Iron and Rust. Harry Sidebottom

waited in the front rank, shoulder to shoulder with his men. The civilians stumbled and jostled past, wailing like mourners. Behind, the horses trumpeted and screamed. Agonized yells and alien shouts echoed out from the alleyways in front. There was something unnerving in waiting silent and motionless at the centre of so much noise and movement. Here in the shade of the palms which lined the street it was cooler. The light was green, subaqueous.

      Death is nothing to us. Gordian repeated it to himself. Death is nothing to us.

      The press of refugees bumped and bored past. The guards waited. The din seemed to recede, as if it came from a great distance.

       If at last all returns to rest and sleep …

      A nomad ran out from a lane. The locals shrank away. He skidded to a halt, dumbstruck by the presence of the soldiers. Someone shot him. The arrow spun him around and dropped him in the dirt. The men around Gordian laughed.

      ‘And things were going so well for him,’ Sabinianus said.

      From somewhere out of sight came a high call and response, the rhythmic stamping of feet, the beat of weapons on shields. The villagers hurled themselves past, sandals slapping on the compacted dirt. The street in front of Gordian emptied. He glanced back. A seething mass of bodies was stuck fast in the gateway. All sense gone, they clawed and struggled.

      ‘Steady!’ Sabinianus shouted.

      A roar, and the barbarians came around the corner. A volley of arrows hissed over Gordian’s head. The foremost warriors twisted and fell. Those following leapt over them. More arrows, like spattering rain. Not enough to stop the charge. The nomads’ right arms went back, snapped forward. The air was full of barbed javelins. Gordian jerked his shield up. A jarring impact ran up his left arm. A splinter of wood narrowly missed his eye. The head of the javelin had penetrated the shield. He dropped the useless thing, got his sword up.

      Braids flying, a nomad was on him, jabbing wicked steel down at his face. Gordian crouched, stepped forward. The javelin went over his left shoulder. He drove the tip of his blade into the guts. For a moment, they were together, face to face, in the hideous intimacy of an embrace. The stench of urine and blood. The breath of the warrior feral and hot on his face.

      Gordian stepped back, pushing the dying man away. Another took his place, swinging a sword. Gordian blocked; once, twice, three times. The ringing of steel was loud in his ears. He gave ground. The soldiers around him likewise. Men were falling on both sides, but numbers were telling. Emboldened by his opponent’s passivity, the nomad lifted his arms high to deliver a mighty overhead chop. Gordian waited until the weapon was at its apex and neatly drove three inches of steel into his throat.

      Again the line retreated and contracted. In the momentary respite, Gordian tried to take stock. Only three soldiers to his right now, Sabinianus and no more to his left. Nomads working around both flanks. The rear ranks of the guardsmen had turned to make a circle. The gateway was still full of massed humanity.

      Like an ebbing tide, the enemy receded. Arrows from the wall plucked at their cloaks, thumped into their shields. One or two crumpled, hands clutching at the shafts. Before hope could rise, they charged again. The young chieftain at their head angled straight for Gordian. A flurry of blows, and Gordian’s back collided with that of the soldier behind. Hampered in his movements, he emptied his mind of everything except his opponent’s steel. Long training and the memory in his muscles guided him.

      The briefest of pauses, and Gordian recognized him. With a curious precision and delicacy of footwork, Nuffuzi’s son feinted and lunged. Gordian took the strike high up near the pommel. This youth could fight. The sound of shouting from behind. No time for that. Gordian parried and riposted.

      Sweat stinging in his eyes. Pain in his chest. Gordian was tiring, his movements slowing, growing clumsy. He had to finish this soon. He forced his feet to move, thrust to the face, and pulled back to buy himself some time. The shouting was louder. Some of the nomads were looking up over the knot of soldiers, others glancing over their shoulders. Nuffuzi’s son struck again. Gordian’s slight distraction almost killed him. A late, desperate block forced the blade down. It sliced open his left thigh. He staggered, fighting for balance. The youth readied the killing blow. Gordian brought his sword into a shaky guard. On either side the nomads were stepping back. Nuffuzi’s son shouted, glared at his warriors. Gordian stepped off his right foot, on to his left – a sickening surge of pain – and brought the edge of his blade down into his opponent’s right wrist. The youth screamed and dropped his sword. Before he could double up, Gordian got the point of his weapon up under his chin.