The Eagle In The Sand (34 page)

‘Yes,’ Macro replied softly. ‘Bannus is trying to get the wind up our boys.’

‘Then I think he’s succeeded.’ Cato glanced along the wall and saw one of the auxiliaries bent over, vomiting on to the catwalk.

‘Of course,’ Macro continued flatly, ‘there’s a nice ironic touch there for his own side. After all the rebels we’ve crucified over recent years, now we’re on the receiving end. Listen to ‘em! They just love it.’

As the last cross rose up the enemy cheered loudly, and then their tone quickly changed to cruel laughter and derisive taunts and jeering as their victims writhed in agony and blood ran down beneath their arms and stained their bare chests bright red.

‘They’ve had their fun,’ Macro growled. ‘Now it’s our turn. Archers!’ He turned to the men on the wall. In amongst them were sections of men armed with compound bows.’Archers! Shoot on that crowd! Shoot, damn you!’

His obvious rage spurred the men into action. After hastily stringing their bows, the fastest of them notched their arrows, drew back the strings and angled the shafts high before releasing them. The first, ragged volley fell into the crowd, taking down a handful of the enemy before they could scatter and run for cover. More were struck down as the arrows fell with increased intensity. Then a shaft struck one of the Romans on the crosses, burying itself in his throat, so that he jerked, struggled a moment and then hung limp and quite still.

‘They’re hitting our men!’ Cato said in a horrified tone. ‘Stop them!’

‘No.’ Macro shook his head. ‘That’s what I’d hoped for.’

Cato turned and stared. ‘What?’

Macro ignored him and turned to shout to the archers. ‘That’s it, boys! Keep it up! Stick it to ‘em!’

The archers kept shooting as fast as they could, and had no time to follow the passage of their arrows, and so were unaware that they were hitting their comrades at first. Macro waited until the enemy had dispersed and the prisoners had been silenced before he gave the order for the archers to cease shooting. Only then were they fully aware of the result of their handiwork, and they gazed towards the enemy lines in numbed silence, until Macro’s bellowed order echoed across the fort.

‘First century will remain on watch! All other centuries to breakfast!’

When the men moved away from the wall slowly Macro thumped his fist down on the parapet. ‘Officers! Get your men moving! They’re not paid by the bloody hour!’

He glared at the officers as they hurried to carry out his command and soon only a thin screen of auxiliaries remained, spread along the wall. Then Macro nodded with satisfaction. ‘I don’t want our men exposed to that display any more than necessary. I want their minds on the fight, not on what might happen after it.’

‘If they know what Bannus has in store for them, then they’ll fight to the death.’

‘Maybe,’ Macro replied. ‘But they’ll not fight as well, if I give ‘em the chance to dwell on the fate of those poor buggers.’

Cato could see the sense of that. Macro had demonstrated a fine understanding of how soldiers’ minds worked, and even if the men at Fort Bushir were doomed Macro would see to it that their minds were concentrated on killing as many of their enemies as possible before they were cut down in turn. His friend was professional to the very last, Cato realised. And, at some point in the next few days, there was every chance that that last moment would indeed come. Cato looked back towards the bodies hanging from the crosses.

‘Was it really necessary to kill them?’

Macro sniffed. ‘What would you have done? Left them there to die a slow, agonising death? It was an act of mercy, Cato.’

Cato frowned as an unpleasant thought entered his mind. He turned to his friend. ‘What if I had been captured along with Sycorax and the others last night? Would you have given the order for the archers to shoot me?’

A bemused look flitted across Macro’s face.’Of course I would, Cato.Without an instant’s hesitation, and believe me, if you had been nailed up alongside those men, you’d have thanked me.’

‘I’m not sure about that.’

‘In any case, I wouldn’t have given you the choice.’ Macro smiled grimly, before he continued in an earnest tone, ‘And if it had been me out there, I’d have expected you to do the same.The thing is, I’m not sure you’d have the balls to go through with it . . . Well?’

Cato looked at him for a moment and then shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know if I could do that.’

Macro pursed his lips sadly. ‘You’re a good man. A good soldier, and a good officer most of the time. If we get out of his, then one day you’ll have a command of your own, and I won’t be there. That’s when you’ll have to make the really tough decisions, Cato. You can count on it. The question is, are you ready for that?’ He looked hard at his young friend for an instant and then punched him lightly on the shoulder. ‘Think it over. Meanwhile, I want you to make sure that the gatehouse is as ready as it can be before Bannus gets that onager back into action.’

‘I don’t think there’s any point to that, sir. He’ll batter our repairs down quickly enough.’

‘The point is that it keeps our men busy, and stops them thinking too much.That includes you. It also shows Bannus and his friends that the Second Illyrian’s not going to give up, roll over and wait for our enemies to stick the boot in.We’re better than that. Understand what I’m saying?’

‘Of course,’ Cato replied testily. ‘I’m not a fool.’

‘Far from it. But even the most brilliant minds can still learn something from those of us with experience, eh?’ Macro smiled. ‘Now see to it that you do a decent job of that breastwork.’

‘Yes sir.’ Cato nodded. ‘I’ll do my best.’

‘Of course you will. I’d expect nothing less. Don’t just stand there, Centurion. Get moving!’

All morning the men toiled at raising the breastwork over the remains of the gatehouse, and strengthening the inner wall. Mindful of Macro’s words, Cato drove them hard and permitted them few rest breaks as they thickened the makeshift defences and added to the height of the inner wall. If the enemy managed to force their way through this last obstacle then the Second Illyrian Cohort would be wiped out. As the men toiled within the fort, the enemy continued to clear away more of the traps laid outside, their workers screened by a thin line of archers ready to take a shot at any target that revealed itself up on the wall. Behind them the engineers sweated under the bright sun to make the surviving onager serviceable once again. Shortly after noon the enemy at last drew away from the siege engine as the throwing arm was carefully ratcheted back, engineers checking the weapon for any further sign of damage as it prepared to bombard the fort again. At length they were satisfied that it was safe to proceed. A curt order was shouted, the locking lever snapped back and the throwing arm swept up and hit the cross beam with a loud thwack as the missile was released, soaring up into the air and then arcing down towards the gatehouse. At once Cato and the work party dropped their tools and scrambled down behind the wall into cover.

The Parthian siege engineers were first rate, or at least very lucky, thought Cato, as the first shot smashed into the breastwork and knocked a gaping hole in the top of the rebuilt defences. The bombardment continued with an endless cycle of clanks, a crack and the crash and rumble of masonry. After the first missile had landed, Cato pulled his men back behind the inner wall and climbed a corner tower to watch proceedings as the hot afternoon wore on. The gradual destruction of the remains of the gatehouse was carried out in a methodical and complete manner, beginning with the wall and then simply pounding the rest into a pile of loose rubble that would make a practical breach for Bannus and his army to assault. As the light began to fade and the desert sand shimmered hot and bright red in the wash of the setting sun, the onager at last fell still and the men inside the fort no longer had to press themselves into the shelter of a wall and cringe as the rocks crashed down.When he was sure that the bombardment had ceased, Cato sent for Macro. The prefect joined him behind the destroyed gatehouse and took a few tentative steps on the rubble.

‘They’ll be able to climb over this easily enough.’

‘When do you think they’ll come?’ asked Cato.

‘Hard to say.’ Macro looked up at the sky, already darkening to a velvet blue pierced by the first of the evening’s stars. ‘I reckon they’ll wait until first light when they’ll be able to see how the attack is progressing.’ Macro shrugged. ‘At least that’s what I would do in their boots.’

Then they heard the sounds of drums being beaten and the harsh blare of a trumpet.

‘What’s that?’ Cato asked. ‘What are they up to now?’

‘How should I know?’ Macro grumbled. ‘Come on, let’s have a look.’

He beckoned to Cato to follow him and started to climb over the piles of stone, slabs of rock and splintered wooden beams. As they reached the top of the mound of rubble Cato stared towards the enemy camp. A large number of men were forming up opposite the gatehouse, comfortably outside arrow range.The sun, low in the sky, bathed them in an orange hue that glinted off their weapons like molten bronze.

‘Nice!’ Macro nodded towards the wash of colour along the distant skyline. ‘Although I think the view is wasted on our friends out there.They’ve got other things on their minds.’ He turned to Cato with an apologetic expression. ‘Seems I was wrong. They’re not prepared to wait until tomorrow morning. They’re going to attack the fort at once.’

While the enemy massed their forces outside, Macro hurriedly gave orders for the defence of the fort. The cornicen sounded the alarm and the men came running from their barracks blocks, equipment in hand, and went to their stations on the parade square in the lengthening shadows of the headquarters building. In addition to the duty century still on the walls, there were nine other centuries of infantry and four cavalry squadrons who would fight dismounted. There was no time for the customary pre-battle speech to whip up the unit’s fighting spirit. Instead, Macro quickly commanded that the cavalrymen stand firm as a reserve. One century was sent to each of the other walls while the six remaining centuries were sent to the wall facing the enemy.

Macro turned to Cato. ‘I want you in charge of the inner wall. I’m going to need to stand back from this fight and take overall command. So I want my best officer in the most critical position.’

‘Thank you, sir. I swear I won’t let you down.’

‘If you do, then neither of us is going to live to regret it.’ Macro forced himself to laugh. ‘So don’t let those bastards get past you.’

‘I won’t,’ Cato replied. ‘We’ll hold them back until Symeon and his friends arrive.’

‘Oh, he’ll be here,’ Macro said confidently. ‘If I’m any judge of character, he’s the kind of man who’d never miss a fight. So let’s make sure we leave him a few of those Parthians to take care of.’

Cato smiled. ‘I’ll see what I can arrange.’

Macro stuck his hand out. ‘Good luck, lad. We’re going to need it tonight.’

Cato grasped his friend’s hand firmly. ‘Good luck to you too, sir.’

Macro nodded and there was awkward stillness between the two of them and Macro wondered if they would still be alive to greet each other in the morning. Cato seemed to guess what he was thinking and said quietly, ‘We’ve faced tougher enemies in our time, sir.’

‘Ah, but that was in the Second Legion.’ Macro glanced round at the men filing off the parade ground to take up their positions.’These auxiliaries aren’t even close to being a match for legionaries. But they look competent,’ he conceded grudgingly. ‘We’ll know their quality soon enough. Now, off you go.’

As Cato caught up with his men and led the main force to its position on the wall facing the enemy, he thought once more of Symeon and hoped that Macro’s assessment of the man was right. But even if it was, would the men that Symeon knew at Petra be prepared to honour their pledge to the Romans? Cato was not sure. He had too little knowledge of the peoples of the eastern frontier to judge their character. All he, and every other man in the cohort, could do was hope. They would be saved by Symeon and the Nabataeans or die.The Roman forces in Syria would not come to their aid. That was almost certain. Longinus was counting on Bannus to destroy Bushir, and with it the men who knew of his disloyalty to the Emperor. Cato smiled to himself. It would be good to live through this just to see the appalled expression on the Governor’s face.

When he reached the inner wall, Cato placed two centuries on the fighting platform behind the breastwork. Those who were armed with bows were sent on to the walls on either side of the ruined gatehouse, and on to the roofs of the buildings behind the inner wall. Every arrow and javelin that could be spared by the other centuries in the fort was piled up in front of the remaining four centuries, which had been placed under the command of Centurion Parmenion to act as an immediate reserve.The first wave of Judaean rebels to enter the breach was going to be met by a hail of missiles from three sides. Cato could well imagine the devastating effect and hoped that it would be enough to break their spirit. If they could only be persuaded to give up the siege and return to their villages, now, before enough blood was spilt to give Rome and Judaea an insatiable taste for it. If Bushir fell, then the whole province was doomed to years of fire, sword and death on a terrible scale.Therefore, hard as it seemed, Cato must make sure that he and his men slaughtered the first wave of attackers with as much savage, ruthless brutality as they could manage.

As the last of the men quietly took up their positions the sun began to set, burnishing their faces and armour in a warm red glow. It was a small mercy that the rapidly fading glare of the sun made it impossible to see the enemy bearing down on them, but the Romans could clearly hear the cheers and triumphant cries as the rebels moved towards the breach. As they closed on the fort there came a rhythmic rapping of spears and blades against the rims of shields and the air was filled with the harsh din that swelled and magnified the sense of threat that lay beyond the mound of rubble where the gatehouse once stood.