a quarter of a century since Faraxen of the Mazices had left the mountains of Mauretania to join the army of Rome. In his six years with the auxiliary cavalry on the northern frontier, he had survived pitched battles in gloomy forests when the Emperor Caracalla campaigned against the Alamanni and the Carpi. Back here in Africa, during the next two decades patrolling the desert, rising up the ranks of the speculatores, he had come through innumerable skirmishes and raids. Faraxen knew war; what it took, and what it needed.
Gordian the Younger was a brave man. Faraxen had served under him at Ad Palmam and at the storm of Esuba. Gordian was not a stranger to war. The young Emperor was aware that less than two thousand of his army were real soldiers. The rest were a rabble from the backstreets of Carthage, a mob unaccustomed to the makeshift weapons put in their hands. Gordian had taken his place in the centre of the line. Gordian must know that if his stratagem failed, he would die along with thousands of those who followed him. The death of his father and co-Emperor, Gordian the Elder, who watched from the gates, would follow not long after. Faraxen himself would be unlikely to survive.
Faraxen’s dreams had not been good, not since the Gordiani had been proclaimed emperors, not since he had renounced his military oath to the Emperor Maximinus Thrax. Last night he had dreamt that he was again in Mauretania. He had been riding through the lowland winter pastures of his tribe, hunting ostrich. He had worn a loose, unbelted tunic, and carried three javelins and a shield, with a long knife strapped to his left forearm; the fitting weapons and dress of a warrior of the Mazices. He had been well-mounted, and had a fine hunting dog. With no need for a bridle or reins, he had controlled the horse with just a stick. Yet, no matter how good his horsemanship, no matter how he urged the charger on, time and again, the ostrich had eluded him. As it ran its huge feet had thrown up many stones. These had struck hard into his face, chest and arms. When darkness came, Faraxen had found himself bloodied and alone in a meadow, looking up at the lights burning up in the mountains.
It was not the moment to dwell on dreams, not with the enemy so close.
Maximinus was far away on the Rhine or Danube, but Capelianus, the governor of the neighbouring province of Numidia, had remained loyal to the big Thracian. The rumour in the ranks was that decades earlier the elder Gordian had cuckolded Capelianus. You could not blame Capelianus for seeking revenge, but Faraxen considered that taking so long to work up his courage, and then to cloak the act in another cause, showed him to be less than a true man. A noble of the Mazices would have done things differently.
The army of Capelianus was approaching from the east, drawn up for battle. Faraxen studied its lines. Two thousand swords under the eagle of the 3rd Legion in the centre, three cohorts of auxiliary infantry on each flank. In all five thousand heavy infantry, preceded by five hundred bowmen in open order. Faraxen was sure of the numbers; for the last two days, he and his speculatores had shadowed the column. The men Faraxen led were a detachment of the finest unit of scouts in the world. The rest of the army knew the speculatores as the Frontier Wolves. Capelianus’ foot were outnumbered, but Faraxen had no doubt that they would rout the levies opposed to them, unless something intervened, unless Gordian’s stratagem worked.
Everything depended on the cavalry. Not the thousand local tribesmen who rode on each side of Capelianus’ array. Numidians and Moors were natural light horsemen, ideal for ambush and raid, for scouting and pursuit. But unless trained in disciplined formations, they were reluctant to fight hand-to-hand, and would never stand up to the charge of close order cavalry. Capelianus had one unit of regular, armoured troopers. They were bringing up the rear. Faraxen could see the standards and plumes of the five hundred men of the 1st Ala of Pannonians where they showed over the heads of the infantry. Although based at Gemellae, near the legionary headquarters of Lambaesis, they had often done duty on the frontier. Faraxen had served with them both on exercises and expeditions. They were good men the Pannonians. Now everything depended on Gordian’s plan to break them.
Capelianus was cautious. His forces were still nearly five hundred paces away. They were advancing slowly, in good order. All, apart from the irregular cavalry, stopped frequently to dress their ranks. When that happened, the Moors and Numidians milled about, just as the mood of each individual took him.
A horse called from among the buildings behind Faraxen. The enemy would not hear it above the noise of their own coming.
Faraxen’s thoughts wandered. An ostrich was a noble prey. But – burying its head in the undergrowth – it was notoriously stupid. Old wives’ tales claimed there was a stone in its stomach which cured diseases, and that it was unnatural in its mating. Verota, another centurion of the speculatores quartered at Ad Palmam, was wise at interpreting dreams, better than any marketplace diviner. When Faraxen got back to the southern frontier, he would ask him. No dreams had the clarity of those dreamed while sleeping in the tombs of one’s ancestors. It was a very long time since Faraxen had been able to do that, too many years with little confidence in the warnings and advice that his forbears were trying to communicate.
When he got back to the southern frontier, Faraxen corrected himself. If …
Trumpets rang out across the plain.
‘There!’
In his excitement, Mauricius started to get to his feet. Faraxen put out a hand to pull him down below the parapet.
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘No, you are right, centurion Faraxen.’
Most senior commands were secured by patronage. Mauricius was a rich African landowner. His friendship with the Gordiani had gained him command of the new imperial horse guards. He was no soldier, but he was not a bad man.
More trumpets sounded. Faraxen peered over.
No wonder self-control had deserted Mauricius. The enemy horsemen were on the move. All of them, Pannonians and irregulars, were cantering to the left wing of Capelianus’ army. They were forming up opposite the gap between the end of Gordian’s army and the fishponds from where Faraxen and his companions watched. Capelianus had fallen for the bait. He could not resist the chance to send his mounted men to outflank the line of Gordian’s infantry.
A roar from across the plain.
The light-armed militiamen screening the front of Gordian’s army were unable to contain themselves. Although out of range, they were letting fly with everything they had, bows and slings, some even hurling stones by hand.
The enemy archers jogged forward into the uncoordinated rain of missiles. One or two went down. Nowhere near enough to make a difference. About a hundred paces from their foes, they stopped. As one, they drew and released. The volley scythed down. Gordian’s skirmishers broke and ran. Another volley hit them before they reached and then barged through their heavy infantry. Once they had reached comparative safety, at least half of them continued running.
Faraxen watched them haring away between the tombs, and wondered if the Carthaginians on the walls were still taking the same pleasure in the spectacle.
Capelianus’ archers now began to loose their arrows on the main body of Gordian’s close order infantry. The rear ranks of the latter brought their big shields up to roof themselves over, to form what the soldiers called a tortoise. The shafts were falling thickest where the imperial standard of Gordian flew. Here and there the more courageous of Gordian’s archers shot back over the heads of their own men.
The legionaries and auxiliaries of Capelianus were still some way off, trudging forward.
Off to the right, a trumpet sounded the advance.
Faraxen
