by Ian Ross
‘Ah well,’ Castus called, ‘maybe we’ll have a quiet night of it after all!’ A couple of the troopers grinned back at him, but few appeared convinced.
He remained awake until after midnight all the same, pacing the perimeter with Egnatius. The wind was picking up, booming in from the blackness of the desert laden with dust and fine sand. Sparks flurried from the watchfires, the camels moaned and roared and the horses stamped and whinnied. Castus pulled his scarf up over his mouth and peered into the darkness. He had a tent-party of Armigeri troopers armed and ready beside their saddled horses, in case of sudden alarms. Was he being too careful? Perhaps so, he thought; but something about the groaning wind, the whipping sparks from the fires and the dust steadily dulling the stars overhead set his nerves on edge.
Sabinus came to relieve him, yawning and rubbing the grit from his eyes. Castus clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder, squeezing the muscle. ‘You have command,’ he said quietly, then stumbled towards his sleeping mat.
He washed his face and mouth with water, then lay down and tugged the blanket over himself. It was already full of fine sand, and he cursed as he shook at it.
‘Dominus?’ said Vallio, appearing from the darkness. ‘Would you like to use the silk to cover yourself? It’ll protect you from the dust.’
‘Silk?’ Castus mumbled irritably. ‘What silk?’
‘Your silk, dominus. In your baggage.’
Vallio moved away, then returned with a heavy bolt of cloth in his hands. Castus felt it, and his irritation flared into anger. ‘How long have we been carrying this?’ he demanded.
‘Since Nisibis. You bought it there, I thought?’
‘I did nothing of the kind!’ Castus growled. Who had slipped it into his baggage before he left the city? The curator, or his wife Sohaemia? Clever of them anyway. A parting gift, perhaps, or a last bribe.
Suddenly he laughed. ‘Take it away,’ he said. ‘No point in spoiling it with dust, eh?’
Lying down again, he rolled until the blankets covered him. He could give the silk to Marcellina, he supposed, when he met her in Antioch. That at least was a pleasing thought. He smiled, and a moment later he was asleep.
XI
The attackers came in the blackness before dawn, with the dust-laden wind behind them. A scream from the darkness, a drumming of hooves on stony ground, then the first riders were leaping in across the thorn hedge, blasting through the sleeping camp as the cries of alarm shattered the stillness.
Castus was awake at once, his mind sharp as he grabbed for the sword lying beside him. Blindly he stared into the gloom; the darkness was filled with whirling dust and smoke, the milling shapes of men and horses and the flicker of arrows. Stumbling to his feet, he drew his sword; pointless to try and find his horse, and he fancied his chances better on foot in this chaotic murk. Around him men yelled and screamed, horses kicked and reared, and all sense of direction was gone.
‘Protect the strategos!’ somebody was yelling. ‘Protect the magister! Shields – now!’
Figures ran from the gloom, dismounted troopers forming around him, shields raised. Vallio appeared, lugging Castus’s own shield. The standard-bearer was with him, and in moments Castus stood at the centre of a knot of men. The fight swept around them in the turmoil of gritty dust. Arrows banged into the shield boards; one of the troopers gave a stifled cough of pain as he fell.
‘Father!’ Sabinus cried, pushing his way into the defensive ring. ‘Father, we didn’t see them coming – they walked their horses past the piquets and we only heard them when they broke into a gallop!’ An arrow whipped past his head, and he flinched.
‘Get your shield up,’ Castus snarled. ‘Protect my back.’
A charging horse veered from the dust, lit briefly by the embers of a fire. Two men flung spears, and Castus saw the rider turn in the saddle and shoot before spinning his horse and riding clear. The beating of hooves, and two more horsemen rode past; they wore unbelted Roman tunics this time.
‘We’re going to kill our own men in this darkness!’ a biarchus of the Armigeri shouted.
Horns wailed, and somewhere in the dirty fog Castus heard the noise of blades rattling against shield rims. The wind was beginning to thin the dust now, and in the faint pre-dawn light the shapes of the surrounding encampment were becoming clearer. Castus was breathing hard, his heart running fast. From along the eastern perimeter he could hear the shouts of the sentry parties: all clear.
The raiders had vanished as quickly as they had appeared, leaving bloody destruction in their wake.
*
‘They knew what they were doing,’ Egnatius said, scrubbing a hand across his scalp. His hair stuck up in spikes, sweat matted with dust. ‘Feint attack from the west, then a main strike from the south and rode straight through us. Testing us, I’d say.’
Castus nodded. ‘What’s the damage?’
‘Four of my troopers dead and five more wounded, though none too badly. We lost three of the slaves, and two of Lycianus’s piquets killed before the attack. Oh, and one of yours is in a bad way too.’
Castus found his son kneeling beside the body of his fellow Protector, Victorinus. The man had been speared as he struggled up from his blankets, a grievous wound in his belly. He still lived, but pain convulsed his features and blood leaked steadily from his wound, blackening the dust around him.
‘It was my fault,’ Sabinus said, standing as two of the Armigeri troopers tried to staunch and bind the wound. ‘I’m sorry. It was my fault – I was in command. I should have seen them before they attacked…’
‘Quiet,’ Castus said gruffly. He grabbed his son by the nape of his neck and squeezed. ‘It was a well-planned attack, and if anyone’s to blame it’s me.’
‘Will he live?’ Sabinus asked quietly, angling his head towards the fallen man.
‘Not for long. Give him wine if he’ll take it, then load him and the dead men onto the baggage camels.’
Metrophanes had been injured too; the plump little numerarius sat on the ground, face pale, fumbling as he tried to wrap a linen bandage around the arrow gash in his upper arm. He looked more shocked than badly hurt. As Castus approached, the wind took the bandage and whipped the end of it away into the dirt. Castus knelt beside the man, tying the linen quickly.
‘Thank you dominus,’ Metrophanes said, voice quavering. ‘I’m sorry… I’ve never been wounded before.’
‘I don’t need you for your bravery,’ Castus told him. ‘Can you still use your arm?’
The man nodded.
‘Then get your horse saddled; we’re moving.’ Diogenes’ three-legged dog came hopping by, nuzzling the bloodied ground, and Castus nudged it away with his boot.
‘Dominus,’ Lycianus said, striding through the windblown grit. ‘You should see this.’
A group of soldiers stood around another downed man; one of the attackers, at least, had not survived the raid. As Castus approached, the soldiers kicked at the corpse, spat upon it, jabbed it with spears.
‘Stand away,’ Castus ordered. Then he dropped to kneel beside the body. The man was young, barely more than a youth, with a downy moustache and long hair bound with a rag. He wore a quilted linen doublet and a loincloth, both stained with blood. Flies were already massing around his eyes and mouth.
‘Lakhmid, probably,’ Lycianus said. ‘Saracen certainly. But this is Persian.’ He tugged a dagger in an inlaid scabbard from beneath the body.
Castus got to his feet, rubbing the dirt from his palms. The sun must be up by now, he thought, although it was screened by the mass of dust in the eastern sky. Only a dull reddish glow filtered through, turning the desert the colour of dried blood.
‘You know they weren’t just raiders?’ Lycianus said quietly.
‘I know that. Somebody knew we were here.’
‘Somebody knew you were here, I’d say. Only the chance of killing or capturing the supreme Roman commander, the Magister Equitum per Orientem himself, would cause a band of desert n
omads to attack an armed military camp!’
Castus frowned grimly. He had been thinking the same thing. He had been careful to keep the details of his movements as secret as possible, but the officers at Singara knew where he was going, and many others too. But no, he thought: there would not have been enough time for a spy at Singara to summon these attackers. Nisibis then… Angrily he shook his head. Knowing who had betrayed them would not help him now.
‘They have Persians leading them, you think?’ he asked Lycianus.
‘Possibly. But they’re still out there – I sent a couple of scouts to patrol and they reported enemy horsemen spread out to the north and east of us. No idea of numbers. They’re waiting till we move, then they’ll hit us again.’
Castus was peering to the eastward; he could see nothing of the enemy, but the sky was a brown wall. ‘That looks dirty,’ he said.
‘Dust storm, coming this way. Maybe an hour till we feel it.’
‘Can we reach Qatna any faster?’
Lycianus frowned, considering. ‘If we head south along this wadi we’ll get to a dry plateau. Due west across that and we’ll reach the fort. Three hours, maybe four, if we move fast.’
‘We’ll do that,’ Castus said. He strode across the camp to where Egnatius was marshalling his Armigeri troopers. ‘Get them mounted up,’ he ordered. ‘Every man in body armour and helmet, ready to fight. We ride in close formation, baggage camels at the centre, fast as we can but steady – don’t let any gaps open between us.’
Egnatius saluted and gave his orders. Heaving himself into the saddle, Castus rode over to join Lycianus again. The scout commander sat motionless on his horse, staring into the approaching brown murk. He mumbled something under his breath.
‘What was that?’ Castus asked.
‘Arab saying,’ Lycianus told him, smiling grimly. ‘War is the mother of dust.’
*
They knew the enemy were out to their left, and as they rode every man was hunched in the saddle, sheltering behind his shield rim and peering over his shoulder every few heartbeats, alert for the first galloping assault. Ahead of the storm the air was clearer, and the sun glared on the broken ground, the dry stones along the lip of the wadi, the tangled twists of thorn and tamarisk. Lycianus took the lead, guiding the column at a steady trot, while Castus rode with his staff at the head of the main body of cavalry, his standard-bearer at his back carrying the purple draco whipping in the breeze.
Only an hour since sunrise, and already the day was getting hot. Sweat was pouring from beneath Castus’s helmet, soaking the rag he had tied across his nose and mouth. The metal of his cuirass burned to the touch, and a river of liquid flowed down his spine to pool above his waistband. He glanced across his shoulder and saw Sabinus close to his right. Metrophanes rode behind him, cradling his injured arm. Diogenes was carrying the three-legged dog on the saddle before him, its head poking out from the folds of his cloak.
‘There they are!’ Egnatius called. Castus turned his head sharply, and saw the shapes of men and horses appearing from the haze of glowing dust across the eastern plain. They looked like ghosts at first, a line of them riding parallel to the Roman column, then took more solid form as they drew closer.
‘They’re trying to get ahead of us,’ Sabinus cried. ‘They want to surround us!’
Lycianus had seen it too; already he was quickening his pace. The rest of the column followed him, the horses breaking into a canter. The air was saturated with dust; Castus felt it gritting in his throat. The saddle pounded beneath him as his horse laboured over the rough ground.
‘Turn your shields!’ one of the soldiers yelled. ‘Archers!’
Sure enough, shafts were dropping between the horses. Castus glanced to his right, and saw another body of Arab horsemen riding up on the opposite flank, shooting from the saddle. Still at long range for now, the arrows arcing. Lycianus’s men were already shooting back.
Up ahead, the wadi opened to a dry stony riverbed, clear of bushes. Lycianus turned to the right, leading the column up the dry bluffs above the river towards the flat ground of the plateau. As the camels laboured up the slope, Castus turned and saw the main body of the enemy veering in pursuit, riding straight for their rearguard. Then they were onto the plateau, and their pace increased. Ten miles of flat open country to the Chaboras, and the shelter of the fort. Castus could feel the wind at his back, pushing him onwards. This was a race now.
Screams from the right; the sudden change of direction had brought Egnatius’s troopers smashing into the thin screen of enemy horse archers. Castus saw a Lakhmid rider brought down by a lance, his horse collapsing beneath him in a fountain of dust. He was yelling at his men to keep moving, keep formation, but the damp rag across his face muffled his words. Furious, he tore it away and breathed dust instead.
‘Coming up fast on the left!’ Sabinus shouted. Castus risked a look: sure enough, the enemy vanguard had crossed the dry river and were already outpacing them.
‘You see him?’ The sound of Sabinus’s voice was almost shredded by the wind.
Castus stared, his eyes stinging. One of the riders wore a tall pointed cap and a scale cuirass; his horse trappings were hung with flashing gold ornaments and tassels of red and green.
‘Persian?’
‘Could be,’ Castus yelled back. ‘He’s leading them anyway!’
The next moment, a pall of wind-driven dust rolled across them, eclipsing the sunlight and plunging the mounted men and the galloping horses into dim brown shadow. Castus dipped his head, eyes tight shut, feeling his horse shudder and flinch. Sand hissed in his ears, and through it he heard Sabinus’s cry of warning.
‘They’re coming!’
The enemy riders had veered again just as the first wave of the dust storm hit them; now they came charging out of the racing brown fog, straight into the flank of the Roman column as it buckled in confusion. Castus saw horses all around him – his own men, massing to protect him. But the Arab horsemen had broken their line; arrows cut in from both sides, and then all cohesion and direction were gone.
Castus had his sword in his hand, but the dust was blinding him and he could barely control his horse. Terror drove through him; he would die here, lost and confused in the middle of a dust storm… A javelin flashed past, and he felt his horse shudder beneath him as an arrow scored its flank. No sign of Sabinus or Egnatius. He gritted his teeth, dug in his spurs and pushed forward, deeper into the swirl of the melee.
A pony appeared out of the dust, galloping hard, the rider leaning back in the saddle and then flinging a spear. Castus leaned just in time, and the missile darted past him. A heartbeat later and the pony crashed against the side of his horse, the Arab in the saddle slashing at him with a short sword. Castus aimed a clumsy cut across his body, but the enemy rider was still pressing his left flank. Spurring his horse forward, Castus reached out with his crippled left hand and seized the man by the neck of his tunic, dragging him halfway out of the saddle. But the Lakhmid pony was still galloping alongside, the man gripping tight to the saddle with his knees. He hooked his arm around Castus’s body and started stabbing the short blade into the small of his back; Castus felt the point denting the plate of his cuirass. He punched the man’s head with the pommel of his sword, but still the attacker’s grip would not slacken.
‘Just fucking die!’ Castus snarled.
He managed to get the blade of his sword round in front of him, pressed the point into the side of the man’s neck, then thrust across the saddle. The Arab let out a gargling scream as the blade went in. He clung on for a moment more, then Castus kicked him clear and rode on.
Only ten paces’ visibility in front of him. Vague shapes of horses and men plunging in close combat. The blown sand and dust scoured his face as he stared around him. A figure ran from the murk: Metrophanes, his horse gone, the bandage trailing from his wounded arm.
‘To me!’ Castus bellowed, pulling on the reins. The plump numerarius almost tripped and fell a
s he stared back in fright, then he recognised Castus and stretched out his arm. Castus seized him, dragging the man up behind him in the saddle as his horse blew and shied.
‘Dominus, here!’ A biarchus of the Armigeri was leading a riderless horse. Between them they wrestled Metrophanes across into the saddle.
Was the dust clearing? Castus risked a glance behind him. Through stinging eyes he saw the shapes of the desert he had just crossed, the bodies of the dead and injured strewn on the ground, a camel galloping free, spilling baggage. Two or three men on foot, running or limping: his own men or the enemy’s, it was impossible to say.
And a horse with green and red tasselled trappings, a rider with a raised lance, galloping straight towards him.
Castus managed to turn his own horse just in time, wheeling the big gelding to get his sword towards the attacker. He saw the lance jab at his face, and slashed with his blade to knock it aside. The Persian rider pushed with the shaft, almost shoving him out of the saddle, then let the lance drop and swept out his sword.
The two horses circled, necks weaving and legs kicking. The Persian aimed a blow and Castus rolled, letting the blade glance off the back of his cuirass. Then he stabbed, leaning forward in the saddle. The Persian reared back, too slow, then cried out as Castus’s sword jabbed him beneath the arm, above the edge of his scale armour. Not deep, but enough to wound him.
Castus felt a spearhead slam into his back. His cuirass stopped the blow, but the force was like a hammer to the base of his spine. He pitched in the saddle, almost sliding off, seeing the Lakhmid horseman on the far side of him turning and angling his weapon for a second strike. His sword had jolted from his hand and was dangling by the wrist-cord, and the Persian officer was closing in on his right.