Centurion (42 page)

Cato felt the warm pressure of her fingers and caressed the soft skin on the back of her hand with his thumb. ‘I will come back. I swear it, by all that’s sacred.’

The army set off along the trade route that Artaxes had retreated down the previous night. General Longinus had sent his two cavalry cohorts and legionary scouts ahead to skirmish with the enemy’s rearguard in an attempt to slow the rebels down.The rest of the army trudged along in a haze of dust that choked the lungs and made them squint and blink as it found its way into their eyes. Some tried to pull their scarves over their mouths to filter the dust even though it was awkward and made them feel the heat still more.

Naturally, the worst place to be in the line of march was at the rear, where Macro and his men marched behind the rest of the Tenth Legion, with Cato and the Second Illyrian following. On their flanks rode Prince Balthus and his small contingent of horse-archers, now remounted from the few horses left behind by the rebels. Cato and Macro were marching together beside their men when Balthus trotted over to them and dismounted, leading his horse by the reins as he closed up with the two Romans.

‘So here we are again, my friends,’ he said cheerfully. ‘This time the tables are turned and my brother is on the run. Ha, when we catch up with him, I pray to Bel that it is my arrow, or blade, that takes his life.’

Macro shook his head. ‘Growing up must have been fun in your family.’

‘Family?’ Balthus thought for a moment. ‘A royal palace is not like a home, Centurion. And the people who live there are not like a family. From childhood one knows that one’s brothers are rivals. Deadly rivals. Once the king has chosen a successor, then his brothers are unnecessary distractions at best, and ruthless competitors at worst. It has always been so. Did you know that my father was the oldest of five brothers? How many of the others are alive today, do you think?’

Macro shrugged. ‘How should I know?’

‘One.’

‘One?’ Cato mused. ‘Where is he then?’

‘Did you not realise?’ Balthus looked amused. ‘He is Thermon. My father’s youngest brother. And he only lives because my father ordered him to be castrated so that there would be no family rivals for my brothers and me.’

Macro frowned. ‘By the Gods, this is a truly fucked-up little kingdom.’

‘You think so?’ Balthus raised his eyebrows. ‘Is it so different in Rome? What happened to your previous emperor? Gaius Caligula? Was he not butchered by his own bodyguards? I am not an ignorant provincial, Centurion. I have read many books. Many histories. Yours most of all. Truly you have a uniquely violent past.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Before Caesar Augustus, how many of your people died fighting each other? Your generals and great statesmen were tearing at each other like wolves in a pit. Raising vast armies against their rivals. It’s a wonder there are enough of you left to rule your empire.’

Macro stopped abruptly and turned towards the prince. ‘Did you ride over here just to have a go at me and my empire?’

‘No, of course not.’ Balthus smiled. ‘I meant no offence. I merely wished to say it is good to have the chance to fight at your side again. After the bad atmosphere back in the citadel.’

‘There was a reason for that. I don’t take kindly to being accused of murder.’

‘And nor do I.’

‘Ah, but who benefits from Amethus’ death? That’s the question.’

Cato glanced at his friend.’You’ve been reading Cicero?’

‘I was bored. What else was there to do when you were off every spare moment with that aristocratic bit?’

‘Her name is Julia,’ Cato said tersely.

‘So I gathered. Anyway, Prince, I’d say that you had rather more to gain than Rome did from his death. That’s logic.’

‘Logic? You make it sound like an accusation.’

‘If you like.’

‘I’m telling you. I did not kill my brother.’

‘So you say.’

The tension between the two men was getting on Cato’s nerves and he glanced round at the prince’s retinue, now reduced to little more than forty men. ‘Where is that slave of yours, Carpex?’

Balthus frowned. ‘I don’t know. He disappeared this morning when I was looking for horses for my men.’

‘Disappeared? What happened?’

‘I don’t know. I sent him to my father’s palace to bring me a spare bow and arrows from my quarters. He never returned. I had to take one from one of my men and then we left. As far as I know he’s still in Palmyra. No idea where he got to. Strange.’

‘Yes,’ Cato reflected. Carpex had never been far from his master’s side during the siege.

‘If he’s decided to run away, he’ll pay dearly for it when he’s found.’

‘But why would he run away?’ Macro asked.’He has it as good as any slave, and better than most freedmen.’

Cato smiled. ‘I doubt he saw it that way when we were picking our way through the sewers. That’s probably why he’s run off. Sick of being in the shit.’

‘Well, in that case he’s done the smart thing,’ said Macro. ‘I get the feeling we’re about to be in the very deepest of shit.’

By mid-afternoon the army had crossed the low foothills to the east and Palmyra and its oasis were left behind. General Longinus did not permit his men to take more than the briefest of rests as they strove to close the distance between them and the forces of Artaxes. As the sun sank towards the horizon the army passed over some broken ground, deep gullies stretching out on either side for a distance of some miles. Then the trade route emerged on to a great flat plain that spread before the Romans, desolate and lifeless in the still shimmering heat. Miles ahead the dust raised by the rearguard of the rebel force was clearly visible and in its wake were the tiny dots of stragglers. Small clusters of mounted men tracked across the wasteland, mostly keeping a wary distance from each other, and sometimes charging forward in a brief flurry of action before they broke off and resumed their positions.

When the sun set the air cooled to a more comfortable temperature and the army looked forward to halting to make camp for the night. But no command to halt was given and the Roman soldiers trudged wearily on, like a great river gliding steadily across the desert. A crescent moon and starlight provided enough light to see by and cast faint shadows across the gloomy sand. Close to midnight, as far as Cato could estimate it, the column halted and staff officers rode down the lines calling all the unit commanders forward to General Longinus.

‘Surely he’s not thinking of making a night attack?’ Cato muttered as he and Macro jogged to the front of the column. The men of the two legions and the auxiliary cohorts had been given permission to down packs and fall out.They sat or lay on the sand, spread out each side of the track. The low hubbub of conversation filled the air and Cato could not help being aware of the generally disgruntled tone of the exchanges.

‘Who knows?’ Macro responded, panting from his exertions. ‘Seems like the general’s not going to let us rest until we catch those rebels.’

‘I hope that’s not the plan, or the men will be dead on their feet by the time any fighting starts.’

Macro grunted. ‘They’ll be dead, right enough.’

A gathering of horses and men to one side of the head of the column revealed the general’s location and Macro and Cato made their way through the loose throng of orderlies and scouts and the screen of the general’s bodyguards.

Macro made out the figure of Longinus standing before his assembled officers and cleared his throat. ‘Centurion Macro and Prefect Cato, sir.’

‘Finally. Then we can begin.’ The general paused a moment until everyone had fallen silent and had focused their attention on him. He drew a breath and began. ‘The scouts report that Artaxes is camped just beyond that slight rise two miles or so ahead of us.They could see the loom of the campfires above the crest. Our scouts have drawn back, so I doubt he knows how close we are to him. It is my intention to close up on the ridge, form the army into line, legions to the centre, auxiliaries on the flanks, and then cross the rise and attack his camp. With surprise on our side we should cut them to pieces before they can organise any defence. The cavalry and mounted scouts can conduct a pursuit at daybreak and run down any who try to escape.’ He paused. ‘Gentlemen, in a few short hours we will have defeated the enemy, crushed the rebels and won the campaign. Once the Parthians know that Palmyra is in our hands and that Artaxes has been defeated they will have no choice but to withdraw.’

Macro leaned towards Cato. ‘A night attack. Seems that you are right, and that he is a fool.’

Cato was not so sure. ‘It could work. As long as we hit them before they can form up. And we will outnumber them.’

‘Still, I don’t like it,’ Macro muttered. ‘No soldier ever does. There’s too much that can go wrong.’

‘That’s true,’ Cato responded with feeling. ‘I still don’t think Longinus has grasped what kind of enemy he is up against.’

‘Shhh!’ one of the centurions standing nearby hissed. ‘Do you mind? Can’t hear a bloody word the general’s saying.’

Macro took a step towards the man, and Cato caught his arm. ‘Leave it.’

For a moment Macro stared at Cato and then he nodded reluctantly. ‘All right then.’

The general had wound up the traditional eve of battle address to his officers and now dismissed them back to their units. As the small crowd of officers broke up Macro shook his head. ‘That was hardly worth it. What the fuck was the point of dragging us to the front of the column for a pep talk?’

‘Posterity,’ Cato replied. ‘Longinus thinks he’s making history and he wants us all to remember the moment.’

‘I’ll not forget how tired he has made me, that’s for sure.’

Led by staff officers, each unit was directed into position. By the dim loom of the moon and stars the column rippled forward slowly as each cohort peeled off the head of the column and moved across the desert at a right angle, warily picking its way over the stone-strewn ground. The Third Legion formed to the right of the track, the Tenth to the left. Macro’s cohort was on the legion’s flank, and the Second Illyrian took up position just beyond. Another cohort, the Sixth Macedonian, marched a short distance behind, as a reserve. Behind Cato, Prince Balthus formed his horse-archers. The two cohorts of cavalry and the mounted scouts from the legions were stationed at the rear, waiting for daylight to play their part.

At length the army had formed into line of battle. Fifteen thousand infantry and nearly a thousand cavalry stood in silence, waiting for the order to advance. There would be no strident blast from the bucinas as that would alert the enemy. Instead, the general’s staff officers were spread out a short distance in front of the line, each man holding one of the small flags the engineers used to mark out the boundaries of marching camps.

Ahead of the army a small force of cavalry scouts screened the line of advance. Only a handful of enemy horsemen, and a few Romans, stood between the army and Artaxes and his rebels on the other side of the rise.

It seemed to Cato that the army stood waiting for an age. His feet ached terribly from the long day’s march and his mind felt so numb with exhaustion that he feared he would fall asleep on his feet. He made himself walk up and down the front of his formation, having a quiet word every so often with the commanders of each century, and any soldier who looked like dropping off. He returned to his position beside the standard and turned to Parmenion.

‘Tell me, have you ever taken part in a night attack before?’

‘I’ve been in some night actions, yes, sir.’

‘But have you ever seen an entire army make an attack under cover of night?’

‘No, sir.’

Cato was silent for a moment. ‘Me neither.’

‘We’ll be all right, sir.’

‘Really?’ Cato grinned. ‘Care to take a bet on that?’

‘Of course, sir,’ Parmenion replied at once, playing along with the well-worn exchange.’And where should I send the money if you win?’

They both chuckled quietly, then Cato stopped suddenly. ‘Heads up!’

Fifty paces in front of them the staff officer had raised his flag and started to wave it slowly from side to side, as had the other staff officers all along the line. Cato turned to Parmenion. ‘Pass the word. Prepare to advance.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Parmenion saluted and trotted along the front of the Second Illyrian calling out softly as he passed. The whole line of the army stirred as men made a final check on their equipment and lifted their shields. The staff officer suddenly swept his flag down and began to run back towards the centre of the line. Cato’s officers had been watching for the signal and immediately gave the order to advance, and the Second Illyrian crept forward over the open ground. Cato quickened his pace until he had drawn a short distance ahead and could see down the length of the army towards the right flank. It was an impressive sight, even in the dim light cast by the moon and stars, and he felt his confidence grow slightly. If they could achieve surprise, then victory was surely theirs for the taking. There was no shouting of orders, no strident notes from bucinas, no rapping of the flat of the sword against the metal trim of the shield, none of the usual cacophony of a Roman army marching to battle. Just the rumbling crunch of thousands of nailed boots crossing the desert and the chink and clatter of loose equipment.The overall effect was eerie, Cato reflected.

The dense ranks of soldiers crossed the desert plain and at last began to climb the slight rise in front of the enemy camp. Cato saw a dark mass on the ground ahead of him and as he approached it he made out the body of a Palmyran soldier, one of the enemy’s pickets, he realised. A short distance ahead he saw the crest of the rise haloed by the dull loom of the enemy’s campfires and the doubts about Longinus’ plan that had burdened him suddenly rushed to the front of his mind and he felt a cold chill of anxiety seize the base of his spine. There was far more light than he had expected from the fires of a force of the size that Artaxes commanded. Cato quickened his step, and heard the thud of boots as Parmenion closed up on him.