08 Centurion

by Scarrow, Simon

  ‘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 shoulder 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?’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Come for us just then.’

  Macro tried to brush the comment off. ‘We’re short
-handed enough as it is. Last thing I can afford is to lose a century of good men, even if they are auxiliaries.That’s why. Anyway, what are friends for? You’d have done the same for me.’

  Cato nodded, but could not help smiling as he took a step back, grimacing at the odour clinging to his friend.’But if you don’t go and clean that filth off I might just think twice about returning the favour.’

  ‘Ha bloody ha. Now why don’t you just piss off to the hospital before I add to your injuries?’

  08 Centurion

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The hospital was filled with the wounded. Even the colonnade outside the rooms set aside for the injured was lined with men slumped against the wall, or lying on the bare ground. The handful of medical orderlies were overwhelmed by the number of injured men from the king’s bodyguard and the relief column. The legionary surgeon who had taken charge assessed each man in turn, and those who were beyond help were carried across the courtyard to a small cell in the corner. As Cato eased one of his men on to the ground for the surgeon to examine he nodded towards the cell.

  ‘What happens to them in there?’

  The surgeon glanced at him with a warning look as he replied, ‘They are helped out of their pain.’

  ‘Oh . . . I see.’ Cato looked uneasily at the wounded man. A spear thrust had found a weak spot in his mail armour and burst through his stomach. The stench of his torn intestines and bowels wafted up and made Cato want to retch. The man’s eyes were clamped shut and he moaned continually as he clutched both hands over the wound. Cato turned towards the surgeon and saw the fleeting look of pity and resignation in the man’s face before the surgeon spoke softly.

  ‘Trust me, sir, they feel little pain and it is over quickly.’

  Cato did not feel reassured and rose up and stepped away from the wounded man feeling helpless and shamed. The surgeon beckoned to the orderlies assigned to stretcher duty and indicated the casualty. ‘Special case,’ he said evenly before leaning over the man and squeezing his shoulder gently. ‘You’ll be taken care of, my friend.You will rest and your pain will be gone.’

  He stood up and let the orderlies shift the man on to the stretcher. Then they picked it up and carried him away. The surgeon turned to Cato and tilted his head to see the wound on his arm. ‘Let me see that.’

  ‘It’s not serious,’ Cato said in alarm. ‘A flesh wound.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that. Stand still and let me see.’

  The surgeon eased the mail and tunic sleeve up on to Cato’s shoulder and closely examined the cut, probing gently with his spare hand. Cato gritted his teeth and stared straight ahead until the surgeon released his arm.

  ‘The wound is clean enough. It will heal, once sutures have been applied.’

  ‘Sutures?’

  ‘Stitches.’ The surgeon patted Cato on the back and gestured towards the room at the end of the corridor. ‘In there. I have a most charming member of staff who will take care of you.’

  ‘We’ve already met,’ Cato muttered.

  ‘Good. Don’t be put off by the fact she’s a woman. I hear that the lady has been more help than most of the orderlies put together.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Cato nodded to the surgeon and the latter hurried away to tend to his patients. Cato set off down the corridor, not best pleased by the prospect of renewing his acquaintance with the sharp-tongued ambassador’s daughter. As he entered the room, the early morning light was streaming in through the two high windows, bathing the interior with a fine golden light. Julia was carefully winding a dressing round an auxiliary’s head.

  ‘I’ll deal with you in a moment,’ she said wearily without looking up. ‘Wait by the door.’

  Cato paused, consumed with frustration over any delay to his treatment. He needed to rejoin Macro and speak to the ambassador. He was also keen to quit the company of this overbearing woman. She seemed typical of her class: loud, arrogant and steadfast in the assumption that she would be obeyed at once. It was tempting to dislike her straight away. Cato drew a deep, calming breath, entered the room, and sat on the bench beside the door. The ambassador’s daughter did not look up as she reached the end of the dressing and gently tied it off.

  ‘There!’ She stepped back to address the soldier. ‘You’ll need to rest a day or so.’

  The auxiliary laughed. ‘I wish I could, my lady. But I doubt the prefect will let me. He’s a hard case.’

  ‘Hard case?’ Julia smiled. ‘Him?’

  ‘Oh yes, miss! Been driving us on like slaves ever since we set off from Antioch. Looks fresh-faced enough, but underneath it he’s a right bast-’

  Cato cleared his throat loudly and they both looked round at him. The auxiliary was on his feet in an instant, standing stiffly at attention, staring fixedly at some spot above Cato’s head. His mouth opened and closed and he bit his lip in anticipation of the tirade to come. Cato looked steadily at him for a moment, devoid of expression.Then his eyes flickered to the woman.

  ‘Have you done with this man?’

  ‘Yes, Prefect Cato. The question is, have you?’

  ‘He is a soldier and he will do his duty as I see fit, my lady.’

  ‘But only when he is fit, surely?’

  Cato frowned. ‘That is my decision. Soldier, you are dismissed. Return to your century.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The auxiliary saluted and marched from the room, and out of the sight of his commander, as quickly as he could. Once he had gone Cato waited on the bench. Julia stared at him a moment and then placed her hands on her hips impatiently.

  ‘Well, what is it this time?’

  ‘Sword wound.’ Cato gestured to the streak of blood on his arm.

  ‘Come over here then,’ she replied tersely. ‘In the light, where I can see properly. Don’t keep me waiting, Prefect. There are others who need my attention.’

  And they are welcome to you, Cato reflected irritably as he rose to his feet and crossed over to her. The ambassador’s daughter took his elbow and eased him round into the shaft of light streaming through the window. She inspected the wound briefly. ‘So, you are intent on losing this arm one piece at a time, it seems.’

  Cato pursed his lips, and his frown deepened. Julia glanced up at his face and he could see that she was fighting back the urge to laugh.To mock him. He sniffed bitterly. ‘A soldier expects wounds, my lady. Whether he’s a common soldier, like that man, or an officer. It’s in the line of duty. Not something I imagine a lady of fine breeding would be used to.’

  The words had been spoken before Cato realised how rude he must seem. Julia’s eyes widened for a moment, and when she replied she spoke in a cold tone.

  ‘I know my duty, Prefect. And, in recent days, I have come to know more wounds than I care to remember. I’d be obliged if you would remember that.’

  Their eyes met and Cato gave her the kind of hard stare he reserved for scaring raw recruits, until Julia gave way and turned her gaze back to his wound. ‘It’s a flesh wound. Looks clean enough, but I’ll wash it and stitch it.’

  She reached round to a bowl of water on the table and pulled out a damp rag and squeezed the excess water out. She poised it over the wound. ‘Well, here we go again.You know the routine. It’s going to be painful, but then a hard case like you never feels pain.’

  Cato flushed angrily but refused to respond to her baiting. ‘I am obliged to make my report to your father. So, my lady, I’d be grateful if you finished dressing the wound and let me get back to my duties.’

  ‘Very well,’ Julia muttered. She prepared a needle and twine, and set to work at once, pricking the point through Cato’s skin and gradually sewing the wound shut, until there was a length of puckered purple skin and blood-stained thread. Cato stared fixedly at the door with gritted teeth despite the pain. At length Julia completed her work and tied the knot with a sharp tug. ‘There you are, Prefect.’

  Cato nodded his thanks and turned to stride back towards the door, grateful for the chance to get away from t
he woman. As he reached the door she called after him.

  ‘Until the next wound, then.’

  ‘Hmmphhh,’ Cato managed to grumble before he quit the room and emerged into the corridor. Outside the surgeon was organising a party of men to fetch the day’s water and food rations for his patients. He looked up as Cato approached, and cocked an eyebrow.

  ‘Feeling better, sir?’

  ‘Better?’ Cato paused.’Of course not. It’s a sword wound, not a bloody cold.’

  ‘Still,’ the surgeon continued, ‘a woman like that has a way of taking a man’s mind off his pain.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Cato nodded with a bitter smile.’I could hardly wait to get away from her.’

  The surgeon looked confused. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’

  But Cato was already marching off again, his expression fixed in a frown as he contemplated the prospect of being shut up in the citadel in the company of an irritating, haughty daughter of Rome’s aristocracy. As if her superior manner was not bad enough, she had the kind of looks that could only serve as a distraction to the officers and political leaders packed into the citadel.The thought came upon him in an instant, and considering the matter a moment longer Cato was forced to concede that the ambassador’s daughter was indeed attractive; beautiful even.

  ‘Beautiful,’ he muttered sourly to himself. What did it matter what she looked like? She was an irritant and a distraction at best.And at worst? He felt a sudden light surge of heat in his breast and slapped his fist against his thigh as he strode off to find the ambassador.