Blood and Steel

Chapter 44

Africa

Carthage,

Nine Days after the Ides of March, AD238

‘Strike with the point, not the edge of the blade.’

Gordian had raised himself up on the horns of his saddle. He had already said the same words to the other main body of recruits, and different speeches to each of the units of regular troops.

‘A cut, no matter what its force, seldom kills. Often it is deflected from the vitals, if not by shield or helmet, then by a limb or by bone. A lame man or a man with one arm is still dangerous. But a thrust driven in just two inches is always fatal. Delivering a cut, your right arm and flank are exposed. When you stab, your body remains covered by your shield, and your enemy is wounded before he realizes. Thrust to the face, and the man standing against you will flinch, and then he is open to the killing blow.’

The recruits stood in a stolid mass. They had heard all this before. For the last four days, the junior officers and soldiers seconded from the regular units had been instructing them out here on the plain before the city. Of course there had been no time for marching, manoeuvres or entrenching, let alone the swimming and other advanced skills recommended by all the tactical manuals. But they had been issued with improvised equipment, and the basic arms drills had been relentless. They had complained on learning that they would work through the heat of the afternoons, like slaves or soldiers on punishment duty. The instructors had quelled that: Did they want to offer themselves up like sacrificial animals, or learn how to survive?

‘When you return to your homes tonight, look at your aged parents, your wives, and your children. It is for them you are fighting. If you fight with courage, if you are men, you will return to them tomorrow night. If you let fear unman you, if you turn your backs, then you will be cut down. Be under no illusion, there is no safety in flight. If you run, you will die, Carthage will fall, and the Moorish barbarians that follow Capelianus will rape and enslave your loved ones.’

Not the right note on which to end.

‘But if you stand firm, remain in your ranks, victory will be yours. Our enemies do not want to fight. They are forced into the field by the cruel servant of a monstrous tyrant. Their hearts are not in it. Some of them have families here. When they see your resolve, your numbers, your ordered, silent ranks, they may not fight at all.’

Now to finish.

‘If they do fight, it will be half-heartedly, under compulsion. They have nothing for which to risk their lives. You, by contrast, have everything. You fight for homes and families, for freedom. Justice is on our side. The gods are on our side. We will be victorious!’

The recruits cheered.

Before he rode away, Gordian took time to survey the whole scene, fearful there might be something that he had overlooked, something that might unhinge all his plans.

The scouts were out of sight, some ten miles distant, watching the hills through which Capelianus would come. Similarly, the remainder of the cavalry were hidden by distance and a slight fold in the plain. Only a cloud of dust marked where the two hundred Horse Guards were teaching the three hundred levy horsemen how to keep together in the charge. Tomorrow, if Gordian’s stratagem was to work, they must charge as one.

The rest of the army was close at hand, set out in the places they would occupy the next day. The line faced west, straddling the Mappalian Way. The left rested on the villa of Sextus, at their back were the aqueduct, tombs and town walls, and the fish ponds were some way off to the right. The villa was garrisoned by the newly raised 1st Legion Gordiana Pius Fidelis. Sabinianus had argued that these four hundred veterans and stationarii would be better employed stiffening part of the array in the open field. But Gordian had overruled him. It was vital the flanks of the army were as secure as could be achieved.

Running from the villa towards the north was a solid phalanx of heavy infantry. On the left were three thousand levies. The centre consisted of two thousand regulars; the 1st Cohort Flavia Afrorum, the Cohort of the 3rd Legion Augusta, the Praetorians, and the 13th Urban Cohort. The right was held by the other three thousand levies equipped for hand-to-hand combat, and at the extremity of this wing stood the 15th Cohort Emesenorum. The latter had only arrived from Ammaedara this morning. They would be tired, but hopefully by the next morning less so than Capelianus’ men. The right was the position of honour, the most exposed place in the line. Of all the army, the 15th Cohort had seen action most recently. Not a pitched battle, but the previous autumn they had been deployed chasing bandits back into the mountains.

In front of the close-order troops Gordian had had a broad swathe of pits dug. At the bottom of each was a sharpened stake. Beyond were two thousand more levies armed with bows and slings. After the opening of the battle, when they had discharged their missiles, they were to move back through the pits and the heavily armed troops. In open order, and knowing where the traps lay, with luck most should negotiate the pits. They were to retire through the regular troops in the centre. The recruits in the main battle line were not yet experienced enough to open their ranks to let others pass through. Rather than close up again, they were more likely to be swept away in a general rush to the rear and the illusory safety of the town.

Gordian looked again at the open ground to the right of his line, at the walls and buildings of the fish ponds beyond. The next day everything would depend on what happened there. Finally, he was satisfied that he had done all he could. The light was beginning to fade, and, at the head of his staff, he turned his horse’s head for home.

The levies were full of enthusiasm. Only those who had not stood close to the steel ever welcomed the onset of battle. Their eagerness would not last. They were Africans, and the hot climate thinned their blood, made them reluctant to see it shed. The nature of all Africans inclined to cowardice. And they were from the city. Every military man knew country-men made better soldiers. Unlike the soft urban plebs, they were nurtured under the open sky in a life of hard work, enduring the weather, careless of comfort, unacquainted with bath houses, ignorant of luxury, simple-souled, content with but a little, their limbs toughened to withstand every kind of toil, digging entrenchments, bearing a burden; patient endurance was in their souls.

Yet he had recruited men of the right age, neither beardless adolescents, not bent old men, and the correct physique, clean-limbed, almost every one of them approaching six foot tall. Care had been taken to draw them from the better occupations. No pastry cooks or pimps: until a few days ago they had been masons, wainwrights, butchers, and huntsmen, except, of course, for the four hundred or so gladiators distributed along the front rank. Whatever the shortfall among the latter in the virtues instilled by freedom, it should be compensated by their skill at arms. All in all, if the levies stood up to the first clash, they should buy enough time for Gordian’s ambush to win the battle.

At the grave of Serenus Sammonicus, he reined in to pay his respects. The monument to his old tutor was not finished. The fresh white marble was uncarved, the niche not yet tenanted by his statue. Gordian hoped he would live to see it completed. This was not the moment to dwell on death. He moved on. We will not go down to the house of death, not yet, not until our day arrives.

His father was waiting in the Palace. They were dining in the room called the Delphix. It was not a large party, apart from the two Emperors, just the high-ranking officers: Sabinianus, Mauricius, the Praetorian Prefect Vocula, the four commanders of the Cohorts, and the two young tribunes Pedius and Geminius. The tribunes deserved their places, although nine was the lucky number for a dinner.

Servants brought in the first plates; snails fattened on emmer meal and grape syrup, anchovies fried with sea-anemone tentacles, a relish of fish sauce, warm bread, and a salad of rocket and pepper. Gordian was relieved there was nothing unpropitious, no lentils, lettuce or beans, not even eggs, nothing pertaining to the dead. In times of tension, the superstitious could read omens in anything. As they crossed the Euphrates, the legions of Crassus had been issued with lentils and salt, the symbols of mourning. They had marched to Carrhae expecting to die.

The wine flowed — Caecuban and Falernian — and the talk was animated, even febrile. Gordian noted his father seldom joined the conversation. Towards the end of the main course, he moved across to his couch.

‘Father, you are not still concerned about the prodigy?’ He spoke quietly, although there was little danger of being overheard by the other now raucous guests. ‘Given the number of animals an Emperor sacrifices, sooner or later one will give birth during the ceremony. It is natural, signifies nothing.’

His father touched his hand affectionately. ‘The soothsayers interpretation was although I would die, my son would be Emperor. And they predicted that, like the new-born animal, you would be gentle and innocent, subject to treachery.’

In deference to his father’s feelings, Gordian did not point out that at the time of the prodigy, he had already been proclaimed Emperor, and that as a mature man his nature was well known. He sought to lighten the mood. ‘At least, Father, tomorrow we do not face death by drowning.’

His father squeezed his hand. ‘Not all men share your Epicureanism. My belief is that the gods exist, that they care for mankind, and send us signs of the future, hard though these are to grasp correctly. There are many astrologers in Carthage. I summoned another, a learned man. He demonstrated how the constellations at your birth prove that you will be both son and father of an Emperor. You have no child, so it follows that you will live through tomorrow. Having no desire to outlive you, it reassures me. Now, I am tired, and will go to my chamber, leaving you younger men to your dessert.’

It was a warm spring night, the curtains drawn back, and the windows open to catch the breeze. Sometime later, towards midnight, Gordian saw lights twinkling in the distance. He got up, and went over to see better. Campfires on the hills. Capelianus had come.

Drawing near the window, he heard faint music, shouts and cries from an unseen street, like a Bacchic throng.

Sabinianus was beside him. ‘A troop of revellers, their course seems to lie through the city toward the Mappalian Way.’

‘A good sign.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Come, Sabinianus, let us drink.’

‘It is late. I will go to my bed. You should take your rest.’

‘Nonsense, let us drown consideration.’

‘Brother, tomorrow is the day.’

‘And I hope well of it, expect victory.’

Sabinianus took his arm. ‘If it goes otherwise, remember I have a fast boat ready for you, fully crewed, lying off the mole of the outer harbour. Hail them with the password Safety.’ He looked as if he had more to say, but did not.

‘Salus,’ Gordian repeated.

They embraced, kissed, and Sabinianus left.

Gordian turned to his remaining officers, now sitting quietly watching. ‘Come, brothers, let us burn the night with torches. Fill your cups, let us toast tomorrow. Let me not die without a struggle, inglorious, but do some big thing first, that men to come shall know of it.’