“This is going to be as bad as Lake Ticinus,” grunted Anastasius. He pounded a Persian to the ground with a mace blow. Nothing fancy; Anastasius needn’t bother-the giant’s mace slammed the man’s own shield into his helmet hard enough to crack his skull.
Belisarius grimaced. The ancient battle of Lake Ticinus was a staple of Roman army lore. Fought during the Second Punic War, it had started as a pure cavalry battle and ended as a pure infantry fight. Every single man on both sides, according to legend, had fallen off his horse before the fray was finished.
Belisarius was actually surprised that he was still mounted himself. Partly, of course, that was due to his bodyguards. In his entire career, Anastasius had only fallen off his horse once during a battle. And that didn’t really count-his horse had fallen first, slipping in a patch of snow on some unnamed little battlefield in Dacia. The man was so huge and powerful-with a horse to match-that he could swap blows with anyone without budging from his saddle.
Valentinian, on the other hand, had taken to the ground as soon as the battle had become a deadlocked slugging match. Valentinian was possibly even deadlier than Anastasius, but his lethality was the product of skill, dexterity, and speed. Those traits were almost nullified in this kind of fray, as long as he was trapped on a stationary horse.
Valentinian was a veteran, however. For all his grousing about foot-soldiering, the man had instantly slid from his horse and kept fighting afoot. The result had been a gory trail of hamstrung and gutted horses, their former riders lying nearby in their own blood.
With those two protecting him-and his own great skill as a fighter-Belisarius hadn’t even been hurt.
Yet-it was odd. There was something else. Belisarius hadn’t noticed, at first, until a slight pause in the action enabled him to think. But the fact was that he was fighting much too well.
“Deadly with a blade, is Belisarius.” He’d heard it said, and knew it for a cold and simple truth. But he had never been as deadly as he was that day. The cause lay not in any added strength or stamina. It was-odd. He seemed to see everything with perfect clarity, even in the hazy dust. He seemed to be able to gauge every motion by an enemy perfectly-and gauge his own strikes with equal precision. Time after time, he had slipped a blow by the barest margin-yet knowing, all the while, that the margin was adequate. Time after time, he had landed a blow of his own through the narrowest gaps, the slimmest openings-yet knowing, at the instant, that the gaps were enough. Time after time, he had begun to slip from his horse, only to find his balance again with perfect ease.
Odd. The truth was that he was leaving his own trail of gore and blood. It was like a path through a forest beaten by an elephant.
Even his cataphracts noticed. And complained, in the case of one.
“We’re supposed to be protecting you, General,” hissed Valentinian. “Not the other way around.”
“Quit bitching,” growled Anastasius. Chunk. Another Mede down. “I’m a big target. I need all the protection I can get.” Chunk.
Valentinian began to snarl something, but fell silent, listening intently.
“I think-”
“Yes,” said Belisarius. He had heard it too. The first cry for quarter, coming from a Persian throat. The cry had been cut off.
The general ceased his mayhem. Turned to Anastasius.
“Get Maurice-and the others. Now. I don’t want to end the battle with atrocities. We’re trying to win this war, not start a new one.”
“No need,” grunted Anastasius. He extended his right hand, pointing with his blood-covered mace. Belisarius turned and saw his entire Thracian retinue charging toward them on horseback.
Within seconds, Maurice drew up alongside them.
“I don’t want a massacre, Maurice!” shouted Belisarius. “I’ll handle the situation here, but the Huns-”
Maurice interrupted.
“They’re already making for the Persian camp. I’ll try to stop them, but I’ll need reinforcement as soon as you can get there.”
Without another word, the hecatontarch spurred his horse into a gallop. Seconds later, the entire body of Thracian cataphracts were thundering to the east, in the direction of the Persian camp.
Cries for quarter were being heard now from all over the battlefield. Many of them cut off in mid-screech. All fight was gone from the Medes. The light cavalry were already fleeing the field. The Persian infantry had long since begun to run. The heavy cavalry, trapped in the center, were trying to surrender. Without much success. The Roman infantrymen were in full fury. They were wreaking their vengeance on those who had so often in the past brought terror into their own hearts.
Belisarius rode directly into the mass. When he wanted to use it, the general had a very loud and well-trained voice. Anastasius joined him with his own thundering basso. Yet, strangely enough, it was Valentinian’s nasal tenor that pierced through the din like a sword.
A simple cry, designed to rein in the Roman murder:
“Ransom! Ransom! Ransom!”
The cry was immediately taken up by the Persians themselves. Within seconds, the slaughter stopped. Half-maddened the Roman infantry might have been. Poor, however, they most certainly were. And it suddenly dawned on them that they held in the palm of their mercy the lives of hundreds-thousands, maybe-of Persians. Noble Persians. Rich noble Persians.
Belisarius quickly found Hermogenes. The infantry chiliarch took responsibility for organizing the surrender. Then Belisarius went in search of Eutychian.
But Eutychian was not to be found. Nothing but his body, lying on the ground, an arrow through his throat.
Belisarius, staring down at the corpse, felt a great sadness wash over him. He had barely known the man. But he had looked forward to the pleasure.
He shook off the mood. Later. Not now.
He found the highest-ranked surviving cavalry commander of the Army of Lebanon. Mundus, his name. He had been one of Pharas’ little coterie, and his face turned a bit pale when Belisarius rode up. When he spotted Valentinian and Anastasius he turned very pale.
“Round up your cavalry, Mundus,” commanded Belisarius. “At least three ala. I need them to reinforce my cataphracts at the Persian camp. The Huns’ll be on a rampage and I intend to put a stop to it.”
Mundus winced. “It’ll be hard,” he muttered. “The men’ll want their share of-”
“Forget the ransom!” thundered the general. “If they complain, tell them I’ve got plans for bigger booty. I’ll explain later. But right now- move, damn you! ”
Valentinian was already sidling his horse toward Mundus, but there was no need. The terrified officer instantly began screaming orders at his subordinates. They, in turn, began rounding up their soldiers.
The cavalrymen were upset, Belisarius knew, because the Roman infantry stood to gain the lion’s share of the booty. By tradition, ransom was owed to the man who personally held a captive. It was a destructive tradition, in Belisarius’ opinion, and one which he hoped to change eventually. But not today. For the first time in centuries, the Roman infantry had blazed its old glory, and Belisarius would not dampen their victory, or their profit from it.
At the Persian camp, they came upon a very tense scene. The camp itself was a shambles. Most of the tents lay on the ground like lumpy shrouds. Those tents still standing were ragged from sword-slashes. Wagons were upended or half-shattered. Some of the wreckage was the work of the Hun mercenaries, but much of it was due to the Persians themselves. Sensing the defeat, the Persian camp followers had hastily rummaged out their most precious possessions and taken flight.
But not all had left soon enough. Several dead Persians were lying about, riddled with arrows. All men. The Huns would have saved the women and children. The women would be raped. Afterwards, they and the children would be sold into slavery.