'Now then, don't push your luck, gentlemen,' the man said evenly.
'No sense in anyone getting hurt. There's far more of us than you. You put up any fight and I swear I'll gut you both. So, nice and easy like, throw your swords away and get off those horses.'
Cato's heart was pounding and there was the familiar icy tingle on the back of his neck that came before a fight. He gritted his teeth and growled, 'Since you've been good enough to play fair by us, I'll give you one warning. Get out of our way.'
There was a moment of stillness as the two Romans stared intently at the men surrounding them, then some one roared:
'Get 'em, lads!'
The shadows raced towards the horsemen. Cato kicked his heels in.' Ride, sir!'
Sempronius urged his mount forwards, but he was an instant slower to react than Cato, and before his horse had gone ten feet the man had snatched at the reins, while others rushed in from the side.
'Cato! Help!'
Cato twisted round in his saddle and saw the senator slashing wildly with his short sword at the figures flitting around him.
'Shit!' Cato hissed, and savagely wrenched the reins as he swerved his mount round. With his sword arm tensed he charged back into the loose melee about Sempronius. The horse let out a snort as it barged into the man holding the reins, and Cato slashed out with his sword in a wide arc, forcing the other men back. Then he gripped tight with his thighs as he swung across to the other side and hacked down at the hands still grasping the reins of Sempronius's horse. The blade thudded down, cutting flesh and shattering bone, and a shrill scream tore out of the man's lungs as he fell back staring in horror at his nearly severed hand. Cato leaned forward and snatched up the reins before pressing them towards the senator. 'Here!'
'Roman bastard!' a voice cried out, and Cato looked round just in time to see a man charging him with a pitchfork clutched in both hands. He snatched his sword blade back and chopped at the oncoming prongs. There was a sharp ring as metal met metal and Cato's blow knocked the prongs down, away from his chest. An instant later he felt a blow, like a punch, in his thigh, and there was a whinny from the horse as the other prong stuck into its side. Cato gasped, then snarled as he drew his arm back and slammed the tip of the blade deep into the man's chest, just below his neck. The attacker collapsed with a grunt, releasing his grip on the shaft of the pitchfork as he slumped to the ground. For a moment the shaft sagged, tearing at the flesh of man and horse, before Cato knocked it free with his sword. Then he glanced round, and saw that the two men he had put down had shaken the rest of the attackers.
'Go, sir!' he shouted at Sempronius.
This time he waited until the senator's mount had cleared the loose ring of men before he slapped the side of his blade into his own horse's rump and galloped after Sempronius. He heard a grunt, and another pitchfork narrowly flicked past his left side before dropping out of view. He ducked low, clenching his fist around the sword handle to ensure he did not drop it as they rode down the road to Gortyna. Behind them the attackers howled with rage and ran after them for a short distance, before giving up and hurling insults that gradually faded behind Cato as he followed Sempronius along the road.
CHAPTER SIX
Macro let out a weary sigh as he looked over the reports he had demanded from the officers and clerks of the auxiliary cohort.
Outside night had fallen, and from the window of the office he could see the flickering glow of torches along the walls of the acropolis. He blinked and rubbed his eyes as his mouth opened in a long, wide yawn, before returning his attention to his work. Several wax notebooks were stacked on his desk detailing the strength of each century in the cohort, with the names of the best men in each unit underscored by their centurions. Those dead or missing were marked with a cross. There was also a detailed inventory of the cohort's stores compiled by the quartermaster and a report from the only assistant assigned to the cohort's surgeon. The surgeon who had been in the port when the earthquake struck and was still missing. The barracks room that served as sick quarters was overflowing with injured, and the surgeon's assistant requested more men to help him deal with the casualties.
In addition to his other concerns, Macro had sent out a patrol to the bay to find the crew and passengers of the Horusand have themescorted back to the acropolis. They would be given shelter, and Macro would need the fittest of them to fill out the ranks of the cohort until the emergency was over.
As soon as he took command of the cohort, he had carried out a close inspection of the men formed up in their centuries in the courtyard of the acropolis. It was as Portillus had said: only half his men had survived when the earthquake struck Matala. Those that remained were badly shaken by the loss of their comrades, and the mortal terror they felt towards whichever god it was who had decided to wreak his fury upon the port. As Macro slowly paced along the ranks of the Twelfth Hispania, his experienced eye quickly saw that the cohort was typical of most of the garrison units stationed in the safer provinces of the empire. There was a mixture of worn-out veterans, impatiently awaiting their discharge, and those whose health had been broken on campaign and who had been transferred to Crete where they could manage to carry out gentle policing duties. Finally there was a handful of simpletons and scrawny youths who could just about be trusted to hold a weapon and not do themselves, or their comrades, any harm.
Macro shook his head. As things stood, the cohort was going to be little use in restoring order and helping the civilian survivors. He would need better men, and more of them, in the days to come.
Meanwhile, he resolved to do what he could with the resources at hand. Not that there were many resources, he sighed. The quartermaster's inventory revealed that the cohort had been run down in recent years. A string of governors had done their best to cut the costs of running the province right down to the bone in order to curry favour with the emperor and senate back in Rome. Worn - out equipment had not been replaced and the soldiers had had to make up the shortfall in the local markets. They wore an odd assortment of standard-issue kit and a range of old Gallic and Greek helmets and swords. There were very few slings, almost no lead shot for them, and very few reserves of essential rations and drinking water. Two of the cisterns of the acropolis were bone dry and the third only half full, and what was left was barely potable, as Macro had discovered when he accompanied the quartermaster down the steps into the cool interior of the cistern, cut from living rock.
'That is fucking disgusting!' He spat out the rank-tasting liquid and wiped his mouth dry on the back of his hand before climbing back out.' When was the last time this was drained and cleaned out?'
The quartermaster shrugged. 'Don't know, sir. Must have been before my time.'
'How long have you been here?'
'Seven years, sir.'
'Seven years, ' Macro repeated flatly. 'And you just chose to ignore it?'
'No, sir, ' the quartermaster replied indignantly He was a thin old stick, with dark, wizened features, but he carried the scars that spoke 53
of some active service, Macro conceded. The quartermaster continued.' The prefect told me not to bother. Said that how as we were a garrison unit, and the province was at peace, there was no point in preparing for a siege, sir.'
'I see. Right, well, that's going to change. At first light I want you and your clerks down here. The cistern is to be drained, thoroughly cleaned, repaired and made ready to store any rain that falls.'
'Yes, sir.'
Macro stared at the quartermaster.' Look here... what was the name again?'