Centurion

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Sir! They’re moving.’

  Cato swung round and saw that the enemy riders had thrown down their rations and were hurriedly scrambling back into their saddles and snatching the bows from their cases.

  ‘Looks like they’re going to charge us after all.’

  ‘Let ’em try it,’ Centurion Parmenion growled. ‘They’ll not break into the square. Not in a fair fight.’

  Cato smiled briefly. Parmenion clearly belonged to that element of the Roman military that held the view that archers were cowards. For his part Cato saw them as merely another means of waging war. Archers had their limitations as well as their advantages. Unfortunately, the present circumstances favoured their advantages.

  ‘Close up!’ Cato shouted. ‘Front rank! Present javelins! Prepare to receive cavalry!’

  Around him the auxiliaries and legionaries braced themselves with grim expressions as they stared at the enemy, still hurriedly mounting up and forming into loose bodies of men amid swirls of dust. As the riders gathered together, behind their serpent standards, Cato frowned.

  ‘What the hell?’

  Parmenion squinted over the ranks of the auxiliaries standing silently in front of the two officers. ‘They’re facing the other way. Why?’

  Cato shook his head. This was strange. They were forming up quickly, as if to charge, but away from the two Roman cohorts. What was happening? Just then, the faint, strident blasts of a horn sounded in the mid-distance, from beyond the enemy horsemen.

  ‘Reinforcements?’ Parmenion wondered hopefully. ‘Ours or theirs?’

  ‘Not ours. We’re the only body of Roman soldiers for a hundred miles around.’

  More horns sounded, and then there was a reply from the men who had been attacking the two cohorts a moment earlier – a clear sharp note of defiance. And then they charged away from the Romans in a cloud of dust kicked up by the thundering hooves of their mounts. The Roman troops gazed after them in amazement. Macro hurried across the square to Cato.

  ‘What the fuck is going on?’

  ‘No idea, sir. Only that there’s more horsemen out there. Might be more hostiles and those men have gone to join them, or, if we’re lucky, someone’s come to help us. Either way, we should call in our cavalry.’

  ‘You’re right. Do it now.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Cato turned to give the order to the bucinators carrying the large curved brass horns. They took a breath, puffed their cheeks and a moment later the signal blasted out. They repeated it twice before lowering their instruments and then all eyes turned back towards the receding wave of enemy horsemen. Thanks to the red-hued cloud of dust they had kicked up it was hard to pick out any detail and only once in a while could the dim figures be seen amid the sandy haze. But the sound of horns, and the faint clash of weapons and shouted war cries that carried back to Roman ears, told their own story.

  ‘Who the hell is attacking them?’ asked Macro. ‘I thought we were the only Romans out here?’

  ‘Perhaps Longinus has sent a cavalry column out after us,’ Centurion Parmenion suggested hopefully.

  ‘Maybe,’ said Cato. ‘But I doubt it.’

  ‘Then who is it, sir?’

  ‘We’ll know soon enough.’

  As the three officers and their men continued to watch in silence, the distant fight raged on. Occasionally a figure would flee from the fight and burst free of the obscuring dust cloud to race off over the desert. Here and there a riderless horse emerged and trotted aimlessly away. At length the sounds of battle died away and then there was quiet, as the sun rose low in the sky and its blood-red beams streamed over the landscape.

  Parmenion turned and called out, ‘Here come our boys!’

  The Second Illyrian’s four cavalry squadrons were galloping towards the two cohorts, armour glinting in the early morning light. Cato spared them a brief glance and then turned back. He took a sharp breath.

  ‘Look!’

  Macro and Parmenion faced round as they followed the direction of Cato’s outstretched finger.

  A rider had emerged from the slowly settling cloud of dust. He was dressed in black and the first rays of the rising sun played off the silver ornaments of his harness and coned helmet. Reining his horse in, he stopped to examine the Roman soldiers before him, still formed into a square. Then more figures resolved into sharp outlines behind him as other mounted men appeared. Still more rode out of the dust until at last Cato calculated that the man must have at least a hundred followers. They rode forward and stopped behind their leader and stared at the Romans.

  ‘Great,’ Macro muttered. ‘Now what? Hostiles?’

  Cato scratched his chin. ‘Out here? More than likely. However, they’ve seen off those horse-archers. Let’s hope that my enemy’s enemy really is my friend.’

  A moment later their leader raised his arm and gestured to his men to follow him as he rode steadily towards the two Roman cohorts.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Macro cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, in Greek, across the intervening ground. ‘That’s close enough! Stop right there!’

  The leader of the approaching horsemen raised a hand to halt his followers and then continued to walk his horse defiantly towards the line of Roman shields. For a moment Macro wondered if the man did not understand Greek. It was unlikely, he reasoned, since Greek was commonly spoken across the east, even here where the native tongue was Aramaic. Close by Macro, one of the legionaries armed with a sling began to swing it round in an arc and let the whirring disc of leather thong and weighted pouch rise up over his head.

  ‘Lower that sling!’ Macro barked at him. ‘No one is to take a shot at him until I give the order! The denarius bounty is temporarily revoked.’

  Most of the men laughed at that, especially those who had not been given a chance to swap shield for sling. Cato had often wondered at the pleasure soldiers took in the frustration of their comrades and he shook his head with a wry expression. The legionary dropped his wrist and the sling shot thudded on to the ground. Once again silence settled over the Roman lines as the lone horseman continued towards them, openly contemptuous of Macro’s earlier instruction.

  ‘Cocky little bugger, isn’t he?’

  ‘Well, at least he isn’t ordering his men to attack us.’

  Macro jerked his thumb towards the cavalry approaching from the other direction. ‘And why would he, with our lads on the way?’

  ‘He doesn’t look like the kind of man who is afraid of Roman cavalry.’

  Macro shrugged. ‘We’ll see.’

  He stepped forward, out from the ranks of the square, and stabbed his finger at the horseman, now no more than fifty feet away.

  ‘Stop there! I’ll not warn you again!’

  At last, the rider pulled on his reins and halted his mount. For a moment there was silence as he surveyed the Roman soldiers with a fierce gaze. Cato saw that his dark robes were of a fine material, silk possibly, that rippled and billowed gently as the horse stamped a foot on the ground. He seemed to be a large man beneath his robes, and his face was broad and strong and fringed with a dark, neatly trimmed beard. He was perhaps a few years younger than Macro. His eyes flickered towards Macro and fixed on the stocky Roman officer.

  ‘And who are you?’ he called out in Greek. ‘Besides being Romans.’

  The voice was rich and deep with no trace of an accent.

  ‘Centurion Macro, Fourth Cohort, Tenth Legion. Commander of the relief column sent to help his majesty King Vabathus, ally of Rome.’

  ‘Ally of Rome?’ The horseman’s eyebrows rose sardonically. ‘Lapdog of Rome, more like.’

  Macro ignored the gibe. ‘Who might you be then, sunshine?’

  ‘Sunshine?’ The man was momentarily taken aback by the idiom.

  ‘I am Balthus, prince of Palmyra, and these …’ He gestured back towards his waiting followers. ‘This is my retinue, hunters mostly. Less than a month ago we hunted deer and wolves in the hills. Today we hunt traitors, and the enemi
es of Palmyra. Like the dogs we left in the sand back there.’ He nodded over his shoulder.

  Macro held out a hand. ‘Then we are friends, Prince.’

  ‘Friends?’ Balthus snorted and spat on to the ground. ‘Rome is no friend of Palmyra.’

  Cato coughed and called out, ‘But she is no enemy either. Unlike Parthia, and those in your city who would sell Palmyra into Parthian domination.’

  There was a pause as Balthus glared at Cato before he spoke. ‘That we shall see, Roman. It is no secret that your emperor covets Palmyra, as a thief covets the property of others.’

  Macro shook his head. ‘Now, steady on, friend. We ain’t thieves. We’re here to help your king. To save him from those who seek to betray him to Parthia.’

  ‘Really?’ Balthus smiled mockingly. ‘And how do you propose to save him with this meagre force?’

  Macro puffed out his chest. ‘We’re more than enough to do the job.’

  ‘I think not, Centurion. It was you who needed rescuing just a moment ago. If I had not intervened then surely it would have been only a matter of time before you were destroyed by those traitors.’

  ‘No. We had the matter in hand. We were just waiting for first light before calling in our cavalry.’ Macro gestured to the men of the Second Illyrian galloping towards them.

  Behind the front rank of auxiliaries, Cato turned to Parmenion and muttered, ‘Better send a runner to Centurion Aquila. Don’t want our cavalry getting the wrong end of the stick.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  As Parmenion hurried off to give the orders Cato stepped out from the line of his auxiliaries and joined Macro just as Balthus shook his head and laughed.

  ‘Roman cavalry … I don’t think they would have made much of a difference.’

  Macro flushed angrily and took a step towards Balthus. ‘Now, look here, we could have taken care of ourselves.’

  Even though he shared his friend’s sense of wounded pride Cato knew this was neither the time nor the place to take umbrage, and he cleared his throat loudly. So loudly that both Balthus and Macro turned to look at him.

  ‘Quite finished?’ Macro growled.

  ‘Sorry, sir. It’s the dust. Anyway, I think we’ve established that we’re on the same side as the prince. It’s time we discussed the situation in Palmyra with him.’

  ‘It is?’

  ‘Yes.’ Cato nodded quickly. ‘Most definitely, sir.’

  Macro stared at Cato for a moment and then turned back to Prince Balthus. ‘Very well. If you tell your followers to dismount, I’ll order my men to stand down, then we can talk a bit more calmly.’

  Balthus nodded. ‘That would be best, Centurion.’

  He turned round and called out to his followers. A moment later, the riders slipped down from their saddles and squatted quietly by their horses, ready to remount the instant their leader gave the order. Still, Macro reasoned, they were acting in good faith, and he turned to his own men and bellowed the order to stand down. The men lowered their shields and javelins and kept a wary eye on the Palmyrans as the latter reached into their saddlebags for a scrap of bread or dried meat to chew on as they waited for further orders. A short distance from the square, Centurion Aquila had halted his men and they too dismounted as they rejoined their comrades. The tension between the two small forces was still quite palpable. Cato smiled faintly. At least it took the edge off the ongoing hostility between the legionaries and the auxiliaries, for the moment.

  Prince Balthus slid off his horse and beckoned to one of his men to look after the beast before he turned to stride across the sand towards the two Roman officers. He stopped before them and appraised them carefully with his dark eyes, then squatted down, gesturing for them to do the same. Macro frowned, unused and unwilling to accept authority from anyone who wasn’t Roman. Cato lowered himself to the ground and crossed his legs and, with a weary sigh, Macro followed suit.

  ‘So,’ Balthus began, ‘this is how Rome honours its treaty with my father. At his time of need, your governor sends him a mere handful of men to restore his kingdom. I warned him not to trust Rome.’

  ‘We are the advance force,’ Macro explained tersely. ‘General Longinus will march on Palmyra the moment the rest of his army has formed up.’

  ‘And what is this advance force expected to achieve, precisely?’

  ‘Our orders are to break through to the citadel and protect the king and the Roman citizens there, until the rest of the army arrives.’

  ‘I see.’ Balthus nodded. ‘The Roman reputation for meticulous planning is clearly well deserved.’

  Cato winced at the man’s ironic tone, while Macro’s frown deepened.

  ‘How do you intend to enter the city?’ Balthus continued. ‘What route do you intend to take through the streets to the citadel?’

  ‘We’ll deal with that when we get there.’

  ‘Although,’ Cato intervened, ‘we would, of course, be grateful if you could offer us any advice, or assistance, in carrying through our orders.’

  ‘I’m sure a man can rely on Roman gratitude every bit as much as he can on Roman promises to help him.’ Before Macro could react, Balthus continued smoothly, ‘I will help you reach the citadel. But there are conditions.’

  ‘Conditions?’ Macro responded warily. ‘What conditions?’

  ‘First, that I will lead the relief column, until it is safely within the citadel.’

  Macro shook his head. ‘No. It’s my command. There’s no question of my giving it up.’

  ‘Centurion, right now you need my help rather more than I need yours. Without my men I doubt you’ll even reach Palmyra, let alone fight your way through to the citadel. If you encounter any more horse-archers then I fear that you and your men would succumb to the fate I saved you from just now.’

  He paused to let his words sink in, and allow time for the two Roman officers to realise that he spoke the truth. Then he continued.

  ‘So I will lead this column. You will obey my orders, and when we reach the citadel you can assume command of your men again.’

  Macro smiled. ‘I’m sure your father will appreciate the gesture. His faithful son coming to the rescue, at the head of my men. That’s bound to make you look good in his eyes.’

  ‘Of course. I will need the trappings of loyalty if I am to make the most of being his successor.’

  ‘His successor?’ Macro was taken aback. ‘But you’re the second son. You’re not his heir.’

  ‘Not yet.’ Balthus smiled.

  ‘I assume that’s another of your conditions?’ Cato asked quietly. ‘You want Rome to confirm you as the successor.’

  ‘Yes. And there’s more.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I want Artaxes executed the moment the revolt has been crushed, assuming he is captured.’

  ‘I doubt you’ll find any opposition to that demand in Rome,’ said Macro.

  ‘And I also want my older brother sent into exile.’

  ‘Exile?’ Cato raised his eyebrows. ‘Why? Your older brother is in the citadel with the king. He’s a loyalist.’

  ‘Yes, it’s too bad. But Amethus is also a fool.’

  Macro shook his head. ‘I don’t know about that. Foolishness is no bar to kingship as far as I know. Although there are exceptions.’

  ‘Quite. I am no fool, Centurion, and in the interests of Rome and Palmyra, it is best that I succeed my father.’ A ruthless hunger filled the prince’s eyes as he continued. ‘Once this revolt is over, I will become the king. Naturally I may honour his treaty with Rome, with some modifications.’

  ‘Oh yes, naturally.’

  Balthus ignored Macro’s sarcastic tone and eased himself back. ‘Those are my terms. They are not open to negotiation.’

  Macro pursed his lips as he considered the offer. Then Cato intervened. ‘They sound fair enough, sir.’

  Macro thought a moment before he replied. ‘Maybe. But I can’t go and make deals like this without the approval of Longinus. All I can give you is my word that I wi
ll present your case to my superiors. Is that acceptable?’

  Balthus shrugged. ‘I’ll take your word, Centurion. The word of a Roman officer is good enough for me. In return, my men and I will escort you to Palmyra and guide you through to the citadel, and then you will take command.’

  ‘All right.’ Macro nodded, and offered his hand. ‘I agree.’

  A smile flickered across Prince Balthus’ lips as he clasped the Roman officer’s hand and sealed the deal. Then he rose to his feet with a swift shimmer of his dark, gleaming robes. ‘Then you had better prepare your men to march, Centurion. The dawn is already on us and we must cover as many miles as we can before midday.’

  Macro and Cato scrambled to their feet and bowed their heads as the Palmyran prince swirled round and strode back towards his men. Macro waited until Balthus was out of earshot and then said quietly. ‘Well? What do you think?’

  ‘The arrangement is as good as we could get.’

  Macro looked at his friend. ‘But?’

  ‘I don’t trust him.’

  ‘Me neither.’ Macro stared after Balthus a moment longer and then puffed out his cheeks. ‘Well, let’s get the men formed up for the day’s march.’

  After a brief rest to eat the morning’s rations the wounded were loaded on to the carts and the surviving mules were harnessed into their yokes. Several had been killed or crippled by the arrows and horses were taken from one of the cavalry columns to serve in their place. Prince Balthus and his men had already seized the handful of enemy mounts remaining on the battlefield as spoils of war. The dead were hurriedly buried in a shallow grave, which was covered with rocks to spare the bodies the indignity of being worried by carrion and other scavengers. Then the two cohorts formed up: the legionaries at the front, followed by the carts, and then the auxiliaries, with the cavalry squadrons riding ahead on both flanks. When every man was in place, Macro glanced back down the column and muttered, ‘They’re good men. You’d never think they had just been in a fight. We’ll show that prince what real soldiers can do when we reach Palmyra.’