Copyright

Harper

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First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Copyright © Harry Sidebottom 2016

Cover design by Claire Ward © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2016

Cover photographs © Stephen Mulcahey/Arcangel Images (Soldiers); Shutterstock.com (dagger)

Harry Sidebottom asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

This short story is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it, while at times based on historical events and figures, are the work of the author’s imagination.

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Ebook Edition © April 2016 ISBN: 9780007499977

Version: 2016-03-24

Pulvis et Umbra Sumus

Horace, Odes IV. 7

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Afterword

About the Author

Also by Harry Sidebottom

About the Publisher

I

Carthage,
Ten Days after the Ides of March, AD238

Faraxen lay on the roof of the warehouse. The smell of fish from the ponds and the gutting sheds was strong in his nostrils.

Another centurion and Mauricius, the commander of the cavalry, were with Faraxen. They had left their helmets downstairs, where the other officers waited, and they had wrapped themselves in hooded cloaks whose colours were faded like the mudwalls of the compound. The roof was flat, and had a raised edge. If they made no sudden movements, the three men were near invisible from a distance.

Off to the south-east, to the left, beyond the aqueduct was the necropolis, and beyond the tombs stood the gates and walls of Carthage. The tall battlements were crowded with spectators. It was a gaudy throng, as if at a festival. Musicians and food vendors made their way among them. The townsfolk were fools, Faraxen thought. Fools because they treated the coming battle as if it were no more than a spectacle, just another trip to the amphitheatre or circus, some entertainment put on for their amusement. Their minds and bodies had been corrupted by peace and security, by the luxury and vice of the city. If the Gordiani lost today, the people of Carthage would find that war was more than a show.

Looking straight ahead, the plain immediately in front of the jumble of walls and buildings around the commercial fishponds was empty. The right flank of the army was some three hundred paces distant. The main body, a solid phalanx of infantry, stretched away from Faraxen, running parallel to the aqueduct, and facing west. Its left wing was anchored to the villa of Sextus far off in the south.

Over eight thousand men, another two thousand armed with bows and slings out in front. If you did not know war, it would be impressive.

It was more than a quarter of a century since Faraxen of the Mazices had left the mountains of Mauretania to join the army of Rome. In his six years with the auxiliary cavalry on the northern frontier, he had survived pitched battles in gloomy forests when the Emperor Caracalla campaigned against the Alamanni and the Carpi. Back here in Africa, during the next two decades patrolling the desert, rising up the ranks of the speculatores, he had come through innumerable skirmishes and raids. Faraxen knew war; what it took, and what it needed.

Gordian the Younger was a brave man. Faraxen had served under him at Ad Palmam and at the storm of Esuba. Gordian was not a stranger to war. The young Emperor was aware that less than two thousand of his army were real soldiers. The rest were a rabble from the backstreets of Carthage, a mob unaccustomed to the makeshift weapons put in their hands. Gordian had taken his place in the centre of the line. Gordian must know that if his stratagem failed, he would die along with thousands of those who followed him. The death of his father and co-Emperor, Gordian the Elder, who watched from the gates, would follow not long after. Faraxen himself would be unlikely to survive.

Faraxen’s dreams had not been good, not since the Gordiani had been proclaimed emperors, not since he had renounced his military oath to the Emperor Maximinus Thrax. Last night he had dreamt that he was again in Mauretania. He had been riding through the lowland winter pastures of his tribe, hunting ostrich. He had worn a loose, unbelted tunic, and carried three javelins and a shield, with a long knife strapped to his left forearm; the fitting weapons and dress of a warrior of the Mazices. He had been well-mounted, and had a fine hunting dog. With no need for a bridle or reins, he had controlled the horse with just a stick. Yet, no matter how good his horsemanship, no matter how he urged the charger on, time and again, the ostrich had eluded him. As it ran its huge feet had thrown up many stones. These had struck hard into his face, chest and arms. When darkness came, Faraxen had found himself bloodied and alone in a meadow, looking up at the lights burning up in the mountains.

It was not the moment to dwell on dreams, not with the enemy so close.

Maximinus was far away on the Rhine or Danube, but Capelianus, the governor of the neighbouring province of Numidia, had remained loyal to the big Thracian. The rumour in the ranks was that decades earlier the elder Gordian had cuckolded Capelianus. You could not blame Capelianus for seeking revenge, but Faraxen considered that taking so long to work up his courage, and then to cloak the act in another cause, showed him to be less than a true man. A noble of the Mazices would have done things differently.

The army of Capelianus was approaching from the east, drawn up for battle. Faraxen studied its lines. Two thousand swords under the eagle of the 3rd Legion in the centre, three cohorts of auxiliary infantry on each flank. In all five thousand heavy infantry, preceded by five hundred bowmen in open order. Faraxen was sure of the numbers; for the last two days, he and his speculatores had shadowed the column. The men Faraxen led were a detachment of the finest unit of scouts in the world. The rest of the army knew the speculatores as the Frontier Wolves. Capelianus’ foot were outnumbered, but Faraxen had no doubt that they would rout the levies opposed to them, unless something intervened, unless Gordian’s stratagem worked.

Everything depended on the cavalry. Not the thousand local tribesmen who rode on each side of Capelianus’ array. Numidians and Moors were natural light horsemen, ideal for ambush and raid, for scouting and pursuit. But unless trained in disciplined formations, they were reluctant to fight hand-to-hand, and would never stand up to the charge of close order cavalry. Capelianus had one unit of regular, armoured troopers. They were bringing up the rear. Faraxen could see the standards and plumes of the five hundred men of the 1st Ala of Pannonians where they showed over the heads of the infantry. Although based at Gemellae, near the legionary headquarters of Lambaesis, they had often done duty on the frontier. Faraxen had served with them both on exercises and expeditions. They were good men the Pannonians. Now everything depended on Gordian’s plan to break them.

Capelianus was cautious. His forces were still nearly five hundred paces away. They were advancing slowly, in good order. All, apart from the irregular cavalry, stopped frequently to dress their ranks. When that happened, the Moors and Numidians milled about, just as the mood of each individual took him.

A horse called from among the buildings behind Faraxen. The enemy would not hear it above the noise of their own coming.

Faraxen’s thoughts wandered. An ostrich was a noble prey. But – burying its head in the undergrowth – it was notoriously stupid. Old wives’ tales claimed there was a stone in its stomach which cured diseases, and that it was unnatural in its mating. Verota, another centurion of the speculatores quartered at Ad Palmam, was wise at interpreting dreams, better than any marketplace diviner. When Faraxen got back to the southern frontier, he would ask him. No dreams had the clarity of those dreamed while sleeping in the tombs of one’s ancestors. It was a very long time since Faraxen had been able to do that, too many years with little confidence in the warnings and advice that his forbears were trying to communicate.

When he got back to the southern frontier, Faraxen corrected himself. If …

Trumpets rang out across the plain.

‘There!’

In his excitement, Mauricius started to get to his feet. Faraxen put out a hand to pull him down below the parapet.

‘Sorry, sir.’

‘No, you are right, centurion Faraxen.’

Most senior commands were secured by patronage. Mauricius was a rich African landowner. His friendship with the Gordiani had gained him command of the new imperial horse guards. He was no soldier, but he was not a bad man.

More trumpets sounded. Faraxen peered over.

No wonder self-control had deserted Mauricius. The enemy horsemen were on the move. All of them, Pannonians and irregulars, were cantering to the left wing of Capelianus’ army. They were forming up opposite the gap between the end of Gordian’s army and the fishponds from where Faraxen and his companions watched. Capelianus had fallen for the bait. He could not resist the chance to send his mounted men to outflank the line of Gordian’s infantry.

A roar from across the plain.

The light-armed militiamen screening the front of Gordian’s army were unable to contain themselves. Although out of range, they were letting fly with everything they had, bows and slings, some even hurling stones by hand.

The enemy archers jogged forward into the uncoordinated rain of missiles. One or two went down. Nowhere near enough to make a difference. About a hundred paces from their foes, they stopped. As one, they drew and released. The volley scythed down. Gordian’s skirmishers broke and ran. Another volley hit them before they reached and then barged through their heavy infantry. Once they had reached comparative safety, at least half of them continued running.

Faraxen watched them haring away between the tombs, and wondered if the Carthaginians on the walls were still taking the same pleasure in the spectacle.

Capelianus’ archers now began to loose their arrows on the main body of Gordian’s close order infantry. The rear ranks of the latter brought their big shields up to roof themselves over, to form what the soldiers called a tortoise. The shafts were falling thickest where the imperial standard of Gordian flew. Here and there the more courageous of Gordian’s archers shot back over the heads of their own men.

The legionaries and auxiliaries of Capelianus were still some way off, trudging forward.

Off to the right, a trumpet sounded the advance.

Faraxen had to admire the cunning of Gordian. Sure enough, all the cavalry of Capelianus were trotting into the trap. The Pannonians came on in a well-drilled column of fives, the tribal warriors in uncouth knots and groups.

It was time to go.

Mauricius was laughing as they clattered down the stairs.

In the warehouse, Faraxen’s adjutant, Aban, the son of Verota, was waiting with the others. They all walked out to the horses.

There were just over five hundred men and their mounts hidden in the complex of the fishponds. About a hundred of them were the armed retainers of Mauricius and other owners of great landed estates. They might lack discipline, but at least they were accustomed to the hunting field, and could ride and handle weapons with skill. Neither of the latter could be said for the three hundred recent recruits from Carthage, who appeared to lack any martial qualities beyond drinking and boasting. The original hundred troopers who had formed the horse guard of Gordian the Elder, when he was just governor of Africa, had been promoted, and distributed as junior officers through the ranks of this makeshift unit. Faraxen had had to argue hard to prevent a similar dissolution of his band of twenty speculatores. Only the necessity of spying out the approach of Capelianus had let him win his case.

Faraxen took off the voluminous cloak, rolled it neatly, and tied it behind his saddle. Aban passed him his helmet, and he put it on, taking care over the laces.

A soldier gave Mauricius a leg up.

Faraxen was a centurion of the Frontier Wolves, a warrior of the Mazices. The day he could not spring into the saddle, wearing full armour, he might as well die.

Aban reached up to hand Faraxen his shield, then turned to his own horse.

The men were all mounted. The waiting was over. The next few moments would decide the day. If the gods were kind, the Pannonians would turn to the south intending to take Gordian’s infantry in the flank, and roll up their line. But before that could happen, Mauricius and the men hidden among the fishponds would tear into their defenceless backs. Next to no troops would stand if, with an enemy to their front, they were also surprised and charged from behind. The Pannonians were not one of the exceptions.

With luck, as the Pannonians thundered past, the panic would spread to their own infantry. There was nothing like seeing horsemen running to make men on foot want to join them. If the army of Capelianus did not take to its heels, Mauricius could lead those who remained with his standard behind their lines, and threaten their infantry with encirclement. The god Pan would cast his magic again. The genius of Gordian’s plan was that it made the poor quality of the majority of Mauricius’ cavalry an irrelevance.

‘Open the gates.’

Faraxen took his station just behind Mauricius and his standard bearer. The speculatores closed up around their centurion.

A few words of encouragement would have been good, but Mauricius was no soldier.

‘Forward.’

As they emerged, high, sharp cries came from the enemy tribesmen, less alarmed than derisory. Dust billowed up and shrouded the plain as the Numidians and Moors galloped away in every direction. Clad in light robes and tunics, they knew the armoured horsemen could not catch them.

Mauricius trotted some thirty paces and halted. His standard-bearer hoisted the bright red flag. Those behind would form up on either side.

Faraxen hefted his shield, drew his sword, and waited. The dust began to clear. Faraxen felt his heart shrink.

Facing him, drawn up in a perfect fighting line, a hundred riders wide and five deep, the Pannonians were ready.

‘Sound the retreat,’ Mauricius said.

‘No.’ Faraxen countermanded the order.

Faraxen turned from the musician to Mauricius. ‘We will be surrounded and cut down before we reach Carthage. There is nowhere else to go. We have to charge.’

Mauricius’ face was pale under his helmet. He nodded curtly. ‘Sound the charge.’

Faraxen nudged his mount forward with his thighs.

‘How did they know?’ Aban asked.

‘Some deserter,’ a trooper answered. ‘A civilian, a coward, some cunt.’

‘Silence in the ranks,’ Faraxen said. ‘Keep together. Keep moving. Punch through the line. Come out the other side. See how things look then.’

They were gathering speed. The Pannonians had begun their counter charge.

‘Keep close to me,’ Faraxen said to Aban.

The distance shrank.

Faraxen leant forward in the saddle, sword out. A solid wall of steel, armour, and horseflesh rushing towards him.

A wild song of his youth in his head. His mind very clear. His sole focus on the rider he would meet.

Just when it seemed both sides would be dashed to destruction in a terrible, tangled collision, horses veered, and the ranks opened out. No horse, unless maddened, will run into a solid object.

Ready for the swerve of the horses, Faraxen thrust at the rider who flashed by on his right. The blade slid off an armoured shoulder. A Pannonian in the second rank cut down at his head. Faraxen brought up his shield. An impact jarred up his left arm, and the assailant was behind him.

The horses were impeding each other, the pace slowing. A trooper swung at Faraxen’s face. Faraxen blocked, and thrust back. The trooper took the blow on his shield. Their mounts were at a standstill.

A yell of triumph. Out of the corner of his eye, Faraxen saw the big red standard topple.

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