Centurion Read online

  As he strode past the last of his men, Macro glanced round at Cato, who was the officer immediately responsible for the turnout of men on parade, as well as the numerous details of camp administration.

  ‘A fine body of soldiers, Centurion Cato!’ Macro’s best parade-ground voice carried to the farthest men in the cohort. ‘The Praetorian Guard itself couldn’t have made a better showing!’

  It was the kind of easy rhetoric calculated to lift the men’s spirits and Macro winked at Cato as he bellowed his praise. Both men knew that, easy as the words were, they worked, and the men would carry themselves with a little more pride for the rest of the day. Or at least until they had witnessed the execution, Cato mused unhappily. He understood the reasoning behind the punishment well enough but still some part of him recoiled at the thought of brutally putting a man to death. Unlike Macro, he drew little pleasure from the games that ambitious politicians put on in every town and city of the Empire. If a man had to die then it was best that he die in pursuit of a purpose. Let Crispus be placed in the front rank of the army when they faced the Parthians. There at least he could die facing his enemy with a sword in his hand, for the honour of Rome, and his own personal redemption in the eyes of his comrades.

  Cato drew a deep breath as he acknowledged Macro’s comment. ‘Yes, sir! No one can doubt that the Second Illyrian is the best cohort in the service of the Emperor!’

  He turned towards the men and shouted. ‘Let’s hear it!’

  The men let out a deafening roar and pounded their spears against their shields for a moment, and then grounded them as one. The abrupt silence made Macro chuckle with pleasure.

  ‘As mean as they come, Centurion Cato. The Gods know what they’ll do to the Parthians, but they scare the shite out of me!’

  Cato, and many of the men, could not help grinning. Then Macro raised his vine cane to attract their attention once again.

  ‘Move them out, Centurion.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Cato sucked in another breath. ‘Second Illyrian, right face!’

  The ten centuries of infantry and four squadrons of cavalrymen shouldered their spears and then turned on the spot.

  Macro and Cato strode to the head of the column, and took up their places just ahead of the cohort’s standard and the two bucinators carrying their curved brass instruments. Macro paused for an instant, then gave the order. ‘Advance!’

  With a rhythmic crunch of nailed boots the cohort marched towards the camp gate and out on to the parade ground. On the far side was the area assigned for the execution, where two rows of stakes ran six feet apart. Macro led the Second Illyrian across the dusty expanse and then halted the column.

  ‘Cato, have them form up on three sides of the run.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Cato saluted and turned away to carry out his orders. Macro took his place at the head of the lines of stakes, on the side left open by the cohort. As the last of his men completed the open-sided box around the run Macro saw a small column of soldiers in red tunics leave the camp and march towards them. A figure, pinioned between two men, half walked and was half dragged along in the middle of the column. Every one of his comrades carried a stout wooden stave: pick handles drawn from stores. At the rear of the column rode the governor and the legate of the Tenth. Macro called his men to attention at their approach and the cohort presented their arms as Longinus reined in. Amatius attended to his legionaries and assigned one man to each of the posts while Crispus was steered towards the end of the run. When every man was in place a hush hung over the scene, until Longinus raised his hand.

  ‘By the power vested in me by the Emperor, the Senate and the People of Rome I hereby confirm the death sentence passed on Titus Crispus. Has the prisoner any last words before the sentence is carried out?’ He turned to Crispus, but the legionary was breathing hoarsely and trembling as he stared at the two rows of his comrades in abject terror. Then the sense of the governor’s words filtered through his fear and he glanced up at Longinus beseechingly.

  ‘Sir, I beg you! Spare me. It was an accident! I swear it!’ His legs collapsed and he slumped into the dust. ‘Let me live!’

  Longinus ignored the pleas and nodded to Amatius. ‘Get on with it.’

  The legate strode over to Crispus and growled, ‘Stand up!’

  Crispus tore his gaze away from the governor and threw himself across the ground at the feet of his legate.

  ‘Sir, for pity’s sake, I’m a good soldier! You know my record. Spare me! You can’t do this.’

  ‘Stand up!’ Amatius shouted. ‘Have you no shame? Is this how a legionary of the Tenth faces death? Get up.’ He swung his boot at Crispus and it thudded into the prisoner’s ribs.

  ‘Ahhh!’ Crispus gasped painfully as he clutched his side. Amatius grabbed his arm and roughly hauled Crispus to his feet, thrusting him towards the end of the run where his comrades waited, staves grasped firmly in both hands. For a moment there was silence across the parade ground, broken only by a faint keening whimper from Crispus. Then Longinus cleared his throat.

  ‘Carry out the sentence!’

  Amatius drew his sword as he pushed Crispus forward. The legionary dug his heels in and scrabbled backwards until the legate delivered a sharp jab into his back. Crispus screamed as the two lines of his comrades began to swing their clubs.

  Cato had felt a growing sick sensation gnawing at his guts as he had watched the preparations and he whispered to Macro, ‘Is there any chance of him making it to the far end?’

  ‘There’s always a chance,’ Macro responded flatly.

  ‘Have you ever seen a man survive the run?’

  ‘No.’

  Amatius drew his sword back for another thrust and Crispus cried out as he glanced over his shoulder.

  ‘Go, man!’ Amatius shouted angrily. ‘Before you shame us all.’

  Some spirit of defiance and courage must have gripped Crispus at the end, for he suddenly darted forward, into the run. He moved swiftly and ducked his head down low as he sprinted, so that the first two pairs had no chance to hit him with their clubs. But one of the third pair had just enough time to swing his club and strike home; a glancing blow off Crispus’ shoulder. He staggered to one side, straight into the club of the next man who smashed him on the hip. Crispus cried out, but lurched on towards the next pair. The first man caught him on the upper arm, while the other struck him hard on the ribs, causing an explosive gasp of pain to rip from Crispus’ lips. He stumbled on, under a rain of blows, until he was a quarter of the way down the run. Then a blow, swung low, smashed his shin and he crumpled to the ground with a scream. The nearest legionary stepped forward and swung his club at Crispus, cracking his jaw. Blood and teeth flew across the sand and Crispus rolled into a ball on his side, drawing his arms over his battered head. The nearest legionaries stared at him and then glanced towards their legate.

  ‘Finish him!’ Amatius thrust his finger at the figure on the ground. ‘Finish him!’

  The legionaries closed in around Crispus and Cato saw their clubs rise and fall in a frenzy of blows. The wooden shafts flicked blood into the air and their ends were stained with blood as they pounded Crispus mercilessly. Fortunately, there was no sound from the prisoner after the first few seconds. Amatius let his men continue for what seemed like an age to Cato, and all the time the rest of the witnesses stood and watched impassively.

  At length Amatius called a halt to the beating, and the blood-spattered legionaries drew back, panting. On the ground, surrounded by splashes of blood soaking into the sand, lay the barely recognisable shape of a man. They had broken most of his limbs and his skull had been smashed to a pulp so that bone and brains spilled on to the sand in a mess of wine-red and grey porridge. Cato swallowed his bile and tore his gaze away from the sight, glancing up and across the parade ground. A distant movement caught his eye and then he squinted and saw a man on horseback racing round the corner of the fortress and making across the parade ground towards the execution party and the Second Illy
rian. At the sound of drumming hooves, officers and men began to turn their attention towards the horseman.

  ‘There’s trouble,’ Macro muttered as he saw the grimy bandage round the head of the approaching rider. At the last moment the rider reined in savagely, scattering dirt and gravel. He saluted and immediately reached inside his tunic, groping for something.

  ‘Who the hell are you?’ Longinus demanded.

  The man licked his dried lips before he replied, ‘Tribune Gaius Carinius, on detached duty from the Sixth Legion, sir. I’ve come from Palmyra.’ He found what he was looking for and wrenched a waxed tablet from inside his tunic and thrust it towards the governor. ‘A dispatch from the ambassador, Lucius Sempronius, at Palmyra, sir.’

  Longinus took the tablet. He glanced at the rider. ‘What’s happened?’

  The man swallowed hard, struggling for breath. ‘There’s been a revolt in Palmyra, sir. Parthian sympathisers. They mean to depose the king and tear up his treaty with Rome.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Cato watched as the tribune eased himself on to one of the chairs that had been set in an arc in the governor’s study. He glanced round at the other officers who had been summoned there by Cassius Longinus. In addition to Amatius and the commanders of the other auxiliary cohorts in the camp, there was Macro and himself. Cato wondered why he had been included.

  Longinus gestured towards the tribune, who still bore the grime of his hard ride. He had only had a brief chance to take refreshments while the officers had been hurriedly assembled in the governor’s house. ‘Carinius, if you please. Tell them what you told me while we were waiting.’

  Carinius nodded, and cleared his throat. ‘Five days ago the youngest son of King Vabathus, Prince Artaxes, announced to the Palmyran court that he would succeed his father.’ Tribune Carinius paused to smile briefly. ‘The trouble is that Artaxes is the youngest of the three sons, and so not immediately in line to inherit the throne. However, the oldest son, Amethus, is not politically astute and the second son, Balthus, spends all his days hunting, drinking and womanising. Artaxes is definitely the brains of the family, as well as the biggest threat to Rome. He was sent east as a child to be educated at the Parthian court. It seems that somewhere in his education he learned to hate Rome with a passion, and he has managed to persuade many of the Palmyran nobles to share his views.’

  ‘I see.’ Amatius nodded. ‘But surely the king would not tolerate such a challenge to his authority?’

  Longinus tapped the waxed tablet sent by the Roman quaestor who served as Rome’s ambassador at the court of King Vabathus. ‘The king is old. And Artaxes is his favourite son. The only thing to divide his affections is his loyalty to Rome. But who knows how far that loyalty will stretch in the current situation? Sempronius says that Thermon, the king’s chamberlain, acts in his name. He, at least, is dependable. So he should be given the amount we pay him on the quiet. According to the ambassador, Artaxes demanded the crown at once. The chamberlain refused and fighting broke out amongst their supporters. Artaxes had managed to win over one of the king’s generals and has nearly a thousand men under his control. Thermon could only count on the king’s bodyguard and the households of those nobles who remained loyal to the king. And Sempronius and his retinue, of course. They have retreated into the citadel, together with the king and his oldest son.’

  ‘What of the other son, the hunter?’ asked Cato. ‘What’s happened to him?’

  Longinus turned to the tribune. ‘Well?’

  ‘Balthus was hunting in the hills to the north when Artaxes made his move. There was still no word of him when the quaestor sent me to find you, sir.’

  ‘Too bad,’ Macro commented. ‘We could use him on our side right now.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ said the tribune. ‘Balthus is no great lover of Rome. We’re just fortunate he hates the Parthians, and only dislikes us.’

  Macro cocked his head to one side. ‘Well, my enemy’s enemy and all that. He could still prove useful to us.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Longinus considered. ‘But we’ll use him only if we really have to. The last thing Rome needs is to remove one threat only to have another put in its place. In any case, as far as we know the king and his allies are trapped in the citadel at Palmyra. According to Sempronius’ message they have adequate of food and water and as long as Artaxes doesn’t get hold of any siege equipment then they should be able to hold the citadel for a while yet. Of course, we can assume that our Parthian friends had some advance warning of Artaxes’ intentions. Even if they didn’t, word will have reached them a matter of days after it reached us. So at best we have the slimmest of head starts, gentlemen. We must send help to King Vabathus.’

  Amatius shook his head. ‘But, sir, the army is not ready. The other legions haven’t even left their bases yet. Even the Tenth is not prepared to march. Many of my men are on detached duties and it will take several days to concentrate the legion. It’s the same with most of the auxiliary cohorts. Some of them have only just arrived here.’

  ‘There is one cohort that is ready to move,’ Longinus responded. ‘The Second Illyrian. Is that not so, Prefect?’

  Macro started and then leaned forward a little as he nodded. ‘My lads could be on the road to Palmyra within the hour, sir. We could reach Palmyra in ten days if we went flat out.’

  ‘Good. Then that’s what we’ll do,’ Longinus decided. ‘The Second Illyrian will make for Palmyra immediately while the rest of the army prepares to march. The other legions will follow us the moment they are ready to move.’

  ‘That’s all very well, sir,’ said Cato, ‘but what exactly is the Second Illyrian supposed to do when it reaches Palmyra? We’ll be outnumbered, and the chances are that the rebels will hold the city walls. How are we going to help those trapped in the citadel?’

  ‘Your job is to reinforce them, Centurion. Help Vabathus hold out until the main force arrives.’

  ‘But, sir, even if we can gain entrance to the city, we’ll have to cut our way through hostile streets to the citadel.’

  ‘Yes, I imagine so.’

  Cato looked at the governor helplessly. Clearly the man had no idea what he was asking of the Second Illyrian.

  Macro came to his support. ‘The lad’s right, sir. It can’t be done. Not by one cohort.’

  Longinus smiled. ‘Which is why I’m not just sending the Second Illyrian. I’m not a fool, Macro. I know how difficult a task this is. I’ll not send anyone on a suicide mission. That would not look good back in Rome. So, in addition to the Second Illyrian I’m sending a cohort of the Tenth Legion, together with their cavalry scouts. Since Centurion Castor has been killed on detached duty his cohort needs a new commander. I’ve decided that you’re the best man for the job. You will also command the relief force.’

  ‘And who will lead the Second Illyrian?’ asked Macro.

  Longinus gestured towards Cato. ‘Your adjutant. He will be acting prefect until the crisis is over.’

  ‘Him?’ Amatius raised his eyebrows. ‘But he’s too young. Too inexperienced. Let Macro remain in command of his auxiliaries, sir, and I’ll find an officer from within the legion to replace Centurion Castor.’

  ‘No, I’ve made my decision. Macro is the best man available. Besides, there’s no time to debate the issue. Castor’s cohort and the Second Illyrian are to set off at once. Those are my orders, gentlemen. My clerks will give you your instructions before you leave the camp, Macro. The rest of you will have your orders as soon as they are drafted. Dismissed.’

  ‘What the hell do you make of all that?’ Macro jerked his thumb back in the direction of the governor’s house as he and Cato strode down the street. ‘Sending an advance column to save the king of Palmyra’s arse is about as stupid an idea as I have ever heard.’

  ‘Then why didn’t you say so?’

  Macro glanced at his friend sharply. ‘We don’t make policy, Cato, we just obey orders. Besides, it might just work. If we can find a way th
rough to the citadel.’

  ‘If?’ Cato shook his head. ‘That’s a bloody big if.’

  Macro was silent for a moment and then forced a laugh. ‘Well, you heard him, Cato. If there’s anyone who can do this, it’s me. Best man for the job. His exact words.’

  ‘You really think so?’

  Macro pursed his lips. ‘It would be nice if it was true. Perhaps Longinus thinks it’s true.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Cato replied flatly. ‘And perhaps Longinus thinks that this might be the best chance he has of getting rid of us.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You have to admire the way he thinks,’ Cato continued. ‘It would have been easy to send us to certain death, by just dispatching the Second Illyrian to Palmyra. And he was right, Narcissus would have seen through it in an instant. The deliberately arranged destruction of his two agents in Syria would have confirmed his suspicions about Longinus. This way he can argue that he sent a force strong enough for the job. Who in Rome would doubt that a cohort of legionaries was not sufficient for the task? If we succeed he reaps the rewards of acting swiftly and decisively. If we don’t, then we’ll be tarred with the brush of failure. That’s even if we survive. And of course, our destruction will add weight to his request for those reinforcements he has been angling for all along. Oh, he’s a shrewd one, that Longinus.’