Centurion Page 2

  Castor drew his sword in until the side of the blade rested against the rim of his shield and then he stepped forward. The line rippled after him as the auxiliaries trod steadily over the broken ground towards the camp. The officers kept the pace slow enough to be able to dress the line as it advanced. To the right the slope gave way to open ground as the flanking century moved away from the cliff. Castor stared ahead with narrowed eyes, looking for any sign of the enemy, or the fortifications of the camp. Then he saw it, the bulk of the main gate emerging from the sweep of dust and sand. The outline of the raised palisade on either side resolved itself into sharp detail as the auxiliaries closed on the camp. Apart from the body resting against the gate post there was no sign of anyone else, living or dead.

  The sound of hooves thrummed across the ground to his right and Castor turned to look just as one of his men on the end of the line cried out and snatched at the shaft of an arrow that had pierced his chest. Dim shapes burst through the veil of the sandstorm as several Parthian horse-archers galloped up to the auxiliaries and loosed their arrows into the unprotected right sides of the Roman soldiers. Four more men were hit and tumbled to the ground while another doubled over, but tried to stay on his feet as he wrestled with an arrow that had passed through his thigh and pinned it to the other leg. The Parthians wheeled their mounts to one side and raced back out of sight, leaving the auxiliaries staring after them in surprise and terror.

  Almost at once there was a cry from the left as the enemy made another attack.

  ‘Keep moving!’ Castor cried out in desperation as he heard yet more horses passing behind the cohort. ‘Run, boys!’

  The ordered lines of the cohort dissolved into a mass of men running towards the main gate, Castor amongst them. Then he saw the gates closing and at once scores of faces appeared above the palisade. Bows were raised and again the sound of arrows hissed through the air and more of the auxiliaries were struck down as they drew up helplessly in front of the camp. There was no let-up in the rain of arrows that clattered off shields, or pierced flesh with a wet thud. Voices were crying out on all sides and with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach Castor realised that his men were as good as dead, unless he did something.

  ‘On me!’ Castor roared out. ‘Close up on me!’

  A handful of men heeded the order and raised their shields round Castor and the cohort’s standard. More men joined them, roughly jostled into position by Septimus as he made for his commander. Once there were perhaps fifty men formed into a tight circle, with shields raised, Castor shouted the order to retreat along the track towards the cliff. They fell back slowly into the dusk, leaving their wounded comrades pleading desperately not to be abandoned to the Parthians. Castor steeled his heart. There was nothing he could do for the injured. The only shelter left to the survivors of the cohort was the partially built fort on the cliff. If they could reach that then there was a better chance of making a final stand. The cohort was doomed, but they would take as many of the Parthians with them as possible.

  The small band of auxiliaries reached the foot of the cliff before the enemy realised their intention and came after them in earnest. Horsemen rode out of the darkness to loose their shafts and then reined in and steadily notched and aimed more arrows once they realised there was no further need for hit and run tactics. As the cohort edged up the track they presented a narrow target to the enemy, and a solid wall of shields protected the rear of the small band of survivors as they climbed back up to the construction site. The Parthians followed them, as closely as they dared, shooting arrows the moment a gap opened in the shields. As they realised the futility of trying to shoot through the shields they switched their aim to the unprotected legs of their quarry, forcing them to crouch low and slowing them down as they toiled up the track. Even so, five more men were injured before the track evened out and the small column of auxiliaries reached the perimeter of the site. Up on the cliff the wind was still keen, but they were at least free of the clouds of dust and could see clearly over the billowing sand that blotted out the surrounding landscape.

  Leaving Septimus to command the rearguard, Castor led the rest in through the foundations of the main gate. The walls were too low to keep the Parthians out of the fort, and the only place the auxiliaries could make a stand was at the nearly completed watchtower in the far corner of the fort, on the very edge of the cliff.

  ‘This way!’ Castor bellowed. ‘Follow me!’

  They hurried across the maze of straight lines of rocks that marked the locations for the buildings and thoroughfares planned for the fort. Up ahead the bulk of the watchtower loomed against the star-scattered night sky. As soon as they reached the timber-framed structure Castor stood by the entrance and waved his men inside. There were barely more than twenty with him and he knew that they would be lucky if they survived to see the next dawn. Ducking inside, Castor gave orders for the men to man the platform above the tower and the window slots on the floor above the entrance. He kept four soldiers with him to defend the entrance as they waited for Septimus and the rearguard to catch up with them. There was only a brief delay before several dim figures burst through the uncompleted gatehouse and raced towards the watchtower. Moments later a wave of enemy warriors appeared and chased after them with cries of triumph.

  Castor cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted. ‘They’re right on you! Run!’

  The men of the rearguard were weighed down by their armour and already exhausted from the day’s labour, and they stumbled across the site. One tripped on a loose rock and tumbled to the ground with a shrill cry, but not one of his comrades even paused to look back, and moments later he was engulfed by the wave of Parthians surging towards the watchtower. They swarmed over the fallen auxiliary for a moment, hacking and slashing at him with their curved blades. His death brought his comrades just enough time to reach the watchtower and they piled inside, lowering their shields as they gasped for breath. Septimus licked his lips as he forced himself to straighten up and report, chest heaving.

  ‘Lost two men, sir … One back on the track, and the other just then.’

  ‘I saw.’ Castor nodded.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘We hold them off for as long as we can.’

  ‘And then?’

  Castor laughed. ‘Then we die. But not before we send at least forty of them ahead of us to line our path to Hades.’

  Septimus forced himself to grin, for the sake of the men watching the exchange. Then he glanced over Castor’s shoulders and his expression hardened. ‘Here they come, sir.’

  Castor turned round and raised his shield. ‘We have to hold them here! Form up!’

  Septimus stood at his side and the four men raised their spears ready to thrust over the heads of the two officers. Beyond the entrance the dark mass of the Parthians charged across the rubble-strewn ground and hurled themselves at the shields blocking the door. Castor braced himself an instant before the inside of his shield lurched towards him under the impact. Then he dug his iron-shod boots in and thrust back, punching his weight behind the shield boss. There was an explosive gasp as the blow struck home. Over his shoulder the sharp point and shaft of one of the auxiliaries stabbed out and there was a cry of agony from outside the watchtower. As the spear was drawn back a flicker of warm droplets spattered across Castor’s eyes. He blinked them away as a sword blow hacked against the outside of his shield. Beside him, Centurion Septimus pressed his shield forward into the mass of the enemy crowding the entrance and thrust his sword at any exposed flesh he could see between the rim of his shield and the door frame.

  As long as the two officers stood their ground and were supported by the men behind, ready to stab out with their spears, the enemy could not get in through the entrance. For a moment Castor felt his spirits rise as the fight began to go their way for the first time.

  Too late he sensed the flicker of movement low to the ground just outside the entrance as one of the Parthians crouched low and swept his blade bene
ath the rim of Castor’s shield. The edge of the blade cut deep into his ankle, severing leather, flesh and muscle before it fetched up against bone. The pain was instantaneous, like a red-hot bar thrust into the joint. Castor staggered backwards with an explosive cry of pain and rage.

  Septimus glanced back quickly, seeing his commander slump to one side of the entrance. ‘Next man! Into line!’

  The nearest auxiliary, crouching low to protect his legs, pressed himself forward, alongside Septimus, as his comrades thrust their spear tips at the enemy in a flurry of attacks to drive them back from the entrance. Then all at once there was a shout of alarm from the darkness and the crash of heavy masonry outside the watchtower. As Castor leaned round the frame to look he saw a piece of dressed stone smash down on to the Parthians, crushing a man’s head as it drove his body to the ground. More rocks and stones fell on the attackers, killing and maiming several before they could scramble back across the site to a safe distance.

  ‘Bloody marvellous,’ Septimus growled with pleasure at the sight. ‘See how they like being hit without a chance to fight back. Bastards.’

  As the enemy moved out of range the barrage of stones tailed off and the sounds of combat gave way to the jeers and whistles of the auxiliaries in the watchtower, and the moans and cries of the injured men in front of the entrance. Septimus took a last glance outside before he motioned one of the men to take his place. Leaning his shield against the wall he knelt down to examine Castor’s wound, straining his eyes to make it out by the wan glow from the starry heavens shining through the entrance. His hands gently probed the injury and felt the shards of bone amid the mangled flesh. Castor sucked in a deep breath and clenched his teeth as he fought back the impulse to cry out in agony.

  Septimus glanced up at him. ‘I’m sorry to say your fighting days are over.’

  ‘Tell me something I don’t know,’ Castor hissed.

  Septimus smiled briefly. ‘I have to stop this bleeding. Give me your scarf, sir.’

  Castor loosened the cloth, unwound it and passed it down. Septimus held one end behind the calf and then glanced up. ‘This is going to hurt. Ready?’

  ‘Just get on with it.’

  Septimus wound the cloth round the leg, over the wound, and then bound it tightly over the ankle and tied it off. The searing pain was like nothing Castor had ever endured before and despite the cold of the night he was sweating freely by the time Septimus finished the knot and rose to his feet.

  ‘You’ll have to prop me up on the stairs when the time comes to make our last stand.’

  Septimus nodded. ‘I’ll see to it, sir.’

  The officers stared at each other for a moment as they considered the full import of their last exchange. Now that they had accepted the inevitable Castor felt that the burden of anxiety over the fate of his command had lifted. Despite the torment of his wound, there was a calm sense of resignation in his heart, and a determination to go down fighting. Septimus glanced away, through the door, and saw the enemy standing in clusters about the site, out of range of the rocks and stones that the auxiliaries had thrown from the watchtower.

  ‘Wonder what they’ll do next?’ he mused. ‘Starve us out?’

  Castor shook his head. He had served in the region long enough in the east to know the nature of Rome’s old enemy. ‘They’ll not wait for that. There’s no honour in it.’

  ‘What then?’

  Castor shrugged. ‘We’ll know soon enough.’

  There was a moment’s silence before Septimus turned away from the entrance. ‘So what is this? A raid? The opening of a new campaign against Rome?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘I want to know the reason for my death.’

  Castor pursed his lips and considered the situation. ‘It could be a raid. Maybe they saw the construction of this fort as an act of provocation. But it’s equally possible they want to clear a path across the Euphrates for their army to cross. It could be the first move towards taking control of Palmyra.’

  Castor’s thoughts were interrupted by a shout from outside.

  ‘Romans! Hear me!’ a voice called out in Greek. ‘Parthia calls on you to lay down your arms and surrender!’

  ‘Bollocks!’ Septimus snorted.

  The man outside in the dark did not respond to the taunt and continued in an even tone. ‘My commander calls on you to surrender. If you lay down your weapons, you will be spared. He gives his word.’

  ‘Spared?’ Castor repeated softly before he shouted out his reply. ‘You will spare us and permit us to return to Palmyra?’

  There was a short pause before the voice continued. ‘Your lives will be spared, but you will be taken prisoner.’

  ‘Slaves is what we’ll be,’ Septimus growled and spat on the floor. ‘I’ll not die a fucking slave.’ He turned to Castor. ‘Sir? What should we do?’

  ‘Tell him to go to Hades.’

  Septimus smiled thinly, his teeth luminous in the moonlight. He turned to the entrance and shouted his reply. ‘If you want our weapons, come and get them!’

  Castor chuckled. ‘Hardly original, but a nice touch.’

  The officers exchanged a grin and the other men smiled nervously, until the voice called to them one last time.

  ‘So be it. Then this place will be your grave. Or rather … your pyre.’

  A faint glow had appeared on the far side of the construction site and as Septimus watched a small flame flared up, silhouetting the warrior crouched over his tinder box. The flame was efficiently fed so that it quickly flared up into a small blaze as men gathered round to light torches hastily gathered from the surrounding scrub. Then they approached the watchtower and as Septimus watched the first of the fire arrows was offered to a torch until the oiled rags caught alight. At once the archer drew his bow and shot at the watchtower. The arrow blazed through the darkness and thudded into the scaffolding, scattering a small shower of sparks. Immediately, other arrows flamed towards the structure, embedding themselves in the wood with splintering cracks and burning as they lodged there.

  ‘Shit!’ Septimus clenched his fist round the handle of his sword. ‘They mean to burn us out.’

  Castor knew there was no water in the tower and he shook his head. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it. Call the men down from the watchtower.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  A short while later, as the last of the survivors crowded into the small guard room at the foot of the tower, Castor hauled himself up and leaned against the wall so that he could address them.

  ‘It’s all over for us, lads. We stay here and burn, or go out there and take some of those bastards with us. That’s it. So when I give the order, you follow Centurion Septimus out of the tower. Stay close to each other and run hard at them. Understand?’

  A handful of them nodded and some managed a few words of acknowledgement. Septimus cleared his throat. ‘What about you, sir? You can’t come with us.’

  ‘I know. I’ll stay here and deal with the standard. They can’t be allowed to take that.’ Castor held his hand out to the cohort’s signifer. ‘Here, let me have it.’

  The standard-bearer hesitated a moment, and then stepped forward and handed the shaft over to his commander. ‘Take care of it, sir.’

  Castor nodded as he grasped the standard firmly and used it to support the weight on his injured leg. Around them the crackle and soft roar of flames filled the warm air and a lurid orange glow lit up the ground around the watchtower. Castor staggered towards the narrow wooden staircase in the corner. ‘When I get to the roof, I’ll give the order to charge. Make every thrust of your spears and every blow of your swords count, lads.’

  ‘We will, sir,’ Septimus replied softly.

  Castor nodded and clasped the centurion’s arm briefly, and then, gritting his teeth, he made for the roof, painfully working his way up the wooden stairs as the air grew heated around him and wisps of smoke curled into the orange light seeping through the windows and arrow slits. By the time
he reached the roof, the side of the watchtower closest to the enemy was ablaze. Castor could see scores of Parthians waiting in the bright glare of the flames and he drew a deep breath.

  ‘Centurion Septimus! Now! Charge!’

  There was a thin chorus of war cries from the base of the tower and Castor saw the Parthians raise their bows, concentrating their aim, and then the air was filled with the flitting dark splinters of their arrows. Over the parapet he saw the small compact body of his men charging out across the site. Their shoulders were hunched down behind their shields as they ran straight at the enemy, following Septimus as he bellowed insults at the Parthians. The archers stood their ground and shot their arrows as fast as they could at the moving target. Those who still had fire arrows to hand loosed those and brilliant flaring paths cut through the air towards the auxiliaries. Several lodged in shields and burned there as their owners ran on. Then Castor saw Septimus suddenly draw up and stand still, his sword dropping from his hand as he clutched at the point of an arrow that had passed through his neck as the last of his cries still echoed over the site. Then he slumped to his knees and toppled forward on to the ground, writhing feebly as he bled to death.

  The auxiliaries closed round his body and raised their shields. Castor watched them in bitter frustration. The impetus of the charge had died with Septimus and now they were picked off one by one as Parthian arrows found their way in between the shields and pierced the flesh of the men behind. Castor did not wait to see the end. Leaning heavily on the standard he crossed to the far side of the platform and looked down the cliff towards the river. Far below the mist had cleared and moonlight rippled off the swirling current as it flowed over some rocks. Castor tipped his head back and looked into the serene depths of the heavens and breathed the night air deep into his lungs.

  A sudden crash of timber from the far side of the tower made him glance round and he knew that there was no time left if he was to make sure the standard did not fall into enemy hands. Through the wavering curtain of the flames and smoke he could see the shimmering ranks of the Parthians and he knew that this was only the beginning. Soon a tide of fire and destruction would spill across the desert and threaten to engulf the eastern provinces of the Roman Empire. Castor grasped the shaft of the standard firmly in both hands and limped to the very edge of the platform. He took one last deep breath and gritted his teeth and then hurled himself into the void.