‘Here,’ the soft voice of a woman called to him in Greek. ‘Let me have a look at that.’
‘What?’ Cato looked up and saw her outline against the light of a stand of oil lamps burning further down the corridor.
‘Your hand. Let me have a look at it.’ She moved towards him.
‘No, it’s not necessary,’ Cato responded quickly. ‘I have to go.’
The woman moved quickly and took his elbow gently with one hand. ‘Over here, under the lamp, where I can see it.’
Cato allowed himself to be steered down the colonnade that ran round the small courtyard and as they moved into the light he began to make her out in more detail. She was young with long dark hair tied back in a ponytail. Her body was slight beneath a simple stola of light brown, now patched with dark splashes and smears. As they stopped close to the yellow glow of the lamps and she bent her head to examine his hand Cato saw that there was a peak in her dark hair and her cheeks had fine pronounced bones. Her eyes were grey and as she glanced up at him a smile flickered across her lips.
‘Nasty.’
Cato stared at her in confusion. ‘Sorry? I don’t—’
‘This cut. How did this happen? It’s not a sword cut. I should know – I’ve seen enough of them in recent days.’
‘Oh.’ Cato tore his eyes away from her, discomfited by her direct gaze. ‘I gashed it in a tunnel.’
‘Gashed it in a tunnel?’ She shook her head. ‘Honestly, you boys never grow up. One scrape after another.’
Cato pulled his arm away from her and stiffened his spine so that he could look down at her from his full height. ‘I’ll deal with it myself, then.’
‘Oh, come now!’ She chuckled wearily. ‘I was just joking. And now, seriously, I must see to that. The wound needs to be cleaned and dressed. Follow me.’
She turned, not waiting for him, and strode towards a doorway at the end of the colonnade. After an instant’s hesitation Cato sighed and followed her. The door opened on to a room dominated by a large wooden table, streaked with blood. Some brass instruments on one end of the table gleamed in the wan light of a lamp holder. To one side stood a brazier in which a few embers still glowed. An iron pot rested above it and the air was filled with the acrid stench of pitch. Just visible in the gloom beneath the table was a large basket from which the curled fingers of a hand emerged, and the stump of another limb. Cato glanced away from it quickly as the woman beckoned him to a side table where she was pouring water into a basin.
‘Here. Let me clean it.’
Cato stepped over to her and offered his hand over the basin. She pushed it into the water and then, raising it, she began to clean away the filth with a length of cloth. She glanced at him.
‘You’re no local boy, nor even a Greek mercenary. A Roman then.’ She switched to Latin. ‘I haven’t seen you before. You’re certainly not on the ambassador’s staff. Who are you?’
Cato was tired and not in the mood to answer her queries. Even now the Greek mercenaries were quietly forming up behind the citadel gates ready to make their move and he wanted to be with them the moment the signal beacon was lit. Nevertheless there was no harm in talking to her while she saw to his injury.
‘I’m with a relief force sent by the governor of Syria.’
She paused and looked at him with widened eyes. ‘Then the message got through. Thank the Gods, we’re saved.’
‘Not quite,’ said Cato. ‘We’re only the advance column. The rest of the army is some days behind us.’
‘Oh.’ She turned her attention back to Cato’s hand and wiped the cloth a little deeper into the cut to clear out the remainder of the dirt that had worked its way in. Cato winced but forced himself to keep his hand still. He looked away from it, back at her face.
‘How about you? What’s a Roman woman doing here in Palmyra?’
She shrugged. ‘I travel with my father.’
‘And your father is?’
‘Lucius Sempronius, the ambassador.’
Cato examined her more closely. The daughter of a senator no less, and here she was tending to the wounds of ordinary soldiers. ‘What’s your name?’
She looked at him and smiled, revealing neat white teeth. ‘Julia. And yours?’
‘Quintus Licinius Cato, prefect of the Second Illyrian. Well, acting prefect for the present.’ Now it was Cato’s turn to smile. ‘But you can call me Cato.’
‘I was going to. There’s no point in standing on formalities here. Or at least I don’t think there is, not when the rebels might take the place any day and put us all to the sword,’ Julia added matter-of-factly as she took a fresh strip of cloth and dried his hand, dabbing the water off. She reached for a dressing from a basket and began to wrap it round Cato’s hand. ‘Prefect, you say? That’s an important rank, is it not?’
Cato frowned. ‘It is to me.’
‘Aren’t you rather young for such a position?’
‘Yes,’ Cato admitted, and then continued tersely: ‘And isn’t the daughter of a senator rather out of place looking after common soldiers?’
She tied off the dressing firmly, and gave it a short extra tug that made Cato grit his teeth to stop a gasp of pain. ‘Clearly you are no common soldier, Prefect, but your manner is common. Discourteous, even.’
‘I meant no offence.’
‘Really?’ She took a step back from him. ‘Well, your wound is dressed, and I have done the job as well as any man here, for all the disadvantages conferred on me by my social station. Now, if you don’t mind, Prefect, I’m busy.’
Cato flushed with irritation at her mood, and shame at his rudeness. She strode past him, out of the door and back into the corridor. He turned after her.
‘Thank you … Julia.’
She paused a moment, her back stiffening, and then turned into one of the rooms and disappeared from sight.
Cato shook his head and muttered to himself, ‘Oh, well done. Surrounded by enemies, and you go and make yourself another one.’ He slapped his hand against his thigh, and gasped as pain shot up his arm. ‘Shit!’
Grinding his teeth, he marched swiftly out of the hospital and made for the signal tower. Once he was satisfied that the men there understood that they must only make their signal to Macro once the diversionary sortie was well under way, Cato went to join the force assembled just inside the citadel’s gateway. The commander of the garrison had allocated the task to one syntagma of the royal bodyguard and the men had gathered quietly in the glow of the torches flickering in iron brackets above the gate. They were heavily armoured and carried the same large round shields and stout spears of their forebears in the days of Alexander. The horsehair crests of their helmets did not appeal to Cato’s eye, more used to the utilitarian helmets of Roman soldiers, but it added to their stature and made the body of men look quite formidable, Cato conceded.
‘Ah! My friend from the sewer.’
Cato glanced towards the voice and saw an officer waving at him. ‘Archelaus?’
‘The same!’ The Greek laughed. ‘Come and join my men, and see how real warriors fight.’
‘I have no shield or helmet.’
Archelaus turned to the nearest of his men. ‘Bring some kit for our Roman friend.’
The man saluted and hurried off to the barracks as Archelaus offered his spear and shield to Cato. ‘Here, I’ll explain how we use these.’
Cato saw that the shield had a central strap which he slipped his arm through before grasping the handle near the edge. Unlike the Roman design this shield was purely for protection and could not be punched into the enemy. It provided good cover for his body and thighs and Cato hefted it experimentally until he felt confident about its weight and balance. Then he took the spear that Archelaus was holding ready. It was perhaps two foot longer than his height, with a sturdy shaft and a long, tear-shaped iron point. The other end was capped with a small iron spike. Cato closed his fingers round the leather hand grip and tested the weight. It was heavy, and was a thrusting w
eapon, unlike the legionary javelin which could serve as a missile as well as a spear.
‘Hold it upright,’ Archelaus explained. ‘We keep it that way until we close on the enemy. Stops us from doing any harm to our comrades, and helps to break up any arrows or sling shot they send our way. When we close and the order is given to advance spears, the front rank goes ahead of the formation and switches to an overhand grip.’ He took the spear from Cato and flicked it up into the air and caught it, his arm bent and the shaft angled forward so the point was at eye level. ‘Stab from here, like this.’ He thrust the spear forward in a powerful jab and then recovered it, ready to strike again. Then he changed his grip, lowered the end and handed it back to Cato. ‘You have a go.’
Cato tried the overhand grip and stabbed at the air. He would have preferred to use his sword but could see the advantage in using the spear’s greater reach to strike at the enemy. The man Archelaus had sent to the barracks returned with the spare equipment and Cato returned Archelaus’ shield and sword. As soon as he had tied the chin straps of the helmet and taken up spear and shield the commander of the syntagma bellowed the order to close ranks. Cato noticed that some of the men in the line beside him were carrying small haversacks.
‘Incendiary material,’ Archelaus explained quietly, following the direction of the Roman’s gaze. ‘We’re making for a ram the rebels are constructing in front of a temple on the other side of the agora. We’re to set it on fire. The ram and anything else that might be of use to the rebels.’
The commander shouted another order as he stepped into the front line of the formation. Several of the Greek mercenaries raised the locking bar of the gate and, bracing their legs, they heaved for all they were worth. The tall, studded timber doors protested on their hinges and eased open with a grating groan. The commander raised his spear above his head and looked over his shoulder to call out to his comrades.
‘Advance!’
The front rank of the syntagma rippled forward ahead of the following men as the dense column tramped out through the gate. Cato marched at the side of Archelaus a few ranks back from the front and as they emerged from the gate his heart was beating wildly. Earlier he had doubted the need to join the diversionary attack, but it was vital that Macro’s column managed to cut their way through to the citadel, and Cato felt an instinctive duty to do all that he could to help his friend, and the men of the Second Illyrian. So he lowered his head, gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on shield and spear as the column spilled out of the citadel and made its way towards the makeshift barricades the rebels had erected across the streets leading from the agora in front of the citadel.
‘At the run!’ the commander yelled and the men around Cato swiftly quickened their pace, sandalled feet pounding across the paving stones as their scabbards slapped against their thighs and their ragged breath was drawn with sharp gasps. Above the din of the charging men around him Cato heard the sharp cries of alarm from the rebel lines. Braziers burned behind the barricades and dark figures rose up along the defences, clearly visible as they readied their weapons and faced the men of the royal bodyguard charging towards them across the open expanse of the agora. In the open-sided precinct of a temple Cato saw the looming shape of the shelter being constructed for the battering ram, and above the buildings on either side he saw the first faint glow of the coming dawn and knew that time was running out for Macro and the relief column to cut their way into the city under the cover of night.
The commander of the syntagma was the first to reach the barricade of overturned wagons and timber that had been constructed across the open side of the precinct. He slammed his shield against an upended market stall and stabbed his spear over the top, attempting to skewer the nearest rebel. The man jumped back, ducking down behind his shield as he slashed his sword at the spear shaft, trying to knock it from the commander’s grip. On either side more Greek mercenaries arrived at the barricade, stabbing at the men on the far side, and already the first of them had scrambled over the defences and dropped into a crouch on the far side, shield raised and spear poised to thrust. With a savage roar he slashed the spear around and cleared a space for his comrades to clamber across the barricade to join the attack. Cato kept his position at the shoulder of Archelaus as some of the bodyguards ahead of them paused to pull the barricade apart, wrenching loose timbers aside and heaving an overturned cart back on to its heavy wheels before rolling it aside. Cato looked over his shoulder, back towards the citadel. A small flame flared at the top of the signal tower and then there was a cloud of sparks whirling into the darkness before the fire caught and tongues of orange and red flickered in the darkness. The signal was given, then. Any moment now Macro and his column would begin their assault on the eastern gate and Cato quickly prayed to Fortuna that the diversionary attack had drawn the attention of the rebels away from the relief column.
The bodyguards had succeeded in opening a gap through the defences and worked hard to widen it as their comrades filtered through, feeding into the temple precinct on the other side. As Archelaus pressed forward Cato went with him, surging ahead with the other mercenaries. The small square in front of the temple was filled with a confused mass of dim figures locked in savage duels. The two sides were only clearly distinguishable by the crested helmets of the royal guardsmen and the conical helmets of the rebels.
‘Cut ’em down!’ shouted the commander.
Archelaus thrust his spear into the sky and added his excited encouragement. ‘Come on, boys! Pike the bastards!’
He ran forward, lowering the tip of his spear, and thrust it into the back of a fleeing enemy. The man threw out his arms and his sword clattered to the ground a moment before his body. Cato moved into the mêlée, eyes flickering from side to side as he advanced, crouching slightly to spread his weight and make it harder for anyone to knock him down. There was a savage cry from his left and Cato just had time to throw his round shield up and out to block the sword blow which glanced off with a deafening clang. Cato swung round, stabbing out with his spear. The rebel parried it aside with a contemptuous laugh and struck at Cato again, and again, in a flurry of sword blows that drove him back step by step as he desperately blocked the attacks. There was no chance to use the spear and the weapon was little more than a burden in Cato’s unpractised hand.
‘Fuck this,’ he growled, casting the spear aside and reaching for his sword. He drew the blade from its scabbard with a familiar scrape and hefted it at his side. ‘Right then, now let’s see how tough you are.’
He rode out another short flurry of blows, and then leaped forward, slamming his shield against the rebel’s. The man stumbled back, off guard, and now Cato struck at him, thrusting at his face and then his exposed thigh, ripping through cloth and flesh. The rebel gasped with agony and staggered away, blood flowing from his wound. Cato rushed forward, throwing his weight behind his shield, and gritted his teeth just before the collision. The rebel crashed to the ground, and just managed to pull his shield up across his body as Cato stood over him, hacking savagely. As soon as he judged that the man had been stunned by the ferocity of his attack Cato paused, glanced down and saw the dark shape of the man’s legs and feet below the rim of his shield. Cato stepped back a pace and hacked at the limbs. As the blade shattered a bone the rebel howled. Cato slashed at the writhing limbs a few more times until he was certain the man would pose no further threat, and then turned away, ignoring the screams of agony.
Around him he could make out enough detail to see that the fight was going their way. Only a handful of figures were still engaged in combat and the long dark shape of the nearly constructed ram housing loomed against the far side of the temple precinct. Cato took a deep breath and called out, ‘Archelaus! Archelaus!’
‘Here!’ The reply was close by and a moment later a figure strode towards Cato. ‘Still with us then, Roman.’
‘Evidently.’ Cato could not help returning the Greek’s smile for an instant before he gestured to the ram housing
. ‘You’d better get your lads to work on that, before the enemy gathers enough men to counter-attack.’
‘Yes, at once.’ Archelaus turned and called for the men with the incendiary materials to gather round him. As soon as they had found Archelaus and Cato the small party picked its way through the last few groups of men still fighting. They made straight for the ram housing and Cato saw that the timber structure was mounted on large solid wooden wheels. Much of the sturdy frame had already been covered with bales of hide stuffed with animal skins and rags to absorb the impact of any missiles dropped from the citadel gatehouse when the ram was ready to go into action. Inside, hanging from chains, was the long shaft of the ram itself.
Archelaus stopped to address the small group of men. ‘Get as many fires lit as you can. I want this thing well ablaze before we have to retreat.’
The mercenaries lowered their shields and spears and dispersed themselves around the structure, beginning to gather any combustible material around the places they chose to make their fires. Each carried a tinderbox and one by one they set to work striking flints and blowing on the charred kindling inside.
As Cato and Archelaus waited, weapons held ready, the first of the small flames licked up and soon the immediate area was illuminated by small fires as sparks and smoke began to swirl through the darkness. For a moment Cato was satisfied that the enemy structure would soon be ablaze. But then, as the kindling began to burn itself out, he realised something was wrong.
‘It’s not catching alight.’ Cato strode towards the ram housing and sheathed his sword. He reached out to touch the leather hides. ‘They’ve been wetted down … soaked.’ Cato turned back to Archelaus. ‘Forget setting fire to it. Go for the cordage.’
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