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Authors: David Pilling
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exploded into view, armed with javelins and oval shields. Stoza had thrown in his mutineer cavalry to meet our charge.
For the first time I found myself facing Romans in battle. I had no time to dwell on the irony of that, but switched my grip on the kontos, lifting it high as a horseman galloped straight at me. He hurled his javelin, but it was a poor throw. The slender dart bounced harmlessly off the boss of my shield and span away.
The impetus of his charge drove him onto my lance. I stabbed at his head, and the wickedly sharp steel tip took him in the throat and thrust out the back of his neck. I was trained for this, and gave the kontos a sharp twist, withdrawing the tip even as the mutineer fell from his saddle, blood pumping from the neat hole in his neck.
Now all our ranks were broken up, the fight dissolved into dozens of individual combats. Dust flew into my eyes. A shape hurled itself at me, screaming like a devil, and I felt something hammer against my ribs. The pain made me cry out and double over. A javelin had hit me in the side, but my fine scale armour had preserved me from worse than bruises.
My kontos was virtually useless in this sort of close fighting. I hurled it away and ripped out Caledfwlch, feeling my courage return as my fingers closed around the worn ivory grip.
Most of my comrades fought with spathas, long swords with a heavy chopping edge. Caledfwlch was a gladius, a much shorter and rather antiquated weapon, intended for stabbing rather than hacking with the edge. M any of the guards thought me vain for persisting with such a relic, but I found the shorter blade gave me an advantage at close quarters.
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, just as the shrieking wind tore away the veil of dust and sand before us. At last I could see the rebel infantry, or what was left of it. Belisarius’ wild storm-charge had smashed great holes in their ranks, sweeping away squadrons and littering the ground with broken and mutilated bodies.
Many of the ill-armed levies had fled t he field, but a few stubborn mutineers and Vandals remained, formed up in isolated groups around their standards. Our cavalry swirled around them, casting spears and javelins in their faces. Belisarius’ guards were trained to use the short bow while mounted, and thumbed arrows into the helpless rebels. They would die where they stood, these men, or face the agony of crucifixion as a just punishment for those who betrayed the Roman state.
I turned my horse away, thinking to take a breath of air and some water from my pottle. Now the brief battle was all but won, there was no need to take undue risks. Our men would whittle away at the rebels until their ragged shield-walls broke and we could charge in for the final slaughter.
My horse carried me clear of the stench and din of battle, until I found a relati vely quiet spot. The wind was still churning up sand-devils and blowing clouds of dust across the plain, so I felt strangely alone, shielded from the slaughter happening not more than thirty feet away.
I had forgotten about Photius. He might have killed me then, but was unable to restrain himself from letting out a cry as he raced in to cut me down from behind.
My water pottle was halfway to my lips when I heard the cry. I dropped it and hurled myself out of the saddle. His spatha sliced through thin air as I crashed onto my side, painfully jarring my recently healed arm.
“Pig!” I heard Photius snarl. He galloped past and wrenched his horse around for another tilt at me. I glimpsed the young man’s face under his helmet, his handsome features contorted almost beyond recognition with berserk fury.
Some instinct made me glance to my left. Another horseman was coming at me, one of my comrades from the First, his kontos lowered at my breast.
The ground shook under my feet as he charged. Somehow my nerve held. Instead of panicking I held my
For the first time I found myself facing Romans in battle. I had no time to dwell on the irony of that, but switched my grip on the kontos, lifting it high as a horseman galloped straight at me. He hurled his javelin, but it was a poor throw. The slender dart bounced harmlessly off the boss of my shield and span away.
The impetus of his charge drove him onto my lance. I stabbed at his head, and the wickedly sharp steel tip took him in the throat and thrust out the back of his neck. I was trained for this, and gave the kontos a sharp twist, withdrawing the tip even as the mutineer fell from his saddle, blood pumping from the neat hole in his neck.
Now all our ranks were broken up, the fight dissolved into dozens of individual combats. Dust flew into my eyes. A shape hurled itself at me, screaming like a devil, and I felt something hammer against my ribs. The pain made me cry out and double over. A javelin had hit me in the side, but my fine scale armour had preserved me from worse than bruises.
My kontos was virtually useless in this sort of close fighting. I hurled it away and ripped out Caledfwlch, feeling my courage return as my fingers closed around the worn ivory grip.
Most of my comrades fought with spathas, long swords with a heavy chopping edge. Caledfwlch was a gladius, a much shorter and rather antiquated weapon, intended for stabbing rather than hacking with the edge. M any of the guards thought me vain for persisting with such a relic, but I found the shorter blade gave me an advantage at close quarters.
I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, just as the shrieking wind tore away the veil of dust and sand before us. At last I could see the rebel infantry, or what was left of it. Belisarius’ wild storm-charge had smashed great holes in their ranks, sweeping away squadrons and littering the ground with broken and mutilated bodies.
Many of the ill-armed levies had fled t he field, but a few stubborn mutineers and Vandals remained, formed up in isolated groups around their standards. Our cavalry swirled around them, casting spears and javelins in their faces. Belisarius’ guards were trained to use the short bow while mounted, and thumbed arrows into the helpless rebels. They would die where they stood, these men, or face the agony of crucifixion as a just punishment for those who betrayed the Roman state.
I turned my horse away, thinking to take a breath of air and some water from my pottle. Now the brief battle was all but won, there was no need to take undue risks. Our men would whittle away at the rebels until their ragged shield-walls broke and we could charge in for the final slaughter.
My horse carried me clear of the stench and din of battle, until I found a relati vely quiet spot. The wind was still churning up sand-devils and blowing clouds of dust across the plain, so I felt strangely alone, shielded from the slaughter happening not more than thirty feet away.
I had forgotten about Photius. He might have killed me then, but was unable to restrain himself from letting out a cry as he raced in to cut me down from behind.
My water pottle was halfway to my lips when I heard the cry. I dropped it and hurled myself out of the saddle. His spatha sliced through thin air as I crashed onto my side, painfully jarring my recently healed arm.
“Pig!” I heard Photius snarl. He galloped past and wrenched his horse around for another tilt at me. I glimpsed the young man’s face under his helmet, his handsome features contorted almost beyond recognition with berserk fury.
Some instinct made me glance to my left. Another horseman was coming at me, one of my comrades from the First, his kontos lowered at my breast.
The ground shook under my feet as he charged. Somehow my nerve held. Instead of panicking I held my
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