Severe the battle's shock. CenturionsAnd tribunes, rallying their men, drink inOnce more from air that vibrates with their dinThe scents and ardors of red slaughter's sons.
With gloomy eyes, computing their lost ones,The soldiers see, like leaves of autumn's kin,Afar, Phraortes' archers whirl and spin;And sweat adown their tawny faces runs.
And then appeared, with arrows bristling round,Red from the vermeil stream of many a wound,'Neath floating purple and the brass's glare,
To sound of trumpets' flourish, grand of mien,Quelling his plunging horse, and bathed in sheenOf fiery sky, the Imperator there.
