The Legion

by Simon Scarrow

  Macro snorted. ‘And I might have been the fucking Emperor. There’s only one course through life, Cato. We are what we are, never what we might have been. As for what we will be, well,’ Macro spat over the side into the river, ‘that bastard will die. He has the blood of thousands on his hands. I only hope that it’s my blade that does the deed when his time comes. I defy the gods to try and stop me.’

  For a man who was disposed towards superstition, this was strong stuff and Cato glanced at Macro in surprise. But before he could respond, there was another blast from the bucina and the sharp cracks of the bolt throwers died away as the artillery battery ceased shooting and trained their weapons round towards the flanks. At once the Arabs closed up and Ajax and his men took their shields up from their saddle horns and drew their swords.

  ‘Steer towards those men!’ Macro bellowed at the crewman on the tiller. ‘There!’ He thrust his arm towards the riverbank.

  The crewman glanced round at the other boats on the left-hand side and shook his head. ‘I can’t, sir. We’d have to cut across their bows. We’d risk a collision.’

  ‘Just do it!’

  ‘No!’ Cato intervened. ‘Macro, we have to hold our course. If we hit another boat we’re going to lose men.’

  Macro clenched his teeth and nodded, seething with frustration.

  The boats moved in towards the bank, cutting ripples through the calm surface of the Nile. On the bank the Arabs gathered and stood ready to resist the landing. Hundreds had dismounted and stood in bands, armed with round shields and curved swords. Some wore an assortment of conical helmets and scaled vests. Behind them, others sat atop their camels and prepared to shoot their bows, or hurl light javelins.

  ‘Prepare to receive arrows!’ Macro shouted across to the other boats.

  The legionaries presented their shields towards the riverbank and hunched down behind them. Cato and Macro climbed down from the foredeck and took up their own shields and crouched down, peering over the rims as the boats drew closer to the riverbank.

  ‘Here they come!’ a voice cried out as the first volley of arrows slashed into the air, rising briefly before they seemed to slow fractionally at the top of their arc, then plunge down swiftly towards the line of boats sailing towards the bank. The enemy had held back until the boats were well within range and so none of the arrows fell short. There was a brief whirr before the splintering thud of an arrow striking the foredeck, the clatter as more ricocheted off the curved surface of the legionaries’ shields and the plink of those shafts that missed their targets and plunged into the river. Cato glanced round at the men in the boat. There were no casualties amongst the soldiers. The two crewmen, however, looked terrified. As well they might, Cato thought. They wore simple tunics and lengths of cloth wrapped round their heads, and had no protection from the arrows.

  The second wave of missiles shot out across the Nile in a more ragged volley as the more proficient archers notched, aimed and loosed their arrows ahead of their comrades. Then the rain of missiles merged into a continuous stream and the air around Cato was thick with the sound of the lethal iron heads splintering wood and punching into the shields. Some inevitably found their way through the shields, or were deflected by them and struck the men. The cohort’s standard bearer, squatting down in the centre of the boat behind Cato and Macro, let out a sharp cry as a shaft pierced his bicep and he lost his grip of the standard. It began to topple towards the side of the felucca and one of the legionaries, fearful of the shame that would fall upon the cohort if the standard was lost, dropped his shield and grabbed the shaft of the standard just in time to stop it falling over the side.

  ‘Good lad!’ Macro called out to him. ‘Take over from the signifer.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The legionary raised the standard and then passed his shield across to the wounded signifer before turning his attention back to the enemy.

  ‘Watch it!’ The man beside Cato pointed towards the bank. ‘Javelins!’

  Cato followed the direction indicated and saw that some of the camel riders had dismounted and were now preparing to hurl their weapons. The first ran forward a few paces and threw his javelin. It rose up into the sky at a more languid pace than the earlier arrows. More followed as the first dipped down towards the boat to the right of Cato. It slammed into a shield, piercing the cross laminated strips of wood and bursting through the forearm of the man behind. He let out a cry, then held the rim of his shield and wrenched his arm free of the head of the javelin with a roar of pain and anger. A loud thud wrenched Cato’s attention back and he saw the shaft of a javelin quivering in the foredeck.

  ‘Close,’ Macro muttered.

  There was a groan from the rear of the felucca and Cato glanced over his shoulder and saw that the helmsman had been struck in the midriff by an arrow. He stared down in shock until the blood began to blossom in the dirty cloth around the shaft. He let go of the tiller and grasped the arrow, pulling at it, and then screaming in agony as he blacked out. At once the boat began to come up into the wind, angling round towards the vessel to their left.

  ‘Shit . . .’ Cato muttered, seeing the danger at once. He turned swiftly to Macro. ‘Hold my shield!’

  His friend grasped the handle with his spare hand and Cato thrust his way back through the legionaries crowded into the boat, trying to ignore the continuing barrage of arrows and javelins. Above him the leech of the triangular sail began to flutter. The other crewman sat on the floor of the boat, pressing into the side of a legionary, his face a mask of frozen terror as he clutched the mainsheet in his hands as if it was a lifeline. Cato ignored him and pressed on. He reached for the end of the tiller and forced it round so that the craft began to turn away from the nearest boat. For a moment Cato thought the collision might be avoided, but the felucca was turning too slowly. On the deck of the other boat, faces turned towards the looming menace and then the beam of the felucca struck the side of the other boat. Both sails shimmered violently and the shock of the impact threw the men against each other. On the other boat an optio had been crouching on the foredeck, ready to lead his men ashore the moment his boat grounded. Instead, he lost his balance, tumbled to the side and slid overboard with a splash and did not resurface. More men were sent sprawling in a confusion of limbs and shouted curses.

  The felucca rebounded from the impact and a fresh gust filled the sail, easing it round towards the shore as Cato centred the tiller. There was no chance to help the men of the other boat, nor spare them more than a moment’s thought. No more than thirty feet from the riverbank the crewman released the mainsheet and the triangular sail billowed freely for a moment before it flapped in the light breeze. The momentum of the felucca carried it on and the craft had only lost a little speed when the boat lurched to an abrupt halt in the silt where a strip of reeds ran along the bank. Most of the legionaries had braced themselves but even so a number tumbled into their comrades and a chorus of grunts and curses broke out until Macro bellowed angrily at them.

  ‘Shut your mouths! Shields up, swords out and follow me!’

  He stepped up on to the foredeck, crouching slightly behind his shield, and took a running jump towards the riverbank. He landed with a splash and a brief rustle of trampled reeds. The water came up to his thighs and the silt on the river bed sucked at his boots. Gritting his teeth Macro pressed on, surging through the churned-up water, his shield brushing the reeds aside. He heard more men splashing down behind him, and a quick glance to either side revealed that the rest of the first wave of boats was edging into the reeds to disgorge their legionaries. The air was sweltering in amongst the reeds and Macro’s ears filled with the rush of water and the grunts of his men as they struggled to gain firm ground. Over the rim of his shield he could see the nearest band of Arabs bearing down on them, giving vent to their battle cries as they raised their curved blades and charged down the short, grassy slope towards the Romans.

  Macro emerged from the silt and checked his pace. More men rustled free of the r
eeds on either side, and then a moment later Cato was at his side, breathing heavily and eyes wide beneath the rim of his helmet as he braced his boots and raised the tip of his sword towards the oncoming enemy. The Romans were strung out in a ragged battle line along the riverbank and a moment later the dark-robed Arabs plunged in amongst the legionaries and the air was filled with the clatter and thud of shields striking and the sharp clash of metal as blade met blade.

  Keeping his shield up, Macro took the first blows without striking back as he readied his sword, holding the handle tightly and drawing it back, ready to thrust. He heard the growl of an enemy on the other side of the shield and could smell the sour odour of camels that had impregnated the man’s robes. He waited for the next blow, a cut down on to the metal trim of the shield, and then punched forwards, following up with a quick pace and another thrust which slammed into the body of the Arab. The man grunted as the breath was driven from his lungs. At once Macro swung his shield aside and stabbed with his sword. The Arab wore no armour and the point cut through the man’s robes and lost none of its impetus before it struck his ribs. As Macro made to withdraw the blade, the Arab twisted to one side, snagging the sword and almost wresting it from Macro’s hand.

  ‘No you don’t!’ Macro snarled, wrenching the handle. ‘Bloody rags these people dress in. Ain’t bloody fair.’

  With a ripping noise the blade came free and the Arab stumbled back, winded and bleeding. He glared at Macro, raised his shield and sword and fought to recover his breath. Then he attacked again. Macro deflected the blow with his shield, cut down on the man’s wrist and then stabbed him in the throat. His foe collapsed on to his knees, dropping his sword as he clasped his neck, vainly trying to stem the blood pumping from the fatal wound. Macro stepped back a pace to quickly take stock of the situation.

  To his right Cato was duelling a large Arab in a gleaming scale cuirass. A heavy curved blade, wider at the tip, slashed away at Cato’s shield, driving him back until one of the legionaries struck at the Arab’s leg, cutting through muscles and tendons. The man’s leg gave way under him, he fell back, and Cato stepped up and struck a savage blow to the man’s helmet, knocking him cold.

  Along the bank of the Nile Macro could see that his men were steadily fighting their way up from the reeds. Above them, fifty paces to his left, Ajax sat on his horse, urging his men on as he punched his sword into the air. Macro turned towards a group of men who had landed from the same boat. ‘On me! Form up on me!’

  The legionaries hurried into a wedge behind their centurion, and Cato, seeing them, joined the small formation.

  ‘Let’s go!’ Macro called out, pacing diagonally across the bank towards Ajax. Only a handful of the enemy stood before them, and some of these hurried away from the cluster of Romans to find easier opponents still floundering at the water’s edge. Others, braver, threw themselves on Macro’s small band and paid the price for their single-handed pursuit of glory. Then, as the wedge neared the top of the bank, the gladiator turned and saw the danger.

  He bellowed an order to the nearest group of camel archers who stood waiting, weapons poised, as they could not shoot for fear of hitting their comrades. Ajax thrust his sword towards Macro and the others and shouted his command in Greek. ‘Shoot ’em down! Kill them!’

  His meaning was clear and needed no translation. The archers raised their bows, aimed down the bank, and loosed the arrows at close range. Cato winced as a barbed head burst through the inside of his shield, close to his face. To his right a man cried out as a shaft pierced his leg, chipping bone and cutting through muscle just below the knee. He staggered to a halt and crouched helplessly, unable to either continue the advance or shelter behind his shield and deal with the injury.

  ‘Cut it out, man!’ Cato yelled at him. ‘Cut it out and move on, or stay here and die.’

  The small formation closed up and continued forward into the storm of arrows, leaving their comrade behind. The shattering cracks and splitting of wood filled Cato’s ears in a deafening cacophony as he paced forward at Macro’s shoulder, hunched down behind his shield to protect his legs as best as he could. But being tall, his helmet and crest projected a little above the rim of the shield and an arrow tore through the crest, wrenching the helmet, and then another shot glanced off the top of it, knocking his head slightly to one side and making him briefly dizzy. Cato shook his head and staggered on, fearing that he might stumble and fall, and be at the mercy of the enemy archers. But the dizziness cleared and he clenched his jaw and followed Macro up and on to the bank.

  The enemy loosed their last arrows before dropping their bows across their saddle horns and drawing their swords. They snatched up their reins and urged their camels towards the Romans. The beasts let out raw, throaty grunts as they charged with a loping gait.

  ‘Hold!’ Macro yelled, bracing his feet apart and pushing his shield out, ready to absorb the impact of the charge. Cato and the others followed suit and crouched, swords ready, sweating under the weight of their armour and the exertion of scrambling ashore and up the bank. The leading camel’s neck stretched out above the rim of Macro’s shield an instant before its heavy chest struck it a glancing blow. The rider reached out and forward, slashing down with his curved blade, which split the rim of the shield, leaving the tip a few inches from Macro’s head. The Arab was at the limit of his reach and Macro rose up and hacked into the neck of the camel instead. The beast’s jaw fell open and the tongue shot out as it gave a deep bleat of agony, then swerved aside, away from the small knot of Roman soldiers and straight across the path of the other riders. The camel staggered and collapsed on to its knees. Another animal stumbled into its flank, nearly unseating its rider. The rest stopped abruptly or tried to swerve aside. Their riders shouted angrily, struggling to regain control of their mounts, as dust swirled about the long spindly legs of the camels.

  Macro instantly sized up the situation. ‘Jackals! At ’em!’

  He ran round the stricken camel as its rider tried to recover his balance and threw himself into the confusion of the riders and beasts beyond. Keeping his shield up, Macro hacked at the dark skin of a bare leg that appeared in front of him. Then, as the rider yelled and steered his mount away, Macro turned and saw another man above him, black against the glaring sun. Squinting, he could not see the blade he knew was slashing down towards him and could only throw up his sword arm to try and block the blow. There was a resounding clang of metal on metal and then the shock of the impact driving down Macro’s arm, wrenching his strong wrists and the powerful muscles bunched around his elbow and shoulder joints. The Arab’s blade struck the transverse crest of his helmet, breaking through the bronze strip and finally striking the iron reinforcement ridge that crossed his helmet from side to side. The blow would have killed him outright had he failed to block it, but the impact dazed him, blinding his vision with white sparks. He staggered, weaving from side to side, still holding his shield up while his sword arm hung limply at his side. A wave of nausea seized him and Macro feared that he might pass out.

  ‘The fuck I will,’ he growled to himself.

  He shook his head and his vision began to clear. A fresh blow glanced off his shield, and then he heard a shocked gasp. Glancing to his side, he saw that Cato was between himself and the camel and had punched his sword up into its rider’s guts. The Arab wheeled his camel away and clasped a hand to his wound as he rode out of the small cluster of men locked in combat. One of the legionaries was down, a long slash in his sword arm that had opened up flesh and muscle to reveal the bone beneath. But the enemy had lost two men, lying still in the dust, and more were wounded, and now they fell back, away from the heavily armoured infantrymen. Two men started after the enemy but Macro called them back angrily and then turned his attention back to Ajax.

  The gladiator was trying to rally the camel archers but they were losing the fight along the riverbank. The legionaries were pushing their way up the slope and spilling out into the fields of wheat beyond. Ajax
unleashed his rage at his men, bellowing at them to stand and fight. Though they shared no common tongue there was no mistaking his will, yet his men avoided his eye as they flowed back across the fields.

  ‘Let’s go at him,’ Cato breathed heavily. ‘While we have the chance.’

  Macro turned to the other men. ‘Come on!’

  The two officers led the small party of legionaries towards the gladiator and the handful of mounted men who remained with him. Ajax was staring bitterly after his fleeing allies and was only alerted to the danger when one of his men called out to him and pointed towards the Romans quickly closing in on them. Ajax turned in his saddle and glared for a moment before his expression changed to one of a man in a torment of frustration. He reached for his sword handle and his hand hovered there briefly before he took up his reins and urged his horse away from the riverbank.

  Cato felt a leaden pain in his heart at the prospect of Ajax evading them and he yelled out towards the horsemen, ‘Stand and fight, cowards! Fight us!’

  Ajax’s horse high-stepped as his master locked eyes with Cato, then Ajax kicked his heels in and he and his men galloped away across the field, amid the fleeing forms of their Arab allies. Cato ran as hard as he could after them, crunching over the trampled wheat, but they made good their escape and he drew up, gasping for breath as he watched them head for the pale walls of a distant temple.