“Caesar!” One of his staff officers was pointing to the west. Galen turned.

Heraclius’ charge had slammed home, brushing aside the remains of the Hunnic archers and crumpling the entire Persian right wing. Persian horsemen were fleeing south in ones and twos, but more were being hewn down by Heraclius’ men as they surged across the Persian flank. Galen smiled grimly and signaled to his trumpeters.

“Sound retreat, ten paces and stand,” he shouted. The trumpets blared again, a sharp staccato. The buccinators wailed. “Signal the guard to swing right and cover the flank of the Third Gallica.”

Behind him the Varangians and Germans ran forward, their axes and longswords at the ready. Galen turned his horse, watching the Persian line. His legionnaires backed off, their front re-forming where their ranks had been eaten away by the melee. Fresh men rushed in to fill the holes in the line. The Persians staggered forward and then stopped in confusion. The relentless pressure that had been forcing them forward had stopped. The Roman front was solid again, a bristling wall of shields, spears, and swords. Men shouted at the rear of the Persian formations. Many men turned, staring to their rear. Heraclius and his knights swept down the hillside toward the spearmen. The Persians began to mill about, shouting. Then a man on the left wing started running. Within moments the entire mass, still at least thirty thousand men, was in flight.

Heraclius’ knights, screaming their battle cry, plowed into the running infantry. Galen closed his eyes for a moment, but the din filled his ears even so. A great wailing rose up. It was enough. He spurred his horse forward. “All Legions, advance at a walk!” The Western Legions surged forward, closing the trap. f

“Lord of Corruption, I commit my soul to your keeping…”

Baraz shook his head. The Immortals had collapsed into a broad arc around his position at the eastern end of the plain. Scattered bands of Persians-horsemen, archers, spearmen-accreted to his banner like salt around a string suspended in brine. The rest of the field was a disaster. Tens of thousands of Persians lay dead and many more staggered south, heading for the chaos of the road, their formations scattered and broken. He could not make out Rhazames’ banner in the middle of the field, and he was sure that Gundarnasp and all of the entire left wing of the army had been destroyed.

Now the Romans were redressing their lines. From where he sat upon his horse, he could not tell if any of the Roman cohorts had been destroyed. Soon they would march against him. Baraz beckoned his officers to him.

“This day is done. Send the men on foot ahead. Then the horse. The road south will be a charnel house. We will strike due east, through the woods to the shore of the sea and then south, back to Persian lands.”

Baraz stared out over the field, his mind ignoring the windrows of dead, the wandering, riderless horses. The Roman army crouched in the middle of the field, a scaled and plated creature with myriad sharp spines. He shook his head, wishing for a fleeting moment that the King of Kings had not seized so greedily upon Dahak’s power. If he had come to this field by horse, the advance of the Persian army would have been delayed into the spring, giving him time to flog the inexperienced men into some kind of army.

No matter, he thought. Chrosoes has made his throw of the dice and lost. Now if only I can escape this debacle with my own head intact! ‘

He did laugh then, for the game of wits and skill that he embarked upon pleased him. The Immortals near him shuddered-the sound of such gay laughter in this place was madness.

H

Maxian and his followers entered the buried city by a hidden path. The Valach, at the bidding of Gaius Julius, had found a trail made by goats and sheep that entered the city from the north, winding its way through fallen palaces and ruined temples. The old Roman had been more than usually smug, noting that even wizards had to eat sometime. Maxian took his time, walking slowly, most of his mind submerged in the hidden world. Strange patterns and geometries filled the spaces between the buildings and even the sky above the city. The dead man had been right to counsel stealth.

The stock trail crossed a cracked mosaic floor, exposed to the sky by the collapse of the building that had once housed it. The Prince walked for a space on clouds and a brilliant blue sky filled with wondrous birds. Two of the Valach boys preceded him, sinking low to the ground, sniffing and smelling everything that they encountered.

Krista shadowed the Prince at his right shoulder. The homunculus followed, carrying the unconscious body of the Persian magician. Abdmachus had been a long time in yielding up the secrets of the ziggurat. Gaius Julius had emerged from the body of the engine with a sour, drained expression on his face and a carefully drawn map in hand. Khiron, though his chest and arms were covered with a network of fresh scratches and bruises, was unmoved. Alais had fairly glowed, her hair thicker and richer in texture, almost the color of molten gold. Krista wondered if the Prince had noticed.

The lush blonde and the rest of the Valach followed behind the homunculus, as quiet as fallen leaves. Krista moved as quietly as she was able, but anger simmered in the back of her mind at the effortless skill the barbarians exhibited. She felt heavy, weighed down by a light shirt of chain-mail links that she wore strapped around her torso under the dark colors she had lately favored. The Prince seemed to move with the same grace now, though he had never shown an aptitude before. She stole a glance over her shoulder at Alais.

The Valach woman was watching the Prince with ill-disguised avarice. Despite the threat of imminent violence, Alais had chosen to dress herself in a tight-fitting leather top that revealed just enough of her figure to excite the imagination, silk leggings, high leather boots, and the heavy dark cloak. Krista sneered inside, ignoring the fact that she had worn similar outfits herself, though in slightly more fitting circumstances.

This isn’t a summer party on the Seven Hills, she thought, someone will be dead soon… maybe a fat woman with no sense of style.?.

She missed the Duchess. Anastasia was so skilled with this kind of thing that were she here, the barbarian woman would have already fled in shame. The Roman woman smoothed her sleeves over the hidden shapes of the spring gun and her knife. She still had some small consolations.

The lead Valach stopped, raising a hand in warning. Silently he pointed to the left, into a dark recess. The stock trail turned away to the right, into a high barrel-vaulted building made of thick courses of stone blocks with bricks laid in between. The smell of sheep and goats tickled the nose. Krista watched the Prince advance carefully and confer with the two Valach boys.

“Soon,” Gaius Julius said in her ear, “there will be some blood spilled.”

Krista nodded, turning around to keep the old Roman in view. The others had stopped, the Valach squatting, Alais drifting up to the Prince, her hand resting lightly on his shoulder. Gaius Julius met her eye and winked, his face holding back some suppressed amusement.

Krista’s left eyelid flickered in anger and then she made a small smile. “You must be pleased, seeing battle again…”

Gaius Julius grimaced and shook his head.

“No,” he said, “I never miss war. I miss the disputation in the Forum. I miss testing my wit and voice against others. This escapade has some intrigue, but little else… I used to say that war was the recourse of the defeated or the barbarian who knew no better. If you had to fight, you had already lost your case, you see?”