The Legion

'Look after that for me,' he growled. 'I'll want it back after the battle. Any harm comes to it and I'll use what's left of it to break your back.'

The orderly took the vine cane reluctantly and continued on his way, holding the stick out to one side as if it might bite him. Macro gri

'It is about now that some of you may be rethinking your decision to pursue a military career.'

The comment brought forth some tense smiles from the men he could see most clearly in the pale light. A few even laughed. But there were some, he noted, whose expressions remained frozen.

'For those men, I promise that I will consider your application for a discharge as soon as I am off duty. In fairness, I should tell you that by the end of the day, with your first major battle under your belt, and a jug of wine in your bellies, and the spoils of war in your knapsacks, you will be feeling like bloody heroes, and the very idea of getting a discharge will be the last thing on your mind!' Macro paused. 'You chose to join the Jackals. The legion has given you the best training any soldier can get. You have the best kit of any army, and now, thank the gods, you have finally got a chance to put everything you have learned into practice. Relish the moment, men! This is the great test of your lives. Today you find out what it means to be a legionary and take your place in the ranks of the finest brotherhood of warriors in the entire world!' Macro jabbed his thumb towards the enemy. 'That lot think they're going to have us for breakfast. They know they outnumber us and they think that all their horns and drums are going to make us shake at the knees.' Macro sneered. He paused briefly, and hardened his tone. 'I will tell you now, there is nothing more dangerous than a Roman army sword, and a trained man who knows how to use it.' He drew his blade and raised it aloft. 'So let 'em know who they are up against. Let them know who crafts their doom. Let them know so that the few who survive and run from the battlefield when the day is out will spread the word about the men who destroyed them today! Up the Jackals!' Macro bellowed, punching his sword up. 'Up the Jackals!'

The men took up the cry, most with genuine enthusiasm and the remainder following their lead, until they, too, were caught up in the shouted chorus and their pulses quickened with the excitement of the moment.

The cheering spread to the rest of the legion, and then the auxiliary cohorts who had been attached to the Twenty-Second added their voices. The cry of the Roman army challenged the horns, drums, cymbals and wailed ululations of the host marching across the level ground to meet them. Macro turned to look at the Nubians briefly and then strode back through the ranks to rejoin the colour party.

Cato glanced towards his friend and found some faint reassurance in the knowledge that Macro could be trusted to inspire the men he led to follow his example. It was vital that the First Cohort did not break under the weight of the enemy attack. Victory depended upon the timing of the decisive manoeuvre. Not just victory, Cato mused, but their very survival and the survival of the province of Egypt. The horizon to Cato's left was now a bright hazy orange as the sun prepared to make its entrance and a

'Sir!' a voice called and Cato turned to see the most junior of the tribunes pointing towards the enemy now less than a quarter of a mile away. 'They should be in range of the bolt throwers. Should I give the order to let them try a shot, sir?'

Cato was about to reprimand the youth for his presumption, but then saw that he had spoken the truth. One unit of camel riders, armed with javelins, had edged ahead of the rest of the Nubian army and was making for the cavalry on the left of the Roman line. Cato quickly estimated the range and then nodded to the tribune. 'Very well, have the commander of the battery fire ranging shots before he looses any volleys. No sense in wasting ammunition.'

The tribune saluted and spurred his horse into a gallop as he rode across to the battery commander, an auxiliary centurion whom Cato had chosen to command the bolt throwers on that flank. Shortly afterwards there was a dull crack as a bolt thrower's arms snapped forward against their restraints. Although full daylight was still some way off, Cato could easily follow the trajectory of the missile as it shot towards the enemy in a shallow arc and then landed with a puff of dust and grit just in front of the leading camels, causing one to stop dead in its tracks. The battery commander bellowed an order to the rest of his crews and they cranked back the torsion arms and placed the iron-tipped shafts into the cha

His men stood still, one at each weapon, holding the lever that would release the grip on the torsion rope. The centurion waited until he was certain the leading ranks of Nubians had ridden over the place where the first bolt had plunged into the ground. Cato was gripped with impatience as the centurion kept his arm aloft and continued to let the enemy draw closer.

'Get on with it, man,' he whispered harshly.

'Release!' the centurion suddenly bellowed, sweeping his arm down. The cracks of the bolt throwers sounded almost together, like the snapping of a fistful of sticks. Thirty small shafts whirred towards the camel rider unit, some five or six hundred strong, Cato calculated. The centurion had timed his order well and not a single shot fell short as the cruel iron heads of the missiles tore through the sandy hides of the camels and the robes of their riders. The stricken animals collapsed in heaps as their spindly-looking legs gave way and those behind them were forced to swerve aside, into the flanks of their companions, disrupting their move against the waiting Romans. For a moment their advance stalled, and then as the Romans reloaded their weapons, the Arabs worked round their casualties and continued on. The second volley shot out from behind the Roman lines and struck home, killing and wounding several more. Some of the riders proved a little wary of leading the charge and lagged behind, no doubt hoping to avoid the further attention of the artillery crews. The third and fourth volleys stopped the enemy dead, and they stood in some confusion as the bolts landed amongst them, and then the fifth volley broke their will. The commander of the unit turned aside and rode off towards the flank, beckoning his men to follow him.

A cheer rose up from the Roman ranks and some of the men punched their javelins and swords into the air. It was a pitiful achievement in terms of the scale of the coming battle, Cato realised, but he indulged his men just the same. It was good for their morale, and wounded the enemy's spirits. But even as the warm flow of satisfaction filled his heart, Cato saw a new, far greater threat. The dust on the flanks of the enemy line was thickening and then he saw the masses of horsemen surging forward, quickening their pace into a trot as they rode towards the cavalry cohorts on each side of the Roman infantry. This would be the first real test of the day, Cato knew. If his men failed to hold back the Nubians then the enemy would be able to surround the legion and the auxiliaries and fall on their rear. In that event, Cato and his men would be cut to pieces. He flicked his reins and gestured to his staff officers to follow him as he rode across the rear of the line towards the commander of the Syrian cavalry cohort on the left flank.