Centurion (43 page)

‘I don’t like the look of it,’ Parmenion said softly.

‘Me neither.’

The ground began to even out and as Cato reached the crest he strode forward and stopped as he saw the vista of fires spread across the desert before him. Parmenion came up to his side and whispered, ‘Bloody hell. What is that?’

‘That,’ Cato responded steadily, ‘is the army of Artaxes, and his Parthian allies. They reached him before we did. Seems like the general’s spies lied to him.’

‘What in Hades happens now?’

‘We continue the attack.’ Cato started forward again.’We have to. That’s the only chance we have. Catch them all by surprise before they have a chance to react.’

The rest of the Roman line had crested the ridge and advanced far enough to see the enemy camp spread out before them, just over half a mile ahead. The general had been right, Cato conceded. Against the odds he had succeeded in catching the enemy unawares. He had misjudged Longinus.

A horn blasted a short series of notes across the top of the hill. More joined in and repeated the signal. Parmenion stopped and stared at Cato. ‘What is he doing? What is the bloody fool doing?’

Cato shook his head, stunned. All along the line the Roman soldiers drew up in response to the signal to halt. Cato felt sick.

‘The general’s lost his nerve,’ Parmenion muttered. ‘When he saw that lot down there.’ He was silent for a moment before he continued.’The gods help us.’

‘You’d better pray that they do,’ Cato muttered. ‘Because we’ve just lost the initiative. Look.’

Down below the first shrill cries of alarm began to sound. A moment later the beat of a drum carried up the slope and by the light of the campfires Cato could see thousands and thousands of men rising up from their sleep and scrambling for their weapons and their horses.

The Roman army stood and watched as the enemy began to mass. Artaxes and his rebels, most of whom were infantry, were forming a thin line in front of the camp. But they were an insignificant danger. Far more worrying to Cato were the groups of Parthian horse-archers and cataphracts already beginning to edge forward towards the rising ground on which the Romans waited.

‘What is he doing?’ Centurion Parmenion pounded his fist against his thigh as he stared to his right, towards the centre of the line where General Longinus and his staff were positioned. ‘Why doesn’t he give the order to attack before it’s too bloody late?’

Cato cleared his throat and stepped towards his subordinate. ‘Centurion Parmenion.’

‘Sir?’

‘I’d be obliged if you kept your mouth shut.Think about the men. As far as they are concerned this is part of the plan. Understand? Now show them some reserve. You’re a veteran, man. So act like one.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Cato watched him for a moment, until he was sure that Parmenion understood, then he nodded. ‘Carry on, Parmenion.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Over towards the eastern horizon a thin strip of lighter sky heralded the coming dawn and moment by moment Cato could see more detail in the surrounding landscape. Still there was no order to advance. Then, at last, a staff officer, one of the junior tribunes, came riding along the line, pausing to give orders to each commander in turn. Cato strode up to meet him as the officer reached the Second Illyrian. The tribune saluted.

‘General’s compliments, sir,’ he said breathlessly. ‘He says we will await the enemy attack here on the high ground. He will give the order to advance the moment we have broken them up. In the meantime, you are to guard the flank. If there’s any attempt to cut behind our line it will be up to you and the Palmyran prince to hold them off.’

‘Very well.’ Cato nodded. ‘We’ll do our duty.’

‘Yes, sir.’

They exchanged a salute and the tribune wheeled his mount round and galloped back towards the general. Cato turned to Parmenion.

‘You heard that?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then we know what to expect. We need to cover the flank,’ Cato decided. ‘Pull the men in and form a line away from the crest at the end of Macro’s cohort. Send a man to Balthus. His men are to form up behind us and be ready to shoot up any Parthians that attack the left of the line.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then let’s get moving! We’re not being paid by the day.’

Once the Second Illyrian had taken up their new formation Cato’s command position was only a short distance from Macro’s and he strode across to speak to his friend. As Cato approached, Macro shook his head with a weary expression. ‘Longinus has screwed it up beautifully.’ He motioned to the new crest adorning his helmet. ‘Paid some bastard in the second cohort five denarii for this. A fine waste of money now that we’re about to provide the Parthians with some target practice.’

‘Looks that way,’ Cato agreed. ‘And the general seems to have it in his head that they’re going to charge us.’

‘He’ll know the score soon enough.’

‘And then?’ Cato lowered his voice so that only Macro would hear him. ‘What do you think he’ll do?’

‘What can he do? We’ve got bugger all cavalry to pin the enemy in place while the legions close on them. My guess is that Longinus will order a retreat the moment our men start hitting the ground.’

‘I agree. It’ll be difficult to pull off without heavy losses.’

Macro sighed. ‘Well, he wanted his battle. Now he’s got it. The trick of it will be living to tell the tale.’

‘Yes.’ Cato glanced up at the sky. ‘It’s getting lighter. I’d better get back to my men. Good luck, sir.’

‘And you, Cato.’ They clasped arms and Cato turned and strode back towards the standard of the Second Illyrian.

As the light strengthened the Parthians began their attack. There was no wild charge of the kind the legions had faced before on other battlefields. Small groups of Parthian horse-archers trotted their mounts up the slope and began to loose arrows at the dense ranks of Roman soldiers. The power of their bows was such that some could shoot almost straight at their targets, while others aimed high so that their arrows arced into the sky before plummeting down. Receiving missiles from two different directions immediately upset and confused the solid ranks of infantry. As the first men were struck down the centurions hurriedly ordered the front two ranks to raise a shield wall while the rear ranks raised their shields overhead. While it offered a solution to the enemy’s method of attack it was tiring work and could not be continued for long by the men in the rear ranks.

As soon as the Parthians realised that their arrows had ceased having much effect on the front of the Roman line they began to shift their effort to the flanks.

‘Here they come!’ an auxiliary near the crest shouted.

‘Down!’ Cato ordered. ‘Behind your shields!’

The men dropped to one knee and lowered their helmets until they could just see over the rims of their shields. Cato turned to Balthus and his men and cupped a hand to his mouth.

‘Get ready to shoot!’

Balthus nodded and bellowed an order to his small force and they rapidly strung their bows and fitted arrows as the sound of drumming hooves swelled in volume. Then Cato saw them, perhaps fifty of the enemy, riding over the crest a short distance from the Roman flank. The foremost riders tried to rein back as they caught sight of Cato’s flank guard, but those behind pressed on, trying to weave a path through their comrades and causing a moment’s confusion and loss of impetus. Balthus seized the chance to hit the tightly packed and immobile target and shouted the order to his men. The arrows arced high over the Roman lines and fell, like a fine veil, amongst the Parthians. The effect was impressive, Cato noted. Unlike the Roman soldiers, the horse-archers had no armour and no shields, and the arrows tore through their robes and punched through skin, muscle and bone. Several men pitched from their saddles, and wounded horses reared up with shrill whinnying cries of agony. A second flight of arrows added to the confusion and carnage as more men and horses tumbled into the churning clouds of dust. Then, as more arrows fell amongst them, the Parthians turned and fled, galloping back over the brow of the hill as fast as their mounts would carry them.

At once the men of Cato’s cohort and the nearest century of Macro’s legionaries let out a loud chorus of jeers. Parmenion stood up, ready to silence them, but Cato caught his eye and shook his head. ‘Let them enjoy themselves for a moment. They’ll need to be in good spirits for what’s to come.’

‘Very well, sir.’

Cato stood up and stared at the ground in front of the Second Illyrian. Perhaps as many as twenty of the enemy had been shot down by Balthus and his men. A few lay still, sprawled on the slope. Others moved feebly, crying out for help. One man, his shoulder pierced through, was staggering back towards the crest of the hill. Cato heard Balthus shout an order, then one of his men slung his bow over his shoulder and spurred his horse into a gallop. The rider swung round the end of Cato’s line and headed after the fleeing man. A curved blade flickered in the rider’s right hand as he leaned out to the side while he rapidly gained on the Parthian. The latter glanced back, then turned and ran for his life. As he drew abreast of the Parthian, the rider slashed down and a sheet of crimson flicked into the air and the body crashed to the ground. The watching Romans fell silent for an instant, before Parmenion punched his fist into the air and roared with triumph.’Stick the bastards! Kill ‘em all!’

Balthus’ man duly obliged, riding back amongst the enemy wounded, finishing them off one by one until nothing moved, save the wounded horses that bucked on the ground, or just lay on their sides, nostrils flaring in pain and terror as their chests heaved like bellows. The rider wiped his blade on the robes of one of the Parthians, then calmly sheathed it and trotted back round the flank and rejoined his comrades, to fresh cheers from the auxiliaries.

As the sun rose over the crest of the low hill the staff officer came down the line again.

‘Sir, the general has ordered a withdrawal,’ the tribune explained quickly. ‘The Third Legion will form the vanguard, then the main body of the auxiliary cohorts. The Tenth Legion will follow, then the Sixth Macedonian. Centurion Macro’s cohort, the Second Illyrian and the Palmyran contingent will form the afterguard.’

Cato smiled bitterly at the officer.

‘Sir?’ The tribune looked at Cato with a puzzled expression.

‘It’s nothing. Nothing I’m not getting used to.’ Cato pointed along the line.’Give the general a message from me. You tell him that Prefect Cato feels another miracle coming on. Got that?’

‘Yes, sir. But I don’t understand.’

‘Just tell him what I said.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The tribune snapped a brief salute. ‘Good luck, sir.’

Cato nodded. ‘That’s something we’ll all need today.’

As the sun rose slowly into a clear sky, promising another day of blistering heat beneath its harsh glare, the Roman army began to pull back from the crest of the slope. One cohort at a time, from the centre of the army, they formed into column and moved off along the track towards Palmyra. All the time the Parthians kept up a steady shower of arrows, loosing all their shafts before riding back towards the strings of camels to refill their quivers from the large baskets of fresh arrows slung over the beasts’ backs. Along the crest of the hill the shields of the Romans bore the splintered scars of arrow impacts and some still carried arrows that had become lodged in place. Shafts lay scattered on the ground, or stood up at an angle, so thickly that they looked like the stalks of a torched field of wheat. Already hundreds of men had been killed or injured. Most were walking wounded and fell back to join the units already on the track. Those who were too badly injured to walk were placed on the backs of the few supply mules that had been brought along with the army.

As each unit moved out of line, the Roman front shrank as the remaining cohorts closed ranks. By mid-morning the last elements of the Tenth Legion began to move down the slope, leaving Macro’s and Cato’s cohorts to cover the end of the column.

‘We’ll form a box,’ Macro decided. ‘Shields out as we march. It’ll be slower going, but we’ll lose fewer men. Any wounded can go to the centre. We’ll carry as many as we can, but the mortally wounded will have to be dealt with. I’ll not leave them to the enemy.’

Cato muttered his agreement.

‘And what orders have you for me?’ asked Balthus.

‘I’ll need your men as a flying column. Do what you can to disrupt their attacks, but keep your distance as far as you can, or they’ll cut you to pieces.’

Balthus nodded. The two men looked at each for a moment, weighing the odds of their survival. Despite his previous suspicion of the Palmyran prince’s motives Macro knew that Balthus was in his element on the battlefield and the Roman felt a grudging respect in his breast as he nodded to the prince. ‘Last one back in Palmyra buys the drinks. Let’s get moving.’

The army retraced its route at a slow pace under the beating sun: a long column of armoured men tramping through the dust, anxiously hunched behind their shields as they waited for the next flight of arrows to whirl down through the haze. The Parthians, many thousands of them, clung to the flanks of General Longinus’ army, riding along its length and almost casually loosing their arrows before breaking off to fetch some more. Their only hindrance was the occasional charges of the auxiliary cavalry, who managed to drive them off for a short distance before having to return to their positions, and then after a little while the horse-archers would ride back in and continue their barrage of arrows. Prince Balthus and his men had only a small reserve of arrows and used them sparingly whenever a Parthian ventured too close to the rearguard.

Macro’s men, being the best armoured, formed the very tail of the column and the broad legionary shields absorbed a steady crack and thud of missiles as the cohort marched slowly over the parched desert. Every so often a shaft found a way through or over the shields and struck one of the men inside the elongated box.The impact of the arrows made the victims stagger, with an explosive gasp or cry of pain. Sometimes it was a flesh wound, passing straight through without touching bone or any vital organ, and the shaft could be cut free and the wound hurriedly dressed by one of the hard-pressed orderlies. The more severely wounded were unceremoniously thrown over a comrade’s shoulder and carried to the centre of the box where the surgeon hurriedly assessed the wound. If there was a good chance of recovery the man was dumped into one of the small mule carts, or over the back of a mule, where the jolting of the carts and the plodding of the mules made the wounds hurt even more. And all the time the sun blazed down. Some of the men, less self-controlled than the others, had already drained their canteens and their lips dried out and the thirst began to burn in their throats.