Fire and Sword. Harry Sidebottom

       Africa

       The City of Carthage, Eight Days before the Kalends of April, AD238

      ‘Lay down your arms!’

      As he spoke, Capelianus turned in the saddle, took in the enemy. On both flanks their levies were running, back under the aqueduct, pelting through the tombs towards the illusory safety of the walls of Carthage. His own auxiliaries, all discipline gone, were chasing them, hacking at their defenceless backs. Here in the centre, half of their regulars had put down their standards and weapons, and stretched out empty hands in supplication. Only a thousand still stood against him; the Urban Cohort, and the young men formed into the sham Praetorian Guard of the two usurpers. Win them over, disarm them, and victory was complete. Africa would be won back for Maximinus, the revolt of the Gordiani crushed. Not a battle, but a massacre.

      ‘Lay down your arms, fellow-soldiers. Your fight is done and over.’

      Frightened eyes stared at him over the wall of shields a few paces ahead. They were outnumbered two to one. These locally raised Praetorians were not real soldiers. There was no sign of the younger Gordian.

      ‘Your pretend Emperor has fled. Those who led you astray have fled. No mounted officers remain under your standards.’

      Still the enemy did not move.

      ‘Return to your military oath. You were misled. The clemency of your true Emperor Maximinus is boundless. I am merciful. There will be no retribution.’

      A stirring in the ranks opposite. A tall, heavy man, pushing his way to the front. He was bareheaded.

      Capelianus realized his mistake. His opponent had not fled.

      Gordian the Younger stepped forth, like some terrible, martial epiphany.

      The din of the killing was distant. Into the unnerving silence, here in the eye of the storm, Gordian shouted.

      ‘We will stand together to the end!’

      Gordian drew his sword, levelled the blade at the man who had come to kill him.

      ‘The coward Capelianus has put himself at our mercy.’

      Gordian was just a dozen paces away; big, powerful, clad in armour, exuding menace.

      ‘Some god has blinded him. Kill the cuckold, and the day is yet ours. With me, brothers.’

      Capelianus felt his limbs clumsy with fear. Only four ranks of legionaries between him and those terrible man-killing hands.

      ‘Are you ready for war?’ Gordian called, the words booming through the lines.

      Ready! Caught up in the intoxicating ritual of blood, the enemy shouted as one.

       Ready!

      On the third response, they charged, heedless of the odds against them.

      At a run, Gordian crashed, shield to shield, into the foremost legionary. The man staggered back, fell to the ground, unbalancing those behind. Gordian was in their midst. Steel flashed in the sun. Men flailed and screamed. The tumult stunned the senses. Through it all, remorseless, heavy-shouldered, Gordian drove forward. An officer at his side cut down another legionary.

      A mere three ranks shielded Capelianus. He felt his courage slipping away. Your heart shrank when you were past fifty, shrank until it was no bigger than that of a child.

      Gordian chopped down a man to his right, took a blow, cut down the legionary in front.

      Two ranks between Capelianus and Nemesis.

      This was insane. Capelianus turned the head of his horse. The battlefield was his, except for here. No point in throwing his life away, not when victory was in his grasp. His cavalry had routed the opposing horse on the left. Only a handful of the enemy had broken through, and escaped to the south. Now his Numidian tribesmen were galloping wildly to the city in pursuit of plunder and rape, and the pleasures of killing the unresisting, but the regulars were rallying. Canter over there, watch from the safety of their formation, as the overwhelming numbers of his legionaries ground down Gordian and the last of the rebels.

      As Capelianus hesitated, he saw Gordian take a blow to his unhelmeted head. Bloodied, but seemingly impervious, as if some deity inhabited him, Gordian thrust his blade through his assailant. Gods below, where had the degenerate acquired this energy? Was there no stopping him?

      One rank remained. Prudence dictated withdrawal. Capelianus gathered his reins.

      No. Everything hinged on this moment, this fleeting, unstable encounter between what had been and what would be. If they saw him flee, the morale of the legionaries would break. Panic would spread like wildfire through his whole army. Gordian would be left with the last ordered infantry in the field. With that tiny, ragtag force, the unworthy sot of a pretender would have won the most improbable of victories, would have defeated the 3rd Legion Augusta, the only legion in Africa. Gordian would process into Carthage in triumph. They would throw flowers at his feet. Gordian and his odious father would continue to wear the purple.

      Capelianus tugged his sword from its scabbard. The bone hilt was slippery in his palm, no comfort. He yelled at his men, his voice unsteady.

      ‘Kill him! Cut him down!’

      There was still some fight left in the legionaries. A slashing blade near severed the neck of the rebel officer next to Gordian. A spray of blood, bright in the sunshine. The officer vanished under the stamping boots of the melee. And suddenly Gordian was alone, ringed with steel.

      ‘Kill him! Just one man, finish him!’

      For a moment they hung back like dogs around a bear brought to bay in the arena.

      Gordian shifted his sword and shield this way and that, covering himself, gathering his strength, searching for an opening, a way to Capelianus. Blood was running freely down Gordian’s face, getting in his eyes.

      ‘For the gods’ sake, it is just one man. He is wounded. End him!’ Capelianus was hollow with fear.

      A movement behind Gordian. A legionary jabbed