Centurion Page 8

  Macro suddenly stopped and turned to face his companion. ‘Cato, did you really just think all that up?’

  Cato looked bemused. ‘It seems to make sense.’

  ‘Really?’ Macro sighed. ‘You know, it is also possible that Longinus thinks that this might work. That we might arrive with enough force to save the king and hold out until the rest of the army arrives.’

  ‘Assuming that Longinus and the army set off in time to rescue us.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Cato!’ Macro cried out in bewilderment. ‘Why is everything a conspiracy to you? Why do you assume that everyone above the rank of centurion is scheming to become emperor?’

  People in the street were looking in their direction and Cato hissed, ‘Keep it down!’

  ‘Or what? Someone will report us to Narcissus’ agents? Cato, we are his bloody agents. So I’ll say what I damn well please. Why do you think every man in the Roman senate is involved in a conspiracy?’

  ‘How do you know that they aren’t?’

  ‘Oh, come on!’ Macro fumed, and then started marching off down the street again. ‘We haven’t got time for this. Let’s go.’

  They walked on in silence for a moment before Macro clicked his fingers. ‘Well, what about Vespasian then?’

  Cato recalled the legate they had served under in the Second Legion during the invasion of Britain. Vespasian’s family had only been elevated to senatorial rank in recent years, and so he had a measure of understanding of the men he commanded. ‘What about him?’

  ‘He was as straight as they come. A soldier to the bone that one. Not a grain of politician in him.’

  Cato thought a moment and then shook his head. ‘He’s an aristocrat, like the rest of them. They are breastfed on politics. But I agree with you. He seemed straightforward enough. Even so, I shouldn’t wonder if even Vespasian surprised us all in the end.’

  Macro snorted with derision and they continued their fast-paced march back to the camp in silence.

  The instant they arrived Macro summoned his centurions and explained the situation to them, and confirmed Cato’s temporary appointment as prefect.

  ‘I’ll see you on the track outside the camp. Make ’em travel light. Weapons, minimal kit and rations only. Spare rations can be carried on the light carts.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I understand. They’ll have what they need.’

  ‘Right then.’ Macro thumped Cato gently on the shoulder. ‘Time for me to rejoin the Eagles.’

  He left his subordinate to give the orders for the men to make ready to leave the camp and went to take up his command of Castor’s cohort of the Tenth Legion. The governor’s clerk was waiting for him outside the headquarters tent. He had run hard from the general’s house in the city and was panting for breath as he handed a sealed tablet to Macro.

  ‘Your authority to assume command, sir … and the general’s orders.’

  Macro nodded curtly and entered the tent. Inside, a pair of veterans sat on stools at their desks and hurriedly tried to look busy as the officer entered. Macro pointed to the nearest man.

  ‘You! Fetch my officers. I want them here at once. Tell them the cohort has a new commander. And you, get word to their optios, and tell them to ready the men for a hard march and’ – he grinned – ‘an even harder fight.’

  As soon as the men were formed up Cato made a close inspection of each century. The man he had selected as his adjutant, Centurion Parmenion, the oldest and most experienced of the auxiliary officers, marched at his shoulder with a tablet and stylus, ready to take notes for his commander. It was funny, Cato mused. Only this morning he had been in Parmenion’s job, and well knew the burdens that his replacement had taken on. But it was nothing compared to the weight of responsibility that had now landed on Cato’s shoulders. More than eight hundred men now looked to him and he would be directly compared to Macro in their judgement of him. It would be a hard standard to live up to, he reflected grimly. Still, it was not as if he was a new commander, freshly appointed to the cohort, and anxious to prove himself. He had served with the Second Illyrian for nearly a year and had fought alongside most of them. So they knew him well enough and accepted him. But he was aware that they would be measuring him by a new standard and watching him closely now that he was the prefect of the cohort, albeit temporarily.

  Cato’s eye was drawn to a man just ahead of him, swaying slightly as he stood in line. He quickened his step and drew up suddenly in front of the auxiliary.

  ‘Name?’

  The auxiliary, an older man whom Cato recognised as one of the new recruits Macro had brought in, stiffened and tried to stand as erect and still as he could, but the raw reek of cheap wine gave him away.

  ‘Publius Galenus, sir.’

  ‘Well, Galenus, it appears that you are not quite sober.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You are aware that being drunk on duty is an offence.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘In which case, you’re pulling extra fatigues for a week and will be docked ten days’ pay.’

  ‘That ain’t fair, sir,’ Galenus grumbled. ‘I wasn’t on duty an hour ago. None of us were. We was all looking forward to a night on the town and I decided to get some drink in early – you know what crooks them local wine merchants are – then we get the call to arms, and, well …’ he glanced at Cato, ‘here we are, sir.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  For a moment Cato was about to cancel the man’s punishment. Galenus had a point. He could hardly be blamed for the vagaries of military timing. But then, Cato had already spoken and to change his mind would be an admission of indecision. He wondered briefly what Macro would do and the answer was clear.

  ‘Parmenion. Mark this man down for fatigues and the fine. Drunk on duty is the offence, whatever the circumstances.’

  Galenus frowned blearily. ‘But that ain’t fair, sir.’

  Cato continued to address Centurion Parmenion. ‘Add ten nights on double watch for insubordination.’

  Galenus’ jaw dropped open, then some reserve of self-control came to the rescue and he clamped it shut as Parmenion made notes on his wax tablet with swift strokes of his stylus. Cato strode on. He completed the inspection and was satisfied that every man was carrying only the necessary equipment and supplies, according to their orders. Then he mounted the horse that was being held for him by an orderly and trotted it up to the head of the column.

  ‘Second Illyrian!’ he called out, and paused for an instant to relish the fact that he was now Prefect Cato, about to lead his men to war. ‘Advance!’

  The auxiliary cohort tramped out of the camp gates and marched towards the road leading to Palmyra. It was not yet noon but the sun beat down on the parched earth without mercy and the familiar clinging dust was scraped up by the nailed boots of the soldiers and the hooves of the horses and hung in the air like a faint mist.

  As they turned the corner of the fortress Cato saw that Macro’s cohort was already formed up on the track, waiting. As the Second Illyrian marched up to join the end of the column Macro rode towards Cato and raised a hand in greeting.

  ‘What kept you?’

  Cato raised his eyebrows and replied good-humouredly. ‘We came as fast as we could, sir.’

  Macro frowned at his tone, and Cato realised that his friend was once again the consummate professional at the prospect of action.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. We won’t delay you again.’

  ‘Make sure you don’t.’ Macro turned and nodded down the track stretching out ahead of them. ‘We’re going to have the hardest of marches, and then a fight at the end of it, Cato. Make no mistake about it, this is going to be the toughest campaign we’ve ever known.’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Macro led his two cohorts at an unflagging pace into the parched hills east of Antioch. By day the sun blazed down mercilessly on the small column, and at night the temperature dropped sharply so that the men shivered as they gathered round their campfires and chewed on dried meat and
hard bread. The first evening the men grumbled bitterly about having to sleep in the open and then after an uncomfortable night they were back on the road while the stars still glittered in the velvet darkness. For the first two days he permitted them only the briefest of rests at midday and by the time the column stopped, when there was no longer light to see the way ahead the men were too tired to complain about the lack of tents. They simply stumbled into rough sleeping lines, dropped their kit and curled up on the ground, falling asleep almost at once. There they lay, until stirred to take their turn on watch duty.

  The orders from Longinus were explicit on the need for speed. Macro was to march for as many hours as he could, and was not to construct a marching camp at the end of each day. As a soldier who had many years of campaign experience Macro was wretchedly disturbed by the need to sacrifice security for celerity. In order to compensate for the lack of a ditch and rampart he doubled the watches every night and posted cavalry vedettes for good measure. The burden of extra watchkeeping duties compounded the exhaustion of the day’s march and by the third day a small number of men had begun to straggle, and did not catch up with the main body until late in the evening.

  ‘This can only get worse,’ Cato muttered as he watched the dark figures of the last men to arrive fumble through the dark lines stretching out across the rock-strewn ground, searching for their units. ‘In a day or two they will no longer be able to catch up with us. They’ll be strung out along the route. Easy pickings for any bandits, or the enemy.’

  ‘Can’t be helped,’ Macro replied, and then yawned as he eased himself back against his saddle bag and arranged his heavy military cloak across his body. ‘There’s bound to be a few slackers in any cohort. A few days of marching always finds them out.’

  ‘Slackers?’ Cato shook his head. ‘I saw some good men fall out of the column this afternoon. If we keep this pace up then those who actually make it as far as Palmyra will be in no shape to fight.’

  ‘Oh, they’ll fight,’ Macro replied confidently. ‘Or they’ll die.’

  ‘I wish I shared your optimism.’

  Macro turned towards Cato and in the faint loom of the stars Cato could see his friend’s amused expression.

  ‘What? What’s so bloody funny?’

  ‘Who said I was an optimist? I’m just telling you how it is. How it has always been for a soldier on campaign. You think we had it hard in Britain? That was a walk in the forum compared to the desert. This land is as much a danger to us as the enemy. Once we reach Chalcis we’ll have over a hundred miles to go before we arrive at Palmyra.’ Macro rolled on to his back and tucked an arm beneath his head. ‘This is the easy part, Cato. You wait until we reach the open desert. Then you, and the men, will really have something to complain about. Almost no chance of finding any water on the way, according to the governor’s instructions. The men will have to carry enough water to last five, maybe six, days when we leave Chalcis. I have no idea what condition they’ll be in when we reach Palmyra. But I do know that they will have the fight of their lives.’

  ‘Then it might be advisable to give them some opportunity to rest before they fight,’ Cato persisted. ‘These double watches are not helping things. We’re still a long way from Palmyra.’

  ‘Cato, you saw how easily that Parthian prince and his men slipped through our outposts and turned up on the governor’s doorstep.’ Macro jerked a thumb towards the horizon. ‘Who’s to say they’re not out there watching us right now? Waiting for the chance to attack. I’ll not take that risk. In fact,’ he reflected, ‘we’d better not have any more campfires from now on. Just in case the enemy are out there. I’d sooner the men were cold and tired than dead. Besides—’ He broke off and yawned. ‘We’ve got more immediate difficulties.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Yes. The officers and lads of my cohort are not best pleased to have me appointed as their new commander. As if the execution of Crispus wasn’t bad enough, they’ve had the former commander of Crispus’ victim foisted on them. Bit of a slap in the face. Makes you wonder if the governor wanted to cause us even more trouble on the road to Palmyra.’

  ‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ Cato replied bleakly. ‘Another twist of the knife. What have your lads been saying, then?’

  ‘Nothing to my face. It’s more the tone of their comments and the generally sour ambience whenever I’m around. Of course, I don’t give a flying fuck about how they feel towards me. Just as long as they do as they’re told. All the same, we’d better keep an eye out for any further trouble between the legionaries and the auxiliaries. Last thing we need is for them to be watching their backs when they should be looking out for the enemy.’

  ‘Quite.’ Cato took a last glance round the camp before he eased himself down on to the ground and tried to make himself comfortable under his cloak. But despite the heat of the day the nights were cold and he could not help shivering. He knew that it would be a while before he managed to get to sleep, if he ever did.

  ‘Macro?’

  ‘Hmm?’ Macro grumbled drowsily. ‘What? What is it?’

  ‘What are your plans when we reach Palmyra?’

  ‘Plans?’ Macro paused before replying. ‘Longinus did not have much to say on that front. Just that we are to cut through to the citadel and hold it until he arrives.’

  ‘That’s assuming that Artaxes and his followers haven’t taken the citadel yet.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And if they have?’

  ‘Then we’ve pretty much had it. Our water will be finished by then so there’ll be no possibility of retreat. We’ll have to take Palmyra by ourselves, or surrender.’ Macro chuckled. ‘It’s the same old story. Death or disgrace. Some choice, eh?’

  ‘Some choice,’ Cato agreed quietly.

  ‘Still, nothing to be done about it,’ Macro concluded. ‘So do me a favour and shut up and get some sleep. We need all we can get.’

  Macro turned his back to Cato and pulled his cloak tightly round his stocky body. A short time later he was asleep and his rumbling snores added to the more distant chorus of the other men, broken here and there by the low voices of the restless and the occasional snort and whinny from the horse lines. But there was no sleep for Cato as his mind dwelt on the situation. The odds were stacking up against them and while he understood the need for the governor to send a relief force to Palmyra it appeared to Cato that their mission was little more than a desperate gesture. King Vabathus might already be dead, along with the ambassador and his small retinue. Even now Artaxes could be cementing his grip on the throne, and throwing his kingdom open to Parthia. If that happened then the delicate balance of power that had kept the peace in the east of the Empire would be shattered. Parthia would be able to mass its fast-moving army on the very frontier of Syria and threaten Roman territory from Armenia to Egypt. Emperor Claudius would be forced to reinforce his eastern armies at huge expense, and strip legions from the Rhine frontier, already thinly stretched. That, or abandon huge swathes of land to Parthia and risk the ire of the mob and political rivals in Rome.

  It could all have been avoided, Cato realised. If only Rome had been content to leave Palmyra as a buffer between the empire and Parthia then peace could have lasted, albeit an uneasy peace. But the moment the treaty had been signed with King Vabathus, a confrontation with Parthia was assured. Cato felt a cold rage grow within him as he contemplated the policymakers back in Rome, living lives of luxury far from the consequences of their power play. Perhaps they had calculated that their designs on Palmyra justified the risk of provoking the Parthians, as one might wager a stake on the roll of a dice. But here on the frontier that stake was measured in the lives of the men sleeping in the darkness all around Cato. Men whose endurance would be stretched to the limit in the days ahead, before they even had the chance to close with the enemy. If they won, then a token would be shifted fractionally on the map of the Empire back in Claudius’ palace in Rome. If they lost, then the token would be casually swept from the bo
ard and discarded.

  Cato smiled bitterly at the thought, and cursed himself for possessing this cruel streak of detachment that caused him to view his actions in the widest context. For a while he glanced at Macro’s slumbering form with envy. Finally, a long time after almost all the other soldiers had fallen still and silent, Cato eventually drifted off into a troubled sleep on the cold, hard ground.

  The next day the column left the hills and emerged on to the rolling dusty plain on the road to Chalcis. Despite Macro’s concerns, they encountered only the usual trade caravans from which the men hurriedly bought fruit and wine at vastly inflated prices. All the while the number of stragglers increased and by the time they reached Chalcis, three days after leaving Antioch, Cato saw from his strength returns that eight men of the Second Illyrian had failed to reach the camp in time for that morning’s roll-call. He sat in the shade of the palm trees that fringed the small lake on whose bank the town of Chalcis squatted. Like the other towns that had been founded on the ancient trade routes, Chalcis profited from levying taxes on the caravans of camels that passed through its territory, and its inhabitants lived with an enviable degree of comfort. But now, news of the revolt in Palmyra and rumours of the inevitable conflict between Rome and Parthia had unsettled the people and small crowds gathered to watch the Roman column as it marched up to the town and halted to rest and fill its canteens and spare waterskins at the lake.

  Cato could well understand their anxiety. The isolation that made peace so profitable for Chalcis also made it vulnerable in time of war, and its strategic importance meant that it would be contested by both sides. The income from trade would dry up and the town faced hard times, if it survived at all. Cato focused his mind on the strength returns on the waxed slate that Centurion Parmenion had brought to him.

  ‘Eight men now. I wonder how many more we will have lost by the time we reach Palmyra?’