Centurion

by Simon Scarrow

  They marched another thirty paces and halted, the bucina’s shrill notes echoing back off the citadel walls. The man carrying the standard slowly swirled it in the air so that it was clearly visible. They moved forward again, stopping just short of the wall of the merchants’ yards. A figure appeared above them, one of Artaxes’ officers, Cato decided, judging from the fine scale armour and accoutrements.

  ‘No closer, Roman!’ the man called out in Greek. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I wish to speak to Prince Artaxes.’

  ‘Why?’

  Cato smiled at the man’s directness. ‘I will not speak to his minion. Only to the prince himself.’

  The rebel officer scowled for a moment and then pointed at Cato. ‘Stay there, Roman. Move from that spot and my archers will shoot you down like dogs!’

  ‘Very well.’

  The rebel officer ducked out of sight and Cato and his companions were left staring at the enemy soldiers lining the wall and talking in excited tones as they tried to guess what the Roman emissary wanted with their prince. The man with the standard was still waving it from side to side.

  ‘That’s no longer necessary.’ Cato said to him. ‘We have their attention.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’ The auxiliaries stood at ease and waited behind their commander in the bright sunshine. Time dragged past and Cato undid his neck scarf and dabbed at the sweat trickling down his face from under his helmet. He was tempted to undo the chin ties and remove it for a moment to escape the stifling burden as he stood under the midday sun. Then he fought the temptation off. It would only look like weakness in front of the enemy. A small weakness, and a justifiable one, he reflected, but he was damned if he was going to show them any sign of discomfort. Far better to let them see how hardy Roman soldiers could be. He casually retied the cloth round his neck and stood at ease, staring directly at the wall before him and not shifting his gaze as he tried to create the look of a wholly imperturbable man.

  After what seemed an age in the still, baking heat, Cato sensed movement to one side and turned to see a small party of men turn the corner of the wall of the merchants’ yards. At their head was a young, slender man in fine yellow robes whose folds shimmered as he strode towards the Romans. He wore a sword belt from which hung a bejewelled scabbard that glinted as the sun caught the polished gold trimming and jewels set into the design. His beard was neatly trimmed and his hair glistened in the bright sunlight from the scented oil that had been combed into it. Behind him marched a bodyguard composed of six large spearmen, well muscled beneath their scale armour.

  Cato turned towards them and raised his hand in salute. ‘Do I have the honour of addressing Prince Artaxes?’

  ‘You do,’ the prince replied curtly. ‘What do you want?’

  Cato had memorised the statement he wished to make and spoke carefully to ensure that there was no misunderstanding.

  ‘The king wishes to inform you that this is a struggle between you and him. Between your followers and his. The ordinary people of his kingdom are harmless bystanders and should be treated as such. Accordingly, His Majesty has sent me to ask you to offer a safe passage for the civilians presently sheltering inside the citadel. They were misguided in thinking that they had anything to fear at your hands and only want to return to their homes and businesses that they might continue with their lives, under whichever king your God chooses as ruler of Palmyra.’

  Artaxes nodded slightly, and glanced round at his bodyguards. ‘Stay there.’ He cautiously paced up to Cato until they were well within dagger thrust of each other, and then lowered his voice so that only the two of them would hear his words.

  ‘At the risk of being impious, it is my men, and my Parthian allies, who will decide the fate of Palmyra. We both know that, Roman, so let’s leave the Gods out of this, eh?’

  ‘As you wish, Prince.’ Cato nodded. ‘But General Longinus may reach Palmyra before your Parthian friends, in which case it would serve you and your followers well to let the civilians leave the citadel. One act of mercy might be rewarded with another.’

  Artaxes shook his head mockingly. ‘Roman, the Parthian army is less than fifty miles from the city. Where is your general? If what I hear is true, your Roman army marches like a snail. It cannot possibly reach Palmyra before the Parthians. Your time is short. Why should I show any mercy to my enemies?’

  ‘Because they are not your enemies. If you are right, then in a matter of days they will be your subjects. Show them mercy and they will respect you.’

  ‘Ah, but if I show them none, then the rest of my subjects will fear me.’ Artaxes smiled. ‘You tell me, Roman, which quality a king should value most, respect or fear?’

  ‘I cannot answer for a king, but I would say respect.’

  ‘Then, truly, you are a fool. We stand here right now because my father was not feared. Nor was he respected at the end. When he lost respect he could not rely on fear to save him. I will not make the same mistake. I will make men fear me utterly, and they will do my bidding with no thought of dissent. And the slaughter of the civilians who are presently cowering behind the walls of the citadel will be useful proof of my intentions. They are dead the moment you throw them out.’

  ‘Who said we would throw them out?’

  Artaxes feigned surprise. ‘Surely that is why you are here, pleading for their lives? I am not a fool, Roman. You cannot feed them; that is why my father wants them out. That means you are short of supplies, and that I am close to victory.’ He stared at Cato for a moment. ‘Is that not so, Roman?’

  Cato did not reply at once. As he had feared, Artaxes had seen through the ploy in an instant. Cato could deny that they were short of supplies but he saw that Artaxes would not believe him. Now there was only one final bargaining counter to bring into play. He nodded his assent to Artaxes.

  ‘You are right, Prince. However, I have a proposal for you. If you let the civilians leave, and do no harm to them, then in five days’ time the two Roman cohorts will leave the citadel and surrender to you. You can dispose of us as you will.’

  Artaxes stared at him briefly before replying. ‘Have you not heard of the fate I have promised to any Romans that I take alive?’

  ‘I have heard.’

  ‘Then why make such a foolish offer?’

  ‘As you said, we cannot hold out for much longer. We are dead men either way. At least this would give some purpose to our deaths.’

  ‘I see. And if you are dead either way, why should I agree to this?’

  ‘You know the quality of Rome’s soldiers. If you have to destroy us in battle then how many of your men do you think we will take with us?’ It was a bluff, since by that time the men would be too weak to put up much resistance, but Cato needed Artaxes to believe it, and he stood with an unflinching expression as he waited for the rebel leader to reply.

  ‘You would give your lives for the people of Palmyra?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  Cato drew himself up as he replied. ‘It takes the Empire several months to create and train a cohort. It has taken the Roman army a hundred years to build a reputation. We are not going to be remembered for throwing defenceless people to jackals like you.’

  Artaxes’ eyes widened for an instant and his hand clasped the handle of his sword. Then he forced a smile and relaxed his hand. ‘Why should I believe that you would give yourselves up freely?’

  ‘For the same reason we will believe that you have spared the civilians. Trust. If you give your word that they will not be harmed, then I give you my word that we will surrender to you, if we have not been relieved within five days. If either of us breaks his word the penalty is the same: infamy across the whole region.’

  Artaxes considered this for a moment and Cato prayed that the prince’s desire to visit destruction on the men of Rome outweighed his reason. Artaxes shut his eyes for a moment and stroked his neatly trimmed beard. Then he shook his head.

  ‘No. I will not make a deal w
ith you. If we are to destroy your cohorts then we will do it in battle and prove to the world that the soldiers of Palmyra are more than a match for your legionaries and auxiliaries. As for the civilians? You will have to force them out of the citadel, and see what happens to them.’

  The cold malice in his tone was clear to Cato and he felt the icy grip of fear clutch at the base of his neck. It was clear that Artaxes had the makings of a tyrant. Inspiring fear came as naturally to him as striking at prey came to a snake.

  ‘Is that your final word?’ asked Cato.

  ‘Yes … No.’ Artaxes smiled again. ‘Just one more thing. Tell my father, and my brothers, assuming they still live, that when the citadel is taken, I will have them flayed alive and their bodies will be cast into the desert for the jackals to feed on.’ His dark lips curled back in a grin as he raised a hand and pointed a finger at Cato. ‘And you can join them, Roman. Then we’ll see how long your superior attitude lasts.’

  Cato swallowed, and tried to keep his face composed as he turned towards the two men who had accompanied him. ‘Back to the citadel. Quick march.’

  As they tramped back across the agora Cato sensed the cold stare of Artaxes boring into his back and could not resist one glance over his shoulder. Artaxes saw him and smiled with satisfaction before turning to stride towards the far corner of the merchants’ yards, followed by his bodyguards. Before he reached it a man came running round the end of the wall, sprinted towards Artaxes and dropped down on one knee as he began to speak. Cato was too far away to hear the words and continued towards the gates at a slower pace while he watched. He saw Artaxes ball his hand into a fist and turn to glare at Cato, his expression twisted into a mask of rage.

  Artaxes’ voice cut through the air as he turned and ran for shelter. Above him, along the wall, his men were hurriedly stringing their bows. Cato turned to his companions.

  ‘Run!’

  The three men sprinted towards the citadel. Cato heard Macro’s voice bellowing down to the men behind the gates and a moment later the hinges groaned in protest as they began to swing open. An arrow whirred overhead, then another clattered off the ground to one side. Cato hunched his head down and ran as fast as he could, weighed down by his armour. He saw the gap between the gates slowly widen ahead of him as the arrows continued to fly past. Then there was a sharp cry from his right. He glanced round and saw that the man carrying the standard had been struck in the back of the thigh, just above the knee.

  ‘Oh, shit!’ the auxiliary cried out, as he staggered another few paces and stopped.

  Cato turned to the other man. ‘Help me!’ He grabbed the injured man’s arm and threw it across his shoulder as the other auxiliary threw his bucina aside and took the other arm.

  ‘Let’s go!’ Cato growled through gritted teeth. ‘Go!’

  They hurried on, half carrying, half dragging the wounded man, who groaned with the agony of using his wounded leg. They were close to the gate, but the rebels were shooting more arrows at them than ever and Cato felt a hammer blow to the back of his shoulder as they stumbled under the gatehouse and through the gap, and then dropped to the ground as the legionaries on either side heaved the gates back into place and slid the locking bar across. Cato, gulping for breath, gestured towards the wounded man. ‘Get him to the surgeon.’

  While a pair of legionaries hauled the man up and carried him away towards the royal garden courtyard which now served as the hospital, Cato stood up and felt round towards his back, wincing at a sudden stab of pain. But there was no shaft of an arrow; the chain-mail vest had done its job well. If the impact hadn’t cracked a rib then he would only suffer bruising. Macro emerged from the gatehouse staircase.

  ‘I take it he wasn’t interested in our offer?’

  ‘You could put it that way.’

  Macro tilted his head to one side. ‘Can’t say I’m sorry that we’re going to go down fighting, rather than be butchered in cold blood. All the same,’ he turned and looked towards a family huddled together in the shadow of the royal quarters, ‘I pity those poor bastards. They haven’t got a chance now.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘The decision has been made,’ Balthus said firmly. ‘We must sacrifice the civilians, and it must be done now, before they consume any more supplies.’

  There was a mumble of assent around the handful of senior officers and officials who had gathered in the audience chamber that night, but Cato refused to give in and spoke again.

  ‘I’m telling you, something’s happened. A messenger approached Artaxes just after the parley finished. Whatever he told him must have been bad news.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Balthus. ‘Did you hear what he said?’

  ‘No,’ Cato admitted. ‘But there was no mistaking the look on his face.’

  ‘So you say. But it could have been almost anything.’

  ‘I don’t think so. What bad news could he be expecting? The Parthians are on the way to join him. We’ve almost run out of supplies, and all Artaxes has to do is bide his time and the citadel will fall into his hands.’ Cato paused to let his words sink in before continuing. ‘The only bad news he could be expecting is the approach of Longinus and his army.’

  Macro cleared his throat and Cato glanced round as his friend shook his head. ‘Cato.’ Macro spoke gently. ‘It’s possible that you’re right. Just possible. It’s probable that you’re wrong.’

  ‘I’m not wrong. I know it.’

  ‘You know only what you saw. What you thought you saw in a glance back at Artaxes. That’s not enough. We can’t take the risk that Longinus is coming. We must go through with the plan. The civilians have to be sacrificed.’

  ‘And what if I’m right?’ Cato stared round at the others. ‘The blood of hundreds of people will be on our hands.’

  There was a tense pause before Thermon rose to his feet. ‘That is the price we must accept, Roman. What if we let them stay? The remaining water and food would be exhausted in another day or two at the most. All we would have achieved then is a short delay in their deaths. At the cost of the lives of everyone in the citadel.’

  ‘But if Longinus is close to the city then we can all be saved.’

  ‘And if he isn’t? If he arrives just a day after we have been starved into submission? Then it would all have been for nothing. So let the sacrifice be made, and let us hope that it achieves something. It would be far better that the people died in order to save their kingdom than to wait a few more days and die in vain. Surely you can see that?’

  Cato’s lips pressed into a thin line as he held in his anger and frustration, and Macro gently drew him back on to his chair. ‘Lad, he’s right. We can’t take the risk. You’re the one who thinks things through. If it had been me who had gone to speak to Artaxes, and I came back with some story, what would you think? What would you do?’

  Cato looked at his friend. ‘I would trust your judgement, that’s what I’d do.’

  Before Macro could respond, Thermon brought the meeting to an end. He spoke in a sombre tone. ‘As I see it, there is no good reason to change our plan. Before I report to the king, does anyone else wish to speak in support of Prefect Cato’s position? … No? Then the matter is decided. I bid you good evening, gentlemen. Get some rest. Tomorrow is likely to be a very trying day.’

  The round-up of civilians began before dawn. Those soldiers with family in the citadel were assembled in one of the storerooms and placed under guard with no explanation. They were provided with some bread and wine from the king’s kitchens, and once they were safely contained the legionaries began the task of rousing the civilians from their makeshift shelters in the courtyards. It was a distressing task for the men, but Macro had volunteered the legionaries for the job. They were hard-bitten professionals with a higher proportion of veterans than Cato’s cohort, men who could be relied on to carry out their orders without sentiment. Cato’s auxiliaries, together with the Greek mercenaries and the followers of Balthus, had been posted on the walls with
strict instructions not to leave their posts until relieved.

  Flickering torches in hand, the legionaries gathered up the men, women and children and drove them towards the open area behind the gates. Two centuries created a cordon blocking any attempt at escape with their broad shields and lowered javelins. The civilians were not given time to collect any belongings and any food or drink that was found on them was taken away. Soon the cold dawn air was filled with their cries of anger and despair. Women clutched their children in their arms while the men confronted the Romans and shouted their rage, shook their fists, but kept just out of reach of the deadly points of the javelins. When all the obvious places had been searched Macro led one of his centuries out to scour the citadel for any remaining civilians who had tried to conceal themselves, and a steady trickle of individuals and families were added to the wailing crowd packed in behind the gate.

  Having searched the area close to the burned-out grain stores Macro was about to move on to the ruins of the courtyard which had served as the hospital when he heard a thin cry. He paused and turned, listening, as his eyes scanned the blackened debris around him. Nothing moved and all was quiet. He relaxed his attention as one of his legionaries came tramping up and saluted.

  ‘Sir, beg to report we’ve swept this area. The optio wishes to know if you have any further orders.’

  Just then Macro heard the sound again, a faint yowl, like a hungry cat. He raised his finger to his lips. ‘Quiet.’