Fall of Empires

Chapter 19

Shahrbaraz was furious. His eyes blazed and every order he gave was delivered like the crack of a whip. 

'Is the emperor's whole force present or not?'  

The terrified scout, a beardless youth, was in such awe at being in his general's presence that he could barely stammer out his report. Isaac winced in sympathy. 

'I am not sure general, I could not see any of the Huns. They maybe have gone off to forage?' 

'Or maybe they are somewhere on this side of the river waiting to take us in the arse!' Shahrbaraz yelled. The poor scout, unused to hearing such language from the general, had no response. 

For a moment Shahrbaraz was lost in indecision. Theophanes could appreciate the general’s concern. Having pushed his men hard over the past two days he had expected to come upon the army of Heraclius before the emperor reached and crossed the Saros River but now he found the Roman army already encamped on the other side. He had no desire to attempt an assault across the river. Somehow he must now entice Heraclius back over the river to attack him, but what if the cunning emperor had already anticipated this?

‘You see my dilemma Gentlemen?’ Shahrbaraz addressed Theophanes and Isaac. ‘Bold action is called for, but I would not wish to walk straight into one of your emperor’s traps.’

‘What would you have done, General,’
Theophanes asked. ‘If you were in Heraclius’ position and you expected an attack from this side of the river?’

‘I would have destroyed the bridge,’ declared Shahrbaraz, a wolfish grin suddenly emerging upon his face. ‘And yet it stands.’

His mind made up, Shahrbaraz pulled on his helmet, which was surmounted by a pair of golden boar’s tusks and strode towards the gaggle of officers who were standing a respectful distance away awaiting his decision, wary of their general’s temper. The general’s voice boomed as he gave his orders, leaving no room for doubt or questions. His commanders performed their obsequies in turn as they received their instructions and strutted away towards their own units.

‘Well you had better hope the day goes well for the general or he may blame you if Heraclius gets the better of him,’ Isaac quipped.

‘I suppose all we can do is sit here with the rest of the baggage and wait to find out.’ Theophanes slumped to the ground.

‘Perhaps not.’ Isaac’s voice was suddenly high with excitement as Shahrbaraz’s grooms appeared, leading his war horse Rakhsh armoured and ready for battle and behind him came Theophanes’ and Isaac’s mounts.

Shahrbaraz strode back over, fearsome in appearance but with his mood seemingly much improved by the prospect of action. He mounted Rakhsh and was handed his shield and lance. Turning to Theophanes and Isaac the general declared.

‘Come gentlemen. The school of war awaits.’

*

The air was filled with the blaring of trumpets and the drumming of running feet as Heraclius burst from his tent and hurried through the camp. The  young officer who had been sent to summon him struggled to keep up with his emperor as he strode towards the gate in the outer palisade, barking out questions.

‘Do we still hold the bridge?’

‘Yes, Basileus,’ the messenger stammered. ‘At least, we did.’

‘How many men have we lost?’

‘I have no idea, Basileus, they are still fighting on the far bank but a great many have fallen I fear.’

‘Damn those reckless fools!’ Heraclius roared. ‘Bring my horse. Where is my brother?’

‘Still off patrolling to the north with the Optimates, Basileus. Ellac and his Huns have not yet returned either.’

‘By God! This Persian has caught us with our breeches around our ankles.’

Heraclius accepted his helmet from the servant who had run to catch up with him and waited for his horse to be brought over, his mind racing. How had he been caught so unprepared? He had not expected a Persian army to suddenly appear behind him. He had thought they would be advancing along  this side of the river to his north. Damn it!
As he spurred Dorkon out of the gate and along the track towards the bridge he could see that the cream of his army had been shattered. The remnants of the elite regiments of the Victores and the Theodosiaci were streaming back across the bridge, bloodied and broken. A great many of their number must lay slain somewhere on the far bank of the river. He cursed their commanders for leading  them to such folly. A senior officer rode over to meet the emperor. Both horse and rider were soaked with sweat. The man’s armour was battered and sprayed with blood, many of the scales had been torn away to reveal the leather beneath and the horsehair crest had been shorn from his helmet by a sword stroke which had clearly been intended  to remove his head from his shoulders. Heraclius considered finishing the job.

‘Chiliarch, report,’ Heraclius bellowed. ‘How has this occurred?’

‘They starting firing at us from the far bank as we were watering the horses,’ the commander of a thousand horse croaked, his voice hoarse from bellowing orders. ‘They were not that great in number and we took them for a scouting party.’ Heraclius ground his teeth in frustration as he understood how the disaster had unfolded. The officer continued, ‘Some of the men, those who still wore their armour, decided to cross the river and drive them off, the Persians fell back and so more men crossed the river in pursuit.’ 

‘It did not occur to any of you that this could be a trap of the enemy’s?’ Heraclius demanded.

‘No Basileus, the men’s blood was up. We took it for a bit of sport.’

‘A bit of sport!’

Heraclius was so incensed that he gave the Chiliarch a back handed slap across the face that almost knocked him from his horse. The man smouldered with wounded pride and wiped a dribble of blood from beneath his nose.

‘This Persian has not come to play games,’ Heraclius snapped. ‘What happened then?’
‘They burst from out of the trees, Savaran, thousands of them. Our men were cut to pieces. The Turmarch ordered the rest of us across the river to reinforce them but half of the men were not even wearing their armour and they drove us back. We fought hard, but they are too many.’

Heraclius had heard enough. He gestured impatiently for the exhausted officer to lend him his shield and spurred his horse on towards the river. The remaining Roman cavalry on the far side of the river had retreated almost to the bridge which they were attempting to protect but they were being driven steadily back by a hail of arrows. Heraclius looked back over his shoulder to note with some relief that men were pouring out of his camp and forming up in their units.

‘Archers to the riverbank,’ he bellowed.
The last of the Roman cavalrymen who had crossed the river had now been forced back across the bridge, all of them wounded, many had arrows sticking out from shields and armour. The victorious Savaran had not pursued them. Instead their mounted archers had ridden forward once more, now in greater numbers, to unleash a storm of arrows against the disorganised Romans as they milled around on the far bank. Officers sought out their men and attempted to reform their decimated units, calling for the men to pull back out of range of the Persian archers.

Under cover of this murderous barrage, a force of heavily armoured Persian foot soldiers with large shields were running towards the bridge. They seemed intent on seizing it and forming a defensive line on the Roman bank of the river behind which the rest of the Persian army could cross. With his army in such disarray, Heraclius could not afford to lose the bridge at this moment, but to ride into the storm of arrows would be an act of madness. He closed his eyes for a moment in silent prayer. When he opened them again his heart stilled in his chest as he beheld standing upon the bridge a great figure, robed in light, holding aloft a flaming sword. He knew not another moment’s doubt. Drawing his own sword, Heraclius dug in his heels and with a mighty yell that seemed torn from his chest by the force of his vision, he charged for the bridge.