As the gap between the two sides narrowed Macro forced his way through the ranks of the first century until he marched only a few ranks from the front. He drew his sword, raised it to hip level and joined in with his men as they continued to rap their blades against the edges of their shields. Ahead, the small enemy force, armour glinting faintly in the flickering glow of the torches held by a handful of men on either side, suddenly checked their pace and hefted their spears up and changed to an overhand grip, ready to stab with the sharp points. Macro and his men responded by raising their shields a little higher so that they were now peering over the rims as they came on.Then they were within striking range and the rebel soldiers shouted their war cries as they stabbed their spears at the Romans. The legionaries instinctively lowered their heads so the only targets were the crests of their helmets and the broad, curved surfaces of the shields. The savagely sharp spearheads thudded into the shields or glanced harmlessly off helmets as the Romans pressed ahead and closed to sword's length before rushing forward with a loud roar. Shield crashed against shield and then the Romans hacked at the spear shafts, battering them down before turning on the rebels and striking at them with ruthless and brutal abandon.
'Stick it to 'em, lads!' Macro shouted. 'Go in hard and fast!'
Against other enemies the trained spearmen might well have prevailed, but the legionaries had thrust the spears aside and closed the gap and now the spears were almost worse than useless. Some of the rebels wisely cast theirs down, or hurled them forward into the Roman ranks, before drawing their swords. Macro saw that they were armed with falcatas, short, down-curved swords with heavy blades that were lethal cutting weapons. There was a continuous chorus of thuds as shield slammed against shield and then the men of both sides began the bloody work of hacking and stabbing at each other whenever a gap appeared between the shields. As he heaved his weight behind the men in the front rank Macro noted that the rebel's swords had an unexpected advantage in close combat. The downward curve at the heavy end of the blade could only strike over the rim of a shield by a small distance, but it was lethal enough if the man behind the shield had his head raised far enough to peer over the top. Just ahead of Macro there was a sharp metallic crack as a falcata cut through the helmet of a legionary and cleaved his skull.The man dropped like a sack of wet barley and his sword clattered to the ground, his shield falling back to cover the body.
At once Macro rushed over the corpse to fill the gap and straightened his arm to stab at the man who had killed the legionary.The rebel saw the glint of the blade and threw his shield up just in time to deflect the blow and then Macro's heavy legionary shield slammed into him, and the rebel staggered back a step. The rearmost ranks of both sides surged forward, pressing together the men who had been exchanging blows. Now it was almost impossible to fight and Macro leaned into his shield and pushed, gritting his teeth as he braced his booted feet and heaved. Around him other men grunted and strained as they sought to push the enemy back. From just the other side of his shield Macro could hear the laboured breathing of the man he had tried to kill. Now neither could strike, and the bitter skirmish was a simple test of strength and numbers.
'Shove harder, you bastards!' Macro called out to his men. 'Forwards!'
For a moment neither side gave any ground, and then, slowly at first, the nailed boots and weight of the Roman side began to tell and Macro took a pace forward and threw his weight ahead again. Another step was won, then another, and then the Romans were steadily pushing the enemy up the street towards the market. They were still subjected to a steady barrage of missiles from the roofs and the ends of adjoining alleys, while Balthus and his archers did their best to force the enemy to keep their heads down.
'Keep going!'
Macro glanced up over his shield rim and saw that the enemy had been forced back into the market. He ducked down again and continued to press forward.There was little attempt to resist the Roman column now and the rebels began to peel away from the rear ranks and scatter amongst the empty market stalls. The rebel officer bellowed angrily at them, until his voice was suddenly cut off as an arrow punched through his throat. He dropped his sword and staggered back, pulling at the barbed shaft until it snapped and the blood coursed from his arteries and he fell to the ground, senseless. His men broke and ran, sprinting across the market away from the Romans. Balthus and his archers loosed a few arrows after them and then turned their attention back to the remaining rebels on the rooftops. The leading section of legionaries started after the fleeing rebels.
'Leave them!' Macro roared. 'Or I'll have your guts for bootlaces!'
The men stopped at once and hurried back to rejoin their comrades, with sheepish grins as their friends jeered them.
'That's enough,' Macro ordered. 'Close up and bear left. Over there.' Macro raised his sword and pointed towards an arched entrance to the market square. The column quickly dressed its ranks and began to march up the widest passage between the bare market stalls. Macro, breathing heavily, stood to one side for a moment to watch the men pass. In the open space there was a faint loom cast by the stars and a fine crescent moon, enough light for the men to see their surroundings and to fight by. Some distance beyond the arch, in the direction of the citadel, the sky was stained red and orange by a fire burning out of sight and Macro felt his stomach tighten.The sounds of fighting drifted on the night air.
'That must be the diversionary attack.'
Macro started and turned and saw that Balthus was standing at his shoulder.
'You move bloody quietly,' Macro muttered with relief. 'Good thing you're on our side.'
Balthus stared at him a second. 'For the moment.At least until Artaxes is dealt with and the Parthians have left my people alone.'
'And after that?'
'After that?' Balthus smiled thinly. 'After that we shall see.'
Macro nodded. 'All right. So that's how things stand. But for now…'
His attention was drawn by a sudden chorus of shouts and as he turned round to gaze across the market square he saw a dark mass of figures spilling down the street that led to the citadel.
Macro cupped a hand to his mouth to shout his orders. 'Column! Halt! Shields up! Prepare to receive enemy charge! Balthus, shoot 'em down!'
08 Centurion
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The suite of rooms set aside for guests of the king had been turned into a makeshift hospital for the garrison's wounded. As Cato entered the small courtyard he saw that most of the rooms were already filled with men lying on sleeping mats, or simple beds of straw. Some slept soundly, others muttered in delirious tones and a few moaned or cried out in pain. A handful of orderlies and women were attending to their needs as best they could. Cato immediately felt as if he had little right to be there. He glanced down at the deep cut that ran across the palm of his left hand. The blood had slowed and was congealing in the filthy puckered lips of the wound. Even though it throbbed painfully Cato felt shamed by the insignificance of his wound compared to those of the other men in the hospital. He frowned in self-contempt, and was about to turn and walk away when a figure emerged from a room a short distance in front of him.