“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.

After the turmoil of the past five days, Baraz remembered his time in Syria with fondness. There, despite the poor leadership of the Great Prince Shahin, he had commanded an army of experienced men. Many of them had served with him before and knew how to march and fight. This mob was another matter. When Chrosoes had sent Gun-darnasp out to raise the “greatest army in the world” they had taken him to mean numbers, not quality. Every landowner with a spear and a nag from Nisibis to Tokharistan was jammed onto this road, along with a vast number of wagons, mules, and men on foot. Baraz managed to break out of the stream of men clogging the road and sent his horse up the side of a low embankment.

The general guessed that the army numbered almost two hundred fifty thousand men. Yet feared that for all its size, it was near useless. The ten thousand Immortals he had commanded for so long were the only reliable troops in the entire vast host. They, at least, would follow command and advance or retreat as he directed. The rest… He shook his head in dismay. For the first time since Chrosoes had launched his war of revenge nine years before, Baraz was afraid that he faced a hopeless fight.

Among the few bright spots in this canker sore of an expedition was the presence of two bands of Ephtathilite Huns, mercenaries hired by the prince of the Eastern city of Balkh. The Huns were the very devil on horseback and made superb scouts. The news that they brought him from the north was disheartening, but he was fairly sure that it was accurate. The army of the Two Emperors was just over a hundred thousand men, about half infantry and half cav airy. Had numbers been the only deciding factor, Baraz would have just pointed north and howled a command to attack. The Persians would have swamped the Romans with sheer numbers.

Unfortunately, and this was the spear that twisted in Baraz’s gut, the enemy was composed of veteran troops, well drilled and disciplined. It seemed unlikely that they would panic in the face of the Persian numbers, and that meant that the King of King’s “greatest army” would run right into a meat grinder. His one hope was to pin the enemy with his levies for long enough to bring the Immortals and the bands of heavily armored knights to bear on a flank of the Roman army, bend it back, and crush it.

He reached Rhazames’ banner and found the young nobleman and his coterie of officers shouting in confusion at each other.

Baraz bulled into the center of their conversation and raised his voice in a bellow. “Shut up! Everyone, quiet. Tell me what has happened so far.”

Rhazames cleared his throat and nervously stroked the long mustaches that spiked out from the sides of his face. He wore an open-faced helmet with an ornamental dragon enameled on its crown. He could not have been older than eighteen. “Lord Baraz! The army is still gathering and the Romans have sent their sorcerers forward. They are sending fire and lightning against the front ranks of the infantry. Many men are already dead or fleeing toward the rear.”

Baraz grimaced at the thought of the peasant infantry stampeding back into the companies of men still trying to reach the battlefield. Things were dicey enough already. “Where are our wizards?”

Rhazames shrugged, his face a mask of confusion. “I do not know, Great Lord. I thought I saw their wagons some hours ago, by the side of the road, but…”

Baraz controlled his temper with a supreme effort of will. The boy was very young, and it was quite likely that he had never commanded in battle before. His father had served Baraz in the first campaigns against Syria but had been killed in a duel at Antioch. He spurred his horse through the collection of nobles and officers, finally reaching a low mound where he could see something of the battlefield. He cursed then, for a long time and with great feeling. The entire Roman army was already on the field and in motion. He looked back, past the pale, frightened faces of his commanders, and saw that the roads were still clogged with men and animals. Not even half of his army had reached the area of battle yet. He gestured at the nearest dispatch rider, his hand chopping at the air.

“You, lad, ride like the wind to the right flank and find the Kagan of the Huns. Tell him to charge the Roman lines and spoil their advance. Then find the Lakhmid light horse I saw loafing around earlier and send them to deploy before our lines. They can drive off these magicians with javelin and lance.”