Gundarnasp on the left. Tell him to send his Lakhmids and Huns forward against the Roman horsemen. When they are distracted, he is to charge in behind the archers."

Baraz looked back to the right. Salabalgus' formations were aswarm with activity as they shook out in preparation to charge. The Boar smiled, long teeth flashing in the midday sun.

– |Khan Ziebil saw the waving banner too, and his eyes caught the movement among the Persian clibanari. He whistled; a piercing sound that cut the air like a knife, then pointed forward and chopped his hand down. Fifteen thousand Khazar lancers put spur to horse and leapt forward as one. The earth shook as they charged forward, their horses lengthening stride to keep up. As the charge sprinted forward, it folded out into three wedges, each one led off by a tightly packed band of heavily armored men. The ground flew past under the hooves of the horses.

At the head of the middle wedge, Ziebil at last cut loose with a long shrieking cry. Ah-la-la-la-la-la!

As they galloped forward, Ziebil's men drew their bows, fitting shaft to string, and at a bare hundred paces-let fly. Their arrows arced up, a hungry dark cloud, and then whistled down, slashing through the ranks of the Persians. Behind the arrow storm, the horsemen continued to charge forward. Now lances rasped from their wooden sockets and were held overhand, ready to strike.

– |Galen felt the rumble in the earth like the soundless echo of a great drum. He rose up, shading his eyes with his hand. The banners of the Khazars on the left wing were in full flight, plunging forward into the Persian right. He wheeled his horse and shouted for his trumpeters.

"Signal advance, Third Gallica and Second Audiatrix, by ranks, forward on the flank!"

The blare of the trumpets drowned the rest of his words. Dispatch riders pelted off for each wing of the Roman reserve. Galen slapped his thigh with a glove, staring to the west.

Where are you? he wondered, thinking of Heraclius.

Ahead of him, the two Legions that he had held back from the butcher's work at the center of the line picked up their shields and trotted forward in column, swinging wide around the backs of the legionnaires already locked in battle.

– |Baraz watched in mounting fury as the confused mass of cavalry on his right wing finally sorted itself out in preparation to charge. Precious minutes had been lost as the bands of horsemen jockeyed for the front rank and snarled each other over matters of clan honor. He could make out Salabalgus' banners, and the old man had held his position, waiting for his commanders to beat their men into position, but it was too late. The Khazar charge had sprung forward like a pack of well-trained hounds. Baraz could only look on in sick admiration at the smooth flow of the attack.

The first wedge slammed into the Persian horse at a gallop, right at the junction between Salabalgus' formation and Doronas'. The Persians had barely begun to move forward at a walk when the Khazar charge tore into them like a heavy axe into a lamb. The clang of the impact echoed over the whole field, and Baraz winced as the shining wedge of Khazars plowed through his right wing.

Then the second and third wedges struck home and the entire right wing collapsed into a swirl of men fighting for their lives. Salabalgus' banner vanished under the wall of Khazar lancers and did not rise again. Baraz ground his fist into the saddle. The helms of the clibanari were bobbing silver islands in a sea of Khazar horsemen. Long hooked poles stabbed at the Persian knights, clutching at their armor and helmets. Lassos snaked out, snaring their throats.

Another sound caught Baraz's attention, and he turned back to the center of the field. The Roman lines in the middle had suddenly unfolded like a steel flower. The thick line of Roman infantrymen had unfurled its wings and was swinging around to compress the huge throng of Persian spearmen and levies in the center.

The Boar drummed his fingers on the saddle horn. There were only two dispatch riders left. He beckoned them over.

"You," he said, jabbing a thick finger at the first one, "ride back along the road. Find every commander and tell them to stop coming forward. We need maneuvering room, not more problems. When you run out of bands of men to hold up, get them moving back to where we camped last night. Form up there. I fear I'll be along presently."

"And you," he said to the second one, "get after Gundarnasp on the left wing and countermand the order I sent before. He is not to attack, repeat, not to attack. He should regroup his light horse and fall back to this hill behind a screen, protecting our left."

The boys dashed off and the Boar sat for a moment, brooding. He still had his Immortals, patiently waiting at the bottom of the hill. The center looked like a complete loss, but it would keep the Roman infantry busy for a while. The right wing was a more severe disaster. He could commit his reserve and rectify the situation, or he could wait for more troops to form up…

– |A thin man with a sallow face leaned close to Heraclius, whispering in his ear. The Eastern Emperor smiled, delighted at the news. He pressed a bag of heavy coins into the priest's hand and smoothed out his mustaches. The day was proceeding in a better fashion than he had expected. He kneed his horse and it trotted forward through the ranks of waiting men. Twenty thousand heavy cavalrymen were arrayed along the right wing of the Roman army in two echelons. Heraclius reached the front rank of the echelon he commanded and wheeled his horse. His voice was amplified by the design of his helmet.

"Men of Rome! The enemy is in flight. Advance at all speed!"

The Eastern nobles picked up the cry and urged their mounts forward. Slowly at first, but picking up speed, the mass of horsemen rode forward. Within moments they were thundering over a shallow rise, bearing down on the Persian flank at full tilt.

Heraclius was in front, his great tan stallion flying over the ground. He leaned forward, reveling in the rush of wind over his face. He held his longsword back, parallel to the horse, waiting for the moment to strike. Persian light horse, Huns by the look of them, scattered out of the way in front of the thundering charge. Some turned in the saddle and shot arrows back at the Eastern knights, but far too few to do any damage.

The Persian horse loomed, almost at rest. They began to move forward, lashing at their horses. Heraclius could see their faces, frightened by the sight of the twin wedges of cataphracti storming toward them. The line of horses and men flew forward, legs blurring over the ground. He straightened up, his sword flashing out.

"Rome!" he shouted at the top of his voice. "Roma Victrix!"

– |Ziebil coughed blood onto the ground, feeling the earth under his hands shake with the thunder of hooves. Somewhere on the field of battle, a cavalry charge was going home. He staggered up, his long knife in his hand. His helmet was gone, smashed off by the blow of a Persian war mace. Blood streamed into his right eye and he blinked furiously, trying to keep it clear. Horses and men rushed by him in the swirl of battle. His horse was gone, as was the small round shield that had been strapped to his upper arm.