The Legion

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘If this is the work of Ajax, then we’re closer to him than I thought,’ Cato mused, rising up.

  ‘Maybe, sir. But equally it could be the work of pirates.’

  ‘Really? Then why take so little, if anything, from the hold? There’s a fortune in spices down there. That doesn’t make any sense if the ship was taken by pirates.’

  ‘Sir!’ a voice cried out. ‘This one’s alive!’

  Cato and Diodorus hurried towards the marine standing beside the mast. He stood aside and revealed a thin, sunburned figure, naked save for a soiled loincloth. At first Cato thought the man had thrown his arms up, but then he saw the broad black head of the iron nail that had been driven through his palms into the wood, pinning him upright, high enough so that he could not fully stand on the deck and had to carry his weight on his toes and the balls of his feet. A faint groan issued from the man’s mouth and his breathing was shallow and laboured.

  ‘Get him down!’ Cato ordered. He turned towards the Sobek and shouted, ‘Send the surgeon over!’

  While two marines supported the man’s weight, a third grasped the head of the nail and began to work it free. The man gasped and cried out. His eyes, bloodshot and rolling up, flickered open. It seemed to take a long time to get the nail out of the mast and then the man collapsed into the arms of the marines.

  ‘Lay him down.’ Cato gestured to the nearest marine. ‘Give me your canteen. You and the others, search the ship for any other survivors.’

  He leaned over the man as he pulled the stopper from the canteen, wincing as he saw the cracked and bloody lips. Slipping one hand behind the man’s head, Cato eased it up and poured a little water over the face. The lips smacked as they felt the water and there was a groan of relief as the liquid trickled inside his parched mouth. Cato fed him some more sips and stopped when he choked and coughed, spluttering as he turned his face aside.

  ‘Thank . . . you,’ he croaked weakly.

  ‘What happened here?’ asked Cato. ‘Who attacked you?’

  The man’s swollen tongue licked his cracked lips and he winced painfully before he made his reply. ‘Romans . . .’

  Cato exchanged a glance with Diodorus. ‘Romans? Are you certain?’

  A shadow passed over the deck and Cato looked up to see the mast of the Ibis as Macro’s ship drew alongside. An instant later there was a dull thud as the ships nudged against each other. Then the sound of boots landing on the deck. Cato looked up and saw his friend. ‘Over here, Macro!’

  Macro strode over, glancing round at the deck. ‘Looks like they had quite a battle.’

  ‘More of a massacre, I think. But we found this one alive.’ Cato gestured towards the torn flesh of the man’s hands. ‘Nailed to the mast.’

  Macro let out a low whistle. ‘Nasty. Why would they do that?’

  ‘I can guess. They wanted to leave a witness behind. Someone who might live long enough to report what happened.’

  The surgeon from Cato’s ship came trotting up with his haversack of dressings and salves. He knelt down beside the survivor and examined him quickly, feeling his pulse. ‘He’s in a bad way, sir. Doubt I can do much for him.’

  ‘All right. Then I need to find out what I can before it’s too late.’ Cato leaned forward and spoke gently into the ear of the man. ‘Tell me your name, sailor.’

  ‘Mene . . . Menelaus,’ the voice rasped softly.

  ‘Listen to me, Menelaus. You are badly injured. You may not live. If you die, then you will want someone to avenge your death. So tell me, who did this? Romans you said. What did you mean? Roman pirates?’

  ‘No . . .’ The man whispered, and then muttered something more, a word Cato could not quite catch.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Sounded like he said worship,’ Macro suggested. ‘Doesn’t make sense. Worship?’

  Cato felt an icy thrill as he grasped what the sailor was trying to say. ‘Warship, that’s it, isn’t it? You were attacked by a warship?’

  The sailor nodded and moistened his lips. ‘Ordered us to heave to . . . Said they were checking the cargo . . . Started killing us . . . No mercy.’ The man’s brow wrinkled at the memory. ‘He spared me . . . Said I was to remember his name . . . Then they held me against the mast and forced my hands up.’ A tear glistened in the corner of the man’s eye and then rolled down his skin and dripped from his ear.

  ‘His name?’ Cato prompted gently. ‘Tell me his name.’

  The sailor was silent for a moment before his lips moved again. ‘Cent . . . Centurion Macro.’

  Cato sat up and looked at his friend. Macro shook his head in astonishment. ‘What the fuck is he talking about?’

  Cato could only shrug before he turned his attention back to the sailor. ‘Are you certain? Are you sure he said his name was Macro?’

  The sailor nodded. ‘Macro . . . That was the bastard’s name . . . Made me repeat it to be sure . . . Centurion Macro,’ he murmured, then his face contorted in agony.

  ‘Sir,’ the surgeon intervened. ‘I have to get him out of the sun. Below deck in the Sobek. I’ll tend to his injuries there.’

  ‘Very well. Do what you can for him.’ Cato eased the sailor’s head down and stood up. The surgeon called over four of the marines and ordered them to lift the sailor’s body as gently as possible. Cato watched them make their way towards the gangway, and then turned to Macro. ‘Odd, don’t you think?’

  ‘I have an alibi,’ Macro responded with harsh humour. ‘Been busy hunting fugitive slaves.’ He jabbed his thumb at the sailor being carried across the gangway. ‘What’s that Centurion Macro business about?’

  ‘It’s Ajax. Has to be.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Who else would use your name?’

  ‘No idea. But if it is Ajax, why do it?’

  ‘His idea of a joke, perhaps. That, or something else.’

  ‘What?’

  Cato shook his head faintly. ‘I’m not certain. But there’s more to this than there seems.’

  ‘Well, if it is Ajax and his men, then we’re back on their trail.’

  ‘Yes, we are.’ Cato puffed out his cheeks. ‘The timing isn’t great, though.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We’ve run out of supplies. Water’s almost gone. We can’t continue the pursuit until we’ve replenished our food and water. We’ll take what we can find aboard this ship, and then make for Alexandria.’

  Macro stared at him. ‘You can’t be serious . . . sir.’

  ‘Think about it, Macro. If he has a day or more’s head start then he could be over a hundred miles away by now. How long do you think it will take us to find him? How many days? If we attempt it then we run the risk of being in no condition to fight him, or being too weak to even make it back to port. I have no choice. We make for Alexandria. Then we take on supplies, and try to get enough reinforcements to search this area thoroughly.’

  Macro was about to protest once more when Decurion Diodorus approached to make his report. ‘Sir, my men have searched the ship. There are no other survivors.’

  ‘Very well. Tell your men to bring whatever’s left of the food and water up on deck and divide it between our two ships.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Diodorus saluted and paced back towards the marines milling about the cargo hold. ‘Right, you dozy lot! Sheathe your swords and down your shields. There’s work to do.’

  Macro was staring hard at Cato. He cuffed his nose.

  ‘What is it?’ Cato asked wearily.

  ‘I was thinking. You’d better be right about this. If Ajax gives us the slip again while we return to Alexandria, then the gods know how we’ll pick up the trail again. It’s been over a month since we last heard any news of him.’

  ‘I know.’ Cato gestured helplessly with his hands. ‘But we have no choice. We have to go back.’

  Macro pursed his lips. ‘That’s your choice, sir. Your order.’

  ‘Yes. Yes it is.’

  Three days later the Sobek led
the way into Alexandria’s great harbour. The vast structure of the lighthouse constructed on the rock of Pharos island by order of Ptolemy II towered above the two warships. The men aboard had all been seconded from the Roman forces at Alexandria to help crush the slave rebellion on Crete and so were used to the extraordinary vision of the lighthouse. Cato, too, had seen it before, but nevertheless paused from his pacing up and down the deck to marvel at the scale of Ptolemy’s ambition. Besides the lighthouse, there was the vast complex of the Great Library, the tomb of Alexander the Great and the broad avenue of the Canopus which ran across the heart of the city. Everything about the city was designed to impress visitors and foster a sense of superiority in its citizens.

  It was close to midday and the noon sun forced Cato to squint as he looked up at the lighthouse. A steady column of smoke rose from the fire that blazed permanently at the very top of the tower, proclaiming the presence of the city to ships far out at sea, or along the coastline of Egypt.

  Cato looked down again, clasping his hands behind his back, and resumed his pacing along the main deck of the warship. It had become a habit since the hunt for Ajax had begun. Being cooped up on a small vessel was anathema to Cato’s restless spirit and the routine of walking the deck gave a limited amount of the exercise he craved, as well as time to think.

  He was deeply frustrated by the enforced delay in pursuing Ajax. However, there was no alternative. Even with the food and water they had gleaned from the cargo ship, the men were starving and their throats were parched. They were in no condition to fight Ajax’s desperate gang of fugitives, most of whom were gladiators. Men who had spent years training to do nothing but fight and kill in the arena. The bodies on the cargo ship had been weighted and buried at sea, together with the sailor who had been nailed to the mast and had expired a few hours after he had been taken aboard the Sobek. A small prize crew had been put aboard the cargo ship with orders to make best speed to Alexandria. The warships had gone ahead, driven on by the prefect in his desire to return to the hunt as swiftly as possible.

  ‘Furl the sail!’ the trierarch, Phermon, ordered from the stern. ‘Make ready the oars!’

  Moments later the Sobek continued towards the naval harbour, lying next to the royal palaces, once the home of pharaohs but now the quarters of the Roman governor of Egypt and his staff. The oars rose, swept forward and fell in a steady rhythm as the ship glided over the calm waters towards the stone jetties where the Alexandrian fleet was moored. Already Cato could see a sentry rushing from the signal tower at the entrance to the naval harbour to report the arrival of the two ships.

  Cato made his way aft and descended into the stern cabin. He was a head taller than Macro and was forced to stoop uncomfortably as he put on the cleanest of the two tunics that he had brought with him from Crete. Then he struggled into the vest of scale armour and fastened the harness over the top. The harness was decorated with the silver discs of the medals he had been awarded during his service in the Second Legion. The unit had been part of the army that had invaded Britain a few years earlier when Cato first proved himself as a soldier, and won promotion to the rank of centurion. Now he was a prefect, an officer singled out for senior command.

  But only once his rank was confirmed by the Emperor, Cato reflected. And that was not likely to happen if he failed to find and destroy Ajax, the bloodthirsty rebel who had done his best to destroy the province of Crete. He had also managed to capture the Egyptian grain fleet when it had put into Crete on the way to Rome, thereby threatening to starve the people of the capital. For a brief moment Cato felt a grudging admiration for his enemy. Ajax was the kind of man who understood all the forces in play, and made his plans accordingly. Truly, he was as dangerous a foe as Cato had ever faced and he presented the gravest of threats to Rome itself. Such a danger could never be tolerated and if Cato failed to capture or kill Ajax, then the Emperor would not forgive him. A refusal to confirm his promotion to prefect would be the least of Cato’s worries. More likely he would be reduced in rank and sent to end his days in some gods forsaken outpost on the furthest fringe of the Empire. That would mean an end to his military career, but there would be a higher price than that. He would be forced to give up Julia.

  The daughter of a senator could not be expected to endure the hard life on a frontier post. She would stay in Rome and find a better prospect for a husband. The thought cut deeply into Cato’s heart, yet he would not blame Julia if that happened. Despite his feelings for her, Cato was rational enough to know that love had its limits. The idea of having Julia follow him into exile and growing to resent him for it filled him with dread. Better that he should go alone, and have a memory to cherish, than have his failure compounded by gnawing bitterness.

  Cato adjusted his harness, then reached for his sword belt and slipped it over his head on to the shoulder. Lastly, he opened the small chest at the foot of his cot and took out the leather scroll case that contained the orders he had been given by Julia’s father, Senator Sempronius, to track down Ajax. A separate document stated that he had been promoted to prefect, subject to imperial confirmation. Between the two documents, Cato hoped that he would have sufficient authority to secure the assistance of the governor in carrying out his mission.

  He was not looking forward to meeting the governor again. The last time, Cato had sailed from Crete, on Senator Sempronius’s behalf, to ask for reinforcements to put down the rebellion. It had been an uneasy confrontation, and only the threat of being co-opted into the ranks of those who would share the blame for the fall of Crete had induced the governor of Egypt to grudgingly provide the necessary men and ships to defeat Ajax.

  Cato picked up his helmet, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then turned to climb back on to the deck, where he could complete his dress without having to crouch down to avoid crushing the crest of his helmet. As he fastened the straps under his chin, Cato watched the trierarch and his men complete the final stage of their approach to the jetty. Mooring cables were tossed ashore to waiting sailors and the Sobek was eased into position, creaking up against the woven mass of reed fenders.

  Cato turned to the trierarch. ‘I want you to go ashore and find the fleet’s quartermaster. I want both ships resupplied as soon as possible. There will be no time for any shore leave for the crews. I intend to put back to sea the moment I have reported to the governor and fresh supplies are on board.’

  The trierarch puffed his cheeks and responded in an undertone. ‘Sir, the men are exhausted. They’ve not seen their families for months. A day or two ashore will put heart back into ’em.’

  ‘They are to remain on the ship,’ Cato said firmly. ‘Any man who attempts to go ashore will be treated as a deserter. Is that understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ Cato turned away and saw that the Ibis was mooring directly astern. The gangway was already run out and Macro scrambled on to the jetty and made his way alongside the Sobek to wait for Cato.

  ‘Remember what I said,’ Cato warned the trierarch, and then turned away to go ashore. As soon as he stepped on to the paved surface, it seemed to Cato that the land was shifting unsteadily beneath his boots. He struggled to adjust his sense of balance and Macro winked at him.

  ‘Now that is a strange feeling.’

  ‘Quite,’ Cato agreed. ‘Come on.’

  They set off along the jetty, the heat beating off the stones beneath them. Ahead, at the gate leading from the jetty towards the palace buildings, a party of legionaries stood waiting, a centurion standing in front of them, vine cane held across his thighs as he stood with his feet apart.

  ‘Didn’t take long to send out a reception committee,’ Macro remarked. ‘Someone was quick off the mark in calling out an honour guard.’

  ‘Yes.’ Cato frowned. ‘But how could they know?’

  ‘Perhaps you’re not the only one with good eyesight,’ Macro suggested mildly. ‘Still, full marks to the officer in charge of the watch.’

  They continued
, as steadily and with as much dignity as their sea legs allowed, towards the waiting soldiers. As they approached the gate, the centurion stepped forward and raised his right hand in a salute.

  ‘Are you Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you, Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro?’

  Macro nodded. ‘I take it you’re here to escort us to your commander?’

  The centurion looked mildly surprised.

  Cato shook his head. ‘There’s no time for formalities. I have to see the governor, at once.’

  ‘Formalities?’ The centurion gestured to his waiting men. ‘I think you misunderstand, sir. We’ve not been sent to greet you. I’ve been ordered to place you under arrest. Both of you.’