we should send Arrian, in case we are mistaken.’ Sabinianus shuddered. ‘The village headman told me the unspeakable things they do to their captives.’
‘No, you can come with me,’ Gordian said.
‘Is it too late to renounce your friendship?’ Sabinianus’ tone was one of polite enquiry.
Gordian grinned. ‘We will take twenty of the equites with us; to calm your girlish apprehensions. While we are gone, Arrian can take command.’
‘How reassuring.’ Sabinianus turned and started to climb down the ladder. ‘At least I have a good horse.’
The nomads neither came to meet them nor moved in any way when the party trotted out from the oasis.
As they got close, Gordian’s mount put back its ears and began to baulk. Behind him, one or two were sidestepping. Camels, he thought: their smell upsets horses. He had forgotten. It was in many histories. He drove his horse forward on a tight rein. You would have thought a horse from Africa would be used to the malodorous brutes. Perhaps some camels smelt worse than others.
Gordian pulled up a couple of lengths away. His horse stamped and shifted in agitation. He calmed it, while taking in the barbarian deputation. They all wore tunics and sheepskin cloaks, carried three or four light javelins, a small shield and a knife each. Several had swords on their hips, all of Roman manufacture. Some had a scarf wrapped around their heads, veiling everything except their eyes. Most were bare-headed, with thick, braided ropes of dirty hair. One or two of the latter had shaved parts of their skulls to create strange, intricate patterns.
The camels were very tall beside the horses. They regarded him with disdain, jaws slack, slobber hanging down. They did smell. No wonder his horse did not want to be near them.
Nuffuzi sat on a chestnut horse, just off centre of the group. Gordian could tell him not by his costume but by the way the heads of his followers turned inward towards their leader.
The chief was dark, his face thin, with high cheekbones. His greying hair was in elaborate braids, bright with beads, and he wore a small beard only on his chin. The rider next to him was a younger version of Nuffuzi.
No one seemed inclined to speak.
Gods below, Gordian thought, perhaps none of them even speaks Latin. There was no likelihood of them knowing Greek. Unless he took control, this could soon turn into a debacle.
‘You are Nuffuzi of the Cinithii?’
Inexplicably, the nomads hissed and glowered annoyance at Gordian’s question. Nuffuzi himself remained calm. The chief spoke in the Latin of the camps. ‘Where have you come from?’
Unable to see its relevance, Gordian ignored the question. ‘Without provocation you have raided into the imperium. You have pillaged from many innocent people.’
‘Where are you going?’
Again, to Gordian, it seemed a non-sequitur. ‘I cannot let you pass.’
Nuffuzi nodded, as if weighing these words. ‘You do not know how things are here. There was no innocence. Every summer when my people come north they are abused and cheated, their goods are stolen, their animals taken, their women and boys raped. This—’ he jabbed a finger towards the camp ‘—is not plunder, it is retribution.’
‘You know I cannot let you pass.’
‘I know this.’ Nuffuzi smiled like a sage close to enlightenment. ‘I wanted to see who I was fighting, before the killing and the evil began.’
With a gesture almost of benediction, the desert war-leader turned and rode away.
There was all the time in the world to study the nomad encampment. It was big, sprawling and betrayed no discernible order. From a distance, all seemed intermixed: men and animals, warriors and captives. Different-coloured flags fluttered over it at what appeared random intervals. Certainly, the nomads were in no hurry to attack. A good breakfast, Sabinianus suggested, perhaps a last rape or two. You know how none of them can resist a good-looking camel.
Gordian stood down his own men in sections to take their breakfast. He tried to eat himself – some flat bread and cheese, a few olives and dates. It did not go down well. When men visited the barracks to watch the gladiators eating the night before they fought, most would bet on those who ate with a good appetite. They often lost. Gordian would be fine when the fighting started. He would be hungry afterwards. Now, he found it hard to eat. It signified nothing, nothing at all. He drank a little well-watered wine. He wanted his head clear.
The encampment began to stir. The flags moved, first this way then that. Dark shapes eddied at their bases. High yelps and cries drifted across the plain. The music of strange instruments.
‘We have some time; they need to work themselves up,’ Gordian said to no one in particular. He was surprised to find he was chewing a piece of bread.
Warriors were streaming out from among the tents. The riders at the front could be distinguished as individuals, but those behind were a dark mass. Low down, light flickered between the legs of their animals as they raced across the parched earth.
‘Here they come.’
They came like a herd of beasts migrating. Thick white dust obscured all but the forerunners. Some horses were bolting. Their riders could be seen hauling on the reins. Their mounts ran on, heads held sideways. Some ran across the line, baulking others. Those on camels bobbed, seemingly precarious above the mass.
The nomads lapped all around the oasis. With no regular standards or set formations, numbers were hard to judge. They were not close-packed, and they were kicking up great clouds of dust. Such things could deceive. That and the terrible noise. There were fewer of them than an untutored eye might judge. Three thousand at most, perhaps considerably fewer. It could be there were no more than the two thousand that had chased Aemilius Severinus the previous day. Odds of about four to one against the Romans.
In which case – Gordian looked at the camp – how many were still guarding the captives? Among the tents and shelters, the beasts of burden and squatting, dejected humanity, it was impossible to tell. Gordian looked north, beyond the camp. Still nothing: no tell-tale smudge of dust in the sky.
From the watchtower Gordian had a view as good as watching the games from the imperial box in the amphitheatre. Nearby, around the southern end of the oasis, the barbarians had halted just out of effective bowshot. They remained mounted, brandishing their weapons, and chanting a strange, ululating song. Now they were stationary, it was easier to assess numbers. There were no more than five hundred of them, spread in a wide semicircle but clustering thickest under a big black banner. Most likely, Nuffuzi was there. They were there to block any attempt at escape.
Further north, the nomads rode right up to the line of trees. Those on horseback leapt out of the saddle. The process was more laborious for the camel-mounted. First, the beasts were forced down on their front knees, then – the rider rocking violently – on their rear ones as well. Finally dismounted, the warriors could follow the example of the horsemen and toss their reins to their less courageous companions who had remained mounted.
A camel rider was plucked backwards by an unseen arrow. Faraxen’s speculatores were about their business. The nomads surged out of sight under the palms.
Gordian
