Centurion

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Another twenty days or so. At the rate we’re rationing it. Oh …’ He paused mid-stride and looked at Cato. ‘That’s before your relief column joins us.’

  ‘On current form that water is going to run out in less than ten days.’

  ‘Great,’ Archelaus muttered as he resumed his course towards the royal quarters. ‘I can imagine how delighted the king is going to be when he works that one out.’

  As they approached the royal quarters the guards at the entrance rose from the benches either side of the bronze doors and stood to, spears in hand. One of them stepped forward into Archelaus’ path and saluted. He glanced over at Cato and Carpex before turning back to the tetrarch.

  ‘Your business, sir?’

  ‘These two just entered the citadel. They claim they have a message for the king.’

  ‘The king’s asleep, sir.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ Archelaus smiled thinly. ‘It’s the middle of the night. But these men must see him urgently.’

  The guard shifted uncomfortably and then made a decision. ‘I’ll send a man to his chamberlain, sir.’

  ‘Then do it quickly!’ Cato snapped in exasperation. ‘There’s no time to lose.’

  The guard stared at Cato for a moment, wrinkled his nose, and then looked to Archelaus. The latter nodded.

  ‘Do as he says.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The guard gestured to one of his comrades and the man turned, heaved one of the doors open a little way and slipped through the gap. There was a tense silence as the men waited for a response from within. Cato turned away and glanced round the courtyard. Beyond the dense clusters of refugees the walls rose up tall and dark. Along the battlements he could see the dark figures of sentries keeping watch on the approaches to the citadel. A handful of torches flickered on each of the towers, but the sentries kept their distance from the light they cast, not wanting to make a target of themselves. Cato was reassured by the strength of the fortifications, but the fine walls would be no use at all once the water ran out. Then the defenders would have to choose between dying of thirst, surrendering to the rebels – to be massacred – or mounting a desperate attempt to escape from the city, unless the governor of Syria and his army could reach Palmyra before any such choice had to be made.

  The sound of footsteps approaching caused Cato to turn and he saw the bronze door swing open to reveal, by the light of the oil lamps burning within, a guard and another man, tall and thin with a straggling grey beard. He stared at Cato for a moment, and then turned to Carpex. A flicker of recognition crossed his features before he addressed the slave in Greek.

  ‘Well, Carpex, how does your master? Still busy hunting with his drunken friends?’

  Carpex gave a deep bow. ‘My master is outside the city, waiting to come to the aid of his father.’

  ‘Really? Has he run out of drinking money so soon?’

  Carpex made to reply, thought better of it, and remained with bowed head as the chamberlain turned his attention back to Cato. ‘You must be the Roman. I think you had better explain what you are doing here.’

  Cato took a deep breath. ‘There’s no time for detail. A Roman relief column is outside the city waiting for the signal to force its way in through your east gate. But first you must draw the attention of the rebels away from the gate. Then the signal can be given.’

  The chamberlain stared at him for a moment. ‘You had better come in. That dog of a slave can remain here.’

  ‘Yes, master,’ Carpex muttered and bowed even lower.

  ‘What about me, sir?’ asked Archelaus.

  The chamberlain dismissed him with a casual wave of the hand. ‘You may return to your barracks, Tetrarch. Roman, follow me.’

  The chamberlain led Cato through the bronze doors into a short corridor. The floors were laid with red-streaked marble and the walls were covered with paintings of galloping horses, as if they were in a race. The corridor was short, and emerged through an arch into a large paved area. A two-storey portico ran round the edge and torches flickered from wall brackets at regular intervals. To one side a set of comfortable dining couches were arranged about a large table bearing the remains of a small feast. Several slaves were engaged in clearing away the platters and goblets while some more waited on the handful of guests still drinking. Their conversation and muted laughter drifted across the open area as the chamberlain escorted Cato towards some steps that climbed towards what looked to be a large hall. Inside the entrance was a large vestibule and the chamberlain pointed to one of the stone benches lining the waiting area. ‘Sit there.’

  Cato did as he was told as the chamberlain continued through into the main hall and shut the door behind him. For a while there was silence and Cato fretted furiously at the delay, knowing that Macro and the others were outside the city anxiously waiting for his signal. Then he heard voices inside, a conversation that he could not quite make out. The door opened and the chamberlain beckoned to him.

  ‘Inside.’

  Cato did his best not to be even further irritated by the man’s curt manner, and strode through into the hall. It was a large square chamber. Not by any means the audience chamber of a rich and powerful king, but then this was not Vabathus’ palace, only his refuge. The walls were plain and high, and the floor unostentatiously paved, as the earlier corridor had been. A number of chairs had been arranged in a semicircle at the far end of the hall and two men were already seated there. The chamberlain led Cato to the open space in front of the men and then took his seat to one side. A large, overweight man who looked to be in his late fifties with grey hair and a tired expression sat in the largest chair. He wore a plain white tunic and sandals, and a cloak hung over his shoulders. The other man wore a tunic with a broad red stripe running down the middle. He was younger, no more than forty, and wiry, with the haughty bearing of a Roman aristocrat, and Cato knew at once that he must be the ambassador, Lucius Sempronius.

  Cato stood to attention as Sempronius cleared his throat and began to speak.

  ‘You have a message for us?’

  ‘For the king, yes.’

  Sempronius smiled. ‘Of course, for the king. Let me have it.’

  Cato paused, glancing towards Vabathus, waiting for any sign of approval, but Vabathus just stared back blankly and so Cato took the waxed slate from his haversack and walked over to give it to the Roman ambassador. ‘From Prince Balthus, and my commander, Centurion Macro of the Tenth Legion.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Quintus Licinius Cato, sir. Acting prefect of the Second Illyrian cohort.’

  Sempronius weighed him up. ‘Acting prefect, eh? Rather young for such a responsibility, I would say,’ he added with a touch of suspicion in his tone.

  ‘The governor was forced to send the two units he had ready, sir,’ Cato explained with all the patience he could muster. ‘Centurion Macro was seconded to the Tenth Legion from the Second Illyrian, for the duration of the present emergency. I was his adjutant and second-in-command.’

  ‘I see. Well, needs must, I suppose.’ Sempronius pursed his lips briefly. ‘Obviously my message got through to Longinus. I assume he is hot on the heels of your two cohorts with the rest of his army?’

  ‘I have no idea, sir. He said he would come as soon as possible. In the meantime, my cohort and that of Centurion Macro were sent ahead to bolster the garrison here. We joined forces with Prince Balthus and his men. They’re approaching the eastern gate even as I speak, and—’

  ‘Balthus?’The king stirred. ‘What good will that fool do? I have no use for a drunkard who spends his life hunting and whoring. I’ll have nothing to do with him. Send him away.’ He looked through Cato for a moment and continued quietly, ‘Of all my sons, why couldn’t it have been Balthus who betrayed me? I would have shed no tears over that wastrel …’

  The king frowned and lowered his head, staring at his feet. Cato glanced towards the ambassador for a cue on how to respond but Sempronius shook his head. There was a bri
ef silence before Sempronius coughed and nodded to Cato. ‘Please continue.’

  Given the king’s previous reaction Cato decided not to mention his son again. ‘My superiors have asked me to request the garrison of the citadel to make a diversionary attack to draw forces away from the eastern gate. We have to do it as soon as possible if they are to stand any chance of breaking through to us, sir. They will be watching for my signal. A beacon on the highest tower of the citadel.’ Cato switched to Latin, lowered his voice and continued urgently. ‘Sir, I beg you. Use whatever influence you have here to begin the feint. Unless Centurion Macro can fight his way through the city he will be cut to pieces outside the walls of Palmyra.’

  Sempronius nodded and spoke calmly. ‘I will see to it that the orders are given, Prefect Cato. You have my word.’ The ambassador switched back into Greek and turned to the chamberlain, who had been sitting in silence during the exchanges.

  ‘Thermon, my friend, you heard it all. You must summon the commander of the garrison. The attack must begin as soon as possible. On the king’s orders, understand?’

  The chamberlain nodded, and turned to the king. ‘Your majesty?’

  ‘What?’ Vabathus looked up wearily and saw that they were waiting for his response. He waved a hand flaccidly. ‘Do as you wish.’

  The chamberlain bowed and quickly backed out of the room as Sempronius beckoned to Cato.

  ‘Prefect, I understand you have one of the prince’s slaves with you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Have him take you to the gate tower. There is a signal station there. You may light your beacon the moment the garrison begins its attack. Then,’ he nodded to Cato’s bloodied hand, ‘you’d better get that seen to.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘There’s the signal!’ Balthus rose quickly to his feet and stared towards the tower.

  ‘Hmmm?’ Macro mumbled, as he stirred from the spot where he had been resting. He had very nearly committed the unforgivable sin of falling asleep on duty. What the hell had come over him? Macro briefly discounted the lost sleep of the last days of the march from Antioch. He had marched and fought in more difficult campaigns before without letting exhaustion get the better of him. Perhaps it was just age, he mused sadly as he scrambled to his feet and stood beside the prince. Balthus pointed over the wall and the sprawl of the city towards the citadel. Above the torches that flickered along the ramparts was a brighter blaze that flared with greater intensity even as Macro picked it out.

  ‘Are you sure that’s the one?’ asked Macro.

  ‘I’m certain of it.’

  ‘Then let’s get moving.’ Macro turned round to the officers who had been sitting on the ground, but now approached in response to Balthus’ excited cry. Macro drew himself up to his full height, and rubbed his buttocks where they had grown numb as he sat waiting.

  ‘Gentlemen, this is going to be swift and bloody. You have your orders; make sure you follow them precisely. I don’t want any confusion when the attack goes in. Get the lads up and let’s get moving.’

  He exchanged a salute with his officers and returned to the side of Prince Balthus. ‘We’ll follow your men the moment you begin the attack. Good luck … sir.’

  Balthus grinned as he patted Macro on the shoulder. ‘Luck has never been my problem, Roman, so you can have my share of it tonight.’

  With a swirl of his robes, Balthus turned and ran to his horse, snatched the reins from the hand of the auxiliary who was holding it ready, and threw himself up into the saddle. In the darkness behind him the rest of his retinue mounted and when Balthus saw that they were ready he drew his curved blade and raised it above his head, calling out a command to get their attention. He paused a moment and then swept his sword towards the city gate with a strident shout. With a chorus of cries his men urged their mounts into a gallop and a dark tide of horsemen surged out of the desert night towards the eastern gate of Palmyra.

  The moment the charge began Macro filled his lungs and bellowed the order for his two cohorts to advance. As they followed the horsemen at a steady trot Macro saw fire arrows arc down from the distant ramparts of the citadel and realised that the diversionary attack was under way. His heart was lifted by the knowledge that Cato had succeeded in getting through. Macro and his men had concealed themselves no more than a quarter of a mile from the eastern gate in order to reach it before the enemy could react, but he knew that the plan would only work if Balthus and his men moved quickly.

  Ahead, by the light of the torches burning above the gate, he saw the first of the rebels fall to the arrows of the mounted archers. Some of the men guarding the gate snatched up spears and shields and stood their ground. A handful of others fled for the safety of the city, while a handful of men appeared along the wall, alerted by the thunder of hoofbeats rushing towards the gate. The more courageous of those who remained raised their shields to protect them from the arrows shooting out of the mass of horsemen. A rebel officer, with commendable presence of mind, called on them to form ranks, and before the horsemen could reach the gate they were confronted by a small wall of shields between which spears angled towards Balthus and his men, causing them to swerve aside.

  Macro drew his sword and shouted over his shoulder, ‘Charge!’

  The men broke into a run behind him, breathing hard as their equipment chinked and their iron-shod boots pounded over the hard ground. While Balthus and his men closed round the band of soldiers defending the gate, slashing and hacking at their shields and the shafts of their spears, behind them the doors were slowly being closed as the men inside the city heaved against the heavy slabs of studded timber. Macro watched in desperation as he sprinted forward, already passing through the rearmost riders of the prince’s force, steadying their horses as they raised their bows and traded shots with the archers on the battlements above the gate. Macro dodged round the back of a rearing horse, its rider grappling with the shaft of an arrow that pinned his leg to the saddle. Swerving through the other horses, Macro and the leading century of legionaries raced towards the gate. A gap opened ahead of him and Macro saw the last few defenders backing through the small space that remained behind them.

  Macro gritted his teeth and ran for all he was worth, heart pounding wildly as he burst through the loose maul of horsemen and charged across the strip of open ground that separated them from the rebels. With a deep roar he hurled himself at the last three still outside the gate. They started at the sound of his war cry but stood their ground and lowered their spears, ready to thrust. Macro raised his shield and swung it across to cover his body and felt the tip of a spear glance aside as he struck the shaft of another with his sword, knocking the point away and down where it could not harm him. The third man just had time to stab his spear towards the centurion’s face and Macro snatched his head down, wincing as the spear tip glanced off the side of his helmet just above the ear guard. Then he cannoned into the nearest of them, shield to shield, and flung the man back against the outer surface of one of the doors. The impetus of his charge had carried Macro past the next man, and now he slashed his sword to the right, behind him, and caught the rebel across the back of the shoulders, on his scaled armour. The blade of the short sword did not cut through, but the savage impact of the blow drove the breath from his lungs and stunned him, long enough for one of the legionaries following Macro to batter him on the helmet, driving him on to his knees, where a final downward thrust stabbed through his neck into his heart.

  The last of the defenders had dropped his spear in his desperation to slip through the narrow opening that remained. Macro pounced on the weapon and stabbed it through the gap between the edges of the doors. They jarred on the spear shaft, which started to bend so that Macro feared it would snap. He stabbed his sword into the side of the man still standing pressed against the timber, and then threw his weight against the other door.

  ‘On me!’ he bellowed over his shoulder. ‘Force the gate!’

  More legionaries arrived and t
hrust themselves against the hard wooden surface, and more men pushed into their backs, boots scrabbling for purchase as they heaved against the doors. On either side, the ladder parties had reached the wall and were raising their assault ladders towards the battlements. Macro could hear the shouts from inside the wall as the rebel officers urged their men on, desperately struggling to close the gate and deny their enemy access to the city.

  ‘Come on!’ Macro roared. ‘Heave, you bastards! Put your backs into it!’ All around him the tightly packed legionaries grunted with the effort of pressing against the doors with all their might. For a moment the timbers inched towards them and Macro watched in alarm as the gap narrowed so that no man could squeeze through. Then, as even more legionaries arrived, and one of the optios began to call time, the Romans checked the efforts of the defenders. The heavy doors were still, caught between the desperate scrums of defenders and attackers. On either side Macro saw the first of the legionaries climbing up the assault ladders. The man was caught in the dull orange pools of light cast by the torches on the wall and was picked off at once by the archers above the gate, tumbling back from the ladders, pierced with the dark shafts of arrows. But the next man was already clambering up the ladder an instant later, one-handed as he covered himself as best he could with his shield as he climbed.

  Macro felt the door he was leaning against shift a little and glancing towards the slim gap between the edges he saw that it was wider, and then widening perceptibly. His heart swelled with triumph and elation and he shouted encouragement to the men packed around him, gasping from their desperate efforts to force the gate open.

  ‘It’s giving! Keep at it, lads! Heave!’

  Macro’s feet were solidly braced on the worn slabs of paving as his legs strained with every fibre of his strength. Slowly, but surely, the Romans gained ground as the heavy iron hinges groaned under the pressures being applied to the doors. The narrow gap continued to open and now Macro could see through it to the packed ranks of the rebels inside the city. The nearest of them saw him at the same time, and leaped for the gap, stabbing at Macro with a long finely wrought blade. Macro threw his head to the side as the tip shot past his cheek guard, and was then whipped back.