'Good lad!' Macro called out to him. 'Take over from the signifer.'
'Yes, sir.' The legionary raised the standard and then passed his shield across to the wounded signifer before turning his attention back to the enemy.
'Watch it!' The man beside Cato pointed towards the bank. 'Javelins!'
Cato followed the direction indicated and saw that some of the camel riders had dismounted and were now preparing to hurl their weapons. The first ran forward a few paces and threw his javelin. It rose up into the sky at a more languid pace than the earlier arrows. More followed as the first dipped down towards the boat to the right of Cato. It slammed into a shield, piercing the cross laminated strips of wood and bursting through the forearm of the man behind. He let out a cry, then held the rim of his shield and wrenched his arm free of the head of the javelin with a roar of pain and anger. A loud thud wrenched Cato's attention back and he saw the shaft of a javelin quivering in the foredeck.
'Close,' Macro muttered.
There was a groan from the rear of the felucca and Cato glanced over his shoulder and saw that the helmsman had been struck in the midriff by an arrow. He stared down in shock until the blood began to blossom in the dirty cloth around the shaft. He let go of the tiller and grasped the arrow, pulling at it, and then screaming in agony as he blacked out. At once the boat began to come up into the wind, angling round towards the vessel to their left.
'Shit…' Cato muttered, seeing the danger at once. He turned swiftly to Macro. 'Hold my shield!'
His friend grasped the handle with his spare hand and Cato thrust his way back through the legionaries crowded into the boat, trying to ignore the continuing barrage of arrows and javelins. Above him the leech of the triangular sail began to flutter. The other crewman sat on the floor of the boat, pressing into the side of a legionary, his face a mask of frozen terror as he clutched the mainsheet in his hands as if it was a lifeline. Cato ignored him and pressed on. He reached for the end of the tiller and forced it round so that the craft began to turn away from the nearest boat. For a moment Cato thought the collision might be avoided, but the felucca was turning too slowly. On the deck of the other boat, faces turned towards the looming menace and then the beam of the felucca struck the side of the other boat. Both sails shimmered violently and the shock of the impact threw the men against each other. On the other boat an optio had been crouching on the foredeck, ready to lead his men ashore the moment his boat grounded. Instead, he lost his balance, tumbled to the side and slid overboard with a splash and did not resurface. More men were sent sprawling in a confusion of limbs and shouted curses.
The felucca rebounded from the impact and a fresh gust filled the sail, easing it round towards the shore as Cato centred the tiller. There was no chance to help the men of the other boat, nor spare them more than a moment's thought. No more than thirty feet from the riverbank the crewman released the mainsheet and the triangular sail billowed freely for a moment before it flapped in the light breeze. The momentum of the felucca carried it on and the craft had only lost a little speed when the boat lurched to an abrupt halt in the silt where a strip of reeds ran along the bank. Most of the legionaries had braced themselves but even so a number tumbled into their comrades and a chorus of grunts and curses broke out until Macro bellowed angrily at them.
'Shut your mouths! Shields up, swords out and follow me!'
He stepped up on to the foredeck, crouching slightly behind his shield, and took a running jump towards the riverbank. He landed with a splash and a brief rustle of trampled reeds. The water came up to his thighs and the silt on the river bed sucked at his boots. Gritting his teeth Macro pressed on, surging through the churned-up water, his shield brushing the reeds aside. He heard more men splashing down behind him, and a quick glance to either side revealed that the rest of the first wave of boats was edging into the reeds to disgorge their legionaries. The air was sweltering in amongst the reeds and Macro's ears filled with the rush of water and the grunts of his men as they struggled to gain firm ground. Over the rim of his shield he could see the nearest band of Arabs bearing down on them, giving vent to their battle cries as they raised their curved blades and charged down the short, grassy slope towards the Romans.
Macro emerged from the silt and checked his pace. More men rustled free of the reeds on either side, and then a moment later Cato was at his side, breathing heavily and eyes wide beneath the rim of his helmet as he braced his boots and raised the tip of his sword towards the oncoming enemy. The Romans were strung out in a ragged battle line along the riverbank and a moment later the dark-robed Arabs plunged in amongst the legionaries and the air was filled with the clatter and thud of shields striking and the sharp clash of metal as blade met blade.
Keeping his shield up, Macro took the first blows without striking back as he readied his sword, holding the handle tightly and drawing it back, ready to thrust. He heard the growl of an enemy on the other side of the shield and could smell the sour odour of camels that had impregnated the man's robes. He waited for the next blow, a cut down on to the metal trim of the shield, and then punched forwards, following up with a quick pace and another thrust which slammed into the body of the Arab. The man grunted as the breath was driven from his lungs. At once Macro swung his shield aside and stabbed with his sword. The Arab wore no armour and the point cut through the man's robes and lost none of its impetus before it struck his ribs. As Macro made to withdraw the blade, the Arab twisted to one side, snagging the sword and almost wresting it from Macro's hand.
'No you don't!' Macro snarled, wrenching the handle. 'Bloody rags these people dress in. Ain't bloody fair.'
With a ripping noise the blade came free and the Arab stumbled back, winded and bleeding. He glared at Macro, raised his shield and sword and fought to recover his breath. Then he attacked again. Macro deflected the blow with his shield, cut down on the man's wrist and then stabbed him in the throat. His foe collapsed on to his knees, dropping his sword as he clasped his neck, vainly trying to stem the blood pumping from the fatal wound. Macro stepped back a pace to quickly take stock of the situation.
To his right Cato was duelling a large Arab in a gleaming scale cuirass. A heavy curved blade, wider at the tip, slashed away at Cato's shield, driving him back until one of the legionaries struck at the Arab's leg, cutting through muscles and tendons. The man's leg gave way under him, he fell back, and Cato stepped up and struck a savage blow to the man's helmet, knocking him cold.
Along the bank of the Nile Macro could see that his men were steadily fighting their way up from the reeds. Above them, fifty paces to his left, Ajax sat on his horse, urging his men on as he punched his sword into the air. Macro turned towards a group of men who had landed from the same boat. 'On me! Form up on me!'
The legionaries hurried into a wedge behind their centurion, and Cato, seeing them, joined the small formation.
'Let's go!' Macro called out, pacing diagonally across the bank towards Ajax. Only a handful of the enemy stood before them, and some of these hurried away from the cluster of Romans to find easier opponents still floundering at the water's edge. Others, braver, threw themselves on Macro's small band and paid the price for their single-handed pursuit of glory. Then, as the wedge neared the top of the bank, the gladiator turned and saw the danger.
He bellowed an order to the nearest group of camel archers who stood waiting, weapons poised, as they could not shoot for fear of hitting their comrades. Ajax thrust his sword towards Macro and the others and shouted his command in Greek. 'Shoot 'em down! Kill them!'