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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