Prologue

As dusk settled over the port the cohort's commander peered down the cliff towards the river. A faint mist covered the Euphrates and spilled over the banks on either side, rising even above the trees that grew along the river, so that it seemed like the smooth belly of a snake, gently undulating across the landscape. The thought made the hairs rise on the back of Centurions Carmines neck. He pulled his cloak tightly about his chest, narrowed his eyes and stared towards the land spreading away on the far side of the Euphrates: Berber territory.

It was over a hundred years since the might of Demacia had first come into contact with the Berber and, ever since, both had been playing a deadly game for control of Kigali and its lands. Now that Demacia was negotiating a closer treaty with Kigali her influence had spread to the banks of the Euphrates, right on the frontier with her old foe. There was no longer any buffer state between Demacia and Berber territory and few men had any doubt that the simmering hostility would flare up into a new conflict before long. The Legions in Amman had already been preparing for a campaign when the centurion and his men had marched out of the gates of Damascus.

The thought made Centurion Carmine bitterly resent, once again, the orders he had received from Demacia to lead a cohort of auxiliaries across the desert, far beyond even Kigali, to establish a fort here on the cliffs above the Euphrates. Kigali was eight days march away to the north east and the nearest Demacian soldiers were based at Arak, six days beyond Kigali. Carmine had never felt so isolated in his life. He, and his four hundred men, were at the very tip of the Empire, posted on this cliff to watch for any sign of an attack by the Berber across the Euphrates.

After an exhausting march across the barren, rocky desert they had set up camp near the cliff and begun work on the fort they would garrison until some official back in Demacia eventually decided to relive them. During the march the cohort had baked under the sun during the day, and huddled in their cloaks each night as the temperature had dropped like a stone. Water had been strictly rationed, and when they had finally reached the great river that cut across the desert and watered the fertile crescent that lined the banks his men had rushed down into the shallows to slake their thirst, deliriously scooping the water to their cracked lips, before their officers could restrain them.

Having served for three years in the Ninth Legion at Damascus, with its fine well watered gardens and all the pleasures of the flesh that a man could want, Carmine regarded his temporary posting with growing dread. The cohort faced the prospect of spending months, perhaps years, in this far flung corner of the world. If boredom didn't kill them first, then the Berber surely would. That was why the centurion had driven his men to work on the fort as soon as they found a spot on this cliff that afforded fine views over the ford below, and the rolling plains of the Berber lands beyond.

Carmine knew that word of the Demacian presence would swiftly reach the ears of the Berber leaders and it was vital that the cohort threw up strong defences before the Berber decided to take any action against them. For several days the auxiliaries had toiled to level the ground and prepare foundations for the walls and towers of the new fort. The masons had hurriedly dressed the slabs of

Rock that had been hauled by wagon from the surrounding outcrops on to the site. The retaining walls were already at waist height and the gap between them filled with rubble and spoil, and as he glanced over the site in the dying light Centurion Carmine nodded with satisfaction. In five more days, the defences would have risen high enough for him to move the camp inside the wall of the new fort. Then they could afford to feel more secure from the Berber.

Until then the men would labour every hour that daylight allowed.

The sun had set a while ago and only a faint band of russet light still gleamed along the horizon. Castor turned to his second in command, Centurion Glynn. "Time to finish for the day."

Glynn nodded, drew a lungful of air and cupped a hand to his mouth as he bellowed the order across the construction site.

"Cohort! Down tools, and return to camp!"

Across the site Carmine could see the dim shapes of men wearily stacking their picks, shovels and wicker baskets before taking up their shields and spears and shuffling into lines forming outside the gap where the main gate would be. As the last of them moved into position the wind began to rise, out of the desert, and squinting towards the west Carmine saw a dense mass rolling steadily towards them.

"Dust storm coming this way," he grumbled to Glynn. "Better get down to the camp before it hits."

The other man nodded. Glynn had served on the southern frontier most of his career and well knew how quickly men could lose their sense of direction once they were engulfed in the choking, abrasive sand whipped up by the winds that swept these lands.

"Those lucky bastards down in the camp are well out of it."

Carmine smiled briefly. A half century had been left to guard the camp while their comrades toiled away up on the cliff. He could imagine them already retreating into the shelter of the sentry turrets, out of biting wind and sand. "Well then, let's get the men moving."

He gave the order to advance and the men trudged forward, down the winding track that led to the camp, just over a mile from the site of the fort. The wind picked up as the gloom thickened over the landscape and the soldiers capes fluttered and whipped about them as they descended the rock-strewn route from the cliff.

"Shan't be sorry to leave this place, sir." Glynn growled. "Any idea how long before we're replaced. There's a warm billet waiting for and the lads at Arak."

Carmine shook his head. "No idea. I'm as keen to get out of here as you are. All depends on the situation in Kigali, and what our Berber friends decide to do about it."

"Fucking Berber's." Glynn spat. "Bastards are always stirring it up. It was them that was behind that business down in Aleppo last year, wasn't it?"

Carmine nodded as he recalled the uprising that had flared up east of the Jordan River. The Berber had supplied the rebels with arms and a small force of horse archers. It was only thanks to the gallant efforts of the garrison at Fort Bushir that the rebels and their Berber allies had been prevented from inciting the northern Shurima to rise up against Demacia. Now the Berber had turned their attention to the oasis city of Kigali - a vital link in the trade routes to the north and a buffer between Demacia and Berber territories.

Kigali enjoyed considerable independence and was more of a protectorate than a subject state. But the king of Kigali was growing old and the rival members of his household were jockeying for position to become his successor. One of the most powerful of the Kigali princes had made little secret of his desire to throw his lot with the Berber, if he became the new leader.

Carmine cleared his throat. "It's down to the governor to convince the Berber to keep their hands off Kigali."

Centurion Glynn cocked an eyebrow. "Clovis la Britannia? Think he's up to it?"

Carmine was silent for a moment as he considered his reply. "Clovis can handle it. He's no imperial lackey; he earned his promotions. If he can't win the diplomatic battle then I'm sure he'll take them apart in a fight. If it come to that."

"Wish I shared your confidence, sir." Glynn shook his head. "From what I heard, Clovis took to his heels pretty quickly last time he was in trouble."

"I got it from some officer in the garrison at Bushir, sir. Seems that Clovis was at the fort when the rebels turned up. The governor was in his saddle and out of there quicker than a Subura whore goes through your purse."

Carmine shrugged. "I'm sure he had his reasons."

"I'm sure he did."

Carmine turned to his subordinate with a frown. "Look, we've no business debating the governor's finer points. Especially not in earshot of the men. So keep it to yourself, understand?"

Centurion Glynn pursed his lips for a moment and then nodded. "As you wish, sir."

The column continued down the slope, and as the wind strengthened the first swirl of dust swept across the track. Within moments all sign of the surrounding landscape had vanished and Carmine slowed his pace to make certain that he was still leading his men along the track to the camp.

They edged forward, shoulders hunched as they did their best to shelter behind their shields from the blasts of sand. At length the track levelled out as they reached the foot of the slope. Even though the fort was only a short distance ahead, the sand and gathering darkness hid it from view.

"Not far now," Carmine muttered to himself.

Glynn overheard him. "Good. First thing I do when I reach my tent is clear my throat with a drop of wine."

"Good idea. Mind if I join you?"

Glynn gritted his teeth at the unexpected request, and moodily resigned himself to sharing the last flask of the wine he had brought across the desert from Kigali. He cleared his throat and nodded.

"It'd be a pleasure, sir."

Carmine laughed and slapped him on the shoulder. "Good man! When we get back to Kigali, the first drinks on me."

"Yes, sir. Thank-" Glynn suddenly drew up sharply and strained his eyes along the track ahead of them. Then he thrust up his hand to signal the column to halt.

"What's the matter?" Carmine said quietly as he stood close to the side of his subordinate. "What is it?"

Glynn nodded towards the fort. "I saw something, just ahead of us. A horseman."

Both officers stared into the swirling sand before them, straining their ears and eyes, but there was no sign of anyone, mounted or on foot. Just smudges of stunted shrubs that grew either side of the track. Carmine swallowed, and forced his tensed muscles to relax.

"What exactly did you see?"

Glynn glanced at him with an angry expression sensing his superiors doubt. "As I said, a horseman. About sixth paces ahead. The sand cleared for a moment and I saw him, for an instant."

Carmine nodded. "Sure it wasn't just a trick of the light? Could easily have been one of those bushes moving?"

"I'm telling you, sir. It was a horse. Plain as anything. I swear it by the seven. Up there ahead of us."

Carmine was about to reply when both men heard a faint metallic ringing above the moan of the wind. The sound was unmistakable to any soldier: the clash of swords. An instant later there was a muffled shout, and then nothing else apart from the howl of the wind. Carmine felt his blood chill in his veins as he turned to Glynn and spoke quietly.

"Pass the word to the other officers. Have the men formed up in close order across the track. Do it quietly."

"Aye, sir." Centurion Glynn saluted and dropped back to pass the word down the line. While the men fanned out on either side of the track Carmine took a few strides closer to the camp. A freak shift in the wind gave him a brief glimpse of the gatehouse and a body slumped against the timber frame, which was studded with several arrows. Then a veil of dust hid the camp from view again. Carmine backed away towards his men. The auxiliaries stood in a line four deep across the track, shields held high and spears angled forward as they gazed anxiously towards the camp. Glynn was waiting for his commander at the head of the century on the right flank. Beside them the slope rose up into a tangle of rocks and undergrowth.

"Did you see anything, sir?"

Carmine nodded and waited until he stood beside the other officer before he spoke in a low voice.

"The camps been attacked."