The Legion c-10

by Simon Scarrow

  As the first faint wash of lighter sky appeared over the dark mass of the hills to the east, Cato rode forward to take up his position behind the First Cohort. Macro had already dismounted and sent his horse to the rear. Cato recognised his stocky form standing a short distance to one side of the cohort's standard. Macro turned at the sound of hoofbeats and raised a hand in greeting.

  'Are your men ready, Centurion?' Cato called out, loud enough for others to hear.

  'Champing at the bit, sir,' Macro replied lightly. 'Keen as anything to get stuck in!'

  'Good! By the end of the day, every standard in the legion is going to have won a decoration!' Cato reined in and swung his leg over the saddle and dismounted, handing the reins to Junius. He patted Macro on the shoulder and muttered, 'A word with you.'

  When they were beyond earshot, Cato spoke softly. 'Everything depends on the First Cohort holding its ground today, and the rest the legion timing its move precisely. You understand?'

  Macro turned towards him, just able to make out the strained expression on the younger man's face in the gloom. Cato had briefed him thoroughly on the battle plan the night before, along with the rest of the officers, and once more in person before they had marched out of the camp. Any irritation that Macro might have felt about being reminded of his duty yet again vanished as he recognised the anxiety that was consuming his friend. Macro slowed to a halt and faced his superior. 'Sir, I know what I have to do. So do the men. Don't let that concern you. The plan is in place. All that is left now is to wait for the enemy.'

  'And when the Nubians come?'

  'The men will do their duty. This is what they have trained for. When the fighting starts, that will be what governs their actions.'

  Cato stared back. Despite Macro's reassurance he could not assuage his fears over the coming battle. He was not afraid for himself. No, he corrected himself, there was always the dread of a crippling wound and a long drawn-out death amid the carnage of the battlefield. Or, worse, mutilation and survival that would leave him an object of pity and ridicule. That prospect always haunted him before a battle and Cato had made himself charge forward with his comrades, or stand his ground, in spite of it, for the simple reason that he feared shame more than anything. That had always been a burden of his close friendship with Macro, he recognised; he never wanted to betray the confidence that Macro placed in him. Now that he was responsible for the lives of thousands, the burden had increased. Macro and all the other men looked to him, Cato, to lead them to victory, or die at their side.

  Cato did not consider himself a brave individual. He could already feel the unsettled flutters in the pit of his stomach and the cold sweat pricking out down his spine. He wondered why he had not become used to it after so many years of fighting. What was it in him that preyed on his mind, thrusting forward terrifying images from past battles as well as imagined scenes of dreadful vividness? For Cato it seemed that there were two sides of his being locked in a perpetual struggle. The Cato he wanted to be – courageous, bold and respected, unburdened by self-doubt – and that other, truer, version – fearful, anxious and agonisingly sensitive to the view other people had of him. The latter could only ever act out the role of the former, winning the applause of the moment, before withdrawing into the shabby robes of his real nature. The thought sickened him and it was only when Macro cleared his throat and spoke again that his attention was redirected.

  'This plan of yours…'

  'Yes?'

  'Seems a bit unorthodox. Mind me asking how you came to think it up?'

  'It's not my idea,' Cato admitted. 'I remember something I read in Livius.'

  'The historian?'

  'That's right.'

  Macro raised a hand and rubbed his brow. 'You, er, think that we are refighting another battle, then? Something from history. Which you've got out of a book.'

  'More or less. A similar situation in many respects. An outnumbered army taking on and crushing the enemy,' Cato explained. 'I expect you've heard of the battle of Cannae?'

  'Yes, thank you,' Macro replied patiently. 'But it didn't work out terribly well for our lads, as I recall.'

  Before Cato could respond, there was a flat blast of a horn away to the south. The sound was picked up by other horns and soon the first of the enemy's drums added to the din. A thin blue light filtered through the air and the faintest of mists hung across the Nile like a silk veil.

  Macro regarded the stirring Nubian host for a moment and then muttered, 'Now we shall see if Prince Talmis will give battle on our terms.' He shot a quick glance at Cato. 'Let's hope that Livius was never on his reading list, eh?'

  Cato did not reply but stood erect, staring out over his men towards the enemy camp. It did not take long to discern the dense blocks of men and horses massing opposite the Roman line. As the sound of their horns, cymbals and drums rose even higher, the Nubian army began to emerge from their camp, blotting out the sight of the campfires they were leaving in their wake.

  'It seems they are going to take the bait,' said Cato with a relieved nod. 'The first round to us then. I'd better return to my command post.' He turned and smiled at Macro. 'Don't worry, I won't remind you of the plan again.'

  'As if I could forget.' Macro tapped his helmet. 'The skull might be as thick as oak but the brain still works.'

  They clasped each other's forearms and then Cato strode swiftly back towards his horse and climbed into the saddle. He waved a hand at Macro and urged his mount into a trot as he headed back towards the small cluster of officers sitting in their saddles to one side of the reserve cohort. Macro watched him a moment, then went through the familiar routine of checking each strap and buckle of his armour and weapons. Satisfied that all was well, he handed his vine cane to one of the medical orderlies who was passing by with a bag stuffed with linen strips to dress wounds.

  'Look after that for me,' he growled. 'I'll want it back after the battle. Any harm comes to it and I'll use what's left of it to break your back.'

  The orderly took the vine cane reluctantly and continued on his way, holding the stick out to one side as if it might bite him. Macro grinned briefly at the sight and then took a deep breath and strode across to the optio in the First Cohort's colour party who was minding his shield. Macro grasped the handle and lifted it. He eased his way between two of the centuries and strode out some ten paces in front of the Roman line. He stared ahead, his gaze slowly sweeping round as he took in the enemy battle line trudging towards them. The dust kicked up by the Nubians was already smudging the air above them. Macro turned his back on them and examined the men of the First Cohort. They were all picked men, the best of the legion, and they would be the first of the infantry to come into contact with the enemy. Macro drew a deep breath and addressed them.

  'It is about now that some of you may be rethinking your decision to pursue a military career.'

  The comment brought forth some tense smiles from the men he could see most clearly in the pale light. A few even laughed. But there were some, he noted, whose expressions remained frozen.

  'For those men, I promise that I will consider your application for a discharge as soon as I am off duty. In fairness, I should tell you that by the end of the day, with your first major battle under your belt, and a jug of wine in your bellies, and the spoils of war in your knapsacks, you will be feeling like bloody heroes, and the very idea of getting a discharge will be the last thing on your mind!' Macro paused. 'You chose to join the Jackals. The legion has given you the best training any soldier can get. You have the best kit of any army, and now, thank the gods, you have finally got a chance to put everything you have learned into practice. Relish the moment, men! This is the great test of your lives. Today you find out what it means to be a legionary and take your place in the ranks of the finest brotherhood of warriors in the entire world!' Macro jabbed his thumb towards the enemy. 'That lot think they're going to have us for breakfast. They know they outnumber us and they think that all their horns and drums are g
oing to make us shake at the knees.' Macro sneered. He paused briefly, and hardened his tone. 'I will tell you now, there is nothing more dangerous than a Roman army sword, and a trained man who knows how to use it.' He drew his blade and raised it aloft. 'So let 'em know who they are up against. Let them know who crafts their doom. Let them know so that the few who survive and run from the battlefield when the day is out will spread the word about the men who destroyed them today! Up the Jackals!' Macro bellowed, punching his sword up. 'Up the Jackals!'

  The men took up the cry, most with genuine enthusiasm and the remainder following their lead, until they, too, were caught up in the shouted chorus and their pulses quickened with the excitement of the moment.

  The cheering spread to the rest of the legion, and then the auxiliary cohorts who had been attached to the Twenty-Second added their voices. The cry of the Roman army challenged the horns, drums, cymbals and wailed ululations of the host marching across the level ground to meet them. Macro turned to look at the Nubians briefly and then strode back through the ranks to rejoin the colour party.

  Cato glanced towards his friend and found some faint reassurance in the knowledge that Macro could be trusted to inspire the men he led to follow his example. It was vital that the First Cohort did not break under the weight of the enemy attack. Victory depended upon the timing of the decisive manoeuvre. Not just victory, Cato mused, but their very survival and the survival of the province of Egypt. The horizon to Cato's left was now a bright hazy orange as the sun prepared to make its entrance and announce the birth of another day. For many men on both sides, it would be their last, and Cato felt an icy ripple flow across his scalp, and prayed that it was not a premonition of his own death. The image of Julia momentarily filled his mind and he felt a heated desire for her such as he had not experienced since the last time he touched her flesh.

  'Sir!' a voice called and Cato turned to see the most junior of the tribunes pointing towards the enemy now less than a quarter of a mile away. 'They should be in range of the bolt throwers. Should I give the order to let them try a shot, sir?'

  Cato was about to reprimand the youth for his presumption, but then saw that he had spoken the truth. One unit of camel riders, armed with javelins, had edged ahead of the rest of the Nubian army and was making for the cavalry on the left of the Roman line. Cato quickly estimated the range and then nodded to the tribune. 'Very well, have the commander of the battery fire ranging shots before he looses any volleys. No sense in wasting ammunition.'

  The tribune saluted and spurred his horse into a gallop as he rode across to the battery commander, an auxiliary centurion whom Cato had chosen to command the bolt throwers on that flank. Shortly afterwards there was a dull crack as a bolt thrower's arms snapped forward against their restraints. Although full daylight was still some way off, Cato could easily follow the trajectory of the missile as it shot towards the enemy in a shallow arc and then landed with a puff of dust and grit just in front of the leading camels, causing one to stop dead in its tracks. The battery commander bellowed an order to the rest of his crews and they cranked back the torsion arms and placed the iron-tipped shafts into the channel that ran up the central bed of the weapon. When all were ready, the centurion raised his arm and called out. 'On my word, prepare to shoot!'

  His men stood still, one at each weapon, holding the lever that would release the grip on the torsion rope. The centurion waited until he was certain the leading ranks of Nubians had ridden over the place where the first bolt had plunged into the ground. Cato was gripped with impatience as the centurion kept his arm aloft and continued to let the enemy draw closer.

  'Get on with it, man,' he whispered harshly.

  'Release!' the centurion suddenly bellowed, sweeping his arm down. The cracks of the bolt throwers sounded almost together, like the snapping of a fistful of sticks. Thirty small shafts whirred towards the camel rider unit, some five or six hundred strong, Cato calculated. The centurion had timed his order well and not a single shot fell short as the cruel iron heads of the missiles tore through the sandy hides of the camels and the robes of their riders. The stricken animals collapsed in heaps as their spindly-looking legs gave way and those behind them were forced to swerve aside, into the flanks of their companions, disrupting their move against the waiting Romans. For a moment their advance stalled, and then as the Romans reloaded their weapons, the Arabs worked round their casualties and continued on. The second volley shot out from behind the Roman lines and struck home, killing and wounding several more. Some of the riders proved a little wary of leading the charge and lagged behind, no doubt hoping to avoid the further attention of the artillery crews. The third and fourth volleys stopped the enemy dead, and they stood in some confusion as the bolts landed amongst them, and then the fifth volley broke their will. The commander of the unit turned aside and rode off towards the flank, beckoning his men to follow him.

  A cheer rose up from the Roman ranks and some of the men punched their javelins and swords into the air. It was a pitiful achievement in terms of the scale of the coming battle, Cato realised, but he indulged his men just the same. It was good for their morale, and wounded the enemy's spirits. But even as the warm flow of satisfaction filled his heart, Cato saw a new, far greater threat. The dust on the flanks of the enemy line was thickening and then he saw the masses of horsemen surging forward, quickening their pace into a trot as they rode towards the cavalry cohorts on each side of the Roman infantry. This would be the first real test of the day, Cato knew. If his men failed to hold back the Nubians then the enemy would be able to surround the legion and the auxiliaries and fall on their rear. In that event, Cato and his men would be cut to pieces. He flicked his reins and gestured to his staff officers to follow him as he rode across the rear of the line towards the commander of the Syrian cavalry cohort on the left flank.

  Prefect Herophilus nodded a greeting as his commander rode up.

  'Your men will be in action soon.' Cato pointed to the dark line of riders approaching, the rumble of their hoofs clearly audible above the ongoing cacophony of Nubian instruments. 'Are they ready to do their duty?'

  It was a rhetorical question, but it gave the prefect the chance to speak up for his men.

  'My boys will be as steady as a rock, sir. You can depend on us.'

  'I know it. If you don't mind, I will join your command for the present, and see for myself how your men fight.'

  Herophilus bowed his head. 'My pleasure, sir.'

  Both officers turned to watch the enemy. Cato struggled to make sense of their numbers due to the dust that engulfed those a short distance behind the leading ranks.

  'There must be thousands of them,' said one of Herophilus's decurions.

  'Quiet there!' the prefect snapped at him.

  The enemy closed to within half a mile and Cato heard the clack-clack-clack of the bolt throwers as the crews prepared to shoot up the Nubian cavalry. Some of the auxiliary horsemen, distracted by the spectacle of the enemy force, allowed their mounts to move out of position until Herophilus cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed, 'Keep the bloody line there! Decurions! Take the name of any man who can't control his horse!'

  The sound of drumming hoofs filled the air and now Cato could feel the vibration through the ground beneath his mount. To his right he heard the officer in charge of the archers order his men to make ready. Then there was a brief stillness over the left flank of the Roman army as they stood their ground and waited for the action to begin. In that moment the sun finally crested the hills to the east and its rays poured over the battlefield, bathing polished armour and weapons in a fiery glitter.

  The warm glow was suddenly pierced by the shadowy dashes of the missiles as they were unleashed from the bolt throwers and an instant later the crack of the torsion arms carried to Cato's ears. He watched the fall of shot and saw a rider plucked off his horse and hurled to the ground. More riders went down, together with horses, but they were quickly swallowed up by the waves of Nubian cav
alry surging forward. More bolts slammed into the charging mass, and then the archers added their weight to the bombardment, their arrows angling higher into the sky before plunging down. Scores of Nubians were struck down, and yet it seemed to make little difference to their numbers or break the pace of their charge.

  Cato drew his sword and his officers followed suit. Herophilus slipped his left arm through the straps of his shield and took up the reins as he shouted orders to his men, his voice shrill with the strain of being heard above the deafening pounding of hoofs. 'Close up! Shields to the front! Make ready your spears and prepare to receive the charge!'

  There was a shimmer as the long line of spear tips swept down towards the Nubians. The auxiliary horsemen drew their shields in close, covering as much of their bodies as possible. Beneath them some horses stirred nervously until steadied by a press of the thighs or a calming word. The enemy riders had closed to within a hundred paces now and Cato could see individual details. The riders' mounts were all at full stretch. Their formation had lost cohesion due to the speed of the charge and the loss of those who had been shot down by the archers and bolt throwers. They were still shooting, keeping the range long enough to avoid any danger to their own side, while lashing down on the Nubians at the rear of the charge.

  'Here they come!' Herophilus shouted, his eyes wide.

  An instant later the first of the enemy reached the Roman line. Their horses shied at the line of mounted men and the deadly points of their spears, and the impact of the charge broke as the melee spread along the line. The prefect and his officers dug their heels in and forced their way amongst the men to join the fight, the cohort's standard bearer following on, keeping the standard raised high for all his comrades to see. Cato edged his mount forward, to just behind the second rank of Roman horsemen. Beyond was a savage sea of gleaming blades, thrashing limbs, the dagger-like ears of horses and wild tossing manes, all accompanied by the harsh clatter and thud of weapons and the cries of rage and pain and whinnies of terrified and stricken cavalry mounts.