‘Aye, we have it,’ Gallus cocked an eyebrow, patting the flank of his robe, ‘but it won’t save the empire.’
Varius’ frowned as if to reply, then his face paled and his jaw dropped, his eyes widening as he looked over Gallus’ shoulder to the top of the beach.
Gallus twisted to look up to the grassy dunes. A thick dust plume billowed just beyond. Moments later, myriad vivid drafsh banners bobbed into view, as if rising from the dunes. Then the silvery mass of the Savaran came into full view; a vast and deep line of near ten thousand Persian riders. Their centre was a thick line of steel cataphractii, encased in scale aprons and crowned with pointed helms, balled-plumes whipping in the coastal breeze. The plate-armoured, masked clibanarii lingered close behind and the flanks were composed of broad gunds of archer-cavalry. On the Persian right flank, a drafsh of one hundred Median spearmen led the wretched paighan mass — some two thousand men — into place, and a dozen war elephants lumbered up beside them.
Gallus grasped Varius by the shoulders. ‘The scroll will not save the empire and it certainly won’t save us now. Hurry, we must put to sea at once,’ he said, gesturing towards the nearest trireme.
But Varius shook his head. ‘We cannot, Tribunus.’ He stabbed a finger towards the mouth of the Euphrates. There, another fleet had drifted into view. Hundreds upon hundreds of galleys. This time, the fleet was unmistakably Persian. Myriad purple, green and red sails adorned with gold-threaded winged Faravahar motifs, spilling from the mouth of the river and down the Gulf coast, only a few miles away.
‘Tamur’s fleet!’ Gallus gasped in horror.
‘We were ready to end our mission,’ Varius continued, struggling to control the panic in his voice, ‘to return to Emperor Valens and tell him you were lost. After so many weeks of searching, what else were we to do?’ he shrugged. ‘But as we rowed back upriver, we sighted this Persian fleet coming downstream. Our only option was to turn and flee. It has taken all of our strength just to outrun them. But now our advantage is gone; if we put to sea they will surround and crush us.’
‘And if we stay here then we will also be crushed,’ Gallus glared at the Savaran — they had halted momentarily atop the dunes. ‘We should form a defensive line along the shore, then your ships and the waters will protect our rear.’
‘But we cannot hope to win?’ Varius said, wide-eyed as he glanced over the Romans — some eighteen hundred men — and then the ten thousand strong Savaran.
Gallus gazed at him, unflinching. ‘No, but we can die as heroes, and take swathes of these whoresons with us.’
Tamur crested the grassy dune and then halted, his gleeful grin transforming into a grimace as he beheld the Roman ships and the nest of shields and spears on the waterline. Five men had become nearly two thousand. He snatched at his reins and halted his army with a raised hand.
‘What is this?’ he snarled.
The narrow-eyed pushtigban-salar scanned the Roman lines. ‘A Roman legion. A single eagle. Not enough to repel your army, Spahbad.’ Then he pointed to the Persian fleet at the Euphrates estuary. ‘And your ships will be at the shores within a short while.’
Tamur noticed the man’s eyes narrow a fraction more as he said this. He frowned, hearing distrustful whispers dance in his mind. But he shook his head clear of the thoughts and scanned the Romans who faced his vast army. ‘So we must stamp upon this cluster of legionaries before we continue to Syria? So be it.’
Then he turned to his lead war drummer, beckoning him. The drummer jogged forward, licking his lips in anticipation of battle. He was a wild-eyed, hairless man dressed in only a loincloth. His head and body were painted in gold, his eyes were ringed with kohl and huge, bronze hoops dangled from his stretched earlobes.
Tamur pointed to the Roman lines. ‘Begin.’
The drummer grinned and nodded eagerly.
The legionary line hugged the shore, a wall of shields facing inland with the Flavia Firma triremes lining their rear. The surf crashed down behind Pavo, soaking him in salt spray and washing chill waves around his ankles as he hurriedly strapped a sword belt around the waist of his scale armour vest. Tribunus Varius’ men had swiftly brought them this armour along with helms, shields, spears and swords. Now he, Gallus, Zosimus, Quadratus and Sura pressed together near the left flank of the Flavia Firma line, with the Armenian slingers knee deep in water behind them. All eyes were fixed upon the eerily still and silent Savaran line thronging the grassy dunes at the top of the beach. Only the occasional snorting of mounts and the steady crashing of waves sounded across the shore. Pavo glanced from Tamur at their centre to the war elephants on the Persian right; he saw the glinting tusks and the maddened eyes of the spiked-cane wielding mahouts saddled on the creatures’ necks. The sight brought a shiver across every inch of his skin. Indeed, since that day in the dunes, he had prayed he would never set eyes upon such beasts again. Hubris and terror battled in his gut. The soldier’s curse swelled his bladder and drained his mouth of moisture.
‘Why are we always on the bloody left?’ Sura cursed through chattering teeth, breaking the silence.
‘Because that’s where the limitanei fight,’ Quadratus grunted, buckling on his intercisa helm — too small for the big Gaul’s head and causing his face to redden more than usual.
‘Because that’s where the XI Claudia fight,’ Pavo added.
Zosimus and Quadratus offered narrowed eyes and wry grins at this.
Suddenly, from the Persian centre, war horns keened like angry raptors and war drums crashed and throbbed like a titan’s heartbeat. Pavo saw a shaven, gold-painted Persian drummer run ahead of the Savaran ranks to thunder on the drum skins, his stretched earlobes jangling with every strike, his eyes bulging and his teeth bared behind a zealous grin.
‘That little bastard’s getting it if I can get close enough,’ Quadratus growled, rubbing his temples. ‘My head’s killing me!’
As if in defiance, the drummer’s arms became a blur, the rhythm throbbing faster and faster. In the Persian centre, Tamur raised both arms, eyes trained on the Roman line, his teeth gnashing. ‘Advance!’ His cry echoed across the beach as he chopped both arms down like blades.
At once, the mass of riders let out a unified war cry, raising myriad spears and swords overhead. The golden lion banner was pumped in the air and hundreds of smaller drafshs were hefted likewise. The two gunds of cataphractii riders at the centre — some two thousand men — lowered in their saddles and broke forward at a gallop, down the dunes and across the beach, sand churning up in their wake. A gund of archer cavalry charged on either flank.
Varius cried out to rally his men, and the Flavia Firma braced.
Gallus turned to his four. ‘Think of all we have lost, think of all they have taken from us,’ he boomed.
Pavo’s comrades pressed their shoulders to his. He knew Father’s shade stood with them.