Centurion

by Simon Scarrow

  The Greek officer nodded and switching his spear to his shield hand he drew his falcata and shouted an order to his men. ‘Use your swords! Cut the ropes! Set fire to their stores!’

  At once his men abandoned their failing flames and set about the thick coarse ropes from which the ram was suspended. The air was filled with the dull thud of swords striking the twisted hemp and Cato made himself keep his mouth shut as he willed them to work faster. But the night was already coming to an end, he knew, as he glanced at the sky lightening above the rooftops of Palmyra.

  Around him the last of the enemy had been killed or sent running and there were no more sounds of clashing weapons in the temple precinct, no more shouted war cries or muttered oaths. Here and there a man groaned with pain, or called out pitifully for help. Cato strode back towards the ruined barricade and cocked an ear in the direction of the eastern gate. He was relieved to hear the sounds of distant fighting. Macro and the others had begun their attack, and with luck were fighting their way into the city.

  A sudden shout of triumph and a dull thud drew Cato’s attention back and he turned to see that the rear of the ram had been cut from its ropes and had fallen to the ground. Archelaus’ men at once attacked the remaining ropes with a desperate frenzy of blows. Beyond the temple, in the heart of the city, horns sounded, urgently blasting deep notes to waken and summon the rebel soldiers to trap and slaughter the small band of the royal guard who had had the audacity to mount this sortie against the rebels’ siege weapon.

  ‘Time we got out of here,’ Archelaus muttered. ‘They’ll be after us at any moment.’

  The commander echoed his thoughts a moment later by ordering his men to quit the precinct and form up beyond the remains of the barricade. Archelaus’ men abandoned the ram and hurried back towards the agora. Cato quickly inspected the damage. The ram was hanging by one length of cord, badly frayed from sword slashes. Elsewhere flames licked up from piles of hemp and timber. It would set the rebels back perhaps half a day, he estimated. Not much, but it would frustrate Prince Artaxes and his followers and raise the moral of those sheltering in the citadel.

  ‘Prefect!’

  Cato turned to see Archelaus beckoning to him in the thin light of the coming dawn. He left the ram housing and trotted back to join the mercenaries. The sound of fighting from the eastern gate had faded slightly and Cato fervently hoped that it was because Macro and his men had succeeded in penetrating the city. From the other direction the shouts of the rebels and the blasts of their horns and beating of drums drew closer. As soon as the last of the injured men had been helped into the formation, the commander gave the order to withdraw. In tight ranks the mercenaries marched at a steady pace across the agora towards the citadel gate. A small unit of the bodyguard stood there, defending the gate against any surprise attack from the rebels. Cato nodded with approval. That was the kind of cautious contingency he approved of. Clearly the commander of the syntagma was an experienced and capable officer.

  They had covered over half the distance to the gate when the first of the rebel reinforcements appeared on the far side of the agora. More poured out of the other entrances on to the paved expanse and the commander gave the order for the mercenaries to quicken their pace. Glancing back, Cato could see that they would easily reach the gate before the rebels could mass enough men together to charge the retreating mercenaries. The gate would be shut before that happened. With a sick feeling Cato realised that it would also be shut in face of the relief column as they approached the citadel.

  ‘Archelaus! We must stop.’

  ‘Stop?’ The Greek turned to stare at him as if Cato was mad. He nodded over his shoulder. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed …’

  ‘We have to keep the gate open. We must leave a way in for the relief column.’

  Archelaus frowned for a moment, then hissed through his teeth. ‘You’re right. Come with me.’

  He forced a way through the ranks until they reached the commander of the formation.

  ‘Sir!’Archelaus called out. ‘We must halt.’

  ‘Halt?’ The commander shook his head. ‘Why?’

  Cato pushed forward. ‘We have to keep the way to the citadel clear for the relief column.’

  The commander thought for a moment and then shook his head. ‘Too much of a risk. We have to look after ourselves. They’ll have to fight their way to the gates.’

  ‘No!’ Cato snapped. ‘You can’t abandon them.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Roman.’

  ‘Damn you! We marched across a desert to help you. Good men have died for you.’ Cato forced himself to calm down and muttered, ‘Have you no shame?’

  The commander rounded on him angrily, disrupting the march of his men so that they had to flow around the three officers. ‘Listen, Roman, I don’t take orders from you. I look after my men first, and then my employer. You’re not even on my list of priorities.’

  Cato glared at him, as his mind raced to come up with some way of persuading the mercenary commander to change his mind. ‘Look, you need us. A thousand more men in the garrison could be the difference between surviving until General Longinus arrives with his army, and being wiped out. And supposing you do abandon our relief column, and Longinus gets to hear about it? He’d have his revenge on you. Either way, you die if you don’t help those men.’ Cato thrust his arm towards the eastern gate.

  The commander clenched his jaw for an instant and then shrugged wearily. ‘It seems you leave me no choice, Prefect. Very well then.’ He drew a sharp breath and bellowed, ‘Halt! Form a line across the agora! Wounded to the citadel!’

  The mercenaries halted abruptly, and then, cajoled by their officers, they spread across the open space and formed up facing the rebels surging towards them. They closed ranks until their shields overlapped and then raised their spears, resting the shafts on shield rims as the enemy drew closer. The commander gestured impatiently to Archelaus.

  ‘Take ten men from the rear rank. Go and find the relief column, and tell them to get here as quick as they can. I will hold the way open for as long as I can, then …’

  Cato slapped Archelaus on the shoulder before the commander could change his mind. ‘Let’s go!’

  The small party peeled away from the syntagma and ran for the avenue that led towards the east gate. A loud cheer went up from the rebels as they broke into a charge, hurling themselves towards the thin line of Greek mercenaries with their deadly spears. Cato ignored them and ran into the avenue that led down from the citadel into the heart of the city. The avenue was broad and clear, and in the dimness of the gathering light he could see the sprawl of Palmyra’s poorest quarter spread out before him. They trotted down the incline, eyes warily searching for any sign of the enemy. Ahead the route bent slightly and as they rounded the corner Cato saw the familiar oblong shapes of legionary shields marching up towards him. He could not resist letting out a cheer and waving his sword arm in greeting. Archelaus and the others followed suit as they ran towards the relief column.

  Then Cato saw the archers behind the first century of Macro’s cohort. He saw them raise their bows, take aim and loose a hail of arrows.

  ‘Down!’ he shouted to Archelaus, ducking behind his shield. The mercenaries followed suit, save one who paused too long to stare in bewilderment at the dark shafts streaking towards them. With a wet thwack an arrow slammed through his throat and burst out at the back of his neck. He reached for the shaft with a shocked expression etched on his face, and tried to speak, but couldn’t as blood filled his throat.

  Cato tore his eyes away and shouted down the alley, as loud as he could.

  ‘Cease shooting! It’s Prefect Cato!’

  More arrows rattled off the paved avenue and the fronts of their shields. Then there was a gasp and Cato glanced round and saw Archelaus topple backwards on to the ground, an arrow shaft protruding from his chest, just below the shoulder.

  ‘Cease shooting!’ Cato cried out desperately.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN


  Macro felt a chill clamp round the back of his neck as he heard Cato’s cry. Instantly, he turned and bellowed towards Balthus and his men. ‘Stop! Cease shooting!’ He gestured frantically towards the dim figures sheltering behind their round shields. ‘They’re on our side!’

  Balthus lowered his bow and shouted an order to his men and they followed suit, easing the tension on the nocked arrows. Satisfied that the danger was over Macro thrust his way through the front ranks, and started running up the hill towards his friend, bellowing the order for the column to continue their advance towards the citadel.

  ‘Cato! Cato! Where are you, lad?’ Macro slowed as he approached the men warily rising up from behind their shields. One man was down, lying flat on his back and quite still, shot through the throat by an arrow. Another man lay on the ground clutching the shaft that had pierced his thigh. A third man was wounded in the shoulder and was being helped up by one of his comrades who had already pulled the arrow free.

  ‘Cato?’

  A face turned towards him, and in the growing light Macro felt a wave of relief wash through him as he recognised his friend. He forced a laugh. ‘Might have guessed that you’d be lucky enough to dodge those arrows.’

  Cato’s expression remained grim. ‘It’s a bloody miracle that any of us are still standing.’

  ‘Well,’ Macro waved his hand dismissively, ‘we were hardly expecting to see friendly faces before we reached the citadel. In any case, it’s easy to mistake friend for foe in the darkness, as we all know.’

  Cato stared coldly at him for a moment and Macro fervently wished he had not said what he had. He stepped forward and reached down towards the man Cato was helping. ‘I’ll take his other side.’

  ‘No, wait.’

  But Macro had already slipped his hand under the man’s arm and lifted him with a powerful heave. The mercenary rose to his feet with an agonised groan and Macro saw that the stump of the shaft still protruded from the wound where it had snapped off.

  ‘Ah, sorry, mate. Couldn’t see it there.’

  The mercenary clenched his teeth together and rolled his eyes as he fought back the agony burning through his shoulder.

  Cato shook his head. ‘Nice going, sir.’

  ‘Only trying to help.’ Macro’s tone was momentarily surly. ‘Anyway, what’s the situation and what in the well are you doing wearing that get-up?’

  ‘I’d hardly be able to sneak into Palmyra with full kit, would I? In any case,’ Cato looked away as he supported Archelaus, ‘I wanted to be there to make sure the relief column reached the citadel safely.’

  Macro was deeply moved by his friend’s concern for his safety, and then felt a surge of embarrassment. At once he tried to push the feeling aside before Cato could guess at it. He turned away to urge the relief column to pick up its pace before he could trust himself to address Cato again. ‘These Greeks of yours look tough enough. I assume there’s more like ’em in the citadel.’

  ‘They’re not my Greeks. These men are under the command of Archelaus,’ Cato nodded towards the man he was helping.

  ‘Archelaus, eh? Pleased to meet you.’ Macro thrust out his hand, but the Greek, still clenching his teeth, glanced down at his wound and then back at Macro with raised eyebrows.

  ‘Ah, yes. Sorry.’ Macro smiled awkwardly. ‘Good to meet you all the same.’

  Cato grunted under his burden. ‘Now the formalities are over, let’s get to the citadel.’

  ‘Yes, of course. These men can fall in with us.’ Macro looked up the street as the sound of the fighting in the agora carried towards them. ‘What’s happening up ahead?’

  ‘The king’s bodyguard are keeping the citadel gates cleared for you,’ Cato explained. ‘But we must hurry. They won’t be able to hold the rebels back for long.’

  The column continued up the street, towards the sound of fighting. As they emerged into the agora Macro glanced to his right and saw the line of Greek mercenaries giving ground under pressure of the enemy hacking at them from beyond their shield wall. From the walls of the citadel, a steady barrage of arrows, javelins and ballista bolts rained down on the rebel horde, thinning their numbers as they surged towards the Greeks.

  ‘Keep moving there!’ Macro shouted at his men, who had slowed to take in the spectacle. ‘It’s not a bloody day at the circus! Shift yourselves!’

  The column moved forward at a quick pace towards the open gate, where Macro stepped aside to wave his men on. Cato left two of Archelaus’ men to help their officer to the hospital and then he joined Macro. Once the legionaries had passed through the gate, the mounted men followed: Balthus and his men, and then the squadrons from the Second Illyria. Centurion Parmenion marched at the head of the auxiliary infantry who formed the rearguard. As soon as he recognised Cato he smiled and saluted.

  ‘Good to see you, sir.’

  ‘And you, Centurion. How have the men fared?’

  ‘We’ve had no problems, sir. The lads from the Tenth did most of the hard work. They took the gate and cleared a path through the rebels.’ He glanced at Macro and continued in a gently grudging tone, ‘They did a fine job, sir.’

  Macro shrugged. ‘Of course; they’re legionaries. But the lads of the Second Illyrian could have done the job just as well,’ he added tactfully. ‘And we were helped by Balthus and his boys. A team effort all round, I’d say.’

  Cato looked at him and smiled. ‘You’ve become quite the diplomat.’

  ‘Diplomat?’ Macro frowned. ‘Sod off. I’ll leave that to the broadstripers. I lack a smooth tongue and the necessary arse-licking skills.’

  Cato laughed. ‘An unsavoury image if ever there was one.’

  Macro punched him on the shoulder. ‘Fine. Let’s drop the subject, eh? Hardly the time and place for smart words.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  Macro was about to reply when a fresh roar of cheering burst out from the enemy ranks. All three officers turned to see the right flank of the mercenaries’ line crumple before the relentless pressure of the rebels. Already several of them had broken through and were ruthlessly cutting down the Greeks. More of them pressed on, exploiting the overlap, and Cato could see that the royal bodyguards were in danger of being rolled up, surrounded and slaughtered. Macro’s experienced eye read the situation at once.

  ‘Cato, get your lads to plug the gap. Now.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Cato nodded and ran out a short distance to the side of the column, still marching towards the citadel gate. ‘Second Illyrian! Halt! … Right face!’

  The months of hard training that Macro and Cato had put them through paid off as the cohort moved from column to line in a few heartbeats. Cato paused for another breath and shouted the order. ‘Open ranks by half-century!’

  The men shuffled aside to create lanes through their lines, and when the manoeuvre was complete Cato drew his sword and swept it towards the failing Greek line. ‘Advance!’

  The Second Illyrian moved evenly across the agora, their ranks carefully watched and dressed by their officers as they closed on the mercenaries. The commander of the syntagma glanced back and saw the auxiliaries coming to his aid. He saw the gaps in the line and grasped Cato’s intention immediately. Turning back to his men he cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed, ‘Fall back! Fall back to the citadel!’

  The mercenaries began to back away from the rebels, stabbing their spears frantically to try to create a gap between them and their enemies. As soon as some were clear they turned and ran towards Cato’s men, immediately endangering their slower comrades as the rebels swarmed into the gaps in the rapidly fragmenting line. A handful were cut off and overwhelmed, attacked from all sides as they desperately swirled round, trying to block the rebels’ blows. Inevitably, a blade darted in, and as each man staggered back from the wound he was hacked to the ground in a flurry of sword blows and spear thrusts. The first of the mercenaries reached the approaching line of Roman troops and hurried through the gaps. Cato drew his sword once mor
e and stepped into place alongside Parmenion in the middle of the line. As they paced forward across the paving stones Cato glanced to both sides, gauging the moment. As the last of the mercenaries passed through the gaps he shouted an order.

  ‘Close ranks!’

  The men on the rear rank hurriedly stepped round and forward to fill the gaps as the rebels raced towards them.

  ‘Shields to the front!’ Cato yelled, just before the impact, and at once the auxiliaries’ broad shields swept round to confront the rebels with a wall of gleaming bosses. The sharp points of swords glinted brightly where they punctuated the line of shields. At the sight the rebels hesitated for a brief moment, and the charge immediately lost its impetus. The two lines came together in a rolling chorus of shield thudding against shield, swords striking home against hide-covered wood, and the brittle clatter of blade clashing against blade. Cato hunched down behind his borrowed shield and braced his legs. A blow thudded against the rim, driving it back against his helmet. Cato saw white briefly, blinked and then thrust his sword out. There was no contact and he snatched his sword arm back before any rebel could slash at his unprotected flesh. On either side men grunted as they struck out, some bellowing full-throated war cries, insults or defiance. Mingled with this were the gasps and groans of the wounded and dying. Cato concentrated on keeping his position in the front rank of his cohort, knowing full well that as long as the line held the Second Illyrian would hold their own, despite the unequal numbers.

  The rebel charge had halted the Roman advance and now they stood, feet braced, punching out their shields as they stabbed at any of the enemy who dared to press their attack too closely. In the growing light Cato saw the glint of a blade rising in front of his shield and instinctively threw his sword up to block the blow. An instant later the heavy tip of a falcata crashed against his short sword, driving Cato’s weapon down. His arm felt numb and Cato clenched his fist with all his strength to retain a firm grip on the handle. The falcata rose again, accompanied by a triumphant snarl from the rebel who was wielding the weapon. This time Cato was able to swing his shield up and punched it out to meet the sword as he swung his own blade in a short scything cut at the man’s leading leg. The blow landed at the same time as the shield boss rang overhead and drove down on to Cato’s helmet. As he went down on one knee he heard the rebel howl with pain and rage and Cato saw that the edge of his sword had cut deep into the man’s thigh, severing muscles all the way to the bone. The man stumbled back and slumped to the ground as he dropped his weapon and clamped a hand over the wound, trying to stem the rush of blood. Then another man jumped in front of him and he was lost to Cato’s view.