‘I thought he was supposed to be finding the quickest way to get across the river,’ said Spathos.
‘He was,’ Macro responded before he rounded on Optio Phocus. ‘That’s what he told you, right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then why in the name of Discordia isn’t he making for the bloody river?’
Phocus shook his head helplessly. ‘I have no idea, sir.’
Macro puffed with frustration. ‘I need to get to the bottom of this, before some fool causes any more mischief.’
As the horsemen descended into the valley, the wind died away and the rain petered out. Trees grew densely on either side and the condition of the track steadily improved. Macro felt his spirits begin to sink as they trotted along. He was relieved to have found the baggage train unharmed, but he felt certain that something was wrong. He needed to track down Orfitus as quickly as possible.
He increased the pace to a canter as he continued along the road at the head of his men. As they reached the Syrians standing guard at the rear of the baggage train, he reined in and halted, then turned to Phocus.
‘What’s the name of the optio in charge?’
Phocus glanced over the auxiliaries, barely thirty in number, forming a line across the road. ‘Laecinus, sir.’
Macro walked his horse up to the man in question. ‘Optio Laecinus?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the fresh-faced junior officer.
‘Why has the baggage train halted?’
‘Prefect’s orders, sir.’
‘And where is Prefect Orfitus?’ Macro demanded. ‘Where’s the rest of the cohort?’
The optio turned and pointed towards the crags. ‘He took the rest of the men in that direction, sir.’
‘Why?’
‘There’s a rebel camp further down the valley. Orfitus means to attack it.’
Macro groaned. ‘Oh, shit.’
He closed his mouth and fixed his lips in a thin line as he thought quickly. Orfitus should not have left the baggage train so poorly protected, no matter how tempting it was to deal a blow to the enemy. His sole duty was to carry out the orders Corbulo had left him with when the main part of the column marched on Thapsis. He craned his neck and looked around the valley. That was when he saw them, a party of horsemen on the skyline, observing them. A sickening dread filled his guts and he turned quickly to Laecinus.
‘We have to get the wagons across the river.’
‘But the prefect’s orders were that—’
‘Fuck the prefect, I’m in command now. On the general’s orders. I want the wagons turned round and put on the road leading towards the river. Get started with the nearest of ’em. Phocus!’
‘Sir?’
‘You ride up the column and tell every drover to turn his wagon and get moving down the other fork. Go!’
He pulled his reins to turn his mount to Spathos and his remaining men. ‘Drop your saddlebags and ready your weapons, lads. We’re in for a fight!’
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Spurring his horse forward, Macro swerved off the road and galloped along the length of the baggage train to his left while the trunks of trees flitted past some twenty feet to his right. As he rode, he noted that the supply wagons were still at the rear of the column and that the siege weapons were loaded on the wagons at the head. He also saw the wagon drivers and their teams watching as the horses thundered past, and wondered if they knew how much danger they might be in. No doubt they had believed that the expedition to Thapsis would be over quickly and they would make a tidy profit from their contracts to supply Corbulo’s soldiers. Instead they had been sitting idle for many days, and now they were terribly exposed to a rebel attack. He could not help wondering whether they were more preoccupied by the prospect of fading profits than the threat posed by the enemy.
The rest of the century left behind by Orfitus was positioned at the front of the wagon train, and Macro halted the squadron again to interrogate the unit’s commander.
‘Your name?’
‘Centurion Mardonius, Sixth Century, Fourth Syrian Aux—’
‘Mardonius.’ Macro cut him off. ‘What’s going on here? Your optio says the prefect has taken the rest of the cohort forward to attack a rebel camp.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Mardonius turned and pointed towards the crags where the road turned out of sight. ‘Not far beyond there, sir. Four miles or so, according to Thermon.’
‘Thermon? Who’s that?’
‘The guide, sir. He’s the one who told the prefect about the ford. He was scouting ahead when he saw a band of rebels and followed them far enough to see their camp. Then he reported back to Orfitus, and he gave the order for the cohort to advance and destroy the camp.’
‘And the prefect just took him at his word, I suppose,’ Macro said flatly. ‘So why has the baggage train not taken the turning towards the ford? What’s Orfitus up to?’
‘Thermon reported the enemy camp before we got to the fork, sir. He also said there was another ford just beyond it. A safer one to cross, given the recent rains. He said it might be dangerous to use the crossing he had originally mentioned. So the prefect ordered the baggage train to stay on the same road and then halted it before we reached the crags while he took the rest of the cohort forwards,’ Mardonius explained. ‘He said he’d send orders to continue the advance as soon as the rebel camp was taken.’
‘He’s a trusting man, your prefect.’
‘Didn’t seem to be any reason not to trust the guide, sir. He’s one of us.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘A veteran. Retired legionary.’
‘You believed him?’
‘No reason not to, sir. You can take the man out of the army, but you can’t take the army out of the man, as they say.’
‘I’ll deal with this Thermon later,’ said Macro. ‘Meanwhile, you get these wagons turned round and head for the original ford.’
Mardonius frowned. ‘That’s not what the prefect ordered, sir.’
‘It doesn’t matter what he told you. General Corbulo has put me in command of the baggage train.’
Mardonius looked doubtful.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ Macro growled as he flipped open his sidebag and took out Corbulo’s authority, thrusting it at the other officer. ‘Read this.’
Mardonius stepped forward and examined the wax tablet and the seal. ‘Looks real enough. I’ll get the wagons turned round.’
‘Good man. Once they’re on the move, drive them hard and get to the ford and across the river as quick as you can.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Mardonius made to turn away, but Macro called him back.
‘One other thing. Have your men ready to cover the rear of the baggage train.’
Mardonius cocked an eyebrow. ‘You think someone’s planning to attack us?’
‘Better to be safe than royally buggered up,’ Macro replied. ‘Get moving.’
As the centurion trotted over to the leading wagons to give the order to turn about, Macro wheeled his horse towards the crags and urged it into a canter as he ordered Spathos and his men to follow him. He looked up to the ridge where he had seen the horsemen in the distance, but they had gone, and that added to his growing unease. Following the curve of the road as it passed beneath the crags, it occurred to him that if the baggage train was going to be ambushed anywhere, here was where it would have been most vulnerable. A handful of men on the heights above would be able to roll boulders down onto it, or shoot fire arrows with impunity. Fortunately, the prefect had halted the wagons before they had entered the killing ground.
Round the corner of the crags, the valley began to open up into rolling terrain studded with copses of cedar trees and outcrops of rock through which the road snaked. From the slightly higher ground Macro could see the Syrian auxiliaries marching just over a mile ahead, and no
more than half a mile further on lay the rebel camp. He had been expecting the usual makeshift affair constructed by irregular soldiers, and was surprised to see a fortified position on the crest of a small hill. A palisade surrounded the camp, where perhaps twenty or so round huts had been erected. He could even make out the figures of the defenders, too few to hold out against Orfitus and his auxiliaries. Perhaps he had misjudged the situation, thought Macro. Maybe the prospect of being responsible for the baggage train was making him unnecessarily anxious.
He continued down the road at a canter, keen to catch up with the Syrians and get the anticipated confrontation with Orfitus dealt with. He soon lost sight of the cohort and the enemy’s camp, and thereafter only caught glimpses of them through the trees and when the road passed over higher ground. Then, as he rode out from a thick belt of cedar trees, he was presented with a clear view of the scene scarcely a quarter of a mile off as the cohort deployed into line just out of arrowshot of the camp. The rebels were shouting their defiance and brandishing weapons from behind the palisade. Macro estimated that there were no more than twenty of them. They could not hope to hold out for long against the auxiliaries, and would soon be paying for their defiance with their lives.
Prefect Orfitus was sitting on his horse beside the colour party as he directed the preparations for the attack, and Macro led his men over the open ground towards him. As they became aware of the riders’ approach, Orfitus and his centurions turned to watch, as did some of the men, until their optios bawled at them to face front.
‘Why, it’s Centurion Macro.’ Orfitus greeted him with a nod. ‘What on earth brings you here? As it happens, you are just in time to witness the crushing of this rebel nest. I trust you will enjoy the spectacle, and Corbulo too, when you report back to him.’
Macro glanced over the men around the prefect. ‘Which one of you is Thermon?’
‘He’s not here,’ Orfitus answered. ‘He’s scouting further ahead, in case there are any more of the enemy skulking out there who might be tempted to intervene in our attack on their camp.’
‘Scouting? I hope you’re right, sir. But I’m not sure we’ll be seeing Thermon again.’
‘Why?’ A look of suspicion appeared on the prefect’s face. ‘What are you implying?’
Macro did not want to be drawn on the matter. There would be time to deal with the guide later on. There was no easy way to announce the purpose of his presence, so he simply took out his authority and handed it over. ‘From the general, sir.’
Orfitus opened the wax tablet and read the contents quickly, then once again at a more measured pace as his expression fixed in a frown. He closed it and looked up at Macro as he returned the document.
‘You’re being put in command of my cohort? You?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘But you’re just a bloody centurion. That’s impossible.’
‘Nevertheless, those are the general’s orders, sir. As Optio Phocus will confirm.’
Orfitus glanced at the optio. ‘Is this true?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Phocus replied uncomfortably. ‘He asked me to confirm it in person.’
‘It’s a bloody outrage.’ Orfitus shook his head. ‘I protest. I’ll report this to the emperor himself.’
‘Do that if you wish, sir, but meanwhile we are both serving under the command of General Corbulo and we are obliged to obey his orders. Therefore I am taking over the cohort.’
‘No . . . no, you are not. I refuse to accept this.’
‘Sir, there is no time for this now. You can make your complaint later, but as of this moment, you and your cohort are under my command.’
Orfitus glared, and then laughed. ‘Ridiculous!’
Macro cleared his throat and spoke loudly and clearly so that the entire cohort could hear him. ‘I am Centurion Lucius Cornelius Macro. By the authority of General Corbulo I am now your commanding officer. Decurion Spathos!’
‘Sir!’
‘Have two of your men escort the prefect back to the baggage train.’
As Spathos chose his men and they trotted forward, Macro spoke quietly to Orfitus. ‘Please go quietly, sir. Or I’ll order them to tie your hands to the saddle and gag you.’
The prefect’s jaw worked furiously for an instant before he replied through gritted teeth. ‘I don’t care what it takes, or how long, but you will pay for this, Macro. No one humiliates me like this and gets away with it. I swear it by Jupiter, Best and Greatest.’
Macro nodded to the two cavalrymen. ‘Take him away.’
Sitting stiffly in his saddle, Orfitus tugged his reins and spurred his horse into a trot as he made for the road. His escorts hurried after him and took up station on either side. Macro let out a relieved sigh and then turned his attention to the rebel camp. The shouting had died away and there was only one man still behind the palisade. He carried a standard, which he waved slowly from side to side so that the red streamer fixed to the tail of a red lion rippled in the light breeze blowing off the hills. Then he turned and disappeared from view.
‘What now?’ Macro muttered.
His query was answered by the faint drumming of hoofs, and the optio on the extreme right of the auxiliary line called out, ‘They’re running for it!’
Macro turned to look. At first he saw nothing. Then the standard appeared beyond the slope below the camp, followed by a party of riders galloping towards the road and then making their escape along it, away from the Romans.
‘Shall I chase the bastards down, sir?’ Spathos asked easily.
‘No,’ Macro replied. ‘Their mounts are fresh. You’d never catch ’em. We’ll have to let them go for—’
He was interrupted by the faint sound of a horn from behind them, and tugged his reins to turn his mount towards the sound. ‘That’s coming from the baggage train.’
Optio Phocus looked at him. ‘What is it, sir?’
‘How in Hades would I know?’ Macro snapped. He drew a sharp breath and bellowed his orders. ‘Fourth Syrian! Form column on the road! At the double! Spathos, take your men and ride back and report on what you see. Oh, and keep Orfitus with you when you catch up with him.’
‘Yes, sir!’ Spathos wheeled his men around and the squadron raced back along the road towards the crags.
As the auxiliaries tramped back to the road, Macro scanned the sides of the valley and saw that they were being watched by a cluster of horsemen on the ridge, close to where he had seen the earlier group. The same men, he reasoned. But there was no one else, and the only sign of trouble was the occasional blast of a distant horn. It did not have the characteristic flat blare of a Roman instrument, and that caused him to fear the worst. When the cohort was ready, he was tempted to give the order to close up, but the need to return to the baggage train outweighed the marginal advantage of being in tight formation in the case of a sudden ambush.
‘Fourth Syrian . . . at the quick step, advance!’
They set off, marching swiftly back towards the crags, with Macro at the head of the column, constantly scrutinising the treeline for any sign of danger as he fretted about the fate of the baggage train. They had gone just over a mile when he saw Spathos and his men, together with Orfitus, galloping back towards them. Beyond, a dark column of smoke smeared the grey sky beyond the crags. Any remaining doubt that Macro had entertained about the trap that had been set for Prefect Orfitus faded and died at that moment. The rebel posing as a guide had carried out his part perfectly, luring away the bulk of the cohort and leaving the wagons and their precious contents vulnerable to a surprise attack. Macro swore an oath to himself that if they ever captured the guide and it was proven that he had once genuinely been a Roman soldier, then Thermon would die the lingering death worthy of such traitors.
‘Keep marching!’ he shouted to the centurion leading the first century of the cohort, and then spurred his mount forward to intercept Spath
os. They met on a rise in a swirl of dust kicked up by the horses. At once the decurion thrust his arm in the direction of the baggage train. ‘We’re under attack, sir! There’s hundreds of them!’
‘How many?’ Macro demanded. ‘Calm yourself, man! How many do you estimate?’
Spathos drew a deep breath as he thought quickly. ‘No more than a thousand.’
Orfitus edged his horse forward as he addressed Macro. ‘You were right, Centurion. I was tricked. I—’
‘Save that for later, sir.’ Macro turned back to Spathos. ‘Any cavalry?’
‘Some, perhaps fifty. The rest are on foot.’
‘Any Parthians? Or regulars?’
Spathos shook his head. ‘I didn’t see any.’
‘That’s something to be grateful for. What’s the damage so far?’
‘Several of the wagons are on fire. Most of the drivers and their teams have abandoned the rest. Some of them were fighting alongside groups of auxiliaries making a stand, but not many were left as far as I could make out.’
‘Right.’ Macro quickly considered what he’d been told. ‘Listen, you’ve got to go back there and do your best to disrupt the attack.’
Spathos’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘What? With twenty men? We’ll be cut down in a heartbeat, sir.’
‘Not if you keep moving. Charge up and down the wagon line. Carve up as many as you can, but don’t stop and get stuck in a melee or you will be finished. You have to break them up, distract them long enough for the Syrians to arrive. Do you understand?’
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