‘Lucius Sempronius, the ambassador.’
Cato examined her more closely. The daughter of a senator no less, and here she was tending to the wounds of ordinary soldiers. ‘What’s your name?’
She looked at him and smiled, revealing neat white teeth. ‘Julia. And yours?’
‘Quintus Licinius Cato, prefect of the Second Illyrian. Well, acting prefect for the present.’ Now it was Cato’s turn to smile. ‘But you can call me Cato.’
‘I was going to. There’s no point in standing on formalities here. Or at least I don’t think there is, not when the rebels might take the place any day and put us all to the sword,’ Julia added matter-of-factly as she took a fresh strip of cloth and dried his hand, dabbing the water off. She reached for a dressing from a basket and began to wrap it round Cato’s hand. ‘Prefect, you say? That’s an important rank, is it not?’
Cato frowned. ‘It is to me.’
‘Aren’t you rather young for such a position?’
‘Yes,’ Cato admitted, and then continued tersely: ‘And isn’t the daughter of a senator rather out of place looking after common soldiers?’
She tied off the dressing firmly, and gave it a short extra tug that made Cato grit his teeth to stop a gasp of pain. ‘Clearly you are no common soldier, Prefect, but your manner is common. Discourteous, even.’
‘I meant no offence.’
‘Really?’ She took a step back from him. ‘Well, your wound is dressed, and I have done the job as well as any man here, for all the disadvantages conferred on me by my social station. Now, if you don’t mind, Prefect, I’m busy.’
Cato flushed with irritation at her mood, and shame at his rudeness. She strode past him, out of the door and back into the corridor. He turned after her.
‘Thank you . . . Julia Sempronia.’
She paused a moment, her back stiffening, and then turned into one of the rooms and disappeared from sight.
Cato shook his head and muttered to himself, ‘Oh, well done. Surrounded by enemies, and you go and make yourself another one.’ He slapped his hand against his thigh, and gasped as pain shot up his arm. ‘Shit!’
Grinding his teeth, he marched swiftly out of the hospital and made for the signal tower. Once he was satisfied that the men there understood that they must only make their signal to Macro once the diversionary sortie was well under way, Cato went to join the force assembled just inside the citadel’s gateway. The commander of the garrison had allocated the task to one syntagma of the royal bodyguard and the men had gathered quietly in the glow of the torches flickering in iron brackets above the gate.They were heavily armoured and carried the same large round shields and stout spears of their forebears in the days of Alexander. The horsehair crests of their helmets did not appeal to Cato’s eye, more used to the utilitarian helmets of Roman soldiers, but it added to their stature and made the body of men look quite formidable, Cato conceded.
‘Ah! My friend from the sewer.’
Cato glanced towards the voice and saw an officer waving at him. ‘Archelaus?’
‘The same!’ The Greek laughed. ‘Come and join my men, and see how real warriors fight.’
‘I have no shield or helmet.’
Archelaus turned to the nearest of his men. ‘Bring some kit for our Roman friend.’
The man saluted and hurried off to the barracks as Archelaus offered his spear and shield to Cato. ‘Here, I’ll explain how we use these.’
Cato saw that the shield had a central strap which he slipped his arm through before grasping the handle near the edge. Unlike the Roman design this shield was purely for protection and could not be punched into the enemy. It provided good cover for his body and thighs and Cato hefted it experimentally until he felt confident about its weight and balance. Then he took the spear that Archelaus was holding ready. It was perhaps two foot longer than his height, with a sturdy shaft and a long, tear-shaped iron point. The other end was capped with a small iron spike. Cato closed his fingers round the leather hand grip and tested the weight. It was heavy, and was a thrusting weapon, unlike the legionary javelin which could serve as a missile as well as a spear.
‘Hold it upright,’ Archelaus explained. ‘We keep it that way until we close on the enemy. Stops us from doing any harm to our comrades, and helps to break up any arrows or sling shot they send our way. When we close and the order is given to advance spears, the front rank goes ahead of the formation and switches to an overhand grip.’ He took the spear from Cato and flicked it up into the air and caught it, his arm bent and the shaft angled forward so the point was at eye level. ‘Stab from here, like this.’ He thrust the spear forward in a powerful jab and then recovered it, ready to strike again.Then he changed his grip, lowered the end and handed it back to Cato. ‘You have a go.’
Cato tried the overhand grip and stabbed at the air. He would have preferred to use his sword but could see the advantage in using the spear’s greater reach to strike at the enemy.The man Archelaus had sent to the barracks returned with the spare equipment and Cato returned Archelaus’ shield and sword. As soon as he had tied the chin straps of the helmet and taken up spear and shield the commander of the syntagma bellowed the order to close ranks. Cato noticed that some of the men in the line beside him were carrying small haversacks.
‘Incendiary materials,’ Archelaus explained quietly, following the direction of the Roman’s gaze. ‘We’re making for a ram the rebels are constructing in front of a temple on the other side of the agora. We’re to set it on fire. The ram and anything else that might be of use to the enemy.’
The commander shouted another order as he stepped into the front line of the formation. Several of the Greek mercenaries raised the locking bar of the gate and, bracing their legs, they heaved for all they were worth. The tall, studded timber doors protested on their hinges and eased open with a grating groan. The commander raised his spear above his head and looked over his shoulder to call out to his comrades.
‘Advance!’
The front rank of the syntagma rippled forward ahead of the following men as the dense column tramped out through the gate. Cato marched at the side of Archelaus a few ranks back from the front and as they emerged from the gate his heart was beating wildly. Earlier he had doubted the need to join the diversionary attack, but it was vital that Macro’s column managed to cut their way through to the citadel, and Cato felt an instinctive duty to do all that he could to help his friend, and the men of the Second Illyrian. So he lowered his head, gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on shield and spear as the column spilled out of the citadel and made its way towards the makeshift barricades the rebels had erected across the streets leading from the agora in front of the citadel.
‘At the run!’ the commander yelled and the men around Cato swiftly quickened their pace, sandalled feet pounding across the paving stones as their scabbards slapped against their thighs and their ragged breath was drawn with sharp gasps. Above the din of the charging men around him Cato heard the sharp cries of alarm from the rebel lines. Braziers burned behind the barricades and dark figures rose up along the defences, clearly visible as they readied their weapons and faced the men of the royal bodyguard charging towards them across the open expanse of the agora. In the open-sided precinct of a temple Cato saw the looming shape of the shelter being constructed for the battering ram, and above the buildings on either side he saw the first faint glow of the coming dawn and knew that time was running out for Macro and the relief column to cut their way into the city under the cover of night.
The commander of the syntagma was the first to reach the barricade of overturned wagons and timber that had been constructed across the open side of the precinct. He slammed his shield against an upended market stall and stabbed his spear over the top, attempting to skewer the nearest rebel. The man jumped back, ducking down behind his shield as he slashed his sword at the spear shaft, trying to knock it from the commander’s grip. On either side more Greek mercenaries arrived at the barricade, s
tabbing at the men on the far side, and already the first of them had scrambled over the defences and dropped into a crouch on the far side, shield raised and spear poised to thrust. With a savage roar he slashed the spear around and cleared a space for his comrades to clamber across the barricade to join the attack. Cato kept his position at the shoulder of Archelaus as some of the bodyguards ahead of them paused to pull the barricade apart, wrenching loose timbers aside and heaving an overturned cart back on to its heavy wheels before rolling it to one side. Cato looked over his shoulder, back towards the citadel. A small flame flared at the top of the signal tower and then there was a cloud of sparks whirling into the darkness before the fire caught and tongues of orange and red flickered in the darkness. The signal was given, then. Any moment now Macro and his column would begin their assault on the eastern gate and Cato quickly prayed to Fortuna that the diversionary attack had drawn the attention of the rebels away from the relief column.
The bodyguards had succeeded in opening a gap through the defences and worked hard to widen it as their comrades filtered through, feeding into the temple precinct on the other side. As Archelaus pressed forward Cato went with him, surging ahead with the other mercenaries. The small square in front of the temple was filled with a confused mass of dim figures locked in savage duels. The two sides were only clearly distinguishable by the crested helmets of the royal guardsmen and the conical helmets of the rebels.
‘Cut ‘em down!’ shouted the commander.
Archelaus thrust his spear into the sky and added his excited encouragement. ‘Come on, boys! Pike the bastards!’
He ran forward, lowering the tip of his spear, and thrust it into the back of a fleeing enemy. The man threw out his arms and his sword clattered to the ground a moment before his body. Cato moved into the mêlée, eyes flickering from side to side as he advanced, crouching slightly to spread his weight and make it harder for anyone to knock him down. There was a savage cry from his left and Cato just had time to throw his round shield up and out to block the sword blow which glanced off with a deafening clang. Cato swung round, stabbing out with his spear.The rebel parried it aside with a contemptuous laugh and struck at Cato again, and again, in a flurry of sword blows that drove him back step by step as he desperately blocked the attacks. There was no chance to use the spear and the weapon was little more than a burden in Cato’s unpractised hand.
‘Fuck this,’ he growled, casting the spear aside and reaching for his sword. He drew the blade from its scabbard with a familiar scrape and hefted it at his side. ‘Right then, now let’s see how tough you are.’
He rode out another short flurry of blows, and then leaped forward, slamming his shield against the rebel’s. The man stumbled back, off guard, and now Cato struck at him, thrusting at his face and then his exposed thigh, ripping through cloth and flesh. The rebel gasped with agony and staggered away, blood flowing from his wound. Cato rushed forward, throwing his weight behind his shield, and gritted his teeth just before the collision. The rebel crashed to the ground, and just managed to pull his shield up across his body as Cato stood over him, hacking savagely. As soon as he judged that the man had been stunned by the ferocity of his attack Cato paused, glanced down and saw the dark shape of the man’s legs and feet below the rim of his shield. Cato stepped back a pace and hacked at the limbs. As the blade shattered a bone the rebel howled. Cato slashed at the writhing limbs a few more times until he was certain the man would pose no further threat, and then turned away, ignoring the screams of agony.
Around him he could make out enough detail to see that the fight was going their way. Only a handful of figures were still engaged in combat and the long dark shape of the nearly constructed ram housing loomed against the far side of the temple precinct. Cato took a deep breath and called out, ‘Archelaus! Archelaus!’
‘Here!’ The reply was close by and a moment later a figure strode towards Cato. ‘Still with us then, Roman.’
‘Evidently.’ Cato could not help returning the Greek’s smile for an instant before he gestured to the ram housing. ‘You’d better get your lads to work on that, before the enemy gathers enough men to counter-attack.’
‘Yes, at once.’ Archelaus turned and called for the men with the incendiary materials to gather round him. As soon as they had found Archelaus and Cato the small party picked its way through the last few groups of men still fighting. They made straight for the ram housing and Cato saw that the timber structure was mounted on large solid wooden wheels. Much of the sturdy frame had already been covered with bales of hide stuffed with animal skins and rags to absorb the impact of any missiles dropped from the citadel gatehouse when the ram was ready to go into action. Inside, hanging from chains, was the long shaft of the ram itself.
Archelaus stopped to address the small group of men. ‘Get as many fires lit as you can. I want this thing well ablaze before we have to retreat.’
The mercenaries lowered their shields and spears and dispersed themselves around the structure, beginning to gather any combustible material around the places they chose to make their fires. Each carried a tinderbox and one by one they set to work striking flints and blowing on the charred kindling inside.
As Cato and Archelaus waited, weapons held ready, the first of the small flames licked up and soon the immediate area was illuminated by small fires as sparks and smoke began to swirl through the darkness. For a moment Cato was satisfied that the enemy structure would soon be ablaze. But then, as the kindling began to burn itself out, he realised something was wrong.
‘It’s not catching alight.’ Cato strode towards the ram housing and sheathed his sword. He reached out to touch the leather hides. ‘They’ve been wetted down . . . soaked.’ Cato turned back to Archelaus. ‘Forget setting fire to it. Go for the cordage.’
The Greek officer nodded and switching his spear to his shield hand he drew his falcata and shouted an order to his men.’Use your swords! Cut the ropes! Set fire to their stores!’
At once his men abandoned their failing flames and set about the thick coarse ropes from which the ram was suspended. The air was filled with the dull thud of swords striking the twisted hemp and Cato made himself keep his mouth shut as he willed them to work faster. But the night was already coming to an end, he knew, as he glanced at the sky lightening above the rooftops of Palmyra.
Around him the last of the enemy had been killed or sent running and there were no more sounds of clashing weapons in the temple precinct, no more shouted war cries or muttered oaths. Here and there a man groaned with pain, or called out pitifully for help. Cato strode back towards the ruined barricade and cocked an ear in the direction of the eastern gate. He was relieved to hear the sounds of distant fighting. Macro and the others had begun their attack, and with luck were fighting their way into the city.
A sudden shout of triumph and a dull thud drew Cato’s attention back and he turned to see that the rear of the ram had been cut from its ropes and had fallen to the ground. Archelaus’ men at once attacked the remaining ropes with a desperate frenzy of blows. Beyond the temple, in the heart of the city, horns sounded, urgently blasting deep notes to waken and summon the rebel soldiers to trap and slaughter the small band of the royal guard who had had the audacity to mount this sortie against the rebels’ siege weapon.
‘Time we got out of here,’ Archelaus muttered. ‘They’ll be after us at any moment.’
The commander echoed his thoughts a moment later by ordering his men to quit the precinct and form up beyond the remains of the barricade. Archelaus’ men abandoned the ram and hurried back towards the agora. Cato quickly inspected the damage. The ram was hanging by one length of cord, badly frayed from sword slashes. Elsewhere flames licked up from piles of hemp and timber. It would set the rebels back perhaps half a day, he estimated. Not much, but it would frustrate Prince Artaxes and his followers and raise the morale of those sheltering in the citadel.
‘Prefect!’
Cato turned to see Archelaus beckoning
to him in the thin light of the coming dawn. He left the ram housing and trotted back to join the mercenaries. The sound of fighting from the eastern gate had faded slightly and Cato fervently hoped that it was because Macro and his men had succeeded in penetrating the city. From the other direction the shouts of the rebels and the blasts of their horns and beating of drums drew closer.As soon as the last of the injured men had been helped into the formation, the commander gave the order to withdraw. In tight ranks the mercenaries marched at a steady pace across the agora towards the citadel gate.A small unit of the bodyguard stood there, defending the gate against any surprise attack from the rebels. Cato nodded with approval. That was the kind of cautious contingency he approved of. Clearly the commander of the syntagma was an experienced and capable officer.
They had covered over half the distance to the gate when the first of the rebel reinforcements appeared on the far side of the agora. More poured out of the other entrances on to the paved expanse and the commander gave the order for the mercenaries to quicken their pace. Glancing back, Cato could see that they would easily reach the gate before the rebels could mass enough men together to charge the retreating mercenaries.The gate would be shut before that happened. With a sick feeling Cato realised that it would also be shut in face of the relief column as they approached the citadel.
‘Archelaus! We must stop.’
‘Stop?’ The Greek turned to stare at him as if Cato was mad. He nodded over his shoulder. ‘In case you hadn’t noticed . . .’
‘We have to keep the gate open.We must leave a way in for the relief column.’
Archelaus frowned for a moment, then hissed through his teeth. ‘You’re right. Come with me.’
He forced a way through the ranks until they reached the commander of the formation.
‘Sir!’ Archelaus called out. ‘We must halt.’
‘Halt?’ The commander shook his head. ‘Why?’
Cato pushed forward. ‘We have to keep the way to the citadel clear for the relief column.’
08 Centurion Page 19
