Centurion

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Come on … come on. Haven’t got all bloody night … Where the hell are you?’

  As he heaped curses on to the head of the Palmyran prince, one of the rebels who was still awake, talking with his companions, eased himself off the ground and started walking slowly in Macro’s direction.

  ‘Oh, great,’ Macro muttered. ‘Fine time to have a crap.’

  His irritation turned to anxiety as the figure continued towards Macro’s position. If he continued on his course he would walk right up to Macro and trip over him. Macro flattened himself to the ground and reached a hand down to his sword handle. He could hear the man’s footsteps now: a soft scraping shuffle over the stony ground. Someone called out to him from the camp and the man shouted back an angry response and his comrades laughed. Macro was lying between a large boulder and a stunted shrub and he peered through the skein of small spidery branches as the man approached. He cast about a moment before settling on a rock no more than ten feet from Macro, where he could squat out of sight of his comrades. Pulling up his robes he crouched down and stuck his backside out in Macro’s direction. With a grunt he began his movements and Macro instantly wished that the man’s diet had not left him with such loose bowels. A foul odour filled the air and Macro’s nose wrinkled with disgust. At length the man finished and looked around for something to wipe his backside. He turned towards Macro and froze.

  There was a pause as neither man moved, then the rebel rose up to his full height, still staring in Macro’s direction. Hardly daring to breathe, Macro released his grip on his sword handle and groped for the nearest sizeable rock. His fingers grazed over one that would fit in his hand comfortably and closed round it as the rebel took a hesitant step towards him, and muttered an exclamation.

  Macro burst from cover, throwing the rock as hard as he could, and then snatched out his sword as he hurled himself towards the rebel. The rock struck the man on the side of his jaw and glanced off, but the impact stunned him for the instant that it took Macro to cannon into his body, ramming home his sword into the man’s stomach as they slammed on to the ground. Macro landed heavily on the rebel, driving the breath from him in a harsh gasp. The blade drove up under the man’s ribs, into vital organs. He squirmed, gasping for breath so that Macro feared he might cry out a warning before he died.

  ‘Oh no you don’t,’ Macro hissed, clamping his hand over the man’s mouth and pressing down. With a last reserve of his failing strength the rebel writhed and bucked, trying to dislodge the Roman, but Macro fought back, working his blade furiously inside the man’s chest. Then the rebel slumped, inert, his eyes staring blindly at the stars. Macro continued to hold him down a moment longer until he was quite certain that the man was dead, and then relaxed his grip, removing his hand from the slack jaw. He rolled away from the body, wrenching his blade free as he lay and caught his breath. It was a moment before he was aware of the smell and realised he was on the spot where the man had been squatting a moment earlier.

  ‘Shit,’ he grumbled. ‘How fucking lovely.’

  He leaned towards the body, cut a strip off the man’s tunic and did his best to clean off the filth as he continued to keep watch for any sign of Balthus and his men. This was getting beyond a joke, he thought bitterly. If Balthus didn’t make his move now it would be too late to arrive before the gate under the cover of darkness. A voice called out from the camp. Macro kept still, until the man called out again. This was not good, he realised. If there was no reply from the rocks the rebels were bound to send someone over to look. Macro hurriedly untied his helmet and lowered it to the ground. Then he rose up cautiously, looking over the rock towards the camp. When the rebel called out a third time, the anxiety clear in his tone, Macro stood up a little further and waved his hand. To his relief the men waiting for their companion to return laughed and settled back down to their conversation.

  Barely had Macro resumed his position behind the rock when there was a sudden thrumming of hooves and dark shapes rushed out of the night towards the rebel patrol’s camp. The dull whack of arrows striking home sounded above the thud of hooves, and the snorts and whinnying of frightened horses. Then the cries of the wounded and the shouts of alarm split the night as the first blades clashed with a series of sharp ringing blows. There was no need to conceal himself any longer and Macro emerged from the rocks and watched from a safe distance as Balthus and his men swirled through the palm trees and cut down any man they found on the ground.

  ‘Sir?’ Centurion Horatius called out as he led his men through the rocks towards Macro. ‘Sir, are you there?’

  ‘Over here!’ Macro raised his arm and the centurion and his legionaries came jogging towards him. ‘Form two lines here. We’re not taking part in this. We’re just here to prevent any rebels running for it in this direction.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Horatius sniffed, then grimaced before he saluted and strode off to pass on the orders to his century. Macro turned to watch the attack on the rebels. It was all but over. The riders were no longer charging across the campsite, but picking their way over the bodies, pausing to finish off the wounded and any who were cowering on the ground trying to surrender. There could be no prisoners taken tonight. They would only hold the column up and provide the added inconvenience of having to be guarded, not to mention the danger that they might give the column away as it approached the city and lay in wait for the chance to assault the eastern gate.

  ‘Right, it’s all over,’ Macro announced. ‘Send a runner back for the rest of the column. It’s time we got moving again.’

  A rider approached from the sparse spread of palm trees and Macro guessed it was Balthus.

  ‘The way is clear, Centurion. None of the rebels escaped my men. They’re all dead.’

  ‘Good job,’ Macro conceded. ‘I suggest we continue the advance immediately, Prince.’

  It was the first time that Macro had shown any sign of deference to Balthus and the latter paused a moment to take in the implied praise and respect. He nodded to Macro. ‘I agree. Now that we have reached the plain, my men will spread out and screen our approach to the gate. There shouldn’t be any more delays.’

  ‘That’s good,’ said Macro. ‘We can’t stop for anything until we are in position to wait for Cato’s signal.’

  ‘Very well, Centurion. I shall let my men know.’ He paused. ‘By the way, where is that stink coming from?’

  ‘Stink?’ Macro responded testily. ‘What stink?’

  Balthus wheeled his mount round and trotted back towards his men. Macro stared at them a moment, impressed by the ruthless speed with which they had struck and wiped out the patrol. With a few thousand such men in the service of Rome there was no telling what might be achieved on the eastern frontier of the Empire. Their skill with bow and sword while mounted was matchless. Only the Parthians were better at this highly mobile form of warfare, and even then, Macro decided, the men of Palmyra must surely give a good account of themselves when they fought Parthian troops. As the uneven footsteps of the rest of his men reached Macro’s ears he shrugged off his speculative frame of mind with a slight smile. He was thinking a good deal too much since he had met Cato. Especially when there was soldiering to be done.

  ‘Column!’ he called out as loudly as he dared. ‘Advance!’

  The men of the two cohorts emerged from the rocks like a black snake. They marched quickly past the site of the butchered patrol and followed in the wake of Balthus and his men as they headed directly for the east gate of Palmyra. They met no more rebels, and startled only a young shepherd boy, who immediately took off into the night with his small flock of sheep, which bleated irritably as they fled.

  By the time they drew close to the city, Macro and his men were exhausted. Marching at night was always more tiring than during daylight, with the added burden of the strain on eyes and ears as they watched for any sign of the enemy, or an ambush. Balthus halted his riders and dispersed them to the flanks as Macro came up with his infantry. The men were quietly order
ed to lie down and remain still and silent until the order to attack was given. Macro and Balthus crept a short distance ahead of their men and crouched down no more than a quarter of a mile from the gate. The walls of the city now loomed dark and tall and torches flickered along its length as the men on watch duty moved slowly between the towers watching for trouble.

  The citadel was visible in the distance and Macro could just make out the tallest of its towers. If Cato had got through, that would be where the signal was shown, and Macro kept his eye fixed to the spot. The night gradually wore on and there was no sign of a signal. Balthus stirred and turned towards Macro.

  ‘Perhaps your comrade, and my slave, failed to get through.’

  ‘Give the lad a chance,’ Macro responded. ‘Cato can do it. He always does.’

  Balthus stared at him a moment before he continued, ‘You think highly of that young officer.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do. He’s a rare one, is Cato. He won’t let us down.’

  ‘I hope not, Centurion. It all depends on him now.’

  ‘I know,’ Macro replied softly, and they both gazed towards the city walls as they waited, and wondered what had become of Carpex and Cato.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘Roman?’ asked the soldier in Greek as he lowered his sword. ‘What in Hades is a Roman doing popping up out of our sewer?’

  ‘Just get me out of here,’ Cato snapped, hearing the laboured breathing and scraping in the tunnel as the rebels came after him.

  The Palmyran soldier paused a moment, as his comrades came hurrying over. Then the soldier sheathed his sword, grasped Cato’s arm and hauled him up through the grating and into the barrack room, still watching him suspiciously. He gestured to Carpex lying stunned in the gutter that ran through the room and fed into the drain. ‘Well, he’s certainly no Roman.’

  ‘Explain later,’ Cato gasped and pointed back into the tunnel. ‘Rebels, down there.’

  ‘A likely story,’ someone snorted derisively. ‘They’re bloody spies, the pair of them. Silence his tongue, Archelaus.’

  The man who had felled Carpex and hauled Cato out of the sewer reached for his sword, and then paused, staring into the hole. Cato glanced down and saw the glow of a torch, and then the tip of a spear came into view. The Greek called Archelaus snatched out his sword and took a step back as he called out to his comrades, ‘He’s right! There’s someone in there. Arm yourselves!’

  At once the barrack room was a mass of rushing figures as those who had not yet taken up their weapons ran back to their bunks to get them. The spear tip rose through the hole, a hand gripped the rim, and a moment later a helmeted head appeared above the floor. Archelaus leaped forward and cut down savagely with his falcata. There was a dull ring and a crunch as the blade cut through the helmet and the skull beneath, lodging just above the rebel’s brow. His eyes were wide and startled for an instant before a sheet of blood obscured his face. Archelaus pressed a foot on the man’s shoulder and yanked his blade free, and the body and spear dropped out of sight. There was a loud shout of rage from the tunnel, but none of the pursuers dared to take the place of the first man.

  Cato pointed to a cauldron suspended over an iron stove in the side of the room used as the soldier’s mess. Wisps of steam curled up from the lip of the cauldron.

  ‘Use that! Get the cauldron over here!’

  ‘But that’s our stew,’ one of the soldiers protested. ‘It’s almost ready to eat.’

  Cato scrambled up to his feet, and rose to his full height as he snapped out the order. ‘You and you, get it over here, now!’

  The two men turned to Archelaus with a questioning look and he waved his dripping blade at them. ‘Do it!’

  The two men hurried over to the cauldron and picking up rags they grasped the heavy iron handles and lifted it off the stove, grunting with the effort as they struggled towards the drain with their burden. As one of the Greek mercenaries leaned over the hole the head of a spear shot up at his face, and he threw himself back just in time to avoid a terrible wound. As soon as the men with the cauldron reached the edge they set it down and grasped the rim with their rags, straining as they tipped the cauldron. The steaming liquid and some lumps of meat sloshed over, most of it going straight down into the sewer in a thick brown gush. At once there were several agonised screams, and the glow from the torch blinked out. A puff of steam came up through the hole with the cries of pain and rage. Then they heard the rebels scrambling down the tunnel, before anything else was poured on them.

  Archelaus let out a loud laugh. ‘That’s cooked ’em nicely! Now get the grille back in place, and you, Croton, keep a watch on it.’ The Greek glanced at Carpex, who had propped himself up on an elbow and was shaking his head. ‘Sorry about that, friend, but if you will pop your head up out of a sewer unannounced, that’s your own lookout.’

  Carpex looked up at him, winced and then let out a low groan. Archelaus saw the slave brand on his forehead and turned to Cato. ‘This one yours, Roman?’

  ‘No. He belongs to Prince Balthus. The prince told him to guide me into the citadel. We carry a message for the king. I have to speak to him at once.’

  ‘Not so fast.’ Archelaus held up a hand. ‘First, tell me who you are, and what’s going on here.’

  Cato restrained the impulse to shout at the man and demand to be taken to the king. He took a deep breath to calm his frustration. ‘I’m the prefect of the Second Illyrian cohort. Part of a relief column sent by the governor of Syria. The rest of the force is outside the city waiting for a signal to assault the eastern gate and cut their way through to the citadel. Now, if that’s enough for you, I must see your king.’

  The Greek mercenary narrowed his eyes. ‘That’s quite a story. Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t believe a word of it. But the unusual nature of your appearance seems to support your tale. Just as well we had come off watch, otherwise there would have been no one here to help you.’ Archelaus turned to the hole. ‘And now it seems that you have shown the rebels a way into the citadel. Well, that’s sorted out easily enough. You!’ He pointed to one of his men. ‘Get some rubble into that tunnel. Fill it up and then cover the grille over with something heavy. Come, Roman, you’d better follow me.’

  He made to help Carpex back on to his feet then sniffed distastefully. ‘Better get rid of those robes first though, eh?’

  Cato was all for seeing the king immediately, but realised that some modicum of formality had to be maintained if he was to create a favourable impression. Once they had cast aside their soiled outer clothes and cleaned as much of the sewer filth off their bodies as quickly as they could, they followed Archelaus from the barracks. The room they had entered from the sewers proved to be one of ten that opened on to a courtyard behind the royal quarters of the citadel. In a more peaceful era the barracks had once accommodated some of the finest horses in the eastern world. Now people slept and sat in clusters where the horses once exercised. The sound of coughing and muted snatches of conversation punctuated the quiet of the night.

  ‘Who are these people?’ Cato asked.

  ‘Some are from the palace. But most of them are loyalists who fled to the citadel when the revolt broke out. We took as many as we could before the king ordered the gates closed. There was no room for any more.’

  ‘There were others?’

  ‘Hundreds. Trapped outside when the rebels closed in on the citadel.’

  ‘What happened to them?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Archelaus replied harshly. ‘Want me to draw you a picture? Let’s just say Prince Artaxes won’t be remembered for his merciful nature.’

  They walked in silence for a moment, picking a path through the refugees, before Cato spoke again.

  ‘What’s the situation here? The message we got in Antioch was that you were holding your own.’

  ‘That’s true enough,’ Archelaus responded. ‘The rebels aren’t going to get through the walls any time soon. We’ve more than enough men here to k
eep them at bay. And we have enough food for a few days yet. The only problem is water. There are two cisterns under the royal quarters, there.’ He pointed towards the colonnaded building with a tower at each corner ahead of them. Next to it was the Temple of Bel, surrounded by a high curtain wall to prevent impious eyes from gazing upon the shrine of Palmyra’s most powerful deity. Archelaus continued, ‘Both were supposed to be kept filled to capacity, for emergencies. Turns out that the water in one has been fouled and the other was only half full. There wouldn’t be much difficulty if we had to supply the current garrison.’

  ‘How many men under arms do you have?’ Cato asked.

  ‘The royal guard numbered nearly five hundred when the revolt broke out. We lost over a hundred when we escaped from the palace, and fought our way across the city to the citadel. We’ve lost more in the days since then. Now?’ He thought for a moment. ‘There’s nearly three hundred and fifty of us left. My syntagma suffered the heaviest casualties in the fight to reach the citadel.’

  ‘Syntagma?’

  ‘The royal guard is made up of two syntagmata. Each one has two hundred and forty men in it, or did before the revolt flared up. Each syntagma has four tetrarchies of sixty men. That’s what I command.’ He jabbed a thumb at his chest. ‘I’m a tetrarch.’

  ‘I see.’ Cato nodded. ‘Any other men on your strength, apart from the king’s bodyguard?’

  Archelaus shrugged dismissively. ‘A handful of nobles and their retinues. Personally, I think they’re more danger to us than to the rebels. Then there’s a half-century of auxiliaries who were guarding the Roman ambassador and his family and staff. So we have just over four hundred effectives, and at least five hundred civvies.’

  Cato thought for a moment. If all went well this night the garrison was about to be swelled by over a thousand Roman soldiers and Prince Balthus’ companions, not to mention all their horses. He turned to Archelaus. ‘How long will the water last?’