The narrow ends of the oval of the oasis were north and south. The tree line was about two thirds of a mile long and at its widest just under half a mile across. There were no defences – no ditch, wall or rampart – around this perimeter, and, anyway, Gordian simply did not have enough men to defend such a length. The village was set in the southern end of the cultivated land. As every inch of irrigated soil was used, the crops, shrubs and trees grew right up to the walls of the houses. There was no killing zone. Attackers could remain in cover until almost the moment they tried to scale the walls or storm the openings.
It was not a strong position, but Gordian had done what he could to remedy its deficiencies. Traps – sharpened wooden stakes concealed in shallow pits; the ones the soldiers called ‘lilies’ – had been dug in the more obvious trails through the gardens. Half the speculatores, a full two hundred men under a young centurion of local birth called Faraxen, were lurking among the undergrowth. In small groups they were to harass the nomads, falling back before them into the village.
The remainder of the scouts, under their commander Aemilius Severinus, waited in the settlement. All the entrances were blocked, except the two by which Faraxen’s men would retreat. Moveable barricades had been prepared to put across the latter. Gordian would have liked to make the place a more difficult proposition, but it had been impossible. There had been no time to cut back a space in front of the defences. There was no blacksmith, and no metal, to make caltrops to scatter where their sharp spikes would pierce the soles of the enemies’ feet. Normally, he would have ordered the collection of firewood and metal cauldrons in which to heat oil or sand. He had not done so, because the roofs of the mud-brick houses whose rear walls formed the defences did not look capable of withstanding the heat of a fire. Most were held up by palm trunks, and not a few were thatched.
If, as was likely, the nomads broke into the village, all the speculatores were to retreat into the citadel by its main gate. The labyrinthine alleys, and the nomads’ inextinguishable desire to pillage, should somewhat slow down their pursuit. Gordian did not allow himself to think what would happen to the inhabitants cowering in their homes.
The citadel was situated at the extreme southern tip of Ad Palmam. Mud brick, like every other construction, at least its walls were a bit higher and appeared a little more solid. Except on the north, it was ringed by only a shallow belt of trees. Two of its gates opened out west and south on to the plain; the third, the biggest one, north into the village. The seventy-seven remaining Africans raised by Mauricius and the other estate owners were distributed along the parapets. Mauricius was to act as second in command to Valerian. The equites of the Proconsular guard also were stationed in the citadel. Thirty-seven of them were on the walls to stiffen the resolve of the irregulars. The other forty were down in the yard with their horses, acting as a reserve. Arrian and Sabinianus were reunited as their leaders. The former in charge of those on the parapets, the latter the reserve.
Looking down, in the gathering light Gordian saw the two legates inspecting the close-packed lines of horses tethered in the courtyard. Every mount was saddled and bridled. All was ready in case the entire force had to try to cut its way out. Gordian had no intention that this should be remembered as the site of a desperate and ultimately doomed last stand.
Arrian and Sabinianus were checking the girth of each animal, and peering into the mouth to check the bit. Yet somehow they still managed to convey an air of patrician disinterest, even indolence. They never appeared to take anything seriously, and the appellation as the mythical Cercopes suited them. The originals had been brothers from Ephesus. They had roamed the world practising deceptions, until captured by Hercules. The hero had tied them up and slung them upside down from a pole over his shoulder. The skin of the Nemean lion did not cover Hercules’ arse, which was blackened by the sun. Luckily for the Cercopes, when they told Hercules why they were laughing, he saw the humour.
‘Riders coming!’
Maybe a dozen men on horses and camels had left the nomad camp. They were dark shapes under a dark flag. Now and then light saddlecloths, tunics or head coverings caught the early-morning sun. They rode at a canter, twisting between isolated clumps of vegetation and thorn bushes. A semi-opaque smear of dust marked their route.
They skirted the western edge of the oasis and reined in some hundred paces from the thin belt of trees which fronted the west gate of the citadel. There they sat, under their gloomy banner.
‘They are carrying a palm branch.’ Sabinianus had appeared at the top of the watchtower. ‘If they were civilized, you would assume they wanted a truce to talk.’
‘We had better make that assumption anyway,’ Gordian said.
‘Perhaps 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 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.
Throne of the Caesars 01 - Iron and Rust Page 7