Centurion c-8

by Simon Scarrow

  Macro's face split into a wide smile as he stared up at Cato. 'Good!'

  Cato shook his head desperately. 'It's directly under the gate.'

  Macro's smile faded. 'Oh, shit. Shit! What's the situation to your front?'

  'Enemy's pulled back, sir. For now!'

  'Right then. Only one thing for it.' Macro filled his lungs. 'Open the gates!'

  The leading century trotted forward to raise the locking bar and take up the heavy lengths of chain that drew the doors inwards. With a grating rumble from the hinges the great slabs of studded timber slowly swung apart. Smoke billowed through the opening and Macro glimpsed the flames licking across the wooden frame of the ram housing. The leather hides had already burned away leaving the skeleton of the structure beneath, and the iron-tipped ram itself, still suspended even though the support ropes were alight.

  Macro sheathed his sword and strode forward through the smoke, blinking as his eyes began to smart. 'Follow me!'

  The fire had engulfed the siege weapon and the heat struck Macro like a blow. He raised his shield and pressed it up against one of the stout corner posts and nodded to the men of the first century. 'Like this! Use your shields and push. We must get this pile of shit away from the gates!'

  His men, wincing at the heat of the flames, pressed forward, slammed their shields up against the ram housing and heaved with all their strength.With painful slowness the siege weapon moved away from the gates, and as more men piled in, adding their weight, the huge wheels ground backward across the flagstones.

  'That's it, lads!' Macro called out, and his lungs filled with smoke that made him cough painfully as if his chest was filled with broken glass. As the fire consumed the ram the heat swelled in intensity and there was a sudden sharp smell as the crest of his helmet smouldered and began to burn. Every instinct told Macro to draw back, away from the flames that were searing his face, but he could see that the ram was not yet far enough from the gates to be certain that the flames would not spread to them. 'Keep going!' he rasped. 'Heave, you bastards!'

  Something clattered on the ground close to his feet and glancing down Macro saw an arrow shaft. Then another skittered over the flagstones. He looked round the side of his shield with narrowed eyes and saw that the enemy archers had turned their attention away from Balthus and his men and were now shooting at the Romans struggling to get the ram clear of the citadel's gates. Beyond the archers a large body of rebel soldiers had formed up and begun to quick-march across the agora. Macro looked over his shoulder and saw that they had pushed the flaming structure back perhaps twenty feet from the gates.

  'Just a bit further,' he muttered through clenched teeth.

  There was a dull thud that Macro felt almost as much as he heard as the ropes supporting the end of the ram gave way and the huge shaft of timber hit the ground. The siege weapon lurched to a halt.

  'That's it then!' Macro called to his men.'Get back! Back inside the citadel!'

  They broke away from the ram and retreated, keeping their shields to the enemy as more arrows flitted over and through the flames now licking high into the air. As soon as the rebels realised that the legionaries were pulling back, their commander bellowed an order and they charged towards the gate with a full-throated roar. The moment the rain of arrows began to slacken Macro turned round and shouted, 'Run!'

  The legionaries pounded through the gate, the harsh thud of their nailed boots echoing off the curved stonework of the gateway. Macro was the last through, and he turned, drawing his sword as he faced the enemy.

  'Close the gates!' he bellowed. 'Smartly does it!'

  The first of the enemy soldiers was racing up alongside the burning ram, desperate to reach the gates before the Romans could get them closed. Once more the iron hinges groaned as the doors were pushed forward.The gap between them narrowed and Macro grinned when he saw that the rebels would not reach them in time.

  'Hah! Too late, you bastards!'

  The doors came together with a boom and immediately the legionaries dropped the locking bar into place. Almost at once there was a muffled cry of anger from the far side, and a dull thud as one of the rebels struck the outside of the gate in frustration.

  Macro sheathed his sword and turned away. 'Well done, lads!'

  The men of the first century acknowledged his praise with nervous smiles as they stood breathing heavily. A handful had been injured by arrows that had struck their unprotected arms and legs, and strained to stop themselves from crying out in pain. Macro gestured to the nearest section of the next century.

  'You there! Help these men to the hospital.'

  'Are you all right, sir?'

  Macro looked up as Cato came hurrying down the last flight of steps towards him. 'I'm fine.'

  Cato looked him over and shook his head. 'You look pretty cooked to me. Especially the helmet crest.' He grinned.

  Macro lowered his shield and untied his chin straps. Lifting the helmet from his head he saw that the fine red crest had been burned black and the ends crumbled as he ran his fingers over them.

  'Bloody thing cost me a fortune back in Antioch,' he growled.'Fine piece of kit, that. Or it was.Those bastards out there are going to suffer for it.'

  'Sir.' Cato pointed to Macro's arms, and for the first time Macro was aware of blisters and livid red patches of red where his skin had scorched, and then the raw stinging sensation hit home. Cato nodded towards the wounded men being helped towards the hospital. 'Better go and get those burns seen to.'

  'In a moment. Just tell me, is the ram far enough from the gates?'

  'Yes, sir. There's no danger of its spreading. And it'll make a nice obstacle to get round if they make another attempt.'

  'And the rest of them?'

  'They've pulled back. Archers, infantry and artillery.' Cato indicated the parties putting out the last of the fires started by the rebels' incendiaries. 'Damage is light and we've not suffered many casualties. We've beaten them, this time.'

  'This time.' Macro nodded. 'But they have the luxury of another attempt. We get beaten once, and it's all over. One thing is certain: they'll try again, just as soon they can.'

  08 Centurion

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  'Ah, the other hard case.' Julia shook her head as Macro eased himself down on to a stool beside her table. 'Tell me, are you two accident prone, or is it just that you happen to be in the thick of the fighting all the time?'

  Macro shrugged. 'Goes with the rank, miss. Don't suppose we get injured more than any other officers.' He paused and thought about that for a moment, then shook his head. 'No. That's not true. The lad and I seem to have found ourselves in quite a few scrapes since we ran into each other.'

  Julia bent her head over his outstretched arms, examining the burns. 'Oh? How long ago was that, then?'

  'Five years. I was serving with the Second Legion on the Rhine when Cato joined up.' Macro smiled as he recalled the rainswept winter's evening when the convoy of fresh recruits trundled in through the fortress gate. 'He was just a skinny streak of piss in those days.' Macro looked up.'Pardon my language, miss, but that's how he was. You should have seen him. Huddled in a cloak, clutching a small bundle of belongings under one arm and his writing set and a few scrolls under the other. The most dangerous thing he'd had in his hands up until then was a stylus. I thought he'd be dead before the year was out,' Macro mused. 'Well, he surprised us all, did Cato.Turned out to be one of the finest officers in the army.'

  'You can lower your arms,' Julia said as she straightened up and reached for a pot of fat on the table. 'The burns will need to be protected for a few days. Those arms are going to smart for a while, but I dare say you will pretend not to notice it.'

  Macro laughed. 'It seems you have the measure of me.'

  'No. Not you, just soldiers in general. Most of you seem to think you're as hard as the Spartans.'

  'Spartans?' Macro snorted his derision. 'Bunch of tunic-lifters, that lot. Wouldn't last quarter of an hour up agains
t the legions.'

  'If you say so.' Julia dipped her hand in the pot and cupped a dollop of the fat in her palm. 'Hold still.'

  Macro clamped his lips together as she applied the unguent and started to smooth it out across the raw red burns on his arms. It hurt, as she had said it would, but Macro was damned if he would show it. He forced himself to speak in a relaxed conversational tone. 'So, how long have you been a surgeon?'

  Julia chuckled. 'Hardly a surgeon. But one of my father's slaves in Rome was. He taught me some basics, and the rest I have learned in the last month, on the job as it were.'

  'You seem to know what you're doing,' Macro conceded, a little grudgingly. 'For a woman, that is. Not that a woman should have to do this in the first place. Especially not a senator's daughter.'

  'Nonsense. There's no reason why a senator's daughter should not be allowed to serve the Empire in any way that she can. Some would say it was my duty to help. In any case, I want to.'

  Macro smiled slyly. 'Do you always get what you want, miss?'

  She looked up and caught his expression and smiled back. 'Always.'

  'Your father must find you something of a handful.'

  'I wouldn't say that. I'm a loyal daughter and I would never shame him. But I know my own mind, and he respects that well enough.'

  'Not sure that I would let any daughter of mine be so headstrong.'

  'Good thing I'm not your daughter then.' She leaned back towards the pot for some more ointment. 'Other arm, please.'

  She was silent for a moment as she began to gently apply the grease. 'Your friend, Cato, seems to be rather an unlikely warrior.'

  'You're telling me, miss. But, for all his quirks, he's a damn fine soldier. Fights like a fury and can march almost any man into the ground. Except me, of course.And he's got a good head on his shoulders. His only fault is that he thinks too much at times.'

  'Yes, he does seem rather a sensitive type.'

  'Sensitive?' Macro repeated the word with distaste as if it was an insult, which in his view it certainly was. If any man ever had the balls to call Macro sensitive to his face, he resolved, he would knock seven shades out of him. Of course, he'd try to feel bad about it afterwards. Maybe. He looked up at Julia. 'Don't know about sensitive, but he has a heart as well as a head, if that's what you mean.'

  'Yes, that's what I meant,' Julia replied diplomatically. 'I imagine being an officer doesn't leave much room in your lives for family.'

  'No, it doesn't. Especially if you're not on garrison duty. Since Cato turned up I've been on campaign in Britain, served in the fleet, and been sent out here.'

  'No wife then,' Julia concluded. 'And how about your friend Cato? Is he married?'

  Macro shook his head.

  'And no woman waiting for him back in Antioch, Rome, or wherever?'

  'Hardly.We've not been anywhere long enough, or we've simply been too busy to find time for such things, beyond the odd tart or two.'

  'Oh.'

  Macro looked at her shrewdly. 'So he's available, if anyone's interested, miss.'

  Julia blushed as she finished applying the fat in a rush, rubbing it on firmly enough to make even Macro wince at the pain it caused. She stepped away and reached for a rag to wipe her hands on.'There you are.Try not to disturb that – it'll protect the burns for a short time. I'll have a pot sent to your quarters. Apply it at the start and end of each day.'

  Macro nodded. 'Thank you, miss.'

  'Off you go then,' she responded tersely.'There are other men who need my attention.'

  I bet, Macro thought as he rose to leave the room. Now that he looked at her she was something of a beauty, but her aristocratic air killed any appeal she might have had for Macro.Too well brought up, too clever and too independent for his taste. Still, for the right man, she would be a fine catch.

  There were no further attempts to attack the citadel and the sentries patrolled the walls and watched over the city as the sun beat down. A handful of rebels kept an eye on the defenders from the edge of the agora and from small lookout posts outside the city with a view of the citadel where it stood on top of the rise in the ground. Otherwise a semblance of normal life continued in and around the city. A handful of traders and merchants still entered the gates of Palmyra to sell their wares and an unladen caravan of camels began its return journey to the distant banks of the Euphrates. The only sign of the struggle for power was the steady procession of bodies out towards the funeral plain to the south of the city. There, scores of pyres had been built to receive the bodies of the fallen and one by one they were set alight and greasy black smoke billowed into the air as the corpses were consumed by the flames. Later the ashes were scooped into small pottery urns, which were sealed and then carried to the strange funeral towers that rose up from the plain, where the remains were reverentially placed with those of their forebears.

  Inside the citadel there was little room for such rituals and the bodies were burned on a common pyre in the royal garden, before the remains were scooped into urns and placed somewhere where they could be stored until the siege was over and they could be interred properly.

  Macro and Cato made a tour of the defences to ensure that adequate supplies of arrows, sling shot and other missiles were ready and to hand in case of further attacks. Towards the end of their reconnaissance, as they stood on top of the signal tower and stared out across the city's roofs, Cato scratched his jaw and muttered, 'What do you think they will do next?'

  'It depends.They could sit on their arses and try to starve us out, or wait until the Parthians arrive, complete with siege experts and maybe some equipment. Or they could build a better ram and try again.'

  'What would you do in their place?'

  'Me?' Macro considered the matter for a moment. 'I'd assume that a Roman column, however small, that had been sent to aid Vabathus was a sign of Roman commitment. I'd expect a much larger force to follow.That would mean that I had a limited time in which to reduce the citadel.' He turned to Cato.'I'd attack again as soon as I had the chance.'

  Cato nodded. 'So would I.' He glanced quickly over his shoulder, but the only other men on the tower were on the far side, absorbed in a game of dice. 'And I'd take further comfort from the fact that there's a fair amount of dissent amongst the defenders.'

  'How can Artaxes know that?'

  'Because he's family. He knows how deeply divided his brothers are, and how little faith his father has in either of them. Artaxes will also know that Balthus is no great admirer of Rome and is likely to resent our presence here. There's one other thing. If any of the nobles or refugees begin to lose confidence that the king will hold out against Artaxes, they might well come to believe they have more to gain by throwing their lot in with the prince, and betray us. The prospect of some kind of reward might be an added inducement to treachery.' Cato smiled bleakly. 'Not the best situation we have ever been in.'

  'And not the worst, either.'

  'Perhaps not.'

  Macro gave his friend an appraising look.

  'What?' Cato frowned. 'What is it?'

  'I'm just glad you and your devious mind are on my side. It's as I told that woman: you're a thinking man, a thinking soldier.'

  'Which woman?'

  'The one in the hospital. She saw to my wounds. The ambassador's daughter, Julia Sempronia.'

  Cato felt a tremor of nerves in his gut. 'You were discussing me?'

  'Sort of. She was asking questions.'

  'About me?'

  'Yes. What of it? I didn't tell her anything you wouldn't have told her yourself.'

  Cato wasn't sure about that at all. He thought he knew Macro well enough to fear that some indiscretion, large or small, would eventually be teased out of him by Julia. 'What did she want to know?'

  'What I thought of you. Whether you were married, or had a woman of some kind.'

  'And what did you say to her?'

  'That there was no one at the moment, and that you were available.'

  Cato
swallowed nervously. 'You told her that?'

  'Of course!' Macro slapped him on the shoulder. 'She's a lovely-looking girl. Bit too classy for my liking, though. More your type.'

  Cato shut his eyes and rubbed his forehead. 'Please, please tell me that you didn't suggest that she might like to… attach her affections to me.'

  'Oh, very well put!' Macro swore softly. 'Very romantic. Anyway, what kind of idiot do you take me for? I just hinted that you were free of any commitments and you'd be a fine catch. Cato, this isn't a children's party.There is every chance that we may not hold out against Artaxes for much longer. If that's the case, what has she got to lose? For that matter what have you got to lose? I think she's taken a shine to you. If you are interested in her then make your move, while there's time.'

  'And if we all survive this? What then?' Cato could imagine the awkwardness of a relationship forged in the shadow of annihilation, only for the participants to emerge unscathed back into the same old world of hazardless routine. That was assuming that Julia did not rebuff him in the first place.

  Macro yawned. 'You could always make an honest woman of her.'

  They stared at each other for a moment, before Macro burst out laughing. 'Just joking!'

  'Funny bastard,' Cato muttered sourly. Nevertheless, the merest suggestion of marriage to Julia briefly filled his mind and made his heart feel light. Then he cursed himself for such foolish speculation. What could a highborn Roman woman ever see in the son of a freedman? It was unthinkable, and yet…

  Cato pushed himself away from the parapet and composed his expression. 'Sir, I think we're done here. I still have to do an inventory of my cohort's weapons.'

  'An inventory of kit?' Macro tried not to smile at his friend's obvious attempt to avoid further discussion of the matter. Instead he mimicked Cato's officious tone.'Very well then, Prefect Cato. Carry on.'

  They exchanged a formal salute and then, as Cato turned and strode stiffly away, Macro shook his head and muttered, 'She's got right under that boy's skin…'