“When they come!” he heard Demetrius’s voice shout as the arrows pattered against the upraised shields. “Kill the beasts first! Understand? The camels first!”
XIII
The infidels must die!
From atop his war camel, the First Prophet observed the band of infidel spearmen disassemble and withdraw into the close-packed tents atop the flat dune. Whether the fools were fleeing in panic, or simply falling back, he did not know, nor did he care. His warriors far outnumbered them, and it was only a matter of time now before the infidels were either dead on the battlefield, or sacrificed on stakes, and the stolen sacred object back in its rightful place.
Having spent many arrows already, he did not wish to waste those he still had. They would come in handy once the infidels broke and his archers had to ride them down one by one. He ordered the camel archers to draw in closer to the south side of the camp while he personally led his four hundred spear riders to the right, to form up opposite to the east side of the camp. As the archers began to loose a few final volleys into the center of the camp, presumably where all of the infidels had retreated to, the First Prophet half-considered ordering his men to use fire arrows to set the tents ablaze. The stiff morning breeze would spread the fire quickly and would certainly smoke out the infidels, allowing his spears to easily ride them down. But the risk to the holy amulet was too great. Recovering the great Eye of Horus unspoiled was all that mattered.
A wave from one of the archers told the First Prophet that the arrow barrage was nearing an end. He now ordered the spears forward. The sound of a thousand hooves soon thundered all around him, and he could only guess what fear it struck in those waiting inside the camp. A great cloud of dust rose in the camels’ path, catching the wind and blowing in the same direction of their charge, as if the desert god had summoned a great sandstorm to follow them into battle. The rushing spear riders reached the camp perimeter with a cry of war, the bells on their shafts ringing incessantly. Like an ocean wave surging against a coastal rock, the four hundred black riders enveloped the camp, shouting with wild elation. They drove into the outer tents unopposed, crushing arrow-ridden bodies beneath their hooves and tearing the camp equipage to shreds. The obstructions were mere nuisances, but they forced a momentary pause in the charge long enough to allow the dust cloud to overtake the line. The red cloud quickly spread throughout the camp, instantly reducing the visibility to only a few paces and disorienting many of the riders. The line of charge soon turned into a disorganized jumble of camels running in all directions.
But the First Prophet was not disheartened. Before the charge, he had seen a streaming gold banner fluttering above a large tent in the camp’s center. He could just make out that banner now, ahead of him, whipping high above the thick swirling cloud of dust. He shouted to the spear riders near him to press on in spite of the clusters of confused camel riders cutting crossways in their path.
“Drive to the infidels’ banner!” the First Prophet commanded above the din. “To the banner! The banner!”
The riders nearby obeyed. Following his lead, they steered their mounts toward the gold standard and once again the charge was gaining speed. But they had advanced only a few dozen paces when the First Prophet saw a javelin dart out of the cloud to his front and bury itself in the chest of the rider next to him, knocking the shrieking man from the saddle to be trampled by the next rank of camels. An instant later, a dozen more javelins whipped out of the red cloud, striking down more riders. Some of the missiles glanced off of the riders’ crescent moon shields, others carried the shields away altogether. But the riders pressed on in blind obedience to their leader, rushing toward the banner with iron-tipped lances extended before them. More javelins came, and more riders fell. The First Prophet pressed on, expecting at any moment to come upon a disorganized cluster of confused enemy – and then the real retribution would begin. But he was shocked when, out of the cloud of dust, a double row of round shields materialized. The line of shields was firmly stationary and was laced with fourteen-foot-long sarissas held at such an angle that they were nearly invisible to the approaching riders. The First Prophet reined in his mount in time to avoid them, but many of his men were too late in seeing the danger. They drove their beasts headlong into the waiting pikes, splintering the long shafts and burying the deadly points deep within the breasts and necks of their shrieking mounts. Some of the beasts toppled, their momentum carrying their massive carcasses forward to crush clusters of pikemen beneath their own shields. Wounded camels trailed blood everywhere, stirring themselves into a wild frenzy, running this way and that, trampling friend and foe alike. The air was filled with the screams of dying men and dromedaries.
The First Prophet watched the chaos unfold as the battle quickly devolved into a mass melee of jabbing sarissas and spears. A few of his riders had made it through the enemy ranks, and he could see them above the enemy helmets, slamming the spiked butts of their spears down in quick movements onto enemy heads and shoulders. But eventually, one by one, their mounts succumbed to their wounds, and the unfortunate riders sank into a sea of hacking infidels. He saw one large warrior bearing a short sword slice off both hands of one of his riders in two quick sweeps of the weapon, and then finally bury the point of the sword in the rider’s neck. As more and more camels died, the piles of the distorted animal carcasses formed grisly barriers that the defenders readily used to stave off the charge of succeeding waves, and the black riders were now brought down at an alarming rate. Many of them, devout and fanatical followers of Horus since the day of their birth, now faced the horrors of hand-to-hand fighting for the first time in their religious zealot lives. The blood-covered sand, the spilling camel entrails mixing with those of men, the gouged eyes and crushed skulls spewing brains, was too much for many of them. They fled in terror, quite unable to control their own actions.
The First Prophet clearly saw that overrunning the infidels was now out of the question. He had no way of knowing how the combat fared on the other side of the enemy circle, but he assumed the same chaos reigned over there. His men were being slaughtered by the more experienced enemy, and although many of the infidels had fallen, far more watchers were either dead, dying, or fleeing for the dunes. As he considered his next course of action, a javelin struck his mount squarely through the eye, killing the beast instantly. Narrowly avoiding being crushed under the toppling beast, the First Prophet untangled himself from the reins, and then drew his sword from the saddle scabbard.
He cursed himself for ever ordering the attack in the first place, and begged that Horus would forgive him for such folly. The attack had not been necessary. The infidels had been deprived of their camels. The desert would have killed them just as well. He could have kept his riders at a safe distance, harassing the thirsty enemy for days, weeks, or as long as it took for every last one of them to drop dead of dehydration. Then, he could have retrieved the Eye without losing a single man.
He cursed himself again. It was his own vain heart, his own pride that had spurred him to attack. He had wanted his name to be added to the annals of the prophets. He had wanted songs of this victory to be chanted by the priests in the halls of the monastery. Now, if he survived, the council would order his name scratched from the records. He would be purified through pain, and then ritualistically sacrificed before the entire brotherhood.
Only the Eye mattered now. Whether the battle was won or lost, the Eye must be recovered and carried to safety. Perhaps Horus would be merciful and give him a slave’s allotment in the afterlife.
The First Prophet looked up at the gold banner waving above the tent inside the infidel’s formation. The Eye must be in there. It was the only explanation for the vigor of their defense. He then looked at his own bodyguard, sitting atop their mounts. They were stouter warriors than the rest – a score of veterans who had each killed infidels before. Motioning for them to dismount, he called them to him. As the black turbaned warriors gathered around, brandishing curved swords
and impervious to the din of battle around them, the First Prophet prayed fervently that their final act in this world would not be in vain.
XIV
There were corpses lying all around Lucius, corpses of Alexandrians, of Watchers, and of camels. Through wave after wave, somehow, Demetrius’s royal guard had managed to retain order in their ranks. Massive holes marked the line of shields in many places, but those that still stood, stood firm.
The black riders were being cut down. They had obviously been trained to fight from their mounts, and they had been trained well. More than once, Lucius only narrowly avoided the stabbing spear points and spikes from above. The camel riders handled their beasts like true masters. But no number of drills could condition a camel for the carnage of a large scale battle, with the thick aroma of blood in the air and the corpses of man and beast piled two and three deep. A few of the giant beasts remained steady, even as others of their kind were vivisected by the long pikes. Many lost all of their training in that moment and broke, ignoring the punishing strokes from their riders.
As the ranks of camel riders began to thin, many continued to fight ferociously. A thrown spear caught one of the pikemen near Lucius in the eye, sending the man reeling backwards. Lucius grabbed the man’s shield and plugged the gap just as a zealous rider spurred his mount toward it. The large shield made the animal pause, and that was enough to allow a pikeman to drive his blade into the beast’s breast. Two more sarissas jabbed up at the rider, dodging his shield and slicing into both sides of his belly. Bloody entrails spilled out of the black robed figure from two gaping wounds, and he toppled from his saddle.
Lucius caught sight of Demetrius, just as the Alexandrian captain slashed one of the black-turbaned warriors across the eyes. Demetrius was now several paces away from Lucius, but it seemed he had been everywhere at once throughout the engagement. His men were fighting well, much as they had on Pharos weeks ago. Now, as then, Demetrius’s steady head was seeing them through. Darting to each troubled spot as fast as he could hack his way there, he inspired his men, led them, fought beside them, and filled the gaps with whatever he could find, even enlisting camp slaves and artisans, who did not need much prodding since their own lives depended on the success of the defense.
Lucius had known a few officers like Demetrius over the years – not many, but he had known a few. Every legion had them, the few unshakeable ones that held everything together when fortune went the other way, the few whose minds were clear and focused even with the viciousness of battle all around them.
Just then, a spear came over the top of Lucius’s shield, taking him by surprise. It sliced past his ear, drawing blood. The missile had been thrown by a nervous-looking black-clad warrior only a few steps away who was now fumbling to draw a sword from his belt. Instinctively, Lucius rushed the warrior, bounding at him in two giant leaps. He drove his gladius deep into the warrior’s abdomen until he felt the man’s blood running down the blade and over his hands. Another dismounted warrior appeared to Lucius’s left. Lucius rammed the shield into the man, knocking him backwards to trip over the legs of a slain camel. A quick downward stab into the warrior’s exposed neck severed an artery and set the man squirming as he tried to stem the flow of blood with both hands.
The riders were attacking in ones and twos now, and were more easily dispatched than the mass onslaught of the first waves. Lucius had that feeling that a seasoned soldier gets when he senses the enemy is about to run. At least, he had that feeling until he heard a cry ring out from the line to his left.
At a weak spot in the line, where only a handful of Alexandrians manned the gap, a sortie of a dozen or more dismounted warriors streamed over the camel carcasses in front of the Alexandrians. These warriors seemed more skilled than the rest, and hacked at the guardsmen with curved swords that looked as though they could cut a man in two with one blow. Within a few heartbeats, the exhausted pikemen were hacked to pieces by the chopping swords. Lucius shouted the alarm back at Demetrius, but the captain was too pressed on his own side of the formation to hear it.
The black-robed warriors had penetrated the lines, and now Lucius fully expected them to turn in one or both directions to attack the ranks of pikemen on the flank. Much to his surprise, they did not. One of the warriors wore a black robe that differed slightly from the others in that it contained subtle inlaid patterns of violet spirals. This man was apparently some kind of leader, because he quickly collected the others to him and, with the sweep of his sword, directed them to rush the royal tent.
With a wild battle cry, they charged forward with swords held high above their heads. Before Lucius could grab a handful of guardsmen to help him, the troop of back-clad warriors had already entered the tent. Lucius and the royal guards sprinted after them, Lucius only imagining what horrors Arsinoe was experiencing at the sight of the crazed zealots slashing at her with the big swords. The tent had already been torn to shreds by the arrow barrage, and he guessed that in itself must have sent her into hysterics.
Lucius reached the tent door and entered to find four of the camel warriors twitching on the royal carpets as they clutched gaping wounds in their bellies. The remaining warriors were facing down Arsinoe’s two bodyguards, whose giant swords were striped red with fresh blood. Arsinoe and Ganymedes were behind the bodyguards, along with a quivering cluster of handmaids hiding amongst the tent furnishings. The big black men had made short work of the first four camel warriors through the door, but now the remaining warriors attacked in a cleverer manner. On a signal from the leader, they came at both big men from all sides at once. One giant black arm slashed with the wide blade sending a black turbaned head flipping into the air, but the unfortunate warrior’s comrades took advantage of the move and drove their swords into the giant’s groin and thighs. The big man dropped to the ground in agony, where he was quickly beheaded by three hacks of the camel leader’s khopesh. The other giant fared little better, managing to fell two before he met the same fate. Lucius and the men with him burst into the tent, and rushed at the camel warriors. Ten of the warriors turned to ward them off, while the leader and another moved slowly toward the frightened queen. Lucius had discarded his shield outside and now held his gladius in one hand and his pugio in the other. He parried a blow from one warrior, hacked high with his gladius to force his opponent’s shield up, and then struck close in with the dagger, splitting the man’s ribs and piercing his left lung. Another warrior came at Lucius from the right, but a lightning quick, back-handed sweep of the gladius knocked the attacker’s sword aside, and another stroke half-severed the man’s arm at the elbow.
One of the Alexandrian guards took a sword in the throat, and another lost both hand and sword from the hacking blow of a khopesh. The tired guard were outnumbered, and they were slowly being overpowered by the zealot warriors.
Lucius heard Arsinoe scream in the corner. The leader had grabbed her, but she had managed to tear herself free, ripping open the front of her garment in the process. Now her bare breasts lay exposed with the Eye of Horus dangling between the dancing flesh. The camel leader shouted something in a language Lucius did not understand, but Lucius suspected it was a cry of elation at having found the sacred amulet. The other camel warriors certainly understood the words. A few of them allowed a quick glance in their leader’s direction, and it proved fatal for the one engaged with Lucius. Taking advantage of the distraction, Lucius stabbed the man through the narrow opening left by the crescent moon shield and then kicked the body out of his way. As Lucius moved in to assist one of the guardsmen struggling to fend off the repeated blows of a hacking camel warrior, he heard another scream from Arsinoe. The camel leader had sheathed his sword and now held a curved dagger in his hand as he approached the trembling queen. Lucius could not get there in time, but then he saw the befuddled-looking eunuch huddling somewhat near the queen.
“Do something, Ganymedes!” Lucius shouted across the tent.
The eunuch seemed startled to hear his name calle
d out in the middle of the melee, but it did spur him to action. Picking up one of the field stools, Ganymedes threw it at the leader. The leader simply batted it away with his shield, but the pause gave Arsinoe time to dart behind the large open trunk that held her royal clothing.
Lucius could see that the pressed guardsman was weakening under the camel warrior’s blows. It would only take Lucius two breaths to dash over to his aid, but there was not time. He had to choose between saving the guard or the queen, and he instinctively chose the latter. Lucius leapt at the camel leader who was too preoccupied with the Eye to notice his approach, but then another warrior, rushing to the defense of his master, suddenly appeared in Lucius’s path. With one fluid motion, Lucius threw the pugio underhanded, striking the warrior squarely in the groin. As the man doubled over in pain, Lucius brought the hilt of his sword down hard on the back of the man’s head, shattering his skull. It had not taken long, but it was enough of a delay to allow the leader to turn and face Lucius’s attack, and he now bashed Lucius aside with a thrust of the crescent moon shield. The black-turbaned leader was a strong man, and the blow was enough to send Lucius flying over one of the queen’s tables and knock the gladius from his battle-weary hand. Lucius’s sword was quickly snatched up by the leader, who now gazed down at him through the slit in the black headdress with eyes burning with hatred. Lucius groped for one of the fallen weapons nearby, but his efforts were abruptly stopped as his own gladius was used to stab him through the arm. The pain seared through him, and his forearm ran red.
A quick glance around the tent told him that he was the only one left alive from the group that had accompanied him. The guardsmen lay strewn about the floor, their blood streaming out onto the queen’s ornate carpets. Lucius now looked up to see the leader invert the gladius like a dagger. He was preparing to kill Lucius with a single downward thrust. But before he could raise the weapon for the killing strike, his bloodshot, hate-filled eyes suddenly transformed into a pained expression. Lucius heard a shrill cry and realized that it had come from Arsinoe. She had stabbed the leader in the back with a pin-like foot-long dagger, and now she stabbed again and again, crying out with each pull and thrust, until she had pierced him a dozen times.
Rome: Sword of the Legion (Sword of the Legion Series) Page 11