The Legion c-10

by Simon Scarrow

  'I can handle that,' Macro said firmly, looking steadily at the legate. 'You have my word on it, sir.'

  Aurelius smiled thinly and turned his gaze back to Cato. 'Your friend seems unconcerned by the prospect of a fight. So your sense of disquiet is misplaced. Of course I understand that an officer of your years might be unnerved by the prospect of a river crossing.'

  Cato stared at his superior as he struggled to keep his face clear of any expression that might betray his anger at the legate's accusation. He swallowed and spoke in a flat tone when he replied. 'I can assure you, sir, I understand the risks entailed in making an opposed landing across a river as wide as the Nile. Indeed, I took part in such an action during the invasion of Britannia.' Images of the landing briefly flitted through Cato's mind – the languid flow of the Tamesis as he stood in the crowded barge with the men of his century, staring at the roaring horde of Celt warriors waiting for them on the far bank. Yes, he knew the danger that the First Cohort would face, Cato reflected. He cleared his throat and continued addressing the legate.

  'That was not my point though, sir. What occurs to me is that since the enemy will be able to oppose the First Cohort wherever they attempt to cross, Centurion Macro might as well cross the Nile here as anywhere else. It would save time, if nothing else.'

  'I see.' Aurelius stroked his chin as he looked across the water at the enemy-held bank where the Arab patrol returned his gaze. 'You are right, Tribune. But I wonder,' he turned back to Cato, 'if you would make such a proposal if it entailed putting your own life at risk.'

  'Of course, sir. I would be honoured to join the First Cohort when they assault the far bank.'

  Aurelius's lips lifted in a thin smile. 'Then you shall have your wish.'

  Macro stared round at the rest of the centurions of the First Cohort. Most of them were good men, according to their records and his assessment of them in the days since he had assumed command. Two were newly promoted, former optios replacing officers who had failed to complete the route march. They might well be new to the rank but they were tough veterans keen to prove themselves worthy members of the legion's centurionate.

  'I know this kind of action is new to you,' Macro began. 'You may have served along the Nile, or on the delta, since you joined up, but let me tell you, an amphibious operation is a difficult beast at the best of times. It's not standard procedure for the legions, and the tribune and I have only had to take part in a handful of actions of this kind.'

  That was something of an overstatement, Cato mused. Macro looked at him and Cato nodded reassuringly for the benefit of the other officers before the commander of the First Cohort continued.

  'We will not be going into action as a cohort. Nor indeed as centuries. It'll be every man for himself until we gain a foothold on the far bank. Once we are ashore, it's vital that your men form up on the standards as quickly as they can. Make sure your section leaders know that. They're to look out for their men and try and keep them together. The sooner we can form up each century, and then the cohort, the better our chances of surviving until the follow-up wave can cross the river.' Macro paused and then pointed across to the narrow island, little more than a strip of silt surrounded by reeds, that stood two hundred paces from the far bank. 'I've chosen to cross over there, close to the island.'

  The men of one of the other cohorts were already on the island, together with ten of the legion's bolt throwers.

  'We'll land the follow-up wave there before the first three centuries cross the final stretch of river. That way we shall have more boots on the ground as quickly as possible. The bolt throwers will be able to cover our flanks once they have finished harassing the enemy before the first wave goes in.'

  It was as good a plan as any, Cato reflected. Macro had done all he could to give his men the best chance. Even so, the first wave across would have a bitter struggle ahead of them. Once they jumped over the side of the boats carrying them to the far bank, there would be nowhere for them to retreat to. They must fight their way ashore, or die in the shallows. Those were the only options and the men knew it. The dice would be cast the moment they stepped aboard and began to cross the Nile.

  Macro looked round at his officers and took a deep breath. 'I'm not going to pretend to you that this is going to be anything other than a tough fight. Our losses are likely to be heavy, but this is what we train for, and what we get paid for.'

  Some of the men smiled at the last remark and Macro pressed on to make the most of the light-hearted moment. 'Just tell your men to go in hard and cut the bastards to pieces. They're not to stop for anything until they reach the top of the riverbank. Only then are they to look for their standards. Is that clear? Now then, any questions?'

  He waited a moment but his officers remained silent, and Macro nodded. 'That's all, then. Return to your units and brief your men. Have them formed up and ready to board the boats the moment the legate gives the signal to proceed. Good luck.'

  The officers murmured a reply in kind and then made their way out of the shade beneath the date palms and returned to their centuries, clustered along the riverbank in whatever shade they could find. Macro watched them briefly before he turned to Cato.

  'What do you think?'

  'They seem up for it,' Cato replied. 'In any case, once the attack begins, it's do or die. That tends to have a powerful motivating effect on the men.'

  'True enough.' Macro looked at Cato. 'What about you? Are you ready for this?'

  'As ready as I ever was.'

  'You didn't have to volunteer for it.'

  'No. But then why would I let you snatch all the glory?'

  Macro shook his head. 'Since when did you ever do anything for the glory of it? You always have to have some damn practical reason or other for volunteering.'

  'Is that so?' Cato pursed his lips. 'Then let's say that it'll do the men good to see one of the senior officers fighting alongside them. That, and I have to make sure that no harm comes to you. I'm not going to be the man who has to take back the sad news to your mother. That would take someone of extraordinary courage, and foolhardiness. Not me.'

  Macro laughed and slapped Cato on the shoulder. 'For your sake then I'll try to stay alive, eh?'

  The sun had declined from its zenith as the fleet of small craft set off from the east bank of the Nile. Half the men of the First Cohort sat or stood in the boats, nervously watching as the crews raised the sails and got under way. Watching them, Cato could understand their mood. Weighed down by their armour, the men would sink to the bottom of the river if they fell over the side. The thought of drowning momentarily filled Cato with terror as he vividly imagined his helplessness, encumbered by heavy kit, struggling to free himself as his breath ran out and his lungs burned, and then the final gasp that would fill his throat with choking water and the last desperate flailing of his limbs before he died. He shook the image off and looked at Hamedes sitting on the central thwart opposite him. It was hard to believe that he had ever been a priest, thought Cato. The Egyptian wore a scale armour vest, bronze helmet, and rested a large shield against his knees. His face was set in a determined expression as he stared down. He looked every inch a fighter and Cato wondered if the young man would consider enlisting once the campaign was over. Because he lacked Roman citizenship the legate had refused to take him on to the official roll of the legion and he had been entered as an irregular scout and issued his kit on a temporary basis.

  Hamedes suddenly looked up and met Cato's gaze and smiled uncertainly. 'Is it always this way, sir? The sick feeling in your guts before you go into battle?'

  'Always,' Cato replied. 'Trust me, it's the same for every man, except Macro. He just enjoys it.'

  'It's what the job is about.' Macro shrugged. 'And I happen to be good at it and take pride in that.'

  Hamedes examined the centurion for a moment before he spoke again. 'And you never feel fear, sir?'

  'I didn't say that. The trick of it is not to let your imagination have free rein. If
you can do that and keep your eye on the job then you'll get through it without surrendering to fear. Of course it ain't going to make you invulnerable. A sword thrust is every bit as likely to kill a hero as a coward.' Macro winked. 'So, kick your imagination in the guts and pray like hell to every god out there who owes you a favour. That's my advice, lad.'

  Hamedes did not appear to be reassured and shot a questioning look at Cato, who simply smiled and then sat up as straight as possible as the boat began to pass along the island. The crews of the bolt throwers were standing by their weapons, the launch beds angled up in the direction of the far bank. A short distance behind the artillery stood the men of the three cohorts waiting to follow the first wave of the assault. As the boats passed by, the centurion of the Fourth Century punched his fist into the air and called out. 'Stick it to 'em, Jackals!'

  The other men echoed his cry as they urged their comrades on. Some of the men on the boats shouted back but most sat in sombre silence as the boats passed out from behind the island and turned towards the bank. The felucca carrying Macro and Cato was a short distance behind the first two craft and Macro stood up and cupped a hand to his mouth.

  'You there! Remember your bloody orders! We go in at the same time! Slow down!'

  The officers in charge of the two boats hurriedly ordered their crews to spill some of the wind from the sails and gradually Macro's vessel caught up with them. The rest of the flotilla took up their positions on the flanks as the unwieldy line made for the riverbank. Directly ahead of them Cato could see the waiting enemy. Hundreds of them. Half had dismounted and stood in small bands armed with round shields and curved swords that glinted as they caught the afternoon sunshine. In between the men on foot were more Arabs mounted on camels. They carried bows and began to notch their first arrows as the boats approached.

  A blast from a bucina sounded and an instant later the arms of the bolt throwers sprang forward and cracked against their padded restraints as they discharged the long heavy shafts, tipped with iron, arcing across the water ahead of the flotilla. Macro clambered up on to the foredeck of the felucca to watch the fall of shot and made a fist as he saw a bolt cut through one of the groups of Arabs with a swirl as three men went down. Another slammed into the flank of a camel and there was a sharp, terrified grunt, before the animal collapsed, sending its rider sprawling into the long grass. A man on horseback rode down the riverbank waving his arm and shouting orders and the Arabs quickly dispersed to present less of a target to the bolt throwers.

  'Bloody hell,' Macro muttered as he stared at the man. He squinted and then felt a cold tremor as he recognised the rider. 'It's him… Cato! Sir! It's him, Ajax.'

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Cato stood up and climbed on to the foredeck. He shaded his eyes as he squinted across the glinting surface of the river at the rider. There was no mistaking the powerful physique and the undeniable aura of command that the gladiator wore like a second skin. 'You're right.'

  'What I'd give to be in command of the bolt throwers now,' Macro growled. 'I'd have every one of them trained on that bastard.'

  Cato nodded vaguely as he continued to stare at Ajax. Some of the crews on the island had realised the significance of the mounted figure and the first of the slender missiles whipped across the river towards him in a shallow arc. It missed, as did the second, and the third struck one of the small group of horsemen reined in behind their leader. Another flew on a true trajectory towards him, but Ajax flicked his reins and moved along the bank and the bolt disappeared into the long grass a short distance beyond where he had been just a moment before.

  Macro had been noting the fall of shot. 'That man has a charmed life.'

  'Not in the round,' Cato replied. 'He's had his share of suffering.'

  Macro looked at his friend sharply. 'What? You pity him?'

  'Nothing so undignified. It's just that had his fate been different, Ajax is a man we might have been pleased to call a friend, and proud to have fight at our side.'

  Macro snorted. 'And I might have been the fucking Emperor. There's only one course through life, Cato. We are what we are, never what we might have been. As for what we will be, well,' Macro spat over the side into the river, 'that bastard will die. He has the blood of thousands on his hands. I only hope that it's my blade that does the deed when his time comes. I defy the gods to try and stop me.'

  For a man who was disposed towards superstition, this was strong stuff and Cato glanced at Macro in surprise. But before he could respond, there was another blast from the bucina and the sharp cracks of the bolt throwers died away as the artillery battery ceased shooting and trained their weapons round towards the flanks. At once the Arabs closed up and Ajax and his men took their shields up from their saddle horns and drew their swords.

  'Steer towards those men!' Macro bellowed at the crewman on the tiller. 'There!' He thrust his arm towards the riverbank.

  The crewman glanced round at the other boats on the left-hand side and shook his head. 'I can't, sir. We'd have to cut across their bows. We'd risk a collision.'

  'Just do it!'

  'No!' Cato intervened. 'Macro, we have to hold our course. If we hit another boat we're going to lose men.'

  Macro clenched his teeth and nodded, seething with frustration.

  The boats moved in towards the bank, cutting ripples through the calm surface of the Nile. On the bank the Arabs gathered and stood ready to resist the landing. Hundreds had dismounted and stood in bands, armed with round shields and curved swords. Some wore an assortment of conical helmets and scaled vests. Behind them, others sat atop their camels and prepared to shoot their bows, or hurl light javelins.

  'Prepare to receive arrows!' Macro shouted across to the other boats.

  The legionaries presented their shields towards the riverbank and hunched down behind them. Cato and Macro climbed down from the foredeck and took up their own shields and crouched down, peering over the rims as the boats drew closer to the riverbank.

  'Here they come!' a voice cried out as the first volley of arrows slashed into the air, rising briefly before they seemed to slow fractionally at the top of their arc, then plunge down swiftly towards the line of boats sailing towards the bank. The enemy had held back until the boats were well within range and so none of the arrows fell short. There was a brief whirr before the splintering thud of an arrow striking the foredeck, the clatter as more ricocheted off the curved surface of the legionaries' shields and the plink of those shafts that missed their targets and plunged into the river. Cato glanced round at the men in the boat. There were no casualties amongst the soldiers. The two crewmen, however, looked terrified. As well they might, Cato thought. They wore simple tunics and lengths of cloth wrapped round their heads, and had no protection from the arrows.

  The second wave of missiles shot out across the Nile in a more ragged volley as the more proficient archers notched, aimed and loosed their arrows ahead of their comrades. Then the rain of missiles merged into a continuous stream and the air around Cato was thick with the sound of the lethal iron heads splintering wood and punching into the shields. Some inevitably found their way through the shields, or were deflected by them and struck the men. The cohort's standard bearer, squatting down in the centre of the boat behind Cato and Macro, let out a sharp cry as a shaft pierced his bicep and he lost his grip of the standard. It began to topple towards the side of the felucca and one of the legionaries, fearful of the shame that would fall upon the cohort if the standard was lost, dropped his shield and grabbed the shaft of the standard just in time to stop it falling over the side.

  'Good lad!' Macro called out to him. 'Take over from the signifer.'

  'Yes, sir.' The legionary raised the standard and then passed his shield across to the wounded signifer before turning his attention back to the enemy.

  'Watch it!' The man beside Cato pointed towards the bank. 'Javelins!'

  Cato followed the direction indicated and saw that some of the camel riders had dismount
ed and were now preparing to hurl their weapons. The first ran forward a few paces and threw his javelin. It rose up into the sky at a more languid pace than the earlier arrows. More followed as the first dipped down towards the boat to the right of Cato. It slammed into a shield, piercing the cross laminated strips of wood and bursting through the forearm of the man behind. He let out a cry, then held the rim of his shield and wrenched his arm free of the head of the javelin with a roar of pain and anger. A loud thud wrenched Cato's attention back and he saw the shaft of a javelin quivering in the foredeck.

  'Close,' Macro muttered.

  There was a groan from the rear of the felucca and Cato glanced over his shoulder and saw that the helmsman had been struck in the midriff by an arrow. He stared down in shock until the blood began to blossom in the dirty cloth around the shaft. He let go of the tiller and grasped the arrow, pulling at it, and then screaming in agony as he blacked out. At once the boat began to come up into the wind, angling round towards the vessel to their left.

  'Shit…' Cato muttered, seeing the danger at once. He turned swiftly to Macro. 'Hold my shield!'

  His friend grasped the handle with his spare hand and Cato thrust his way back through the legionaries crowded into the boat, trying to ignore the continuing barrage of arrows and javelins. Above him the leech of the triangular sail began to flutter. The other crewman sat on the floor of the boat, pressing into the side of a legionary, his face a mask of frozen terror as he clutched the mainsheet in his hands as if it was a lifeline. Cato ignored him and pressed on. He reached for the end of the tiller and forced it round so that the craft began to turn away from the nearest boat. For a moment Cato thought the collision might be avoided, but the felucca was turning too slowly. On the deck of the other boat, faces turned towards the looming menace and then the beam of the felucca struck the side of the other boat. Both sails shimmered violently and the shock of the impact threw the men against each other. On the other boat an optio had been crouching on the foredeck, ready to lead his men ashore the moment his boat grounded. Instead, he lost his balance, tumbled to the side and slid overboard with a splash and did not resurface. More men were sent sprawling in a confusion of limbs and shouted curses.