Centurion c-8

by Simon Scarrow

  Castor cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted. 'They're right on you! Run!'

  The men of the rearguard were weighed down by their armour and already exhausted from the day's labour, and they stumbled across the site. One tripped on a loose rock and tumbled to the ground with a shrill cry, but not one of his comrades even paused to look back, and moments later he was engulfed by the wave of Parthians surging towards the watchtower. They swarmed over the fallen auxiliary for a moment, hacking and slashing at him with their curved blades. His death brought his comrades just enough time to reach the watchtower and they piled inside, lowering their shields as they gasped for breath. Septimus licked his lips as he forced himself to straighten up and report, chest heaving.

  'Lost two men, sir… One back on the track, and the other just then.'

  'I saw.' Castor nodded.

  'What now?'

  'We hold them off for as long as we can.'

  'And then?'

  Castor laughed. 'Then we die. But not before we send at least forty of them ahead of us to line our path to Hades.'

  Septimus forced himself to grin, for the sake of the men watching the exchange. Then he glanced over Castor's shoulders and his expression hardened.'Here they come, sir.'

  Castor turned round and raised his shield. 'We have to hold them here! Form up!'

  Septimus stood at his side and the four men raised their spears ready to thrust over the heads of the two officers. Beyond the entrance the dark mass of the Parthians charged across the rubble-strewn ground and hurled themselves at the shields blocking the door. Castor braced himself an instant before the inside of his shield lurched towards him under the impact. Then he dug his iron-shod boots in and thrust back, punching his weight behind the shield boss.There was an explosive gasp as the blow struck home. Over his shoulder the sharp point and shaft of one of the auxiliaries stabbed out and there was a cry of agony from outside the watchtower. As the spear was drawn back a flicker of warm droplets spattered across Castor's eyes. He blinked them away as a sword blow hacked against the outside of his shield. Beside him, Centurion Septimus pressed his shield forward into the mass of the enemy crowding the entrance and thrust his sword at any exposed flesh he could see between the rim of his shield and the door frame.

  As long as the two officers stood their ground and were supported by the men behind, ready to stab out with their spears, the enemy could not get in through the entrance. For a moment Castor felt his spirits rise as the fight began to go their way for the first time.

  Too late he sensed the flicker of movement low to the ground just outside the entrance as one of the Parthians crouched and swept his blade beneath the rim of Castor's shield. The edge of the blade cut deep into his ankle, severing leather, flesh and muscle before it fetched up against bone. The pain was instantaneous, like a red-hot bar thrust into the joint. Castor staggered backwards with an explosive cry of pain and rage.

  Septimus glanced back quickly, seeing his commander slump to one side of the entrance. 'Next man! Into line!'

  The nearest auxiliary, crouching low to protect his legs, pressed himself forward, alongside Septimus, as his comrades thrust their spear tips at the enemy in a flurry of attacks to drive them back from the entrance. Then all at once there was a shout of alarm from the darkness and the crash of heavy masonry outside the watchtower. As Castor leaned round the frame to look he saw a piece of dressed stone smash down on to the Parthians, crushing a man's head as it drove his body to the ground. More rocks and stones fell on the attackers, killing and maiming several before they could scramble back across the site to a safe distance.

  'Bloody marvellous,' Septimus growled with pleasure at the sight. 'See how they like being hit without a chance to fight back. Bastards.'

  As the enemy moved out of range the barrage of stones tailed off and the sounds of combat gave way to the jeers and whistles of the auxiliaries in the watchtower, and the moans and cries of the injured men in front of the entrance. Septimus took a last glance outside before he motioned one of the men to take his place. Leaning his shield against the wall he knelt down to examine Castor's wound, straining his eyes to make it out by the wan glow from the starry heavens shining through the entrance. His hands gently probed the injury and felt the shards of bone amid the mangled flesh. Castor sucked in a deep breath and clenched his teeth as he fought back the impulse to cry out in agony.

  Septimus glanced up at him. 'I'm sorry to say your fighting days are over.'

  'Tell me something I don't know,' Castor hissed.

  Septimus smiled briefly. 'I have to stop this bleeding. Give me your scarf, sir.'

  Castor loosened the cloth, unwound it and passed it down. Septimus held one end behind the calf and then glanced up. 'This is going to hurt. Ready?'

  'Just get on with it.'

  Septimus wound the cloth round the leg, over the wound, and then bound it tightly over the ankle and tied it off. The searing pain was like nothing Castor had ever endured before and despite the cold of the night he was sweating freely by the time Septimus finished the knot and rose to his feet.

  'You'll have to prop me up on the stairs when the time comes to make our last stand.'

  Septimus nodded. 'I'll see to it, sir.'

  The officers stared at each other for a moment as they considered the full import of their last exchange. Now that they had accepted the inevitable Castor felt that the burden of anxiety over the fate of his command had lifted. Despite the torment of his wound, there was a calm sense of resignation in his heart, and a determination to go down fighting. Septimus glanced away, through the door, and saw the enemy standing in clusters about the site, out of range of the rocks and stones that the auxiliaries had thrown from the watchtower.

  'Wonder what they'll do next?' he mused. 'Starve us out?'

  Castor shook his head. He had served in the region long enough in the east to know the nature of Rome's old enemy. 'They'll not wait for that. There's no honour in it.'

  'What then?'

  Castor shrugged. 'We'll know soon enough.'

  There was a moment's silence before Septimus turned away from the entrance. 'So what is this? A raid? The opening of a new campaign against Rome?'

  'Does it matter?'

  'I want to know the reason for my death.'

  Castor pursed his lips and considered the situation. 'It could be a raid. Maybe they saw the construction of this fort as an act of provocation. But it's equally possible they want to clear a path across the Euphrates for their army to cross. It could be the first move towards taking control of Palmyra.'

  Castor's thoughts were interrupted by a shout from outside.

  'Romans! Hear me!' a voice called out in Greek. 'Parthia calls on you to lay down your arms and surrender!'

  'Bollocks!' Septimus snorted.

  The man outside in the dark did not respond to the taunt and continued in an even tone. 'My commander calls on you to surrender. If you lay down your weapons, you will be spared. He gives his word.'

  'Spared?' Castor repeated softly before he shouted out his reply. 'You will spare us and permit us to return to Palmyra?'

  There was a short pause before the voice continued. 'Your lives will be spared, but you will be taken prisoner.'

  'Slaves is what we'll be,' Septimus growled and spat on the floor. 'I'll not die a fucking slave.' He turned to Castor. 'Sir? What should we do?'

  'Tell him to go to Hades.'

  Septimus smiled thinly, his teeth luminous in the moonlight. He turned to the entrance and shouted his reply. 'If you want our weapons, come and get them!'

  Castor chuckled. 'Hardly original, but a nice touch.'

  The officers exchanged a grin and the other men smiled nervously, until the voice called to them one last time.

  'So be it. Then this place will be your grave. Or rather… your pyre.'

  A faint glow had appeared on the far side of the construction site and as Septimus watched a small flame flared up, silhouetting the warrior crouched over
his tinder box.The flame was efficiently fed so that it quickly flared up into a small blaze as men gathered round to light torches hastily gathered from the surrounding scrub. Then they approached the watchtower and as Septimus watched the first of the fire arrows was offered to a torch until the oiled rags caught alight. At once the archer drew his bow and shot at the watchtower. The arrow blazed through the darkness and thudded into the scaffolding, scattering a small shower of sparks. Immediately, other arrows flamed towards the structure, embedding themselves in the wood with splintering cracks and burning as they lodged there.

  'Shit!' Septimus clenched his fist round the handle of his sword. 'They mean to burn us out.'

  Castor knew there was no water in the tower and he shook his head.'There's nothing we can do about it. Call the men down from the watchtower.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  A short while later, as the last of the survivors crowded into the small guard room at the foot of the tower, Castor hauled himself up and leaned against the wall so that he could address them.

  'It's all over for us, lads. We stay here and burn, or go out there and take some of those bastards with us. That's it. So when I give the order, you follow Centurion Septimus out of the tower. Stay close to each other and run hard at them. Understand?'

  A handful of them nodded and some managed a few words of acknowledgement. Septimus cleared his throat. 'What about you, sir? You can't come with us.'

  'I know. I'll stay here and deal with the standard. They can't be allowed to take that.' Castor held his hand out to the cohort's signifer. 'Here, let me have it.'

  The standard-bearer hesitated a moment, and then stepped forward and handed the shaft over to his commander. 'Take care of it, sir.'

  Castor nodded as he grasped the standard firmly and used it to support the weight on his injured leg. Around them the crackle and soft roar of flames filled the warm air and a lurid orange glow lit up the ground around the watchtower. Castor staggered towards the narrow wooden staircase in the corner. 'When I get to the roof, I'll give the order to charge. Make every thrust of your spears and every blow of your swords count, lads.'

  'We will, sir,' Septimus replied softly.

  Castor nodded and clasped the centurion's arm briefly, and then, gritting his teeth, he made for the roof, painfully working his way up the wooden stairs as the air grew heated around him and wisps of smoke curled into the orange light seeping through the windows and arrow slits. By the time he reached the roof, the side of the watchtower closest to the enemy was ablaze. Castor could see scores of Parthians waiting in the bright glare of the flames and he drew a deep breath.

  'Centurion Septimus! Now! Charge!'

  There was a thin chorus of war cries from the base of the tower and Castor saw the Parthians raise their bows, concentrating their aim, and then the air was filled with the flitting dark splinters of their arrows. Over the parapet he saw the small compact body of his men charging out across the site. Their shoulders were hunched down behind their shields as they ran straight at the enemy, following Septimus as he bellowed insults at the Parthians. The archers stood their ground and shot their arrows as fast as they could at the moving target. Those who still had fire arrows to hand loosed those and brilliant flaring paths cut through the air towards the auxiliaries. Several lodged in shields and burned there as their owners ran on. Then Castor saw Septimus suddenly draw up and stand still, his sword dropping from his hand as he clutched at the point of an arrow that had passed through his neck as the last of his cries still echoed over the site. Then he slumped to his knees and toppled forward on to the ground, writhing feebly as he bled to death.

  The auxiliaries closed round his body and raised their shields. Castor watched them in bitter frustration. The impetus of the charge had died with Septimus and now they were picked off one by one as Parthian arrows found their way in between the shields and pierced the flesh of the men behind. Castor did not wait to see the end. Leaning heavily on the standard he crossed to the far side of the platform and looked down the cliff towards the river. Far below the mist had cleared and moonlight rippled off the swirling current as it flowed over some rocks. Castor tipped his head back and looked into the serene depths of the heavens and breathed the night air deep into his lungs.

  A sudden crash of timber from the far side of the tower made him glance round and he knew that there was no time left if he was to make sure the standard did not fall into enemy hands. Through the wavering curtain of the flames and smoke he could see the shimmering ranks of the Parthians and he knew that this was only the beginning. Soon a tide of fire and destruction would spill across the desert and threaten to engulf the eastern provinces of the Roman Empire. Castor grasped the shaft of the standard firmly in both hands and limped to the very edge of the platform. He took one last deep breath and gritted his teeth and then hurled himself into the void.

  08 Centurion

  CHAPTER TWO

  'This is as good as life gets.' Macro smiled as he leaned back against the wall of the Bountiful Amphora, his usual drinking hole, and stretched his legs out in front of him. 'Finally, I got my posting to Syria. You know what, Cato?'

  'What?' His companion stirred and blinked his eyes open.

  'It's every bit as good as I hoped it would be.' Macro shut his eyes and relished the warmth of the sun on his weathered face. 'Good wines, fairly priced women who know a trick or two and fine dry weather. There's even a decent library.'

  'I'd never have thought you'd take an interest in books,' said Cato. In recent months Macro had nearly sated his epicurean desires and had taken to reading. Admittedly his preference was for bawdy comedies and erotica, but, Cato reasoned, at least he was reading something and there was a chance that it might lead to more challenging material.

  Macro smiled. 'This is a good enough spot for now. A warm climate and warm women. I tell you, after that campaign in Britain I never want to see another Celt as long as I live.'

  'Too right,' Centurion Cato murmured with feeling as he recalled the cold, the damp and the mist-wreathed marshes through which he and Macro, and the men of the Second Legion, had fought their way across the Empire's most recent acquisition. 'Still, it wasn't so bad in the summer.'

  'Summer?' Macro frowned. 'Ah, you must mean that handful of days we had between winter and autumn.'

  'You wait. A few months on campaign in the desert and you'll look back on those times in Britain as if it was Elysium.'

  'That may be,' Macro mused as he recalled their previous posting on the frontier of Judaea, in the middle of a wasteland. He shook off the memory. 'But for now, I have a cohort to command, a prefect's pay and the prospect of a decent rest before we have to risk life and limb for the Emperor, the Senate and People of Rome' – he intoned the official slogan wryly – 'by which I mean that sly, conniving bastard, Narcissus.'

  'Narcissus…' Repeating the name of Emperor Claudius' private secretary, Cato sat up and turned to his friend. He lowered his voice. 'Still no reply from him. He must have read our report by now.'

  'Yes.' Macro shrugged. 'So?'

  'So, what do you think he will do about the governor?'

  'Cassius Longinus? Oh, he'll be all right. Longinus has covered his tracks well enough. There's no firm evidence to link him to any treachery and you can be sure that he'll do his level best to be the Emperor's most loyal servant now that he knows he's being watched.'

  Cato glanced round the customers sitting at the nearest table and leaned closer to Macro.'Given that we are the men Narcissus sent to watch Longinus, I doubt that the governor would shed any tears over our deaths.We have to be careful.'

  'He can hardly have us killed.' Macro sniffed. 'That would look too suspicious. Relax, Cato, we're doing just fine.' He stretched out his arms, cracked his shoulder and then tucked his hands behind his head with a contented yawn.

  Cato regarded him for a moment, wishing that Macro would not dismiss the danger posed by Cassius Longinus so easily. A few months earlier the governor of Syri
a had requested that another three legions be transferred to his command to counter the growing threat of a revolt in Judaea. With a force that size at his back Longinus would have posed a serious threat to the Emperor. It was Cato's conviction that Longinus had been preparing to make a play for the imperial throne. Thanks to Macro and Cato the revolt had been crushed before it could spread across the province, and Longinus had been deprived of the need for his extra legions. No man as powerful as Longinus would easily forgive those who had frustrated his ambitions and Cato had been living in wary anticipation of revenge for several months. But now the governor faced a real threat from the growing menace of Parthia, with only the Third, Sixth and Tenth Legions and their attached auxiliary cohorts to confront the enemy. If war came to the eastern provinces then every available man would be needed to face the Parthians. Cato sighed. It was ironic that the threat from Parthia was welcome. That should divert the governor's mind from thoughts of revenge for a while at least. Cato drained his cup and leaned back against the wall, staring out across the city.

  The sun was close to the horizon and the roof tiles and domes of Antioch were gleaming in the brilliant hue of the fading light. The centre of the city, like most of those that had fallen under Roman control, and before that to the Greek heirs of Alexander the Great's conquests, was filled with the kind of public buildings that were to be found right across the Empire. Beyond the lofty columns of the temples and porticoes, the city gave way to a jumble of fine townhouses and sprawling slums of grimy flat-roofed buildings. In those streets the air was ripe with the smells of densely packed humanity. That was where most of the off-duty soldiers spent their time. But Cato and Macro preferred the relative comfort of the Bountiful Amphora where its slightly elevated position took advantage of any breeze that wafted over the city.