Centurion

by Simon Scarrow

  The pounding of hooves was suddenly pierced by the shrill whinnies of injured horses and the surprised cries of their riders. In front of him Cato saw several horses go down. One man made it through and hearing the chaos behind him he reined in and turned to look. Cato pointed him out to the auxiliary squatting nearest to him. ‘That man, take him down!’

  The auxiliary nodded, snatching up his light javelin. He rose, drawing his throwing arm back, sighted the Parthian and threw the javelin with an explosive grunt. It was well aimed, and the target was not moving, and the point caught the horse-archer in the back, piercing his heart. The impact made the man arch his back and throw his arms out before he fell from his saddle, dead before he hit the ground.

  ‘Fine throw!’ Cato grinned at the auxiliary. ‘Get down!’

  Along the line a number of other riders had made it through the caltrops, but they were isolated and caught by surprise and quickly finished off by auxiliaries using javelins or slings. On the other side of the caltrops the Parthians were densely packed and struggling to find enough space to draw their bows and pick a target. Cato turned and called out over his shoulder.

  ‘Balthus! Now!’

  This was the moment the prince and his men had been waiting for and they urged their mounts forward as they notched the first arrows to their bows. As soon as they were within range of the Parthians they reined in and loosed their arrows as swiftly as they could. Almost every one told as it struck man or horse and the enemy’s confusion deepened so that only a handful of them still managed to shoot at the Roman line.

  ‘Slings and javelins!’ Cato shouted out, his voice straining above the din from the other side of the caltrops. ‘Slings and javelins!’

  With a throaty roar the auxiliaries rose up and the air between the two sides was filled with the whirr and zip of sling shot and the dark streaks of the javelins. More men and horses crashed down and already a line of bodies, some writhing, some inert, was heaping up along the edge of the belt of caltrops. Beyond, Cato could see that the Parthians were wavering and the less brave spirits were already falling back. He turned to his men.

  ‘They’re breaking! They’re breaking! Pour it on!’

  Cato bent down, snatched up a small rock and hurled it towards the enemy. Some of his men, their javelins spent, followed his example, for what little added effect it was worth. The frantic barrage of arrows, sling shot, javelins and rocks proved too much for the Parthians and suddenly they were recoiling all along the line, desperately struggling to turn their horses round and escape. A pall of dust hung in the air, kicked up by thousands of horses, and it billowed all along the front as the fleeing Parthians disappeared into the gloom and the rumbling thunder of hooves slowly receded.

  But there was no escape for them, Cato knew. Behind them lay Longinus and the solid ranks of his legions. To the rear of the Roman line rode the cavalry, waiting for the moment when the enemy was utterly broken and they would be unleashed to begin the pursuit. Cato dropped the rock he was holding and waved his arm overhead to attract his men’s attention.

  ‘Cease shooting! Back into line!’

  The slingers put the cords back round their necks and retrieved their shields and spears. In a few moments the men were back in position and the line was ready to react to any new threat. The sound of hooves continued to fade and the cries and groans of the enemy wounded called out of the gradually dispersing haze. Cato stepped back from the line and glanced to either side. Several Roman soldiers lay sprawled on the ground amid the angled shafts of arrows, and a handful of others had been injured and had been helped to the rear where they were being tended to by medical orderlies.

  A new sound carried through the dust, the thunderous clatter of thousands of swords on the sides of shields as the Roman army bore down on the Parthians. Then the sound dissolved into the general din of battle. The clang of weapons, the war cries of men, the rise and fall of cheering from entire units and the blasts of bucinas, clash of Parthian cymbals and deep beat of their large drums all blended together in a dreadful cacophony.

  Macro’s voice carried down the line from Cato’s right. ‘Heads up! Enemy infantry to the front!’

  Cato strained his eyes but could see nothing clearly through the dust as yet. A fluke waft of air must have provided Macro with a better view.

  ‘Second Illyrian! Close ranks! Form battle line on me!’

  The long line quickly contracted as the men shuffled together and alternate sections dropped back and to the side to form up in centuries four lines deep. Then they turned and doubled up towards Cato and the cohort’s standard. Looking to his right Cato saw that Macro was doing the same with his legionaries and a gap opened between the two units. When both cohorts were still Cato heard the faint shuffling rumble of the approaching enemy and realised it must be Artaxes and his rebels, making an attempt to break out of the trap. The sounds came from Cato’s right as the enemy column made for Macro’s legionaries. Then he saw them emerge from the dust, picking their way through the bodies of the Parthians carpeting the desert floor. Artaxes had placed some of his regular soldiers at the head of the column and their armour gleamed in the muted sunlight. They stopped as soon as they saw the belt of caltrops and an officer immediately shouted orders to the nearest men, who bent down and began to clear a path. It would be the work of a few moments to clear a gap wide enough for the column to pass through and then Macro’s four hundred would have to hold off thousands.

  Cato looked at the dust haze in front of his men and made an instant decision.

  ‘Parmenion!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Send word to the other auxiliary cohorts to hold the line.’

  As Parmenion summoned an orderly, Cato turned to the nearest section of auxiliaries. ‘You! With me!’

  He ran forward to the caltrops and began to pick them up and fling them to one side. ‘Clear a path! Hurry!’

  The men followed his lead, working systematically through the belt, until they had created a gap ten paces across. Cato snatched up a Parthian quiver and laid the arrows out in two lines to mark the channel.

  ‘Second Illyrian! Form column and follow me!’

  As the cohort marched through the gap and over the bodies on the far side, Cato looked towards Macro as the enemy surged through the gap they had made a hundred paces further along. With a thud of shields and scraping clatter of blades the two sides crashed together. Cato ran through the channel and took up position at the head of his men, counting his steps as he went. There were bodies everywhere, most still moving, and the enemy wounded eyed him with fear as they marched. There were horses too, riderless and pawing the ground. Once he had counted off enough distance to clear the caltrops by a safe margin Cato halted the cohort.

  ‘Right face!’

  He called to the nearest optio. ‘Pass the word. When I give the order to charge I want the loudest war cry I’ve ever heard. We’re going to teach them, and Macro’s precious legionaries, a lesson they’ll never forget!’

  As the message went down the line Cato and the standard-bearer took up position at the head of the third century, in the centre of the formation. He waited until the last repeat of his orders died away. Ahead, to the right, he heard the bitter struggle between Macro’s men and the rebels. Cato drew his sword, took a deep breath and called out, ‘Second Illyrian … advance!’

  The line tramped forward, unevenly picking its way across the Parthian dead and wounded. Cato knew that they must arrive as a single mass and bellowed to the officers to keep dressing the ranks as they moved forward. Then, Cato’s eyes detected the forms of men through the dust, and a few paces further on he saw the flank of the rebel column. The regular soldiers were at the front of the column and the rest was made up of levies, little more than an armed rabble, whose eyes widened in terror as the auxiliaries emerged from the haze.

  There was no time for parade ground protocol and Cato roared the order. ‘Charge!’

  His shout was drowned out by the r
est of his men as they hurled themselves on the flank of the rebel column. The rebels did not have a chance to brace themselves for the impact. Some turned quickly towards the new threat, legs braced, shields out and swords raised. Others turned away and fled, hurling down their weapons as they ran for their lives. Most simply froze, staring at the auxiliaries bearing down on them as they roared out their battle cries. An instant later the Second Illyrian crashed into the rebels’ flank. Cato’s wild, meaningless roar was cut off as he gritted his teeth, raised his shield and braced himself for the impact as he threw himself into the press of rebel bodies in front of him. He struck the nearest man with the full weight of his armoured body and the breath was driven from the rebel in an explosive gasp. Cato paused an instant to balance himself, and then stepped forward, thrusting his sword to the right, into the side of a man about to slash down with his falcata at the auxiliary beside Cato. Instead he collapsed as his sword dropped from his fingers. Cato tugged his blade free and swept it round at the man he had crashed into with his shield. The blade glanced off the edge of the rebel’s buckler and thudded into his padded skullcap. He staggered away from Cato and vomited down his ragged tunic before he collapsed.

  ‘Second Illyrian! Second Illyrian!’ the auxiliaries shouted over and over again as they laid into the enemy in a frenzied and ferocious assault of slamming shields and slashing swords. Cato punched his shield forward, stepped in behind it, and punched again, striking home with a solid thud. This time he swung his shield aside and threw his sword forward. There was an instant when Cato saw the look of wide-eyed terror in a man twice his age, before the point crunched through his eye socket into his skull and Cato felt a warm spray of blood spatter his face as he snatched the sword back.

  ‘Keep going, Second Illyrian!’ Cato bellowed. ‘Forward!’

  The mêlée was spreading out as more and more of the rebels fell back and ran. Cato, crouching and poised on the balls of his feet, glanced round quickly. His men had already fought their way right through the enemy column and were turning on the pockets of rebels who still stood their ground. To his right, near the head of the column, Cato saw a serpent standard in the middle of a ring of men in scale armour and purple robes. The personal bodyguard of Prince Artaxes, Cato decided. He pointed his bloodied blade towards the standard and called out, as loudly as he could, ‘Second Illyrian! Make for the enemy standard!’

  He caught the eye of one of the optios and pointed towards the ring of bodyguards. With a nod, the man turned and bellowed the order, and it was swiftly passed along the line. At once, there was a perceptible movement towards the standard as the auxiliaries made for Artaxes and his bodyguards. Now Cato could see a man positioned a short distance from the standard, urging his men on. As Cato cut his way through he recognised the features of the man and nodded grimly to himself.

  ‘Artaxes …’

  The auxiliaries closed in round the prince and his bodyguard and Cato could see beyond them to where the legionaries of Macro’s cohort had made a path through the caltrops and were hacking their way into the head of the column. The rebels were finished, Cato realised. All that remained for Artaxes was the choice between fleeing, or fighting to the end. The Palmyran prince must have become aware of the situation at almost the same moment, for he drew a deep breath and shouted an order to his men, and they closed ranks with overlapping shields and raised their spears overhead, ready to thrust at any Romans who came within reach of the long iron heads of their spears. Cato glanced behind him and saw that the rest of the cohort were completing the destruction of the rebel column. The desert was littered with bodies and splashes of blood and the men still fighting had to be wary of their footing as they mercilessly cut down the rebels who were still mad or brave enough to continue the fight.

  There were perhaps as many as a hundred men with Cato as the Romans closed in on Artaxes and his bodyguards. As the auxiliaries sized up their enemies there was a tense pause and the air was filled with the sound of laboured breathing as the men of both sides stared at each other, waiting for the spell to be shattered.

  Cato drew himself up to his full height and raised his sword to attract the attention of his men.

  ‘Second Illyrian! Hold your ground!’

  The men glanced at him, some with surprised expressions, but they stopped where they were and waited on their commander’s next order. Cato turned towards the rebels.

  ‘Prince Artaxes! You are beaten. The Parthians have scattered. Your rebellion is over.’ Cato let his words sink in for a brief moment before continuing. ‘There is no point to further resistance. Save your men’s lives and surrender.’

  There was no response at first. Artaxes just glared at Cato and bit his lip. Then one of his men glanced back at him and began to lower his spear.

  ‘No!’Artaxes screamed out. ‘No surrender! Kill them!’

  He grabbed the spear from the nearest of his men and hurled it towards Cato. His aim was wild, but so was the force behind the throw and before the auxiliary standing next to Cato could react, the head of the spear pierced his stomach and burst out of his back in a welter of blood and exploded flesh. The man’s arms spasmed and his shield and sword flew from his hands to clatter on the ground. He fell back, kicked once and died with a frothy gurgling sound as blood spurted and bubbled from his throat.

  ‘Kill the bastards!’ one of Cato’s men yelled, his voice shrill with rage. ‘Kill ’em!’

  With an angry roar the auxiliaries swept forward before Cato could stop them. Spears cracked off the auxiliaries’ shields. Those rebels with a more powerful thrust sent the tips of their weapons splintering through the shields, one gouging a slough of skin and muscle from the arm of an auxiliary. Then the legionaries slammed into the prince’s bodyguards, using their bigger shields and greater numbers to push the enemy back. The spears continued to stab over the rims of the auxiliaries’ shields, clattering off helmets, glancing off those who had scale armour. Meanwhile the Romans tried to keep their shields up and their heads down as they pressed forward into the enemy. Close in, they had the advantage with short swords, and whenever a gap appeared between the enemy shields they thrust home at any exposed limbs. Some hacked at the shafts of the spears as they darted overhead, and split the wood, or even knocked them from the grasp of the rebels.

  The grunts of the men on both sides, the snarled cries of triumph and the gasps and groans of the wounded sounded so close that Cato was sure he was breathing in the dying gasps of other men, and felt a momentary chill of superstitious dread at the thought. He pushed his way through his men, aiming for the enemy standard and Prince Artaxes. He could still see the prince, shouting defiantly as he drew his sword and punched it into the air, urging his men on. But one by one they were cut down and crushed as the auxiliaries trampled over them in iron-nailed boots. Before Cato reached Artaxes, one of the auxiliaries killed the man to his front and thrust his way through the gap in the tight knot of the surviving rebels. Artaxes was in front of him and before the prince could react the Roman soldier flew at him, knocking the standard-bearer aside with his shield. The standard toppled to the ground as the auxiliary hacked at Artaxes, driving him back and then down when there was no further room to retreat. Artaxes threw up his sword to block a blow to his head, and at the last instant the auxiliary shifted his aim and the edge of his blade cut through the prince’s arm just above the wrist, smashing bones and severing tendons. Artaxes cried out and his sword dropped from his useless fingers. The auxiliary stepped forward to make the kill.

  ‘No!’ Cato bellowed, charging through behind the auxiliary. His shield caught the soldier in the side and knocked him away from Artaxes so that the sword blade bit harmlessly into the sand. ‘Leave him!’

  He turned and shouted in Greek, ‘Surrender! The prince is down! Surrender!’

  The last of the bodyguards wheeled towards Cato and, after hesitating a moment, one of them threw down his sword. Then the others followed suit, but not before one of them fell to the wea
pon of an auxiliary still overwhelmed by the frenzy of battle.

  ‘Second Illyrian!’ Cato shouted. ‘Stand fast! Hold back there!’

  His men stepped back a few paces and lowered their swords. Only then did the surviving bodyguards warily lay down their shields and stand waiting to be taken captive, the fear and despair of defeat etched into their expressions. Cato let down his guard and allowed his shield to rest on the ground. At his feet Artaxes clutched his ruined arm to his chest with his other hand and moaned in agony through gritted teeth. Cato’s chest heaved as he breathed deeply and he was aware of an unbearable tiredness and how much his body ached from the exertions he had demanded of it. But now it was all over. The attack on the rebel column, the battle against the Parthian army, the rebellion. Everything. He looked down at Artaxes and nodded wearily to himself at the thought. Then his eye was drawn to the bright red serpent banner and he stirred himself and bent to pick it up. Looking for the auxiliary who had cut Artaxes down, he beckoned to the man and held the standard out to him.

  ‘Yours … You’ve earned it, soldier.’

  The man smiled faintly and took the shaft of the standard. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Cato! Cato! Where are you, lad?’

  He turned towards the sound of Macro’s voice and saw that the legionaries had driven off the front of the column and now approached the battered and bloodied men of the Second Illyrian, clustered round the enemy standard. The bodies of rebel and Roman alike lay sprawled and heaped about them, and to one side the handful of prisoners stood together and stared at the scene in dejection.

  ‘By the Gods,’ Macro muttered as he picked his way over the bodies towards Cato. ‘What a bloodbath. Are you all right, Cato?’

  Cato saw the concerned expression on his friend’s face and took a moment to realise that his face and helmet must be spattered and streaked with blood. ‘I’m fine, sir. I’m fine.’