Centurion

The rebel charge had halted the Roman advance and now they stood, feet braced, punching out their shields as they stabbed at any of the enemy who dared to press their attack too closely. In the growing light Cato saw the glint of a blade rising in front of his shield and instinctively threw his sword up to block the blow. An instant later the heavy tip of a falcata crashed against his short sword, driving Cato's weapon down. His arm felt numb and Cato clenched his fist with all his strength to retain a firm grip on the handle.The falcata rose again, accompanied by a triumphant snarl from the rebel who was wielding the weapon.This time Cato was able to swing his shield up and punched it out to meet the sword as he swung his own blade in a short scything cut at the man's leading leg. The blow landed at the same time as the shield boss rang overhead and drove down on to Cato's helmet. As he dropped on one knee he heard the rebel howl with pain and rage and Cato saw that the edge of his sword had cut deep into the man's thigh, severing muscles all the way to the bone. The man stumbled back and slumped to the ground as he dropped his weapon and clamped a hand over the wound, trying to stem the rush of blood. Then another man jumped in front of him and he was lost to Cato's view.

A hand gripped Cato's arm and pulled him on to his feet and back into the Roman formation. Cato glanced round and saw Parmenion.

'Are you injured, Prefect?'

'No.'

'Good.' Parmenion nodded, then leaned to one side as a spear stabbed past his head. Cato cut down on the shaft, knocking it to the ground, and then slashed at the hand grasping it, smashing knuckles and cutting tendons, so that the spear fell from nerveless fingers.

'Give ground!' Cato ordered. 'Parmenion, call the pace.'

'One!' Parmenion shouted, and the cohort backed off a step. 'Two! One! Two!'

The Second Illyrian steadily withdrew towards the citadel and Cato eased his way back through the ranks to the side of the standard-bearer. A withdrawal was one of the most difficult manoeuvres to handle. If the formation faltered, or fell apart, then the Palmyran rebels would cut them to pieces. Cato saw that the last of the mercenaries had entered the citadel and Macro stood alone under the massive stone arch, beckoning to Cato. Beside him Parmenion continued to call the pace and the cohort edged slowly towards the gate. The left flank was protected by the towering wall and the archers and javelin throwers pelting the rebels from above. But the right of the line would soon have to fold back and the rebels would flow round the edge and surround the Romans just as they had the Greek mercenaries.

'Parmenion! On me!'

As soon as his second-in-command was at his side Cato indicated the right flank. 'I'll take command of the flank century. As soon as the left of the line reaches the gate you get them inside a century at a time. I'll cover you until it's our turn.'

'Yes, sir.' Parmenion nodded. 'Good luck, sir.'

'I'll need it.'

Cato ran down the rear of the cohort until he reached the first century of the cohort, composed of picked men. Their commander, Centurion Metellus, saluted as Cato reached him.

'Hot work, sir.'

'And about to get hotter.' Cato smiled grimly. 'We're going to cover the withdrawal through the gate. When I give the order, I want the first cohort to form a wedge.We'll move up towards the gate and hold the ground in front of it until the rest of the cohort are through.'

'I understand, sir,' Centurion Metellus replied calmly. 'My lads won't let you down.'

Cato smiled. 'I know.'

He glanced round and saw that the last of the cohort's wounded men, and the mounted troops assigned to protect them, were already trotting back through the gate as the auxiliaries withdrew towards the citadel. The time had come for the first century to move away from the buildings on their right, opening the way for the rebels to sweep round their flank. Cato nodded to Centurion Metellus. 'Give the order.'

Metellus filled his lungs and bellowed, 'First century will form a wedge!' He paused a moment and counted to three under his breath and then, 'Manoeuvre!'

At once the flanking sections folded back to form the second and third sides and then the auxiliaries faced out so that the wedge presented shields on all three faces. The rebels surged into the gaps and flowed round Metellus' century, hacking and thrusting at the shields.

'First century! Advance towards the gate!'

With Metellus calling the pace the wedge edged across the agora, surrounded by the rebels, who were shouting with excitement and triumph, like wild predators scenting an imminent kill. As Cato had hoped, the pressure eased on the other centuries and they began to retire without too much trouble through the gate, while the rebels turned their fury on the remaining unit slowly forcing its way through the mob. Looking out over the close ranks of the auxiliaries Cato could see that most of the rebels surrounding them were lightly armed. As yet, only a handful of Prince Artaxes' regular soldiers had reached the fight, but then the blast of a horn echoed across the agora and Cato glanced round to see a column of soldiers emerge on the other side of the open ground. Immediately they broke into a trot, making straight for the fight in front of the citadel gates.

'We have to pick up the pace,' Cato decided. 'Metellus!'

'I see them, sir,' Metellus replied quickly and called out to his men more frequently. 'One!… Two!'

Cato saw that they were no more than fifty feet from the gate. Macro had retreated through the arch and Cato could see his transverse crest amongst the dense formation of legionaries formed up just inside the citadel. On the walls above, the archers had turned their attention towards the new enemy column pounding across the agora. The dark shafts of arrows rattled on to the paving, or splintered shields, with a few shots striking men down as they ran to cut off the retreat of the last of the Romans outside the citadel.

Already the pressure from the dense mass of men outside the small wedge formation was taking its toll and the auxiliaries began to slow, all the while slamming their shields and stabbing their swords into the press of enemy bodies. Suddenly, one rebel, more daring than his comrades, grabbed the top of a shield of one the men close to Cato. Before the auxiliary could cut at the man's fingers, the rebel wrenched the shield down savagely, smacking the bottom rim into the auxiliary's shins.The man gasped with pain and in that moment of hesitation, with his upper body exposed, another rebel thrust a spear at his throat. The point tore through his neck cloth and burst out from under the helmet neck guard. As the man sagged forward on to his knees the spearman leaped forward into the gap.

'No, you don't!' Cato growled, and rushed the few paces to the rebel, throwing his weight behind his shield as a spear thrust glanced off the curved surface, and then Cato smashed into the man, sending him reeling back into the mob. Cato stopped level with the auxiliaries on either side, taking the place of the fallen soldier. His heart was racing, beating like a drum in his chest. He drew a breath and cried out. 'Keep moving! If we stop, we die!'

The men at the head of the wedge pressed forward again, punching with their shields and thrusting and hacking at the enemy with their short swords. They gained perhaps another ten paces before the formation was stalled again, tantalisingly close to the gate, just as the first of the fresh rebel soldiers reached the fight and forced their way through towards the Romans.Then Cato realised, with certainty, that the first century would make no further progress towards the gate. He slammed his shield out, then slashed his sword in an arc before he risked a glimpse towards the gate, no more than a few paces away. It was still open, and already some of the rebels were turning towards it, sensing the opportunity.