‘Fuck, it hurts,’ he moaned through clenched teeth.
‘Let go of me,’ Cato growled. ‘I’m trying to help you. You’re injured. If I can’t staunch the wound, you’ll bleed to death.’
The man nodded and released his grip, before his eyes widened suddenly and he stared at Cato and hissed, ‘It was you …’
‘Quiet,’ Cato said urgently. ‘Save your breath.’
‘It was you,’ the man repeated, then his eyes clenched shut and he slumped back, moaning. Cato crouched over him, pressing the scarf on to the wound with one hand while he kept his sword ready with the other. Glancing round he saw that the surviving horsemen were in full flight, and only a handful were still hemmed in by the auxiliaries, desperately wheeling their mounts one way then another as they tried to parry the thrusts of the men around them. It was an unequal duel, and the last rider was cut down moments later. The auxiliaries raised their swords and jeered as the sound of hooves receded into the night.
‘Over here!’ Cato shouted at the nearest of his men. ‘On me!’
Several trotted over and Cato indicated the man on the ground. ‘This man is wounded. Get him to the carts.’
‘Yes, sir.’
As the auxiliary lowered his weapons to tend to his comrade Cato scrambled to his feet and hurried away. Around him the rest of the cohort was busy finishing off the enemy wounded and looting the bodies. Cato cupped a hand to his mouth.
‘Centurion Parmenion!’
He called out again before Parmenion replied and came running towards him. The centurion was hurriedly tying off a strip of dressing round his sword arm as he reached Cato.
‘How bad’s the wound?’ Cato asked.
‘Flesh wound, sir. I can still swing a sword. Which is more than can be said for those bloody horsemen. They’ve bolted like rabbits.’
‘For now,’ Cato conceded. ‘But they may yet cause us trouble.’
‘You really think so, sir?’
The surprised tone was tinged with disbelief and Cato irritably drew a breath. ‘Let’s not take the risk, all right? Now I want our wounded collected and made as comfortable as possible. The cohort is to form up round them. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Any sign of Centurion Macro?’
‘Haven’t seen him, sir. But I heard him.’ Parmenion pointed over his shoulder.
‘Hard not to,’ Cato muttered and patted his subordinate on his shoulder. ‘Carry on.’
He set off across the site of the skirmish, stepping round the bodies of men and horses littering the ground. The first few legionaries he encountered were still dazed by the fast and furious fight and had no idea where their commander was. With a growing sense of frustration Cato pressed on until he found one of Macro’s centurions.
‘What the hell’s going on?’ Cato asked angrily. ‘Why aren’t you reforming your men?’
‘We’ve beaten them, sir. I don’t see the need …’
‘Where’s Macro?’
‘By the standard, sir. There.’
‘Fine.’ Cato nodded as he picked out the faint shape of the cohort’s standard-bearer. ‘Now form your men up, Centurion. Quick as you can.’ Cato pushed past the man and strode on.
‘Centurion Macro? Are you there, sir?’
‘Cato!’ A bearlike shape loomed out of the darkness as Macro came over to him. ‘By the Gods, we gave them a damn fine pasting! Must have taken down half of them at least.’
‘Maybe, but it’s the other half than concerns me.’
‘They’ve run for it, lad!’ Macro laughed jubilantly. ‘I doubt they’ll stop until dawn.’
‘They’ll stop long before then,’ Cato replied quietly. He pointed to one of the bodies of the horsemen sprawled beside his mount a short distance away. ‘See. This one has a bow case. There’s plenty like him out there.’
Macro examined the body and prodded it with his toe. ‘Parthian?’
Cato glanced at the loosely robed corpse. A conical helmet with a twisted fabric rim lay near the head. ‘Could be. But he’s more likely to be one of the rebels from Palmyra. The Parthians can’t be on the scene yet,’ he added cautiously. ‘Surely?’
Macro tipped his head to one side. ‘Maybe … I hope not, or we’re really in the shit.’
‘Either way we’re dealing with the same type of horseman and the same tactics. We may have surprised them, but the moment they reach a safe distance and re-form they will come after us.’
‘Come after us?’ Macro shook his head. ‘After that hiding we gave ’em? I don’t think so.’
‘Macro, now that the element of surprise is gone, they can use their bows and pick us off at will.’ Cato slapped his hand against his thigh. ‘If only we had got them all.’
‘We did well enough,’ Macro insisted. ‘Still, better get my lads formed up. Just in case. Better if we put the cohorts together, with the wounded in the middle.’
‘I think that would be wise, sir. I’ll fetch my men.’
‘What about our cavalry?’
Cato thought for a moment. ‘Better leave them where they are for now. There’s still the risk of confusing them with those horse-archers. If we need them, we can call on them quick enough.’
‘Good. Then we’d better get moving.’
The centurions and optios called their men together and the ranks formed behind their standards while those detailed to move the injured to safety carried them towards the slight fold in the ground that Macro had chosen as the position where the two cohorts would wait for daylight. If there was an attack then the enemy would have to close the range to see their target. They might even venture within reach of the cohort’s javelins and slings where they would pay the price soon enough, Macro mused grimly. While the wounded were laid down in the centre of the shallow bowl of dust and rock others drew the supply carts in. Then the two cohorts formed into a defensive box and sheltered behind their shields as they stared out into the desert, wrapped in darkness.
Macro and Cato stood on the side facing the direction the enemy had retreated and shared the tense anticipation of those around them. The men had been ordered to stand in silence and the only noise came from those wounded who could not contain their pain. The occasional groan or gasping cry of agony wore away at the nerves of the other men so that they eventually fell to cursing their injured comrades.
As soon as that thought occurred to him, Cato vividly recalled the auxiliary he had wounded, and the sick feeling of guilt welled up inside him again. He wondered if he should say anything to Macro. It had been an accident, he reassured himself. But even so, it was a tragic mistake, one that no officer with battle experience could be forgiven. After a while Cato wondered if the man was still alive. If he was, had he told his comrades about the officer who had stabbed him in a blind panic? For an instant Cato wished the man dead. Then at once he cursed himself for the thought. But the urge to know the man’s condition was irresistible and in the last hour before dawn he turned to Macro.
‘Sir, if I may, I’d like to check on my injured.’
Macro looked at him curiously. ‘Now? Why?’
Cato forced himself to remain as calm as he could. ‘While I’m acting prefect, I need to ensure that the men get what they need. That includes seeing to the comfort of the wounded, sir.’
‘Yes … I suppose so. Go on then, but be as quick as you can.’
Cato tried to hide his relief as he stole away from Macro and quietly made his way towards the wounded lying in rows beside the supply carts.
CHAPTER TEN
‘What’s the butcher’s bill?’ Cato asked the cohort’s surgeon, a thin Greek only a few months away from discharge and a comfortable retirement. Themocrites stood up, wiping his bloodied hands on a rag before he saluted his prefect.
‘Four dead so far, sir.’ The surgeon gestured to the men around him. ‘Eighteen wounded. Three almost certainly will die, but the rest will recover. Most of them will be walking wounded.’
‘I see.�
�� Cato nodded. ‘Show me the men with the mortal wounds.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Themocrites’ eyes flickered with surprise. Then he beckoned Cato. ‘This way.’
He led Cato to the end of the line of men lying on the sand. Most were still and quiet but some groaned and cried out at the agony of their injuries. The surgeon’s small section of medical orderlies crouched amongst them, doing their best to dress wounds, tie splints to shattered limbs and staunch the flow of blood from wounds. The most severely wounded lay a short distance from the others. One man lay still, his breath coming in faint, fluttering gasps. One of Themocrites’ orderlies was watching over the other two. As soon as he became aware of the officers’ approach he stood up smartly.
‘Report,’ said Cato.
‘Lost one of them a short time ago, sir. He bled to death. The other’s not long for this world.’
He pointed to the man at his feet and in the gloom Cato could just make out the features of the man he had wounded. His heart fluttered wildly for a moment and he felt himself flush with shame and guilt, and gave silent thanks that it was still night and his expression would be hard to read by the pale gloom of the stars. He was aware that the orderly was watching him fixedly.
He cleared his throat and continued, ‘What’s this man’s name?’
The orderly paused a moment before replying, ‘Gaius Primus, sir.’
Cato squatted down beside the man and hesitated a moment before he patted his unwounded shoulder. The soldier started and his head jerked off the ground as he stared wide-eyed at Cato.
Cato forced a smile on to his lips. ‘Don’t worry, Primus. You’ll be taken care of. I swear it.’
The auxiliary flinched from his superior’s touch at the words. A wave of cold fury hit Cato as he cursed his thoughtlessness. That could have been better worded. He tried to inject a reassuring tone into his voice as he continued. ‘You will be looked after.’
‘You …’ Primus muttered, and then winced as a wave of agony swept through him, causing him to clench his teeth as he fought to resist it. His hand suddenly grasped Cato’s wrist and his fingers closed round the flesh like a manacle. As the auxiliary endured the agony Cato tried to pull himself free, but couldn’t without an unseemly use of force in front of the medical orderly. He gently started to prise the fingers off, marvelling at the power in the wounded man’s grip.
There was a sudden whirr and something landed in the sand close to Cato with a sharp thud. He glanced round and saw the shaft of an arrow sprouting up from the ground no more than a sword’s length from his boot.
The orderly recoiled in fear as Cato instantly realised the danger they were all in. There was no time for Primus any more as Cato ripped his hand free and stood up.
‘Incoming arrows! Take cover!’
The air was suddenly filled with a sound like leaves rustling in a high wind as the men scrambled to take cover beneath their shields. Cato snatched his up and swiftly raised it over his head as he shouted the order again. All around him the thin dark shafts sprouted up like stalks of wheat, some punching into the shields with splintering cracks. A sharp cry told of one auxiliary who had failed to act in time. Cato glanced round and saw that the wounded men and the medical orderlies were helpless under the barrage of missiles. Even as he watched, two of the injured were hit. One was struck in the forehead and the barbed head punched through his skull into his brain, silencing his moans at once. Cato beckoned to the nearest men.
‘You! Shelter our wounded! Move yourselves!’
The men reluctantly crept towards the line of wounded and dead and covered themselves and an injured comrade with their shields as best they could. Once he saw that the orderlies and their charges were protected Cato returned to the rest of his men. They were already formed up when the order was given and had responded quickly, kneeling down and sheltering behind their shields.
‘Centurion Parmenion!’
‘Sir?’ the adjutant’s voice called back from nearby.
‘On me!’
A dark shape scurried across the sand towards him.
‘Parmenion. Take over. I’m going to find Macro. We need to pull the men in. Make a smaller target. You take over here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cato crept down the lines of his men until he came to the first of Macro’s legionaries and then edged along behind them towards the standard. The earlier volleys of arrows had become a steady shower, rattling like hail as the horse-archers nocked, aimed and loosed shafts at different speeds. Over the shields and helmet of the legionaries Cato could just make out the flitting shapes of the enemy as they rode along the face of the Roman square, shooting their arrows. It occurred to Cato that they might just as easily stand their ground, or even dismount, to aim at the two cohorts. They must be fighting the only way they knew how, he reasoned. But they were safe enough while they remained out of javelin range. As soon as they realised that, the Romans would be in trouble, and when dawn broke in a few hours’ time the horse-archers would have an easy target.
When he reached Macro, squatting by the standard, Cato saluted.
‘Hot work!’ Macro grinned ruefully. ‘Seems like it’s their turn to stick the boot in.’
‘Yes, sir. We have to do something about it, before they realise just how much of an advantage they have.’
‘Do something?’ Macro pursed his lips for a moment. ‘Very well. We’ll double the ranks up.’
‘Yes, sir. That would be best,’ Cato concurred and nodded towards the carts. ‘And we might use some sling shot to discourage them.’
‘Yes. Yes, good idea. I’ll get some of my lads on to it.’
‘How long do you think they’ll keep peppering us with arrows?’ asked Cato as one glanced off his shield with a sharp thud.
‘Till they run out, I imagine.’
‘That’s helpful.’
‘If you will ask a stupid question.’ Macro shook his head mockingly. ‘Anyway, you know the score. The archers are trying to soften us up. As long as we keep formation we’ll survive. If we don’t, then they’ll ride over us and cut us to pieces.’
‘Shall I give the signal for our cavalry to move in, sir?’
‘Not yet. Not until there’s enough light for us to see who is who. I don’t want any of our lads taking on their own side by mistake.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Cato nodded. ‘Right, I’d better get back to my men.’
As soon as he returned to his cohort Cato passed on the orders, and once the centuries had formed four lines of men they slowly drew back into a tight shield wall around the carts and the injured, whose number gradually swelled as the night drew on. Macro issued the slings to one section in each of his centuries, and the legionaries, having no clear sight of the horse-archers, whirled the leather thongs and released the shot in a shallow arc over the heads of their comrades in the general direction of the enemy. In the dark it was impossible to tell where the lead shot fell, or whether any of the horsemen were hit, but Cato hoped that it might at least help to keep them at a distance and unsettle their aim. The barrage of barbed missiles slackened as the enemy decided to conserve what was left of their arrows, and both sides exchanged occasional shots while the night crawled towards the coming dawn.
As the pallid pearl hue thickened along the eastern horizon Cato’s keen eyes peered over the rim of his shield as he scanned the surrounding desert. The horse-archers were easily visible now, and as the light grew he was able to pick out ever more detail in the scattered screen of riders surrounding the two cohorts. Now Cato could see that their clothes and accoutrements were subtly different from those of the Parthians he had fought the year before. They were Palmyran troops, then.
There was a sick tremor of anxiety in his stomach as he wondered if these men might be loyalists, sent by the king to seek help from the Romans. If that was the case, Cato’s thoughts raced on, then there had been a tragic mistake in the confusion of the night’s encounter. The man he had wounded would be merely one of many who ha
d been needlessly injured or killed. The dread thought passed almost as quickly as it had arisen. There was little chance of the Roman infantry’s being mistaken for anything else and the horsemen had made no attempt to call off their attack. They were clearly hostile: followers of the traitor Artaxes and his Parthian allies.
As pale light spilled across the desert, the horsemen began to shoot more arrows, aiming high so that the shafts rose gracefully up, hung for an instant, and then plunged down at a steep angle on to the Romans. Although the auxiliaries and legionaries were well sheltered by their shields, the cart mules were not, and as Cato watched they were struck down, one after another, with pitiful shrill brays of shock and pain as the arrow heads whacked through their hides and punched deep into the flesh beneath. However, the enemy did not have things all their own way, Cato noted, as he saw one of the horse-archers suddenly thrown back in his saddle, his bow dropping from his fingers as a lead shot struck his head, killing him instantly. The body toppled from the saddle on to the ground in a small explosion of dust, and those Romans who saw it gave a lusty cheer.
‘A fine shot!’ Macro bellowed from the other end of the square. ‘A denarius for that man, and any others you knock down!’
The offer of a reward had its effect as the slingers released their shots even more swiftly and the horsemen immediately shied away to a much greater range where their fire could not be so accurate. Cato noticed that the enemy’s barrage slackened until there were clear intervals between each handful of arrows. Finally, as the sun rose over the horizon and cast long shadows across the desert, the enemy archers ceased their shooting altogether and retired a short distance to dismount and rest their horses as they took a quick meal from their saddlebags.
‘Seems we have something of a stand-off,’ Parmenion muttered. ‘They can’t crack us and we can’t get at them. Not until our cavalry is ordered forward.’
‘Yes, it’s about time for that.’ Cato turned towards Macro and waved an arm to attract his friend’s attention. As soon as Macro saw him, he gave Cato the thumbs-up. Cato pointed to the two bucinators standing just behind the Second Illyrian’s standard and Macro nodded deliberately as he grasped Cato’s intention. Cato turned towards his bucinators, but before he could give the order Parmenion grasped his arm.
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