The Legion (45 page)

‘After the fort was destroyed the Romans sent a force across the Nile to deal with my column, Highness. We held the bank for as long as we could before falling back on a temple that I had ordered the men to fortify. There we made our stand.’

‘Not you apparently.’

‘I had done as much as I could. My death would not have affected the outcome. My life, on the other hand, guarantees that I will continue to be a threat to the Romans. Which is to the benefit of us all, Your Highness.’

‘How did you escape?’

‘My spy arranged to save me and a handful of others.’

Talmis nodded slowly and was silent for a moment before he responded. ‘So, you have cost me five hundred men. Is this what you meant by being of use to me? You, your men and your spy have failed me,’ he concluded in a tone of contempt.

‘We have killed many Romans, Highness. And I succeeded in holding back their advance for two days. As you wished.’

‘That is so. But I do not consider the loss of five hundred of my men a success. In any case, I have the enemy where I want them now so your usefulness to me has been played out, gladiator.’

Ajax’s eyes narrowed and he replied in a low, even tone. ‘What do you mean by that, Your Highness?’

‘The Romans will be crushed tomorrow so I will have no more need of you. If you had been one of my officers I would have had your head by now for the unnecessary loss of a considerable number of my men.’

‘In order to fulfil your orders the loss was unavoidable, Highness.’

‘I wonder.’

‘And I am not one of your officers,’ Ajax went on. ‘I am Ajax, commander of the slave revolt on Crete. While I live Rome trembles,’ Ajax blustered. ‘If you kill me, you only serve the interests of Rome.’

‘Perhaps,’ Talmis conceded. ‘However, your execution will provide a valuable example to the rest of my men of the price of failing me.’

‘But I have not failed you.’

‘I disagree. It is possible that your death will suit my purposes better than your continued service.’

Ajax glared at the Prince. ‘You called me an ally.’

‘A prince has no allies. He has only servants and enemies. It is up to him how to use his servants.’

The gladiator spat on the ground in contempt. At once the captain of the guard turned and struck him on the side of the head. Then he stood, fist clenched, daring the gladiator to defy the Prince again. Ajax shook his head to clear the dizziness caused by the blow. He looked at the Prince and spoke in a low voice. ‘You are making a mistake, Highness. Kill me, and you kill the hope of all those slaves who wait to rise up against Rome.’

‘Be silent, gladiator!’ the Prince commanded. ‘One more word and your life is forfeit.’ He pressed his lips together in a cruel, thin line as he stared at Ajax. The other men in the tent dared not move as they waited for their master to continue. At length the Prince raised a finger and pointed at the gladiator. ‘Your fate is mine to decide. It may be true that I have more to gain by keeping you alive and letting you spread your poison through the Emperor’s domains. I will think on it. For now, you are my prisoner. I need to ponder on your fate.’ He clicked his fingers at the captain of his bodyguard. ‘Take this slave away. Place him under close guard, somewhere safe. He is not to be harmed. Nor is he to escape. If he does, you will answer for it with your life. Go.’

The captain of the bodyguard bowed deeply and gestured to his men to escort Ajax from the tent. Then he followed, still bowing as he backed out and then slipped the flap across the entrance.

Prince Talmis glanced round at his officers. None was prepared to meet his eye. They sat still and silent. He smiled with cold satisfaction at their obeisance and then reached for his wine goblet.

‘Gentlemen, a toast!’ He raised his goblet, and immediately the other men scrambled for theirs and held them ready.

‘Death to Rome!’ Talmis called out.

His officers echoed his toast in a loud bellow and outside, those soldiers who heard the toast smiled as they turned to stare at the campfires of the Roman camp, dwarfed by the flares from the Nubian army sprawling across the dark landscape.

CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR

I
n the hour before dawn Cato sent out the auxiliary cavalry to attack the enemy outposts to divert their attention while the rest of the Roman army filed out of the marching camp. By the wan light of the stars they passed through the defence lines to take up their positions across the strip of open land a short distance beyond where the gap between the hills and the dense growth of palms and reeds along the riverbank was narrowest. Less than a mile beyond, the enemy’s campfires were dying down and dotted the dark landscape in a blanket of flickering red sparks.

The centre of the Roman line was held by Macro’s First Cohort, standing four ranks deep. On either side and slightly behind the centre were the two auxiliary infantry cohorts, then further back two more legionary cohorts. Behind the shallow crescent, bulging out towards the enemy, the archers stood in a loose line, ready to fire over the ranks of their comrades when the battle began. A single cohort of legionaries stood in reserve, and the remaining six stood in dense columns at each end of the crescent, as if to protect the army’s flanks from attack. The bolt throwers had been carted forward to form two batteries covering the ground in front of each wing of cavalry.

Once the infantry were in position, Cato gave the order for the recall of the two cavalry cohorts and they formed up on the flanks. In the normal loose hit and run of cavalry skirmishing they would have been heavily disadvantaged by the enemy’s overwhelming number of horsemen and camel riders. However, they were under strict orders not to charge but to hold their ground and protect the flanks of the Roman line.

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 going 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!’