CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
‘This is going to be tricky,’ said Macro as he stood
on the foredeck of the felucca with Cato and surveyed the west bank
of the Nile the following morning. The enemy had several patrols
watching the movements of the Romans on the opposite side of the
river. ‘They’ll see us coming and be ready to give us some grief
wherever we land.’
Cato nodded. The
enemy would be able to head off any attempt to cross the river. The
problem was made worse by the lack of boats with which to make the
crossing. The moment that the people of Diospolis Magna had heard
of the enemy’s presence so close to the city, many of them had
fled. The wealthier inhabitants had hired every available boat and
had set off downriver with as much of their portable wealth as
possible. By the time Aurelius took action to stop the flight,
there were only a handful of barges and feluccas left. Enough to
carry five hundred men at a time. The Roman officers on the felucca
had already seen at least that number of men waiting for them on
the west bank. Any attempt at a landing would be in the face of
superior numbers. The first men over the river were going to have
to hold their ground while the boats returned with reinforcements.
It would be tricky indeed, Cato agreed, with a wry smile at Macro’s
understatement.
‘Tricky or not, it
has to be done,’ Aurelius announced from the main deck where he sat
on a padded stool. One of the headquarters slaves stood behind him,
holding a sunshade over the legate. A handful of other officers
stood on the deck in the open sun, sweating profusely in the heat.
Although there was a strong breeze blowing, the hot air it carried
across the river merely added to the discomfort. Aurelius pondered
a moment before continuing. ‘Before the army can advance, we have
to remove the threat posed by this enemy column.’
Macro stared at the
nearest of the Arab patrols: six men on camels keeping level with
the boat as it sailed slowly upriver, safely beyond bowshot. He was
frustrated by the legate’s failure to get stuck into the enemy. His
patience, limited at the best of times, was being sorely tested by
the vacillation of his superior. ‘Sir, we don’t know how many of
them there are over there. It could be a relatively small force. We
should focus our attention on dealing with the main army. In my
view, it is dangerous to keep handing the initiative over to the
Nubians. We should press on and deal with Prince Talmis,
sir.’
Cato glanced quickly
at Aurelius, but the legate did not take issue with this challenge
to his authority. He leaned forward and rested his elbows on his
knees, staring at the deck in thought. ‘I am not so sure that is
wise. It would be dangerous to leave our base in Diaspolis Magna
while the enemy is lurking nearby. What if they cross the Nile and
attack? They could take the city, destroy our stores and then march
on our rear. We would be trapped between the two enemy forces. If
we are defeated, then there will be nothing standing between the
Nubians and the delta. Governor Petronius will not be able to stop
their advance.’ Aurelius looked up at Macro. ‘If we lose control of
the Nile then the wheat supply will be cut off. Alexandria would
starve, not to mention the mob in Rome who depend on the grain from
Egypt. No, the risk is too great. We must deal with the enemy
forces one at a time.’ He nodded towards the Arabs. ‘Starting with
them.’
Macro stirred, about
to protest, but Cato addressed him in an undertone. ‘He’s right. We
have to take care of our flank first.’
Macro pressed his
lips together for a moment before he replied. ‘At this rate the
campaign will drag on for months. What about Ajax? Why give him
time to escape us again? Is that what you want?’
‘Of course not. But
we must deal with one threat at a time.’
Macro was silent for
a moment before he growled, ‘Then we’d better get on with it,
hadn’t we?’
The legate cleared
his throat. ‘If you two have finished?’
Cato and Macro faced
him and Aurelius glared at them briefly before he continued. ‘We
must get sufficient men across the Nile to deal with the enemy.
Clearly the best course of action is to cross the Nile further
downriver and march back along the bank to engage them. The First
Cohort should be sufficient to cope with the task.’ He nodded
towards Macro. ‘It is the strongest unit in the legion and should
easily defeat the enemy column. Once Centurion Macro has driven the
enemy off, I shall send the Syrian cavalry cohort across to screen
our flank as the main column marches on Prince Talmis.’ He paused.
‘Any questions?’
The officers
surrounding him remained silent. Cato looked at the Arab patrol
keeping pace with the boat, then turned back to face the legate and
responded as diplomatically as he could.
‘Sir, while I agree
with your plan, there is one aspect of it that causes me some
disquiet.’
Macro frowned.
‘Disquiet?’
‘Oh?’ Aurelius raised
an eyebrow. ‘And what aspect would that be, Tribune?’
Cato pointed to the
patrol. ‘They are following us and watching our every move. The
enemy will be ready to contest the landing wherever Centurion Macro
and his men attempt to cross the Nile.’
‘I can handle that,’
Macro said firmly, looking steadily at the legate. ‘You have my
word on it, sir.’
Aurelius smiled
thinly and turned his gaze back to Cato. ‘Your friend seems
unconcerned by the prospect of a fight. So your sense of disquiet
is misplaced. Of course I understand that an officer of your years
might be unnerved by the prospect of a river
crossing.’
Cato stared at his
superior as he struggled to keep his face clear of any expression
that might betray his anger at the legate’s accusation. He
swallowed and spoke in a flat tone when he replied. ‘I can assure
you, sir, I understand the risks entailed in making an opposed
landing across a river as wide as the Nile. Indeed, I took part in
such an action during the invasion of Britannia.’ Images of the
landing briefly flitted through Cato’s mind - the languid flow of
the Tamesis as he stood in the crowded barge with the men of his
century, staring at the roaring horde of Celt warriors waiting for
them on the far bank. Yes, he knew the danger that the First Cohort
would face, Cato reflected. He cleared his throat and continued
addressing the legate.
‘That was not my
point though, sir. What occurs to me is that since the enemy will
be able to oppose the First Cohort wherever they attempt to cross,
Centurion Macro might as well cross the Nile here as anywhere else.
It would save time, if nothing else.’
‘I see.’ Aurelius
stroked his chin as he looked across the water at the enemy-held
bank where the Arab patrol returned his gaze. ‘You are right,
Tribune. But I wonder,’ he turned back to Cato, ‘if you would make
such a proposal if it entailed putting your own life at
risk.’
‘Of course, sir. I
would be honoured to join the First Cohort when they assault the
far bank.’
Aurelius’s lips
lifted in a thin smile. ‘Then you shall have your
wish.’
Macro stared round at
the rest of the centurions of the First Cohort. Most of them were
good men, according to their records and his assessment of them in
the days since he had assumed command. Two were newly promoted,
former optios replacing officers who had failed to complete the
route march. They might well be new to the rank but they were tough
veterans keen to prove themselves worthy members of the legion’s
centurionate.
‘I know this kind of
action is new to you,’ Macro began. ‘You may have served along the
Nile, or on the delta, since you joined up, but let me tell you, an
amphibious operation is a difficult beast at the best of times.
It’s not standard procedure for the legions, and the tribune and I
have only had to take part in a handful of actions of this
kind.’
That was something of
an overstatement, Cato mused. Macro looked at him and Cato nodded
reassuringly for the benefit of the other officers before the
commander of the First Cohort continued.
‘We will not be going
into action as a cohort. Nor indeed as centuries. It’ll be every
man for himself until we gain a foothold on the far bank. Once we
are ashore, it’s vital that your men form up on the standards as
quickly as they can. Make sure your section leaders know that.
They’re to look out for their men and try and keep them together.
The sooner we can form up each century, and then the cohort, the
better our chances of surviving until the follow-up wave can cross
the river.’ Macro paused and then pointed across to the narrow
island, little more than a strip of silt surrounded by reeds, that
stood two hundred paces from the far bank. ‘I’ve chosen to cross
over there, close to the island.’
The men of one of the
other cohorts were already on the island, together with ten of the
legion’s bolt throwers.
‘We’ll land the
follow-up wave there before the first three centuries cross the
final stretch of river. That way we shall have more boots on the
ground as quickly as possible. The bolt throwers will be able to
cover our flanks once they have finished harassing the enemy before
the first wave goes in.’
It was as good a plan
as any, Cato reflected. Macro had done all he could to give his men
the best chance. Even so, the first wave across would have a bitter
struggle ahead of them. Once they jumped over the side of the boats
carrying them to the far bank, there would be nowhere for them to
retreat to. They must fight their way ashore, or die in the
shallows. Those were the only options and the men knew it. The dice
would be cast the moment they stepped aboard and began to cross the
Nile.
Macro looked round at
his officers and took a deep breath. ‘I’m not going to pretend to
you that this is going to be anything other than a tough fight. Our
losses are likely to be heavy, but this is what we train for, and
what we get paid for.’
Some of the men
smiled at the last remark and Macro pressed on to make the most of
the light-hearted moment. ‘Just tell your men to go in hard and cut
the bastards to pieces. They’re not to stop for anything until they
reach the top of the riverbank. Only then are they to look for
their standards. Is that clear? Now then, any
questions?’
He waited a moment
but his officers remained silent, and Macro nodded. ‘That’s all,
then. Return to your units and brief your men. Have them formed up
and ready to board the boats the moment the legate gives the signal
to proceed. Good luck.’
The officers murmured
a reply in kind and then made their way out of the shade beneath
the date palms and returned to their centuries, clustered along the
riverbank in whatever shade they could find. Macro watched them
briefly before he turned to Cato.
‘What do you
think?’
‘They seem up for
it,’ Cato replied. ‘In any case, once the attack begins, it’s do or
die. That tends to have a powerful motivating effect on the
men.’
‘True enough.’ Macro
looked at Cato. ‘What about you? Are you ready for
this?’
‘As ready as I ever
was.’
‘You didn’t have to
volunteer for it.’
‘No. But then why
would I let you snatch all the glory?’
Macro shook his head.
‘Since when did you ever do anything for the glory of it? You
always have to have some damn practical reason or other for
volunteering.’
‘Is that so?’ Cato
pursed his lips. ‘Then let’s say that it’ll do the men good to see
one of the senior officers fighting alongside them. That, and I
have to make sure that no harm comes to you. I’m not going to be
the man who has to take back the sad news to your mother. That
would take someone of extraordinary courage, and foolhardiness. Not
me.’
Macro laughed and
slapped Cato on the shoulder. ‘For your sake then I’ll try to stay
alive, eh?’
The sun had declined
from its zenith as the fleet of small craft set off from the east
bank of the Nile. Half the men of the First Cohort sat or stood in
the boats, nervously watching as the crews raised the sails and got
under way. Watching them, Cato could understand their mood. Weighed
down by their armour, the men would sink to the bottom of the river
if they fell over the side. The thought of drowning momentarily
filled Cato with terror as he vividly imagined his helplessness,
encumbered by heavy kit, struggling to free himself as his breath
ran out and his lungs burned, and then the final gasp that would
fill his throat with choking water and the last desperate flailing
of his limbs before he died. He shook the image off and looked at
Hamedes sitting on the central thwart opposite him. It was hard to
believe that he had ever been a priest, thought Cato. The Egyptian
wore a scale armour vest, bronze helmet, and rested a large shield
against his knees. His face was set in a determined expression as
he stared down. He looked every inch a fighter and Cato wondered if
the young man would consider enlisting once the campaign was over.
Because he lacked Roman citizenship the legate had refused to take
him on to the official roll of the legion and he had been entered
as an irregular scout and issued his kit on a temporary
basis.
Hamedes suddenly
looked up and met Cato’s gaze and smiled uncertainly. ‘Is it always
this way, sir? The sick feeling in your guts before you go into
battle?’
‘Always,’ Cato
replied. ‘Trust me, it’s the same for every man, except Macro. He
just enjoys it.’
‘It’s what the job is
about.’ Macro shrugged. ‘And I happen to be good at it and take
pride in that.’
Hamedes examined the
centurion for a moment before he spoke again. ‘And you never feel
fear, sir?’
‘I didn’t say that.
The trick of it is not to let your imagination have free rein. If
you can do that and keep your eye on the job then you’ll get
through it without surrendering to fear. Of course it ain’t going
to make you invulnerable. A sword thrust is every bit as likely to
kill a hero as a coward.’ Macro winked. ‘So, kick your imagination
in the guts and pray like hell to every god out there who owes you
a favour. That’s my advice, lad.’
Hamedes did not
appear to be reassured and shot a questioning look at Cato, who
simply smiled and then sat up as straight as possible as the boat
began to pass along the island. The crews of the bolt throwers were
standing by their weapons, the launch beds angled up in the
direction of the far bank. A short distance behind the artillery
stood the men of the three cohorts waiting to follow the first wave
of the assault. As the boats passed by, the centurion of the Fourth
Century punched his fist into the air and called out. ‘Stick it to
’em, Jackals!’
The other men echoed
his cry as they urged their comrades on. Some of the men on the
boats shouted back but most sat in sombre silence as the boats
passed out from behind the island and turned towards the bank. The
felucca carrying Macro and Cato was a short distance behind the
first two craft and Macro stood up and cupped a hand to his
mouth.
‘You there! Remember
your bloody orders! We go in at the same time! Slow
down!’
The officers in
charge of the two boats hurriedly ordered their crews to spill some
of the wind from the sails and gradually Macro’s vessel caught up
with them. The rest of the flotilla took up their positions on the
flanks as the unwieldy line made for the riverbank. Directly ahead
of them Cato could see the waiting enemy. Hundreds of them. Half
had dismounted and stood in small bands armed with round shields
and curved swords that glinted as they caught the afternoon
sunshine. In between the men on foot were more Arabs mounted on
camels. They carried bows and began to notch their first arrows as
the boats approached.
A blast from a bucina
sounded and an instant later the arms of the bolt throwers sprang
forward and cracked against their padded restraints as they
discharged the long heavy shafts, tipped with iron, arcing across
the water ahead of the flotilla. Macro clambered up on to the
foredeck of the felucca to watch the fall of shot and made a fist
as he saw a bolt cut through one of the groups of Arabs with a
swirl as three men went down. Another slammed into the flank of a
camel and there was a sharp, terrified grunt, before the animal
collapsed, sending its rider sprawling into the long grass. A man
on horseback rode down the riverbank waving his arm and shouting
orders and the Arabs quickly dispersed to present less of a target
to the bolt throwers.
‘Bloody hell,’ Macro
muttered as he stared at the man. He squinted and then felt a cold
tremor as he recognised the rider. ‘It’s him . . . Cato! Sir! It’s
him, Ajax.’