was laughing as they clattered down the stairs.
In the warehouse, Faraxen’s adjutant, Aban, the son of Verota, was waiting with the others. They all walked out to the horses.
There were just over five hundred men and their mounts hidden in the complex of the fishponds. About a hundred of them were the armed retainers of Mauricius and other owners of great landed estates. They might lack discipline, but at least they were accustomed to the hunting field, and could ride and handle weapons with skill. Neither of the latter could be said for the three hundred recent recruits from Carthage, who appeared to lack any martial qualities beyond drinking and boasting. The original hundred troopers who had formed the horse guard of Gordian the Elder, when he was just governor of Africa, had been promoted, and distributed as junior officers through the ranks of this makeshift unit. Faraxen had had to argue hard to prevent a similar dissolution of his band of twenty speculatores. Only the necessity of spying out the approach of Capelianus had let him win his case.
Faraxen took off the voluminous cloak, rolled it neatly, and tied it behind his saddle. Aban passed him his helmet, and he put it on, taking care over the laces.
A soldier gave Mauricius a leg up.
Faraxen was a centurion of the Frontier Wolves, a warrior of the Mazices. The day he could not spring into the saddle, wearing full armour, he might as well die.
Aban reached up to hand Faraxen his shield, then turned to his own horse.
The men were all mounted. The waiting was over. The next few moments would decide the day. If the gods were kind, the Pannonians would turn to the south intending to take Gordian’s infantry in the flank, and roll up their line. But before that could happen, Mauricius and the men hidden among the fishponds would tear into their defenceless backs. Next to no troops would stand if, with an enemy to their front, they were also surprised and charged from behind. The Pannonians were not one of the exceptions.
With luck, as the Pannonians thundered past, the panic would spread to their own infantry. There was nothing like seeing horsemen running to make men on foot want to join them. If the army of Capelianus did not take to its heels, Mauricius could lead those who remained with his standard behind their lines, and threaten their infantry with encirclement. The god Pan would cast his magic again. The genius of Gordian’s plan was that it made the poor quality of the majority of Mauricius’ cavalry an irrelevance.
‘Open the gates.’
Faraxen took his station just behind Mauricius and his standard bearer. The speculatores closed up around their centurion.
A few words of encouragement would have been good, but Mauricius was no soldier.
‘Forward.’
As they emerged, high, sharp cries came from the enemy tribesmen, less alarmed than derisory. Dust billowed up and shrouded the plain as the Numidians and Moors galloped away in every direction. Clad in light robes and tunics, they knew the armoured horsemen could not catch them.
Mauricius trotted some thirty paces and halted. His standard-bearer hoisted the bright red flag. Those behind would form up on either side.
Faraxen hefted his shield, drew his sword, and waited. The dust began to clear. Faraxen felt his heart shrink.
Facing him, drawn up in a perfect fighting line, a hundred riders wide and five deep, the Pannonians were ready.
‘Sound the retreat,’ Mauricius said.
‘No.’ Faraxen countermanded the order.
Faraxen turned from the musician to Mauricius. ‘We will be surrounded and cut down before we reach Carthage. There is nowhere else to go. We have to charge.’
Mauricius’ face was pale under his helmet. He nodded curtly. ‘Sound the charge.’
Faraxen nudged his mount forward with his thighs.
‘How did they know?’ Aban asked.
‘Some deserter,’ a trooper answered. ‘A civilian, a coward, some cunt.’
‘Silence in the ranks,’ Faraxen said. ‘Keep together. Keep moving. Punch through the line. Come out the other side. See how things look then.’
They were gathering speed. The Pannonians had begun their counter charge.
‘Keep close to me,’ Faraxen said to Aban.
The distance shrank.
Faraxen leant forward in the saddle, sword out. A solid wall of steel, armour, and horseflesh rushing towards him.
A wild song of his youth in his head. His mind very clear. His sole focus on the rider he would meet.
Just when it seemed both sides would be dashed to destruction in a terrible, tangled collision, horses veered, and the ranks opened out. No horse, unless maddened, will run into a solid object.
Ready for the swerve of the horses, Faraxen thrust at the rider who flashed by on his right. The blade slid off an armoured shoulder. A Pannonian in the second rank cut down at his head. Faraxen brought up his shield. An impact jarred up his left arm, and the assailant was behind him.
The horses were impeding each other, the pace slowing. A trooper swung at Faraxen’s face. Faraxen blocked, and thrust back. The trooper took the blow on his shield. Their mounts were at a standstill.
A yell of triumph. Out of the corner of his eye, Faraxen saw the big red standard topple.
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