08 Centurion

by Scarrow, Simon

  ‘There! See!’

  A small passage opened on to the main sewer, perhaps just over half the height of the tunnel they were in. As they reached it Cato glanced in and saw that the spur sloped gently up.

  ‘Where does it go?’

  ‘Directly to the barracks, master. It ends just below a grille.’

  ‘Right.’ Cato took the torch from the slave and thrust him into the small opening. ‘You first. Go as fast as you can. But you stop the moment we hear the rebels.’

  Carpex nodded and ducked down as he scrambled up the tunnel. Cato swung the torch underarm and then lobbed it as far down the tunnel as he could. It flared through the dark air, bounced off the wall in a shower of sparks and then fell into the stinking current, hissed a moment and died, pitching the tunnel into darkness. Cato felt for the rim of the entrance to the side tunnel and bent down to ease his way into it. There was no way of walking, or even crouching, and he went down on hands and knees. There was only a trickle on the sloping floor, but it was covered with slime and small pieces of rubble. Ahead of him he could hear Carpex grunting and scrabbling up the slope. His breaths came in strained gasps and the weight of the chain mail was quickly exhausting him. They had gone perhaps thirty feet when the sounds of their pursuers reached Cato’s ears.

  ‘Carpex!’ he hissed as loudly as he dared. ‘Stop!’

  The small passage fell silent as they froze and Cato struggled to control his breathing as the rebels approached the end of the tunnel. The entrance gleamed briefly, and then they had passed it. Cato waited a little longer and then whispered, ‘Go.’

  On they went, climbing the spur in the pitch darkness, until Cato heard the sound of the rebels coming back down the tunnel. A voice called out and then there came the sounds of men scurrying up the small passage behind them. There was no longer any need for quiet and Cato called out to Carpex.

  ‘They’re on to us! Move yourself !’

  They hurried forward, ignoring the stench and the muck beneath their hands and legs as they moved on all fours. Behind them, their pursuers, aided by the light cast by their torches, came on swiftly, their grunts and shouts carrying up the narrow tunnel as if they were breathing down Cato’s neck. Then he was aware of the faint details in the walls ahead of him and realised that the rebels were closing on him. If they should catch up before Cato and Carpex reached the end of the passage there was no chance of being able to turn and hold them off. All Cato had was a sword. He had glimpsed at least one spear amongst the men following him. They could easily outreach him and he had no room to move to avoid being skewered.

  The tunnel began to flatten out and Cato was aware of voices ahead of him. ‘Almost there!’ Carpex called back.

  Cato glanced over his shoulder and saw, perhaps only fifteen paces behind him, the torch of the first of their pursuers, and the grimly determined expression of the man behind it as he scuttled forward.

  The voices above them quickly grew louder and then Cato saw a dim shaft of light shining down into the tunnel just ahead. Carpex hurled himself forward to cover the last few yards and then he rose up and grasped the iron bars of the grille above him and thrust. The grille did not budge, and as Cato reached him he too straightened up and pushed with all his strength, gashing one hand on a broken prong. A small trickle of mortar fell on them and then with a sudden scraping rush the grille gave and toppled on to the floor of the room above with a crash. Carpex clambered up, grasping the edge of the hole as he dragged himself up and then rolled to one side. Cato cast a glance down the tunnel and saw that the nearest rebel was almost on him, and had dropped his torch and drawn his sword as he came on, teeth clenched, intent on getting his kill.

  There was a sudden roar of surprised voices in the room above and Carpex screamed. But Cato thrust himself up through the hole, heedless of the danger, to escape from the murderous intent of the man coming along the tunnel.With a grunt of supreme effort he drew himself up through the opening. His torso was halfway through when he saw Carpex sprawled on the flagstones beside him. The slave wore a dazed expression and blood was oozing from his mouth. Around them, a crowd of men in blue tunics was closing in, shouting furiously. Several were armed and one leaped forward, sword raised as he made to smash the blade into Cato’s head.

  ‘Don’t!’ Cato screamed out in Latin, throwing his arm up in an effort to protect himself as the blade swept down. ‘I’m a Roman!’

  08 Centurion

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  As soon as night had fallen Macro and Prince Balthus led their column along a less direct route than Cato and Carpex had taken. The Roman cavalry and Palmyran horsemen marched on foot, leading their mounts, whose hooves had been muffled by strips of cloth.The infantry had been ordered to leave their packs in a cave at the base of the hill and marched in a broken step carrying just their weapons in addition to their armour. All items of loose kit had been tied down so that the men might march as quietly as possible and all talk had been forbidden. The centurions and optios marched alongside their men, ears pricked for the slightest infraction of orders, which would result in a beating for any man they overheard.

  As the column shuffled along in silence Macro could not help taking a great deal of pride in their achievement. They had crossed a wasteland and fought off an enemy to get this far and now their goal was in sight. However, unless Cato made it through to the garrison of the citadel, and then managed to persuade them to create a diversion so that Macro and the others could enter the city, this was almost as close to their goal as they would ever be. As he thought of his young friend, Macro once again regretted giving him permission to go with Balthus’ slave. There were many other officers who would have done just as well, and Cato was needed by the men of his cohort. In truth, Macro realised as he pondered his decision, he too needed Cato in situations like this where timing, judgement and the ability to think on your feet were vital qualities. In a straightforward stand-up fight with an enemy Macro was in his element and there were few men in the legions who could match him as a battlefield leader. He was as strong and brutal as he was courageous and when the eager anticipation of battle flowed like fire through his veins he was open enough to admit that he actually enjoyed the prospect. Unlike Cato, who saw it as a necessary means to an end.

  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.