Centurion

by Simon Scarrow

  Eight days had passed since the previous attempt to batter down the gates, and the death of Amethus. The king had spent the time grieving for his son. Rather longer than was wise, since the corpse had quickly putrefied in the heat, even though it had been moved to one of the coolest underground storage chambers beneath the citadel. Vabathus had finally allowed the priests of the Temple of Bel to anoint and dress the body for the funeral and a pyre had been prepared in the courtyard outside the royal quarters. Shortage of wood had forced the palace servants to break up some furniture and doors in order to build a pyre worthy of a prince. As the sun set at the end of the day Amethus would be placed on the pyre and it would be lit, allowing the flames to purify his body and send his spirit whirling into the night sky.

  Rumours about the prince’s death had swept through the hungry ranks of the soldiers and civilians in the citadel and the various camps regarded each other with mutual suspicion and wariness. Cato had experienced it at first hand when he went to visit Archelaus in the hospital two days after the murder. The Greek mercenary was sitting on a bedroll in the colonnade overlooking the courtyard when Cato found him. His shoulder was heavily bandaged and his eyes looked sunken as they flickered towards the Roman officer. Cato smiled and raised the small jug of wine he had brought with him.

  ‘Medicine.’

  Archelaus smiled briefly. ‘Just what I needed.’

  Cato eased himself down on to the ground beside the tetrarch and leaned back against the wall with a weary sigh, offering the jar to the other man.

  ‘How goes it?’ asked Archelaus. ‘Haven’t heard any more action from the walls.’

  ‘No. The rebels have been quiet enough. But then, maybe they can afford to be. We’re running very short of water and food, and they’re waiting for a Parthian army to join them. Our only chance is that Longinus gets here before the Parthians.’

  ‘Is that likely?’Archelaus pulled the stopper and took a long swig of wine.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Cato admitted. ‘Anyway, how is the shoulder?’

  ‘Painful, Roman. My arm’s useless. I don’t think I’ll be back in the fight. Not for a while.’

  ‘That’s a damn pity. We need every man who can hold a sword or a spear. Mind you, the way things are, people in the citadel are as likely to use them on each other as on the rebels.’

  There was an uncomfortable silence between them before Archelaus took another quick swig and continued, ‘Word has it that the prince was killed by his brother.’

  Cato shifted so that he could look straight at the Greek. ‘Is that right? Is that what they’re saying?’ He shrugged. ‘Balthus might have done it. He has plenty to gain from ridding himself of a rival to the throne. But he was with others when the murder happened.’

  ‘Then look to that slave of his. Carpex.’

  Cato thought about it and nodded. ‘It might be worth having a little talk with Carpex. Just to see if he knows anything.’

  ‘You might also like to know that other people are accusing a Roman of killing the prince. One of the king’s advisers, Krathos, is spreading that story. He’s saying that now that Amethus is dead, you’ll kill Balthus, and then the king himself, and claim Palmyra for Rome.’

  Cato laughed at this, then stopped as he saw that Archelaus was watching him, stony-faced. ‘Surely you’re not falling for that story?’

  Archelaus pursed his lips. ‘I’m just telling you what I’ve heard. Doesn’t mean much to me, or most of the other mercenaries in the king’s guard. As long as we get paid. Trouble is, if the rumour is true, then we’re out of a job. So be careful, Prefect, when you’re around the king or the prince. Their guards will be watching for any sign of treachery. They’ll strike first and ask questions later.’

  ‘Just what we need,’ Cato muttered. ‘Men jumping at shadows.’

  ‘Well, someone killed the prince. And they had their reasons.’

  Cato shook his head. ‘This is starting to get out of hand. Anyway, I have to go. Keep the wine.’ He stood up and stretched his back before nodding to Archelaus. ‘Look after yourself.’

  ‘You too, Roman. And watch your back.’

  ‘I will.’ Cato turned away and after a moment’s hesitation made for the room at the end of the colonnade. Julia was washing some dressings in a bronze basin beneath the window as Cato entered.

  ‘Don’t you ever take a break?’ he called to her.

  Julia stopped and glanced over her shoulder with a tired smile. ‘No. Do you?’

  As Cato crossed the room she quickly wiped her hands on her long tunic. Standing in the shaft of light angling through the window she looked radiant in a way that Cato had never seen before and he felt his heart quicken as he approached. Then something wholly unexpected happened. Without thinking, Cato took her hands, dipped his face towards hers and kissed her on the lips. He sensed Julia freeze, but only for a moment before she responded, pressing her lips gently against his, and releasing his hands so that she could circle her slender arms behind his back and draw Cato into a tight embrace. Cato felt a rush of light-headedness and a thrill of passion coursed through every vein in his body. He closed his arms round her, holding her close to him, tightly.

  She suddenly drew her mouth away from his. ‘Ouch! Do you mind?’

  ‘What? What’s the matter?’

  Julia nodded down towards the pommel of his sword. ‘That was poking into me. I think.’

  Cato blushed. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … I got carried away.’

  ‘You certainly did!’ Julia kissed him again, quickly. ‘At last. I was wondering when you would kiss me. At least, I was hoping you would.’

  Cato cupped her cheek in his hand and gazed into her eyes. ‘Then you feel the same?’

  ‘Of course I do, you silly fool.’ She kissed his hand. ‘Honestly, Cato, most men can’t keep their hands off women. I was beginning to despair of you. But then, I imagine you are not like most men. That’s what I like about you.’

  ‘We’ve only known each other for a few days. Am I that transparent?’ Cato smiled ruefully.

  ‘Only in the way that matters to me.’ She reached up to his shoulder and pulled his face down towards hers and kissed him again, much more fully and for longer this time, until there was an embarrassed cough and a knock at the door frame. Julia pulled herself away from Cato and glanced towards the surgeon. ‘Yes, what is it?’

  ‘Found some more dressings, my lady. They’ll need washing.’

  ‘Fine. Then bring them here.’

  ‘Er,’ Cato mumbled. ‘I’d, er, better get back to the men. I’ll see you again, then?’

  ‘Of course.’ Julia looked surprised. ‘You don’t get away from me that easily.’

  Cato smiled at the memory of that encounter, and some of the more intimate encounters that had taken place since.

  ‘What are you grinning at?’ asked Macro.

  ‘What?’ Cato stirred guiltily, shaking off the memory of Julia’s slender figure as they had sat in the moonlight the night before, watching silver clouds drift across the stars. ‘I’m sorry, I wasn’t concentrating.’

  Macro stared at him for a moment and then shook his head. ‘Just what I need, a love-struck puppy for my second-in-command. Come on, Cato. Keep your mind on the job, and off her arse. We’ve got problems enough as it is. Look there.’

  Cato followed the direction Macro indicated and saw a stout timber frame rising up behind the wall of the merchants’ yards. Then he recognised what he was seeing.

  ‘An onager.’

  ‘Yes. And there will be more of them. The rebels have gone and built themselves an artillery platform behind that wall. Very clever. There’s no way we can assault them and they’re well in range of the gates and the buildings beyond.’ Macro scratched the bristles on his chin. ‘Better tell Balthus to get his archers up here. And have the ballista crews do what they can to disrupt the rebels. See to it.’

  By the time the defenders began to loose a steady barrage of missiles
on the enemy the rebels had brought up eight large catapults, only the tops of which could be seen protruding above the wall of the merchants’ yards. They continued their preparations unhindered, and as evening approached the first wisps of smoke curled into the air above the rebel position.

  ‘Great,’ Macro muttered. ‘They’re going to hit us with incendiaries again.’

  Cato nodded and hurried over to the far side of the gatehouse to call down to Centurion Metellus, who had taken charge of the fire parties. ‘Incoming incendiaries. Have your men ready.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Metellus saluted and turned away to call his motley collection of wounded soldiers and civilians to form up. They rose wearily from whatever shade they had found and hurried to their positions by the tubs of water spread out along the inside of the wall. Some carried buckets, others rolls of matting to smother the flames. Around them the civilian refugees snatched up their possessions and gathered up their children before making for the nearest shelter, packing into the doorways and entrances of the main building. Despite the danger to his subjects, King Vabathus had forbidden them entry to the royal quarters. After the murder of his son he had doubled the guard surrounding him and rarely emerged from his suite of rooms, such was his fear of assassination. Since all the other buildings had been allocated to the nobles and Roman officials, and the stables served as the barracks for the defending soldiers, the civilians had been forced to stay out in the open. Keeping to the shadows by day and shivering in family huddles at night, they eked out the siege on the meagre rations of water, horsemeat and grain distributed each day by the king’s guards.

  Cato could see over the wall of the royal courtyard and saw that the small funeral procession was emerging from the king’s private quarters. Behind the priests, tearing their clothes and crying out their grief, came several more bearing the bier on which lay the body of Amethus, bound in scented cloth. The king, in a plain black robe, followed solemnly behind.

  ‘Not the best of timing,’ Cato muttered to himself.

  But for the recent atmosphere of distrust and dislike, Prince Balthus would have walked behind his father. Glancing towards the tower to his right Cato saw Balthus directing his archers, seemingly unaware that the ceremony had begun. Or was it that the prince could not face witnessing the funeral of the brother whose death he had caused, Cato wondered briefly. Then he dismissed the thought. Balthus did not strike Cato as the kind of man who might be consumed by remorse. Cato turned away and returned to Macro’s side. Macro was adjusting his chin straps to make sure that his helmet was on as securely as possible. Seeing Cato, he smiled wearily.

  ‘It’s about to get hot around here.’

  Just then both men’s attention was drawn to the rebel position by a dull thwack. Cato saw that the throwing arm of one of the onagers was pressed against the cross bar. A flaming bundle was arcing up into the late afternoon sky, trailing an oily black plume. The defenders on the wall could hear the roar of the flames clearly as it passed over their heads and then plummeted down into the heart of the citadel. Before it landed, more thwacks sounded from the rebel position and several more incendiary missiles rose into the sky, briefly scoring the air with smoke that marked their passage, before dissipating. The tightly bound, pitch-soaked bundles blazed down and burst as they struck roof tiles and paving stones, or rebounded off walls in a sudden intense flare caused by the impact. The bombardment continued, and soon the uneven rate at which the crews worked their weapons meant that there was an almost continuous rain of flaming missiles.

  Macro and Cato moved to the rear of the gatehouse and looked down on the citadel to gauge the effect of the incendiary barrage. Several fires had already taken and the fire teams were crowding round the flames, beating at them frantically and dowsing them with water. But even as one fire was controlled, and then extinguished, another missile would land and start a new blaze somewhere else. One of the onagers, with greater torsion power than the rest, was shooting its incendiaries further into the citadel and as the two Roman officers watched one shot fell over the wall of the royal courtyard and scored a direct hit on the funeral pyre. The priests who were in the middle of raising the bier up on to the top of the pyre nearly dropped their burden in their surprise and fright. Just in time they steadied themselves and hurriedly placed the body in position as the flames from the incendiary bundle spread through the pyre. Then they scurried back to their place behind the king.

  ‘Saved someone a job,’ said Macro. ‘At least that’s one fire no one will need to put out.’

  ‘Just as well. Metellus and his men are going to be hard pressed.’

  Macro glanced over the interior of the citadel, weighing up the situation. ‘He’s not going to cope. I want you down there now. Organise your cohort into fire-fighting teams and put those fires out. We can’t afford to let any of them get out of control or the rebels will burn us out of here.’

  ‘But sir, what if they attack? My men are needed on the wall.’

  ‘I can manage with my cohort, and Balthus and his boys,’ Macro decided. ‘Now go!’

  Cato ran along the rampart tower left of the gate and waved to Centurion Parmenion. ‘Tell the men to down shields and spears and get down off the wall. We’re to get those fires out. Pass the word to the other centurions!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cato called on the nearest auxiliaries to follow him and hurried down the steps from the wall. As soon as they reached the paved area behind the gates he led them to the nearest water butt and the pile of mats and buckets beside it. ‘Pick ’em up! Get water in buckets and form up over there!’

  As soon as the men were ready Cato ordered them to work in sections, one to each incendiary as it landed. They were to return to the butt the moment the fire was extinguished and wait for the next strike. Not that they would be waiting long, Cato mused. The rebels were working their weapons with furious determination and it seemed that the fresh fires were breaking out all the time. Even so, Macro’s decision to send Cato’s men to join the fire parties meant that the defenders were able to keep on top of any blazes, and put them out before they had a chance to spread. Around them the afternoon gave way to evening as the bombardment continued. Only a handful of fires posed any serious threat, where the incendiary had managed to strike places that could not easily be reached by the fire-fighting teams.

  Then, as dusk closed round the city, the onager with the greatest torsion power shifted its aim slightly and its shot began to land on the courtyard being used for the hospital. Cato noticed the change and as soon as he realised where the incendiaries were falling his heart was seized by fear for Julia. He thought about making a quick run to the hospital to ensure she was unharmed, but realised that he could not abandon his men, and his duty, for however short a time. As the incendiaries continued to fall on the hospital he saw a wavering orange glow from that direction, and then the first lick of flames rising into the darkness. Cato knew that there were no fire parties allocated to any position so deep inside the citadel and the fire would spread quickly if unchecked. He beckoned to Metellus’ optio and shouted orders as the man ran up to him.

  ‘You’re in command here! I’m taking two sections to the hospital.’ Cato indicated the flames already leaping up from that direction. ‘Carry on!’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  Cato rushed to the pile of mats and snatched one up. It was damp and smelled mouldy – perfect for smothering flames he thought, smiling grimly. Then he turned to the nearest parties of men from his cohort. ‘That section, and that one. Follow me!’

  They ran along the side of the main building of the citadel until they reached a corner and turned towards the courtyard serving as the hospital. Cato glanced back over his shoulder. ‘Keep up! There’s no time to lose, damn you!’

  The men pounded across the paving stones and through the arch that led into the courtyard, illuminated by the glare of the blaze. As Cato drew up just inside he saw that one side of the courtyard was consumed by flames – th
e side where Julia treated her patients. He felt an icy fist clench round his heart, then shook off his fears as he realised he must give his men orders. The surgeon and his assistants were desperately clearing men out of the rooms closest to the heart of the fire as it spread like a wild raging animal.

  ‘Help them!’ Cato shouted. ‘Get the wounded men out of here first! Take ’em out of the courtyard.’

  The fire-fighting parties dumped their mats and buckets and ran across to pick up the patients still lying on mattresses along the endangered side of the courtyard. Cato saw Archelaus supporting a comrade with his unwounded arm.

  ‘Can you manage?’

  Archelaus nodded.

  ‘Where’s Lady Julia?’

  ‘Back there.’ Archelaus nodded towards the fire. Smoke was billowing from a doorway just beyond the flames. ‘There are still some men in that room.’

  Cato rushed forward, dodging round the men escaping from the flames and the choking smoke. When he reached the door Archelaus had indicated he took a deep breath and plunged in. There was a withering heat in the confined space and great tongues of flame leaped across the rafters of the ceiling as burning and smouldering fragments drifted down through the smoke. Cato ducked as low as he could, where the smoke was less dense, and looked round. Nearly all the bedrolls were empty, save for two in the far corner. Julia was on her hands and knees dragging the nearest man across the floor and Cato scrambled across to her.

  ‘Here, let me take him.’

  She looked round, eyes streaming from the smoke as she coughed and spluttered ‘Cato. Thank the Gods. You take him. I’ll go for the other.’

  ‘No,’ Cato spluttered, but she had already turned away and was crawling back to the last man, laying motionless on his bedroll.

  ‘Shit,’ Cato hissed, then grasped the man she had left under the shoulders and began to haul him towards the door. The wounded man had a splint on either side of one leg and he howled with agony as Cato dragged him across the door frame and into the colonnade. Cato saw some of his men running towards him. ‘Get him out of here.’