‘First century! Re-form ranks!’ Centurion Horatius bellowed, and the remaining men formed a column four abreast, facing up the street.
As the next century entered the gate, Macro ordered their commander to form up behind Horatius’ men, then turned back to Prince Balthus.
‘Sir, I’ll need your men in small parties in between each of my centuries.’
‘Why?’
Macro indicated the buildings crowding the street on either side. ‘I’ve seen street fighting before. As we go deeper into the city, the rebels are going to regroup and attack us again. From the alleys, and up there on the roofs.Your men are fine shots. They proved that the other day.’ He flashed a smile. ‘They’re the best chance we have of picking off the attackers, and discouraging them from getting too close.’
Balthus nodded. ‘I understand. I will give the order.’
‘They will need to dismount, and hand their horses over to my cavalry.’
Balthus’ dark eyes flashed suspiciously in the torchlit street. ‘My followers do not part with their horses lightly, Centurion.’
‘I know that well enough, sir. But I give my word, they will be protected by my men.’
‘Your word. Very well, I will order it.’ Balthus turned away and strode out of the gate. Macro climbed the stairs inside the gate tower and called out to the commanders of the flank centuries to join him. As they picked their way along the battlements Macro glanced over the bodies sprawled around him and could easily imagine the bloody scramble for possession of the gatehouse and the nearest stretches of the city’s wall. Once the two centurions were with him Macro gave them their orders.
‘You’re to guard our flanks until the last of the auxiliaries are inside the city. Then you become the rear guard. Keep your men formed up and stay on the street.You will not stop to engage any rebels.You will ignore any attacks from alleys and side streets. If the column is forced to stop then the initiative goes to the other side. If that happens, we’re as good as dead. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ the centurions chorused.
‘Good. And by the way.’ Macro gestured to the evidence of the bloody struggle around them. ‘Good job.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
By the time Macro returned to the street, the first of Balthus’ men had positioned themselves at the rear of the first century, bows at the ready. Balthus had joined them, armed with his own bow, gaudily decorated, but quite deadly, Macro realised. He strode over to join the prince.
‘All set?’
‘Yes, Centurion. We head up that street, as far as the market, then left through the arch on to the way that leads to the citadel.’
‘Very well.’ Macro cupped his hand to his mouth. ‘Column! . . . Advance!’
Even in the brief time it had taken to re-form the column the rebels had appeared at the far end of the street, and as the Roman vanguard tramped forward the first arrows cracked into the shields of the front rank. Balthus’ men shot back at once and the rebels scurried for cover as the missiles arced towards them.
‘Now we’re in for trouble,’ Macro growled.
Balthus looked at him. ‘Why?’
‘You’ll see.’ Macro’s gaze flickered over the buildings lining the street ahead of them. Then he saw a faint blur of movement from one of the roofs and he stabbed a finger towards the spot. ‘Up there!’
As the column approached the place where the arrows shot by Balthus’ men lay on the paved surface of the street, a lump of masonry was hurled down from an overlooking building. Macro shouted a warning, too late to prevent its smashing down on to the shoulder of the first century’s standard-bearer. The blow drove the man down on to his knees. He groaned and tried to keep the heavy shaft held up with his other hand, but the standard tottered a moment and began to fall to the side. Macro leaped towards the man and snatched the standard from his grasp before it hit the ground. He turned and gestured towards two of the men following him.
‘You, take over the standard. And you help the bearer to the rear.’
The man chosen to take the standard was a wiry youth, whose expression openly betrayed his pride at being entrusted with the task.
‘You know the score,’ Macro said tersely. ‘Keep it up where the men can see it, and defend it with your life.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then carry on.’ Macro nodded towards the first century marching steadily up the street. ‘Don’t fall behind.’
As the legionary scurried forward someone shouted a warning as more masonry was thrown down from the roofs on either side.
‘Shields!’ Macro shouted. ‘Raise shields overhead!’
His men lifted their shields and formed a loosely interlocking protective screen over their heads. Balthus’ men had no such protection, but in any case they were busy taking shots at any figures that became visible on the roofs. The first of them suddenly cried out and crumpled to the ground close by Macro, felled by a sling shot. There was no time to check if his wound was fatal as the column moved on. Ahead Macro could just make out the place where the street opened out on to the market. A file of rebel soldiers trotted into view and quickly formed up, locking their shields and presenting their sturdy spears to the Romans as they paced towards the end of the street and filled the gap. Macro drew Balthus’ attention to the men ahead and the prince rattled out a quick series of orders. His archers instantly turned their attention towards the men blocking the route and began to loose arrows in their direction. But these rebels were part of Palmyra’s small but effective army; a contingent that had betrayed their king. Like the Romans they raised their shields and the arrows clanged off the bronzed surfaces.
‘Spearmen to your front!’ Macro warned.
The spearmen were packed tightly into the width of the street and came on steadily, at a pace called out by their officer.The legionaries advanced on them without faltering, shields held out and swords raised to the horizontal, ready to thrust. One of the men began to beat the side of his blade against the shield trim and within moments the rest of the leading century followed suit and the rhythmic metallic clank echoed off the walls on either side. As the Roman column advanced Macro glanced warily down each alley they passed, and saw occasional fleeting movements in the dark shadows. Every so often an arrow or a stone would fly out and clatter off a shield or the armour of one of Macro’s men.They were more of a nuisance than a danger and it was only the handful of the enemy who had reached the roofs of the houses lining the street who presented a real threat as they continued to hurl missiles down on the column tramping up the street.
As the gap between the two sides narrowed Macro forced his way through the ranks of the first century until he marched only a few ranks from the front. He drew his sword, raised it to hip level and joined in with his men as they continued to rap their blades against the edges of their shields. Ahead, the small enemy force, armour glinting faintly in the flickering glow of the torches held by a handful of men on either side, suddenly checked their pace and hefted their spears up and changed to an overhand grip, ready to stab with the sharp points. Macro and his men responded by raising their shields a little higher so that they were now peering over the rims as they came on.Then they were within striking range and the rebel soldiers shouted their war cries as they stabbed their spears at the Romans. The legionaries instinctively lowered their heads so the only targets were the crests of their helmets and the broad, curved surfaces of the shields. The savagely sharp spearheads thudded into the shields or glanced harmlessly off helmets as the Romans pressed ahead and closed to sword’s length before rushing forward with a loud roar. Shield crashed against shield and then the Romans hacked at the spear shafts, battering them down before turning on the rebels and striking at them with ruthless and brutal abandon.
‘Stick it to ‘em, lads!’ Macro shouted. ‘Go in hard and fast!’
Against other enemies the trained spearmen might well have prevailed, but the legionaries had thrust the spears aside and clos
ed the gap and now the spears were almost worse than useless. Some of the rebels wisely cast theirs down, or hurled them forward into the Roman ranks, before drawing their swords. Macro saw that they were armed with falcatas, short, down-curved swords with heavy blades that were lethal cutting weapons. There was a continuous chorus of thuds as shield slammed against shield and then the men of both sides began the bloody work of hacking and stabbing at each other whenever a gap appeared between the shields. As he heaved his weight behind the men in the front rank Macro noted that the rebel’s swords had an unexpected advantage in close combat. The downward curve at the heavy end of the blade could only strike over the rim of a shield by a small distance, but it was lethal enough if the man behind the shield had his head raised far enough to peer over the top. Just ahead of Macro there was a sharp metallic crack as a falcata cut through the helmet of a legionary and cleaved his skull.The man dropped like a sack of wet barley and his sword clattered to the ground, his shield falling back to cover the body.
At once Macro rushed over the corpse to fill the gap and straightened his arm to stab at the man who had killed the legionary.The rebel saw the glint of the blade and threw his shield up just in time to deflect the blow and then Macro’s heavy legionary shield slammed into him, and the rebel staggered back a step. The rearmost ranks of both sides surged forward, pressing together the men who had been exchanging blows. Now it was almost impossible to fight and Macro leaned into his shield and pushed, gritting his teeth as he braced his booted feet and heaved. Around him other men grunted and strained as they sought to push the enemy back. From just the other side of his shield Macro could hear the laboured breathing of the man he had tried to kill. Now neither could strike, and the bitter skirmish was a simple test of strength and numbers.
‘Shove harder, you bastards!’ Macro called out to his men. ‘Forwards!’
For a moment neither side gave any ground, and then, slowly at first, the nailed boots and weight of the Roman side began to tell and Macro took a pace forward and threw his weight ahead again. Another step was won, then another, and then the Romans were steadily pushing the enemy up the street towards the market. They were still subjected to a steady barrage of missiles from the roofs and the ends of adjoining alleys, while Balthus and his archers did their best to force the enemy to keep their heads down.
‘Keep going!’
Macro glanced up over his shield rim and saw that the enemy had been forced back into the market. He ducked down again and continued to press forward.There was little attempt to resist the Roman column now and the rebels began to peel away from the rear ranks and scatter amongst the empty market stalls. The rebel officer bellowed angrily at them, until his voice was suddenly cut off as an arrow punched through his throat. He dropped his sword and staggered back, pulling at the barbed shaft until it snapped and the blood coursed from his arteries and he fell to the ground, senseless. His men broke and ran, sprinting across the market away from the Romans. Balthus and his archers loosed a few arrows after them and then turned their attention back to the remaining rebels on the rooftops. The leading section of legionaries started after the fleeing rebels.
‘Leave them!’ Macro roared. ‘Or I’ll have your guts for bootlaces!’
The men stopped at once and hurried back to rejoin their comrades, with sheepish grins as their friends jeered them.
‘That’s enough,’ Macro ordered. ‘Close up and bear left. Over there.’ Macro raised his sword and pointed towards an arched entrance to the market square. The column quickly dressed its ranks and began to march up the widest passage between the bare market stalls. Macro, breathing heavily, stood to one side for a moment to watch the men pass. In the open space there was a faint loom cast by the stars and a fine crescent moon, enough light for the men to see their surroundings and to fight by. Some distance beyond the arch, in the direction of the citadel, the sky was stained red and orange by a fire burning out of sight and Macro felt his stomach tighten.The sounds of fighting drifted on the night air.
‘That must be the diversionary attack.’
Macro started and turned and saw that Balthus was standing at his shoulder.
‘You move bloody quietly,’ Macro muttered with relief. ‘Good thing you’re on our side.’
Balthus stared at him a second. ‘For the moment.At least until Artaxes is dealt with and the Parthians have left my people alone.’
‘And after that?’
‘After that?’ Balthus smiled thinly. ‘After that we shall see.’
Macro nodded. ‘All right. So that’s how things stand. But for now . . .’
His attention was drawn by a sudden chorus of shouts and as he turned round to gaze across the market square he saw a dark mass of figures spilling down the street that led to the citadel.
Macro cupped a hand to his mouth to shout his orders. ‘Column! Halt! Shields up! Prepare to receive enemy charge! Balthus, shoot ‘em down!’
08 Centurion
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The suite of rooms set aside for guests of the king had been turned into a makeshift hospital for the garrison’s wounded. As Cato entered the small courtyard he saw that most of the rooms were already filled with men lying on sleeping mats, or simple beds of straw. Some slept soundly, others muttered in delirious tones and a few moaned or cried out in pain. A handful of orderlies and women were attending to their needs as best they could. Cato immediately felt as if he had little right to be there. He glanced down at the deep cut that ran across the palm of his left hand. The blood had slowed and was congealing in the filthy puckered lips of the wound. Even though it throbbed painfully Cato felt shamed by the insignificance of his wound compared to those of the other men in the hospital. He frowned in self-contempt, and was about to turn and walk away when a figure emerged from a room a short distance in front of him.
‘Here,’ the soft voice of a woman called to him in Greek. ‘Let me have a look at that.’
‘What?’ Cato looked up and saw her outline against the light of a stand of oil lamps burning further down the corridor.
‘Your hand. Let me have a look at it.’ She moved towards him.
‘No, it’s not necessary,’ Cato responded quickly.’I have to go.’
The woman moved quickly and took his elbow gently with one hand. ‘Over here, under the lamp, where I can see it.’
Cato allowed himself to be steered down the colonnade that ran round the small courtyard and as they moved into the light he began to make her out in more detail. She was young with long dark hair tied back in a ponytail. Her body was slight beneath a simple stola of light brown, now patched with dark splashes and smears.As they stopped close to the yellow glow of the lamps and she bent her head to examine his hand Cato saw that there was a peak in her dark hair and her cheeks had fine pronounced bones. Her eyes were grey and as she glanced up at him a smile flickered across her lips.
‘Nasty.’
Cato stared at her in confusion. ‘Sorry? I don’t-’
‘This cut. How did this happen? It’s not a sword cut. I should know - I’ve seen enough of them in recent days.’
‘Oh.’ Cato tore his eyes away from her, discomfited by her direct gaze. ‘I gashed it in a tunnel.’
‘Gashed it in a tunnel?’ She shook her head. ‘Honestly, you boys never grow up. One scrape after another.’
Cato pulled his arm away from her and stiffened his spine so that he could look down at her from his full height. ‘I’ll deal with it myself, then.’
‘Oh, come now!’ She chuckled wearily.’I was just joking. And now, seriously, I must see to that. The wound needs to be cleaned and dressed. Follow me.’
She turned, not waiting for him, and strode towards a doorway at the end of the colonnade. After an instant’s hesitation Cato sighed and followed her. The door opened on to a room dominated by a large wooden table, streaked with blood. Some brass instruments at one end of the table gleamed in the wan light of a lamp holder.To one side stood a brazier in which a
few embers still glowed. An iron pot rested above it and the air was filled with the acrid stench of pitch. Just visible in the gloom beneath the table was a large basket from which the curled fingers of a hand emerged, and the stump of another limb. Cato glanced away from it quickly as the woman beckoned him to a side table where she was pouring water into a basin.
‘Here. Let me clean it.’
Cato stepped over to her and offered his hand over the basin. She pushed it into the water and then, raising it, she began to clean away the filth with a length of cloth. She glanced at him.
‘You’re no local boy, nor even a Greek mercenary. A Roman then.’ She switched to Latin. ‘I haven’t seen you before. You’re certainly not on the ambassador’s staff. Who are you?’
Cato was tired and not in the mood to answer her queries. Even now the Greek mercenaries were quietly forming up behind the citadel gates ready to make their move and he wanted to be with them the moment the signal beacon was lit. Nevertheless there was no harm in talking to her while she saw to his injury.
‘I’m with a relief force sent by the governor of Syria.’
She paused and looked at him with widened eyes. ‘Then the message got through. Thank the Gods, we’re saved.’
‘Not quite,’ said Cato. ‘We’re only the advance column. The rest of the army is some days behind us.’
‘Oh.’ She turned her attention back to Cato’s hand and wiped the cloth a little deeper into the cut to clear out the remainder of the dirt that had worked its way in. Cato winced but forced himself to keep his hand still. He looked away from it, back at her face.
‘How about you? What’s a Roman woman doing here in Palmyra?’
She shrugged. ‘I travel with my father.’
‘And your father is?’
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