He sat up and stretched his arms, yawning widely before smacking his lips. Rising to his feet, Macro saw a dark dry patch in the light-coloured soil in front of the tent post and immediately recalled the scene the previous night when he had cleaved the cobra in two, and pursed his lips sourly. Emerging from the tent, Macro saw his friend sitting on a palm log a short distance away. He was staring out across the misty river, the stopper from an amphora in his hands. A short distance away lay the remains of a broken amphora.
‘Up early, or couldn’t you sleep?’ Macro called out as he strode over to join Cato.
‘Not much chance of anyone sleeping when you start snoring.’ Cato tossed the stopper aside into the grass. ‘At least we weren’t troubled by anything else last night. That’s something to be thankful for.’
Further along the shore the other passengers and the crews from the boats were rising and rolling up their bedrolls ready to continue the voyage upriver. Hamedes approached them, carrying his kitbag over his shoulder.
‘Morning, sirs. I heard there was some excitement last night.’
‘You could say that,’ Macro replied.
Hamedes tossed his bag down and squatted in front of them. ‘The optio told me about the snake just now. Seems you had a close escape. The venom of the Nile cobra can kill a man within the hour. You’re very lucky, sir.’
‘Funny, I thought I was unlucky that it happened at all.’
The priest tilted his head to one side. ‘Perhaps it was an omen. A message from the gods. A warning perhaps.’
‘Then again, perhaps it was just a bloody snake which took a wrong turning.’ Macro stood up and pointed to two of the legionaries standing by the nearest fire. ‘You, and you. Get the tent down and stowed. Make sure the bedrolls are put on the same boat.’
Cato turned to Hamedes and was silent a moment before he spoke. ‘A message? I think you might be right.’
‘Oh?’ A brief look of surprise flashed across the priest’s face.
‘Yes,’ Cato continued. ‘We seem to have been dogged by bad luck ever since we began our hunt for Ajax here in Egypt. I’m beginning to wonder if we’ve offended some of the local gods. You’re the man with the expertise here, Hamedes. How do we go about appeasing your gods? Who should we offer prayers to? What sacrifice should we make?’
Macro glanced at his friend. ‘Since when did you come over all religious?’
‘There’s been plenty of times in the last few months when fortune has played us false, Macro. It could be mere coincidence, but I doubt it. On one or two occasions, perhaps, but as often as we have endured it, then a man is right to suspect that the gods, or someone else, are playing their hand.’
Macro puffed his cheeks, not quite sure how to respond. ‘You really think an offering is necessary, sir?’
‘It would give me some peace of mind,’ Cato admitted. ‘Will you see to it, Hamedes, on our behalf?’
‘Of course, sir.’
‘As soon as you can.’
‘I will do what I can. The rites associated with good fortune and warding off bad luck were beyond my remit, sir. I was entrusted with more basic offerings. But I will find out for you when we reach Diospolis Magna and I can consult the priests there.’
Cato stared at him and then nodded. ‘Very well, that will have to do.’ He took a deep breath and stood up. ‘Meanwhile, let’s get the convoy under way again. The sooner we reach our destination, the better.’
The convoy continued up the river, passing beyond the delta on to the single expanse of water that flowed through the heart of the great desert that stretched west from the Erythraeum Sea across the continent and formed the southernmost boundary of the Empire. From the river Cato could see the rocky scarps that rose up beyond the narrow belt of cultivated land spilling out beyond both banks of the Nile. Between stretches of reeds and palm trees he saw great numbers of fields tended by peasants and tilled by oxen drawing heavy ploughs as they turned over the dark silted soil that was the source of the province’s great wealth. Before the time when Rome had coveted the fertile farmlands of Egypt, such wealth had funded the ambitions of the Ptolemies, and before them the ancient lineage of the old Pharaohs dating back to time beyond record.
Though they were forgotten, they had lived in an age of marvels, Cato mused as the convoy passed by the trio of pyramids, guarded by a giant Sphinx, a short distance downriver from Memphis. Though he had seen them several days earlier, on the way to report to Petronius, Cato still viewed them with awe as he stood on the foredeck shading his eyes as he stared. They were built on the scale of mountains, it seemed, though geometrically perfect in a manner that nature could never achieve. The sides seemed to be glassy smooth for the most part, and patches of what looked like gold leaf reflected the sun’s rays in such dazzling splendour that Cato thought they would have been impossible to behold when in their prime.
‘Quite a sight,’ said Macro as he came forward to stand beside Cato. He stared a moment longer and then shook his head. ‘Hard to believe it’s the handiwork of the gypos, ain’t it?’
‘That’s hardly a fair comment.’ Cato gestured to a village on the shore. ‘These people are living in the shadows of their ancestors. They are not the same.’ He paused for a moment in reflection. ‘Perhaps one day they will say the same of our ancestors when Rome is little more than a curiosity. When our great monuments are crumbling back into the ground.’
‘Pfft! You talk utter bollocks sometimes, Cato.’ Macro nudged him. ‘You know you do.’ He cleared his throat and then imitated the same hushed and reverential tones of his friend as he continued. ‘Rome is the darling of the gods, brought forth into the world to be a shining beacon of all that is great and best. In the distant future people will stand in front of the gates of Rome and look in wonder on our mighty works and despair . . .’
‘Have you quite finished?’ Cato asked tersely.
Macro sniffed. ‘Give me a moment, I’m sure I might have missed something pretentious I could have said.’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Now that’s spoken like a soldier. Brief, and to the point. Come, forget about all them dusty piles of stone and get into the shade before you start getting even more light-headed, eh?’
Macro slipped back under the awning and sat down. Cato stared at the pyramids for a little longer, but Macro’s words had robbed them of some of their mystique and with a sigh he turned and joined Macro and Hamedes in the shade.
Ten days after the convoy left Alexandria the barges sailed round the final bend in the river before Diospolis Magna just after the sun had fallen behind the arid mountains on the western bank. On the opposite bank towered the pylons of the largest temple complex Cato had ever seen. Tall wooden masts rose from brackets on the carved walls and tattered banners of faded red wafted and flickered in the evening breeze. A tall mud-brick wall surrounded the temple, giving it the appearance of a vast fortress. A stone landing stage stood a short distance from the edge of the river, where a more recent quay constructed from wood lined the bank of the Nile.
‘Karnak,’ Hamedes said with reverence, and then pointed further along the bank to another, far smaller complex. ‘And that’s the temple of Amun. The city lies beyond.’
The captain of the barge sat at the tiller and gently heaved it away from him as he steered in towards the quay. A number of soldiers were standing guard along the quay and on towers erected behind the walls. As the flotilla approached, a party of soldiers emerged from the ornate landing platform and descended the ramp on to the quay to assist with mooring the barges. The crews tossed ropes across the water to them and one by one the barges were hauled in and the ropes fastened to worn wooden cleats lining the quay.
The two Roman officers and the priest gathered their kitbags and stepped ashore. Cato stopped the optio in charge of the mooring party.
‘Where is the army headquarters?’
‘Who wants to know?’
Macro stepped forward to tear a strip off the optio fo
r his insubordination but Cato raised a hand to stop him. They were wearing only their standard-issue tunics. Their armour, and insignia, were packed in their kitbags.
‘Prefect Quintus Licinius Cato and Centurion Macro reporting for duty with the Twenty-Second,’ said Cato and nodded at Hamedes. ‘This is our scout.’
‘Ah, my apologies, sir.’ The optio stiffened to attention. ‘You want the priests’ quarters, sir.’ The optio turned and pointed to the east of the temple complex. ‘Over there. I’ll have one of my men guide you.’
Cato nodded as he cast an eye over the optio and his men. Most were dark-skinned, like the natives. A few had the lighter skins of the Greeks or Romans. ‘Very well.’
Shortly after, they climbed the ramp to the ceremonial landing stage and the vista inside the temple complex opened up. Thousands of men were camped inside the wall, their tents aligned in neat rows stretching out across the compound. In the distance, towards the rear of the complex, lay the stables where the horses of the auxiliary cohorts, and the four squadrons of legionary cavalry, stood sheltered from the sun beneath shades made from palm fronds. A short distance outside the walls, between the temple complex and the city, lay the sprawl of tents belonging to the camp followers. This was where the soldiers could find drink, trinkets and comfort in the arms of women from the numerous companies of prostitutes run by seedy Greek merchants.
‘Impressive.’ Hamedes nodded. ‘I have never seen such a powerful army. The Nubians would tremble at such a sight. I could not guess at the number.’
‘The number is less impressive than you might think,’ Macro replied. ‘A legion has over five thousand men on its roll at full strength. But then, they never are at full strength. The auxiliary units amount to perhaps three thousand men. At best Candidus has eight thousand men to counter the Nubians.’
‘But surely, sir, the Roman soldiers are the best in the world? How else could they have won such an empire?’
‘There are soldiers and there are soldiers,’ Cato responded quietly.
The legionary assigned to escort them to headquarters led them down a short avenue of Sphinxes and through the gates of the first set of pylons, across a courtyard and between two large statues into a hall filled with vast columns. At the far end they turned right towards another set of pylons stretching to the south. The courtyards here were packed with supply carts and thousands of sacks of grain to supply the army once they marched south to do battle with the Nubians. For Hamedes the army’s preparations for war were something of a novelty and he kept glancing about him with insatiable curiosity.
‘Hey,’ Macro called to the legionary. ‘You had any word on the enemy?’
The man glanced back and shook his head. ‘Nothing for days, sir. Last I heard was that their mounted troops had been seen as far north as Ombos.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘A hundred or so miles upriver.’
Macro turned to Cato. ‘Not exactly blazing a path through the underbelly of the province, are they? And Candidus isn’t exactly rushing to drive them back either.’
Cato shrugged. ‘I’m sure the legate has his reasons.’
‘I’d be interested in hearing them.’
They strode down through the last set of pylons, and saw another avenue of Sphinxes heading towards the temple of Amun, over a mile away. A short distance from the avenue was a large low building, surrounded by another mud-brick wall. A section of legionaries stood guard at the gate.
‘This way, sir.’ Their guide gestured to Cato. The optio in command of the gate raised a hand as they approached.
‘Halt! State your business.’
‘Officers joining the legion,’ the legionary explained and stood aside as Cato reached inside his tunic and took out his orders and handed them over for the optio to inspect. He ran his eyes over the papyrus scroll and then saluted. ‘Welcome to the Jackals, sir.’
‘Jackals?’
The optio turned and pointed at the standard rising up above the gate leading into the priests’ quarters. Above the legion’s number, a depiction of a canine head in gold stood out against the red cloth of the fall. Cato and Macro briefly examined the standard and exchanged a knowing glance: there wasn’t a single battle honour adorning the staff.
‘I expect you’ll want to be entered on to the roll, sir.’
Cato nodded. ‘But first I wish to see the legate.’
‘He’s not here, sir. You’ll have to see the camp prefect instead. Caius Aurelius.’
‘Where is the legate?’
‘He left the army several days ago, sir. I heard he was touring the forts along the Nile to make sure they were adequately prepared to hold out against the Nubians.’
‘When is he due back?’
‘Can’t say, sir. Best ask the camp prefect.’
‘Where do I find him?’
‘Through the gates and straight on, sir. Admin offices are just beyond the pool.’
‘Pool?’ Macro smiled as they strode through the gates. ‘Sounds like a cushy posting.’
In stark contrast to the bland exterior of the wall running round the priests’ quarters, the interior afforded comfort in some style at first glance. Palm trees shaded the paved paths that surrounded the buildings. Flower beds were watered by pipes that ran through the gardens. Few plants remained, however, and those that did were sadly neglected and their leaves were covered in a layer of fine dust. The path from the entrance led through a double line of columns and opened out on to a tiled courtyard surrounded by airy cells. A large awning covered the courtyard and in its shade the staff of the headquarters had set up their trestle tables. The clerks were busy cleaning their pens and putting aside their work as they looked forward to the evening meal. On the far side of the courtyard was another line of columns and beyond they could see the mirror gleam of water. The cells of the second courtyard were given over to the senior officers of the army and cots had been set up at the back of each cell while a desk stood at the front. Several officers were still hard at work and Cato asked a passing orderly for the camp prefect.
‘Over there, sir. Far end of the pool.’ He pointed out a slight man with dark, tightly curled hair, hunched over a large desk as he examined a document. Cato led the small party round the shallow pool. As he approached the cell, the camp prefect glanced up. He looked tired and anxious.
‘Yes?’
‘Prefect Cato, sir. I’ve been sent from Alexandria to take up the senior tribune’s vacancy. My orders.’ He handed the document over. ‘This is Centurion Macro, assigned to the legion.’
‘And him?’ He nodded at Hamedes.
‘Our scout, sir.’
Aurelius quickly glanced at the orders and pushed them to one side. ‘It’s good to have you with us. Even though we had a junior tribune join us yesterday we’re still short of the full complement of officers, particularly in the First Cohort. Our best officers can be called on to act as magistrates right across the province. Two of our centurions were serving south of Ombos and we’ve had no word from them. The same goes for the first spear. He was overseeing the construction of a new fort at Pselchis. Frankly, I fear the worst.’
‘Sorry to hear it, sir,’ said Macro.
‘Well, perhaps no news is good news,’ Aurelius replied unconvincingly. ‘In the meantime, Prefect Cato, you’re acting senior tribune. Centurion Macro gets command of the First Century.’ He tapped the scrolls. ‘You come highly recommended, and we need experienced officers. As you might know, it’s a while since the entire legion saw active service. We’ve been carrying out policing action most of the time. Still, the opposition’s little more than a mob of mounted brigands. That’s what we’re told, anyway.’
As the man spoke, in his high voice with its sing-song cadence and rhythm, Cato’s earlier fears about the combat readiness of the legion seemed to be justified. Aurelius was clearly a man far more at home wielding a stylus than a gladius. Cato could only hope that the legate had wider military experience.
&
nbsp; ‘Sir, if I may, I’d like to present myself to Legate Candidus at the earliest opportunity when he returns. I need to speak to him about the possibility of an additional threat to this region.’
‘I’m sure you would like to speak to Candidus,’ the camp prefect replied. ‘So would I. The fact is, he said he would be back three days ago. I’ve sent patrols to look for him but there’s no sign of him on the road to Ombos. The gods only know where he’s got to.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The Nubian army was in camp twenty miles to the north of Ombos, in a shallow loop of the Nile that watered their horses and camels, as well as the herds of goats that served as mobile rations. There was little sense of the orderly layout that Ajax had seen in the Roman army at Diospolis Magna. The gladiator had halted his column of mounted men on a rocky outcrop a mile away from the camp. Prince Talmis’s forces sprawled across the flattened fields of wheat. Ajax estimated that the Nubian army must be at least thirty thousand strong. There were tents dotted around, but most of the men had erected temporary shelters constructed from palm fronds. The majority of the Prince’s men seemed to be Nubian warriors, with a smaller contingent of Arabs, swathed in flowing dark robes. At the heart of the camp lay a cluster of larger tents, and Ajax could make out a loose ring of spearmen guarding the cleared perimeter that stretched a short distance around the tents.
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