Centurion

by Simon Scarrow

  A hand gripped Cato’s arm and pulled him on to his feet and back into the Roman formation. Cato glanced round and saw Parmenion.

  ‘Are you injured, Prefect?’

  ‘No.’

  Parmenion nodded, then leaned to one side as a spear stabbed past his head. Cato cut down on the shaft, knocking it to the ground, and then slashed at the hand grasping it, smashing knuckles and cutting tendons, so that the spear fell from nerveless fingers.

  ‘Give ground!’ Cato ordered. ‘Parmenion, call the pace.’

  ‘One!’ Parmenion shouted, and the cohort backed off a step. ‘Two! One! Two!’

  The Second Illyrian steadily withdrew towards the citadel and Cato eased his way back through the ranks to the side of the standard-bearer. A withdrawal was one of the most difficult manoeuvres to handle. If the formation faltered, or fell apart, then the Palmyran rebels would cut them to pieces. Cato saw that the last of the mercenaries had entered the citadel and Macro stood alone under the massive stone arch, beckoning to Cato. Beside him Parmenion continued to call the pace and the cohort edged slowly towards the gate. The left flank was protected by the towering wall and the archers and javelin throwers pelting the rebels from above. But the right of the line would soon have to fold back and the rebels would flow round the edge and surround the Romans just as they had the Greek mercenaries.

  ‘Parmenion! On me!’

  As soon as his second-in-command was at his side Cato indicated the right flank. ‘I’ll take command of the flank century. As soon as the left of the line reaches the gate you get them inside a century at a time. I’ll cover you until it’s our turn.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Parmenion nodded. ‘Good luck, sir.’

  ‘I’ll need it.’

  Cato ran down the rear of the cohort until he reached the first century of the cohort, composed of picked men. Their commander, Centurion Metellus, saluted as Cato reached him.

  ‘Hot work, sir.’

  ‘And about to get hotter.’ Cato smiled grimly. ‘We’re going to cover the withdrawal through the gate. When I give the order, I want the first cohort to form a wedge. We’ll move up towards the gate and hold the ground in front of it until the rest of the cohort are through.’

  ‘I understand, sir,’ Centurion Metellus replied calmly. ‘My lads won’t let you down.’

  Cato smiled. ‘I know.’

  He glanced round and saw that the last of the cohort’s wounded men, and the mounted troops assigned to protect them, were already trotting back through the gate as the auxiliaries withdrew towards the citadel. The time had come for the first century to move away from the buildings on their right, opening the way for the rebels to sweep round their flank. Cato nodded to Centurion Metellus. ‘Give the order.’

  Metellus filled his lungs and bellowed. ‘First century will form a wedge!’ He paused a moment and counted to three under his breath and then, ‘Manoeuvre!’

  At once the flanking sections folded back to form the second and third sides and then the auxiliaries faced out so that the wedge presented shields on all three faces. The rebels surged into the gaps and flowed round Metellus’ century, hacking and thrusting at the shields.

  ‘First century! Advance towards the gate!’

  With Metellus calling the pace the wedge edged across the agora, surrounded by the rebels, who were shouting with excitement and triumph, like wild predators scenting an imminent kill. As Cato had hoped, the pressure eased on the other centuries and they began to retire without too much trouble through the gate, while the rebels turned their fury on the remaining unit slowly forcing its way through the mob. Looking out over the close ranks of the auxiliaries Cato could see that most of the rebels surrounding them were lightly armed. As yet, only a handful of Prince Artaxes’ regular soldiers had reached the fight, but then the blast of a horn echoed across the agora and Cato glanced round to see a column of soldiers emerge on the other side of the agora. Immediately they broke into a trot, making straight for the fight in front of the citadel gates.

  ‘We have to pick up the pace,’ Cato decided. ‘Metellus!’

  ‘I see them, sir,’ Metellus replied quickly and called out to his men more frequently. ‘One! … Two!’

  Cato saw that they were no more than fifty feet from the gate. Macro had retreated through the arch and Cato could see his transverse crest amongst the dense formation of legionaries formed up just inside the citadel. On the walls above, the archers had turned their attention towards the new enemy column pounding across the agora. The dark shafts of arrows rattled on to the paving, or splintered shields, with a few shots striking men down as they ran to cut off the retreat of the last of the Romans outside the citadel.

  Already the pressure from the dense mass of men outside the small wedge formation was taking its toll and the auxiliaries began to slow, all the while slamming their shields and stabbing their swords into the press of enemy bodies. Suddenly, one rebel, more daring than his comrades, grabbed the top of a shield of one the men close to Cato. Before the auxiliary could cut at the man’s fingers, the rebel wrenched the shield down savagely, smacking the bottom rim into the auxiliary’s shins. The man gasped with pain and in that moment of hesitation, with his upper body exposed, another rebel thrust a spear at his throat. The point tore through his neck cloth and burst out from under the helmet neck guard. As the man sagged forward on to his knees the spearman leaped forward into the gap.

  ‘No, you don’t!’ Cato growled, and rushed the few paces to the rebel, throwing his weight behind his shield as a spear thrust glanced off the curved surface, and then Cato smashed into the man, sending him reeling back into the mob. Cato stopped level with the auxiliaries on either side, taking the place of the fallen soldier. His heart was racing, beating like a drum in his chest. He drew a breath and cried out. ‘Keep moving! If we stop, we die!’

  The men at the head of the wedge pressed forward again, punching with their shields and thrusting and hacking at the enemy with their short swords. They gained perhaps another ten paces before the formation was stalled again, tantalisingly close to the gate, just as the first of the fresh rebel soldiers reached the fight and forced their way through towards the Romans. Then Cato realised, with certainty, that the first century would make no further progress towards the gate. He slammed his shield out, then slashed his sword in an arc before he risked a glimpse towards the gate, no more than a few paces away. It was still open, and already some of the rebels were turning towards it, sensing the opportunity.

  ‘Shut the gate!’ Cato roared, the cry tearing at his dry throat. ‘Macro, save yourself! Shut the gate!’

  A blow against his shield made Cato stagger back and then, with an icy calmness, he resolved to kill as many of his enemies as he could before he was cut down.

  ‘Bastards!’ he hissed through clenched teeth. Then his fist tightened round his sword handle and he hurled himself back into the line, hacking at the faces in front of him. He filled his lungs and roared, ‘Second Illyrian! Second Illyrian!’ The men around him took up the cry as they fought on. Pressed in from all sides the wedge became an oval, tightly clustered around their standard as the first of the fresh rebel soldiers reached them. The auxiliaries were more evenly matched now and began to fall in increasing numbers. The Romans fell back over the bodies of their comrades, closing ranks, breathing heavily, limbs burning with exhaustion as they blinked away splattered blood, grudgingly giving ground to the enemy.

  Cato felt a blow and then a burning sensation in his shield arm and glimpsed the blade of a falcata pulling back from a thrust into his arm just below the chain mail. He gritted his teeth and gave vent to a deep groan of pain and rage, swinging slightly as he slashed his sword down on the rebel’s blade, knocking it from his grasp. Then Cato reversed direction, slashing his blade up across the man’s breast, ripping through his light tunic and the flesh beneath, leaving a vivid crimson streak in the wake of his blade.

  There was a loud roar from the direction of the gate as Cat
o stepped back, his shield sagging as the last reserves of strength faded in his left arm. He glanced to the side and saw a dense column of legionaries spewing from the citadel gate. At their head was Macro, bellowing his war cry. The heavily armoured legionaries crashed through the loose throng of rebels closest to the gate and then carved a bloody path through those surrounding the small knot of the remaining auxiliaries. The ferocity of the attack momentarily stunned the rebels and Cato took his chance to call to his men.

  ‘On me! This way!’ He lowered his sword and drove his shield into the thinning enemy ranks between him and Macro. The auxiliaries let out a weary cheer and followed him, wildly hacking at the enemy as they fought their way towards their legionary comrades. Cato slammed his shield into one rebel’s side, sending him sprawling, and then he saw another man’s back ahead of him. His blade thrust forward, taking the rebel just below the shoulder. As his blade cut into the body, the glistening red tip of a sword burst through the man’s back. Cato wrenched his blade free and the rebel toppled aside, the weight of the corpse pulling it off the other sword, and there stood Macro, wild-eyed, splattered with blood and grinning like a madman.

  ‘So there you are! Go on, lad, get your men through to the gate. We’ll take it from here.’

  Cato nodded, then waved his men past as Macro’s legionaries cleared space on either side and held the enemy back. The exhausted auxiliaries staggered through the gate and collapsed or bent double along the walls on either side. Cato was the last in, and stood and watched as the legionaries fell back, in good order, pressed hard by the bitterly denied rebels, now crying out with rage and frustration that the auxiliaries had escaped them. The legionaries withdrew under the arch and the clash of blades echoed sharply off the masonry.

  ‘Get ready to close the gate!’ Macro yelled over his shoulder and the party of legionaries standing behind the stout doors placed their shoulders against the solid timbers and braced their booted feet against the paving slabs. As Macro and the last of the legionaries passed into the citadel he shouted the order. ‘Close the gate!’

  With a grunt the legionaries heaved and the doors began to swing as the iron hinges groaned. The gap steadily narrowed until only Macro remained hacking at the closest rebels, snarling defiance and insults at them. Cato, fearing that his friend would be caught between the doors, sheathed his sword and rushed forward to grasp Macro’s harness and haul him back with all his might. Sword arm flailing as he stumbled away from the enemy, Macro shouted, ‘What the fuck? What are you doing?’ Then the doors slammed into place with a reverberating thud and the legionaries thrust the locking bar across into its slot.

  The shouts of the rebels were at once deadened and around Cato men stood chests heaving as they gasped for breath. At last he released his grip on his shield and it slipped to the ground with a loud clang. He loosened his grip on Macro’s harness as Macro turned round and puffed out his cheeks.

  They looked at each other for a moment and then laughed spontaneously at the sheer surprise and delight of still being alive. Macro thrust his blade into his scabbard and jerked his thumb towards the gate.

  ‘So, that went as well as could be expected.’

  Cato smiled for a moment, before he was aware of the survivors of Metellus’ century around him, battered and bloodied with barely enough strength left to stay on their feet. ‘It could have been worse,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Yes.’ Macro’s smile faded. ‘Still, we made it. Life has become just a bit more difficult for that Prince Artaxes now that we’re here.’ His eyes moved to Cato’s arm, streaked with blood that dripped from the ends of his fingers. ‘You’d better get that seen to. Before we report to the ambassador.’

  ‘I will. Once the rest of my injured have been taken to the hospital.’ Before he turned away to give the necessary orders, Cato paused and stared fixedly at Macro. ‘Why did you do it?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Come for us just then.’

  Macro tried to brush the comment off. ‘We’re short-handed enough as it is. Last thing I can afford is to lose a century of good men, even if they are auxiliaries. That’s why. Anyway, what are friends for? You’d have done the same for me.’

  Cato nodded, but could not help smiling as he took a step back, grimacing at the odour clinging to his friend. ‘But if you don’t go and clean that filth off I might just think twice about returning the favour.’

  ‘Ha bloody ha. Now why don’t you just piss off to the hospital before I add to your injuries?’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The hospital was filled with the wounded. Even the colonnade outside the rooms set aside for the injured was lined with men slumped against the wall, or lying on the bare ground. The handful of medical orderlies were overwhelmed by the number of injured men from the king’s bodyguard and the relief column. The legionary surgeon who had taken charge assessed each man in turn, and those who were beyond help were carried across the courtyard to a small cell in the corner. As Cato eased one of his men on to the ground for the surgeon to examine he nodded towards the cell.

  ‘What happens to them in there?’

  The surgeon glanced at him with a warning look as he replied, ‘They are helped out of their pain.’

  ‘Oh … I see.’ Cato looked uneasily at the wounded man. A spear thrust had found a weak spot in his mail armour and burst through his stomach. The stench of his torn intestines and bowels wafted up and made Cato want to retch. The man’s eyes were clamped shut and he moaned continually as he clutched both hands over the wound. Cato turned towards the surgeon and saw the fleeting look of pity and resignation in the man’s face before the surgeon spoke softly.

  ‘Trust me, sir, they feel little pain and it is over quickly.’

  Cato did not feel reassured and rose up and stepped away from the wounded man feeling helpless and shamed. The surgeon beckoned to the orderlies assigned to stretcher duty and indicated the wounded man. ‘Special case,’ he said evenly before leaning over the man and squeezing his shoulder gently. ‘You’ll be taken care of, my friend. You will rest and your pain will be gone.’

  He stood up and let the orderlies shift the man on to the stretcher. Then they picked it up and carried him away. The surgeon turned to Cato and tilted his head to see the wound on his arm. ‘Let me see that.’

  ‘It’s not serious,’ Cato said in alarm. ‘A flesh wound.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that. Stand still and let me see.’

  The surgeon eased the mail and tunic sleeve up on to Cato’s shoulder and closely examined the cut, probing gently with his spare hand. Cato gritted his teeth and stared straight ahead until the surgeon released his arm.

  ‘The wound is clean enough. It will heal, once sutures have been applied.’

  ‘Sutures?’

  ‘Stitches.’ The surgeon patted Cato on the back and gestured towards the room at the end of the corridor. ‘In there. I have a most charming member of staff who will take care of you.’

  ‘We’ve already met,’ Cato muttered.

  ‘Good. Don’t be put off by the fact she’s a woman. I hear that the lady has been more help than most of the orderlies put together.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Cato nodded to the surgeon and the latter hurried away to tend to his patients. Cato set off down the corridor, not best pleased by the prospect of renewing his acquaintance with the sharp-tongued ambassador’s daughter. As he entered the room, the early morning light was streaming in through the two high windows, bathing the interior with a fine golden light. Julia was carefully winding a dressing round an auxiliary’s head.

  ‘I’ll deal with you in a moment,’ she said wearily without looking up. ‘Wait by the door.’

  Cato paused, consumed with frustration over any delay to his treatment. He needed to rejoin Macro and speak to the ambassador. He was also keen to quit the company of this overbearing woman. She seemed typical of her class: loud, arrogant and steadfast in the assumption that she would be obeyed at once. It was tempt
ing to dislike her straight away. Cato drew a deep, calming breath, entered the room, and sat on the bench beside the door. The ambassador’s daughter did not look up as she reached the end of the dressing and gently tied it off.

  ‘There!’ She stepped back to address the soldier. ‘You’ll need to rest a day or so.’

  The auxiliary laughed. ‘I wish I could, my lady. But I doubt the prefect will let me. He’s a hard case.’

  ‘Hard case?’ Julia smiled. ‘Him?’

  ‘Oh yes, miss! Been driving us on like slaves ever since we set off from Antioch. Looks fresh-faced enough, but underneath it he’s a right bast—’

  Cato cleared his throat loudly and they both looked round at him. The auxiliary was on his feet in an instant, standing stiffly at attention, staring fixedly at some spot above Cato’s head. His mouth opened and closed and he bit his lip in anticipation of the tirade to come. Cato looked steadily at him for a moment, devoid of expression. Then his eyes flickered to the woman.

  ‘Have you done with this man?’

  ‘Yes, Prefect Cato. The question is, have you?’

  ‘He is a soldier and he will do his duty as I see fit, my lady.’

  ‘But only when he is fit, surely?’