The Legion

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!'

His men stood still, one at each weapon, holding the lever that would release the grip on the torsion rope. The centurion waited until he was certain the leading ranks of Nubians had ridden over the place where the first bolt had plunged into the ground. Cato was gripped with impatience as the centurion kept his arm aloft and continued to let the enemy draw closer.

'Get on with it, man,' he whispered harshly.

'Release!' the centurion suddenly bellowed, sweeping his arm down. The cracks of the bolt throwers sounded almost together, like the snapping of a fistful of sticks. Thirty small shafts whirred towards the camel rider unit, some five or six hundred strong, Cato calculated. The centurion had timed his order well and not a single shot fell short as the cruel iron heads of the missiles tore through the sandy hides of the camels and the robes of their riders. The stricken animals collapsed in heaps as their spindly-looking legs gave way and those behind them were forced to swerve aside, into the flanks of their companions, disrupting their move against the waiting Romans. For a moment their advance stalled, and then as the Romans reloaded their weapons, the Arabs worked round their casualties and continued on. The second volley shot out from behind the Roman lines and struck home, killing and wounding several more. Some of the riders proved a little wary of leading the charge and lagged behind, no doubt hoping to avoid the further attention of the artillery crews. The third and fourth volleys stopped the enemy dead, and they stood in some confusion as the bolts landed amongst them, and then the fifth volley broke their will. The commander of the unit turned aside and rode off towards the flank, beckoning his men to follow him.

A cheer rose up from the Roman ranks and some of the men punched their javelins and swords into the air. It was a pitiful achievement in terms of the scale of the coming battle, Cato realised, but he indulged his men just the same. It was good for their morale, and wounded the enemy's spirits. But even as the warm flow of satisfaction filled his heart, Cato saw a new, far greater threat. The dust on the flanks of the enemy line was thickening and then he saw the masses of horsemen surging forward, quickening their pace into a trot as they rode towards the cavalry cohorts on each side of the Roman infantry. This would be the first real test of the day, Cato knew. If his men failed to hold back the Nubians then the enemy would be able to surround the legion and the auxiliaries and fall on their rear. In that event, Cato and his men would be cut to pieces. He flicked his reins and gestured to his staff officers to follow him as he rode across the rear of the line towards the commander of the Syrian cavalry cohort on the left flank.

Prefect Herophilus nodded a greeting as his commander rode up.

'Your men will be in action soon.' Cato pointed to the dark line of riders approaching, the rumble of their hoofs clearly audible above the ongoing cacophony of Nubian instruments. 'Are they ready to do their duty?'

It was a rhetorical question, but it gave the prefect the chance to speak up for his men.

'My boys will be as steady as a rock, sir. You can depend on us.'

'I know it. If you don't mind, I will join your command for the present, and see for myself how your men fight.'

Herophilus bowed his head. 'My pleasure, sir.'

Both officers turned to watch the enemy. Cato struggled to make sense of their numbers due to the dust that engulfed those a short distance behind the leading ranks.

'There must be thousands of them,' said one of Herophilus's decurions.

'Quiet there!' the prefect snapped at him.

The enemy closed to within half a mile and Cato heard the clack-clack-clack of the bolt throwers as the crews prepared to shoot up the Nubian cavalry. Some of the auxiliary horsemen, distracted by the spectacle of the enemy force, allowed their mounts to move out of position until Herophilus cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed, 'Keep the bloody line there! Decurions! Take the name of any man who can't control his horse!'

The sound of drumming hoofs filled the air and now Cato could feel the vibration through the ground beneath his mount. To his right he heard the officer in charge of the archers order his men to make ready. Then there was a brief stillness over the left flank of the Roman army as they stood their ground and waited for the action to begin. In that moment the sun finally crested the hills to the east and its rays poured over the battlefield, bathing polished armour and weapons in a fiery glitter.

The warm glow was suddenly pierced by the shadowy dashes of the missiles as they were unleashed from the bolt throwers and an instant later the crack of the torsion arms carried to Cato's ears. He watched the fall of shot and saw a rider plucked off his horse and hurled to the ground. More riders went down, together with horses, but they were quickly swallowed up by the waves of Nubian cavalry surging forward. More bolts slammed into the charging mass, and then the archers added their weight to the bombardment, their arrows angling higher into the sky before plunging down. Scores of Nubians were struck down, and yet it seemed to make little difference to their numbers or break the pace of their charge.

Cato drew his sword and his officers followed suit. Herophilus slipped his left arm through the straps of his shield and took up the reins as he shouted orders to his men, his voice shrill with the strain of being heard above the deafening pounding of hoofs. 'Close up! Shields to the front! Make ready your spears and prepare to receive the charge!'

There was a shimmer as the long line of spear tips swept down towards the Nubians. The auxiliary horsemen drew their shields in close, covering as much of their bodies as possible. Beneath them some horses stirred nervously until steadied by a press of the thighs or a calming word. The enemy riders had closed to within a hundred paces now and Cato could see individual details. The riders' mounts were all at full stretch. Their formation had lost cohesion due to the speed of the charge and the loss of those who had been shot down by the archers and bolt throwers. They were still shooting, keeping the range long enough to avoid any danger to their own side, while lashing down on the Nubians at the rear of the charge.

'Here they come!' Herophilus shouted, his eyes wide.

An instant later the first of the enemy reached the Roman line. Their horses shied at the line of mounted men and the deadly points of their spears, and the impact of the charge broke as the melee spread along the line. The prefect and his officers dug their heels in and forced their way amongst the men to join the fight, the cohort's standard bearer following on, keeping the standard raised high for all his comrades to see. Cato edged his mount forward, to just behind the second rank of Roman horsemen. Beyond was a savage sea of gleaming blades, thrashing limbs, the dagger-like ears of horses and wild tossing manes, all accompanied by the harsh clatter and thud of weapons and the cries of rage and pain and whinnies of terrified and stricken cavalry mounts.

'We'll not hold back that host,' said Junius. 'We can't.'

'We must,' Cato replied simply. 'Or die.'

But even as he spoke, more and more of the enemy were pressing forward, forcing the Roman line back.

'Follow me!' Cato commanded, urging his horse forward. He pressed into the melee, knee to knee with the men on either side. They glanced at him in surprise before focusing again on the enemy. Cato raised his sword and gripped the reins tightly in his left hand. He was conscious of not having a shield but it was too late for that. He was committed to the fight and must stay with the men or look a coward if he drew back. To his right he was aware of Junius struggling to stay with him, but another rider intervened and the tribune was forced away and could not safeguard Cato's side.

A gap opened up between two auxiliaries directly ahead and Cato edged his mount into the space, fixing his gaze on the nearest of the Nubians, a lean figure with an ebony face split by brilliant white as he bared his teeth. He spotted Cato and urged his horse forward, raising a heavy curved blade overhead. Cato punched his arm up to block the blow and it glanced away, thudding into the shield of the auxiliary to Cato's right. The man swung round in his saddle and, with an overhand grip, thrust his spear at the Nubian, striking him in the chest. The folds of the robes he wore, together with whatever armour he had beneath, kept the spear point out of his flesh, but the impact drove him back all the same, almost toppling him from his saddle. Cato took advantage of the moment of imbalance and slashed at his sword arm, cutting into his elbow joint. The sword hand spasmed, releasing its grip, and the heavy weapon tumbled down between the flanks of the horses and out of sight. The Nubian howled with agony as he recovered his seat and hauled on the reins, trying to turn his horse away. He succeeded in bringing the beast side on, where it was trapped between the battle lines and left the man exposed to the second spear thrust which pierced his side, under his armpit, and went in deep. A rush of blood accompanied the spear as the auxiliary yanked it free, and the Nubian swayed a moment before falling amid the dust and stamping hoofs.

Cato took the chance to glance round and saw Junius dispatch an enemy with a savage cut to the head. Elsewhere the line had stopped giving ground and the better armour of the Romans meant that they were getting the best of the individual duels. Nor was the enemy pushing forward any more. They had been fought to a halt and as Cato saw, they were giving ground. The reason for this was clear enough. Over the heads of the men in front of him, Cato could see Roman arrows plunging down into the tight press of bodies behind. The Nubians there were anxiously doing their best to shield their bodies with the small round hide shields that most of them carried, but they were poor protection against the barbed iron points. Several men and horses were hit at a time, the wounded animals rearing as the pain of their injuries made them panic and impossible to control.

'Push them back!' Cato roared, edging his mount forward, pressing up against the riderless horse and forcing it aside. A Nubian passed in front of him, out of sword reach, and Cato stabbed his mount in the rump instead. The horse let out a shrill cry and kicked back, narrowly missing Cato's leg, but striking the flank of his mount so hard that Cato heard a rib snap beneath the glossy hide. Abruptly both animals reared up, the Nubian thrown back into Cato's side as he threw his weight forward and clung on tightly to the reins to stay in his saddle. The Nubian's flailing hand caught Cato's tunic above his knee and the fingers clenched. Cato felt himself shift to the side and the terrifying prospect of falling to the ground and being trampled seized him. He cursed the man through gritted teeth and then swung his sword arm over and tried to cut at the hand. But the gap was too cramped to get a swing and the edge pressed into the flesh and did not cut through. Cato desperately started a savage sawing movement in the space that he had and the Nubian howled and a moment later was forced to release his grip and fell beneath Cato's horse where his panicked cry was brutally cut short.

Looking up, Cato saw through the haze of dust that the rearmost ranks of the Nubian cavalry were falling back, away from the arrows that rained down mercilessly. The fear swiftly spread through the enemy and as the last of them turned their mounts and galloped off, Cato looked down the battle line. The auxiliaries stared after the Nubians in silence for a moment, too stupefied by the blood rushing through their veins to realise that they had beaten the enemy off. Then Prefect Herophilus thrust his bloodied blade up and let out a roar of triumph, instantly taken up by the rest of his men as they watched the enemy flee. Bodies of men and horses, many still living, lay scattered across the ground amid the angled shafts of arrows.

As the cheers began to die away, Cato was aware of the sound of fighting from the other flank where the enemy had made another attack in an effort to break the Roman cavalry. Cato squinted to make out the details. It seemed that the Alexandrian cavalry unit was holding its own well enough and on the left flank, the archers and bolt throwers were taking their deadly toll.

Cato sheathed his sword and walked his horse over to Herophilus. 'Well done! That's fine work by your men. Get them re-formed and ready for the next charge.'

'Yes, sir!'

Cato beckoned to Junius and the others and then trotted back towards the centre of the line. He made a quick estimate of the cohort's losses. No more than a tenth of the cavalry had been lost in the first struggle but the Nubians would surely make another charge. Each time they did, the cohort's strength would be whittled down. The Nubian army must be broken before such attrition broke the Roman cavalry.

The small party of officers made their way across the rear of the Roman line and returned to the centre. Macro looked back and nodded a relieved acknowledgement that Cato was still alive, then turned to face the front. Over the helmets of the First Cohort, Cato could see the main bulk of the enemy army advancing straight at them, no more than half a mile away, dense blocks of infantry, with the most heavily armoured making up the centre of the line under the banner of Prince Talmis. Cato wondered if Ajax was there amongst them, with the last of his followers from Crete. For an instant he fervently hoped that fate would give him, or Macro, the chance to face the gladiator one last time to settle the consuming hatred that had brought all three men to this battlefield on the fringe of the Empire.

He thrust thoughts of Ajax aside and turned to one of his orderlies. 'Tell the commanders of both bolt-thrower batteries to target the enemy infantry as soon as they come within range. The same order to the archers. Go.'

The officer nodded and wheeled his mount around and galloped off. Cato turned his attention back to the Nubians. It was impossible to gauge their number through the haze of dust rising up a short distance behind the leading ranks. If this was Prince Talmis's main blow, then there could be more than twenty thousand men tramping across the level ground towards the Roman line, three men to each of Cato's. The sheer weight of numbers would be certain to drive the small army back, which was what Cato had allowed for, indeed counted on, in his plan.

The steady rhythm of the enemy's drums and the clash of cymbals and blare of horns swelled in volume as the host advanced. Once the centurions were satisfied that the lines of their men were dressed as smartly as possible, they took up their places at the right of their commands and waited in silence. The Nubians were now close enough for Cato to make out their officers shouting encouragement and waving their men on with their gleaming swords. There was a moment when Cato felt tempted to say something, some word of comfort to the men around him, but he realised it would only betray the anxiety that bound his stomach in a vice-like knot. Far better to remain silent and seem calm and imperturbable in the face of an approaching sea of enemies.

On both sides the crews of the bolt throwers began to ratchet back the torsion arms with a sharp metallic clatter. Then the heavy, iron-tipped shafts, as long as a man's arm, were loaded on to the weapons and there was a brief pause before the order bellowed out, 'Loose!'

The brief chorus of cracks drowned out the enemy instruments as a veil of missiles seemed to waft up and over the intervening ground before disappearing in amongst the Nubian foot soldiers. Cato well knew the damage that such a volley could wreak amongst dense formations of men and yet the enemy came on without any sign of hesitation, or diminution of their battle cries. It was as if the host had simply absorbed the missiles rather than lost scores of men, pierced through and hurled back against their comrades by the force of the impact. A second volley arced towards the enemy, and this time the bolts struck some of the leading men, tearing through two or three at a time. Then the dead and wounded were lost from sight as their companions stepped round or over them and continued the advance.

At just over two hundred paces the Roman archers loosed their first arrows, with a sound like a rush of wind through the leaves of some great tree. The arrows lifted high into the air and then dashed down amid the enemy, and still they came on at an unbroken pace, hefting their shields round and grasping their weapons firmly as they closed on the waiting Romans.

'Front rank!' Macro called out. 'Prepare javelins!'

The first line of legionaries raised their javelins in an overhand grip, shifting side on to the Nubians as they took two steps forward and waited for Macro's order to hurl their weapons.

Just within a hundred paces of the Roman line the Nubians shuffled to a halt. They continued to yell their cries and taunts, and waved their weapons to challenge their foe.

'What are they waiting for?' asked one of the tribunes. 'Why don't they charge?'

Cato knew why, well enough, and drew a deep breath. 'Stand by to receive missiles!'