‘No, of course not.’ Balthus smiled. ‘I meant no offence. I merely wished to say it is good to have the chance to fight at your side again. After the bad atmosphere back in the citadel.’
‘There was a reason for that. I don’t take kindly to being accused of murder.’
‘And nor do I.’
‘Ah, but who benefits from Amethus’ death? That’s the question.’
Cato glanced at his friend. ‘You’ve been reading Cicero?’
‘I was bored. What else was there to do when you were off every spare moment with that aristocratic bit?’
‘Her name is Julia,’ Cato said tersely.
‘So I gathered. Anyway, Prince, I’d say that you had rather more to gain than Rome did from his death. That’s logic.’
‘Logic? You make it sound like an accusation.’
‘If you like.’
‘I’m telling you. I did not kill my brother.’
‘So you say.’
The tension between the two men was getting on Cato’s nerves and he glanced round at the prince’s retinue, now reduced to little more than forty men. ‘Where is that slave of yours, Carpex?’
Balthus frowned. ‘I don’t know. He disappeared this morning when I was looking for horses for my men.’
‘Disappeared? What happened?’
‘I don’t know. I sent him to my father’s palace to bring me a spare bow and arrows from my quarters. He never returned. I had to take one from one of my men and then we left. As far as I know he’s still in Palmyra. No idea where he got to. Strange.’
‘Yes,’ Cato reflected. Carpex had never been far from his master’s side during the siege.
‘If he’s decided to run away, he’ll pay dearly for it when he’s found.’
‘But why would he run away?’ Macro asked. ‘He has it as good as any slave, and better than most freedmen.’
Cato smiled. ‘I doubt he saw it that way when we were picking our way through the sewers. That’s probably why he’s run off. Sick of being in the shit.’
‘Well, in that case he’s done the smart thing,’ said Macro. ‘I get the feeling we’re about to be in the very deepest of shit.’
By mid-afternoon the army had crossed the low foothills to the east and Palmyra and its oasis were left behind. General Longinus did not permit his men to take more than the briefest of rests as they strove to close the distance between them and the forces of Artaxes. As the sun sank towards the horizon the army passed over some broken ground, deep gullies stretching out on either side for a distance of some miles. Then the trade route emerged on to a great flat plain that spread before the Romans, desolate and lifeless in the still shimmering heat. Miles ahead the dust raised by the rearguard of the rebel force was clearly visible and in its wake were the tiny dots of stragglers. Small clusters of mounted men tracked across the wasteland, mostly keeping a wary distance from each other, and sometimes charging forward in a brief flurry of action before they broke off and resumed their positions.
When the sun set the air cooled to a more comfortable temperature and the army looked forward to halting to make camp for the night. But no command to halt was given and the Roman soldiers trudged wearily on, like a great river gliding steadily across the desert. A crescent moon and starlight provided enough light to see by and cast faint shadows across the gloomy sand. Close to midnight, as far as Cato could estimate it, the column halted and staff officers rode down the lines calling all the unit commanders forward to General Longinus.
‘Surely he’s not thinking of making a night attack?’ Cato muttered as he and Macro jogged to the front of the column. The men of the two legions and the auxiliary cohorts had been given permission to down packs and fall out. They sat or lay on the sand, spread out each side of the track. The low hubbub of conversation filled the air and Cato could not help being aware of the generally disgruntled tone of the exchanges.
‘Who knows?’ Macro responded, panting from his exertions. ‘Seems like the general’s not going to let us rest until we catch those rebels.’
‘I hope that’s not the plan, or the men will be dead on their feet by the time any fighting starts.’
Macro grunted. ‘They’ll be dead, right enough.’
A gathering of horses and men to one side of the head of the column revealed the general’s location and Macro and Cato made their way through the loose throng of orderlies and scouts and the screen of the general’s bodyguards.
Macro made out the figure of Longinus standing before his assembled officers and cleared his throat. ‘Centurion Macro and Prefect Cato, sir.’
‘Finally. Then we can begin.’ The general paused a moment until everyone had fallen silent and had focused their attention on him. He drew a breath and began. ‘The scouts report that Artaxes is camped just beyond that slight rise two miles or so ahead of us. They could see the loom of the campfires above the crest. Our scouts have drawn back, so I doubt he knows how close we are to him. It is my intention to close up on the ridge, form the army into line, legions to the centre, auxiliaries on the flanks, and then cross the rise and attack his camp. With surprise on our side we should cut them to pieces before they can organise any defence. The cavalry and mounted scouts can conduct a pursuit at daybreak and run down any who escape.’ He paused. ‘Gentlemen, in a few short hours we will have defeated the enemy, crushed the rebels and won the campaign. Once the Parthians know that Palmyra is in our hands and that Artaxes has been defeated they will have no choice but to withdraw.’
Macro leaned towards Cato. ‘A night attack. Seems that you are right, and that he is a fool.’
Cato was not so sure. ‘It could work. As long as we hit them before they can form up. And we will outnumber them.’
‘Still, I don’t like it,’ Macro muttered. ‘No soldier ever does. There’s too much that can go wrong.’
‘That’s true,’ Cato responded with feeling. ‘I still don’t think Longinus has grasped what kind of enemy he is up against.’
‘Shhh!’ one of the centurions standing nearby hissed. ‘Do you mind? Can’t hear a bloody word the general’s saying.’
Macro took a step towards the man, and Cato caught his arm. ‘Leave it.’
For a moment Macro stared at Cato and then he nodded reluctantly. ‘All right then.’
The general had wound up the traditional eve of battle address to his officers and now dismissed them back to their units. As the small crowd of officers broke up Macro shook his head. ‘That was hardly worth it. What the fuck was the point of dragging us to the front of the column for a pep talk?’
‘Posterity,’ Cato replied. ‘Longinus thinks he’s making history and he wants us all to remember the moment.’
‘I’ll not forget how tired he has made me, that’s for sure.’
Led by staff officers, each unit was directed into position. Despite the dim loom of the moon and stars the column rippled forward slowly as each cohort peeled off the head of the column and moved across the desert at a right angle, warily picking its way over the stone-strewn ground. The Third Legion formed to the right of the track, the Tenth to the left. Macro’s cohort was on the legion’s flank, and the Second Illyrian took up position just beyond. Another cohort, the Sixth Macedonian, marched a short distance behind, as a reserve. Behind Cato, Prince Balthus formed his horse-archers. The two cohorts of cavalry and the mounted scouts from the legions were stationed at the rear, waiting for daylight to play their part.
At length the army had formed into line of battle. Fifteen thousand infantry and nearly a thousand cavalry stood in silence, waiting for the order to advance. There would be no strident blast from the bucinas as that would alert the enemy. Instead, the general’s staff officers were spread out a short distance in front of the line, each man holding one of the small flags the engineers used to mark out the boundaries of marching camps.
Ahead of the army a small force of cavalry scouts screened the line of advance. Only a handful of enemy horsemen, and a few Romans, sto
od between the army and Artaxes and his rebels on the other side of the rise.
It seemed to Cato that the army stood waiting for an age. His feet ached terribly from the long day’s march and his mind felt so numb with exhaustion that he feared he would fall asleep on his feet. He made himself walk up and down the front of his formation, having a quiet word every so often with the commanders of each century, and any soldier who looked like dropping off. He returned to his position beside the standard and turned to Parmenion.
‘Tell me, have you ever taken part in a night attack before?’
‘I’ve been in some night actions, yes, sir.’
‘But have you ever seen an entire army make an attack under cover of night?’
‘No, sir.’
Cato was silent for a moment. ‘Me neither.’
‘We’ll be all right, sir.’
‘Really?’ Cato grinned. ‘Care to take a bet on that?’
‘Of course, sir,’ Parmenion replied at once, playing along with the well-worn exchange. ‘And where should I send the money if you win?’
They both chuckled quietly, then Cato stopped suddenly. ‘Heads up!’
Fifty paces in front of them the staff officer had raised his flag and started to wave it slowly from side to side, as had the other staff officers all along the line. Cato turned to Parmenion. ‘Pass the word. Prepare to advance.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Parmenion saluted and trotted along the front of the Second Illyrian calling out softly as he passed. The whole line of the army stirred as men made a final check on their equipment and lifted their shields. The staff officer suddenly swept his flag down and began to run back towards the centre of the line. Cato’s officers had been watching for the signal and immediately gave the order to advance, and the Second Illyrian crept forward over the open ground. Cato quickened his pace until he had drawn a short distance ahead and could see down the length of the army towards the right flank. It was an impressive sight, even in the dim light cast by the moon and stars, and he felt his confidence grow slightly. If they could achieve surprise, then victory was surely theirs for the taking. There was no shouting of orders, no strident notes from bucinas, no rapping of the flat of the sword against the metal trim of the shield, none of the usual cacophony of a Roman army marching to battle. Just the rumbling crunch of thousands of nailed boots crossing the desert and the chink and clatter of loose equipment. The overall effect was eerie, Cato reflected.
The dense ranks of soldiers crossed the desert plain and at last began to climb the slight rise in front of the enemy camp. Cato saw a dark mass on the ground ahead of him and as he approached it he made out the body of a Palmyran soldier, one of the enemy’s pickets, he realised. A short distance ahead he saw the crest of the rise haloed by the dull loom of the enemy’s campfires and the doubts about Longinus’ plan that had burdened him suddenly rushed to the front of his mind and he felt a cold chill of anxiety seize the base of his spine. There was far more light than he had expected from the fires of a force of the size that Artaxes commanded. Cato quickened his step, and heard the thud of boots as Parmenion closed up on him.
‘I don’t like the look of it,’ Parmenion said softly.
‘Me neither.’
The ground began to even out and as Cato reached the crest he strode forward and stopped as he saw the vista of fires spread across the desert before him. Parmenion came up beside him and whispered, ‘Bloody hell. What is that?’
‘That,’ Cato responded steadily, ‘is the army of Artaxes, and his Parthian allies. They reached him before we did. Seems like the general’s spies lied to him.’
‘What in Hades happens now?’
‘We continue the attack.’ Cato started forward again. ‘We have to. That’s the only chance we have. Catch them all by surprise before they have a chance to react.’
The rest of the Roman line had crested the ridge and advanced far enough to see the enemy camp spread out before them, just over half a mile ahead. The general had been right, Cato conceded. Against the odds he had succeeded in catching the enemy unawares. He had misjudged Longinus.
A horn blasted a short series of notes across the top of the hill. More joined in and repeated the signal. Parmenion stopped and stared at Cato. ‘What is he doing? What is the bloody fool doing?’
Cato shook his head, stunned. All along the line the Roman soldiers drew up in response to the signal to halt. Cato felt sick.
‘The general’s lost his nerve,’ Parmenion reasoned. ‘When he saw that lot down there.’ He was silent for a moment before he continued. ‘The gods help us.’
‘You’d better pray that they do,’ Cato muttered. ‘Because we’ve just lost the initiative. Look.’
Down below the first shrill cries of alarm began to sound. A moment later the beat of a drum carried up the slope and by the light of the campfires Cato could see thousands and thousands of men rising up from their sleep and scrambling for their weapons and their horses.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Roman army stood and watched as the enemy began to mass. Artaxes and his rebels, most of whom were infantry, were forming a thin line in front of the camp. But they were an insignificant danger. Far more worrying to Cato were the groups of Parthian horse-archers and cataphracts already beginning to edge forward towards the rising ground on which the Roman waited.
‘What is he doing?’ Centurion Parmenion pounded his fist against his thigh as he stared to his right, towards the centre of the line where General Longinus and his staff were positioned. ‘Why doesn’t he give the order to attack before it’s too bloody late?’
Cato cleared his throat and stepped towards his subordinate. ‘Centurion Parmenion.’
‘Sir?’
‘I’d be obliged if you kept your mouth shut. Think about the men. As far as they are concerned this is part of the plan. Understand? Now show them some reserve. You’re a veteran, man. So act like one.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cato watched him for a moment, until he was sure that Parmenion understood, then he nodded. ‘Carry on, Parmenion.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Over towards the eastern horizon a thin strip of lighter sky heralded the coming dawn and moment by moment Cato could see more detail in the surrounding landscape. Still there was no order to advance. Then, at last, a staff officer, one of the junior equestrian tribunes, came riding along the line, pausing to give orders to each commander in turn. Cato strode up to meet him as the officer reached the Second Illyrian. The tribune saluted.
‘General’s compliments, sir,’ he said breathlessly. ‘He says we will await the enemy attack here on the high ground. He will give the order to advance the moment we have broken them up. In the meantime, you are to guard the flank. If there’s any attempt to cut behind our line it will be up to you and the Palmyran prince to hold them off.’
‘Very well.’ Cato nodded. ‘We’ll do our duty.’
‘Yes, sir.’
They exchanged a salute and the tribune wheeled his mount round and galloped back towards the general. Cato turned to Parmenion.
‘You heard that?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then we know what to expect. We need to guard the flank,’ Cato decided. ‘Pull the men in and form a line away from the crest at the end of Macro’s cohort. Send a man to Balthus. His men are to form up behind us and be ready to shoot up any Parthians that attack the left of the line.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then let’s get moving! We’re not being paid by the day.’
Once the Second Illyrian had taken up their new formation Cato’s command position was only a short distance from Macro’s and he strode across to speak to his friend. As Cato approached, Macro shook his head with a weary expression. ‘Longinus has screwed it up beautifully.’ He motioned to the new crest adorning his helmet. ‘Paid some bastard in the second cohort five denarii for this. A fine waste of money now that we’re about to provide the Parthians with some target practice.’
‘Looks that way,’ Cato agreed. ‘And the general seems to have it in his head that they’re going to charge us.’
‘He’ll know the score soon enough.’
‘And then?’ Cato lowered his voice so that only Macro would hear him. ‘What do you think he’ll do?’
‘What can he do? We’ve got bugger all cavalry to pin the enemy in place while the legions close on them. My guess is that Longinus will order a retreat the moment our men start hitting the ground.’
‘I agree. It’ll be difficult to pull off without heavy losses.’
Macro sighed. ‘Well, he wanted his battle. Now he’s got it. The trick of it will be living to tell the tale.’
‘Yes.’ Cato glanced up at the sky. ‘It’s getting lighter. I’d better get back to my men. Good luck, sir.’
‘And you, Cato.’ They clasped arms and Cato turned and strode back towards the standard of the Second Illyrian.
As the light strengthened the Parthians began their attack. There was no wild charge of the kind the legions had faced before on other battlefields. Small groups of Parthian horse-archers trotted their mounts up the slope and began to loose arrows at the dense ranks of Roman soldiers. The power of their compound bows was such that some could shoot almost straight at their targets, while others aimed high so that their arrows arced into the sky before plummeting down. Receiving missiles from two different directions immediately upset and confused the solid ranks of infantry. As the first men were struck down the centurions hurriedly ordered the front two ranks to raise a shield wall while the rear ranks raised their shields overhead. While it offered a solution to the enemy’s method of attack it was tiring work and could not be continued for long by the men in the rear ranks.
As soon as the Parthians realised that their arrows had ceased having much effect on the front of the Roman line they began to shift their effort to the flanks.
‘Here they come!’ an auxiliary near the crest shouted.
‘Down!’ Cato ordered. ‘Behind your shields!’
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