Simon Scarrow - The Eagle In the Sand

'Second Illyrian! To arms!'

The shout echoed down the depression, and all the men who had been fleeing up the slope suddenly stopped, casting aside their loose robes. They hurriedly discarded the fake bales of goods from their saddle horns and scrambled on to the backs of their mounts, wheeling them round as they snatched out their swords and charged for the confused tangle of men and animals at the centre of the caravan, letting out loud cries of their own.These were taken up by the men at each end of the caravan, suddenly in full command of their horses as they prepared them to attack the desert raiders.

'Come on!' Macro shouted to Symeon, jabbing his sword at the raiders. 'Get 'em!'

With a savage cry Symeon gave the command to his men and the trap was closed. Over the head of his horse Macro could see the dark-robed figures of the raiders freeze for a moment as they perceived the danger hurtling towards them from three sides.The quickest to react threw themselves back into their saddles and yanked the reins round towards the ridge they had descended from only moments before. Others, more foolhardy, still frantically struggled with the abandoned pack animals in the caravan, desperate to snatch some prizes away before they escaped. As Macro and the escorts raced down the side of the caravan they began to fan out into a line that angled away from the caravan so that they might catch the raiders in the flank before they escaped.They were close now and Macro saw the nearest raider turn towards him for an instant before whipping the rump of his mount with frantic desperation. Macro raised the tip of his sword and angled his horse towards the man, but before he could strike there was a blur of flying robes at his side and Murad surged past, teeth clenched in a triumphant grimace as he swept in between Macro and his man.There was a dazzling flash as Murad's blade scythed through the air and cut deeply into the angle between the man's head and shoulder. With a shrill cry, the raider spasmed and seemed to leap off his saddle, blood spurting from his terrible wound as he tumbled to the ground.

Murad cried out in triumph, laughed madly in Macro's direction, then turned away and spurred his horse towards the next raider.The centurion felt a flicker of anger at the way the man had interposed himself between Macro and his intended target, but then he smiled grimly. It did not matter. Let Murad have his moment of victory. The important thing was to make sure that the trap succeeded as completely as possible. Macro straightened up in his saddle, craning his neck as he tried to get an overview of the fight. There was a dense haze of dust at the centre of the caravan as dark figures hacked away at each other. Raiders were still abandoning the caravan and fleeing back up the slope, chased by Symeon's escorts and the Roman cavalry. Macro spurred his horse on, jerking the reins so that he was galloping straight for the swirling melee at the heart of the fighting. A riderless camel galloped out in front of him, and Macro swerved round it just in time as his horse let out a panicked neigh. Then he was in a swirl of dust, blinking as he felt the grit on his face and in his eyes. Another camel loomed up, this time with a rider on it, and the man's eyes widened as he saw Macro hurtling towards him. His curved blade swept out and up, and then the flank of Macro's horse crashed into the side of his camel and he slashed down at Macro's head. Macro, with the sour scent of the raider's mount filling his nostrils, only just had time to throw out his blade to deflect the blow that would have cleaved his skull to the jaw. The parry jarred his arm; then, as the man was recovering his sword for another slashing attack, Macro leaned in and thrust the point into the man's side, under his raised sword arm. The blow was truly aimed, and crunched through cloth, flesh and ribs before it tore through the man's lungs and pierced his heart. He folded slightly towards Macro before the blade dropped from his limp fingers. He grunted a curse, then flopped forward over his saddle horns.

Macro had no time to react as another shape emerged from the dust and charged at him, the straight-edged blade sweeping round in an arc towards him. He ducked it easily, shouting, 'Bloody fool! I'm Roman.'

The man's eyes opened wide, in panic, and he snatched his sword arm back and wheeled his mount away before the prefect could recognise him.

'Bastard!' Macro grunted, then glanced round and made for another likely-looking target as a raider flitted past, heading for the safety of the slope. Another raider rode by and then another as the sounds of fighting abruptly faded. Macro drew a breath and cried out, 'They're running! Sheathe swords! Draw bows!'

He turned his horse and trotted out of the cloud of dust. Ahead of him the slope was covered with raiders fleeing for their lives, hotly pursued by Symeon and his men. Then, as more mounted auxiliaries emerged from the dust, he waved his sword at the fleeing enemy.

'Finish them! Finish 'em off!'

The men exchanged their swords, drew their bows and spurred their mounts in pursuit of the loping camels of the desert raiders. The horses were faster and quickly made ground on the raiders as Macro's men fitted arrows to their bowstrings. At the last moment, they reined in, took aim and let fly.The range was short and the men had all been selected for their skill with the weapon.Across the slope the raiders tumbled from their saddles; some, wounded, clutched grimly to their reins and rode on until a second or third arrow thudded into them. Only a scant handful reached the crest of the hill and vanished from sight, Symeon's men and the auxiliaries still in pursuit.

Macro sheathed his sword and slumped forward in his saddle, suddenly aware how quiet and still the world around him seemed. His heartbeat was racing and the blood pounded through his head. His throat felt dry and gritty and once again he was aware how hot this cursed land was in daylight hours. The dust was settling across the floor of the depression and the caravans pack animals stood patiently, waiting to be herded into line once more to continue the journey. At their feet were the bodies of those who had fallen in the brief fight. The sand about them was patched with slick dark stains of blood. A few of Macro's men moved from body to body, finishing off the enemy wounded with a swift strike to their throats so that they flailed desperately for an instant before they lost consciousness and died. Only a handful of Romans had been injured, and none killed, and Macro gave orders for a shelter to be erected to save them from the discomfort of the blazing sunshine. A rider was sent back to the way station to bring a cart for the wounded, and summon the herders. Most would live. One man's knee had been shattered by a sword blow and it was clear that his soldiering days were over, even if the surgeon back at the fort managed to save the leg.

As the auxiliaries re-formed the caravan, Macro waited for the rest of his men and the escorts to return. Over the next hour they came back singly or in small groups, tired but jubilant at their swift and thorough defeat of the desert raiders. The men returned to the caravan and rested their horses before feeding and watering them. Symeon and his friends were the last to appear, riding down from the ridge in a compact group, talking and laughing as they came. Adul's arm had been slashed and roughly bound up, but such was his good humour that he seemed oblivious of the pain. Symeon grinned as he rode up to Macro.

'Took your time,' Macro said evenly.

Symeon ignored the brusque tone and spoke excitedly. 'We got them all, save one, as you ordered. We cut off his nose and set him back on a horse. I told him to warn the other desert people of the fate that awaits those who dare to raid the caravan route passing through the Roman province.'