The Legion

by Simon Scarrow

  He breathed deeply and then exhaled in a long, calm breath and threw his arm forward, releasing the shaft of the spear. It flew down from the wall, straight towards the two men.

  ‘Macro! Look out!’ The prefect shoved his friend aside an instant before the spear would have caught him squarely in the chest. Instead it struck the prefect, high on the left shoulder, the impact sending him sprawling into the sand and grit of the open ground before the temple wall.

  ‘Ha!’ Ajax snarled though gritted teeth, his face fixed in an expression of savage triumph. He just had time to spare the two officers one last look, as Macro stooped over his friend, and then Ajax snatched out his sword and turned back to the fight alongside him. Karim was still duelling with the same Roman, exchanging sword blows that rang sharply. But the legionary was one against two and even as he parried another thrust, Ajax hooked his blade around the edge of the shield and ran it through his enemy’s arm, severing muscles. The shield slipped from the Roman’s grasp and he instinctively recoiled a pace, out of range of their swords. At once two arrows slammed into him from above, piercing his sword arm in two places. The Roman howled in agony and staggered to the side and fell off the ramp, tumbling on to the bodies of those below.

  The attackers at the bottom of the ramp hesitated, then one was struck in the face by another arrow and jerked up to his full height and trembled wildly for an instant before he dropped to the ground. There were more bodies on either side of the leading century as well as a handful of Arabs who had been shot down from the wall of the temple.

  ‘Fall back!’ a voice cried out. ‘Fall back!’

  There was a brief hesitation, then Ajax saw the legionaries begin to shuffle away from the end of the surviving ramp. More of them took up the cry and the leading century began to break up as it fell back towards the breach.

  ‘Stop!’ Macro bellowed at them. ‘Stand your ground! Damn you! Cowards!’

  Ajax saw him half rise as he cursed his men, then Macro looked down at the still figure at his feet. For a moment the centurion seemed torn, then he bent down and heaved his superior on to his shoulder and began to pace after his men under the awkward burden. Ajax felt sick to the core at the thought of his enemies escaping, then a handful of arrows landed in the sand close to Macro.

  ‘Shoot at the officers!’ Ajax shouted, stabbing his sword towards them. ‘Shoot them down!’

  In the frenzied excitement of the attack only those men nearest to him heard the order and had the presence of mind to pick out the two Roman officers. Ajax watched intently as more shafts whirled through the wavering light of the fire arrows still burning where they had landed. Macro picked up his pace, scrambling away as fast as he could, jinking from side to side to put off the archers’ aim. An arrow glanced off the prefect’s armour and another flew past Macro’s helmet as he made a last dash towards a cluster of the screens that had been erected by the auxiliary archers. Macro unceremoniously dumped Cato down in their shelter and stumbled to his knees beside the prefect.

  ‘Shit,’ Ajax muttered furiously, clenching his spare fist. He continued to glare at the archers’ screens as Macro dragged his friend in to make him as safe as possible from the Arab archers, whose arrows struck the screen or buried their iron heads into the dusty ground instead. Most of the men from the First Century had already reached the safety of the breach, or were also taking shelter behind the screens. As Ajax watched, the Romans continued to withdraw, the prefect protected by several archers holding their screens up as Macro and some of his men carried Cato to safety. As the last of the Romans fell back through the breach, Ajax ground his teeth.

  ‘We should save our arrows, sir,’ said Karim.

  Ajax cleared his mind of rage and nodded. ‘Give the order.’

  ‘Cease shooting!’ Karim called out to each side. ‘Cease shooting!’

  The Arabs stopped loosing their arrows and climbed down from the temple wall, leaving a handful to keep watch on the enemy. The last of the auxiliary archers pulled back to the other side of the breach and shortly afterwards the bolt throwers fell silent. The night air was disturbed only by a gentle breeze and the cries of the wounded, Roman and Arab blended in a chorus of agony. A handful of the fire arrows still burned, as did the braziers on the pylons and walls of the temple, casting a thin orange light across the scene of the Romans’ first assault. They had lost over twenty men, Ajax estimated. But more than that, they had suffered a blow to their morale. The next time they came forward, they would know that they faced a storm of arrows and the same determined defence of the barricade. They would have to advance past the bodies of their comrades and ignore the pitiful cries for help from the wounded. The Roman commander would think twice before making a second frontal assault.

  ‘What now?’ Karim mused quietly. ‘Do you think they’ll make another attempt tonight?’

  Ajax pondered for a moment. ‘I would, if I was in their place. Every hour they are delayed here is an hour gained for Prince Talmis . . . They’ll attack again.’

  ‘Then what should we do, General?’

  ‘Do?’ Ajax smiled thinly. ‘Nothing. I doubt that even our spy can help us now.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘How is he?’ Macro stood over his friend as the legion’s surgeon carefully inspected Cato’s shoulder by the light of an oil lamp held by his assistant.

  The surgeon sucked in an impatient breath. Without looking up he spoke. ‘I might be able to tell you, sir, if you would be kind enough not to stand between the light and my patient.’

  Macro stood back a pace.

  ‘Thank you.’ The surgeon bent towards Cato and examined the prefect’s shoulder. As soon as Macro had withdrawn from the temple compound, he had two of his men carry Cato back as far as the bolt throwers and then sent for the surgeon at once. Cato had struck his head on the ground as the impact of the spear knocked him off his feet. He had blacked out and came round as Macro and Hamedes had carried him away from the curtain wall. He was still dazed, but aware enough of the pain in his shoulder to curse and mumble incoherently. Macro had removed Cato’s helmet, harness and scaled armour before the surgeon arrived and now Cato lay on a pile of straw in the corner of a small stable where the air was rich with the aroma of dung. Macro had ordered Hamedes to wait outside rather than crowd the space unnecessarily.

  The surgeon eased the tunic off Cato’s shoulder and looked closely at the discoloured flesh. ‘No open wound. That’s good. He was hit by a spear, you say?’

  ‘Yes. Seemed to catch him square on.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ The surgeon touched the flesh as lightly as he could and traced his fingers along the collarbone. ‘No breaks there. I’ll have to probe the shoulder joint. It’s going to hurt. I’ll need you to hold him down.’

  Macro knelt down and firmly grasped Cato’s uninjured arm with one hand and pressed his chest back with the other. ‘Ready.’

  The surgeon leaned forward and gently took hold of Cato’s shoulder in both hands. He felt softly for any sign of broken bones or the slackness of torn muscle tissue. Cato’s eyes rolled up and he groaned in agony. Satisfied with his superficial examination the surgeon probed more deeply into the shoulder.

  ‘Fuck!’ Cato yelled, attempting to sit bolt upright. His eyes were wide open and he glared at the surgeon. ‘Bastard!’ He head-butted the other man on the cheek.

  Macro thrust him back down. ‘Easy, lad! He’s just tending your injury.’

  Cato turned his gaze to Macro with a dazed expression. He nodded and gritted his teeth. ‘All right. Go on, then.’

  The surgeon rubbed his cheek and then turned his attention back to Cato’s shoulder. He pressed his fingers into the discoloured flesh and Macro felt his friend go as tense as a length of timber as he stared straight up, focusing on fighting the agony of his examination. The surgeon thoroughly examined the shoulder and then eased himself back with a satisfied nod.

  ‘Some bad bruising but no broken bones. It’ll hurt like hell for some days a
nd you’ll need to keep it strapped up, but there should be no lasting effects. I understand you took a blow to the head as well.’

  Cato frowned, trying to remember.

  ‘It’s common not to recall the incident. How do you feel?’

  ‘Not good.’ Cato swallowed and winced. ‘Head hurts. Still feel a bit dazed . . . I can recall the attack. Then a spear in the air. Then nothing.’

  ‘Well, that’s fine,’ the surgeon concluded with a reassuring pat of Cato’s hand. ‘At least your brain’s not been scrambled.’

  Macro shrugged. ‘Can’t say that I’d notice much difference . . .’

  The surgeon stood up. ‘I want you to rest. Until the dizziness has passed. Then you can get back on your feet. The shoulder’s going to be painful for several days, and stiff. Better keep it in a sling. Other than that, I’d say you have had a lucky escape, sir. Just try to stay out of the path of spears, javelins and arrows from now on, eh?’

  Macro gave him a droll look and then turned his attention back to Cato as the surgeon left the stable. For a moment neither man spoke, then Macro cleared his throat self-consciously. ‘I suppose I should thank you.’

  ‘Thank me?’

  Macro frowned. ‘Of course. You saved me from that spear.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘You don’t remember it then?’

  Cato closed his eyes briefly and then shook his head.

  ‘All right,’ said Macro eagerly. ‘Forget about it. I’d better go. The legate will want to know what to do next. You stay here and rest, eh?’

  He turned and strode across to the entrance to the stable.

  ‘Macro . . .’ Cato called weakly.

  The centurion turned and looked back.

  ‘Whatever I did, you’d have done the same for me,’ Cato said. ‘If you’d been standing in my place.’

  ‘True, but I wouldn’t have ended up here.’ Macro chuckled. ‘I’m not lanky like you. If I’d pushed you aside, the bloody spear would have missed me by a mile. Now do as the surgeon said and get some rest.’ He left the stable and gestured to Hamedes to follow him.

  The legate was sitting on a crude table outside the ruins of a peasant’s hut when Macro found him. His staff officers and the centurions from Macro’s cohort and the auxiliaries were gathered about him in the loom cast by an oil lamp, waiting. Another of the legion’s surgeons had just finished suturing a small gash on the legate’s forearm and began to apply a dressing as Aurelius addressed Macro over the surgeon’s shoulder.

  ‘Good of you to finally join us.’

  ‘I was seeing to the senior tribune, sir,’ Macro replied with a hint of bitterness. ‘He was struck by a spear during the attack.’

  ‘How bad is the wound?’ Aurelius asked with a trace of anxiety.

  ‘He was lucky, sir. The tribune’s a bit battered but he’ll recover.’

  ‘Good, we need every man.’ Aurelius nodded down towards the dressing being tied round his arm. ‘I took a wound myself. An arrow tore open my arm.’

  The surgeon glanced up with a surprised expression and shook his head as he finished tying off the ends of the dressing. He straightened up and stood off a respectful distance. ‘It’s only a flesh wound, sir. But I’d advise you to keep it clean all the same.’

  Aurelius nodded and waved the surgeon away. He smiled warmly at Macro. ‘A bloody business that first attack, eh? I came forward to watch your progress from the breach. That’s when I was wounded.’

  He gestured proudly at the dressing with his other hand. Macro did not miss the tone of elation in his voice - the elation of a man who has finally received his first wound after many years of peaceful service without the least chance to prove himself as a soldier.

  ‘Still,’ the legate went on, ‘it’s only a brief setback. We’ll take the place with the next attack. I’m certain of it.’

  Macro regarded his superior thoughtfully. Aurelius was in a dangerously cheerful mood. Macro had served in the legions long enough to know the symptoms. Having survived an injury, even one as slight as being grazed by an arrow, Aurelius felt invulnerable. He had nothing to prove to his men. He had bled on the battlefield and had earned his right to order them to continue the fight, whatever the cost. The effect would wear off in a few hours, Macro knew. That was the usual experience of having survived a near miss. Cold rationality would soon moderate the legate’s sudden zeal for battle. The trick of it would be restraining the man’s urge to fight until the proper measures could be taken for the next assault on the temple.

  ‘We’ll take it all right, sir,’ Macro agreed. ‘The moment we’ve made our preparations.’

  ‘Preparations?’

  ‘Of course, sir. We need to bring forward the bolt throwers to cover the assault at close range. If we knock some loopholes through the curtain wall, the bolt throwers can easily pick off the enemy archers without exposing our crews. Also, we should make sure that any escape routes from the temple are covered.’ Macro nodded towards Hamedes. ‘The lad here used to be a priest. He knows the layout of the temple. He visited it only recently. Isn’t that right?’

  Hamedes nodded nervously in front of the legion’s senior officers. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘So tell us what you know,’ Macro continued. ‘How many exits does the place have?’

  Hamedes collected his thoughts as best he could before he replied. ‘There’s the main entrance between the largest pair of pylons. The doors there are huge, sir. Several inches thick. Even then, there’s a small courtyard in front of that with another gate. Besides the main entrance, there are two entrances on either side of the main temple. The one we attacked earlier, and another on the opposite side. They are bound to have fortified that as well, sir.’

  ‘Well, there is only one way to be certain,’ Aurelius responded testily. ‘I want you to go and see. Report back to Centurion Macro the moment you return.’

  Hamedes glanced at Macro who nodded subtly. Hamedes swallowed and bowed his head. ‘As you command, sir.’

  He walked hesitantly towards the temple and was soon swallowed up in the darkness. Aurelius turned back to Macro. ‘While Cato is out of action you are my second-in-command. You’re an experienced soldier, so we’ll do as you suggest. Get the bolt throwers forward. Do whatever else you have to to make sure the next attack succeeds. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Macro nodded.

  ‘And make certain there is no way for the enemy to escape. I want them all killed or captured.’ Aurelius reached a hand up to touch his brow. ‘Now, I must rest. My wound has weakened me. Wake me the instant we are ready to launch the second assault.’

  As the night wore on and a hunter’s moon rose low on the horizon, the sound of the Romans’ preparations carried clearly to the defenders of the temple: the steady pounding of the outer wall as the legionaries gouged holes out of the mud bricks, and the sawing of wood and hammering of nails as they laboured by the light of some fires out of sight behind a mound two hundred yards back from the curtain wall. From the top of the pylon Ajax could just glimpse some of the legionaries at work and guessed that they would be making new assault ramps and, in all probability, a ram as well. If the first failed, then the latter would surely smash down the roughly constructed barricade. Once that happened, nothing could stop the Romans forcing their way into the temple and crushing the defenders.

  Ajax had already considered making an attempt to break out, but he had seen the legionaries patrolling round the temple earlier in the night, as well as the small parties of men methodically laying a barrier of obstacles on the ground. Caltrops, Ajax guessed. Four vicious iron prongs forged in such a way that however they were cast on to the ground, one spike always pointed up, ready to impale the hoof or foot of anyone attempting to charge over it. Beyond the foot patrols he had also heard the sound of cavalry; hoofs and occasional neighs as they patrolled further out beyond the temple walls.

  Midnight came and went and the low moon drifted across the sky, casting a glimmering trail
of reflections across the water of the Nile before passing out of sight behind the hills on the far bank. Ajax knew that he was trapped. The remainder of the men who had survived the rebellion on Crete, and the Arab warriors entrusted to him by Prince Talmis, all of them were doomed. The sentiment that filled his heart was not fear, nor failure, only a profound sense of frustration that he had not caused more damage to Roman interests in his brief life. He hoped that his spear had fatally wounded the prefect, and raged that Macro still lived, and might well outlive the final assault on the temple. The thought of dying with his thirst for revenge only half satisfied sickened Ajax. Not that his men would know it; his expression was impassive as he stared towards the Roman lines. To his fighters he was as fearless and resolute as ever and they were readily inspired by his example.