Centurion (9 page)

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 ambassador 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 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 through 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.’

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.