Centurion c-8

by Simon Scarrow

  Or at least Cato used to see it that way, Macro reflected with a concerned expression. Earlier that day, for the first time, he had seen the excited glint in Cato's eye when he had insisted on accompanying Balthus' slave into Palmyra. It was a ludicrously dangerous task to volunteer for and Macro could not help worrying for his friend's safety. Not just because Cato would be venturing into the heart of an enemy-controlled city, but mostly because Macro was not convinced that Cato was a natural fighter. There was too much of the thinker in the lad, Macro mused regretfully. Filling his head with fancy philosophies read in obscure scrolls served no practical purpose, nor even provided much in the way of entertainment, unlike the comedy plays that were Macro's main pleasure.

  In the years since Cato had taught him to read, Macro had mostly used his new skill to fulfil the tedious demands of military bureaucracy. But in recent months, thanks to the peaceful and pleasant posting to Antioch, Macro had begun to read for pleasure. Quietly putting aside the Latin translations of Socrates and Aristotle that Cato had dug out of the local library, Macro devoted his reading hours to comedies amongst other more racy material and had been working his way through the plays of Plautius before the present crisis with Parthia had blown up and brought him here to Palmyra.

  Macro's mind snapped back to the present as one of the scouts came scrambling along the edge of the spur that projected into the plain. He raised his hand to halt the men behind him and the column awkwardly stumbled to a halt in the darkness. The scout was from one of the Second Illyrian's cavalry squadrons and he saluted as he made his report. Macro stopped him at once.

  'Speak in Greek,' he nodded towards Balthus, 'so that we both understand.'

  'Yes, sir.' The scout, like most troops stationed in the eastern Empire, spoke Greek first, and Latin as much as the army required him to. He pointed over the end of the spur. 'We've come across an enemy patrol in that direction, sir. Perhaps half a mile from the tip of the spur. By a few palm trees.'

  'How many men?'

  'No more than twenty, sir.'

  'Which direction are they headed?'

  'They're not heading anywhere, sir. They must have stopped for the night. Most of them seem to be asleep, but there's two on watch.'

  'Damn,' Macro muttered. The rebel patrol had camped right across his line of advance.

  'We could go round them,' Balthus suggested. 'March out from the spur for half a mile and then try to cut round.'

  Macro shook his head. 'That'd take too long.We have to get into the city before first light. Besides,' he turned towards the open landscape beyond the end of the spur, 'we'd have to go further out to be sure that they didn't see us. If they did, you can be sure that their first act would be to alert their friends in Palmyra. And even if they didn't spot us, we'd have to cross a lot of ground before we could resume our approach to the eastern gate. There are bound to be some shepherds, merchants or travellers out there on the plain. Any one of them could raise the alarm.'

  'A fair point, Centurion. What do you suggest we do?'

  Macro thought a moment. 'We'd better take the direct route. It would be swiftest and safest, provided we eliminate that patrol first.'

  'Eliminate the patrol?' The surprise in the prince's tone was clear.

  'Yes. It must be done quickly.We can catch and kill them all before they have a chance to send someone to raise the alarm. This is where your boys come in.'

  'What are you talking about?'

  'We send them out either side of the camp.When they're in position, they can mount up, ride in and finish the rebels off before they can get in their saddles. None of them can be allowed to escape. Be clear on that.'

  'Don't worry, Roman. I know the stakes.' Balthus paused a moment before continuing, 'But what if some of them do escape and raise the alarm? What then?'

  'Then we must decide whether we fall back to the hills and wait for another opportunity to enter the city, which, frankly, I doubt we'll get once the rebels are alerted to our presence close to Palmyra. In all likelihood, they'll make it a priority to hunt us down and destroy us. Or,' Macro watched the prince's face closely, 'we continue with the attack and get stuck into the rebels before they have much of a chance to react. Of course, if they manage to hold the gate then it will all have been for nothing. So, that's the choice, if any of that patrol escapes the net.What would you do?'

  Macro had already made up his mind, but he was curious to take the measure of Balthus.Would the prince of Palmyra fight, or would he flee? Balthus responded without any hesitation.

  'If any escape, then I say we advance on Palmyra as fast as we can.' Balthus tapped his chest. 'And since I am in command until we reach the citadel, that is what we will do.'

  Macro smiled. 'A man after my own heart. Right, I expect you will want to give the orders to your men for the attack on that patrol.'

  Balthus nodded and turned away, striding across the desert to the dark line of his men stretched out a short distance from the Roman column. Macro watched him for a moment and then returned to the head of his column and took the leading century, under Centurion Horatius, from his cohort forward, following the scout towards the enemy patrol, moving as stealthily as possible. To his left the Palmyran horsemen moved out, away from the spur and into the desert, to encircle the rebels. To Macro's right the crest of the spur gradually sloped down to the plain and ended in a jumble of boulders at its tip. A short distance beyond he saw the dark outline of the fronds of the palm trees against the starlit sky.

  'Halt here,' Macro whispered to the centurion behind him, and crept forward as the order was quietly relayed down the line of dark figures. He caught up with the scout and tapped him on the shoulder. 'This is close enough.'

  The scout nodded and lowered himself to the ground. A moment later Macro lay beside him and squinted into the darkness. The trees were clear enough, as were the horses tethered beneath them. Around them, huddled on the ground, were the rebels. As the scout had reported, most were lying down, but a handful sat together and Macro could just hear snatches of their conversation.They sounded good-humoured enough and it was clear that they weren't expecting any trouble. Two men squatted in the desert on either side of the camp, keeping watch.

  Macro eased himself into a more comfortable position and whispered softly to the scout, 'Get back to Centurion Horatius and tell him that all's well.The enemy are still here and Balthus should take them by surprise. Tell him that I want his men ready to come forward the moment the attack begins.'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Off you go.'

  The scout nodded his head and then crept off through the rocks, leaving Macro to watch the enemy alone. The delay was frustrating but it should not set them back too long, he hoped. Otherwise Cato might light his beacon and have the garrison launch a costly and pointless diversionary attack. Assuming Cato had actually got through to the garrison, Macro reminded himself. He settled down to watch the rebel patrol, occasionally glancing out into the night for any sign of Balthus and his men. But there was nothing. After a while Macro grew fretful and hissed impatiently through his clenched teeth.

  'Come on…come on. Haven't got all bloody night… Where the hell are you?'

  As he heaped curses on to the head of the Palmyran prince, one of the rebels who was still awake, talking with his companions, eased himself off the ground and started walking slowly in Macro's direction.

  'Oh, great,' Macro muttered. 'Fine time to have a crap.'

  His irritation turned to anxiety as the figure continued towards Macro's position. If he continued on his course he would walk right up to Macro and trip over him. Macro flattened himself to the ground and reached a hand down to his sword handle. He could hear the man's footsteps now: a soft scraping shuffle over the stony ground. Someone called out to him from the camp and the man shouted back an angry response and his comrades laughed. Macro was lying between a large boulder and a stunted shrub and he peered through the skein of small spidery branches as the man approached. He cast about
a moment before settling on a rock no more than ten feet from Macro, where he could squat out of sight of his comrades. Pulling up his robes he crouched down and stuck his backside out in Macro's direction.With a grunt he began his movements and Macro instantly wished that the man's diet had not left him with such loose bowels. A foul odour filled the air and Macro's nose wrinkled with disgust. At length the man finished and looked around for something to wipe his backside. He turned towards Macro and froze.

  There was a pause as neither man moved, then the rebel rose up to his full height, still staring in Macro's direction. Hardly daring to breathe, Macro released his grip on his sword handle and groped for the nearest sizeable rock. His fingers grazed over one that would fit in his hand comfortably and closed round it as the rebel took a hesitant step towards him, and muttered an exclamation.

  Macro burst from cover, throwing the rock as hard as he could, and then snatched out his sword as he hurled himself towards the rebel. The rock struck the man on the side of his jaw and glanced off, but the impact stunned him for the instant that it took Macro to cannon into his body, ramming home his sword into the man's stomach as they slammed on to the ground. Macro landed heavily on the rebel, driving the breath from him in a harsh gasp. The blade drove up under the man's ribs, into vital organs. He squirmed, gasping for breath so that Macro feared he might cry out a warning before he died.

  'Oh no you don't,' Macro hissed, clamping his hand over the man's mouth and pressing down. With a last reserve of his failing strength the rebel writhed and bucked, trying to dislodge the Roman, but Macro fought back, working his blade furiously inside the man's chest. Then the rebel slumped, inert, his eyes staring blindly at the stars. Macro continued to hold him down a moment longer until he was quite certain that the man was dead, and then relaxed his grip, removing his hand from the slack jaw. He rolled away from the body, wrenching his blade free as he lay and caught his breath. It was a moment before he was aware of the smell and realised he was on the spot where the man had been squatting a moment earlier.

  'Shit,' he grumbled. 'How fucking lovely.'

  He leaned towards the body, cut a strip off the man's tunic and did his best to clean off the filth as he continued to keep watch for any sign of Balthus and his men.This was getting beyond a joke, he thought bitterly. If Balthus didn't make his move now it would be too late to arrive before the gate under the cover of darkness. A voice called out from the camp. Macro kept still, until the man called out again. This was not good, he realised. If there was no reply from the rocks the rebels were bound to send someone over to look. Macro hurriedly untied his helmet and lowered it to the ground. Then he rose up cautiously, looking over the rock towards the camp. When the rebel called out a third time, the anxiety clear in his tone, Macro stood up a little further and waved his hand.To his relief the men waiting for their companion to return laughed and settled back down to their conversation.

  Barely had Macro resumed his position behind the rock when there was a sudden thrumming of hooves and dark shapes rushed out of the night towards the rebel patrol's camp. The dull whack of arrows striking home sounded above the thud of hooves, and the snorts and whinnying of frightened horses. Then the cries of the wounded and the shouts of alarm split the night as the first blades clashed with a series of sharp ringing blows. There was no need to conceal himself any longer and Macro emerged from the rocks and watched from a safe distance as Balthus and his men swirled through the palm trees and cut down any man they found on the ground.

  'Sir?' Centurion Horatius called out as he led his men through the rocks towards Macro. 'Sir, are you there?'

  'Over here!' Macro raised his arm and the centurion and his legionaries came jogging towards him. 'Form two lines here.We're not taking part in this.We're just here to prevent any rebels running for it in this direction.'

  'Yes, sir.' Horatius sniffed, then grimaced before he saluted and strode off to pass on the orders to his century. Macro turned to watch the attack on the rebels. It was all but over. The riders were no longer charging across the campsite, but picking their way over the bodies, pausing to finish off the wounded and any who were cowering on the ground trying to surrender. There could be no prisoners taken tonight. They would only hold the column up and provide the added inconvenience of having to be guarded, not to mention the danger that they might give the column away as it approached the city and lay in wait for the chance to assault the eastern gate.

  'Right, it's all over,' Macro announced. 'Send a runner back for the rest of the column. It's time we got moving again.'

  A rider approached from the sparse spread of palm trees and Macro guessed it was Balthus.

  'The way is clear, Centurion. None of the rebels escaped my men. They're all dead.'

  'Good job,' Macro conceded. 'I suggest we continue the advance immediately, Prince.'

  It was the first time that Macro had shown any sign of deference to Balthus and the latter paused a moment to take in the implied praise and respect. He nodded to Macro. 'I agree. Now that we have reached the plain, my men will spread out and screen our approach to the gate. There shouldn't be any more delays.'

  'That's good,' said Macro. 'We can't stop for anything until we are in position to wait for Cato's signal.'

  'Very well, Centurion. I shall let my men know.' He paused. 'By the way, where is that stink coming from?'

  'Stink?' Macro responded testily. 'What stink?'

  Balthus wheeled his mount round and trotted back towards his men. Macro stared at them a moment, impressed by the ruthless speed with which they had struck and wiped out the patrol.With a few thousand such men in the service of Rome there was no telling what might be achieved on the eastern frontier of the Empire.Their skill with bow and sword while mounted was matchless. Only the Parthians were better at this highly mobile form of warfare, and even then, Macro decided, the men of Palmyra must surely give a good account of themselves when they fought Parthian troops. As the uneven footsteps of the rest of his men reached Macro's ears he shrugged off his speculative frame of mind with a slight smile. He was thinking a good deal too much since he had met Cato. Especially when there was soldiering to be done.

  'Column!' he called out as loudly as he dared. 'Advance!'

  The men of the two cohorts emerged from the rocks like a black snake.They marched quickly past the site of the butchered patrol and followed in the wake of Balthus and his men as they headed directly for the east gate of Palmyra.They met no more rebels, and startled only a young shepherd boy, who immediately took off into the night with his small flock of sheep, which bleated irritably as they fled.

  By the time they drew close to the city, Macro and his men were exhausted. Marching at night was always more tiring than during daylight, with the added burden of the strain on eyes and ears as they watched for any sign of the enemy, or an ambush. Balthus halted his riders and dispersed them to the flanks as Macro came up with his infantry. The men were quietly ordered to lie down and remain still and silent until the order to attack was given. Macro and Balthus crept a short distance ahead of their men and crouched down no more than a quarter of a mile from the gate. The walls of the city now loomed dark and tall and torches flickered along its length as the men on watch duty moved slowly between the towers watching for trouble.

  The citadel was visible in the distance and Macro could just make out the tallest of its towers. If Cato had got through, that would be where the signal was shown, and Macro kept his eye fixed to the spot. The night gradually wore on and there was no sign of a signal. Balthus stirred and turned towards Macro.

  'Perhaps your comrade, and my slave, failed to get through.'

  'Give the lad a chance,' Macro responded. 'Cato can do it. He always does.'

  Balthus stared at him a moment before he continued, 'You think highly of that young officer.'

  'Yes. Yes, I do. He's a rare one, is Cato. He won't let us down.'

  'I hope not, Centurion. It all depends on him now.'

  'I know,' Ma
cro replied softly, and they both gazed towards the city walls as they waited, and wondered what had become of Carpex and Cato.

  08 Centurion

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  'Roman?' asked the soldier in Greek as he lowered his sword. 'What in Hades is a Roman doing popping up out of our sewer?'

  'Just get me out of here,' Cato snapped, hearing the laboured breathing and scraping in the tunnel as the rebels came after him.

  The Palmyran soldier paused a moment, as his comrades came hurrying over. Then the soldier sheathed his sword, grasped Cato's arm and hauled him up through the grating and into the barrack room, still watching him suspiciously. He gestured to Carpex lying stunned in the gutter that ran through the room and fed into the drain. 'Well, he's certainly no Roman.'

  'Explain later,' Cato gasped and pointed back into the tunnel. 'Rebels, down there.'

  'A likely story,' someone snorted derisively. 'They're bloody spies, the pair of them. Silence his tongue,Archelaus.'

  The man who had felled Carpex and hauled Cato out of the sewer reached for his sword, and then paused, staring into the hole. Cato glanced down and saw the glow of a torch, and then the tip of a spear came into view.The Greek called Archelaus snatched out his sword and took a step back as he called out to his comrades, 'He's right! There's someone in there. Arm yourselves!'

  At once the barrack room was a mass of rushing figures as those who had not yet taken up their weapons ran back to their bunks to get them. The spear tip rose through the hole, a hand gripped the rim, and a moment later a helmeted head appeared above the floor. Archelaus leaped forward and cut down savagely with his falcata.There was a dull ring and a crunch as the blade cut through the helmet and the skull beneath, lodging just above the rebel's brow. His eyes were wide and startled for an instant before a sheet of blood obscured his face. Archelaus pressed a foot on the man's shoulder and yanked his blade free, and the body and spear dropped out of sight. There was a loud shout of rage from the tunnel, but none of the pursuers dared to take the place of the first man.