The Storm of Heaven (102 page)

The two Faithful were already in motion, darting forward along the walkway, long swords bare in their hands. Vladimir shouted in outrage. "Come back!" But they were already trading swordstrokes with the first of the Slavic warriors. One of the Slavs pitched back, his head half cloven from his neck. The Faithful were powerful men, with arms like tree-trunks and in heavy armor. Against them, the lightly armored Slavs were terribly outmatched.

Much the same carnage was occurring below, where the well-protected legionaries were wreaking a bloody slaughter with their heavy stabbing swords upon the Slavic spearmen. The Roman shield wall had reformed, now in two steady ranks, and was beginning to advance. More and more Slavs poured in, though, now sprinkled with Avar nobles in full armor. Arrows continued to rain down as well, spiking darkly from the earth or pinning men, screaming, into the bloody ground.

A Slav rushed up the slope of rampart at Vladimir, his eyes wild, his beard matted with sweat and mud. The Walach rose up, swinging his heavy laminated shield around. The man stabbed with a crude spear which ground across the painted linen face of his
scutum
, then Vladimir struck with his axe. The tempered iron head plowed through the man's flimsy pine shield, splintering it, and sunk deep into his chest. The Slav staggered, falling to his knees. Blood flooded from his mouth. Vladimir kicked him away with a boot, wrenching the axe from his chest.

Pity Nicholas isn't here,
he thought, crouching down again, one eye on Dwyrin.
That lich-sword of his would drink deep today.
The roar of battle below him continued to mount as more Romans, Slavs and Avars poured into the melee.

Shahr-Baraz rode swiftly, pleased with the smooth, even gait of his warhorse. The
pushtigbahn
kept pace. The earth under their hooves trembled with motion. Shahr-Baraz lifted the visor of his helmet and craned his neck, looking to the right. His formation was moving swiftly at a diagonal behind the huge mass of his spearmen and archers.

A constant snapping sound filled the air, the effect of five thousand archers and slingers firing into the oncoming ranks of the Roman Legions. The Boar watched with a critical eye, seeing a dark cloud hissing into the morning sky. The archers—men in long woolen shirts, dark trousers and round leather caps, wooden quivers slung over their backs, long-staved bows in hand—were trying to keep up a steady rate of fire. Instead, clumps of arrows lofted skyward and fell in patchy rain, rather than a constant storm upon the enemy.

"Bah!" the King of Kings rumbled. He hoped they weren't hitting their own troops. Long lines of spearmen and some dismounted
diquans
in heavy armor fronted the archers. Ahead of the Boar, the left wing of the spearmen advanced slowly, urged forward by the horse archers anchoring the Persian left. While the Romans advanced across the whole length of the field in line, the Persians were only swinging their left out to meet them, making a long diagonal.

The Boar didn't know if the Romans would match his maneuver, but if they did, their far left flank would be exposed to the heavy Arab cavalry hidden on the hill, behind ranks of infantry and archers. Shahr-Baraz doubted if the Romans would be so rash. Of course, this left their right flank exposed to the weight of his attack.

He cantered forward, seeing bands of spearmen part before him. A clump of banners and flags lay ahead where a band of armored knights milled about on the field. Shahr-Baraz urged his mount forward and was quickly among them.

"
Shahanshah
!" General Khadames turned his horse towards Shahr-Baraz, gray beard jutting from his helmet. The older man looked grim, his face pinched. "We're moving, lord, but slowly."

The Boar nodded, raising his hand to signal
halt
to the Immortals trotting up behind. Off to his right, where Khadames' captains were driving the spearmen and archers forward, the body of a great host of
clibanarii
was waiting on muddy, churned ground. The
diquans
were moving restlessly, their horses eager, curved bows laid over their saddles, arrows already fitted to the string. "How long?"

"Only moments." Khadames shaded his eyes, rising up in his stirrups. "Here they come."

Shahr-Baraz nodded. He could see the Romans coming in great blocks, square shields forward, making a moving, solid wall. "Stand ready to loose arrows!" The deep-throated roar of trumpets and the flash of signal flags echoed his voice.

Ahead of the Boar, a space opened in the Persian line as it swung to his right. Only a mob of Slavic infantry were in the way, crowding towards the city, to his left, swarming up over the Arab ditch and rampart like dark blue ants. A trampled field of wheat stubble lay open before his Immortals, scattered with arrows, dropped weapons or shields and even a few corpses. A hundred yards away, a block of Romans advanced, standards and flags fluttering in the breeze. They were thickly packed in ranks, the bronze metal bosses on their painted shields catching the sun.

The Boar chopped his hand forward, a motion echoed by his bannermen, and the front ranks of the Immortals began to trot forward. Khadames and his horse archers peeled away to the right, but they did not go far. Shahr-Baraz and his officers remained behind while the
pushtigbahn
flowed past in an armored stream of leather, iron and steel. As the lines of
pushtigbahn
trotted forward, the men unlimbered their long stabbing spears. Shahr-Baraz felt the earth tremble as six thousand men began to gallop, plunging towards the Roman line.

The King of Kings turned his horse, spurring back towards the center of his army. Though his heart yearned to rush forward, horse thundering over the grass, mighty sword in hand, to lose himself in the hot shock of combat, hewing down his enemies, duty commanded that he remain aloof from battle. Grains spilled away, and he watched the cloud of dust rising from the rushing mass of horses and men.

A dozen yards away, Khadames raised his hand and thousands of
clibanarii
arrayed around him lifted their bows as one. The old general waited a beat of his heart, then slashed his hand down. Eight thousand men loosed as one, the rippling
thwack
of strings on leather arm guards sharp in the air. A hissing moan rose up as a vast cloud of arrows leapt into the sky. Shahr-Baraz was pleased, seeing a second volley loosed within two grains of the first. The initial arrows had not even struck their targets.

The
Shahanshah
wheeled his horse, waving at Khadames. "Close up behind the Immortals," he called. "Strike hard!" Then he galloped away, back along the long line of archers and spearmen holding the center of the field.

Cursing violently, Rufio crouched behind a heavy
scutum
, holding the shield at an angle. The sky darkened and a storm of arrows flashed down with a chilling hiss. Yard-long shafts ripped through the formation of Faithful, though the men stood rock solid, heavy round shields angled towards the sky. He staggered suddenly, one of the arrows crunching into the surface of the shield. The triangular iron head ripped through three layers of pine laminate and cracked out of the hide backing. Another shaft splintered violently on the metal boss. Rufio cursed again, shoulder sore from the impact. Only feet away, one of the burly Scandians holding up the Emperor's icon staggered, a gray-fletched shaft jutting from his upper chest. The man swayed, then caught himself, though blood leaked from the wound. He did not drop the pole gripped in his scarred hands.

Fifty feet away, Rufio saw the mass of Eastern legionaries stagger as well. The rain of arrows was fiercest there, in the rear ranks of the Twelfth Asiatica. Rufio knew most of the men were veterans, but they had been recently constituted from the remains of three other legions shattered at Yarmuk. Theodore's failure in Syria weighed heavily on the Eastern army.

A rumbling in the ground resolved itself into an onrushing mass of horsemen. Everyone tensed. The Persian cavalry slammed into the front ranks of the Twelfth with a huge
clang!
Rufio couldn't see the front rank, not through the black haze of falling arrows, but he saw the legionaries surge backwards. Their centurions and tribunes were screaming, trying to keep the men in ranks.

Suddenly, the armored heads of Persian
diquans
loomed up among the legionaries, laying about them in a frenzy with spears and heavy maces. Rufio leapt up, ignoring the arrows sleeting out of the sky. The shock of the Persian charge carried them deep into the lines of the Twelfth. The arrow storm slackened and the captain of the Faithful Guard turned, shouting in a bullhorn voice to his men, "Forward! The Guard, forward!"

With a great shout, the Scandians unlimbered axes and swords and charged forward, fur cloaks flying. The Persians drove hard, splitting the Legion line in two. A dozen of the
diquans
spurred their armored warhorses out of the melee, aiming for the Emperor's standard. Rufio hoisted his shield, running forward, a throwing spear gripped in his right hand. Around him, the Faithful swarmed forward in a forest of red beards and tall conical helms. Rufio hurled his
pilum
into the shield of one of the horsemen. The breach was sealed by the Faithful, axes blurring red in the air, forcing the
diquans
back. The
pilum's
lead point snagged in the Persian's shield, dangling, dragging the man's arm down. Enraged, the Persian shook his arm, trying to free the spear. One of the Faithful, bellowing a war cry, hacked at the
diquan
while he was distracted. The tempered edge of the ax bit into the man's neck, crunching through a chainmail gorget, spewing blood. The Persian struck across his body with his sword, the blow ringing off the Scandian's helmet. Then another of the Faithful rushed up and two axes hewed into the
diquan's
legs, splintering his laminate armor. Blood gouted, and the knight fell from his horse, disappearing into the violent melee.

Rufio shouted, screaming at the legionaries from the Twelfth. They fell back all around the Emperor's standard in panic. The charge of the
diquans
shattered their first three ranks and threw the rest into confusion. Only the Faithful seemed to be holding, a thin line of red cloaks between the Persians and the icon.

"The Emperor! The Emperor! Stand and fight, you dogs!" Rufio bellowed.

Some of the legionaries rallied, taking heart from the towering, glowing image of Heraclius, but more fled past. A clump of men carrying the banners of the Twelfth stopped, seeing him. Their signifier and aquilifer stood out sharply against the midday sky. Rufio clenched his teeth and drew his
gladius
, running up to join the four men. Seeing their battle standards halt, more legionaries began to gather, shaken but regaining their nerve. The sun rose higher into the sky. It was getting hot. Rufio wondered if he would see Martina again. At least the Persian archery had stopped.

Heedless of arrows snapping past in the dusty air, Dagobert spurred his horse forward, plunging into the confused mass of Eastern light infantry. Men scattered away as he rode into their midst, followed by a wedge of his own household troops. The Western legate was furious. The Eastern troops, mostly archers and slingers, watched him pass, faces filled with puzzlement. They seemed directionless, standing about in disordered cohorts and maniples. Persian arrows flicked out the sky. One of Dagobert's aides suddenly cried out, then slumped forward over his saddle, a black-fletched shaft jutting from his neck.

"Turn and shoot back!" Dagobert cried, forcing his horse through a band of Eastern spearmen, long ashwood weapons waving about him like reeds. "Form a line!"

The Western commander had been pacing the Eastern troops' advance with his own reserve, a force of some six thousand Sarmatian lancers, following behind the veteran Third Augusta, which anchored the right wing of the Western line. He had seen the Persian heavy cavalry burst out from behind a screen of horse archers and crash into the main body of the Eastern troops. Despite a hurried search, he had not found Prince Theodore and his staff. Dagobert was sure the man was here
somewhere
but with the Eastern formations breaking apart in the face of the Persian attack,
he
had to do something.

The Sarmatians followed in two columns, pressing forward through the scattered Eastern infantry. Now the Western
dux
had a clear view of the melee. Persian
diquans
in their full armor, including even their horses, had shattered the Eastern infantry and had pressed them back into the side of the old Arab fortification. The glowing portrait of Heraclius still rose above the battle, now surrounded by dozens of other banners and standards and a ring of men in red cloaks, though they were hard-pressed, fighting on foot against the Persian horse.

"Columns! Deploy! Prepare to advance!" Dagobert pointed with his ivory baton and the Sarmatians spilled out from behind him, their heavily built chargers neighing and whinnying as they spread out into a line three deep. Between the Western troops and the Persians, the ground cleared as those few remaining Eastern spearmen and legionaries scattered to the south.

"
Dux
!" Dagobert turned, even as the Sarmatians formed up, their long, heavy lances swinging down into position to charge. "You must fall back!"

Dagobert scowled at his aide, one of the Latins in his service, rather than the Franks who were already drawing their weapons—long-hafted axes or heavy hand-and-a-half swords. The Roman officer was pointing back over his shoulder, at the main body of the Western army. The four legions arrayed across that front were continuing their steady advance, though the Third Augusta had begun to shift, refusing its right, so that the Persians did not turn its flank.

"Sergius, we have to break this Persian attack. Prince Theodore is nowhere to be seen. One swift charge will restore this position!"

"I know,
dux
, but these Sarmatians will do that. You are in command of the whole army!" Sergius leaned close, his whole posture intent on Dagobert. "You are responsible for everyone, not just this little battle. We must return to the center."