The Legion (10 page)

If the party of men didn’t leave soon he would have to risk making his attack against less favourable odds. In addition to Hamedes, he had ten legionaries with him. Ten men against the half dozen who had approached the tower and perhaps another four or five inside. Ten Romans and one priest, Macro corrected himself. Still, Hamedes was solid enough and might be useful in a tight spot. Two tenders and their sailors were waiting in a small cove back along the headland, ready to evacuate them if for any reason they failed to take the towers and had to escape in a hurry.

Macro eased his hand back and drew his sword, wincing at the faint sound of scraping as the tip cleared the scabbard. He held it tightly as he raised his head as much as he dared to get a better view of the tower. Beside him Hamedes took a sharp breath and whispered, ‘We should go, Centurion. There’s too many of them. They’ll kill us.’

‘Quiet,’ Macro hissed. ‘And don’t move, or I’ll kill you myself.’

He switched his attention back to the tower, clearly visible against the horizon. It would not be long before the sentries caught sight of the approaching ships and raised the alarm, Macro realised. Then, at last, the men from the fort turned away from the tower and began to retrace their steps along the headland. As they passed Macro’s hiding place, his heart began to race as he recognised their leader.

‘Ajax,’ he breathed softly through gritted teeth. He felt his muscles tense like iron and an icy rage gripped his body so that it took all his self-control not to spring from cover and hack the gladiator to bloody pieces. As he lay, trembling with fury, visions, smells and emotions filled his mind with a raw intensity as he recalled the shaming torments that Ajax had subjected him to. Torments that he had tried to forget and suppress. Things he had never confessed to even his closest friend, Cato, and never would. Macro shut his eyes, blanking out the barely discernible figure of Ajax. He breathed deeply, fighting back against the memories that threatened to overwhelm him. When he opened his eyes again, the gladiator and his companions had disappeared down the track that led to the beach on the inside of the headland.

Macro rose into a crouch and turned to the silent shapes lying on the ground behind him. ‘On me,’ he growled softly.

He moved forward, keeping low, and there was a faint swishing through the dry grass behind him as his men followed. Keeping in the shadow of the rocks, Macro moved stealthily towards the tower. He could see that the heavy door at the base of the tower was open. Above, on the platform, he heard voices muttering and a faint rustle as the morning breeze stirred the tips of the palm leaves of the sunshade. Macro scurried across the open ground in front of the tower, making straight for the door. Then a figure appeared in the frame, and froze. Macro powered forward, lowering the tip of his sword. At the last moment he punched the blade forward and it ripped into the man’s midriff an instant before Macro’s shoulder struck him in the chest. He slammed the man back through the door, across the interior of the tower until he struck one of the posts holding up the floor above. The man grunted as the breath was driven out of him and warm spittle and blood splattered Macro’s face. Clamping his spare hand over the man’s mouth, Macro thrust the sword up into the ribcage, ripping through vital organs. His opponent struggled frantically and then abruptly slumped forward on to Macro. He drew back, wrenching his blade free, and eased the body down on to the ground. Around him, his men crowded into the tower.

‘What’s going on there?’ a voice called down the flight of wooden stairs leading up to the platform. ‘Portius?’

There was a faint hue of wavering orange light from above, illuminating the topmost stairs.

‘Let’s go,’ Macro growled, running to the stairs and pounding up to the first level of the tower. When he reached the top, he saw a room with several sleeping mats lining the wall, a table and stools and weapons rack. There were two men. One rising up on an elbow, disturbed from his sleep. The other was near the top of the stairs, close to the weapons. He was quicker witted than his companion downstairs and instantly snatched at a spear and lowered the tip towards Macro as he and his men raced into the room. The spear tip thrust forwards and Macro swerved aside, crashing into a stool that sent him sprawling. The legionary behind him did not see the danger until it was too late and the spear thudded into the shoulder of his sword arm, the impact spinning him round against the shaft and knocking it to one side. The next man thrust his way past, and hacked at the spearman’s neck, cutting deep. With a sharp cry the renegade collapsed back, on to the floor, the butt of the spear clattering beside him. The man on the mattress made to get up but was cut down before he reached his feet.

‘The roof!’ Macro called out as he scrambled to his feet. ‘Move!’

The first few men ran past, climbing the last flight of stairs. Macro went after them. There was a brief cry of alarm, quickly cut off. As he emerged on to the roof, Macro glanced round. There was a low wall topped off with a wooden rail surrounding the roof. In one corner was the palm-leaf shade. In the opposite corner the signal brazier. There were four bolt throwers. A dull glow came from a small niche where an oil lamp stood ready to light the brazier.

‘You two!’ Macro pointed at the nearest of his men. ‘Get downstairs and seal the door. Barricade it with whatever’s to hand.’

He hurried across to the rail and stared towards the fort. A handful of torches glowed by the main gate and by their light he could see a pair of sentries standing on the gatehouse, apparently unconcerned. The dark shapes of three ships lay beached on the shore in front of the fort. There was no sign of alarm.

‘Good.’ Macro nodded to himself. Then he turned and crossed to the brazier, snatching up some of the kindling. He then carefully picked up the oil lamp and made his way down the stairs and outside. He set the lamp down and made a small pile of the kindling against the side of the tower facing the sea, and presented the flame of the oil lamp to it. The pallid yellow flicker licked the bundle of dry twigs and palm leaves. Then there was a puff of smoke as the flame caught and quickly spread through the rest of the bundle. The wall around the fire lit up with a bright yellow glow and Macro stood back and turned to look out to sea, searching until his eyes fixed on the distant shapes of the warships.

There was a shout from inside the tower and Macro looked up and saw light flickering from a small window halfway up the wall. The light quickly intensified and now the crackle of flames came to his ears.

‘What the hell?’ He hurried round to the door as the first of his men came stumbling outside.

Macro grabbed the legionary. ‘What’s going on?’

‘There’s a fire in the sentry’s quarters, sir! The oil lamp must have gone over and set light to one of the bedrolls.’

‘Fuck,’ Macro gritted his teeth. ‘We have to put it out, quick.’

He ran back inside, up the stairs. Already the air was thick with smoke and the flames flared up against the walls, lighting the space in a hellish red light. There were shouts from above as the flames licked up the stairs. Macro looked round desperately, then saw an amphora leaning in the corner. He rushed over and snatched it up, and pulled out the stopper, instantly releasing the sharp tang of wine. Moving towards the fire, and wincing at the heat that struck him like a stinging blow, Macro shook the contents towards the flames. The wine landed in gouts, quenching the flames, but not quickly enough.

‘Bugger this,’ Macro growled, stepping back. He hefted the amphora, took aim at the wall where the flames were most fierce and hurled the jar. The heavy pottery exploded, wine splattered on the rough plaster and drenched the sleeping mat below. Snatching up a cloak from the table, Macro started beating out the flames.

He looked over his shoulder and saw Hamedes. ‘Give me a bloody hand!’

The priest hesitated for an instant, his eyes wide with fear, then he plucked a cloak from a peg on the wall beside him and joined Macro, smothering the remaining flames. When the last of the fire was stamped out, Macro nodded his thanks. He looked round the smoke-filled room. An acrid stench gripped his throat and he coughed. Throwing the cloak down, he stumbled to the stairs, pushing the priest ahead of him, and climbed up on to the roof. He crossed to the wooden rail and breathed deeply to clear his lungs. The dawn was coming up fast; a band of pale light thickened along the horizon. By its glow Macro could already see the full extent of the bay from the shadowy mangroves, across the water to the fort. Several figures had emerged from the gate and were looking directly towards the headland. More appeared on the walls of the fort and then there was a shrill blast of a horn.

‘Damn, they’ve seen the fire.’ Macro clenched the rail. A moment later, he watched a strong force of men emerge from the gate. They carried shields and a mix of weapons – swords, spears, axes and a handful of bows. Several of them carried torches that flared brightly as they broke into a trot. They hurried along the path leading to the headland. Macro sucked in a breath. ‘Now we’re for it.’

Cato had given the order for the
Sobek
to head for the entrance to the bay at full speed and the drum beneath the deck beat the time as the oars swept forward, down and back, powering the warship forward. In the near darkness, Macro’s signal had stood out clearly. But then more flames had appeared briefly, licking up out of the tower and illuminating the surrounding rocks.

‘What the hell is he playing at?’ said the trierarch. ‘He’s going to give the whole thing away.’

‘Something’s gone wrong,’ Cato responded anxiously. ‘How long before we make the entrance to the bay?’

The trierarch squinted at the coastline and estimated the distance. ‘Within the half-hour if we keep up the current speed.’

‘So long?’ Cato stared at the headland. He forced himself to push his concern for Macro aside and concentrated on the timing. From his experience of the last two months he knew that a well-handled ship could be refloated from a beach in less than a quarter of the time. If Ajax moved quickly he could get his men aboard their ship and make for the open sea before the trap was closed. That could not be allowed to happen, Cato resolved. He turned to the trierarch.

‘Can the ship go any faster?’

‘Yes, sir. Ramming speed is part of the drill. But we can only keep it up for a short stretch.’

‘Then give the order.’

‘But sir, it will exhaust the men. They need their strength for when we close to do battle.’

‘There won’t be any battle unless we reach the bay in time. Your men must row their hearts out. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Then give the order. Pass it on to the other ships. Go!’

The trierarch dropped down the ladder on to the deck and ran to the midships hatchway to shout the order to his timekeeper. Cato heard the drum increase its pace, and the deck gave a little lurch beneath his boots as the
Sobek
began to speed up. To the east, off the port bow, the sky was turning pink and painting the undersides of a few scattered clouds in a warm delicate hue. Cato willed the ship on. The flames on the tower had died away now and he could not help wondering what had become of Macro and his men. If they still lived, then they were on their own until the warships reached the bay. Even as his thoughts were with this friend, Cato saw a tiny pinprick of light dancing along the headland, then another, and more, and with a sick feeling in his stomach he realised that Ajax and his men were already hunting down Macro and his small band.

‘
S
ir!’ a voice called to Macro. ‘They’re coming!’

He trotted over to the edge of the tower and saw the figures emerging between two rocks, less than a quarter of a mile away. They came on at a run and Macro quickly saw that he and his men were outnumbered at least three to one.

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Hamedes. ‘There’s too many of them. We should get out of here while there’s still time. Or surrender.’

‘Surrender? To that bastard? Never!’ Macro snarled.

‘Then let’s run.’

‘Run? Where? We’re on a bloody headland. There’s nowhere to run to, you idiot. Now shut up and give me a hand.’ Macro moved over to one of the bolt throwers and swivelled it round to face the oncoming attackers. ‘Open the ammunition box,’ he snapped and pointed at a weathered chest beside the wall. While Hamedes fetched a bundle of the heavy bolts, two feet long with heavy iron heads and wooden flights, Macro wound the handle and ratcheted back the thick tarry cord that stretched between the two arms of the weapon. Once it was ready, he took the first bolt from the priest and laid it in the long groove that passed between the boxes containing the torsion ropes. The first of the renegades was little more than two hundred paces from the tower now and Macro pulled out the elevation pin and then grunted as he raised the bed of the weapon, sighted the bolt thrower on the man, then slipped the pin back in. He straightened up.

‘Stand clear!’

He glanced round, then grasped the lanyard that released the ratchet. He gave it a quick tug and the throwing arms snapped forward against the leather buffers with a sharp crack. At once Macro looked over the rail and saw the slender shadow slash through the dawn air towards the oncoming men. It flew over the leading man’s head even before he was aware it was there. The bolt flew on, past another man before it hit the ground, sent up a spray of grit and ricocheted up and tore through the leg of one of the renegades, lifting him off the ground and sending him spinning into a small group close behind, knocking them down.

‘Ha!’ Macro growled with satisfaction, and hurriedly prepared the next shot. ‘Bolt!’ He held out his hand and Hamedes fumbled for the next round. He dropped it and ducked down to retrieve it as Macro cursed him. Looking up, Macro saw that the attackers had spread out and were picking their way forward more cautiously. That suited Macro well enough. All that mattered was to buy enough time to allow Cato’s ships to enter the bay. Three of Ajax’s men were creeping forward by the rocks where Macro’s party had hidden and he swivelled the weapon round and released the catch. There was another crack and the bolt whirred through the air. This time it struck one of the men cleanly in the chest, hurling him back against a boulder where he crumpled in an untidy heap, the end of the shaft projecting from his tunic.