As always under those circumstances, more and more of the men—on both sides—soon found themselves on the ground. Without momentum, it was almost impossible to swing heavy swords and axes for any length of time without falling off a horse. The only thing keeping a soldier on his horse were the pressure of his knees and—if possible, which it usually wasn’t in a battle—a hand on the pommel of his saddle. Any well-delivered blow on his armor or shield would knock a man off. And any badly delivered blow of his own was likely to drag him off by the inertia of his missed swing.
Five minutes into the fray, almost half of the cavalrymen on both sides were dismounted.
“This is going to be as bad as Lake Ticinus,” grunted Anastasius. He pounded a Persian to the ground with a mace blow. Nothing fancy; Anastasius needn’t bother—the giant’s mace slammed the man’s own shield into his helmet hard enough to crack his skull.
Belisarius grimaced. The ancient battle of Lake Ticinus was a staple of Roman army lore. Fought during the Second Punic War, it had started as a pure cavalry battle and ended as a pure infantry fight. Every single man on both sides, according to legend, had fallen off his horse before the fray was finished.
Belisarius was actually surprised that he was still mounted himself. Partly, of course, that was due to his bodyguards. In his entire career, Anastasius had only fallen off his horse once during a battle. And that didn’t really count—his horse had fallen first, slipping in a patch of snow on some unnamed little battlefield in Dacia. The man was so huge and powerful—with a horse to match—that he could swap blows with anyone without budging from his saddle.
Valentinian, on the other hand, had taken to the ground as soon as the battle had become a deadlocked slugging match. Valentinian was possibly even deadlier than Anastasius, but his lethality was the product of skill, dexterity, and speed. Those traits were almost nullified in this kind of fray, as long as he was trapped on a stationary horse.
Valentinian was a veteran, however. For all his grousing about foot-soldiering, the man had instantly slid from his horse and kept fighting afoot. The result had been a gory trail of hamstrung and gutted horses, their former riders lying nearby in their own blood.
With those two protecting him—and his own great skill as a fighter—Belisarius hadn’t even been hurt.
Yet—it was odd. There was something else. Belisarius hadn’t noticed, at first, until a slight pause in the action enabled him to think. But the fact was that he was fighting much too well.
“Deadly with a blade, is Belisarius.” He’d heard it said, and knew it for a cold and simple truth. But he had never been as deadly as he was that day. The cause lay not in any added strength or stamina. It was—odd. He seemed to see everything with perfect clarity, even in the hazy dust. He seemed to be able to gauge every motion by an enemy perfectly—and gauge his own strikes with equal precision. Time after time, he had slipped a blow by the barest margin—yet knowing, all the while, that the margin was adequate. Time after time, he had landed a blow of his own through the narrowest gaps, the slimmest openings—yet knowing, at the instant, that the gaps were enough. Time after time, he had begun to slip from his horse, only to find his balance again with perfect ease.
Odd. The truth was that he was leaving his own trail of gore and blood. It was like a path through a forest beaten by an elephant.
Even his cataphracts noticed. And complained, in the case of one.
“We’re supposed to be protecting you, General,” hissed Valentinian. “Not the other way around.”
“Quit bitching,” growled Anastasius. Chunk. Another Mede down. “I’m a big target. I need all the protection I can get.” Chunk.
Valentinian began to snarl something, but fell silent, listening intently.
“I think—”
“Yes,” said Belisarius. He had heard it too. The first cry for quarter, coming from a Persian throat. The cry had been cut off.