Centurion Severus was too much a veteran to feel fear. He stepped ahead of his front line and surveyed the terrain crawling with barbarians.

He waved derisively at them. This was not the first time he had faced overwhelming odds in a fight. Severus had volunteered for the legion when he was sixteen. He advanced from common soldier, winning several decorations for distinguished bravery in battles against the Goths along the Danube and the Franks at the Rhine. After his retirement, he had become a mercenary, hiring out to the highest bidder, in this case Junius Venator.

Severus had unswerving confidence in his legionaries. The sun gilded their helmets and unsheathed swords. They were strong fighters and battle-hardened men who knew victory without ever enduring defeat.

Most of the livestock, including his horse, had died on the grueling voyage from Egypt, so he walked at the head of the square, turning every few steps so as to keep a constant, wary eye on the enemy.

With a roar that rose and broke like crashing surf, the barbarians rushed down the sun-baked incline and fell on the Romans. The first wave was decimated, pierced by the long throwing spears of the soldiers and the arrows from the Syrian archers. The second wave burst forward, crashed into the thin ranks, and were cut down like wheat before a scythe. The gleaming swords dulled and turned red with barbarian blood.

Driven by a stream of salty oaths, and threatened by the scourging lash of Latinius Macer, the slaves gave a good account of themselves and stood firm.

The formation moved forward at a crawl as the barbarians pressed from all sides, fed by continuous reserves. Great red stains fanned on the dirt of the and slope. More and more naked bodies dropped and crumpled lifeless. Those who surged from behind fought on their comrades'

corpses, slicing bare feet on shattered weapons, throwing flesh against the terrible shafts of iron that thrust into breasts and stomachs, then falling on the death heap. At close quarters they were no match for Roman discipline.

The battle now took a different Turn. Realizing they could make no headway against the swords and spears of the foreigners, the barbarians pulled back and regrouped. Then they began shooting flights of arrows and throwing their crude spears while their women hurled rocks.

The Romans closed shields over their heads like large tortoise shells and stoutly maintained their march for the river and the safety of their ships. Only the Syrian archers were able to cause casualties among the barbarians. There were not enough shields to go around for the slaves, and they fought open and unprotected from the hail of missiles. They were weakened from the long, tiring voyage and the exhausting excavation of the cavern. Many fell and were left behind, their bodies immediately stripped and horribly mutilated.

Severus was an old hand at this style of fighting; he had experienced it against the Britons. Noting that his enemy was reckless and untrained, he called a halt and ordered all weapons be dropped on the ground. The barbarians, taking it as a gesture of surrender, were deceived into making a rash charge. Then, at Sevenis's order, the swords were snatched up and the Romans counterattacked.

Straddling two rocks, the centurion swung his sword in almost measured, metronomic strokes. Four barbarians dropped at his feet. He knocked another one sprawling with the flat of his sword and slashed the throat of one who lunged against his side. Then the frenzied tide receded and the naked horde retreated out of hand-to-hand range.

Severus took advantage of the breathing spell to count his casualties.

Out of sixty of his soldiers, twelve lay dead or were dying. Fourteen more sustained various wounds. The slaves had suffered the worst. More than half were killed or missing.

He approached Venator, who was binding up a gash on one arm with a torn piece of his tunic. The Greek wise man still carried his precious tally sheet securely under his sash.

"Still with us, old man?"

Venator looked up, his eyes brimming with fear mixed with determination"You'll die before me, Sevenis."

"Is that a dream or a prophecy?"

"Does it matter? None of us will see the Empire again."

Severus did not reply. The fight abruptly resumed as the barbarians unleashed another discharge of spears and rocks that filled the air and thumped against the shields. He quickly returned to his place in front of the depleted square.

The Romans fought viciously, but their numbers were dwindling. Almost all of the Syrian archers were down. The square was closing in on itself as the withering assault continued unabated. The survivors, many of them wounded, were exhausted and suffered from the heat and the attack. Their swords began to sag and they switched them from one hand to the other.

The barbarians were equally exhausted and taking huge losses, yet they stubbornly contested every foot of the gradual slope to the never-Half a dozen of their corpses could be counted around every slain legionary.

The mercenaries' bodies, pierced by scores of arrows, looked like pincushions.

The giant overseer Macer was struck in one knee and the thigh. He stayed on his feet but could not keep up with the moving formation-He dropped behind and soon attracted a group of twenty barbarians who swiftly surrounded him. He turned, at bay, waved his sword like a windmill and cut three of them completely in two before the rest drew back and hesitated in respect of his awesome strength. He shouted and motioned for them to come close and fight.

The barbarians had learned their lesson the hard way and refused to be drawn into arms-length combat. They stood back and launched a torrent of spears at Macer. In seconds, blood gushed from five wounds on his body. He grasped the shafts and pulled out the points. A barbarian ran close and hurled his spear, striking Macer in the throat. Slowly he toppled over from the loss of blood and dropped into the dust. The barbarian women rushed in like a pack of mad wolves and stoned him to pulp.

Only a high sandstone bluff separated the Romans from the river's edge.

Beyond, it seemed that the sky had suddenly turned from blue to orange.

Then a column of smoke rolled upward, black and heavy, and the wind brought the smell of burning wood.

Shock gripped Venator, quickly replaced with despair.

"The ships!" he shouted. "The barbarians are attacking the ships!"

The bloodied slaves panicked and made a suicidal dash for the river. The barbarians rushed in from the flanks and viciously assaulted them.

Several of the slaves threw down their arms in surrender and were slaughtered. The rest tried to make a fight of it from behind a grove of small trees, but their pursuers cut them down to a man. The dust of the sage land became their shroud, the dry brush their sepulcher.

Severus and his surviving legionaries fought their way to the summit of the bluff and suddenly halted, oblivious to the murderous onslaught raging around them, and stared in stunned fascination at the disaster below.

Pillars of fire rose and merged into a coil of smoke that unwound and reached upward like a serpent. The fleet, their only hope of escape, was burning along the river's edge. The enormous grain ships they had commandeered in Egypt were being incinerated under great sheets of rolling flame.

Venator pushed his way through the front rank and stood beside Severus.

The centurion was silent; blood and sweat stained his tunic and armor.

He gazed in frustration at the sea of flame and smoke, seeing the blazing sails disintegrate in a maelstrom of sparks, the dreadful reality of defeat branded in his eyes.