'Not much time before they hit us,' Cato gasped to Parmenion. 'Form the line.'
Parmenion nodded, drew a deep breath and bellowed, 'Halt!… Left face!'
The Second Illyrian stood in a long line, two deep, with a pace between files. The men's chests heaved with the exertion of their run to get into position. The other auxiliary cohorts formed up on their left, covering the ground back to the gully. To Cato's right he heard Macro shouting orders for his men to complete the line. Cato felt a moment's elation that they had managed to close the trap without the enemy realising. There was one final detail.
'Caltrops!' Cato called down the line and the other officers relayed the order.
The men carrying the baskets moved through the line, advanced thirty paces and quickly began to scatter a belt of caltrops across the front of the formation. The iron spikes had been designed so that they could be thrown to the ground and always land resting on three of the spikes while the fourth stood proud, ready to impale the foot, or hoof, of any unwary enemy charging over them.
'Well, didn't take them long to wise up.' Parmenion pointed and Cato saw that the rearmost Parthian horse-archers had wheeled round and were moving towards them at an easy gallop. He cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, 'Get busy with those caltrops, before those bastards are on us!'
The men with the baskets glanced up quickly and then hurried along, casting out the contents like farmers sowing seeds. As soon as they had emptied their baskets they dropped them and ran back towards the Roman line and snatched up their weapons.
'Slingers!' Cato shouted. 'Prepare!'
Those who had been issued with slings lowered their spears and shields and stepped ahead of the line as they took the leather cords and pouches from round their shoulders and reached into their haversacks for a lead shot to fit to the weapon.
All the time Cato's men had been hurrying their preparations to receive the enemy attack, the Parthians had been closing on them. Now they were so close that Cato could see the nearest of them fitting arrows to their bows.
'Shoot at will!'
The first whirring sounds filled the air as the auxiliaries swung the cords overhead, took aim and then released their missiles.The deadly lead shot zipped out in a low trajectory towards the oncoming horsemen. A moment later one of the Parthian mounts was struck square on the head and it tumbled forward, pitching its rider into the dust. More hits were scored and several of the enemy were knocked down, or were thrown by their crippled horses. But all the time more and more of them were riding up and even though that made the target even easier for the slingers Cato knew that the balance was about to shift in the Parthians' favour.
'Slingers! Withdraw!'
The last of the sling shots whipped out towards the dense mass of the enemy and the auxiliaries looped the cords over their shoulders and hurried back to join the main line.
'Prepare to receive arrows! Take cover!'
All along the line the order was repeated and the Roman soldiers knelt down behind their grounded shields and angled them slightly back to make the most of the sparse shelter they offered. In the distance, beyond the pounding hooves of the Parthian mounts, Cato could hear the strident blasts of bucinas as the main Roman line charged forward.
'Not long now, boys!' Cato called out. 'We just have to hold them until Longinus takes them from the rear.'
'Bloody general always was a toga-lifter!' a voice called out and the men roared with laughter until Parmenion screamed, 'Who said that? Which insubordinate fuck said that? You! Calpurnius! It was you… When this is over you can have a drink on me!'
The men cheered and Cato smiled at Parmenion's little act of spirit-raising. It was just what the men needed. The kind of thing that Macro would say, and that Cato felt too self-conscious to attempt.
'Arrows!' a voice cried out and the cheers died in men's throats as they hunched down. The dark shafts whistled through the air an instant before they cracked into shields and shicked into the desert sand. Cato kept his head down and tried to tighten his slim frame as far as possible into the shelter of his shield. Twisting his head to each side he saw that none of his men was injured yet. The open spacing of the line and the angled shields were serving their purpose well – well enough for the Parthians to become impatient with their lack of success, especially with the main body of the Roman army quickly closing in on their rear.There was a lull in the arrow barrage and Cato risked a glimpse round the shield rim and saw that the Parthians were urging their mounts on so that they could close the range and shoot the Romans down far more accurately, before charging home and shattering the line.
Cato watched fixedly as they galloped closer, faces wild and exultant as they anticipated an easy kill. Then the foremost riders hit the belt of caltrops. Cato knew that there was bound to be a handful of Parthians fortunate enough to negotiate the caltrops without spiking a hoof. But many, perhaps most, would not be so lucky and those behind them would be wary about crossing the belt of spikes.They would make fine targets for Balthus and his men.
The pounding of hooves was suddenly pierced by the shrill whinnies of injured horses and the surprised cries of their riders. In front of him Cato saw several horses go down. One man made it through and hearing the chaos behind him he reined in and turned to look. Cato pointed him out to the auxiliary squatting nearest to him.'That man, take him down!'
The auxiliary nodded, snatching up his light javelin. He rose, drawing his throwing arm back, sighted the Parthian and threw the javelin with an explosive grunt. It was well aimed, and the target was not moving, and the point caught the horse-archer in the back, piercing his heart. The impact made the man arch his back and throw his arms out before he fell from his saddle, dead before he hit the ground.
'Fine throw!' Cato grinned at the auxiliary. 'Get down!'
Along the line a number of other riders had made it through the caltrops, but they were isolated and caught by surprise and quickly finished off by auxiliaries using javelins or slings. On the other side of the caltrops the Parthians were densely packed and struggling to find enough space to draw their bows and pick a target. Cato turned and called out over his shoulder.
'Balthus! Now!'
This was the moment the prince and his men had been waiting for and they urged their mounts forward as they notched the first arrows to their bows. As soon as they were within range of the Parthians they reined in and loosed their arrows as swiftly as they could. Almost every one told as it struck man or horse and the enemy's confusion deepened so that only a handful of them still managed to shoot at the Roman line.
'Slings and javelins!' Cato shouted out, his voice straining above the din from the other side of the caltrops. 'Slings and javelins!'
With a throaty roar the auxiliaries rose up and the air between the two sides was filled with the whirr and zip of sling shot and the dark streaks of the javelins. More men and horses crashed down and already a line of bodies, some writhing, some inert, was heaping up along the edge of the belt of caltrops. Beyond, Cato could see that the Parthians were wavering and the less brave spirits were already falling back. He turned to his men.
'They're breaking! They're breaking! Pour it on!'
Cato bent down, snatched up a small rock and hurled it towards the enemy. Some of his men, their javelins spent, followed his example, for what little added effect it was worth. The frantic barrage of arrows, sling shot, javelins and rocks proved too much for the Parthians and suddenly they were recoiling all along the line, desperately struggling to turn their horses round and escape. A pall of dust hung in the air, kicked up by thousands of horses, and it billowed all along the front as the fleeing Parthians disappeared into the gloom and the rumbling thunder of hooves slowly receded.