Centurion

by Simon Scarrow

  The men dropped to one knee and lowered their helmets until they could just see over the rims of their shields. Cato turned to Balthus and his men and cupped a hand to his mouth.

  ‘Get ready to shoot!’

  Balthus nodded and bellowed an order to his small force and they rapidly strung their bows and fitted arrows as the sound of drumming hooves swelled in volume. Then Cato saw them, perhaps fifty of the enemy, riding over the crest a short distance from the Roman flank. The foremost riders tried to rein back as they caught sight of Cato’s flank guard, but those behind pressed on, trying to weave a path through their comrades and causing a moment’s confusion and loss of impetus. Balthus seized the chance to hit the tightly packed and immobile target and shouted the order to his men. The arrows arced high over the Roman lines and fell, like a fine veil, amongst the Parthians. The effect was impressive, Cato noted. Unlike the Roman soldiers, the horse-archers had no armour and no shields, and the arrows tore through their robes and punched through skin, muscle and bone. Several men pitched from their saddles, and wounded horses reared up with shrill whinnying cries of agony. A second flight of arrows added to the confusion and carnage as more men and horses tumbled into the churning clouds of dust. Then, as more arrows fell amongst them, the Parthians turned and fled, galloping back over the brow of the hill as fast as their mounts would carry them.

  At once the men of Cato’s cohort and the nearest century of Macro’s legionaries let out a loud chorus of jeers. Parmenion stood up, ready to silence them, but Cato caught his eye and shook his head. ‘Let them enjoy themselves for a moment. They’ll need plenty of good spirits for what’s to come.’

  ‘Very well, sir.’

  Cato stood up and stared at the ground in front of the Second Illyrian. Perhaps as many as twenty of the enemy had been shot by Balthus and his men. A few lay still, sprawled on the slope. Others moved feebly, crying out for help. One man, his shoulder pierced through, was staggering back towards the crest of the hill. Cato heard Balthus shout an order, then one of his men slung his bow over his shoulder and spurred his horse into a gallop. The rider swung round the end of Cato’s line and headed after the fleeing man. A curved blade flickered in the rider’s right hand as he leaned out to the side while he rapidly gained on the Parthian. The latter glanced back, then turned and ran for his life. As he drew abreast of the Parthian, the rider slashed down and a sheet of crimson flicked into the air and the body crashed to the ground. The jeers died in the men’s throats for an instant, before Parmenion punched his fist into the air and roared with triumph. ‘Stick the bastards! Kill ’em all!’

  Balthus’ man duly obliged, riding back amongst the enemy wounded, finishing them off one by one until nothing moved, save the wounded horses that bucked on the ground, or just lay on their sides, nostrils flaring in pain and terror as their chests heaved like bellows. The rider wiped his blade on the robes of one of the Parthians, then calmly sheathed it and trotted back round the flank and rejoined his comrades, to fresh cheers from the auxiliaries.

  As the sun rose over the crest of the low hill the staff officer came down the line again.

  ‘Sir, the general has ordered a withdrawal,’ the tribune explained quickly. ‘The Third Legion will form the vanguard, then the main body of the auxiliary cohorts. The Tenth Legion will follow, then the Sixth Macedonian. Centurion Macro’s cohort, the Second Illyrian and the Palmyran contingent will form the afterguard.’

  Cato smiled bitterly at the officer.

  ‘Sir?’The tribune looked at Cato with a puzzled expression.

  ‘It’s nothing. Nothing I’m not getting used to.’ Cato pointed along the line. ‘Give the general a message from me. You tell him that Prefect Cato feels another miracle coming on. Got that?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But I don’t understand.’

  ‘Just tell him what I said.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The tribune snapped a brief salute. ‘Good luck, sir.’

  Cato nodded. ‘That’s something we’ll all need today.’

  As the sun rose slowly into a clear sky, promising another day of blistering heat beneath its harsh glare, the Roman army began to pull back from the crest of the slope. One cohort at a time, from the centre of the army, they formed into column and moved off along the track towards Palmyra. All the time the Parthians kept up a steady shower of arrows, loosing all their shafts before riding back towards the strings of camels to refill their quivers from the large baskets of fresh arrows slung over the beasts’ backs. Along the crest the shields of the Romans bore the splintered scars of arrow impacts and some still carried arrows that had become lodged in place. Shafts lay scattered on the ground, or stood up at an angle, so thickly that they looked like the stalks of a torched field of wheat. Already hundreds of men had been killed or injured. Most were walking wounded and fell back to join the units already on the track. Those who were too badly injured to walk were placed on the backs of the few supply mules that had been brought along with the army.

  As each unit moved out of line, the Roman front shrank as the remaining cohorts closed ranks. By mid-morning the last elements of the Tenth Legion began to move down the slope, leaving Macro’s and Cato’s cohorts to cover the end of the column.

  ‘We’ll form a box,’ Macro decided. ‘Shields out as we march. It’ll be slower going, but we’ll lose fewer men. Any wounded can go to the centre. We’ll carry as many as we can, but the triage cases will have to be dealt with. I’ll not leave them to the enemy.’

  Cato muttered his agreement.

  ‘And what orders have you for me?’ asked Balthus.

  ‘I’ll need your men as a flying column. Do what you can to disrupt their attacks, but keep your distance as far as you can, or they’ll cut you to pieces.’

  Balthus nodded. The two men looked at each for a moment, weighing the odds of their survival. Despite his previous suspicion of the Palmyran prince’s motives Macro knew that Balthus was in his element on the battlefield and the Roman felt a grudging respect in his breast as he nodded to the prince. ‘Last one back in Palmyra buys the drinks. Let’s get moving.’

  The army retraced its route at a slow pace under the beating sun: a long column of armoured men tramping through the dust, anxiously hunched behind their shields as they waited for the next flight of arrows to whirl down through the haze. The Parthians, many thousands of them, clung to the flanks of General Longinus’ army, riding along its length and almost casually loosing their arrows before breaking off to fetch some more. Their only hindrance was the occasional charges of the auxiliary cavalry, who managed to drive them off for a short distance before having to return to their positions, and then after a little while the horse-archers would ride back in and continue their barrage of arrows. Prince Balthus and his men had only a small reserve of arrows and used them sparingly whenever a Parthian ventured too close to the rearguard.

  Macro’s men, being the best armoured, formed the very tail of the column and the broad legionary shields absorbed a steady crack and thud of missiles as the cohort marched slowly over the parched desert. Every so often a shaft found a way through or over the shields and struck one of the men inside the elongated box. The impact of the arrows made the victims stagger, with an explosive gasp or cry of pain. Sometimes it was a flesh wound, passing straight through without touching bone or any vital organ, and the shaft could be cut free and the wound hurriedly dressed by one of the hard-pressed orderlies. The more severely wounded were unceremoniously thrown over a comrade’s shoulder and carried to the centre of the box where the surgeon hurriedly assessed the wound. If there was a good chance of recovery the man was dumped into one of the small mule carts, or over the back of a mule, where the jolting of the carts and the plodding of the mules made the wounds hurt even more. And all the time the sun blazed down. Some of the men, less self-controlled than the others, had already drained their canteens and their lips dried out and the thirst began to burn in their throats.

  For those with little or no chance of re
covery, the surgeon discreetly drew out a razor-sharp blade from his kit and deftly opened an artery so that the critically wounded bled to death before they even realised what had happened. Their bodies were left with those men who had died outright; and soon the route of the Roman retreat was marked by a grim wake of scattered corpses and equipment.

  An hour or so into the march, Cato’s men began to pass the long lines of packs that had been set down the night before when the army had formed its line of attack. There was little of any value to pick over as the two cohorts stepped round the scattered packs. The units that had crossed the ground before them had collected up the spare canteens and food, and only clothes, mess kits and personal keepsakes remained, spread over the sand. In amongst the detritus lay the occasional body of a soldier who had fallen further up the column.

  ‘Leave that!’ Cato bellowed at one of his men who had bent down to search through a bundle of silk cloth. ‘What bloody use is that to you now? Optio! Take that man’s name! Next man who picks anything up will be beaten!’

  ‘Sir!’ Parmenion ran to Cato’s side and pointed ahead of them. ‘Look there!’

  There was an interval of more than a hundred paces between the Second Illyrian and the next unit ahead of them in the line of march. The Sixth Macedonian was an under-strength infantry cohort attached to the Tenth Legion and, as Cato watched, a strong force of Parthians closed in on them and loosed their arrows at point-blank range. But they were only a screen for the real threat. Behind them came a solid mass of cataphracts, lancers in scale armour mounted on large chargers, each protected by a padded mantlet. They reined in and waited as their companions concentrated their rain of arrows on one point of the auxiliaries’ line. Inevitably a number of men were struck down, and others gave way, and a gap opened. At once the horse-archers wheeled their mounts aside and the cataphracts burst through the Roman ranks.

  ‘Oh, no …’ Parmenion watched, ashen-faced, as the Sixth Macedonian disintegrated. The men scattered in all directions, some throwing down their spears and shields as they fled. The enemy, cataphracts and horse-archers, galloped amongst them, cutting the infantry down with lance thrusts, sword cuts and arrows from those who still used their bows. The nearest survivors ran towards the Second Illyrian and some of Cato’s men began to move aside to let them through. The moment they were safely inside the rearguard Cato filled his lungs and bellowed, ‘Close up there! Do you want to share their fate! Close up!’

  The Parthians reined in as the auxiliaries lowered their spears and presented a bristling line of vicious points towards the horsemen. Then the nearest of the cataphracts lurched as his horse was struck in the rump by an arrow and bucked the rider from his saddle. More arrows whirred through the air as Balthus and his men rode up and shot into the Parthians. Caught between the spears of the advancing cohort and the arrow barrage the Parthians quickly gave way and galloped off in the opposite direction. Behind them lay a scattered carpet of bodies and equipment belonging to the Sixth Macedonian. Only the standard-bearer and a handful of men clustered about him still stood. As Cato’s cohort reached them they fell in with his lead century, chests heaving, spattered with blood and wide-eyed with terror and battle fury.

  As soon as he saw that the enemy had galloped off Balthus turned to look for Cato and waved his hand. Cato responded and with the glint of a wide smile the Palmyran prince led his men back to their position on the flank of the rearguard.

  Cato turned back to his men and called out to them as they continued marching over the remains of the Sixth Macedonian.

  ‘Take a good long look, lads! That’s the fate that awaits any man who gives ground to those Parthian bastards!’

  The march continued through the afternoon and only as the sun dipped towards the horizon did the enemy at last break off their attack and fall back towards the camel train and the column of Artaxes and his men following a few miles behind. The Third Legion, no longer forced to maintain close ranks, formed a loose perimeter as the rest of the army crept into the site chosen for the night’s camp. Macro’s and Cato’s men were the last to pass through the picket lines and the legionaries and auxiliaries broke ranks and collapsed in exhausted heaps the moment the staff officer had led them to their sleeping lines. But there was no rest for Macro and Cato.

  ‘The general wants to see all unit commanders in his tent at once, sir,’ the tribune explained to Macro.

  ‘His tent?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The general had some men retrieve his personal baggage train during the retreat.’

  ‘Very wise of him,’ Macro replied evenly. ‘Can’t have a general going without his creature comforts, can we?’

  ‘Er, no, sir. If you say so.’

  ‘Very well, you can go.’

  As the tribune marched away into the darkness Macro turned to Cato. ‘Glad to see that our brilliant commander has managed to snatch his kit from the jaws of defeat. Wonder if that was part of his plan?’

  They picked their way through the sleeping lines, where the sombre mood of the men was evident in the muted and grim tones of their conversation. Every so often the cry or groan of a casualty carried across the sprawl of exhausted soldiers. Despite the hardships of the day, the rigorous training of the Roman army had ensured that clear lanes had been well marked and there, at the heart of the camp, was the general’s tent. A small brazier burned by the entrance and in its wavering glow Longinus’ bodyguards stood sentry. Inside there was more light, and as Macro and Cato were waved inside they saw that the tent was filled with the other cohort commanders and the legates of the two legions, seated on stools around their general.

  Longinus sat behind his campaign desk, listening to Legate Amatius.

  ‘It’s at least another full day’s march to Palmyra, sir. Most of the men are out of water, they’ve had nothing to eat for a day and they’re exhausted. I’ve lost over four hundred of my men and another three hundred wounded. It’s the same story for the auxiliary cohorts attached to the legion. And that’s not counting the Sixth Macedonian.’

  ‘I see,’ Longinus looked up as he caught sight of the latest arrivals. ‘What’s the condition of your cohorts, gentlemen?’

  Macro took the waxed slate out of his sling and flipped it open. ‘Fifty-two dead, thirty-one wounded from my cohort. Thirty dead and twenty-seven wounded from the Second Illyrian, sir.’

  Longinus briefly noted the figures down. ‘You made a good job of the rearguard, Macro.’

  Macro shrugged and conceded, ‘We got this far at least.’

  ‘True. The question is, how much further can we go, gentlemen? We’ve lost perhaps a fifth of our strength. We’re likely to lose far more than that tomorrow, if the enemy hit us as hard as they did today.’

  ‘We have to go on as long as we can, sir,’ Amatius replied. ‘That’s all we can do.’

  ‘It is one option,’ Longinus countered. ‘We could save the cavalry at least and send them back to Palmyra tonight. The infantry would have to make its own way.’

  Macro leaned towards Cato and whispered, ‘And I wonder which officer, and his tent, would accompany the cavalry?’

  ‘What are the other options, sir?’ Amatius asked.

  Longinus shifted himself and settled back in his chair as he looked round at the faces of his assembled commanders. ‘The enemy surprised us, gentlemen. The Parthians joined with Artaxes sooner than I anticipated. We had to pull back; I had no choice in the matter. We have been worsted. There’s no shame in that. There were far more Parthians than I was led to believe. It was a gallant attempt, and the people back in Rome will recognise that in due course.’

  ‘No, sir,’ Amatius interrupted. ‘They will see this balls-up for what it is.’

  Longinus stared at him and then a smiled flickered across his face. ‘It seems that Legate Amatius disagrees with my version of events.’

  ‘I do, sir. We should have attacked.’

  ‘Attacked? Against that host?’

  ‘It was our best chance of defe
ating them, sir.’ Amatius shrugged. ‘And now? We’ll be lucky to get out of this alive. Even then, it will have cost us thousands of good men, not to mention dealing a serious blow to our prestige right across the region. Parthia will come to be seen as the major power in the east.’

  ‘That’s enough!’ Longinus slapped his hand down on the table. ‘You are overplaying this, Amatius. Once I get back to Syria I will raise another army. I will use all three legions next time, and come back here and destroy the Parthians.’

  ‘Really? And do you think there is a man here who would follow you?’

  There was a fraught silence as the two men glared at each other. Then Longinus opened his hands in a gesture of resignation. ‘That’s an issue for another time. We are where we are, gentlemen, and we need to move on, to coin a phrase. I need solutions to our predicament. Not complaints.’

  Amatius sagged back into his chair with a sigh, and the general looked round the tent. ‘Well? Has anyone got anything to suggest?’

  Cato bit his lip, cleared his throat and stood up. Macro glanced round at his friend and then lowered his head into his hands and stared helplessly at the ground between his boots as he muttered to himself, ‘Bollocks, here we go again.’

  ‘Prefect Cato, speak.’

  All heads turned to look at him and Cato had to make an effort to keep calm and control the thoughts rushing through his mind as he considered the landscape on the road ahead of them and what might be achieved in the remaining hours of the night.

  ‘There is a way we might turn the tables on the Parthians, sir. It will be risky, but no more of a risk than continuing to retreat as we are. The trick of it is finding a way to contain their horsemen. What we need is the right ground to do it on, and a few items from stores.’

  Cato paused, suddenly aware that he was surrounded by older and, in most cases, vastly more experienced officers than himself. They might well ridicule his plan, but he knew with certainty that it was the best chance to save the army. If it didn’t work it would cost his life and those of many more. Men who might well die along the route in any case. His eyes met the general’s and Longinus nodded. ‘Well, Prefect, you’d better tell us what’s on your mind.’