'A pity.'
'But he did tell me a bit about the ground.' Macro indicated the flattened semicircle of Palmyra's walls. 'The defences are in good order, he claims, so we will need to gain entrance by a gate.The citadel is here.' Macro tapped an arrangement of black boxes at the right of the diagram.
'Then we can skirt round the city and enter the citadel directly,' Cato observed hopefully.
'Sorry, sunshine. It ain't going to be that easy.The citadel is built on a low bluff of rock on the wall. There's no access there. There's only one entrance into the citadel inside Palmyra. According to the merchant the best way into the city for us is here, a gate on the east side of Palmyra. It's the most direct route to the entrance to the citadel.'
'That means going through the streets.' Cato shook his head as he considered the prospect. 'If we have to fight our way in, then the rebels will be able to hit us from all sides, and from the roofs. If they get any advance warning they can block our route. If we lose our direction…'
'I can imagine the details, thank you,' Macro responded tersely. 'But for now that's the only plan we have. Like it or bloody lump it.'
Cato raised his eyebrows in resignation, and then continued,'Did your merchant have anything else to tell us?'
'I got as much from him as I could. The citadel is well fortified and the king's bodyguard are the pick of his army. Tough cases, every one of 'em. So says the Greek, but he's no soldier, so we'll have to take that comment with a pinch of salt. But there is one good piece of news. The Palmyran siege weapons are stored in a compound inside the citadel. So Artaxes is going to have to build his kit from scratch before he can manage an assault. Buys us a little more time at any rate.'
'What about the size of Artaxes' forces? What did the Greek know of their numbers?'
'He says that Artaxes has a huge army at his command.' Macro spat with contempt. 'It's probably the first mob the merchant has ever seen. He couldn't tell me if there was one thousand of them or ten thousand. He just didn't have a clue. But he did say that Artaxes is telling everyone that a Parthian army is on its way to help him, and when it arrives, then those in the citadel and anyone who does not swear an oath of loyalty to him will be put to death.'
'We can assume that it's true,' Cato reflected. 'After all, Longinus put a force into the field the moment he was aware of the situation. There's every reason to believe that the Parthians would do the same. In which case, it's all down to which side reaches Palmyra first.'
'My thoughts exactly.' Macro nodded, and rolled up his map. 'So we'd better get the lads back on the road as soon as we can.'
A short time later, the column resumed its march and the men could only glance wistfully at the sparkling surface of the lake as they marched along its bank. They had had only the briefest of opportunities to fill their canteens and rest in the shade of the palms and only a handful had had the chance to immerse themselves in the cool water before the orders to pick up their packs and fall in had been bellowed out, rousing the men from the comfortable shade of the trees. The people of Chalcis watched them for a while before drifting back to their homes to anxiously contemplate the future.
On the far side of the lake the route to Palmyra abruptly branched off through a strip of irrigated farmland, and then gave out on to the desert. Cato's heart sank as he contemplated the flat expanse of pallid yellow sand and rock that stretched ahead into the distance, where the horizon was lost in a shimmering band of hot air that looked like molten silver. The column marched on into the afternoon heat, gradually leaving behind the thin strip of palm-fringed green that marked the lake, until it too was swallowed up by the stifling air that wavered far off in every direction.
Parmenion took one last glance over his shoulder before he turned to Cato and grumbled, 'Five days of this, at least, before we reach Palmyra. When I get there, I'm going to make those rebel bastards pay for every step of the way.'
08 Centurion
CHAPTER EIGHT
Each day began with the same ritual. At the first glimmer of light on the horizon the duty centurion of each cohort woke the other officers. They in turn moved down the lines of sleeping men, shouting the order to rise and prepare to march, pausing here and there to stick the boot into any man slow to respond. With groans and the stretching of cold, stiff limbs the men stood and shook off the sand that had blown over them during the night. They attached their equipment to their marching yokes and then ate a quick meal of dried meat and hard bread from the rations in their haversacks and washed it down with a few mouthfuls of water. Every centurion and optio was conscious of the need to make the water last as long as possible and closely supervised their men as they drank from their canteens.
Once the men had formed into their centuries there was a quick roll-call and then Macro gave the order to begin the day's march. As dawn lightened the sky the air was still and cool and the cohorts marched in an easy rhythm, the heavy crunch of their nailed boots accompanied by the irregular slap and jingle of loose equipment, and muted conversation. The early hours were the most comfortable time of the day to march and Macro deliberately kept the pace up, before the day's heat smothered the desert in its searing embrace. Before this campaign Cato had thought that dawn was the most beautiful time of the day. Now, as the sun rose over the horizon, casting long shadows across the desert plain, he quickly came to regard it as a source of torment.
Gradually the shadows shortened and the light strengthened into a dazzling glare that caused the men to squint their eyes and keep their gaze cast down as they tramped further into the wasteland. Then came the heat. Quickly overpowering the last of the cool dawn air, it wrapped itself around the men of the two cohorts. Now, seasoned veteran and fresh-faced recruit alike began to feel the weight of their equipment and their yokes pressed on to their shoulders as they set their expressions into grim masks and put one foot in front of the other and tried not to think of the remainder of the day stretching ahead of them. As the sun climbed higher and higher into the sky the men became drenched with perspiration that for many caused a hot prickling sensation under their military tunics which became unbearable as the day wore on.
Finally, as the sun neared its zenith, Macro called a halt and the men downed their yokes with weary sighs and groans, before slumping down and taking the midday drink from their canteens.Then they made what shade they could from their shields and cloaks and rested until the midday heat had passed, and the order was given to make ready to continue the march. Back on their feet, the men raised their yokes again and formed up on the track. Then, as the order was given, they shuffled forward into a leaden stride for the rest of the afternoon until the sun slipped towards the horizon. Only as the light faded did the day's march end.
On the third night after leaving Chalcis Cato organised the watches and then went to report to Macro. Several more of his men had fallen behind during the march and three of the cavalry horses had gone lame. Under normal circumstances the beasts would be slaughtered and the meat distributed to the men to cook. But since they were not constructing marching camps Macro had forbidden the lighting of any fires – not that much of a fire could be built from the pitiful stunted growths they had occasionally encountered beside the track – so the animals were killed and their carcasses left in the wake of the two cohorts.
Macro was standing on a small rise, a short distance from his men, surveying the ground ahead of them in the gathering dusk. He turned as he heard the sound of Cato's boots approaching. Forcing a smile on to his cracked lips Macro waved a greeting.
'Two more days of this, and it's over, Cato. Just two more days.'