The Legion (20 page)

‘He hates us that much?’

Cato recalled the insane rage in Ajax’s expression the night they had fought in the village and a familiar cold chill rippled down his spine. ‘Yes. Yes, he does. I’m certain of it. And that is the only advantage we have right now.’

Hamedes cleared his throat. ‘So, sir, when are you leaving for the upper Nile?’

‘Tomorrow. There’s a military convoy being loaded at the quay on Lake Mareotis. We’ve been given berths on one of the barges. We leave at dawn.’

‘That soon?’ Macro thought a moment and shrugged. ‘Why not? If Ajax is waiting for us there, the sooner we deal with the bastard the better.’ He turned to Hamedes. ‘Looks like we’ll be parting company. Here’s to you.’ He raised his cup. ‘As gypo guides go, you’re all right.’

Hamedes looked at Cato. ‘Is that a compliment, sir?’

‘From him? Oh yes.’ Cato lifted his cup as well. ‘Thanks for your help.’

Hamedes seemed troubled. ‘The truth is, sir, that I wish to find a place in one of the older temples that still hold to the old faith. Not here, with these con men. I want to return to the upper Nile, where I was raised.’ His eyes gleamed. ‘And you still need someone who speaks the native tongue, to help you find the gladiator and his followers. I might serve you a while yet, before returning to the priesthood. You know I have as much reason to find him as you do. The blood of my brother priests demands justice.’

‘Yes.’ Cato could see the intensity of Hamedes’ gaze and guess at the feelings that filled his heart and mind and fuelled his desire for revenge. He nodded. ‘Very well, you can join us. I’ll have you enrolled as a scout. Might as well be paid for your efforts.’

The priest smiled. ‘I am in your debt, sir.’

The Nile barges were heavily laden with military supplies for the coming campaign: baskets filled with arrows, the heavier shafts of ammunition for the bolt throwers, newly forged sword blades, shield bosses and trims, tubs of nails and boots. There were scores of legionaries and officers who had been on leave, or detached service, and were returning to their units, along with some fresh recruits. Cato, Macro and Hamedes, laden down with the kit they had retrieved from the Alexandrian fleet, boarded one of the last vessels to leave and were ushered out of the way to the small foredeck while the crew thrust the vessel away from the quay and hoisted the large triangular sail. The hold had been filled and sacks of grain and jars of oil and wine were heaped across the deck.

‘It’s a wonder the tub stays afloat,’ Macro mused as he set his kitbag down and made himself comfortable under the small awning that covered the foredeck.

Cato nodded. There was scarcely more than a foot of freeboard over the side and he wondered what would happen if the barge was caught by a sudden gust of wind. With all the cargo aboard, it would surely sink like a rock and Cato had no desire to be pitched into the Nile. It was not the prospect of swimming to the nearest bank that concerned him so much as the thought of the crocodiles that might be lurking amid the reeds, waiting to snap up some easy prey.

‘Rest easy, Centurion.’ Hamedes smiled. ‘The waters of the Nile are always calm, and the wind constant. There is no cause for alarm. Besides, I have an offering of a jar of oil for the Nile gods.’ He patted his kitbag. ‘They will protect us.’

‘I’m not bloody alarmed,’ Macro growled. ‘I’m just saying the boat looks overloaded, that’s all.’

Hamedes nodded understandingly and then stretched himself out on his back, resting his head carefully on the bulky kitbag he had brought aboard and settled down to get some sleep. The two Romans watched the receding skyline of Alexandria for a while, taking turns to sip from a wineskin that Macro had bought in one of the markets of the Canopic Way. At length, Macro coughed and turned to Cato.

‘Do you really think Ajax will be down there, with the Nubians?’

‘The more I think about it, the more certain I am,’ Cato replied. ‘It offers him the best way of continuing his war against Rome.’

‘And us?’

‘Why not? There’s every chance of killing two birds with one stone. Where else would we be when the governor needs every soldier he can scrape together to repel the invasion?’

‘I’m not so keen on being considered to be part of the scrapings, if it’s all the same to you.’ Macro flashed a smile. ‘But I take your point. And if you’re right, it should make the task of finding Ajax that much easier. But duty first, eh? Defeat the Nubians and then find Ajax.’

‘Defeating the Nubians might be a rather harder task than you think.’

‘How so?’

‘I had a word with one of Petronius’s staff officers before I left the palace. I wanted some information on the forces available to Candidus. The two infantry cohorts sound like good formations, but the cavalry is under strength. It’s the Twenty-Second I’m not so sure about.’

‘They’re legionaries. They’ll stand up to whatever the Nubians throw at them.’

‘I hope so.’ Cato rubbed his chin and wished that he had taken the opportunity to have a shave in Alexandria before embarking. ‘The fact is that the Twenty-Second is something of an oddity.’

‘Oh? What’s their story, then?’

‘The legion was raised by Mark Antony. He filled the ranks with men from Cleopatra’s army. When Antony was defeated by Octavian, the Twenty-Second was integrated into the rest of the army and has been stationed on the Nile since then. They’re a mix of Greeks and Egyptians from the Nile cities.’

‘You think they might be a bit soft then?’

‘Maybe. They have had no part in a major campaign since the civil war. For most of them, this is going to be the first action they’ve gone into. I just hope they’ve been trained well enough for the job.’

Macro shook his head. ‘Cato, even if the quality of the men is suspect, they’re still commanded by centurions, and centurions, my friend, are the same the world over. As hard and demanding a bunch as you will ever find.’

‘Not all of them. We’ve seen our share of bad officers in our time.’

‘A few bad eggs, that’s all,’ Macro replied tersely, not willing to endure too much disparagement of the brotherhood he felt honoured to be a part of. ‘The centurionate has a fine tradition. There are always exceptions.’

‘Then let’s hope we don’t find too many of them in the Twenty-Second. ’

‘I need some rest,’ Macro announced suddenly. He removed the armour from his kitbag and punched spare tunics, cloak and boots that remained into a rough pillow and laid his head down, turning his back to his friend. Cato smiled at his touchiness, and then eased himself down on to an elbow as the barge entered the canal that linked the lake to the Nile. On either side the banks were lined with reeds and clumps of palm trees, interspersed with small settlements of the ubiquitous mud-brick houses. Women were busy taking advantage of the cooler morning temperature to wash clothes in the placid waters while children played slightly further out, splashing each other, their shrill cries of joy carrying clearly across the canal. As the barges sailed past, they stopped their games to wave, and Cato smiled as he waved back.

He had grown so used to the demands and the strains of commanding soldiers that he had forgotten some of the simple pleasures of life, he realised sadly. His childhood seemed all too brief to him at that moment. He brushed the sentiment aside, cross with himself for allowing a moment’s idleness to sour his mood. He realised that there would be plenty of time for reflection in the next few days, and resolved that he would focus his thoughts on more useful, and pleasing, matters, such as the future he planned to have with Julia when he returned to Rome. And so he spent the rest of the morning watching the landscape of Egypt drift by as the convoy made its way upriver towards Diospolis Magna. Occasionally Macro and Hamedes stirred and exchanged a few words, before closing their eyes again. In the afternoon the convoy left the canal behind and entered the river. The sun beat down on the barges, and a steady hot breeze blew over the deck like the heat from a nearby furnace.

At dusk the barges put into the shore and grounded gently on a grassy stretch of the riverbank. Fires were lit and rations issued and the insects began to swarm round in whining clouds of dark specks against the light of the flames. Hamedes said he would bed down amongst the sailors, once he had drunk his fill of wine.

‘Suit yourself,’ Macro responded. ‘But I’m not going to lie out here and get bitten to death.’

Macro called over several of the legionaries and ordered them to erect the tent he and Cato would be sharing.

‘Quick as you can now, lads!’ Macro barked as he swatted the mosquitoes away. ‘Before these little bastards drain the blood out of me.’

As soon as the tent was up, Macro ducked inside and laid his bedroll out on the ground. Cato joined him a little later, after a last look up at the brilliant display of stars in the heavens. The glow of the fires lit up the linen walls of the tent and occasionally the wavering shadows of men passed along the cloth, like the profiles of the paintings he had seen on the province’s temples, Cato decided. No air moved through the tent and it was hot inside. Cato slipped his tunic off and lay sweating in his loincloth. On the other side of the tent, Macro had quickly fallen asleep, even though he had rested most of the day, and his rumbling snores vied with the sounds of chatter and laughter of the men by the fires. Cato smiled and closed his eyes. He might as well make the most of this short, restful interval, he decided.

He woke suddenly, not moving, his eyes wide open, staring up at the roof of the tent. Cato was not sure what had broken his sleep and he was about to stir when he heard the faint sound of movement outside the tent. Then the sound was gone and with a sigh he turned on to his side and closed his eyes again. At once there was a low rush of sound like a long sharp escape of breath. Cato’s eyes snapped open as he realised that he and Macro were not alone in the tent. He slowly turned himself back and raised his head to look round. The campfires were still burning and provided a faint rosy light inside the tent. A short distance away, close to the foot of Macro’s bedroll, a slender shape rose up from the ground, swaying slightly.

C
ato felt his blood freeze in his veins. He sat up, and the noise came again as the shape lurched sideways, moving between the two bedrolls.

‘Oh shit,’ Cato whispered. He kept as still as he could, eyes fixed on the snake. Behind it he could see the tent pole with his sword and that of Macro’s hanging on the peg. His heartbeat increased to a pounding rhythm as he thought frantically. If he moved again he was sure that the serpent would attack. Instead, he licked his lips nervously and whispered as loudly as he dared.

‘Macro . . . Macro . . . Wake up.’

The snoring broke up and there was an incoherent muttered grumble from the other side of the tent.

‘Macro.’

‘Whurgh . . . What the hell is it?’ Macro groaned, stirring as he turned to face Cato.

‘Keep still!’ Cato warned him.

‘What?’ Macro’s head rose. ‘What’s going on then?’

The snake hissed again, louder, and near the top of its body it began to swell out. The sinewy coils beneath writhed momentarily as it edged forward.

‘Shit,’ Macro whispered. ‘We’re in trouble, lad. What do we do?’

Cato stared at the snake. It was close enough now to make out the individual bumps of its scales, and the beady gleam in one of its eyes. A sudden flicker indicated where its mouth was as the cobra’s head towered over the two men.

‘Just . . . keep . . . still,’ Cato whispered.

‘Right.’

Cato had seen some snake charmers in the market at Alexandria and knew how fast the serpents could strike. There was no chance of jumping up and dashing past it towards the swords. If either of them tried, they were dead. He reached his left hand slowly towards his tunic, lying rumpled beside the bedroll. His fingers stole across the earth towards the cloth and closed round a fold.

‘Macro, I’m going to try and distract it. When I make a move you go for the swords. All right?’

‘What kind of distraction?’

‘Doesn’t matter, just be ready. On three.’

The snake was unsettled by the noises and hissed again, still louder, and the head leaned back, ready to strike.

Cato moistened his lips and spoke softly. ‘One . . . two . . . three!’

He whipped up the tunic and jumped to his feet, swinging the tunic waist high through the air towards the snake. The cobra lunged at once, whacking into the cloth before it reversed direction and hissed again. Macro had clambered up and taken a step towards the tent post when the snake slithered round and lunged at him. He jumped back on to his bedroll.

‘Fuck, that was close.’

‘I’ll try again,’ said Cato. He wrapped some of the tunic about his fist and tentatively held the rest out towards the snake. At once it turned its head back towards him, its eyes burning like rubies. Cato moved the tunic to the right and shook it. The snake struck again and at the same time Cato jerked the cloth back. The fangs, caught in the thick strands of wool, came with it and Cato gave a terrified cry as the body of the snake came towards him. He threw the tunic over the cobra’s head and with his spare hand he grabbed at the neck, just below the hood. The snake’s skin was dry and rough and the coils writhed wildly as Cato struggled to keep his grip and at the same time wrap the tunic about its head with his other hand.