08 Centurion

by Scarrow, Simon

  Cato did as he was told as the chamberlain continued through into the main hall and shut the door behind him. For a while there was silence and Cato fretted furiously at the delay, knowing that Macro and the others were outside the city anxiously waiting for his signal.Then he heard voices inside, a conversation that he could not quite make out.The door opened and the chamberlain beckoned to him.

  ‘Inside.’

  Cato did his best not to be even further irritated by the man’s curt manner, and strode through into the hall. It was a large square chamber. Not by any means the audience chamber of a rich and powerful king, but then this was not Vabathus’ palace, only his refuge. The walls were plain and high, and the floor unostentatiously paved, as the earlier corridor had been. A number of chairs had been arranged in a semicircle at the far end of the hall and two men were already seated there. The chamberlain led Cato to the open space in front of the men and then took his seat to one side. A large, overweight man who looked to be in his late fifties with grey hair and a tired expression sat in the largest chair. He wore a plain white tunic and sandals, and a cloak hung over his shoulders.The other man wore a tunic with a broad red stripe running down the middle. He was younger, no more than forty, and wiry, with the haughty bearing of a Roman aristocrat, and Cato knew at once that he must be the ambassador, Lucius Sempronius.

  Cato stood to attention as Sempronius cleared his throat and began to speak.

  ‘You have a message for us?’

  ‘For the king, yes.’

  Sempronius smiled.’Of course, for the king. Let me have it.’

  Cato paused, glancing towards Vabathus, waiting for any sign of approval, but Vabathus just stared back blankly and so Cato took the waxed slate from his haversack and walked over to give it to the Roman ambassador. ‘From Prince Balthus, and my commander, Centurion Macro of the Tenth Legion.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Quintus Licinius Cato, sir. Acting prefect of the Second Illyrian cohort.’

  Sempronius weighed him up.’Acting prefect, eh? Rather young for such a responsibility, I would say,’ he added with a touch of suspicion in his tone.

  ‘The governor was forced to send the two units he had ready, sir,’ Cato explained with all the patience he could muster. ‘Centurion Macro was seconded to the Tenth Legion from the Second Illyrian, for the duration of the present emergency. I was his adjutant and second-in-command. ‘

  ‘I see.Well, needs must, I suppose.’ Sempronius pursed his lips briefly. ‘Obviously my message got through to Longinus. I assume he is hot on the heels of your two cohorts with the rest of his army?’

  ‘I have no idea, sir. He said he would come as soon as possible. In the meantime, my cohort and that of Centurion Macro were sent ahead to bolster the garrison here. We joined forces with Prince Balthus and his men. They’re approaching the eastern gate even as I speak, and-’

  ‘Balthus?’The king stirred.’What good will that fool do? I have no use for a drunkard who spends his life hunting and whoring. I’ll have nothing to do with him. Send him away.’ He looked through Cato for a moment and continued quietly, ‘Of all my sons, why couldn’t it have been Balthus who betrayed me? I would have shed no tears over that wastrel . . .’

  The king frowned and lowered his head, staring at his feet. Cato glanced towards the ambassador for a cue on how to respond but Sempronius shook his head. There was a brief silence before Sempronius coughed and nodded to Cato. ‘Please continue.’

  Given the king’s previous reaction Cato decided not to mention his son again. ‘My superiors have asked me to request the garrison of the citadel to make a diversionary attack to draw forces away from the eastern gate.We have to do it as soon as possible if they are to stand any chance of breaking through to us, sir. They will be watching for my signal. A beacon on the highest tower of the citadel.’ Cato switched to Latin, lowered his voice and continued urgently. ‘Sir, I beg you. Use whatever influence you have here to begin the feint. Unless Centurion Macro can fight his way through the city he will be cut to pieces outside the walls of Palmyra.’

  Sempronius nodded and spoke calmly. ‘I will see to it that the orders are given, Prefect Cato.You have my word.’ The ambassador switched back into Greek and turned to the chamberlain, who had been sitting in silence during the exchanges.

  ‘Thermon, my friend, you heard it all. You must summon the commander of the garrison. The attack must begin as soon as possible. On the king’s orders, understand? ‘

  The chamberlain nodded, and turned to the king. ‘Your majesty?’

  ‘What?’ Vabathus looked up wearily and saw that they were waiting for his response. He waved a hand flaccidly. ‘Do as you wish.’

  The chamberlain bowed and quickly backed out of the room as Sempronius beckoned to Cato.

  ‘Prefect, I understand you have one of the prince’s slaves with you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Have him take you to the gate tower. There is a signal station there. You may light your beacon the moment the garrison begins its attack. Then,’ he nodded to Cato’s bloodied hand, ‘you’d better get that seen to.’

  08 Centurion

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘There’s the signal!’ Balthus rose quickly to his feet and stared towards the tower.

  ‘Hmmm?’ Macro mumbled, as he stirred from the spot where he had been resting. He had very nearly committed the unforgivable sin of falling asleep on duty. What the hell had come over him? Macro briefly discounted the lost sleep of the last days of the march from Antioch. He had marched and fought in more difficult campaigns before without letting exhaustion get the better of him. Perhaps it was just age, he mused wearily as he scrambled to his feet and stood beside the prince. Balthus pointed over the wall and the sprawl of the city towards the citadel. Above the torches that flickered along the ramparts was a brighter blaze that flared with greater intensity even as Macro picked it out.

  ‘Are you sure that’s the one?’ asked Macro.

  ‘I’m certain of it.’

  ‘Then let’s get moving.’ Macro turned round to the officers who had been sitting on the ground, but now approached in response to Balthus’ excited cry. Macro drew himself up to his full height, and rubbed his buttocks where they had grown numb as he sat waiting.

  ‘Gentlemen, this is going to be swift and bloody. You have your orders; make sure you follow them precisely. I don’t want any confusion when the attack goes in. Get the lads up and let’s get moving.’

  He exchanged a salute with his officers and returned to the side of Prince Balthus. ‘We’ll follow your men the moment you begin the attack. Good luck . . . sir.’

  Balthus grinned as he patted Macro on the shoulder. ‘Luck has never been my problem, Roman, so you can have my share of it tonight.’

  With a swirl of his robes, Balthus turned and ran to his horse, snatched the reins from the hand of the auxiliary who was holding it ready, and threw himself up into the saddle. In the darkness behind him the rest of his retinue mounted and when Balthus saw that they were ready he drew his curved blade and raised it above his head, calling out a command to get their attention. He paused a moment and then swept his sword towards the city gate with a strident shout. With a chorus of cries his men urged their mounts into a gallop and a dark tide of horsemen surged out of the desert night towards the eastern gate of Palmyra.

  The moment the charge began Macro filled his lungs and bellowed the order for his two cohorts to advance. As they followed the horsemen at a steady trot Macro saw fire arrows arc down from the distant ramparts of the citadel and realised that the diversionary attack was under way. His heart was lifted by the knowledge that Cato had succeeded in getting through. Macro and his men had concealed themselves no more than a quarter of a mile from the eastern gate in order to reach it before the enemy could react, but he knew that the plan would only work if Balthus and his men moved quickly.

  Ahead, by the light of the torches burning above the gate, he saw the first o
f the rebels fall to the arrows of the mounted archers. Some of the men guarding the gate snatched up spears and shields and stood their ground. A handful of others fled for the safety of the city, while a handful of men appeared along the wall, alerted by the thunder of hoofbeats rushing towards the gate. The more courageous of those who remained raised their shields to protect them from the arrows shooting out of the mass of horsemen. A rebel officer, with commendable presence of mind, called on them to form ranks, and before the horsemen could reach the gate they were confronted by a small wall of shields between which spears angled towards Balthus and his men, causing them to swerve aside.

  Macro drew his sword and shouted over his shoulder, ‘Charge!’

  The men broke into a run behind him, breathing hard as their equipment chinked and their iron-shod boots pounded over the hard ground. While Balthus and his men closed round the band of soldiers defending the gate, slashing and hacking at their shields and the shafts of their spears, behind them the doors were slowly being closed as the men inside the city heaved against the heavy slabs of studded timber. Macro watched in desperation as he sprinted forward, already passing through the rearmost riders of the prince’s force, steadying their horses as they raised their bows and traded shots with the archers on the battlements above the gate. Macro dodged round the back of a rearing horse, its rider grappling with the shaft of an arrow that pinned his leg to the saddle. Swerving through the other horses, Macro and the leading century of legionaries raced towards the gate. A gap opened ahead of him and Macro saw the last few defenders backing through the small space that remained behind them.

  Macro gritted his teeth and ran for all he was worth, heart pounding wildly as he burst through the loose maul of horsemen and charged across the strip of open ground that separated them from the rebels. With a deep roar he hurled himself at the last three still outside the gate.They started at the sound of his war cry but stood their ground and lowered their spears, ready to thrust. Macro raised his shield and swung it across to cover his body and felt the tip of a spear glance aside as he struck the shaft of another with his sword, knocking the point away and down where it could not harm him. The third man just had time to stab his spear towards the centurion’s face and Macro snatched his head down, wincing as the spear tip glanced off the side of his helmet just above the ear guard.Then he cannoned into the nearest of them, shield to shield, and flung the man back against the outer surface of one of the doors. The impetus of his charge had carried Macro past the next foe, and now he slashed his sword to the right, behind him, and caught the rebel across the back of the shoulders, on his scaled armour. The blade of the short sword did not cut through, but the savage impact of the blow drove the breath from his lungs and stunned him, long enough for one of the legionaries following Macro to batter him on the helmet, driving him on to his knees, where a final downward thrust stabbed through his neck into his heart.

  The last of the defenders had dropped his spear in his desperation to slip through the narrow opening that remained. Macro pounced on the weapon and stabbed it through the gap between the edges of the doors.They jarred on the spear shaft, which started to bend so that Macro feared it would snap. He stabbed his sword into the side of the man still standing pressed against the timber, and then threw his weight against the other door.

  ‘On me!’ he bellowed over his shoulder. ‘Force the gate!’

  More legionaries arrived and thrust themselves against the hard wooden surface, and more men pushed into their backs, boots scrabbling for purchase as they heaved against the doors. On either side, the ladder parties had reached the wall and were raising their assault ladders towards the battlements. Macro could hear the shouts from inside the wall as the rebel officers urged their men on, desperately struggling to close the gate and deny their enemy access to the city.

  ‘Come on!’ Macro roared. ‘Heave, you bastards! Put your backs into it!’ All around him the tightly packed legionaries grunted with the effort of pressing against the doors with all their might. For a moment the timbers inched towards them and Macro watched in alarm as the gap narrowed so that no man could squeeze through.Then, as even more legionaries arrived, and one of the optios began to call time, the Romans checked the efforts of the defenders. The heavy doors were still, caught between the desperate scrums of the rebels and the attackers.To his side Macro saw the first of the legionaries climbing up the assault ladders. The man was caught in the dull orange pools of light cast by the torches on the wall and was picked off at once by the archers above the gate, tumbling back from the ladders, pierced with the dark shafts of arrows. But the next man was already clambering up the ladder an instant later, one-handed as he covered himself as best he could with his shield as he climbed.

  Macro felt the gate he was leaning against shift a little and glancing towards the slim gap between the edges he saw that it was wider, and then widening perceptibly. His heart swelled with triumph and elation and he shouted encouragement to the men packed around him, gasping from their desperate efforts to force the gate open.

  ‘It’s giving! Keep at it, lads! Heave!’

  Macro’s feet were solidly braced on the worn slabs of paving as his legs strained with every fibre of his strength.

  Slowly, but surely, the Romans gained ground as the heavy iron hinges groaned under the pressures being applied to the gates. The narrow gap continued to open and now Macro could see through it to the packed ranks of the rebels inside the city. The nearest of them saw him at the same time, and leaped for the gap, stabbing at Macro with a long finely wrought blade. Macro threw his head to the side as the tip shot past his cheek guard, and was then whipped back.

  ‘Shit,’ he hissed through clenched teeth. ‘That was too close.’

  He kept his distance from the edge of the door and threw his shoulder against the timber once again. ‘Keep it going, lads! Almost there!’

  The pressure on the gate was remorseless and the Romans gained ground steadily. As the gap opened up enough for a man to pass, Macro ordered some of the nearest men to guard it, but not rush through.They must hit the rebels in a solid wave, with the full weight of the following ranks behind them, not in a fine dribble of individuals who were sure to be isolated and cut down within moments of entering Palmyra.

  One of the legionaries hurled a javelin through the growing gap and then the air was filled with an exchange of missiles: more javelins, arrows, sling shot and rocks. Now three men in close formation could fill the gap and the legionaries locked their shields to prevent any attempt to injure the men still heaving at the doors.The time to charge was close and Macro thrust himself away from the timber.

  ‘Make way there! You, take my place!’

  He pushed his way across to the men forming up in front of the gap and readied his sword.

  ‘On my command . . . !’

  Around him the legionaries braced themselves, shields up, heads down, sword hands clamped tightly round the handles. Macro drew a deep breath.

  ‘Charge!’

  He let out an animal roar and it was instantly drowned in a deafening storm of noise as the other men joined in and the legionaries surged forward into the city. As soon as the charge burst upon them the defenders abandoned the gate and without the pressure from behind the doors swung back at speed and crashed against the walls, crushing one of the rebels who had not managed to move away fast enough.The officer in charge of defending the gate had assembled perhaps fifty men ready to countercharge the moment the Romans entered and now they let out a war cry of their own and surged forward behind their lighter, round shields. A handful of defenders found themselves caught between the two opposing waves of screaming men and were trampled underfoot or crushed as they came together in a rippling crash of wood and metal and flesh.

  Macro was in the second rank of the century leading the assault and for a moment his instincts told him to thrust his way through to the front and lead his men into the fight. Then cold reason asserted itself. He was in command of over
a thousand men. Their survival depended on him and it would be worse than reckless to throw away his life in this skirmish: it would be criminally self-indulgent. He took a deep breath, sheathed his sword and withdrew a short distance from the fighting. He looked round and up and saw that the flanking centuries had found their way on to the walls either side of the gate and were clearing the ramparts of rebels while the rest of the column made ready to pass through below them. He sensed a shadow suddenly looming at his shoulder and swung round to see Balthus swinging himself down from the saddle of his horse.

  ‘Truly, the men of the legions fight like lions.’

  The remark was sincere and Macro felt proud, and human enough to admit to a passing moment of smugness after the humiliation of being rescued by the prince and his retinue. Then the feeling fell away and he glanced up the street, over the heads of the fighting men, in the direction of the citadel.

  ‘The action’s barely begun, sir. We’ve a way to go yet.’

  Balthus’ smile faded. ‘Yes. As soon as you have cleared the rebels from around the gate, I will lead the way.’

  ‘Very well. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ Macro turned and strode towards the fighting. He could see that his men had the upper hand. It was no surprise. The rebels were brave enough, but their weapons and armour were light and unequal to the task. The legionaries presented a wall of broad shields to the defenders, occasionally punching them forward when an enemy came too close. In between the shields the blades of short swords flickered in and out like silver tongues, stabbing and cutting at the press of rebel bodies, forcing them up the street. Men began to fall back, then turn and run, ducking into the side streets to escape the Roman onslaught. Macro nodded with satisfaction as the legionaries cut down the last of the rebels still brave or foolish enough to fight on, and then the street was in their hands.