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‘ 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 Gun-darnasp 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 Kis 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 Vic-trix!”. •

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.

A Persian in half-armor spurred toward him, cutting overhand with a long curved sword. Ziebil ducked aside, slashing at the horse’s legs. He missed but felt the tip of the sword cut across his shoulder. Fresh pain blossomed and he felt cold wetness on his arm. The Khazar jumped at the next horse that thundered by but missed the saddle horn and was knocked down hard. Gasping for breath, Ziebil caught a glimpse of a long spear flashing in the sun, then there was a stunning blow to his stomach.

He cried out, but there was no breath left in his lungs. Men were shouting, and dimly he heard a voice calling his name. Darkness clouded the sky and he saw the spear rise, thin red blood sluicing off of the leaf-shaped blade. He was very cold. Men struggled over his body, but he did not care. He closed his eyes.

Baraz howled in delight, his huge sword spinning above his head. He rushed three Khazars trying to pull one of the Immortals from his armored horse with a lasso and hewed into them from behind. One head flew off, shorn clean from the man’s neck, and the other two screamed as he mauled them. The Boar and his men pressed on, wreaking terrible havoc on the more lightly armored and armed Khazars. The Persian right flank began to re-form around tHE solid core of the Immortals.

The remaining Khazars fell back behind a flurry of arrows. Baraz did not pursue. The Boar rallied the men who had followed Doronas and Salabalgus, both of whom were dead, to him and fell back toward the hill.

Galen and his staff watched the Khazars fall back in disarray on their left. The red and yellow banners of the Persian Immortals waved amid the heaps of dead that were left in their wake. The Western Emperor frowned and made a quick count to himself. The Third Gallica was locked in a fierce struggle on the left wing of the Persian infantry, trying to turn the line and roll it up. A scattering of Khazar archers were all that stood between his exposed infantry and the Persian heavy horse.