Morning, II.

Battle drums and bronze bells roared furiously as massive clouds of dust approached Marcus’ army. “This is why I have come here for.” he thought to himself and filled his lungs with the arid smell of bloodshed to come. No matter how old and experienced you get, the virgin excitement of a battle about to begin is ever persistent. And like he always said, some just get better at hiding it. He sure was someone with the power to do so.

Having skirmished with the enemy before him, he more or less knew what to expect: Arrows. Barrage after barrage of enemy missiles; fired from their archers on horseback. Judging it as the best cover against them, he already gave orders to form an enormous testudo, creating a nigh-impenetrable rectangular prism with all his legions. This would also allow enough time to exhaust their horses and occasional lancers should they attempt a charge, he thought. Sure, sending his cavalry to clash with their heavily armored counterparts would be devastating, but once they are exhausted and demoralized? Now that would be a glorious sight.

Deep within these thoughts, he did not notice one of his Centurion‘s approaching him to report:

– “Ere, Sir! Preparations are complete. They can be as loud as they want, our men are battle-hardened; seen and heard more than enough to keep their ranks and spirits.”

Resonating hums and bums certainly were roaring high, for he was barely able to hear the man shouting right next to him. Nevertheless, he gestured silently for the man to return to his post without a hint of surprise on his face. It was then that dark figures began appearing under the expansive dust clouds that were coming. Resembling a crooked flame strangely enough. This was further obvious for the front lines of the enemy were wearing long dark capes that added a dancing effect to this whole illusion. Certainly, a trick to shake their spirits that are unshakable. Not sensing the faintest twitch in his army’s iron spirit, he squinted his eyes and took another deep breath…

… a breath he kept in until the first impact, in order to welcome the epic symphony of war.

Morning, III.

It was impossible to tell for how long their frontlines were clashing but the clashing certainly proved gruesome. From the first crash of an enemy lance landing on a Roman shield, battle cries and screams of the fallen did not stop. Neighs of horses with blood gushing from their neck were not only suppressed but surpassed by many more soldiers shouting, adding to this chaotic symphony. Clashes of iron and steel, thuds of dead bodies slamming against the floor, whizzes of spears being thrown… None of this carnage in the front was matching endless bangs of arrows raining on top of them from all sides. Sounding like a really angry neighbor trying to trash your door, but in hundreds and with thousands of hands. Their stationary tactic and inferior mobility compared to the enemy have allowed Parthian horse archers to take advantage and surround them at a distance. Thus, opening themselves further to these furious barrages. As furious as they may be though, these were all within Marcus’ expectations; they were going to run out of arrows sooner or later. And their vastly outnumbered foe could not possibly replenish their quivers there, in the middle of a no man’s desert they were fighting on.

Not so long after, a loud and piercing noise forces him to look up; at the shield that was on top of him. The Arrow end that pierced the shield halfway had more than one sharp end, creating a peculiarly barbed shape. Ignoring his housecarl’s protests, he leans upwards to inspect it further. An arrow that can pierce this thick of steel can surely spell trouble, he muttered to himself.

Moments later a scout from his light cavalry approaches and salutes while ducking:

– “Sir! The infantry is getting battered on our lines and six contubernium fell almost immediately while attempting to close some of the distance between them and enemy archers. What are your orders for your horsemen?”

Marcus immediately understood that the man was trying to urge him. Turning him down staunchly was the first thing that came to his mind, however, it would have been unwise to do so in the middle of a battle:

– “Soon enough their lancers will retreat to regroup outside our range. And do you think their archers have limitless arrows in their quivers?! They too will have to either retreat or draw swords to test our mettle. It is then you shall swiftly ride out and prevent a regroup while clearing out as many of their horse archers as you can. Without arrows to shoot, they should be easy prey. Now go and inform your commander to ride out at once he can count to ten without any arrow striking our shields!”

As the scout hurried back to his position, Marcus caught a glimpse of his housecarl staring at him. A man of action in his stature must be getting bored not being able to bloody his blade. Still wanting to rekindle his housecarl’s zeal, he pointed to his left palm right in front of his face:

– “Look! Hair will grow here before I let this campaign fail! We can go back to Rome after we subdue the hometowns of every single enemy ahead of us, not before!”

Seemingly remembering where he got the idea from, his housecarl replies with a sharp nod. As if he understood only the part about not going back… not for any of them.