Centurion c-8

by Simon Scarrow

  'Keep moving there!' Macro shouted at his men, who had slowed to take in the spectacle. 'It's not a bloody day at the circus! Shift yourselves!'

  The column moved forward at a quick pace towards the open gate, where Macro stepped aside to wave his men on. Cato left two of Archelaus' men to help their officer to the hospital and then he joined Macro. Once the legionaries had passed through the gate, the mounted men followed: Balthus and his men, and then the squadrons from the Second Illyrian. Centurion Parmenion marched at the head of the auxiliary infantry who formed the rearguard. As soon as he recognised Cato he smiled and saluted.

  'Good to see you, sir.'

  'And you, Centurion. How have the men fared?'

  'We've had no problems, sir.The lads from the Tenth did most of the hard work. They took the gate and cleared a path through the rebels.' He glanced at Macro and continued in a gently grudging tone, 'They did a fine job, sir.'

  Macro shrugged. 'Of course; they're legionaries. But the lads of the Second Illyrian could have done the job just as well,' he added tactfully.'And we were helped by Balthus and his boys. A team effort all round, I'd say.'

  Cato looked at him and smiled. 'You've become quite the diplomat.'

  'Diplomat?' Macro frowned.'Sod off. I'll leave that to the broad-stripers. I lack a smooth tongue and the necessary arse-licking skills.'

  Cato laughed.'An unsavoury image if ever there was one.'

  Macro punched him on the shoulder. 'Fine. Let's drop the subject, eh? Hardly the time and place for smart words.'

  'Very well, sir.'

  Macro was about to reply when a fresh roar of cheering burst out from the enemy ranks. All three officers turned to see the right flank of the mercenaries' line crumple before the relentless pressure of the rebels. Already several of them had broken through and were ruthlessly cutting down the Greeks. More of them pressed on, exploiting the overlap, and Cato could see that the royal bodyguards were in danger of being rolled up, surrounded and slaughtered. Macro's experienced eye read the situation at once.

  'Cato, get your lads to plug the gap. Now.'

  'Yes, sir.' Cato nodded and ran out a short distance to the side of the column, still marching towards the citadel gate. 'Second Illyrian! Halt!… Right face!'

  The months of hard training that Macro and Cato had put them through paid off as the cohort moved from column to line in a few heartbeats. Cato paused for another breath and shouted the order. 'Open ranks by half-century!'

  The men shuffled aside to create lanes through their lines, and when the manoeuvre was complete Cato drew his sword and swept it towards the failing Greek line.'Advance!'

  The Second Illyrian moved evenly across the agora, their ranks carefully watched and dressed by their officers as they closed on the mercenaries.The commander of the syntagma glanced back and saw the auxiliaries coming to his aid. He saw the gaps in the line and grasped Cato's intention immediately. Turning back to his men he cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed,'Fall back! Fall back to the citadel!'

  The mercenaries began to back away from the rebels, stabbing their spears frantically to try to create a gap between them and their enemies. As soon as some were clear they turned and ran towards Cato's men, immediately endangering their slower comrades as the rebels swarmed into the gaps in the rapidly fragmenting line. A handful were cut off and overwhelmed, attacked from all sides as they desperately swirled round, trying to block the rebels' blows. Inevitably, a blade darted in, and as each man staggered back from the wound he was hacked to the ground in a flurry of sword blows and spear thrusts. The first of the mercenaries reached the approaching line of Roman troops and hurried through the gaps. Cato drew his sword once more and stepped into place alongside Parmenion in the middle of the line. As they paced forward across the paving stones Cato glanced to both sides, gauging the moment.As the last of the mercenaries passed through the gaps he shouted an order.

  'Close ranks!'

  The men on the rear rank hurriedly stepped round and forward to fill the gaps as the rebels raced towards them.

  'Shields to the front!' Cato yelled, just before the impact, and at once the auxiliaries' broad shields swept round to confront the rebels with a wall of gleaming bosses.The sharp points of swords glinted brightly where they punctuated the line of shields. At the sight the rebels hesitated for a brief moment, and the charge immediately lost its impetus. The two lines came together in a rolling chorus of shield thudding against shield, swords striking home against hide-covered wood, and the brittle clatter of blade clashing against blade. Cato hunched down behind his borrowed shield and braced his legs. A blow thudded against the rim, driving it back against his helmet. Cato saw white briefly, blinked and then thrust his sword out.There was no contact and he snatched his sword arm back before any rebel could slash at his unprotected flesh. On either side men grunted as they struck out, some bellowing full-throated war cries, insults or defiance. Mingled with this were the gasps and groans of the wounded and dying. Cato concentrated on keeping his position in the front rank of his cohort, knowing full well that as long as the line held the Second Illyrian would hold their own, despite the unequal numbers.

  The rebel charge had halted the Roman advance and now they stood, feet braced, punching out their shields as they stabbed at any of the enemy who dared to press their attack too closely. In the growing light Cato saw the glint of a blade rising in front of his shield and instinctively threw his sword up to block the blow. An instant later the heavy tip of a falcata crashed against his short sword, driving Cato's weapon down. His arm felt numb and Cato clenched his fist with all his strength to retain a firm grip on the handle.The falcata rose again, accompanied by a triumphant snarl from the rebel who was wielding the weapon.This time Cato was able to swing his shield up and punched it out to meet the sword as he swung his own blade in a short scything cut at the man's leading leg. The blow landed at the same time as the shield boss rang overhead and drove down on to Cato's helmet. As he dropped on one knee he heard the rebel howl with pain and rage and Cato saw that the edge of his sword had cut deep into the man's thigh, severing muscles all the way to the bone. The man stumbled back and slumped to the ground as he dropped his weapon and clamped a hand over the wound, trying to stem the rush of blood. Then another man jumped in front of him and he was lost to Cato's view.

  A hand gripped Cato's arm and pulled him on to his feet and back into the Roman formation. Cato glanced round and saw Parmenion.

  'Are you injured, Prefect?'

  'No.'

  'Good.' Parmenion nodded, then leaned to one side as a spear stabbed past his head. Cato cut down on the shaft, knocking it to the ground, and then slashed at the hand grasping it, smashing knuckles and cutting tendons, so that the spear fell from nerveless fingers.

  'Give ground!' Cato ordered. 'Parmenion, call the pace.'

  'One!' Parmenion shouted, and the cohort backed off a step. 'Two! One! Two!'

  The Second Illyrian steadily withdrew towards the citadel and Cato eased his way back through the ranks to the side of the standard-bearer. A withdrawal was one of the most difficult manoeuvres to handle. If the formation faltered, or fell apart, then the Palmyran rebels would cut them to pieces. Cato saw that the last of the mercenaries had entered the citadel and Macro stood alone under the massive stone arch, beckoning to Cato. Beside him Parmenion continued to call the pace and the cohort edged slowly towards the gate. The left flank was protected by the towering wall and the archers and javelin throwers pelting the rebels from above. But the right of the line would soon have to fold back and the rebels would flow round the edge and surround the Romans just as they had the Greek mercenaries.

  'Parmenion! On me!'

  As soon as his second-in-command was at his side Cato indicated the right flank. 'I'll take command of the flank century. As soon as the left of the line reaches the gate you get them inside a century at a time. I'll cover you until it's our turn.'

  'Yes, sir.' Parmenion nodded. 'Good luck, sir.' />
  'I'll need it.'

  Cato ran down the rear of the cohort until he reached the first century of the cohort, composed of picked men. Their commander, Centurion Metellus, saluted as Cato reached him.

  'Hot work, sir.'

  'And about to get hotter.' Cato smiled grimly. 'We're going to cover the withdrawal through the gate. When I give the order, I want the first cohort to form a wedge.We'll move up towards the gate and hold the ground in front of it until the rest of the cohort are through.'

  'I understand, sir,' Centurion Metellus replied calmly. 'My lads won't let you down.'

  Cato smiled. 'I know.'

  He glanced round and saw that the last of the cohort's wounded men, and the mounted troops assigned to protect them, were already trotting back through the gate as the auxiliaries withdrew towards the citadel. The time had come for the first century to move away from the buildings on their right, opening the way for the rebels to sweep round their flank. Cato nodded to Centurion Metellus. 'Give the order.'

  Metellus filled his lungs and bellowed, 'First century will form a wedge!' He paused a moment and counted to three under his breath and then, 'Manoeuvre!'

  At once the flanking sections folded back to form the second and third sides and then the auxiliaries faced out so that the wedge presented shields on all three faces. The rebels surged into the gaps and flowed round Metellus' century, hacking and thrusting at the shields.

  'First century! Advance towards the gate!'

  With Metellus calling the pace the wedge edged across the agora, surrounded by the rebels, who were shouting with excitement and triumph, like wild predators scenting an imminent kill. As Cato had hoped, the pressure eased on the other centuries and they began to retire without too much trouble through the gate, while the rebels turned their fury on the remaining unit slowly forcing its way through the mob. Looking out over the close ranks of the auxiliaries Cato could see that most of the rebels surrounding them were lightly armed. As yet, only a handful of Prince Artaxes' regular soldiers had reached the fight, but then the blast of a horn echoed across the agora and Cato glanced round to see a column of soldiers emerge on the other side of the open ground. Immediately they broke into a trot, making straight for the fight in front of the citadel gates.

  'We have to pick up the pace,' Cato decided. 'Metellus!'

  'I see them, sir,' Metellus replied quickly and called out to his men more frequently. 'One!… Two!'

  Cato saw that they were no more than fifty feet from the gate. Macro had retreated through the arch and Cato could see his transverse crest amongst the dense formation of legionaries formed up just inside the citadel. On the walls above, the archers had turned their attention towards the new enemy column pounding across the agora. The dark shafts of arrows rattled on to the paving, or splintered shields, with a few shots striking men down as they ran to cut off the retreat of the last of the Romans outside the citadel.

  Already the pressure from the dense mass of men outside the small wedge formation was taking its toll and the auxiliaries began to slow, all the while slamming their shields and stabbing their swords into the press of enemy bodies. Suddenly, one rebel, more daring than his comrades, grabbed the top of a shield of one the men close to Cato. Before the auxiliary could cut at the man's fingers, the rebel wrenched the shield down savagely, smacking the bottom rim into the auxiliary's shins.The man gasped with pain and in that moment of hesitation, with his upper body exposed, another rebel thrust a spear at his throat. The point tore through his neck cloth and burst out from under the helmet neck guard. As the man sagged forward on to his knees the spearman leaped forward into the gap.

  'No, you don't!' Cato growled, and rushed the few paces to the rebel, throwing his weight behind his shield as a spear thrust glanced off the curved surface, and then Cato smashed into the man, sending him reeling back into the mob. Cato stopped level with the auxiliaries on either side, taking the place of the fallen soldier. His heart was racing, beating like a drum in his chest. He drew a breath and cried out. 'Keep moving! If we stop, we die!'

  The men at the head of the wedge pressed forward again, punching with their shields and thrusting and hacking at the enemy with their short swords. They gained perhaps another ten paces before the formation was stalled again, tantalisingly close to the gate, just as the first of the fresh rebel soldiers reached the fight and forced their way through towards the Romans.Then Cato realised, with certainty, that the first century would make no further progress towards the gate. He slammed his shield out, then slashed his sword in an arc before he risked a glimpse towards the gate, no more than a few paces away. It was still open, and already some of the rebels were turning towards it, sensing the opportunity.

  'Shut the gate!' Cato roared, the cry tearing at his dry throat. 'Macro, save yourself! Shut the gate!'

  A blow against his shield made Cato stagger back and then, with an icy calmness, he resolved to kill as many of his enemies as he could before he was cut down.

  'Bastards!' he hissed through clenched teeth.Then his fist tightened round his sword handle and he hurled himself back into the line, hacking at the faces in front of him. He filled his lungs and roared,'Second Illyrian! Second Illyrian!' The men around him took up the cry as they fought on. Pressed in from all sides the wedge became an oval, tightly clustered around their standard as the first of the fresh rebel soldiers reached them. The auxiliaries were more evenly matched now and began to fall in increasing numbers. The Romans fell back over the bodies of their comrades, closing ranks, breathing heavily, limbs burning with exhaustion as they blinked away splattered blood, grudgingly giving ground to the enemy.

  Cato felt a blow and then a burning sensation in his shield arm and glimpsed the blade of a falcata pulling back from a thrust into his arm just below the chain mail. He gritted his teeth and gave vent to a deep groan of pain and rage, swinging slightly as he slashed his sword down on the rebel's blade, knocking it from his grasp.Then Cato reversed direction, slashing his blade up across the man's breast, ripping through his light tunic and the flesh beneath, leaving a vivid crimson streak in the wake of his blade.

  There was a loud roar from the direction of the gate as Cato stepped back, his shield sagging as the last reserves of strength faded in his left arm. He glanced to the side and saw a dense column of legionaries spewing from the citadel gate. At their head was Macro, bellowing his war cry.The heavily armoured legionaries crashed through the loose throng of rebels closest to the gate and then carved a bloody path through those surrounding the small knot of the remaining auxiliaries. The ferocity of the attack momentarily stunned the rebels and Cato took his chance to call to his men.

  'On me! This way!' He lowered his sword and drove his shield into the thinning enemy ranks between him and Macro. The auxiliaries let out a weary cheer and followed him, wildly hacking at the enemy as they fought their way towards their legionary comrades. Cato slammed his shield into one rebel's side, sending him sprawling, and then he saw another man's back ahead of him. His blade thrust forward, taking the rebel just below the shoulder. As his blade cut into the body, the glistening red tip of a sword burst through the man's back. Cato wrenched his blade free and the rebel toppled aside, the weight of the corpse pulling it off the other sword, and there stood Macro, wild-eyed, splattered with blood and grinning like a madman.

  'So there you are! Go on, lad, get your men through to the gate. We'll take it from here.'

  Cato nodded, then waved his men past as Macro's legionaries cleared space on either side and held the enemy back. The exhausted auxiliaries staggered through the gate and collapsed or bent double along the walls on either side. Cato was the last in, and stood and watched as the legionaries fell back, in good order, pressed hard by the bitterly denied rebels, now crying out with rage and frustration that the auxiliaries had escaped them. The legionaries withdrew under the arch and the clash of blades echoed sharply off the masonry.

  'Get ready to close the gate!' Macro yelled over his shou
lder and the party of legionaries standing behind the stout doors placed their shoulders against the solid timbers and braced their booted feet against the paving slabs. As Macro and the last of the legionaries passed into the citadel he shouted the order. 'Close the gate!'

  With a grunt the legionaries heaved and the doors began to swing as the iron hinges groaned. The gap steadily narrowed until only Macro remained hacking at the closest rebels, snarling defiance and insults at them. Cato, fearing that his friend would be caught between the doors, sheathed his sword and rushed forward to grasp Macro's harness and haul him back with all his might. Sword arm flailing as he stumbled away from the enemy, Macro shouted, 'What the fuck? What are you doing?' Then the doors slammed into place with a reverberating thud and the legionaries thrust the locking bar across into its slot.

  The shouts of the rebels were at once deadened and around Cato men stood chests heaving as they gasped for breath.At last he released his grip on his shield and it slipped to the ground with a loud clang. He loosened his grip on Macro's harness as Macro turned round and puffed out his cheeks.

  They looked at each other for a moment and then laughed spontaneously at the sheer surprise and delight of still being alive. Macro thrust his blade into his scabbard and jerked his thumb towards the gate.

  'So, that went as well as could be expected.'

  Cato smiled for a moment, before he was aware of the survivors of Metellus' century around him, battered and bloodied with barely enough strength left to stay on their feet. 'It could have been worse,' he said quietly.

  'Yes.' Macro's smile faded. 'Still, we made it. Life has become just a bit more difficult for that Prince Artaxes now that we're here.' His eyes moved to Cato's arm, streaked with blood that dripped from the ends of his fingers.'You'd better get that seen to. Before we report to the ambassador.'

  'I will. Once the rest of my injured have been taken to the hospital.' Before he turned away to give the necessary orders, Cato paused and stared fixedly at Macro. 'Why did you do it?'