Centurion

by Simon Scarrow

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  ‘Not much longer until first light,’ Centurion Parmenion muttered. He stretched up and took a last look round their position. The broken ground with its deep gullies spread out on either side. Towards the north they became steadily more shallow until they gave out on to the flat desert. A mile or so beyond that the ground crumbled again, forming a similar set of rough channels and jumbles of rocks. Behind Cato the men of the Second Illyrian and another two cohorts of auxiliaries lay concealed at the bottom of the gully that wound roughly north across the landscape. On the other side of the open ground, Macro lay hidden with his cohort, Balthus and his men, and another auxiliary cohort. The rest of the army was retreating along the trade route, steadily marching towards Palmyra, a dark mass crawling across the loom of the sand. Cato watched it for a moment, with a growing sense of unease. It was vital that Longinus did not march the men too swiftly so that they cleared the chokepoint before the Parthians caught up with them and forced the battle. He stared back into the open desert behind the army. By now the Parthian scouts must have seen the abandoned camp and picked up the trail of Longinus and his army. They would have raced back to their commander and told him that the Romans were trying to steal a march. If, as Cato hoped, the Parthian leader was as much of a glory-hunter as Longinus, then he would break camp at once and come after the retreating Romans. Even now, his advance troops must be close at hand, probing forward as they searched for the exhausted legions.

  ‘Better keep your head down then,’ Cato responded. ‘Don’t want to risk giving the position away.’

  Parmenion nodded and lowered himself until his eyes were just level with the lip of the gully. Both officers had removed their helmets with the familiar, and conspicuous transverse horsehair crests. It had been a cold night and with the coming of dawn Cato was sitting hugging his knees against his chest as his teeth chattered and his muscles trembled from time to time. Parmenion looked at him with sympathy. The veteran was more generously covered with flesh, and long years of service in far colder climates had gone some way to inuring him to the present discomfort. He reached into his sling and pulled out a strip of dried mutton, and tore a strip off.

  ‘Sir, have some of this.’

  Cato stirred from his thoughts and looked at the dark fibrous meat and shook his head. His stomach was knotted with anxiety over the details of his plan and he felt more sick than hungry.

  ‘Be a good idea,’ Parmenion persisted. ‘It will take your mind off the cold and you’ll need food in your belly for when the fighting starts.’

  Cato hesitated for a moment and realised that this was an opportunity to make himself look calm and unconcerned in the face of battle. He took the offering. ‘Thanks.’

  The dried meat had the consistency of wood until it had been gnawed at and chewed for a while, when it gradually became as pliable, and about as desirable, as boot leather. Still, Cato mused as his jaws worked, the smoked flavour became fairly pleasant to a man with an empty stomach. And, as Parmenion had said, the vigorous effort expended in eating the dried mutton made him forget the cold for a moment.

  ‘It’s good,’ he mumbled between mouthfuls.

  Parmenion nodded. ‘I have it done to a recipe I got from an old Alexandrian merchant I knew once. The trick to the flavouring is to marinade it in garum before it’s hung to dry.’

  ‘Garum?’ Cato was not a heavy consumer of the sauce made from rotten fish guts, though Macro tended to dash it over everything whenever he got hold of a flask. ‘Well, it works well enough. Tasty.’

  Parmenion smiled, pleased to have given his superior some small comfort as they waited for the enemy to appear. They ate for a little longer in silence, watching as the first faint hues of dawn spread across the eastern horizon.

  ‘If we get out of this in one piece,’ Parmenion transferred a wad of chewed meat to his cheek as he spoke, ‘what do you think will happen to the general?’

  Cato thought for a moment before he responded bitterly, ‘Nothing. If this goes as well as I hope then you can be sure he will claim the credit and be revered back in Rome as the man who beat the Parthians. Yesterday’s little fuck-up will be quickly forgotten. I imagine some lickspittle in the Senate will stand up and recommend Longinus for an ovation.’

  ‘Not a triumph?’

  Cato turned to him in surprise before he reflected that Parmenion was not Roman by birth, and probably had never been to Rome, so had no reason to be conversant with the ritual celebrations that Rome conferred on her successful generals. When a triumph, or the lesser ovation, was awarded, the Sacred Way, the ancient street that passed through the heart of the great city, would be packed with jubilant citizens, freedmen and even slaves, cheering their hearts out as their heroes paraded in full military regalia at the head of the soldiers who carried aloft the spoils of their conquests.

  ‘Triumphs are reserved for members of the imperial family these days. Wouldn’t do for a senator like Longinus to have one. Might just turn his head and encourage just a little bit more ambition than is good for the Empire. So he’ll have to settle for an ovation instead, and our reward will be that he gets given a different command as far from Syria as possible.’

  Parmenion laughed. ‘The lads will be glad to see the back of that one all right! Can’t say that I’ve been very impressed with many of the generals or legates that I’ve served under. Most have just used their appointments to mark their cards on the course of honour. Bunch of amateurs really.’

  ‘Some of them know their stuff,’ Cato reflected. ‘Macro and I had a good commander in Britain. Vespasian. You heard of him?’

  ‘Vespasian? No, can’t say that I have.’

  ‘Well, you will one day, if I’m any judge of character.’

  Parmenion suddenly stiffened and stared intently over the lip of the gully. ‘They’re coming.’

  Cato swallowed the ball of pulped meat in his mouth and tucked the rest of the strip into his sling as he gazed to the east. The rearguard of the army, now under the command of another of Legate Amatius’ officers, was just passing into the open ground between the tangles of gully and jumbled rocks. Just over a mile behind them, on the very fringe of the slowly settling haze kicked up by the Roman boots, small clusters of horsemen were trotting forward. As the light grew, Cato could see more and more of them, spread out across the desert as they moved forward to subject the legionaries and auxiliaries to another day of torment. Towards the rear of their host marched a long column of men: Prince Artaxes and his rebels. Cato concentrated his attention on them for a moment. The trap would be sprung the moment Artaxes stepped into it.

  Cato lowered his head. ‘Right then, pass the word. Enemy in sight. None of our men is to move a muscle. Last thing we want is some curious squaddie putting his head up for a quick look and having the sun glint off his equipment.’

  ‘They understand well enough, sir.’

  ‘Tell them again, anyway.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Parmenion saluted and then crept slowly down the side of the gully, taking care not to disturb too much of the sand and dust that could give them away just as easily as a reflection.

  Cato watched him trot along the bed of the gully towards the silent ranks of men squatting a hundred paces away. Cato knew that they would be tired. This was their second night without sleep, and they had marched an entire day under frequent barrages of arrows. If all went well, however, they would soon have a chance to wreak their revenge on the enemy, and Cato knew that at that moment they would discover a fearsome reserve of strength in themselves that would carry them through the fight. He had often seen it before, even in himself, and it always surprised him just how much a man could endure when the need arose. As it did now.

  The men of the rearguard must have seen the enemy as well, through the dust haze in their wake, and began to pick up their pace. Cato frowned. They had strict orders not to speed up. But then again, he realised, it was only human nature to step out that little bit faster when enemie
s like the Parthians were breathing down your neck. Besides, it would look natural enough to the enemy, and enhance the deception.

  With a sudden increase in their own pace, the nearest groups of Parthians urged their mounts forward and closed in on the rearguard, shooting arrows into the air that looked like tiny splinters from this distance, although the distant figures of their victims tumbling to the sand were all too real. Cato turned his attention to the front of the Roman column. As yet it was still heading west and Cato had a moment’s anxiety as it occurred to him that Longinus might change his mind once again, abandon the plan and make directly for Palmyra leaving Cato, Macro and the others to their fate. Then, a moment later, Cato breathed with relief as he saw the column halt and begin to deploy across the line of march. Unlike the day before their flanks would be covered by the broken ground on either side and the Parthians would only be able to attack them from the front. The rearguard would take the brunt of the enemy’s early attacks, and they would endure heavy casualties. Cato hardened his heart to their plight. They would be buying their comrades time to set the trap and if it worked they would not have suffered in vain.

  As soon as the line was complete the remaining Roman units on the track stepped out and hurried through the gap left for them. Dense masses of horsemen harried the flanks and rear of the end of the column, being drawn steadily further and further into the strip of open ground between the gullies and rocks on either side. At last, the camel train carrying the spare arrows and Artaxes’ rebel column marched past Cato’s position and he turned towards Parmenion and swept his hand round in a low horizontal swoop towards the enemy, the signal they had agreed earlier. Parmenion turned to the first century of the Second Illyrian and ordered them up on to their feet. The auxiliaries were keyed up for action and snatched up spears, the light javelins they had been issued for the coming fight, and shields, then stood ready to move. Further down the line were the men carrying the baskets loaded with four-pronged iron spikes drawn from the army’s stoves. Speed was vital, since Cato had realised that they were bound to kick up enough dust for the enemy to spot the danger even before they emerged from the gullies on either side.

  He carefully clambered down to the floor of the gully, put on his helmet and tied the straps securely as Parmenion led the cohort forward. Cato snatched up his shield and fell in alongside the standard as the auxiliaries reached him.

  ‘Second Illyrian! At the double … advance!’

  They trotted along the floor of the gully, following its course towards the open ground, nearly a mile away, far enough for the enemy to have missed their presence as they pursued Longinus. Somewhere on the other side of the open ground Macro would be leading his force forward, converging with Cato’s. If speed was one vital component of the plan, then timing was the other, and Cato trusted that his friend would have started his advance at roughly the same moment.

  Cato ran on, forcing his tired legs forward as his heart pounded and his breathing came in ragged gasps. He tried to keep to an even pace which he knew he could maintain for long enough to get the cohort in position. The rumbling crunch of the auxiliaries’ boots sounded unnaturally loud in the confined space. But at least the rising sun’s rays had not yet appeared over the lip of the gully to add glare and heat to their discomfort.

  The ground began to slope up gently and the sides of the gully began to fall away as they reached the open ground. Cato glanced to his left. The rear of the rebel column was just visible through a dust haze half a mile away. Beyond that, the Parthian horse was packed into a flat space between the two expanses of broken ground. They stood their ground, releasing a torrent of arrows on Longinus’ battle line: damage the front rank of legionaries would have to soak up until Cato and Macro were in position. Then Longinus would give the order to advance and the Parthians would turn their mounts to retire to a safe distance to resume shooting their bows. Then they would see the new danger and realise the trap they had been lured into. Cato smiled as he anticipated their surprise. It would not endure, of course. They would see the thin line and know that they could charge through it without too much difficulty. Except that they would not reckon with one other aspect of Cato’s plan. ‘There’s Balthus!’ Parmenion called out and Cato turned to look ahead. The small band of horse-archers had emerged from the gully and were galloping towards Cato, ready to take up position behind the infantry line. Behind them came Macro, distinguishable by his transverse scarlet crest. The column of legionaries with their curved oblong shields came after him, spilling out on to the open ground. So intent were the enemy on destroying the army in front of them that they did not react until the two arms of the trap had linked up to their rear. Then Cato saw faces in the rebel column turn to look back, then wave their arms to attract the attention of their comrades.

  ‘Not much time before they hit us,’ Cato gasped to Parmenion. ‘Form the line.’

  Parmenion nodded, drew a deep breath and bellowed, ‘Halt! … Left face!’

  The Second Illyrian stood in a long line, two deep, with a pace between files. The men’s chests heaved with the exertion of their run to get into position. The other auxiliary cohorts formed up on their left, covering the ground back to the gully. To Cato’s right he heard Macro shouting orders for his men to complete the line. Cato felt a moment’s elation that they had managed to close the trap without interruption. There was one final detail.

  ‘Caltrops!’ Cato called down the line and the other officers relayed the order.

  The men carrying the baskets moved through the line, advanced thirty paces and quickly began to scatter a belt of caltrops across the front of the formation. The iron spikes had been designed so that they could be thrown to the ground and always land resting on three of the spikes while the fourth stood proud, ready to impale the foot, or hoof, of any unwary enemy charging over them.

  ‘Well, didn’t take them long to wise up.’ Parmenion pointed and Cato saw that the Parthian horses had wheeled round and were moving towards them at an easy gallop. He cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, ‘Get busy with those caltrops, before those bastards are on us!’

  The men with the baskets glanced up quickly and then hurried along, casting out the contents like farmers sowing seeds. As soon as they had emptied their baskets they dropped them and ran back towards the Roman line and snatched up their weapons.

  ‘Slingers!’ Cato shouted. ‘Prepare!’

  Those who had been issued with slings lowered their spears and shields and stepped ahead of the line as they took the leather cords and pouches from round their shoulders and reached into their haversacks for a lead shot to fit to the weapon.

  All the time Cato’s men had been hurrying their preparations to receive the enemy attack, the Parthians had been closing on them. Now they were so close that Cato could see the nearest of them fitting arrows to their bows.

  ‘Shoot at will!’

  The first whirring sounds filled the air as the auxiliaries swung the cords overhead, took aim and then released their missiles. The deadly lead shot zipped out in a low trajectory towards the oncoming horsemen. A moment later one of the Parthian mounts was struck square on the head and it tumbled forward, pitching its rider into the dust. More hits were scored and several of the enemy were knocked down, or were thrown by their crippled horses. But all the time more and more of them were riding up and even though that made the target even easier for the slingers Cato knew that the balance was about to shift in the Parthians’ favour.

  ‘Slingers! Withdraw!’

  The last of the sling shots whipped out towards the dense mass of the enemy and the auxiliaries looped the cords over their shoulders and hurried back to join the main line.

  ‘Prepare to receive arrows! Take cover!’

  All along the line the order was repeated and the Roman soldiers knelt down behind their grounded shields and angled them slightly back to make the most of the sparse shelter they offered. In the distance, beyond the pounding hooves of the Parthian mounts, Ca
to could hear the strident blasts of bucinas as the main Roman line charged forward.

  ‘Not long now, boys!’ Cato called out. ‘We just have to hold them until Longinus takes them in the rear.’

  ‘Bloody general always was a toga-lifter!’ a voice called out and the men roared with laughter until Parmenion screamed, ‘Who said that? Which insubordinate fuck said that? You! Calpurnius! It was you … When this is over you can have a drink on me!’

  The men cheered and Cato smiled at Parmenion’s little act of spirit-raising. It was just what the men needed. The kind of thing that Macro would say, and that Cato felt too self-conscious to attempt.

  ‘Arrows!’ a voice cried out and the cheers died in men’s throats as they hunched down. The dark shafts whistled through the air an instant before they cracked into shields and shicked into the desert sand. Cato kept his head down and tried to tighten his slim frame as far as possible into the shelter of his shield. Twisting his head to each side he saw that none of his men was injured yet. The open spacing of the line and the angled shields were serving their purpose well – well enough for the Parthians to become impatient with their lack of success, especially with the main body of the Roman army quickly closing in on their rear. There was a lull in the arrow barrage and Cato risked a glimpse round the shield rim and saw that the Parthians were urging their mounts on so that they could close the range and shoot the Romans down far more accurately, before charging home and shattering the line.

  Cato watched fixedly as they galloped closer, faces wild and exultant as they anticipated an easy kill. Then the foremost riders hit the belt of caltrops. Cato knew that there was bound to be a handful of Parthians fortunate enough to negotiate the caltrops without spiking a hoof. But many, perhaps most, would not be so lucky and those behind them would be wary about crossing the belt of spikes. They would make fine targets for Balthus and his men.