Once more the Persian trumpets sounded. The cataphractarii formed up and began to trot forward — a glittering wall of iron, the bodies of both men and horses invisible beneath carapaces of armour. The huge steeds were covered in trappers of scale or chain mail, their chests and faces further protected by moulded plates. Their riders’ limbs were encased in laminated bands, their bodies by articulated plates, while their globular or cylindrical helmets — stippled with holes to permit breathing and vision — gave them an unhuman appearance. The trot changed to a canter, the canter to a gallop, and down swung a row of lances, presenting a terrifying sight to the waiting Romans. For a second time that day, it seemed impossible that they could avoid being swept to destruction.
Then, at a signal from Roderic, Victor again blew his whistle; the campidoctores bellowed orders and the Romans thrust forward those long, long pikes, butt-spikes firmly anchored in the ground, to form an impenetrable thicket of points.
A charge by massed cataphracts should have proved irresistible. Protected by stout armour, both horses and riders were invulnerable to spears, and the massive weight of a cataphract formation was virtually guaranteed to smash through any line of infantry rash enough to stand against it. However, borrowing a tactic employed with tremendous success by Alexander in his Persian campaigns — the phalanx — the Romans had hit upon the one stratagem that could provide an effective counter.
Like a wave breaking against a cliff face, the cataphracts crashed against the wall of pikes — a wall in which the weapon of every man in the triple line was brought to bear. The Roman infantry, each soldier gripping his pike-shaft several yards behind the point of impact, experienced a collective jarring shock, but to their enormous relief (not unmixed with surprise) their ranks held firm. If presented as separated units, the pikes would have shattered, but opposed to the enemy as a solid mass, their effect was to diffuse the force of impact by spreading it over a wide area. Again and again the cataphracts re-formed, to hurl themselves against the hedge of blades — to no avail. At last a trumpet blew recall and the cataphracts withdrew to make way for the Persian infantry.
Where heavy shock troops had proved unable to break the Roman front, it was hardly likely that foot-soldiers — lightly armed, whose only protection was a wicker shield — would fare better. And so it proved. Constricted by the narrow gorge, they were unable to bring their overwhelming numbers to bear. Pushed forward by the momentum of those behind, the foremost ranks perished on the pikes to form a growing heap of dead, over which the living were forced to clamber. As the Persian advance began to stall, the two Roman leaders sprung the surprise they had prepared in advance.
Concealed till this moment in a side canyon, and now alerted by signals from soldiers posted on the edge of the defile, a detachment of Roman cavalry swept into the ravine and smashed into the Persians’ undefended rear. Taken unawares, with no time or opportunity to take up a defensive position, the Persian foot-soldiers fell like corn before the scythe, cut down by lethal swipes from the horsemen’s spathae — the long, Roman cutting swords, edged with razor-sharp steel. Now, as the Roman phalanx began to advance, morale among the Persian army, its men jammed helplessly together, began to crumble. Their discipline imposed by fear rather than inspired by patriotism, panic began to spread throughout the Persian rank-and-file, resulting in a fatal loss of cohesion. With shocking suddenness, what had been an organized force atomized into a rabble of terrified individuals, each motivated by just one thought — escape.
In disbelief, Tamshapur watched his army disintegrate around him. Screaming imprecations and threats of dire punishment for desertion (the mildest being live burial), he urged his captains to restore order. In vain the officers — from a caste fanatically adherent to a rigid code of loyalty and honour — threatened and pleaded; they were unable to stop the rot. Sensing that the right moment had arrived, Roderic and Victor called off the cavalry, allowing the Persians, now reduced to a huddled, fleeing mob, to escape from the death-trap that the canyon had become. His reputation in tatters, Tamshapur began the withdrawal of his mauled and demoralized force back beyond the Euphrates. East Rome could breathe again; the Diocese of Oriens was safe.
Feeling distinctly awkward and intimidated by the splendour of his surroundings, Roderic entered the vast colonnaded reception hall in Constantinople’s Great Palace, and made his way towards the elderly figure swathed in purple, who sat enthroned at the far end of the chamber.
‘Majesty — your humble servant is honoured to obey your summons,’ mumbled Roderic, clumsily dropping to one knee and bowing his head. Despite his rank, this was the first time that Roderic had been in the imperial presence, and he was uncomfortably aware that his ignorance of court ritual could be causing him to commit gaffes regarding etiquette. Too late, he recalled with a hot flush of shame, that the correct form of address was ‘Serenity’, not ‘Majesty’.
‘“Well done, thou good and faithful servant,” as Saint Mathew says,’ declared Anastasius, a smile lighting up his mild and kindly features. He waved the other to a nearby chair — an unheard-of honour, Roderic sensed, complying. ‘We are greatly in your debt,’ the emperor went on. ‘Thanks to your courage and initiative, a great danger threatening the safety of our realm has been avoided. It is only fitting you should be suitably rewarded. Accordingly, we hereby appoint you Magister Scholarum, together with, as a member of our Senate, the rank of Vir Clarissimus.’
Commander of the imperial guards and a senator to boot! Roderic’s brain whirled. At a stroke his status and circumstances had been transformed. From being a middle-ranking general who had often struggled to make ends meet, he was now holder of the army’s most prestigious post, with a seat in the august assembly of those who, in theory at least, made the Empire’s laws. And with these honours came wealth. Now, he could at last fulfil the promise he had made his sister in Dardania. He would send for Uprauda — his nephew and her son — and provide the boy with the finest education that Constantinople had to offer.
* AD 496 (See Notes.)
* Three-pronged spikes, one of which would always point upwards.
ONE
The coward calls himself cautious
‘Baptiso te in Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti,’ quavered the priest — an ancient Goth, dipping the week-old infant in the font then making the sign of the cross upon its forehead. Then, as a special favour granted only to a very few parents (who, through gifts or service to the church given over many years, had earned the privilege), he proceeded to inscribe the child’s names and date of birth in the church’s Bible — its greatest treasure. This was a precious copy of the Holy Book translated into the Gothic tongue by Ulfilas, the missionary who had brought the Word of God to his own people, the Goths, nearly a century and a half before. Though originally Arians,* those Goths who had settled in the Roman Empire had been compelled by an edict of Emperor Theodosius to adopt the Catholic faith — the Empire’s official creed. Hence the Service of Baptism had been carried out according to the rites of Rome.
‘Uprauda Ystock,’ the cleric wrote in one of the blank vellum pages at the end of the book, his arthritic fingers guiding the pen with difficulty, ‘natus pridie Kalendas Septembris Trocundo et Severino consulibus.’**
‘At last, Bigleniza, we have a son,’ the child’s father, Valaris Ystock, declared proudly to his wife when the couple had returned with their baby to their home. This was a thatched hut in the village of Tauresium, a scatter of mean dwellings in a clearing hemmed in by dark woods. ‘A son who will work our plot when I grow too old to manage it alone.’