“Khan Ziebil, your horsemen are on the left, though keep a strong reserve behind the line of battle. The woods are thick there, and I fear the Persians may try to send men through the brush to attack the flank.”
It was almost noon now, and the majority of the army was still backed up on the road, trying to reach the flats. Galen’s Western legions had made the best time, forming up in the camp on schedule and marching out in orderly fashion. The Sixth Gemina had reached the field at sunrise and had deployed to screen the arrival of the following elements. Galen, pushing his horse and his guardsmen, had arrived soon after dawn to find the legionnaires loitering around under the trees. There had been no Persians in sight.
“Theodore.” Heraclius turned to his brother, attired much like him, down to the red boots, in heavy armor and chain mail under the solid plate. “You and I will command the right, with the Eastern knights and the Anatolikon thematic troops as reserve. Once we-have shaken the line out and there is proper spacing between the tagmata, we will attack. If the Persians are still in confusion, we will advance along the entire front and drive them back into the trees. If they have formed a good line, then the Khazars”-Heraclius nodded to Ziebil-“will feint on the left and then we shall attack on the right.”
The Western Legions were on the field by ten o’clock. The archers and slingers Galen had sent forward to screen the assembling legions had reported back that an enormous Persian army had begun to spill out of the tree line on the southern edge of the fields. The Khazars began arriving in bands and companies, generally congregating to the left of the Roman positions, and the Eastern knights were still clogging the road from the camp. After receiving reports that estimated the size of the Persian army in excess of a hundred thousand men, Galen had ridden forward himself and stared in awe at the multitude of Persians on the southern side of the plain.
Thousands of banners already fluttered in the morning breeze and still more bands of men were coming out of the forest. The enemy army was a riot of color-yellow banners and green, red surcoats on some mounted men and bright blue on others. Each band seemed to have a different garb, or even different styles of dress. It was hard to tell at this range.
At eleven o’clock there had easily been a hundred twenty thousand men in the enemy lines, jostling and milling about in apparent confusion. If the reports of the Khazar scouts were to be believed, the enemy forces who had reached the field were peasant levies armed with wicker shields, spears, and other light arms. While he watched, some contingents of horsemen in furry vests and round caps had arrived, trotting out in front of the ragged Persian line. Galen had shaken his head and ridden back to his own troops, who had taken orderly positions and were standing ready, leaning on their spears and swords, waiting.
“Any questions?” Heraclius glanced at Galen, who had a pensive look on his face. “Augustus Galen?”
“Yes… it seems that we are likely to be outnumbered by almost two to one at the rate that the Persians reinforcements keep arriving. The enemy seems confused, however. I propose sending our thaumaturges forward to attack the enemy formations with sorcery while they are attempting to form up. The longer they stay at the tree line, the more room we will have to maneuver.”
Heraclius scowled, for Galen had not discussed this notion with him the previous night when the plan of battle was laid out. He glanced at his officers, one of whom was a wizard himself. “Demosthenes?”
The elderly man coughed in surprise and rubbed his long nose. “Avtokmtor, the primary role of thaumaturges in battle has always been one of defense, to protect the army from the sendings of the enemy. The will and sinew of men has always been the deciding factor for Roman armies, not the strength of our magicians. Speaking plainly, my lord, my brothers and I are not skilled in the arts of attack, not like the Persians are. Now, a siege…” ?Heraclius cut him off with a look. The Eastern Emperor glared at Galen.
“Some of my wizards,” Galen said, calmly, “are skilled in the arts of attack. I will send them forward with the skirmishers to disrupt the enemy ranks. It will buy us a little more time to deploy.”
“Very well,” Heraclius snapped. “They are your men, use them as you see fit. Gentlemen, to your commands. We will have victory this day, or perish.”
The Khan Ziebil yawned and pushed his way through the crowd of men. His horse, a sleek lustrous black creature, was waiting. He vaulted easily into the saddle and kneed her forward, disappearing, into the flow of men and horses on the road. Galen looked after him, a puzzled look on his face.
“What is it?” Prince Theodore had come up alongside the Western Emperor, his young face flushed with the anticipation of battle.
“I still fail to understand why the Khazars stand with us this day. This is little affair of theirs. The risk of defeat is far higher than the reward of looting some hill towns.”
Theodore laughed and slapped Galen on the shoulder. “My brother is a shrewd bargainer. He offered the khan many fine gifts, not least his own daughter in marriage. And, the Khazars will gain much booty from this and the friendship of Constantinople. Friendship in gold and arms and training for their men weigh heavily with the khan.”
“His daughter?” Galen was outraged-he had heard nothing of this, but he had met Epiphania while in the Eastern capital. She was a shy girl with long dark hair and an interest more in music and books than politics. She and the Empress Martina got along very well, though Galen was not sure if Martina had replaced Epiphania’s dead mother or had merely become an unlooked-for older sister.
“Oh, yes.” Theodore’s eyes twinkled in delight at the discomfiture apparent on the stern face of the Western Emperor. “My brother always used to carry a picture of her with him in a cameo. He sent it to the khan months ago with the first embassy. Apparently the old man was quite taken with her.”
Galen turned away in disgust. To his Western sensibilities, it was revolting. He mounted up, pulling his helmet on. His own guardsmen gathered around him in a solid block, keeping a space clear in the mob of men that were milling around behind the lines. Theodore rode off to the right wing of the army with his coterie of young nobles thronging around him. Galen surveyed the ranks of his men. For just a moment he allowed himself to wish for Aurelian at his side and to wonder where Maxian had fled to.
Are you over there? he thought, feeling sick at the prospect. Did Persia listen to you?
“Lord Baraz! Your banner, Great Lord!”
The Boar turned in his saddle, seeing that one of the dispatch riders had managed to make his way through the ocean of infantrymen that had surged around them. The boy was carrying a furled banner across his saddle, though it was hard work keeping it from fouling in the thicket of spears and wicker shields milling past.
“Oh, Ahriman take that damned thing.” Baraz spat, his patience at an end. “The King of King’s standard is well enough for me. Get rid of it.”
The boy blanched at the naked fury in the lord general’s voice and turned away. Baraz did not give him a second thought, turning back to trying to force his own way through the press of feudal levies that hemmed him in on every side. Over the heads of the press of men, he could see a river of knights, their lances a waving steel forest, and beyond them the banner of the Lord Rhazames. He spurred his horse and it surged forward, pushing men aside. Cries of outrage rang out around him, but he did not care.