‘Shall I send a cavalry squadron back to round them up, sir?’
Cato considered this for a moment and shook his head. ‘If they’re able to, they’ll find us. But I’ll not lose any more men than I have to by sending out search parties. Mark them down as absent without leave. If they fail to catch up by tomorrow morning then put them down as deserters.’
‘Very well, sir.’ Parmenion scored a note on his tablet and Cato watched him for a moment before speaking in a low voice.
‘What’s the mood of our men?’
Parmenion looked up at his commander, then glanced round to make sure that they would not be overheard. ‘Not too bad, considering.’
‘Considering what?’
Parmenion nodded towards the legionaries sitting beneath the palms a short distance from the men and horses of the Second Illyrian. ‘There’s still plenty of bad blood over that business in Antioch. The legionaries are needling our lads at every opportunity. Frankly, they’re spoiling for a fight.’
‘Who, our men, or Macro’s?’
‘Both.’ Parmenion wearily rubbed the bristles on his chin. ‘Wouldn’t take much to set them at each other’s throats.’
‘We must see that it doesn’t happen,’ Cato said firmly. ‘I want you to pass the word on to the other centurions and their optios. We can’t afford any trouble. I’ll come down like a bloody avalanche on any man who causes a fight. Make sure that’s understood.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Very well then, Parmenion. Carry on.’
His adjutant closed his wax tablets, saluted and then strode off towards the handful of mule carts that carried the cohort’s records, pay chest and small stock of spare weapons and rations. A party of auxiliaries was busy loading the filled waterskins and baskets of fruit and dried meat bought from the market in Chalcis. Cato regarded them for a moment, and wondered briefly if he had allowed for adequate supplies to see his men across the desert to Palmyra. It had been a difficult calculation. Of all the supplies that a commander had to provide for his men, water was the most onerous, thanks to its weight, and propensity to find the means of spilling or leaking. If they carried too much water on the carts it would slow their progress. But if too little was loaded and the column was delayed by a sandstorm, or enemy action, then it would run out and the men would suffer the agonies of thirst that desert conditions swiftly made so acute.
A flash of red caught his eye and he saw Macro emerge from the city gate, striding back towards his column. As he reached the carts Macro caught sight of Cato and made directly for him.
‘Don’t get up!’ he called out as Cato made to rise and stand formally at attention. A moment later he squatted down heavily beside Cato and untied the chin straps of his helmet, removing it with a sigh of relief.
‘Was that necessary?’ Cato nodded. ‘The helmet, I mean.’
‘I think so.’ Macro mopped his sweaty brow on the back of his forearm. ‘There’s bound to be some kid in Chalcis with a sling and Parthian sympathies. Why take the risk?’
‘Fair enough. Any news from Palmyra?’
Macro had made it his priority to visit the ruling council of Chalcis the moment the column had arrived. He lowered his arm and nodded.
‘A Greek merchant and his family arrived at dawn. The situation in Palmyra doesn’t look good for our side. The king and his followers are still holding the citadel, while Artaxes controls the surrounding streets. Seems that he doesn’t have full control over his men. They’ve started looting the city. That’s why the merchant has fled the place. He has young daughters. Probably the wise thing to do.’
Cato nodded.
‘He also provided me with a map of the city,’ Macro continued as he pulled a flattened scroll of papyrus from his harness and unrolled it. Placing it on the ground he weighted the corners with stones while Cato leaned forward and briefly examined the diagram. It had clearly been drafted in a hurry and lacked any detail. Only the outline of the walls and the most important districts had been depicted.
‘Not much to go on,’ Cato ventured.
‘Well, it’s all we have, for now. The Greek merchant did his best for me.’ Macro glanced up with a thin smile. ‘Before you ask, I did put it to him that we needed someone with local knowledge and could use him as a guide.’
‘What did he say?’
‘Something colourful. Diligent as I have been in my studies of the language in recent months, it was a word I was unfamiliar with. But his response was, in a word, no.’
‘A pity.’
‘But he did tell me a bit about the ground.’ Macro indicated the flattened semicircle of Palmyra’s walls. ‘The defences are in good order, he claims, so we will need to gain entrance by a gate. The citadel is here.’ Macro tapped an arrangement of black boxes at the right of the diagram.
‘Then we can skirt round the city and enter the citadel directly,’ Cato observed hopefully.
‘Sorry, sunshine. It ain’t going to be that easy. The citadel is built on a low bluff of rock on the wall. There’s no access there. There’s only one entrance into the citadel inside Palmyra. According to the merchant the best way into the city for us is here, a gate on the east side of Palmyra. It’s the most direct route to the entrance to the citadel.’
‘That means going through the streets.’ Cato shook his head as he considered the prospect. ‘If we have to fight our way in, then the rebels will be able to hit us from all sides, and from the roofs. If they get any advance warning they can block our route. If we lose our direction …’
‘I can imagine the details, thank you,’ Macro responded tersely. ‘But for now that’s the only plan we have. Like it or bloody lump it.’
Cato raised his eyebrows in resignation, and then continued, ‘Did your merchant have anything else to tell us?’
‘I got as much from him as I could. The citadel is well fortified and the king’s bodyguard are the pick of his army. Tough cases, every one of ’em. So says the Greek, but he’s no soldier, so we’ll have to take that comment with a pinch of salt. But there is one good piece of news. The Palmyran siege weapons are stored in a compound inside the citadel. So Artaxes is going to have to build his kit from scratch before he can manage an assault. Buys us a little more time at any rate?’
‘What about the size of Artaxes’ forces? What did the Greek know of their numbers?’
‘He says that Artaxes has a huge army at his command.’ Macro spat with contempt. ‘It’s probably the first mob the merchant has ever seen. He couldn’t tell me if there was one thousand of them or ten thousand. He just didn’t have a clue. But he did say that Artaxes is telling everyone that a Parthian army is on its way to help him, and when it arrives, then those in the citadel and anyone who does not swear an oath of loyalty to him will be put to death.’
‘We can assume that it’s true,’ Cato reflected. ‘After all, Longinus put a force into the field the moment he was aware of the situation. There’s every reason to believe that the Parthians would do the same. In which case, it’s all down to which side reaches Palmyra first.’
‘My thoughts exactly.’ Macro nodded, and rolled up his map. ‘So we’d better get the lads back on the road as soon as we can.’
* * *
A short time later, the column resumed its march and the men could only glance wistfully at the sparkling surface of the lake as they marched along its bank. They had had only the briefest of opportunities to fill their canteens and rest in the shade of the palms and only a handful had had the chance to immerse themselves in the cool water before the orders to pick up their packs and fall in had been bellowed out, rousing the men from the comfortable shade of the trees. The people of Chalcis watched them for a while before drifting back to their homes to anxiously contemplate the future.
On the far side of the lake the route to Palmyra abruptly branched off through a strip of irrigated farmland, and then gave out on to the desert. Cato’s heart sank as he contemplated the flat expanse of pallid yellow sand and r
ock that stretched ahead into the distance, where the horizon was lost in a shimmering band of hot air that looked like molten silver. The column marched on into the afternoon heat, gradually leaving behind the thin strip of palm-fringed green that marked the lake, until it too was swallowed up by the stifling air that wavered far off in every direction.
Parmenion took one last glance over his shoulder before he turned to Cato and grumbled, ‘Five days of this, at least, before we reach Palmyra. When I get there, I’m going to make those rebel bastards pay for every step of the way.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Each day began with the same ritual. At the first glimmer of light on the horizon the duty centurion of each cohort woke the other officers. They in turn moved down the lines of sleeping men, shouting the order to rise and prepare to march, pausing here and there to stick the boot into any man slow to respond. With groans and the stretching of cold, stiff limbs the men stood and shook off the sand that had blown over them during the night. They attached their equipment to their marching yokes and then ate a quick meal of dried meat and hard bread from the rations in their haversacks and washed it down with a few mouthfuls of water. Every centurion and optio was conscious of the need to make the water last as long as possible and closely supervised their men as they drank from their canteens.
Once the men had formed into their centuries there was a quick roll-call and then Macro gave the order to begin the day’s march. As dawn lightened the sky the air was still and cool and the cohorts marched in an easy rhythm, the heavy crunch of their nailed boots accompanied by the irregular slap and jingle of loose equipment, and muted conversation. The early hours were the most comfortable time of the day to march and Macro deliberately kept the pace up, before the day’s heat smothered the desert in its searing embrace. Before this campaign Cato had thought that dawn was the most beautiful time of the day. Now, as the sun rose over the horizon, casting long shadows across the desert plain, he quickly came to regard it as a source of torment.
Gradually the shadows shortened and the light strengthened into a dazzling glare that caused the men to squint their eyes and keep their gaze cast down as they tramped further into the wasteland. Then came the heat. Quickly overpowering the last of the cool dawn air, it wrapped itself around the men of the two cohorts. Now, seasoned veteran and fresh-faced recruit alike began to feel the weight of their equipment and their yokes pressed on to their shoulders as they set their expressions into grim masks and put one foot in front of the other and tried not to think of the remainder of the day stretching ahead of them. As the sun climbed higher and higher into the sky the men became drenched with perspiration that for many caused a hot prickling sensation under their military tunics which became unbearable as the day wore on.
Finally, as the sun neared its zenith, Macro called a halt and the men downed their yokes with weary sighs and groans, before slumping down and taking the midday drink from their canteens. Then they made what shade they could from their shields and cloaks and rested until the midday heat had passed, and the order was given to make ready to continue the march. Back on their feet, the men raised their yokes again and formed up on the track. Then, as the order was given, they shuffled forward into a leaden stride for the rest of the afternoon until the sun slipped towards the horizon. Only as the light faded did the day’s march end.
On the third night after leaving Chalcis Cato organised the watches and then went to report to Macro. Several more of his men had fallen behind during the march and three of the cavalry horses had gone lame. Under normal circumstances the beasts would be slaughtered and the meat distributed to the men to cook. But since they were not constructing marching camps Macro had forbidden the lighting of any fires – not that much of a fire could be built from the pitiful stunted growths they had occasionally encountered beside the track – so the animals were killed and their carcasses left in the wake of the two cohorts.
Macro was standing on a small rise, a short distance from his men, surveying the ground ahead of them in the gathering dusk. He turned as he heard the sound of Cato’s boots approaching. Forcing a smile on to his cracked lips Macro waved a greeting.
‘Two more days of this, and it’s over, Cato. Just two more days.’
‘It’ll be over one way or another.’
‘True. But we’ll deal with the situation in Palmyra when we get to it.’
Cato could sense that his friend was exhausted, and nodded. ‘Of course. Let’s just get through this.’
Macro stared at him a moment and then laughed at the concern in Cato’s tone. ‘You sound like my mother. I’m all right, really.’ He gazed back over the desert. ‘I was just wondering why anyone would want to fight over possession of a land like this. It’s a wasteland.’
‘It’s a wasteland with a city perched on top of a lucrative trade route right next to an oasis,’ Cato replied.
Macro nodded slowly and then pursed his lips. ‘Well, if you put it like that …’
A sudden burst of angry shouting caused them both to turn back towards their camp. Several men were clustered round the cart from which the canteens were being replenished. As the two officers watched, more men emerged from the surrounding dusk.
‘Bugger! More trouble,’ Macro sighed at the chorus of raised voices. ‘Come on. Sound like that will carry a long way across the desert.’
They scrambled down from the low mound and ran across to the cart.
‘Out of the way there!’ Macro called out as loudly as he dared. In the gloom it was difficult for the men to make out his rank as he thrust his way through the crowd. Cato grabbed an arm and forcefully hauled a soldier out of Macro’s path. ‘Make way for your commanding officer, damn you!’
Ahead of him a handful of men were locked in a savage fight, fists and boots flailing at each other. Macro raised his vine staff and swung it out in an arc ahead of him. It connected with a sharp crack and a man fell back with a cry, hands clutched to his head.
‘Stop this bloody nonsense at once!’ Macro shouted briefly, and slashed his cane at two men who were still swinging their fists at each other. ‘At once, I said!’
The fighting stopped abruptly and those involved drew apart as Macro stood his ground by the back of the cart and glared at the crowd, a mixture of auxiliaries and legionaries.
‘What the hell is going on? Where’s the optio in charge of the water distribution?’
‘Here, sir.’ An auxiliary officer rose up unsteadily from the ground.
‘Report, man! What’s the meaning of this?’
The optio stood to attention. He glanced quickly at the men surrounding him and swallowed nervously. ‘Sir, there was a misunderstanding.’
Macro snorted with derision. ‘I should fucking say so! Now what the hell is going on?’
The optio realised that there was no chance of keeping the situation a ranker affair and continued in a monotone.
‘I was on duty, sir. Supervising the water rations. The canteen carriers from the Second Illyrian came up first, just ahead of the lads from the Tenth. As I start filling the canteens one of the legionaries pushes into the line and demands his section’s share before I’d finished with my lads. I told him to wait his turn. He told me that legionaries come first, and that my lads would have to give way for … well, for real soldiers, he said.’
‘Which man said this?’
The optio glanced over Macro’s shoulder, but before he could identify the legionary the man stepped forward.
‘It was me, sir.’
Macro turned to the man and quickly sized him up. ‘And you are?’
‘Decimus Tadius, sir. Sixth Century.’
‘And what exactly did you think you were doing, soldier?’
‘Sir, it was like he said. The legions always take the first share of whatever’s going.’
‘That applies to booty, Tadius, and you know it. Not rations. And certainly not rations in this situation. Every man gets his fair share, in his turn, while I’m in command. Whet
her he’s an auxiliary or a legionary.’ Macro stepped up to Tadius and rapped his vine cane on the man’s segmented armour. ‘Got that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good, because if you cause any more trouble, I’ll chuck you out of my cohort and have you serve with the Second Illyrian. Then you might learn something.’
Tadius opened his mouth to protest.
‘Don’t!’ Macro warned him. ‘Now, the rest of you, get back in line and take your water in turn. Now move!’
‘Wait,’ Cato added softly to Tadius as the other men shuffled away. ‘Not you, Tadius. Stand still.’
Macro growled. ‘What are you doing, Cato? The matter’s resolved.’
‘Not yet, sir. This man disobeyed the optio’s order. That’s a clear breach of the regulations.’
Macro glanced round at the men and saw that the nearest were watching them curiously, while trying to appear as if they weren’t. He eased himself closer to Cato and continued in an undertone, ‘Look, it’s over. No harm done. No point in making an issue of it.’
‘We can’t avoid it, sir. He defied a superior officer in front of witnesses. We can’t allow that to pass. He has to be punished.’
Macro sighed with exasperation. ‘Listen, Cato. I haven’t got time for this. And we’ve all got enough on our plates without having to worry about some kind of field punishment.’
‘Nevertheless, I insist that this man is punished, according to the regulations.’
Macro rubbed his brow irritably and then hissed, ‘Very well then.’ He turned to Tadius and raised his voice. ‘Legionary Tadius!’
‘Yes, sir.’
Macro thought quickly. A fine, fatigues or a flogging would be pointless here in the desert. There was only one punishment fit for the situation, and one that Tadius would feel keenly. ‘You are denied a day’s water rations. Return to your century.’
Tadius swallowed hard and replied through gritted teeth. ‘Yes, sir.’ Then he saluted and, slinging his canteen across his shoulder, turned and strode stiffly away, every step betraying his rage and sense of injustice. Macro nodded to the optio by the water cart.
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