Centurion Read online

  ‘Carry on.’

  As the meagre measures of water were poured into the proffered canteens Macro beckoned to Cato and began to walk away from the line of men. When they were safely out of earshot he stopped and faced his friend with a fierce expression.

  ‘What the hell was that about?’

  ‘Discipline, sir.’

  ‘You can drop the “sir” routine when the men aren’t listening, Cato.’

  ‘All right then.’ Cato nodded. ‘I can’t understand you. When did you ever let a man get away with something like that? If we were back in camp you’d have Tadius digging shit out of latrines for the rest of his life.’

  ‘I might,’ Macro conceded. ‘But we’re not in camp. We’re about as far out on a limb as we can be. There’s enough bad feeling between your lads and mine already without fanning the flames any further.’

  ‘Your lads and mine?’ Cato repeated. ‘You make it sound as if we’re not on the same side.’

  ‘That’s the point. If these men see themselves as enemies then we’re in deep trouble the moment any real foes turn up. Petty grievances are a luxury we can’t afford.’

  ‘And what about discipline?’

  ‘Sometimes you have to compromise. Anyway, you’ve taken care of the discipline, it would seem.’ Macro sighed. ‘If a day without water doesn’t kill Tadius, then you will have made yourself an enemy for life. Congratulations.’

  Cato was about to reply when there was a shout from the camp. ‘Cavalry patrol coming in!’

  Macro shook his head wearily. ‘Will I get no bloody rest tonight? Come on, something’s up.’

  The sound of hooves drumming across the desert announced the return of one of Cato’s cavalry patrols and the two officers hurried over to where the decurion and his men were reining in at the edge of the column’s sleeping lines.

  ‘Where’s the prefect?’ the decurion called out anxiously.

  Cato raised a hand. ‘Over here. What’s happened?’

  ‘Beg to report, we’ve sighted a large force of mounted men, sir.’ The decurion was breathing heavily as he steadied his mount, still snorting for breath after its gallop back to the camp. ‘To the south.’

  ‘How far from here?’ Macro snapped.

  ‘No more than two miles, sir. Seemed to be heading towards us.’

  ‘Could you identify them?’

  ‘Too dark, sir. I watched long enough to gauge their heading, then came to report. I’m sure they didn’t see us.’

  Cato interrupted. ‘Mounted men, you say? Horse or camel?’

  The decurion paused for a moment. ‘Bit of both, sir.’

  ‘Then it’s likely to be a force from Palmyra, rather than Parthians. Parthians are supposed to favour horses.’ Cato glanced at Macro. ‘According to my sources, sir.’

  ‘Your sources?’

  ‘What I read in the library at Antioch.’

  ‘Then it’s bound to be true,’ Macro grumbled sarcastically. ‘Right, we haven’t time to get out of their way. So we’ll have to lie low and keep quiet until they have passed.’

  ‘And if they ride right up to us?’ asked Cato.

  ‘Then we give them the surprise of their bloody lives.’

  Cato recalled the mounted patrols and sent the cavalry back down the track to hide in a small depression the column had marched through before halting for the night. If there was a fight the Romans could not risk confusing their cavalry with the approaching horsemen in the darkness. When they heard a bucina signal they were to rejoin the column. Meanwhile the auxiliary and legionary infantry put on their armour and drew their swords before lying down beside their shields. If it came to a fight, then this would be a confused affair at close quarters. Javelins would be too cumbersome, so the short sword favoured by the Roman army would settle the affair. The officers, crouching low, passed along their lines harshly whispering to their men the need to keep still and silent and not to move a muscle unless an order was given. Macro and Cato crept a short distance forward, in the direction of the approaching horsemen, and squatted down, straining their eyes as they scanned the almost featureless landscape to their front.

  ‘If it is the enemy,’ Macro said softly, ‘we’re only going to have one chance to hit them hard. If they can break away from us in good order, then the column’s going to be arrow fodder come first light.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘So if the moment comes, you and your men go in hard.’

  ‘Trust me, Macro. I know my job.’

  The older officer turned to his young friend and grinned. By the dim light of the stars his teeth seemed inordinately white in the muted dark shades of the night. He clapped Cato on the shoulder. ‘Of course you know your job. You learned from the best.’

  They both chuckled for a moment and Cato felt a little of the nervous tension drain from his body. If it did come to a fight, there was no man better to have at his side in a battle than Centurion Macro. Then he froze, squinting out across the desert.

  ‘There!’ He leaned closer so that Macro could follow the direction indicated and thrust his finger towards the horizon. At first Macro could see nothing. He blinked to clear his eyes and stared again.

  ‘Can’t see a thing. Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course I am,’ Cato responded irritably. ‘Use your eyes.’

  This time Macro saw them, or rather he saw the dark smudge emerging from the greater gloom no more than half a mile off. As the detail began to resolve he could even see the faint penumbra of sand kicked up by the horses’ hooves. As the column approached something else occurred to Macro.

  ‘They’re quiet,’ he whispered. ‘They move like ghosts.’

  For a moment, a chill gripped Macro’s spine at the thought. There had certainly been enough blood spilt across this land for it to be haunted by hosts of the spirits of the dead.

  ‘Relax. They’re alive enough, for now,’ Cato replied softly. ‘They’re quiet all right. The question is, what the hell are they doing out here? And why move after dark? They’re not part of a caravan, that’s for sure. Given the situation, they’re almost certainly hostile.’

  ‘How can we be sure?’

  ‘We’re the only Romans out here, and I’d have thought any friends we have are bottled up in the citadel at Palmyra. Besides …’ A nasty thought struck him. ‘It’s almost as if they’re looking for something. Us perhaps. In which case, I doubt they’re friendly.’

  ‘Us? How could they be looking for us? They can’t possibly know we’re here. Not yet.’

  ‘Why not? Someone at Chalcis could easily have ridden ahead to raise the alarm.’

  ‘Shit, you’re right.’ Macro ground his fist into the sand. Then he glanced at Cato. ‘If they’re looking for us then why aren’t there any scouts?’

  Cato thought for a moment. ‘Could be that they don’t think we’ve advanced this far yet. Anyway.’ Cato nudged him. ‘They’re coming our way. We have to get back to the column.’

  The two officers rose into a low crouch and worked their way back to their men, taking care not to disturb too much sand and betray their presence. Macro stole back towards his legionaries as Cato lay down beside his standard-bearer, drew his sword and pulled his shield up beside his body. He glanced round and saw that his men were as flat to the ground as they could be and in the darkness there was every chance that they would be missed by the horsemen, provided the latter did not pass too close or, worse, stumble upon the concealed Romans. Cato’s heart was beating like a hammer and his excited senses were overwhelmed by the sight, sound and smell of the cold desert night. For a moment there was nothing, and then the faintest sound of muffled hooves before the head of the column of horsemen was visible against the faintly lighter horizon.

  One of his men muttered something close by and Cato swivelled his head round to glare in that direction, and let a faint sound escape through his clenched teeth. ‘Shhh.’ If he discovered who the man was later, he thought furiously, he’d have him beaten. If they bot
h survived the night.

  Now Cato could hear the creak of saddles and straps and the snorts and champ of the horses, as the riders closed on the Romans at an angle. Cato frantically tried to calculate their path and realised, with a sick feeling of inevitability, that they were riding straight at Macro and his cohort to Cato’s left.

  ‘Shit,’ he muttered under his breath, and then raged at himself for making the sound. He clamped his lips shut and tightened his grasp on his sword and shield. On they came, looming out of the dark so that now he could clearly see the individual details of helmets, spears and shields in silhouette. There was even the soft sound of muted conversation as they approached the waiting Romans.

  A horse suddenly whinnied at the front of the column and reared up, nearly throwing its rider. A cry of pain split the darkness and Cato realised that the horse had stepped on a Roman.

  ‘Get up and kill them!’ Macro bellowed, and then a dark wave of armoured men suddenly rose from the desert and charged towards the horsemen with a deafening roar.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Cato thrust himself up from the ground and filled his lungs. ‘Second Illyrian! Charge!’

  There was no attempt to fight as a cohort. The auxiliaries just swarmed forward, racing towards the reeling horsemen, knowing that they must be given no chance to recover. For a moment the riders sat in the saddles, stunned into immobility as the Romans erupted from the still desert to their front and flank. Cato quickly glanced round to make sure that his standard-bearer and the other men were with him, and then threw himself towards the nearest horseman. He was close enough to see the dark, beard-fringed face of the rider staring down at him. Then the man uttered some curse in his tongue and hefted his spear, flicking it up into an overhand grip. With a last spurt, Cato sprinted inside the reach of the spear and slammed his shield up into the man’s side as he thrust his sword into the horse’s belly and ripped it free in a hot rush of blood, black as pitch in the darkness. The rider swayed for a moment and was thrown from his saddle as the wounded animal lurched away from Cato.

  ‘Go for the horses!’ Cato shouted out. ‘Kill the horses!’

  It infuriated him that he hadn’t thought to give the order earlier, when the men were being readied. If these were Parthians, or Palmyran rebels, then they would stand less chance fighting on foot. If they managed to cut their way out and use their bows then it was a different matter. Some of the men nearest to Cato followed his lead and stabbed their blades into the nearest animal’s vitals, or hacked at the tendons of the legs causing the stricken beasts to collapse into the dust that swirled around the vicious mêlée. Cato pressed on warily, glancing quickly around him to make sure that he was not knocked down and trampled. He felt a sudden blast of warm air and turned just in time to see a horse’s head loom over his right shoulder. The rider was leaning forward in his saddle, sword rising. Cato swung round, slamming the rim of his shield up under the horse’s muzzle. As the beast reared, the rider’s blade swished through the air above Cato’s head, rustling briefly through the top of his horsehair crest. Cato punched his blade up at an angle, through the loose robes, into the man’s side, cracking a rib before the point sliced through a lung and into his heart. The man groaned and slumped over his saddle, the reins dropping from his fingers as the horse swerved away from Cato into the jostling press of the other mounts and their riders.

  He drew back a few paces and saw the dim outline of the standard a short distance away across the heads of his men.

  ‘Standard-bearer! On me!’

  As he waited for the man to join him Cato glanced round at the fight. From the little that he could make out, the Romans were having the best of it. Macro and his cohort had smashed into the head of the column and rolled it back up, while the Second Illyrian had charged at an angle into the flank. Caught from two directions the horsemen had no chance of forming up to fight back, and were simply trying to survive the onslaught of the infantrymen swirling around the sides of their horses, hacking and slashing at man and beast alike. This was not the style of fighting they were accustomed to, or even remotely wished to engage in. They were at a disadvantage and unless they could find some way to break away from the Romans they would be cut to pieces. For their part, the infantrymen were relishing the chance to butcher these horse-archers whose favoured method of fighting seemed unmanly and unfair.

  Cato glanced to his right and saw that the tail end of the enemy column was slipping away from his men, galloping off into the night.

  ‘Keep at ’em!’ he shouted. ‘Push on! Get stuck in, lads!’

  With a nod to the standard-bearer, he took a breath, gritted his teeth, and surged forward into the fight once again. The auxiliaries followed close on his heels as they joined the first wave of their comrades. The fresh weight of men carved a new path through the horsemen, breaking them up into small pockets that were set upon from all sides. From somewhere to his left Cato heard Macro shouting to his men.

  ‘Finish them! Finish the bastards! Don’t let them get away!’

  Cato picked his way through the bodies on the ground. Some horses were dead, but many were wounded, and they lashed out with their hooves as their shrill whinnies of agony and terror filled the air, adding to the scrape and ringing of weapons and the cries of men. Ahead Cato saw his men attacking a group of riders and he hurried over to join the fight. Pushing his way into a space he crouched to lower his centre of balance and stepped forward behind his shield, sword raised to one side. The remaining horsemen had recovered from their surprise and held shields and swords ready to take on their attackers. In front of Cato a man on a horse larger and more powerful than the others was skilfully wheeling it about as he slashed at any of the auxiliaries that came in reach. As Cato tensed his muscles and edged closer the rider leaned to one side and his blade arced round, whirring through the air before it struck the raised arm of one of Cato’s men, severing it just below the elbow. The man fell back with a shriek as his sword arm, still clutching the sword, tumbled to the ground at his feet.

  The rider shouted an order over his shoulder and several of his comrades wheeled their mounts about and spurred them on, riding straight at Cato and his standard-bearer.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ the standard-bearer just had time to mutter before the enemy were on them. Cato threw his shield up and an instant later was hurled to one side as the breast of the big horse smashed into the front of it. The blow stunned Cato’s left arm right up to the shoulder and the shield slipped from his fingers. The blow took a fraction of the pace off the horse, but it was enough. Behind Cato, the standard-bearer dropped to one knee and lowered the sharpened tip of the standard towards it. The beast had no chance to avoid the point and ploughed straight on to it, taking the head of the standard in the breast, snapping the crosspiece as the shaft pierced its body. It shuddered and then toppled to the side. With a curse the rider threw himself clear, and on to Cato. Both men crashed heavily to the ground and the impact drove the breath from Cato in an explosive gasp. Around them, the other horsemen were desperately trying to drive their mounts through the loose ranks of the auxiliaries and there was no one to pay any attention to the prefect struggling in the dust with one of the horsemen.

  The man’s breath blasted over Cato’s face as he pressed Cato’s chest back with his forearm while the other hand released its grip on his sword and went for the dagger strapped at his side. Cato’s right hand still grasped his sword but he could not bring the point to bear and instead hammered the pommel into the man’s side. For the first time he saw that the man was wearing some kind of cap rather than a helmet and his eyes were fierce with hate and a desire to kill his Roman enemy. There was a rasp as the dagger was drawn and Cato knew he had only an instant to save himself. Tensing his neck muscles, he threw his head up as hard as he could. The man’s eyes widened in surprise and the snarl died on his lips as the iron rim of Cato’s helmet smashed the bridge of his nose and crushed one of his eyes. The man howled and instinctively relaxed the press
ure of his forearm. Cato thrust up with his right knee and threw his fist at the man’s cheek for good measure. The blow connected with a jarring thud and the rider rolled to one side with a deep groan of agony. Cato thrust him away and scrambled back on to his feet. His heart was pounding wildly and he was not thinking clearly any more. The instinct to fight and kill had taken over. He stepped towards the man groaning on the ground and drew his sword back for the killing blow. As he did so, he sensed rather than saw a movement at the corner of his eye: a figure charging towards him, the dull gleam of a blade in the starlight and a feral growl in the man’s throat. Cato whirled round towards the new threat, snapping his sword point out towards the figure. The tip of the blade caught the man high, just above the edge of his chain mail, shattering his collarbone and cutting clean through his flesh to burst through his shoulder.

  There was a dreadful pause as Cato stared into the face of the man, who was looking back, with shocked wide eyes, from inside a Roman helmet. Cato gasped, and yanked his weapon free, as if he could undo the blow if he moved fast enough. The blade came out with a jerk, a sucking sound and a rush of blood as the auxiliary sank to his knees, staring at Cato with a puzzled expression. He shook his head slowly and sank back on to the ground.

  Cato stood over him, holding his dripping sword as his other hand momentarily flashed up in front of his face, as if to protect it. Then the moment of sick panic passed and he hurriedly looked round. The nearest auxiliaries had their backs to him as they grabbed a rider and hauled him from his saddle. No one had seen him, then. Cato swallowed, and knelt down, stabbing his sword into the sand where it would be ready to snatch up if he needed it. He hurriedly undid the man’s neck scarf and pressed it against the blood gushing from the wound. The man cried out as he felt the pressure and his hand grasped Cato’s wrist like an iron manacle.