peered closely through the rising murk. Those still in the saddle were cantering away; each with two, at most three animals on a lead rein. He made rapid calculations. Say two thousand five hundred of the enemy, five hundred of them so far were unengaged here in the south. That left two thousand in the north. But, of those, one in three were holding animals. There could be only about one thousand five hundred rushing into the attack. Odds of three to one; the bare minimum needed to assault a defended position. And the nomads were unarmoured. All the defenders, even the retainers of the landowners, had some form of body armour, hardened leather or padded linen, if not mail. Before he let his hopes rise, Gordian reminded himself that Ad Palmam was not in truth a properly fortified village. Without Menophilus, the odds were still heavy that this could only end one way.
The noise of the unseen battle issued up. Gordian stared, as if an exercise of will would penetrate the blanket of fronds. Frightened birds clattered away, out over the salt flats: doves, the blue flash of a kingfisher. The din was getting closer. The most dedicated follower of Epicureanism would struggle to remain free from mental disturbance. Very few Epicureans were military men. The enforced inactivity of command would try anyone’s philosophical principals.
Looking down, Gordian saw a sudden surge of people pouring through the open gate into the courtyard of the citadel. They were a mix of civilians and speculatores. The nomads must be inside the settlement already. So many were fleeing, they were pushing and fighting in the confined space. Figures were falling. A child went down. As its mother went to scoop it up, she was trampled. Soon the mob would block the entrance. The enemy would enter on their heels, cut their way through them.
‘Legate!’ Gordian bellowed for Arrian. ‘Get up here and assume command!’
Gordian quickly took stock. Out on the plain the big war standard of Nuffuzi had not moved. Some of the warriors were caracoling their horses, racing along the line, but the majority sat motionless. A fair few had dismounted and were squatting, talking and drinking. If Gordian charged at the head of his father’s guard, quite probably they could punch through the nomads and ride to safety. He suppressed the ignoble thought.
‘Sabinianus, with me!’
Before going to the ladder, Gordian look a last look to the north. The pall raised by thousands of hooves had screened the camp of the raiders almost completely. Beyond it, nothing at all could be seen.
Down in the yard was chaos. The horses were stamping and squealing, rearing against their tethers. Wild-eyed, they lashed out at each other. The forty troopers were struggling to control them. Gordian shouted for them to leave the horses and form on him.
In a compact wedge Gordian and his men forced their way into the press in the gateway. With fists, boots and the flats of their swords, they cleared a passage. Men swore at them. Women screamed and small children howled. Once, Gordian nearly went down when his boot turned on a body.
Outside, in the main avenue of the settlement, they scrummed together into a rough wall of shields about a dozen wide and three or four deep. Panicked inhabitants swirled around them like a river in spate around a boulder. In twos and threes, speculatores emerged from under the palms screening the innumerable side-alleys. Aemilius Severinus was leading one group.
‘They outflanked us. They were here before, and know this maze better than us. They were all around us, too many of them …’ The report trailed off. Aemilius stood, panting; shamefaced. There was a gash on his forearm, blood on his face.
Gordian gripped his shoulder. ‘Not your fault. Get your survivors together inside. When the enemy gets here, close the gate. Never mind about the civilians. Never mind if we are still outside.’
Aemilius Severinus nodded. ‘We will do what is ordered, and at every command we will be ready.’
Gordian waited in the front rank, shoulder to shoulder with his men. The civilians stumbled and jostled past, wailing like mourners. Behind, the horses trumpeted and screamed. Agonized yells and alien shouts echoed out from the alleyways in front. There was something unnerving in waiting silent and motionless at the centre of so much noise and movement. Here in the shade of the palms which lined the street it was cooler. The light was green, subaqueous.
Death is nothing to us. Gordian repeated it to himself. Death is nothing to us.
The press of refugees bumped and bored past. The guards waited. The din seemed to recede, as if it came from a great distance.
If at last all returns to rest and sleep …
A nomad ran out from a lane. The locals shrank away. He skidded to a halt, dumbstruck by the presence of the soldiers. Someone shot him. The arrow spun him around and dropped him in the dirt. The men around Gordian laughed.
‘And things were going so well for him,’ Sabinianus said.
From somewhere out of sight came a high call and response, the rhythmic stamping of feet, the beat of weapons on shields. The villagers hurled themselves past, sandals slapping on the compacted dirt. The street in front of Gordian emptied. He glanced back. A seething mass of bodies was stuck fast in the gateway. All sense gone, they clawed and struggled.
‘Steady!’ Sabinianus shouted.
A roar, and the barbarians came around the corner. A volley of arrows hissed over Gordian’s head. The foremost warriors twisted and fell. Those following leapt over them. More arrows, like spattering rain. Not enough to stop the charge. The nomads’ right arms went back, snapped forward. The air was full of barbed javelins. Gordian jerked his shield up. A jarring impact ran up his left arm. A splinter of wood narrowly missed his eye. The head of the javelin had penetrated the shield. He dropped the useless thing, got his sword up.
Braids flying, a nomad was on him, jabbing wicked steel down at his face. Gordian crouched, stepped forward. The javelin went over his left shoulder. He drove the tip of his blade into the guts. For a moment, they were together, face to face, in the hideous intimacy of an embrace. The stench of urine and blood. The breath of the warrior feral and hot on his face.
Gordian stepped back, pushing the dying man away. Another took his place, swinging a sword. Gordian blocked; once, twice, three times. The ringing of steel was loud in his ears. He gave ground. The soldiers around him likewise. Men were falling on both sides, but numbers were telling. Emboldened by his opponent’s passivity, the nomad lifted his arms high to deliver a mighty overhead chop. Gordian waited until the weapon was at its apex and neatly drove three inches of steel into his throat.
Again the line retreated and contracted. In the momentary respite, Gordian tried to take stock. Only three soldiers to his right now, Sabinianus and no more to his left. Nomads working around both flanks. The rear ranks of the guardsmen had turned to make a circle. The gateway was still full of massed humanity.
Like an ebbing tide, the enemy receded. Arrows from the wall plucked at their cloaks, thumped into their shields. One or two crumpled, hands clutching at the shafts. Before hope could rise, they charged again. The young chieftain at their head angled straight for Gordian. A flurry of blows, and Gordian’s back collided with that of the soldier behind. Hampered in his movements, he emptied his mind of everything except his opponent’s steel. Long training and the memory in his muscles guided him.
The briefest of pauses, and Gordian recognized him. With a curious precision and delicacy of footwork, Nuffuzi’s son feinted and lunged. Gordian took the strike high up near the pommel. This youth could fight. The sound of shouting from behind. No time for that. Gordian parried and riposted.
Sweat
