After a moment, the Arab disappeared back the way he had come. Frontius opened his hand, making a signal to the others, then settled himself lower in the muck, letting the tepid water lap up around his torso until only his head and shoulders were revealed, pressed against the heavy black loam anchoring the reeds. The thundering in the earth was growing stronger, making the surface of the canal ripple and bounce. Then the scout reappeared and the Arabian splashed lightly across the stream and scooted up the far bank. Within an instant, the road and ford were filled with men. Dozens, then hundreds of mounted men picked their way across the canal, surging up the western bank.
In the cane break, Frontius bit at his knuckle, counting and watching, praying the footing of the ford would hold-they had not expected so many of the enemy to come this way! A troop of men with green banners splashed past, then they too were gone. For a moment, there was silence, then the croaking of frogs and the honking cries of marsh egrets and cranes returned. Frontius rubbed furiously at his ears, crushing a feathery carpet of mosquitoes. His hands came away bloody and gray.
He bent his head, listening. A grain passed, and then another, then most of a glass, before he heard the rattling din of battle suddenly brew up to the west. Horns called, echoing mournfully over the swamplands and the screaming of horses grated across his nerves. Now he stood, arm raised again, mud oozing from his armor, and watched the high bank where the banda of Arabic cavalry had passed. The sound of the fighting grew closer-shouts, the clash of metal on metal, cries of pain, the snap and hiss of arrows. High in the broadleaf trees, Frontius could see branches moving in some breeze, but here, down in the muck, there was only a close stillness. Sound carried far over this stagnant water.
A horse burst from the top of the western bank, slewing down the slope, throwing up a spray of sand and brown water as it hit the canal. The Arabian staggered, then came up, leeches clinging to its flanks, saddle askew. There was no rider. A moment later, a man-his face covered with blood-limped down the sandy bank, then managed to cross the ford, using his spear as a cane. Off to the west, there was a sharp boom and leaves fluttered out of the cottonwoods. Frontius smiled: the Legion thaumaturges weighed in.
The Roman engineer turned, opening and closing his hand twice. Off through the thick brush, reeds and white-barked trees there was an answering flash of light. Frontius closed his nose, trying to keep mites from crawling in, then began wading back up the canal. The mud was deep and thick under the thin sheet of water, slowing his progress. His heart started to beat faster, hearing a low rumbling sound upstream, and he veered towards the bank. Here, under the tree roots, there was a course of fitted stone. He reached the bank as the first wavelet passed, pushing gently at his legs. Frontius swallowed a curse, then grabbed hold of one of the clinging roots and started to climb out of the canal.
Another, higher wave rushed down, more of a rolling hump in the brown water, but when this one passed, the level of the canal did not drop. Instead, the water began to sluice past, running faster and faster, swirling around Frontius' boots. The wiry little engineer struggled, trying to scramble up the stone, cursing the enormous weight of mud and water trapped in his armor.
Someone shouted in anger behind him and Frontius risked a look over his shoulder. The ford was filled with Arabs afoot and a-horse, crowding through the crossing. The hump of water crashed into them unexpectedly, throwing some down, fouling others. The sky above lit with a searing bolt of flame, followed by a resounding crack! Some of the Arabs on the far bank turned and loosed arrows in quick succession over the heads of their comrades. Horns shrilled on both banks.
Gritting his teeth, Frontius lunged for the top of the stone wall, catching the lip with his fingers. Desperate-for the water was rising very swiftly now-he clawed at the roots and loose soil. A clod of dirt came free and broke apart on his face, blinding him. "Gods!"
The Arabs shouted, voices filled with fear. The canal was surging up around them, boiling white around the horses. More men fell down and were pushed away, into the deeper channel where the canal cut behind the blockage of the fallen bridge. Another shout joined them, the basso roar of the Legion advancing. The clash and clatter of men in combat was very close.
Frontius felt the swift water drag at his legs and his left hand slipped from its purchase. He cried out, feeling his right elbow twist in the joint, then managed to clutch at an overhanging branch. The Arabs, driven back into the rising canal, fell into the water, where a huge crush of horses and men jammed the sunken bridge.
An arrow shattered on ancient stone beside Frontius' waist and he yelped. On the opposite bank, one of the Arab archers crawling through the underbrush had seen him. Without sound, neck bulging and arms twisted with agony, he heaved himself up, out of the canal, now running close to the top of the bank, and clawed his way into the sumac and thornbush lining the old canal. Arrows whipped past, hissing through leaves and clattering off the trees.
Frontius crawled away, shaking with effort. Sextus will pay for this! I'm sure his dice are loaded.
Roman legionaries in grimy, mud-spattered armor appeared on the western bank of the canal, heavy rectangular shields forming a solid wall. Golden eagles shimmered in the heavy afternoon air, rising above rows of iron helms. Clouded blades licked down, stabbing at Arabs still clinging to the sandy bank. Javelins plunged down into the mass of men and horses trapped in the canal. Wounded and dying, the bodies were shoved off into the rushing stream. On the eastern bank, the Arabs fell back, their arrows suddenly intermittent, darting only occasionally out of the murky white sky. Their horns blew, sounding a general retreat.
"Caesar, a courier from Pelusium!"
Aurelian looked up from his field desk, covered with rolls of papyrus bound in black twine and stacks of fresh parchment. The walls of the tent had been raised as the day lengthened, extending welcome shade against the brassy glare of the late afternoon sun. Dozens of scribes, couriers and soldiers waited nearby, squatting or sitting on the hard-packed earth. The big Roman ran a scarred hand through his beard, smoothing thick red curls, and motioned for the man to approach. Shaking a cramp out of his fingers, Aurelian set down his quill and handed the parchment-covered with an intricate drawing in fine black lines-to one of the scribes. The man, an Egyptian like most of the imperial staff, whisked the drawing away to be dried and then copied.
"Ave, Caesar!" The messenger was young and drenched in sweat, lank yellow hair plastered to an angular skull. He shrugged a leather courier bag from his shoulder and removed a kidskin packet. Aurelian nodded in thanks, then unwrapped the message and quickly read the letter. As he did, his bluff, open face grew long and when he finished intense irritation sparked in his eyes. "Lad, how old is this news?"
"Two days only, Caesar," panted the soldier. "I left as soon as the Greek attack broke."
Aurelian made a sharp motion with his finger, and one of the scribes was immediately at his side with a waxed tablet and stylus. The powerfully built Western prince, the second brother of the Emperor of the West, bent his head a little towards the brown, shaven-headed scribe. "Here are my words," he growled, "for the attention of the Legate Cestius Florus, who commands at Pelusium. Sir, you will hold your line and prevent incursions of the barbarians into the delta by any means at your disposal save that of flooding, or the use of dams or prepared canals. These directions have already been given to you, you will follow them, or you will be replaced."