Centurion (23 page)

‘Stick it to ‘em, lads!’ Macro shouted. ‘Go in hard and fast!’

Against other enemies the trained spearmen might well have prevailed, but the legionaries had thrust the spears aside and closed the gap and now the spears were almost worse than useless. Some of the rebels wisely cast theirs down, or hurled them forward into the Roman ranks, before drawing their swords. Macro saw that they were armed with falcatas, short, down-curved swords with heavy blades that were lethal cutting weapons. There was a continuous chorus of thuds as shield slammed against shield and then the men of both sides began the bloody work of hacking and stabbing at each other whenever a gap appeared between the shields. As he heaved his weight behind the men in the front rank Macro noted that the rebel’s swords had an unexpected advantage in close combat. The downward curve at the heavy end of the blade could only strike over the rim of a shield by a small distance, but it was lethal enough if the man behind the shield had his head raised far enough to peer over the top. Just ahead of Macro there was a sharp metallic crack as a falcata cut through the helmet of a legionary and cleaved his skull.The man dropped like a sack of wet barley and his sword clattered to the ground, his shield falling back to cover the body.

At once Macro rushed over the corpse to fill the gap and straightened his arm to stab at the man who had killed the legionary.The rebel saw the glint of the blade and threw his shield up just in time to deflect the blow and then Macro’s heavy legionary shield slammed into him, and the rebel staggered back a step. The rearmost ranks of both sides surged forward, pressing together the men who had been exchanging blows. Now it was almost impossible to fight and Macro leaned into his shield and pushed, gritting his teeth as he braced his booted feet and heaved. Around him other men grunted and strained as they sought to push the enemy back. From just the other side of his shield Macro could hear the laboured breathing of the man he had tried to kill. Now neither could strike, and the bitter skirmish was a simple test of strength and numbers.

‘Shove harder, you bastards!’ Macro called out to his men. ‘Forwards!’

For a moment neither side gave any ground, and then, slowly at first, the nailed boots and weight of the Roman side began to tell and Macro took a pace forward and threw his weight ahead again. Another step was won, then another, and then the Romans were steadily pushing the enemy up the street towards the market. They were still subjected to a steady barrage of missiles from the roofs and the ends of adjoining alleys, while Balthus and his archers did their best to force the enemy to keep their heads down.

‘Keep going!’

Macro glanced up over his shield rim and saw that the enemy had been forced back into the market. He ducked down again and continued to press forward.There was little attempt to resist the Roman column now and the rebels began to peel away from the rear ranks and scatter amongst the empty market stalls. The rebel officer bellowed angrily at them, until his voice was suddenly cut off as an arrow punched through his throat. He dropped his sword and staggered back, pulling at the barbed shaft until it snapped and the blood coursed from his arteries and he fell to the ground, senseless. His men broke and ran, sprinting across the market away from the Romans. Balthus and his archers loosed a few arrows after them and then turned their attention back to the remaining rebels on the rooftops. The leading section of legionaries started after the fleeing rebels.

‘Leave them!’ Macro roared. ‘Or I’ll have your guts for bootlaces!’

The men stopped at once and hurried back to rejoin their comrades, with sheepish grins as their friends jeered them.

‘That’s enough,’ Macro ordered. ‘Close up and bear left. Over there.’ Macro raised his sword and pointed towards an arched entrance to the market square. The column quickly dressed its ranks and began to march up the widest passage between the bare market stalls. Macro, breathing heavily, stood to one side for a moment to watch the men pass. In the open space there was a faint loom cast by the stars and a fine crescent moon, enough light for the men to see their surroundings and to fight by. Some distance beyond the arch, in the direction of the citadel, the sky was stained red and orange by a fire burning out of sight and Macro felt his stomach tighten.The sounds of fighting drifted on the night air.

‘That must be the diversionary attack.’

Macro started and turned and saw that Balthus was standing at his shoulder.

‘You move bloody quietly,’ Macro muttered with relief. ‘Good thing you’re on our side.’

Balthus stared at him a second. ‘For the moment.At least until Artaxes is dealt with and the Parthians have left my people alone.’

‘And after that?’

‘After that?’ Balthus smiled thinly. ‘After that we shall see.’

Macro nodded. ‘All right. So that’s how things stand. But for now . . .’

His attention was drawn by a sudden chorus of shouts and as he turned round to gaze across the market square he saw a dark mass of figures spilling down the street that led to the citadel.

Macro cupped a hand to his mouth to shout his orders. ‘Column! Halt! Shields up! Prepare to receive enemy charge! Balthus, shoot ‘em down!’

The suite of rooms set aside for guests of the king had been turned into a makeshift hospital for the garrison’s wounded. As Cato entered the small courtyard he saw that most of the rooms were already filled with men lying on sleeping mats, or simple beds of straw. Some slept soundly, others muttered in delirious tones and a few moaned or cried out in pain. A handful of orderlies and women were attending to their needs as best they could. Cato immediately felt as if he had little right to be there. He glanced down at the deep cut that ran across the palm of his left hand. The blood had slowed and was congealing in the filthy puckered lips of the wound. Even though it throbbed painfully Cato felt shamed by the insignificance of his wound compared to those of the other men in the hospital. He frowned in self-contempt, and was about to turn and walk away when a figure emerged from a room a short distance in front of him.

‘Here,’ the soft voice of a woman called to him in Greek. ‘Let me have a look at that.’

‘What?’ Cato looked up and saw her outline against the light of a stand of oil lamps burning further down the corridor.

‘Your hand. Let me have a look at it.’ She moved towards him.

‘No, it’s not necessary,’ Cato responded quickly.’I have to go.’

The woman moved quickly and took his elbow gently with one hand. ‘Over here, under the lamp, where I can see it.’

Cato allowed himself to be steered down the colonnade that ran round the small courtyard and as they moved into the light he began to make her out in more detail. She was young with long dark hair tied back in a ponytail. Her body was slight beneath a simple stola of light brown, now patched with dark splashes and smears.As they stopped close to the yellow glow of the lamps and she bent her head to examine his hand Cato saw that there was a peak in her dark hair and her cheeks had fine pronounced bones. Her eyes were grey and as she glanced up at him a smile flickered across her lips.

‘Nasty.’

Cato stared at her in confusion. ‘Sorry? I don’t-‘

‘This cut. How did this happen? It’s not a sword cut. I should know – I’ve seen enough of them in recent days.’

‘Oh.’ Cato tore his eyes away from her, discomfited by her direct gaze. ‘I gashed it in a tunnel.’

‘Gashed it in a tunnel?’ She shook her head. ‘Honestly, you boys never grow up. One scrape after another.’

Cato pulled his arm away from her and stiffened his spine so that he could look down at her from his full height. ‘I’ll deal with it myself, then.’

‘Oh, come now!’ She chuckled wearily.’I was just joking. And now, seriously, I must see to that. The wound needs to be cleaned and dressed. Follow me.’

She turned, not waiting for him, and strode towards a doorway at the end of the colonnade. After an instant’s hesitation Cato sighed and followed her. The door opened on to a room dominated by a large wooden table, streaked with blood. Some brass instruments at one end of the table gleamed in the wan light of a lamp holder.To one side stood a brazier in which a few embers still glowed. An iron pot rested above it and the air was filled with the acrid stench of pitch. Just visible in the gloom beneath the table was a large basket from which the curled fingers of a hand emerged, and the stump of another limb. Cato glanced away from it quickly as the woman beckoned him to a side table where she was pouring water into a basin.

‘Here. Let me clean it.’

Cato stepped over to her and offered his hand over the basin. She pushed it into the water and then, raising it, she began to clean away the filth with a length of cloth. She glanced at him.

‘You’re no local boy, nor even a Greek mercenary. A Roman then.’ She switched to Latin. ‘I haven’t seen you before. You’re certainly not on the ambassador’s staff. Who are you?’

Cato was tired and not in the mood to answer her queries. Even now the Greek mercenaries were quietly forming up behind the citadel gates ready to make their move and he wanted to be with them the moment the signal beacon was lit. Nevertheless there was no harm in talking to her while she saw to his injury.

‘I’m with a relief force sent by the governor of Syria.’

She paused and looked at him with widened eyes. ‘Then the message got through. Thank the Gods, we’re saved.’

‘Not quite,’ said Cato. ‘We’re only the advance column. The rest of the army is some days behind us.’

‘Oh.’ She turned her attention back to Cato’s hand and wiped the cloth a little deeper into the cut to clear out the remainder of the dirt that had worked its way in. Cato winced but forced himself to keep his hand still. He looked away from it, back at her face.

‘How about you? What’s a Roman woman doing here in Palmyra?’

She shrugged. ‘I travel with my father.’

‘And your father is?’

‘Lucius Sempronius, the ambassador.’

Cato examined her more closely. The daughter of a senator no less, and here she was tending to the wounds of ordinary soldiers. ‘What’s your name?’

She looked at him and smiled, revealing neat white teeth. ‘Julia. And yours?’

‘Quintus Licinius Cato, prefect of the Second Illyrian. Well, acting prefect for the present.’ Now it was Cato’s turn to smile. ‘But you can call me Cato.’

‘I was going to. There’s no point in standing on formalities here. Or at least I don’t think there is, not when the rebels might take the place any day and put us all to the sword,’ Julia added matter-of-factly as she took a fresh strip of cloth and dried his hand, dabbing the water off. She reached for a dressing from a basket and began to wrap it round Cato’s hand. ‘Prefect, you say? That’s an important rank, is it not?’

Cato frowned. ‘It is to me.’

‘Aren’t you rather young for such a position?’

‘Yes,’ Cato admitted, and then continued tersely: ‘And isn’t the daughter of a senator rather out of place looking after common soldiers?’

She tied off the dressing firmly, and gave it a short extra tug that made Cato grit his teeth to stop a gasp of pain. ‘Clearly you are no common soldier, Prefect, but your manner is common. Discourteous, even.’

‘I meant no offence.’

‘Really?’ She took a step back from him. ‘Well, your wound is dressed, and I have done the job as well as any man here, for all the disadvantages conferred on me by my social station. Now, if you don’t mind, Prefect, I’m busy.’

Cato flushed with irritation at her mood, and shame at his rudeness. She strode past him, out of the door and back into the corridor. He turned after her.

‘Thank you . . . Julia Sempronia.’

She paused a moment, her back stiffening, and then turned into one of the rooms and disappeared from sight.

Cato shook his head and muttered to himself, ‘Oh, well done. Surrounded by enemies, and you go and make yourself another one.’ He slapped his hand against his thigh, and gasped as pain shot up his arm. ‘Shit!’

Grinding his teeth, he marched swiftly out of the hospital and made for the signal tower. Once he was satisfied that the men there understood that they must only make their signal to Macro once the diversionary sortie was well under way, Cato went to join the force assembled just inside the citadel’s gateway. The commander of the garrison had allocated the task to one syntagma of the royal bodyguard and the men had gathered quietly in the glow of the torches flickering in iron brackets above the gate.They were heavily armoured and carried the same large round shields and stout spears of their forebears in the days of Alexander. The horsehair crests of their helmets did not appeal to Cato’s eye, more used to the utilitarian helmets of Roman soldiers, but it added to their stature and made the body of men look quite formidable, Cato conceded.

‘Ah! My friend from the sewer.’

Cato glanced towards the voice and saw an officer waving at him. ‘Archelaus?’

‘The same!’ The Greek laughed. ‘Come and join my men, and see how real warriors fight.’

‘I have no shield or helmet.’

Archelaus turned to the nearest of his men. ‘Bring some kit for our Roman friend.’

The man saluted and hurried off to the barracks as Archelaus offered his spear and shield to Cato. ‘Here, I’ll explain how we use these.’

Cato saw that the shield had a central strap which he slipped his arm through before grasping the handle near the edge. Unlike the Roman design this shield was purely for protection and could not be punched into the enemy. It provided good cover for his body and thighs and Cato hefted it experimentally until he felt confident about its weight and balance. Then he took the spear that Archelaus was holding ready. It was perhaps two foot longer than his height, with a sturdy shaft and a long, tear-shaped iron point. The other end was capped with a small iron spike. Cato closed his fingers round the leather hand grip and tested the weight. It was heavy, and was a thrusting weapon, unlike the legionary javelin which could serve as a missile as well as a spear.

‘Hold it upright,’ Archelaus explained. ‘We keep it that way until we close on the enemy. Stops us from doing any harm to our comrades, and helps to break up any arrows or sling shot they send our way. When we close and the order is given to advance spears, the front rank goes ahead of the formation and switches to an overhand grip.’ He took the spear from Cato and flicked it up into the air and caught it, his arm bent and the shaft angled forward so the point was at eye level. ‘Stab from here, like this.’ He thrust the spear forward in a powerful jab and then recovered it, ready to strike again.Then he changed his grip, lowered the end and handed it back to Cato. ‘You have a go.’