Centurion

by Simon Scarrow

  Both men stood still, ears pricked as they slowly looked round. There was another cry, more pronounced this time, and Macro knew that it was no cat.

  ‘Came from that way, sir. ‘The legionary pointed towards a blackened heap of burned grain baskets close to the remains of a wall. ‘I’m sure of it.’

  Macro nodded, beckoned to the man to follow him and then began to pick his way across the ruins towards the heap. The crying became continuous as they closed in and now Macro could hear a voice muttering anxiously. He stepped round the pile of burned baskets and saw that there was a narrow gap between it and the wall. A dark robe covered part of the gap and he saw it move slightly as the muttering grew in intensity.

  ‘There!’ said the legionary, and started to draw his sword.

  ‘Leave it,’ Macro ordered. ‘There’s no need.’

  He brushed past the legionary and crunched over the charred remains of baskets that littered the ground around the pile. When he reached the robe Macro bent down, grasped a corner and pulled it away in one swift movement. There was a gasp as a young girl, no more than thirteen or fourteen, looked up from the crying infant cradled against her breast. Her mouth remained open, as if to scream, but she just swallowed and shook her head.

  ‘Please! Please don’t take us away.’ She spoke in Greek and Macro noticed that her blue stola and her cloak were cut from good-quality material. Her dark hair was neatly braided and she wore a gold pendant round her neck. The baby had been hurriedly wrapped in a shawl and its tiny sickly face wrinkled as it bawled, and little clenched fists trembled in the cool air.

  ‘He’s hungry,’ she explained. ‘Starving. We both are. Please help us.’

  Macro took the girl gently under the arms and lifted her on to her feet. ‘Any more of you hiding round here?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ She clutched Macro’s arm with her spare hand. ‘Please let us stay.’

  ‘Sorry, young lady. We have our orders.’

  ‘I know, but you look like a good man.’ She glanced at the legionary. ‘Both of you do. Spare us. Let us stay.’

  Macro shook his head. ‘We’re not going to harm you. Now just come with us.’

  ‘If you mean no harm, then where are you taking everybody?’

  Macro looked at her and replied flatly, ‘To the main gate.’

  ‘The gate? Why?’

  Macro felt pity for the girl and decided he would not deceive her. ‘The king has ordered that all civilians are to leave the citadel.’

  She stared at him as the implication of his words rushed into her mind. ‘No … But that’s murder. Plain murder.’

  ‘Those are my orders, young lady. Now, come with us.’ He took her arm firmly. ‘Don’t give us any trouble, eh?’

  She tried to pull away but there was no resisting Macro’s powerful grip. She bit her lip and then tried another tack, the words tumbling from her thin lips. ‘I can cook for you. Look after your kit … Keep you warm at night. Just spare me and my brother. I swear you won’t regret it.’

  Macro felt a stab of guilt at her suggestion and a sense of world-weariness at the lengths that despair drove people to. The legionary had been listening to the exchange and glanced at Macro.

  ‘What about it, sir? Can I have her before she has to go with the others?’

  ‘What?’ Macro frowned as he turned to the man.

  ‘She’s a nice piece of cunny, sir. Be a shame to let it go to waste. She’ll be dead soon.’

  ‘Shut your mouth,’ Macro growled. ‘Get out of my fucking sight and search the next courtyard.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The legionary snapped to attention, saluted and then turned and trotted away. Macro glared after him, knowing full well that the man would assume that his commander had decided to save the girl for himself. Another officer might have taken advantage of the situation, Macro realised, but he felt heartily sickened by his orders, even though he had no choice in the matter. The civilians would die to permit the king and his followers to hold the citadel for a little longer. It was hard, but it made sense, Macro told himself. He looked at the girl and the infant again and suddenly he was not so sure.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Jesmiah,’ she replied quickly, sensing a change in his mood. ‘My brother’s name is Ayshel.’

  ‘Where is your family, Jesmiah?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. We got separated from them when everyone was trying to reach the citadel. Ayshel and I were some of the last to make it inside before the gates were shut.’

  ‘How have you managed to survive since then?’

  ‘We had rations like the others. I gave most of mine to Ayshel, but he’s still hungry.’

  Macro looked at her and noticed how thin her face was and he guessed that beneath the folds of her stola she was skin and bones. ‘Maybe you’ll find your family in the city.’

  She looked at him in alarm. ‘But you can’t throw me out. They will kill me. They’ll kill little Ayshel.’

  Macro hardened his heart. ‘Come on, young lady, let’s go.’

  He steered her by the arm out of the ruins of the grain store and towards the gate. Jesmiah began to cry and begged him to let her stay behind. In her desperation she promised every kind of sexual favour that her young mind could imagine but Macro continued striding towards the gate with stony resolve. At the sound of the gathered crowd, Jesmiah fell silent. When they turned the corner and saw the civilians packed together behind a screen of heavily armed legionaries, Jesmiah’s legs collapsed and she fell, clutching her brother to her chest.

  ‘I won’t go! I won’t! I don’t want to die. I won’t go!’

  ‘Yes you will,’ Macro said firmly. ‘Get up. Now!’

  ‘No … please. I beg you.’

  ‘On your feet!’ Macro pulled her up and held her still.

  The girl’s eyes darted towards her little brother, and then back at Macro. ‘If I have to go, at least take my brother and see that he lives.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Please!’

  ‘No. How could I look after a baby? He is your brother. He must stay with you. Let’s go.’

  Macro swept her off the ground and into his arms and strode towards the gates. Jesmiah fell silent, closed her eyes and began muttering what sounded like a prayer. Macro glanced at her once and then kept his gaze fixed straight ahead. He shouldered his way through the line of legionaries and set her down roughly, then took a quick step away from her and pointed at the crowd. ‘There you are. Go and join your people.’

  She took one last look at him, eyes filled with withering contempt, and then, cradling her brother’s small head against her shoulder, she walked slowly through the wailing crowd until she stood directly in front of the closed gates. To be the first one cast out. The first one to be butchered by the rebels. She turned and stared accusingly at Macro. He watched as one of the legionaries on the gate approached her, reached out and wrenched the gold pendant from her neck, and tucked it into his purse before resuming his post. For a moment Macro thought about reprimanding the man, but then what was the point? If the legionary didn’t take the pendant it would only be seized from her body by a rebel. The same rebel who might take it from the corpse of the legionary in a few more days’ time. Macro shook his head wearily and stood aside as the last of the search parties bundled their discoveries through the line of soldiers.

  When the last of the fugitives had joined the crowd Macro took a deep breath.

  ‘Open the gates!’

  The men assigned to the gates drew back the locking bar and hauled on the chains. The gates rumbled open and the rosy light of dawn flooded into the citadel. The crowd turned to the light and for an instant their cries faded away as they contemplated their immediate fate.

  ‘Let’s move them out!’ Macro bellowed. ‘Present javelins!’

  His men lowered the points of their weapons and the nearest civilians recoiled in fright. The cries of panic and fear rose up once again so that Macro had to cup bot
h hands to his mouth and bellow at the top of his voice for his orders to be heard.

  ‘At the slow step … advance!’

  The line of Roman soldiers rippled forward, closing in on the crowd. At first none moved, and then the pressure from those closest to the javelin tips inevitably forced them to flow towards the gate and they began to spill out on to the agora. Macro strode across to the gatehouse stairs and climbed up on to the rampart. Cato was looking out over the agora towards the rebels’ artillery platform.

  ‘Not our finest hour,’ Macro said quietly as he joined his friend.

  Cato glanced at him distractedly, then grasped what Macro had said. ‘No, I suppose not. Couldn’t be helped.’

  ‘That’s small compensation for those poor bastards, and not much better for those of us who had to deal with it.’

  Cato had turned his attention back towards the enemy lines and Macro sighed with frustration. ‘What’s eating you?’

  ‘It’s gone very quiet over there,’ Cato replied. ‘Hardly seen any movement.’

  Macro shielded his eyes and stared towards the merchants’ yards, then along towards the temple precinct. Two figures, boys he guessed, were busy picking over the equipment outside the temple. ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘So what are they up to?’

  Macro shrugged. ‘Buggered if I know. But they’re out there. They have to be. We’ll know soon enough, once they see that lot.’

  He nodded down to the civilians streaming out across the agora. Most went a short distance and stopped, staring warily at the buildings and the street openings opposite the citadel. A handful of others, bolder than the rest, sprinted for the nearest cover in a bid to escape before the rebels could respond. Macro’s gaze scanned over the fringe of the crowd until he saw the thin figure of a young girl in blue holding a baby in her arms. Jesmiah strode boldly towards the nearest street and disappeared from sight. Macro’s heart felt leaden as he contemplated his betrayal of the young girl and her brother.

  The rampart trembled beneath their boots as the gates were closed. Still there was no sign of the enemy and Cato’s fingers drummed nervously against his scabbard.

  ‘What the hell are they waiting for?’ he muttered.

  Down in the agora the civilians had become aware of the silence from the rebels and began to move swiftly from the open area into the streets leading away from the marketplace. Soon the paved expanse was empty and silent, and no distant cries of panic nor sounds of slaughter drifted up from the city.

  ‘Something’s happened,’ said Cato. ‘We have to find out.’

  ‘It could be a trap.’

  ‘Perhaps. But we have to know.’

  ‘All right then.’ Macro nodded. He turned away and crossed over to the other side of the gatehouse and called down to the legionaries below. ‘Centurion Braccus!’

  ‘Yes sir?’

  ‘Send out two sections. Check the temple precinct and the merchants’ yards. Have your men report back to me as soon as possible.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Braccus turned to the nearest men and gave his orders. Moments later one of the gates was opened far enough to permit the legionaries to pass through in single file. From the ramparts Macro and Cato watched them separate, one party jingling obliquely across the agora towards the temple while the other made straight for the position the rebels had fortified to protect their artillery battery. They trotted round the corner and out of sight. A short while later Macro and Cato saw some of the men moving along the wall. There was no sign of the enemy. It was the same over by the temple. Then the section leaders came running back towards the citadel.

  Macro cupped his hand and shouted down to them. ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Nothing, sir. They’ve gone. They’ve abandoned everything. The catapults are still there. So’s the makings of another ram. But the rebels seem to have disappeared, sir.’

  Macro turned to Cato. ‘What’s going on? Why would they abandon the siege? Anyway, where the hell have they gone?’

  ‘I don’t like it. It could still be a trap.’

  Macro smiled thinly. ‘Look on the bright side. No sign of a wooden horse.’

  Cato flashed an irritated look at his friend.

  ‘All right. Sorry. Now isn’t the time.’

  ‘No.’

  Macro undid the straps of his helmet and took it off. His sweat-drenched hair was plastered to his skull and he rubbed his hand over the dark curls. Then he thumped his fist on the stone parapet in front of him. ‘What the fuck are they playing at? If they’re not there then they must have left the city during the night. Why the hell would they do that?’

  Then Cato recalled the parley he had held with Prince Artaxes, and the man who had rushed to the prince to bring him a message. He turned to Macro, eyes bright with excitement. ‘It’s Longinus! Their patrols must have seen him approaching. The rebels have fled.’

  ‘Longinus?’

  ‘Yes. It has to be!’ Cato clapped his friend on the shoulder. ‘We’re saved!’

  ‘Easy there,’ Macro cautioned him. ‘If it’s Longinus, then where is he? Besides, he’d have had to march like the wind to reach Palmyra so soon.’

  Cato ran across to the nearest tower and climbed the steps two at a time. At the top, heart beating wildly, he ran to the rampart and scanned the horizon beyond the sprawl of the city. At first he could see nothing. Then, away to the east, he saw a thin haze of dust beyond a low ridge. That had to be Artaxes, fleeing towards his Parthian allies. Cato’s gaze swept to the north and then west, and then he saw it, another smudge in the sky. He thrust his arm out towards it.

  ‘Over there! Macro, over there!’

  Below, Macro followed the direction indicated by his friend, squinted for a moment, and then let out a loud whoop and punched his fist into the morning sky. ‘We’re saved!’ He turned to the other men on the ramparts. ‘It’s Longinus! General Longinus!’

  The cry was taken up along the wall and down below by the gate and the air swelled with the wild cheers of the defenders. All the weariness and hunger of the previous days was forgotten as they cheered and laughed and slapped each other on the back. Cato came running down from the tower and grasped Macro’s arm.

  ‘We did it! We held out!’ He tried to summon up a little composure. ‘Congratulations, sir.’

  Macro waved the praise aside. ‘That was close. A few more days …’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Cato cut in. ‘We’re saved!’

  ‘Saved?’ Macro nodded. He looked out over the agora, towards the street down which Jesmiah had marched to meet her fate. ‘Yes, we’re saved. All of us.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  ‘You’ve done an outstanding job, gentlemen,’ said General Longinus. ‘In the best tradition of the service. You can be assured that I will mention your achievement when I report to Rome.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Macro responded.

  They stood in the king’s audience chamber of the citadel. King Vabathus and his advisers had returned with the Greek mercenaries to the far more comfortable accommodation of the royal palace at the other end of the city. His Majesty had first offered his profuse thanks to General Longinus and then thrown the city open to his army, partly out of a desire to cement his friendship with Rome, but mostly to have his revenge of those inhabitants of the city who had supported Artaxes, or at least had done nothing to resist him. Longinus had thanked him for the offer but declined, as he could not afford to let his army be compromised by drunkenness and looting. As soon as his meeting with the king was over, Longinus had arranged to meet the two officers commanding the advance column. Together with Sempronius and his staff he had formerly offered his congratulations, and now it was time to return to business.

  ‘According to your report, Prince Artaxes quit the city yesterday evening. He will have a fifteen or twenty-mile head start on us. It’s my intention to set out after him as soon as my column is resupplied with water and food. I took the risk of leaving most of the baggage tr
ain behind at Chalcis so that we could reach Palmyra as swiftly as possible. We’ll march on with whatever we can carry. When we catch up with the rebels we will wipe them out. We should be more than a match for Prince Artaxes and his ragtag army.’

  Cato had little doubt about that. Longinus had brought two legions with him, the Tenth and the Third, as well as several cohorts of auxiliaries. The Sixth had been left behind to defend the province. Only one thing concerned Cato about the composition of Longinus’ army, and he cleared his throat.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes, Prefect?’

  ‘Prince Artaxes said that a Parthian army was within two or three days’ march of Palmyra. That was yesterday. If he was telling the truth then we run the risk of catching up with him after he has joined forces with the Parthians.’

  Longinus nodded. ‘So much the better. My spies tell me that the Parthians cannot field a large army for some months yet. We will crush the rebels and teach the Parthians a lesson at the same time. After they are defeated they won’t dare to meddle in the affairs of Palmyra for many years to come.’

  ‘I’m sure you are right, sir. If we defeat them.’

  ‘If?’ Longinus smiled. ‘Do you doubt that we will defeat the Parthians?’

  ‘No, sir. Of course not, provided we take the appropriate precautions.’

  ‘Precautions? What precautions are you referring to, Prefect?’

  Cato paused a moment to consider the best way to present his worries. General Longinus shifted his weight from one foot to the other impatiently. ‘Well? Out with it, man.’

  ‘Sir, you may well have two legions, but what’s needed most of all is cavalry. If the army does run into the Parthians then it is vital that you can match them horseman for horseman.’

  ‘Ah.’ Longinus nodded. ‘You must think me a fool not to be familiar with the, er, legendary Parthian horse-archer. Prefect, let me reassure you. The legions of Rome are more than a match for any horsemen or archers that have ever lived. The fact that our Parthian friends have seen fit to combine the two roles makes little difference.’