Centurion

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Cato responded. He continued evenly, ‘Meanwhile, we need him and his men. They’re our best chance of seeing this through.’

  Macro shook his head. ‘Cato, my lad, I’m as aware of the situation as you are. I’ll be on my best behaviour.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t mean you, sir.’ Cato was embarrassed. ‘I was referring to the men. We’re going to have to watch them. Make sure they don’t cause any trouble with the locals. If Balthus is anything to go by then we can’t count on the warmest of welcomes when we get to Palmyra, whether they are our allies or not.’

  ‘No.’ Macro sighed deeply. ‘And on that heart-warming note, let’s get moving.’

  The column trudged forward, towards the waiting Palmyran horsemen. A moment later, Balthus shouted an order and his men spread out in a thin screen ahead of the column and headed across the desert towards the distant city. The track took them past the site of the skirmish the Palmyrans had fought with the horse-archers at dawn and the Romans glanced curiously at the scores of bodies of men and horses littering the stony desert.

  Cato felt a chill in his spine as he looked over the scattered corpses. ‘Curious, don’t you think?’

  ‘What?’ Macro turned towards his friend. ‘What’s curious?’

  ‘There were no prisoners. No sign of any seriously wounded amongst Balthus’ men.’

  ‘So? They caught them on the hop, and gave them a good kicking.’

  ‘I know,’ Cato agreed. ‘But surely some of the rebels would have surrendered, and there must have been some casualties amongst Balthus’ men. So, where are they?’

  Both officers glanced back to the dead men lying in the glare of the early morning sun. Macro spoke first.

  ‘It seems our man Balthus is an even more ruthless bastard than I thought.’

  Cato nodded. ‘Just as long as he’s our ruthless bastard.’

  ‘And if he isn’t?’

  ‘Then the situation in Palmyra has every chance of becoming our worst nightmare,’ Cato said quietly.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘Quite a view,’ Macro said as he reached for his canteen and took a small swig.

  Balthus and Cato were lying next to him, in the shadow cast by a stunted bush that grew along the long ridge overlooking Palmyra. Below them the rocky slope fell away until it met the plain which stretched away to the oasis that gave the city its name, and its wealth. Beyond the city lay a dense belt of palm trees and patches of irrigated farmland. To the south was a shallow vale scattered with tombs in the form of small towers. The gleaming walls of the city looped round the domes and tiled roofs of its dwellings and public buildings, built in the familiar Greek style. The main market, courts and temples stood to the west of the city, while at the eastern end a large walled enclosure dominated the surrounding buildings from the top of an expanse of higher ground. Cato pointed it out.

  ‘Is that the citadel?’

  Balthus nodded.

  ‘What’s the best way to get to it?’

  ‘The east gate. There, see?’

  ‘Yes …’ Cato strained his eyes. ‘Yes, I’ve got it.’

  The gate was built into the wall without towers and only the thin ribbon of morning visitors to the city revealed its presence to Cato. Hardly a formidable defence, Cato decided. Inside the eastern gate the buildings sprawled low and it was clear this was the poorest quarter of the city. Cato’s suspicions were instantly aroused.

  ‘Won’t the streets be narrow there?’

  ‘Yes,’ Balthus conceded. ‘But it is the most direct route to the citadel, and the main barracks and palaces are at the other end of the city. If we can gain entrance by the eastern gate before the alarm is given, and move fast, we should be able to break through the surrounding line of rebels and reach the citadel.’

  ‘If we can get in,’ Cato stressed. ‘We have to make sure that there are as few men as possible defending the gate when the column attacks. Which means there’ll need to be a diversion. The garrison in the citadel will need to make a sortie.’

  ‘Sortie?’ Macro turned on Cato. ‘Have you forgotten? They’re outnumbered and under siege.’

  ‘I know. But they must draw the enemy’s attention away from the gate if there’s to be any chance of the relief column cutting its way through to the citadel.’

  Balthus nodded. ‘He is right, Centurion Macro. We must get the garrison to help us.’

  ‘Really?’ Macro moistened his lips. ‘You make it sound easy.’

  Balthus smiled at him. ‘Surely the soldiers of the great Roman Empire will not baulk at such a minor challenge?’

  ‘They will not,’ Macro replied firmly. ‘So how do we get to the gate without attracting attention? There’s too little cover down on the plain. We’ll have to approach under cover of darkness.’

  ‘Of course we will, Centurion.’ A frown briefly flickered across the prince’s face. ‘As I was about to say. We’ll follow the ridge round to that point there.’ He indicated a low spur that projected into the plain, no more than two miles from the curve of the wall on the northern side of the city. ‘We’ll have to muffle the horses’ hooves with rags and abandon your carts there. We cannot afford to be given away by the sound of wheels or the squeal of an axle.’

  ‘What about our wounded?’ asked Cato. ‘We’re not leaving them behind.’

  ‘They will slow us down. And what if one of them should cry out in pain? You would risk the rest of your men for the sake of a useless injured soldier?’

  ‘We’re not leaving them behind,’ Cato repeated forcefully. ‘And they know better than to put the lives of their comrades at risk. They won’t make any noise.’

  Balthus’ gaze switched to Macro. ‘Is this your will, Centurion?’

  ‘It is. Just as Cato said.’

  ‘Very well. But if our approach is detected, and we have to escape, then my men and I will be forced to fend for ourselves.’

  ‘I expected nothing less, Prince.’

  ‘Just as long as we understand each other, Roman.’

  ‘I don’t think there’s any doubt about that,’ Macro concluded, and eased himself back from the shrub, towards the slope behind them. ‘Come on, we’d better rejoin the column.’

  The three men crept out of sight of the city and then descended to the men behind the ridge. The infantry had been permitted to fall out of line and were resting in whatever shade they could find, or had made their own by hanging their cloaks over their yokes and javelins. The horsemen, Roman and Palmyran alike, sat in the shade of their mounts, holding the reins in one hand. They had approached the ridge early in the morning and halted while the three commanders ascended the slope to reconnoitre. When they had rejoined their men the column trudged forward again, moving behind the line of the ridge until they reached the spur, where they halted, shortly before noon.

  ‘Why are we stopping?’ Macro demanded.

  ‘Look.’ Balthus gestured to the dust cloud hanging over the column. ‘We can’t afford to give any sign of our presence. The ridge is high enough to conceal us from the watchmen on the walls of the city, but once we climb across the ridge they might see any dust we kick up. So, we must stop and wait until dusk before moving on again.’

  ‘Very well,’ Macro conceded. ‘Until dusk.’

  When a watch had been posted up on the ridge they rested under the glare of the midday sun, and once the blazing orb had sunk sufficiently from its zenith Macro gave the orders for the men to prepare for the night march to the east gate. All portable equipment was removed from the carts and distributed to the legionaries and auxiliaries. The small stock of construction timber and spare javelin shafts was used to make stretchers for the wounded and several assault ladders. Meanwhile, Cato gave orders for his cavalrymen to bind the hooves of their mounts with strips of cloth cut from their cloaks.

  ‘You won’t be needing them tonight.’ He forced himself to smile at Centurion Aquila and the other cavalry officers. ‘If we succeed, there’s a nice warm billet w
aiting for you in the citadel at Palmyra. If we fail, well, I doubt we’ll need our cloaks in Hades.’

  A lame joke, he knew, but his officers smiled appreciatively enough. Despite his youth Cato had led men long enough to know the value of a light touch and apparent fearlessness. He left Aquila to carry out his instructions and returned to Macro. There was one last task to organise. A message had to be got through the enemy’s lines so that the king and his followers were ready to admit the small relief column into the citadel. It was obvious that one of Balthus’ men would have to be the courier and once again the two Roman officers were instinctively distrustful of their new ally.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Macro grumbled. ‘I know he helped us out with those horse-archers, but I still find it hard to turn my back towards the man. And the moment we head towards the gate, we’re in his hands. If he should betray us, we’ve had it.’

  ‘True.’ Cato nodded. ‘But there’s no reason why he should betray us. He has as much at stake as we do in seeing that the revolt is put down. My main worry is that the Parthians might cut a better deal with him than Rome can. I think you’re right. We have to watch our backs.’

  ‘Fine words don’t make fine actions, Cato. What are we going to do about it?’

  Cato thought for a moment, and did not like what seemed to be the best course of action. In fact, the prospect of what he was about to suggest terrified him. Yet, at the same time, there was a peculiar thrill at the danger of it all, and he realised – quite suddenly – that he was getting a taste for taking risks. There was some perverse facet of his nature that craved danger, and he wondered if this desire was so strong that it threatened to corrupt his reason. He felt a wave of revulsion and contempt for himself. If that were true then he had no right to command other men; to have responsibility for their lives. They would be safer under another man’s command. That thought made his decision much easier.

  ‘If we don’t trust Balthus, we should send one of our men in with his courier. Just to make sure he doesn’t go astray, and that the citadel’s defenders are ready for us.’

  Macro considered the suggestion for a moment and then looked at Cato with a sad, weary expression. ‘I know what you’re going to say. I know it before you even open your mouth. You’re not going. Your men need you. Frankly, I need you. There’s going to be action tonight, and I would feel easier about it if I knew the Second Illyrian was safe in your hands.’

  Cato stared at his friend for a moment and his heart filled with affection for the gruff, honest man who had taught him how to be a soldier, and how to be a leader of men. Macro was Cato’s ideal. He was the true measure of a soldier in Cato’s eyes, and the thought that Macro depended on him was an accolade far beyond praise from the veteran. Cato bit back on his pride and affection.

  ‘Centurion Parmenion can lead the men as well as me.’

  ‘No.’ Macro shook his head and then grinned. ‘He can do it better. I just don’t like to be shown up. Far better to have you to compete against.’

  They laughed, and then Cato continued, ‘I have to go. To make sure that everything is ready from the other end. If we’re going to be betrayed, better to lose me than both cohorts.’

  ‘How will I know if it’s safe to go through with Balthus’ plan?’

  ‘I’ve thought of that. If I make it through to the citadel then I’ll have them light a beacon in the highest tower. You and Balthus rush the gate the moment you see it. If there’s no signal by first light, then you’ll have to accept that I’ve failed. Is that all right, sir?’ The deferential tone was deliberate. Cato knew that the final decision was Macro’s alone and if he refused then there was no further debating the matter.

  Macro rubbed the bristles on his cheek. ‘Very well. Give Parmenion his orders and then report to me. I’ll be with our friend the prince, deciding on our message to the king.’

  By the time Cato rejoined Macro the sun was low on the horizon and the evening shadows were creeping across the plain. One of Balthus’ men was standing with his prince and Macro, holding some dark robes over his arm.

  ‘This is Carpex, one of my household slaves,’ Balthus explained. ‘He is as loyal a man as you can find.’

  ‘For a slave,’ said Macro.

  ‘Yes. But I would trust him with my life,’ Balthus said.

  ‘That’s good. Because that’s exactly what we are trusting him with. Yours, and ours.’

  Carpex gestured to the robes as he addressed Cato. ‘You’ll need to wear these, master. Better leave your armour and keep your weapons covered. The rest of your equipment has to be left behind.’

  ‘How are we going to get through to the citadel?’ Cato asked.

  ‘There is a way,’ said Balthus. ‘A tunnel leading from one of the city’s drains into the old stables of the citadel. They use the building as a barracks now, but Carpex and I discovered it when we were boys, and used to hide there to escape punishment.’

  ‘How mischievous of you,’ said Macro. ‘And when did you last use this tunnel?’

  ‘Ten years ago.’ Balthus pursed his lips. ‘Maybe more.’

  ‘I see. So there’s no guarantee it hasn’t been blocked up, or filled in, then?’

  ‘It’s still there as far as I know.’

  ‘And if it isn’t?’ asked Cato.

  ‘Then we will have to try some other way.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Cato nodded. ‘We’ll have to deal with that problem if it arises.’

  Macro shook his head. ‘That’s madness.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Cato admitted. ‘But sometimes madness is all that’s left.’

  ‘Oh, how very sage.’

  Cato shrugged and turned to the prince’s slave. ‘Where’s the message?’

  Balthus pulled a waxed slate from his robes and handed it to Cato. ‘Here.’

  ‘Is it, er, sufficiently clear?’ Cato asked Macro.

  His friend smiled. ‘It says all that it needs to. No surprises.’

  ‘Good,’ Cato replied and tucked the waxed tablet into his haversack. Then he removed his helmet, cape, harness and armour and handed them to Macro, before leaning down to remove his silvered greaves. By the time he had put on the robes and fastened the band round his headdress he no longer looked so Roman, and he hoped that he would pass as a Palmyran subject – in the dark at least. As the sun eased itself down towards the horizon, Cato and Macro sat a short distance up the slope from the rest of the men. Almost as soon as he had propped himself up against a boulder, Macro fell asleep. His head lolled on his chest and he began to snore. Cato could not help smiling. Tired as his body was he could never sleep on the eve of any action, and his mind raced through seemingly disparate trains of thought. Now that the first thrill at the prospect of danger was over, Cato found that he was trembling and was aware that his knee was twitching in a frantic rhythm. He stared at it in surprise and had to force himself to stop the nervous tic.

  Then, for no accountable reason, the image of the man he had wounded flashed into his mind. He could see every detail of the fearful surprise in Primus’ expression as the blade lodged deep in his shoulder. Primus had slipped into unconsciousness and died the day before, and was buried back in the desert under a pile of rocks to stop wild animals digging up his body. Cato had not seen him since the night of the fight, yet he was haunted by the image of the man he had wounded. At length he could bear it no longer and he nudged Macro.

  ‘Hey, wake up.’

  ‘Hmmm?’ Macro mumbled, smacking his lips and turning slightly away from Cato. ‘Fuck off, I’m asleep.’

  ‘No you’re not. Come on, wake up. I need to talk. Sir?’ Cato shook his shoulder gently.

  Macro stirred, blinked and eased himself up from the rock, wincing at the stiffness in his back. ‘What? What is it, Cato?’

  Now that he had his friend’s attention Cato was not sure where to begin. He swallowed nervously. ‘Something happened the other night. When we ambushed the horse-archers. Something I haven’t told you about.’r />
  ‘Oh? Well, what is it?’

  Cato breathed deeply and made himself confess. ‘During the fight, I … I wounded one of my men. Ran him through with my sword.’

  Macro stared at him for a moment, then rubbed his eyes. ‘You did what?’

  ‘I wounded one of my auxiliaries.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did he recognise you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Cato recalled the man’s accusing look, and shook off the memory with difficulty. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Did he tell anyone about it?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Hmmm. Awkward. Normally it would just be one of those things. Accidents happen in the heat of battle, especially at night. But it still needs to be accounted for. It won’t look good on your record if there’s any kind of enquiry. Even if there isn’t, word will get round, assuming the man spoke to anyone. You know how it is with the army’s rumour mill. That’s not going to go down well with your men. Nor mine, come to that. Not while the memory of that incident back at Antioch preys on their minds.’

  ‘But it was an accident,’ Cato protested. ‘It was dark. It was during a fight. I didn’t mean to do it.’

  ‘I know that, lad. Trouble is that the boys in the Tenth Legion won’t see it that way. They’ll say that Crispus killed his man by accident and was executed for it. They’re bound to ask why you shouldn’t suffer the same fate. I know the circumstances are quite different, but that’s the kind of detail that men ignore when they nurse a grievance and are out for revenge.’

  Cato was silent for a moment before he looked earnestly at his friend. ‘What can I do?’

  ‘Not much. If Primus died without spilling his guts then you’re in the clear.’ Macro paused, and smiled. ‘Well, hardly that. Knowing you as I do, you’ll carry the burden of guilt with you to the grave. If Primus talked, then you’ll be treated like a leper. Worse, you’ll have to watch your back.’