Around him the Numidian officer’s eyes gleamed in sudden delight as they glanced at each other in a conspiratorial manner. Then as one, they cried out in rehearsed, broken and heavily accented Latin. “Long live the Seventh Cavalry Ala of Numidians.”
Fergus was on his daily barrack-room inspection along the mud-brick fort’s walls, when a commotion near the fort’s gates caught his attention. Frowning, he peered in the direction of the gates. It was morning and two days had passed since the “O group” with his officers. As he gazed towards the gates, he suddenly saw the watch-commander hurrying towards him, together with one of the local Bedouin men. As they approached Fergus recognised the man as the leader of the local Bedouin families who were camped out around the oasis with their sheep and goats. Both men looked tense and worried.
Patiently Crispus waited until the anxious watch-commander and the Arab man had finished speaking and then he turned to Fergus.
“The Bedouin man says,” Crispus said in a tight voice, “that some of his men spotted a large raiding party heading straight for us. They are coming from the east and they will be here within the hour. He fears they are not coming to drink at the oasis and swap news. He says he wanted to warn you.”
“Shit,” Fergus’s face coloured in alarm. “How many of them are there?
“He says he thinks around five-hundred men. Most are on camels but they have a few horses too,” Crispus translated, stumbling over some of the words.
For a moment Fergus gazed at the Arab in silence. The Bedouin leader had proved trustworthy so far and there was no reason to doubt him. But he had another difficult decision to make. More than half his men were miles away up the road. There was no time to recall them and even then, they would never get back to the fort in time. Shit, shit, shit. The enemy had outmanoeuvred him. He would have to trust that the Arab was telling the truth. Quickly Fergus nodded his gratitude to the Bedouin and turned to Crispus.
“Tell him to get his people to safety and sound the general alarm. I want every available man ready to ride. Hurry. We do not have much time.”
“But Sir,” Crispus protested, “would it not be better to remain here? The Arabs outnumber us but we can defend our walls. The enemy has no siege equipment. There is no way they can take this fort.”
“They may not be able to take the fort but they can destroy the oasis, our well and poison our water supply,” Fergus roared, as he started to run to his quarters. “Get the men ready to ride and send a messenger to Hiempsal, telling him to get his arse back here right away! We are going to meet the enemy out in the desert.”
Within a few minutes of the general alarm being sounded Fergus, at the head of his men, came charging out of the gates of the fort in a cloud of dust before swinging sharply away towards the east. As he galloped off into the desert he snatched a glance over his shoulder and noticed the Bedouin collapsing their tents and preparing to flee towards the west. Riding at his side on his small Berber horse, Crispus was proudly holding up the cohort banner. Anxiously Fergus’s eyes slid down the line of Numidian horsemen who were following him, kicking up a cloud of dust. He had six understrength squadrons, a hundred and forty-eight men. Not enough to halt the raiding party that was bearing down on them and his fort was now just defended by the sick and ill. And each of his horsemen only had three of four javelins each. Fergus bit his lip. If he lost his fort or the oasis was destroyed, it would bring lasting disgrace to the whole unit. He could not allow that to happen.
“Fuck,” Fergus hissed through clenched teeth, as he turned to stare into the desert ahead. He was badly outnumbered.
It was not much later when Fergus suddenly caught sight of the dust clouds towards the east. The dust was heading straight towards him across the flat, open wastelands. Raising his fist in the air he slowed his horse to a walk and around him his Numidian riders did the same and began to form a line. And as he gazed towards the east, Fergus suddenly caught sight of a shimmering compact mass of camels and horses advancing towards him. The enemy camels were moving towards him in their strange, pacing gait and Arabic flags fluttered in the gentle breeze. The Bedouin was right. The raiders had to number more than five-hundred men and they were heading straight towards the oasis.
“We will try to delay them and lure them towards the north and away from the oasis,” Fergus cried out, his eyes fixed on the advancing enemy, “Crispus, order the men to break up into their individual squadrons. Hit and run. We will hit them and run but tell the men to use their javelins only when they cannot miss. Once they have just one javelin left, they are to hold onto it. Without them we are toothless. It is much more important that we delay the enemy than kill them. We must buy time for Hiempsal and the others to get back here. The Arabs must not be allowed to reach the oasis. And if something happens to me Crispus, you shall be in command.”
“Yes Sir,” Crispus replied hastily before raising his voice and bellowing out Fergus’s orders in the Numidian language.
As Crispus repeated his orders, Fergus took a deep breath and tightened his grip on the small, round Numidian shield and the two javelins he was clutching. His centurion’s armour and plumed helmet contrasted sharply with the plain, unarmoured horsemen around him and no doubt that would make him a prime target. Then swiftly he lifted Galena’s Celtic amulet to his lips and kissed it. The raiders had caught sight of the thin line of Numidian horsemen, but were not changing direction or slowing down. They were coming on straight towards them, confident in the superiority of their numbers.
“Follow me,” Fergus cried, as he wheeled his horse around and began to move northwards towards the enemy flank. Behind him the Numidian line dissolved as the squadrons began to form up around their decurions and move together as individual units. Now that he had given the order, the Numidian’s would fight as they had always fought and he would have little direct control. The decurions would make their own decisions. Hit and run, harass, delay and hopefully annoy the hell out of the raiders, so that they forgot the purpose of their mission. It was a slender hope Fergus thought, but it was the only plan he could think of.
As his men poured around the raiders flank, keeping a respectful distance, a barrage of arrows and spears were hurled at them but the missiles were ineffective. The assault was followed up by loud mocking cries and shouts from the Arab ranks. Fergus wheeled his horse round once more and gazed at the raiders. The Arabs were not slowing down and had not changed course. Most of the enemy seemed to be unarmoured, camel-mounted infantry armed with spears, shields and swords. There seemed to be a few bowmen amongst the enemy ranks. And in the centre of the column, protected by a strong and compact formation of heavily armed men on camels, Fergus suddenly caught sight of a magnificent and richly dressed man, the only one to be clad in metal body-armour. The warrior was wearing a black turban and directly behind him an Arabic banner was fluttering in the air. He had to be the force leader Fergus thought.
At the rear of the enemy column a party of horsemen had inexplicably allowed a small gap to appear between themselves and their comrades and, as Fergus turned to stare at the men, two Numidian squadrons began to close in on the rear guard. With a cry Fergus urged his horse towards the action. Ahead of him the small Numidian horses and their riders were tearing across the desert, throwing up clouds of dust, and as he and his squadron raced after them, Fergus saw that the Arabs had noticed the threat and were desperately trying to close the gap. But it was already too late. With wild yells and shrieks one of the Numidian squadrons boldly shot through the gap, curved around the enemy right flank and sent a hail of javelins hurtling into the raiders, whilst their companions hit the Arabs from the other side. They could hardly miss. In the desert, horses and screaming men toppled and crashed to the ground, torn apart by the mobile pincer movement. A few survivors, broke formation and went wildly fleeing in the direction of their companions and, as he stared at the scene Fergus saw one of the Arabic flags tumble to the ground. The Numidians were already galloping away, and as they reac
hed a safe distance they wheeled around slowing their horses to a walk gazing at the destruction they’d wrought.
Fergus and his men reached the fight a few moments later and hastily he slid from his horse and grabbed hold of the fallen, Arab banner. Amongst the blood, debris and dead, dying and broken bodies, men were groaning and screaming in agony. But there was no time to finish them off or even retrieve the javelins. Heaving himself back into the saddle, Fergus rode towards the main raiding force, holding up the captured banner for all to see. As he neared their lines he turned and, staying out of missile range, he galloped along the line with the enemy banner fluttering behind him. Racing on behind him the Numidian’s were screaming in triumph, raising their weapons in the air. The action seemed to have the desired effect Fergus thought, for the desert raiders had come to a halt and had turned to stare at him, as he taunted them. Then without warning, a large party of Arab camels and horsemen broke away and came charging towards him, screaming in fury. Swiftly Fergus changed course and galloped away leading his pursuers to the north. Across the open desert the Numidian squadrons, sensing what Fergus was trying to do, joined the retreat, their small, agile and speedy horses carrying them swiftly out of danger. After a short distance, the raiders seemed to realise that they would never catch up with the Numidians and their charge faltered. Slowly the camels and riders began to move back towards their places in the enemy column.
“We must lure them to the north and away from the oasis,” Fergus roared, as he slowed his horse to a walk and wheeled round to gaze at the enemy. “Crispus, tell the men to rest their horses when they can and to conserve their javelins. We are going to be out here for a long time. We will take it in turns to harass them. I want the enemy pissed off and furious. I want them to have only eyes for us. I want them to forget why they are out here.”
Crispus had barely began to shout out Fergus’s instructions, when one of the Numidian squadrons, beyond earshot, began to move towards the Arabs. The Numidians knew what to do without being told. This was the kind of warfare they excelled at. As the squadron moved forwards, calmly walking their horses towards the enemy, they were joined by another, led by their decurion. As they approached, the Numidian’s began to pick up the pace and then smoothly they turned and went tearing down the enemy flank, their javelins raised into a throwing position - their blood curling cries filling the desert. But instead of throwing their weapons, the riders held back. From the stationary Arab lines, a barrage of spears and arrows was flung at the riders and here and there a Numidian went tumbling to the ground in a ball of dust. Then with a wild cry, a group of raiders burst from the main force and went charging off in pursuit of the Numidian horsemen. Seeing the pursuit, the Numidian squadrons veered sharply away into the desert, their speedy mounts throwing up clouds of dust as they fled. The Arab counter-attack came to an abrupt frustrated and confused halt as the Numidian’s swiftly moved away from the danger.
Anxiously Fergus turned to stare at the main enemy force. They were still not moving. He had managed to halt them. That was good but for how long could he keep this up. As he stared at the enemy ranks, the next two squadrons began to advance towards the enemy ranks, following the example of their comrades who had slowed and were wheeling around to face the raiders. This time his men managed to stay just out of range of the enemy missiles and, as they charged down the line the Arabs once more lunged towards them, only to see the small, swift and agile horses turn and flee.
But as the Numidians repeated the feint, cries and shouts rose from the Arab lines and, as Fergus looked on, the raiders began to form a light screen of camel archers, horsemen and dismounted spear-men. And behind the covering screen the main bulk of the camel mounted-infantry started to move again, heading in the direction of the oasis. Fergus bit his lip and hissed. The Arabs had seen through his plan. Covered by the slowly retreating screen, there was nothing to stop them from reaching his fort within half an hour. He had to do something and fast. Then Fergus lowered his eyes and groaned. It was a desperate move but he could think of nothing else. He would just have to do it. Quickly he wheeled his horse around and went racing off down the enemy flank with his Numidians streaming on behind him. As he curved leftwards and into the path of the advancing raiders, Fergus turned to Crispus who was keeping pace with him.
“Order the men to stay out of missile range and remember what I told you,” he yelled, “if something happens to me you will be in command.”
“Sir,” Crispus frowned in confusion, “Sir, what are you doing?”
But Fergus was not listening. He had urged his horse straight towards the foremost enemy ranks and completely alone, clutching the captured enemy banner, he galloped towards them. A spear flew passed, missing him by inches. Then an arrow whined over his head and Fergus knew he had gotten close enough. Wheeling his horse around he retreated a little way and then pointed the captured banner straight towards the Arab leader.
“See how easily we captured your banner,” he roared, gazing towards the Arab clad in his metal armour and wearing his black turban. “I spit on your courage. I shit on your bravery.”
Then with a contemptuous gesture Fergus snapped the wooden standard in two and threw the pieces onto the gravelly ground. Raising his arm, he pointed his finger straight at the enemy leader.
“I challenge you to single combat,” Fergus roared.
As he fell silent, Fergus could see that the Arabs had halted and were all staring at him in silence. He had no idea whether his message had got through or had been understood but he would find out soon enough.
Amid the mass of guards who surrounded him, the Arab chieftain was gazing at Fergus from atop his camel. He was too far away to make out the features on his face, but it was clear that the challenge had not gone unnoticed. Then Fergus gasped as the man cried out something to his followers and began to make his way through the ranks towards him. The challenge it seemed had been accepted. Behind him Fergus could sense his Numidian troopers lining up at a safe distance from the enemy. There was no way he could back down now. Neither he nor the Arab chief could be seen to lose face in front of all their men. This was going to be a fight to the death. Stoically Fergus watched as the Arab chief emerged from the ranks of his men and slowly started to amble towards him. The man, wearing his black turban, looked around forty and was armed with a shield and a beautifully decorated sword, that reminded Fergus of the Dacian falx. After the Arab had gone a dozen paces, he halted and dismounted from his camel and, seeing that, Fergus did the same.
Standing out in no-man’s land between his own men and the raiders, Fergus remained silent and motionless as his Arab opponent turned and shouted something to his own men. He was rewarded by a great roar of encouragement from the raiders, who had come to a halt and were patiently and excitedly gazing at the unfolding and unexpected turn of events in front of them. Then the Arab turned to face Fergus and, as he started towards him, Fergus dropped his javelins onto the desert floor, drew Corbulo’s old gladius from its scabbard and advanced to meet his opponent. When they were less than five paces apart from each other, the Arab halted. The man’s hard, creased face was expressionless as he sized Fergus up and as he stared back at him, Fergus got the distinct feeling that he was up against a seasoned and battle-tested warrior. But there was no going back now and the enormity of what he’d done suddenly sank in. He had made his decision. He had to win. It was win or die.
With a speed that nearly took Fergus by surprise his opponent suddenly lunged at him. Darting away from the man’s slashing sword, Fergus feinted to the left but the Arab did not respond. He seemed to know what he was doing. Coolly and calmly he again strode towards Fergus, his dark eyes fixed on Fergus with terrifying resolve and determination. The next blow came in low, aimed at Fergus’s legs and hastily he sprang aside and circled his opponent. The Arab’s sword was longer than his own gladius. If he wanted to stand a chance he would need to get in close, but his opponent was terrifyingly fast. Across the desert, except for
the little gusts of wind, complete silence reigned as all eyes were fixed on the fight. Quickly stooping, Fergus grasped hold of a small stone and flung it at his opponent, striking his shield. He had to do something to get the man off balance, anything to get him to make a mistake. But, as the Arab warrior came at him again in frenzy of blows and slashing movements, Fergus stumbled backwards, desperately warding off the attack with his small round Numidian shield. His own attempt to lunge and stab his opponent met thin air and suddenly, from the Arab ranks a great bellowing roar of support for their man filled the desert. Fergus hissed in pain as he noticed a little trickle of blood on his arm from where the last clash had nicked him.
Opposite him, the Arab was fully concentrated on killing him. The man had not said a word and neither did the yells of encouragement from his men seem to distract him. Stoically Fergus edged around him and, as the two men crouched, circled and stared at each other in a silent, deadly battle of wills, Fergus felt a growing rage, a berserker mood. He was not going to die out here. He had to save his family. They were all counting on him. He was the only one who could save them. He had to win. Out in the desert, the wind seemed to have picked up and little dust clouds were jumping up and falling to the ground. Fergus took a deep breath and wiped his parched-mouth with the back of his hand. There was just one-way he was going to be able to end this. Mustering all his energy, he suddenly sprang towards the Arab catching the man’s sword blow on his shield, but instead of darting away he kept going and with a savage cry he crashed straight into his opponent, tackling him to the ground. Howling and screaming the two of them grappled and rolled over the stony ground in a furious, snarling, chaotic tangle of arms and legs. A searing pain suddenly cut through Fergus’s leg but he was beyond feeling it. Viciously he head-butted the Arab and was rewarded with a sharp, startled cry of pain. Then as another slicing pain erupted along his arm and blood came pouring out, Fergus head-butted the man again and then again and again. The pressure on Fergus’s right arm suddenly relaxed as the Arab screamed, his left eye now swollen and shut. With a howl Fergus tore his pugio, army knife from his belt and brought it down into his opponents exposed throat. Instantly the pressure on him slackened and a fountain of blood splattered Fergus’s face, half blinding him. Roaring with rage, Fergus tore the knife from his opponent’s throat and plunged it back in again until the man was no longer moving and the desert around him was soaked in blood.
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