Centurion (13 page)

‘Finish them! Finish the bastards! Don’t let them get away!’

Cato picked his way through the bodies on the ground. Some horses were dead, but many were wounded, and they lashed out with their hooves as their shrill whinnies of agony and terror filled the air, adding to the scrape and ringing of weapons and the cries of men. Ahead Cato saw his men attacking a group of riders and he hurried over to join the fight. Pushing his way into a space he crouched to lower his centre of balance and stepped forward behind his shield, sword raised to one side. The remaining horsemen had recovered from their surprise and held shields and swords ready to take on their attackers. In front of Cato a man on a horse larger and more powerful than the others was skilfully wheeling it about as he slashed at any of the auxiliaries that came in reach. As Cato tensed his muscles and edged closer the rider leaned to one side and his blade arced round, whirring through the air before it struck the raised arm of one of Cato’s men, severing it just below the elbow.The man fell back with a shriek as his sword arm, still clutching the sword, tumbled to the ground at his feet.

The rider shouted an order over his shoulder and several of his comrades wheeled their mounts about and spurred them on, riding straight at Cato and his standard-bearer.

‘Oh, shit!’ the standard-bearer just had time to mutter before the enemy were on them. Cato threw his shield up and an instant later was hurled to one side as the breast of the big horse smashed into the front of it.The blow stunned Cato’s left arm right up to the shoulder and the shield slipped from his fingers. The blow took a fraction of the pace off the horse, but it was enough. Behind Cato, the standard-bearer dropped to one knee and lowered the sharpened tip of the standard towards it. The beast had no chance to avoid the point and ploughed straight on to it, taking the head of the standard in the breast, snapping the crosspiece as the shaft pierced its body. It shuddered and then toppled to the side. With a curse the rider threw himself clear, and on to Cato. Both men crashed heavily to the ground and the impact drove the breath from Cato in an explosive gasp. Around them, the other horsemen were desperately trying to drive their mounts through the loose ranks of the auxiliaries and there was no one to pay any attention to the prefect struggling in the dust with one of the horsemen.

The man’s breath blasted over Cato’s face as he pressed Cato’s chest back with his forearm while the other hand released its grip on his sword and went for the dagger strapped at his side. Cato’s right hand still grasped his sword but he could not bring the point to bear and instead hammered the pommel into the man’s side. For the first time he saw that the man was wearing some kind of cap rather than a helmet and his eyes were fierce with hate and a desire to kill his Roman enemy. There was a rasp as the dagger was drawn and Cato knew he had only an instant to save himself.Tensing his neck muscles, he threw his head up as hard as he could.The man’s eyes widened in surprise and the snarl died on his lips as the iron rim of Cato’s helmet smashed the bridge of his nose and crushed one of his eyes. The man howled and instinctively relaxed the pressure of his forearm. Cato thrust up with his right knee and threw his fist at the man’s cheek for good measure. The blow connected with a jarring thud and the rider rolled to one side with a deep groan of agony. Cato thrust him away and scrambled back on to his feet. His heart was pounding wildly and he was not thinking clearly any more. The instinct to fight and kill had taken over. He stepped towards the man groaning on the ground and drew his sword back for the killing blow. As he did so, he sensed rather than saw a movement at the corner of his eye: a figure charging towards him, the dull gleam of a blade in the starlight and a feral growl in the man’s throat. Cato whirled round towards the new threat, snapping his sword point out towards the figure. The tip of the blade caught the man high, just above the edge of his chain mail, shattering his collarbone and cutting clean through his flesh to burst through his shoulder.

There was a dreadful pause as Cato stared into the face of the man, who was looking back, with shocked wide eyes, from inside a Roman helmet. Cato gasped, and yanked his weapon free, as if he could undo the blow if he moved fast enough. The blade came out with a jerk, a sucking sound and a rush of blood as the auxiliary sank to his knees, staring at Cato with a puzzled expression. He shook his head slowly and sank back on to the ground.

Cato stood over him, holding his dripping sword as his other hand momentarily flashed up in front of his face, as if to protect it. Then the moment of sick panic passed and he hurriedly looked round. The nearest auxiliaries had their backs to him as they grabbed a rider and hauled him from his saddle. No one had seen him, then. Cato swallowed, and knelt down, stabbing his sword into the sand where it would be ready to snatch up if he needed it. He hurriedly undid the man’s neck scarf and pressed it against the blood gushing from the wound. The man cried out as he felt the pressure and his hand grasped Cato’s wrist like an iron manacle.

‘Fuck, it hurts,’ he moaned through clenched teeth.

‘Let go of me,’ Cato growled. ‘I’m trying to help you. You’re injured. If I can’t staunch the wound, you’ll bleed to death.’

The man nodded and released his grip, before his eyes widened suddenly and he stared at Cato and hissed, ‘It was you . . .’

‘Quiet,’ Cato said urgently. ‘Save your breath.’

‘It was you,’ the man repeated, then his eyes clenched shut and he slumped back, moaning. Cato crouched over him, pressing the scarf on to the wound with one hand while he kept his sword ready with the other. Glancing round he saw that the surviving horsemen were in full flight, and only a handful were still hemmed in by the auxiliaries, desperately wheeling their mounts one way then another as they tried to parry the thrusts of the men around them. It was an unequal duel, and the last rider was cut down moments later.The auxiliaries raised their swords and jeered as the sound of hooves receded into the night.

‘Over here!’ Cato shouted at the nearest of his men. ‘On me!’

Several trotted over and Cato indicated the man on the ground. ‘This man is wounded. Get him to the carts.’

‘Yes, sir.’

As the auxiliary lowered his weapons to tend to his comrade Cato scrambled to his feet and hurried away. Around him the rest of the cohort was busy finishing off the enemy wounded and looting the bodies. Cato cupped a hand to his mouth.

‘Centurion Parmenion!’

He called out again before Parmenion replied and came running towards him.The centurion was hurriedly tying off a strip of dressing round his sword arm as he reached Cato.

‘How bad’s the wound?’ Cato asked.

‘Flesh wound, sir. I can still swing a sword.Which is more than can be said for those bloody horsemen.They’ve bolted like rabbits.’

‘For now,’ Cato conceded. ‘But they may yet cause us trouble.’

‘You really think so, sir?’

The surprised tone was tinged with disbelief and Cato irritably drew a breath.’Let’s not take the risk, all right? Now I want our wounded collected and made as comfortable as possible.The cohort is to form up round them. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Any sign of Centurion Macro?’

‘Haven’t seen him, sir. But I heard him.’ Parmenion pointed over his shoulder.

‘Hard not to,’ Cato muttered and patted his subordinate on his shoulder. ‘Carry on.’

He set off across the site of the skirmish, stepping round the bodies of men and horses littering the ground. The first few legionaries he encountered were still dazed by the fast and furious fight and had no idea where their commander was. With a growing sense of frustration Cato pressed on until he found one of Macro’s centurions.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ Cato asked angrily. ‘Why aren’t you re-forming your men?’

‘We’ve beaten them, sir. I don’t see the need . . .’

‘Where’s Macro?’

‘By the standard, sir. There.’

‘Fine.’ Cato nodded as he picked out the faint shape of the cohort’s standard-bearer. ‘Now form your men up, Centurion. Quick as you can.’ Cato pushed past the man and strode on.

‘Centurion Macro? Are you there, sir?’

‘Cato!’ A bearlike shape loomed out of the darkness as Macro came over to him.’By the Gods, we gave them a damn fine pasting! Must have taken down half of them at least.’

‘Maybe, but it’s the other half than concerns me.’

‘They’ve run for it, lad!’ Macro laughed jubilantly. ‘I doubt they’ll stop until dawn.’

‘They’ll stop long before then,’ Cato replied quietly. He pointed to one of the bodies of the horsemen sprawled beside his mount a short distance away. ‘See. This one has a bow case. There’s plenty like him out there.’

Macro examined the body and prodded it with his toe. ‘Parthian?’

Cato glanced at the loosely robed corpse. A conical helmet with a twisted fabric rim lay near the head. ‘Could be. But he’s more likely to be one of the rebels from Palmyra. The Parthians can’t be on the scene yet,’ he added cautiously. ‘Surely?’

Macro tipped his head to one side. ‘Maybe . . . I hope not, or we’re really in the shit.’

‘Either way we’re dealing with the same type of horseman and the same tactics. We may have surprised them, but the moment they reach a safe distance and re-form they will come after us.’

‘Come after us?’ Macro shook his head.’After that hiding we gave ‘em? I don’t think so.’

‘Macro, now that the element of surprise is gone, they can use their bows and pick us off at will.’ Cato slapped his hand against his thigh. ‘If only we had got them all.’

‘We did well enough,’ Macro insisted. ‘Still, better get my lads formed up. Just in case. Better if we put the cohorts together, with the wounded in the middle.’

‘I think that would be wise, sir. I’ll fetch my men.’

‘What about our cavalry?’

Cato thought for a moment. ‘Better leave them where they are for now. There’s still the risk of confusing them with those horse-archers. If we need them, we can call on them quick enough.’

‘Good. Then we’d better get moving.’

The centurions and optios called their men together and the ranks formed behind their standards while those detailed to move the injured to safety carried them towards the slight fold in the ground that Macro had chosen as the position where the two cohorts would wait for daylight. If there was an attack then the enemy would have to close the range to see their target.They might even venture within reach of the cohort’s javelins and slings where they would pay the price soon enough, Macro mused grimly.While the wounded were laid down in the centre of the shallow bowl of dust and rock others drew the supply carts in.Then the two cohorts formed into a defensive box and sheltered behind their shields as they stared out into the desert, wrapped in darkness.

Macro and Cato stood on the side facing the direction the enemy had retreated and shared the tense anticipation of those around them. The men had been ordered to stand in silence and the only noise came from those wounded who could not contain their pain. The occasional groan or gasping cry of agony wore away at the nerves of the other men so that they eventually fell to cursing their injured comrades.

As soon as that thought occurred to him, Cato vividly recalled the auxiliary he had wounded, and the sick feeling of guilt welled up inside him again. He wondered if he should say anything to Macro. It had been an accident, he reassured himself. But even so, it was a tragic mistake, one that no officer with battle experience could be forgiven. After a while Cato wondered if the man was still alive. If he was, had he told his comrades about the officer who had stabbed him in a blind panic? For an instant Cato wished the man dead. Then at once he cursed himself for the thought. But the urge to know the man’s condition was irresistible and in the last hour before dawn he turned to Macro.

‘Sir, if I may, I’d like to check on my injured.’

Macro looked at him curiously. ‘Now? Why?’

Cato forced himself to remain as calm as he could. ‘While I’m acting prefect, I need to ensure that the men get what they need. That includes seeing to the comfort of the wounded, sir.’

‘Yes . . .I suppose so. Go on then, but be as quick as you can.’

Cato tried to hide his relief as he stole away from Macro and quietly made his way towards the wounded lying in rows beside the supply carts.

‘What’s the butcher’s bill?’ Cato asked the cohort’s surgeon, a thin Greek only a few months away from discharge and a comfortable retirement. Themocrites stood up, wiping his bloodied hands on a rag before he saluted his prefect.

‘Four dead so far, sir.’ The surgeon gestured to the men around him.’Eighteen wounded.Three almost certainly will die, but the rest will recover. Most of them will be walking wounded.’

‘I see.’ Cato nodded. ‘Show me the men with the mortal wounds.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Themocrites’ eyes flickered with surprise. Then he beckoned Cato. ‘This way.’

He led Cato to the end of the line of men lying on the sand. Most were still and quiet but some groaned and cried out at the agony of their injuries.The surgeon’s small section of medical orderlies crouched amongst them, doing their best to dress wounds, tie splints to shattered limbs and staunch the flow of blood from wounds. The most severely wounded lay a short distance from the others. One man lay still, his breath coming in faint, fluttering gasps. One of Themocrites’ orderlies was watching over the other two. As soon as he became aware of the officers’ approach he stood up smartly.

‘Report,’ said Cato.

‘Lost one of them a short time ago, sir. He bled to death. The other’s not long for this world.’

He pointed to the man at his feet and in the gloom Cato could just make out the features of the man he had wounded. His heart fluttered wildly for a moment and he felt himself flush with shame and guilt, and gave silent thanks that it was still night and his expression would be hard to read by the pale gloom of the stars. He was aware that the orderly was watching him fixedly.

He cleared his throat and continued, ‘What’s this man’s name?’