Текст книги "The Legion"

Автор книги: Simon Scarrow

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'Like a sewer, then,' Macro concluded with a grin, and Cato responded in kind. They rode on in silence for a moment before Cato spoke again.

'Junius will turn out all right, I think.'

'I hope so.'

'You doubt him?'

Macro pursed his lips briefly. 'I don't know. He's just a little too keen to please. He's trying too hard to prove himself. That can be dangerous – to him, and the men he may command one day.'

'Assuming he lives long enough,' Cato replied quietly. 'Surviving the next few days may well prove something of a challenge.'

The army halted an hour before noon and the men fell out and set down their packs before seeking whatever shade they could find. Those without had to make do with shelters made from their cloaks propped up on the end of their javelins. The men rested through the hottest part of the day while the ground around them baked.

Cato and his officers were resting in the shade of a plantation of date palms when a lone cavalryman came galloping down the road into the column, leaving a fine haze of dust in his wake. The few soldiers still on the road backed away and then watched him briefly, wondering what his hurry could signify. The rider reined in and slipped off the back of his horse and ran up to the optio in command of the headquarters guard to make his report. The optio waved him through and a moment later he stood stiffly in front of Cato, chest heaving from his exertions.

'Beg to report, sir, the Nubian army has been sighted.'

The other officers stirred and rose to their feet as Cato asked, 'Where?'

The cavalryman quickly estimated. 'Just over eight miles from here, sir.'

'Are they on the march?'

'Yes, sir. The Nubians are advancing towards us.'

'Eight miles?' Macro muttered. 'Close enough if you intend to give battle today, sir.'

'Not today.' Cato looked round at the landscape. A short distance beyond the date palms stretched an expanse of arable land, less than a mile in width from the river to a line of barren hills stretching off into the desert. He pointed it out to Macro and the others. 'That is where we'll make our stand. The ground is pliable enough to make a marching camp. Macro, give the orders at once. I want our men behind field defences before the Nubians arrive.'

'Yes, sir.' Macro saluted and trotted off to find the senior surveyor and his assistants. Shortly after, they galloped off, trailing a string of mules laden with marking posts and surveying kit.

Cato watched them briefly and then turned to his staff officers. 'Get the men back on their feet. I want them ready to make camp the moment Macro's men have marked the perimeter.'

The haze smearing the horizon between the river and the desert marked the approach of the Nubian host long before the first of its men came in sight of the Roman camp. The legionaries were still constructing the palisade and the watchtowers as the first Nubian patrols appeared, small groups of men mounted on camels who stopped short of the Roman picquets and waited for the rest of the army to catch up. As the sun dipped towards the western horizon, it bathed the landscape in a lurid red, and picked out the armour, weapons and banners of the enemy glinting at the base of the dust cloud that slowly advanced towards the Roman position. The soldiers doubled their efforts to complete the defences in time. In addition to the ditch and rampart, they had dug lines of small pits with angled wooden stakes at the bottom in front of the camp. At each corner of the wall a platform of palm logs packed down with earth had been raised to serve as mounts for the bolt throwers.

When the main defences were completed, Cato gave the order for the patrols to pull back and the auxiliary cavalrymen turned away from the enemy and rode back into the camp, and then the gates were sealed. The army was formed up, in case Prince Talmis decided to attack as soon as he reached the Roman defences. The men and their officers stood and waited as the enemy host came on. The main Nubian column began to divide into three and soon the breadth of land between the Nile and the hills presented an unbroken line of enemy infantry, interspersed with columns of mounted warriors, on horses and camels.

As he stood in one of the watchtowers, Cato sensed the anxiety in his soldiers watching from the palisade. The men of the Twenty-Second and the auxiliaries had never faced such a threat before and few of them had ever fought in a battle. He just hoped that their training and discipline would be enough to ensure that they stood their ground when the time came to face the Nubians in battle.

'An impressive sight,' said Macro, at his side. 'But numbers aren't everything, eh?'

Cato did not reply as he scrutinised the dense ranks of the enemy. For the most part they appeared to be lightly armed, but there were several formations of soldiers who marched well and carried large oval shields and were equipped with an assortment of helmets and armour. There were also large formations of men carrying bundles of javelins. Few of the Nubians seemed to be armed with bows and Cato took some small comfort from that. There was a distant blare of horns and the Nubian army halted. Above them the haze slowly wafted to one side on the evening breeze blowing across the Nile.

'What do you think they'll do now, sir?' asked Junius. 'Will they attack?'

'I doubt it, Tribune,' Cato replied. 'We're in a strong position and any attack would cost Prince Talmis dearly. Despite their number, few of his men are trained soldiers. If his first assault fails, and he suffers heavy casualties, it will hit the spirits of his men hard.'

Macro pointed. 'There. We'll know what the Nubians intend soon enough.'

Cato and Junius turned to see a party of horsemen riding out from the Nubian army, straight down the dusty road that ran along the bank of the Nile. They came on unhurriedly, crossing the open ground between the two waiting armies.

'I don't want them getting too good a view of our defences,' Cato decided. 'Macro, have a cavalry squadron brought forward. We'll ride out and meet them.'

'Yes, sir.' Macro strode across to the ladder and clambered down from the tower. Cato continued watching the approaching riders for a moment and then descended to join his friend who was holding a spare horse ready. Cato swung himself up and settled into the saddle between the two sets of saddle horns and took up the reins, biting back on the pain in his shoulder.

'Let's see what they want.'

The legionaries on the gate facing the enemy scrambled to open it as Cato and his escort trotted forward and a moment later they passed out of the camp and rode down the track that had been trampled through a crop of wheat that led to the road. There they reined in and the escort formed a line behind the two officers, ready to charge forward if Cato gave them the order. The Nubians were only a few hundred paces away and came on at the same measured pace. There were eight of them, beneath a standard depicting a lion, its mouth agape in a silent roar. The leader, swathed in shimmering black silk and a headpiece wrapped round a conical helmet and covering all but his eyes, rode slightly ahead of the rest of his men. He slowed his pace to a gentle walk as he approached Cato and then tugged his reins when he was no more than ten paces away. His dark eyes regarded the Romans for a moment and then he reached up a hand and pulled the cloth away from his face.

'I wish to speak to the Roman general,' he said in Greek. 'Legate Aurelius.'

'Aurelius is dead. I am the commander of the army,' Cato responded.

'You?' For a moment the Nubian hesitated, then shrugged. 'Whether or not that is true, it makes no difference to what I have to say. So hear me, Roman. I am Talmis, Prince of Nubia, lion of the desert and commander of the army you see before you.' He swept his arm out to indicate the massed ranks stretching across the landscape. 'I have brooked Roman interference in our lands for too long. The time for retribution is at hand. I will not sheath my sword until my honour is satisfied, or it has tasted the blood of many Romans.'

Macro coughed and gestured casually towards the Prince's scabbard and the jewelled handle of his weapon. 'If that is the, uh, sword in question, then it's only fair to point out that it is already sheathed.'

'Macro,' Cato muttered through clenched teeth. 'Be quiet!'

The Prince eased his mount forward, its legs high-stepping as he edged it close to Macro and glared into the centurion's face. Macro raised his eyebrows quizzically.

'Is this your pet comedian, Legate? I shall look forward to seeing how he laughs when I have my men disembowel him.'

'Centurion Macro is inclined to speak his mind more than is good for him,' Cato responded evenly. 'However, he does not speak for Rome. I do. What is it that you wish to say to me, Prince?'

Talmis stared at Macro a moment longer then sniffed with contempt and turned to Cato.

'I come to offer my terms for peace. Rome will cede all of the land south of Ombos to Nubia. In addition, I want half of this year's harvest from the province. And ten talents of gold.' His eyes narrowed shrewdly. 'The Roman measure of talents. Not Egyptian. These terms are not negotiable. If you refuse, then I will continue my advance along the Nile, sacking your cities and burning your crops as I go. Even as far as Alexandria.'

Macro laughed. 'I doubt that Rome would permit that. You come within a hundred miles of Alexandria and the Emperor will send enough legions to the region to obliterate you and your army.'

Prince Talmis shrugged. 'Nubia is a big land, Roman. Big enough for me to continue retreating until your legions die of exhaustion, or thirst. Rome does not frighten me. Well?'

'Your terms are unacceptable,' Cato said simply. 'The negotiations are over.'

He pulled on his reins and turned his horse away and began to walk it back towards the camp. His escort followed suit, with wary looks over their shoulders. At first Prince Talmis was silent, fists clenched in rage. Then he stabbed a finger towards the backs of the Roman horsemen.

'So be it! Within days the vultures will be picking your bones clean!' He snatched at his reins, forcing his horse round sharply, then he spurred it back towards his army, his robes flapping like the wings of a crow while his followers struggled to keep up.

Macro watched him briefly and then edged his mount closer to Cato. 'That was pretty blunt. What are you thinking?'

Cato spoke with a resigned air. 'What else could I say? I have no authority to accept his terms. Even if I did, the Emperor could never afford to. So we will have our battle.'

'When?'

'Tomorrow. At dawn.'

Prince Talmis and his senior officers had completed their plans for the disposition of the Nubian army and were feasting on heavily spiced mutton when their meal was interrupted. The captain of the Prince's bodyguard, a large scarred warrior, eased aside the tent flap and entered. Four of his men followed, either side of a tall figure in a ragged tunic and scale armour vest. His skin and hair were matted with sweat and dust and it took the Prince a moment to recognise him.

'Ajax…'

The other officers stopped eating as they turned to look at the gladiator. Their conversation faltered and an uneasy silence filled the tent. Prince Talmis wiped the grease from his fingers on the hem of his robe and leaned back from the polished silver tray from which he had been dining. He stroked his jaw in contemplation as he stared at Ajax.

'Is this the man who claimed that he would be a valuable ally in the war against Rome, I wonder?' he asked with cold sarcasm. 'From the look of you it would appear that you have seen some hard fighting. Is that so?'

'Yes, Highness.' Ajax bowed his head.

'I take it you had the worst of it.'

'Yes.'

'I see. Then tell me, have you achieved what I asked of you?'

Ajax, weary as he was, stood stiffly at full height, dominating the bodyguards who stood around him. 'My men have killed and wounded many of the Romans, as you wished, Highness. We took one of their forts, slaughtered its garrison and burned it to the ground.'

'And what of our casualties?'

Ajax hesitated briefly before replying. 'I regret to say that I and a few of my followers are all that survive. The rest are lost.'

Prince Talmis's eyes widened, and his officers exchanged anxious glances, waiting for him to give vent to his anger. The Prince's lips twitched. 'Lost? Explain.'

'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

In 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!'

The men took up the cry, most with genuine enthusiasm and the remainder following their lead, until they, too, were caught up in the shouted chorus and their pulses quickened with the excitement of the moment.

The cheering spread to the rest of the legion, and then the auxiliary cohorts who had been attached to the Twenty-Second added their voices. The cry of the Roman army challenged the horns, drums, cymbals and wailed ululations of the host marching across the level ground to meet them. Macro turned to look at the Nubians briefly and then strode back through the ranks to rejoin the colour party.

Cato glanced towards his friend and found some faint reassurance in the knowledge that Macro could be trusted to inspire the men he led to follow his example. It was vital that the First Cohort did not break under the weight of the enemy attack. Victory depended upon the timing of the decisive manoeuvre. Not just victory, Cato mused, but their very survival and the survival of the province of Egypt. The horizon to Cato's left was now a bright hazy orange as the sun prepared to make its entrance and announce the birth of another day. For many men on both sides, it would be their last, and Cato felt an icy ripple flow across his scalp, and prayed that it was not a premonition of his own death. The image of Julia momentarily filled his mind and he felt a heated desire for her such as he had not experienced since the last time he touched her flesh.

'Sir!' a voice called and Cato turned to see the most junior of the tribunes pointing towards the enemy now less than a quarter of a mile away. 'They should be in range of the bolt throwers. Should I give the order to let them try a shot, sir?'

Cato was about to reprimand the youth for his presumption, but then saw that he had spoken the truth. One unit of camel riders, armed with javelins, had edged ahead of the rest of the Nubian army and was making for the cavalry on the left of the Roman line. Cato quickly estimated the range and then nodded to the tribune. 'Very well, have the commander of the battery fire ranging shots before he looses any volleys. No sense in wasting ammunition.'

The tribune saluted and spurred his horse into a gallop as he rode across to the battery commander, an auxiliary centurion whom Cato had chosen to command the bolt throwers on that flank. Shortly afterwards there was a dull crack as a bolt thrower's arms snapped forward against their restraints. Although full daylight was still some way off, Cato could easily follow the trajectory of the missile as it shot towards the enemy in a shallow arc and then landed with a puff of dust and grit just in front of the leading camels, causing one to stop dead in its tracks. The battery commander bellowed an order to the rest of his crews and they cranked back the torsion arms and placed the iron-tipped shafts into the channel that ran up the central bed of the weapon. When all were ready, the centurion raised his arm and called out. 'On my word, prepare to shoot!'