Somehow, like mountain goats, the ugly little Steppe ponies swarmed up the steep and treacherous slope, and reined in around the Romans.

The Sassanids were blinkered by bloodlust, their vision limited by the narrow slits in the masks of their helmets. They did not see the drop until too late. The bravest set their mounts to make the leap. The fainter hearted yanked back on their reins. Those behind collided with them, sending the foremost over the edge, and themselves tumbling after. Even those who had jumped cleanly were often undone by the weight of their armour, their mounts crumpling on landing. In a heartbeat the riverbed was transformed into a welter of thrashing and struggling injured men and horses.

Up on the north bank, the Heruli poured arrows into the chaos. Their bowstrings might be slackened by the rain, but at this range they found any exposed flesh, human or animal.

The clibanarii, lucky enough to have reached the river at the track, urged their mounts up against the defenders. The first wave headed by the bear standard went for Naulobates and his three blood brothers. Those following came at Valens and the Romans.

A razor-sharp lance thrust at Valens’s face, and almost lost him his seat as he ducked to one side. The big Sassanid charger went chest to chest with his mount. Driven back, Valens’s horse sat down on its haunches. Dropping his bow, Valens drew his sword. The Persian thrust again. Valens batted it aside with his blade. The impact knocked the hilt from his grip. Desperately, he grabbed the shaft of the lance with both hands. The two horses circled as their riders wrestled for the weapon, all writhing together like one hellish beast.

A second Sassanid was looming on Valens’s left. Clemens got in the way. The two men traded blows. Beyond them, all principles cast aside, Narses was also fighting for his life against another Persian. Yet another Sassanid approached from the right, half behind Valens. Out of the corner of his eye, Valens saw the warrior ready himself to plant his lance in the unprotected target.

Die like a man.

The Sassanid reeled. His head jerked around. He looked stupidly at the blood spreading over his surcoat. Decimus hacked again. Not a clean strike, but enough to drive the warrior down to the ground under the trampling hooves.

The Persian fighting Valens let go of the lance, went for his sword. Left in possession of the lance, Valens instinctively swung it like a staff. The wood clanged on metal as it hit the warrior’s helmet. Valens battered with it again and again. Stunned, the Sassanid ineffectually tried to fend off the blows with his sword.