Centurion

At once the men of Cato's cohort and the nearest century of Macro's legionaries let out a loud chorus of jeers. Parmenion stood up, ready to silence them, but Cato caught his eye and shook his head. 'Let them enjoy themselves for a moment. They'll need to be in good spirits for what's to come.'

'Very well, sir.'

Cato stood up and stared at the ground in front of the Second Illyrian. Perhaps as many as twenty of the enemy had been shot down by Balthus and his men. A few lay still, sprawled on the slope. Others moved feebly, crying out for help. One man, his shoulder pierced through, was staggering back towards the crest of the hill. Cato heard Balthus shout an order, then one of his men slung his bow over his shoulder and spurred his horse into a gallop. The rider swung round the end of Cato's line and headed after the fleeing man. A curved blade flickered in the rider's right hand as he leaned out to the side while he rapidly gained on the Parthian. The latter glanced back, then turned and ran for his life. As he drew abreast of the Parthian, the rider slashed down and a sheet of crimson flicked into the air and the body crashed to the ground. The watching Romans fell silent for an instant, before Parmenion punched his fist into the air and roared with triumph.'Stick the bastards! Kill 'em all!'

Balthus' man duly obliged, riding back amongst the enemy wounded, finishing them off one by one until nothing moved, save the wounded horses that bucked on the ground, or just lay on their sides, nostrils flaring in pain and terror as their chests heaved like bellows. The rider wiped his blade on the robes of one of the Parthians, then calmly sheathed it and trotted back round the flank and rejoined his comrades, to fresh cheers from the auxiliaries.

As the sun rose over the crest of the low hill the staff officer came down the line again.

'Sir, the general has ordered a withdrawal,' the tribune explained quickly. 'The Third Legion will form the vanguard, then the main body of the auxiliary cohorts. The Tenth Legion will follow, then the Sixth Macedonian. Centurion Macro's cohort, the Second Illyrian and the Palmyran contingent will form the afterguard.'

Cato smiled bitterly at the officer.

'Sir?' The tribune looked at Cato with a puzzled expression.

'It's nothing. Nothing I'm not getting used to.' Cato pointed along the line.'Give the general a message from me. You tell him that Prefect Cato feels another miracle coming on. Got that?'

'Yes, sir. But I don't understand.'

'Just tell him what I said.'

'Yes, sir.' The tribune snapped a brief salute. 'Good luck, sir.'

Cato nodded. 'That's something we'll all need today.'

As the sun rose slowly into a clear sky, promising another day of blistering heat beneath its harsh glare, the Roman army began to pull back from the crest of the slope. One cohort at a time, from the centre of the army, they formed into column and moved off along the track towards Palmyra. All the time the Parthians kept up a steady shower of arrows, loosing all their shafts before riding back towards the strings of camels to refill their quivers from the large baskets of fresh arrows slung over the beasts' backs. Along the crest of the hill the shields of the Romans bore the splintered scars of arrow impacts and some still carried arrows that had become lodged in place. Shafts lay scattered on the ground, or stood up at an angle, so thickly that they looked like the stalks of a torched field of wheat. Already hundreds of men had been killed or injured. Most were walking wounded and fell back to join the units already on the track. Those who were too badly injured to walk were placed on the backs of the few supply mules that had been brought along with the army.

As each unit moved out of line, the Roman front shrank as the remaining cohorts closed ranks. By mid-morning the last elements of the Tenth Legion began to move down the slope, leaving Macro's and Cato's cohorts to cover the end of the column.

'We'll form a box,' Macro decided. 'Shields out as we march. It'll be slower going, but we'll lose fewer men. Any wounded can go to the centre. We'll carry as many as we can, but the mortally wounded will have to be dealt with. I'll not leave them to the enemy.'

Cato muttered his agreement.

'And what orders have you for me?' asked Balthus.

'I'll need your men as a flying column. Do what you can to disrupt their attacks, but keep your distance as far as you can, or they'll cut you to pieces.'

Balthus nodded. The two men looked at each for a moment, weighing the odds of their survival. Despite his previous suspicion of the Palmyran prince's motives Macro knew that Balthus was in his element on the battlefield and the Roman felt a grudging respect in his breast as he nodded to the prince. 'Last one back in Palmyra buys the drinks. Let's get moving.'

The army retraced its route at a slow pace under the beating sun: a long column of armoured men tramping through the dust, anxiously hunched behind their shields as they waited for the next flight of arrows to whirl down through the haze. The Parthians, many thousands of them, clung to the flanks of General Longinus' army, riding along its length and almost casually loosing their arrows before breaking off to fetch some more. Their only hindrance was the occasional charges of the auxiliary cavalry, who managed to drive them off for a short distance before having to return to their positions, and then after a little while the horse-archers would ride back in and continue their barrage of arrows. Prince Balthus and his men had only a small reserve of arrows and used them sparingly whenever a Parthian ventured too close to the rearguard.

Macro's men, being the best armoured, formed the very tail of the column and the broad legionary shields absorbed a steady crack and thud of missiles as the cohort marched slowly over the parched desert. Every so often a shaft found a way through or over the shields and struck one of the men inside the elongated box.The impact of the arrows made the victims stagger, with an explosive gasp or cry of pain. Sometimes it was a flesh wound, passing straight through without touching bone or any vital organ, and the shaft could be cut free and the wound hurriedly dressed by one of the hard-pressed orderlies. The more severely wounded were unceremoniously thrown over a comrade's shoulder and carried to the centre of the box where the surgeon hurriedly assessed the wound. If there was a good chance of recovery the man was dumped into one of the small mule carts, or over the back of a mule, where the jolting of the carts and the plodding of the mules made the wounds hurt even more. And all the time the sun blazed down. Some of the men, less self-controlled than the others, had already drained their canteens and their lips dried out and the thirst began to burn in their throats.

For those with little or no chance of recovery, the surgeon discreetly drew out a razor-sharp blade from his kit and deftly opened an artery so that the critically wounded bled to death before they even realised what had happened. Their bodies were left with those men who had died outright; and soon the route of the Roman retreat was marked by a grim wake of scattered corpses and discarded equipment.

An hour or so into the march, Cato's men began to pass the long lines of packs that had been set down the night before when the army had formed its line of attack. There was little of any value to pick over as the two cohorts stepped round the scattered packs.The units that had crossed the ground before them had collected up the spare canteens and food, and only clothes, mess kits and personal keepsakes remained, spread over the sand. In amongst the detritus lay the occasional body of a soldier who had fallen further up the column.

'Leave that!' Cato bellowed at one of his men who had bent down to search through a bundle of silk cloth. 'What bloody use is that to you now? Optio! Take that man's name! Next man who picks anything up will be beaten!'