CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
In the hour before dawn Cato sent out the auxiliary
cavalry to attack the enemy outposts to divert their attention
while the rest of the Roman army filed out of the marching camp. By
the wan light of the stars they passed through the defence lines to
take up their positions across the strip of open land a short
distance beyond where the gap between the hills and the dense
growth of palms and reeds along the riverbank was narrowest. Less
than a mile beyond, the enemy’s campfires were dying down and
dotted the dark landscape in a blanket of flickering red
sparks.
The centre of the
Roman line was held by Macro’s First Cohort, standing four ranks
deep. On either side and slightly behind the centre were the two
auxiliary infantry cohorts, then further back two more legionary
cohorts. Behind the shallow crescent, bulging out towards the
enemy, the archers stood in a loose line, ready to fire over the
ranks of their comrades when the battle began. A single cohort of
legionaries stood in reserve, and the remaining six stood in dense
columns at each end of the crescent, as if to protect the army’s
flanks from attack. The bolt throwers had been carted forward to
form two batteries covering the ground in front of each wing of
cavalry.
Once the infantry
were in position, Cato gave the order for the recall of the two
cavalry cohorts and they formed up on the flanks. In the normal
loose hit and run of cavalry skirmishing they would have been
heavily disadvantaged by the enemy’s overwhelming number of
horsemen and camel riders. However, they were under strict orders
not to charge but to hold their ground and protect the flanks of
the Roman line.
As the first faint
wash of lighter sky appeared over the dark mass of the hills to the
east, Cato rode forward to take up his position behind the First
Cohort. Macro had already dismounted and sent his horse to the
rear. Cato recognised his stocky form standing a short distance to
one side of the cohort’s standard. Macro turned at the sound of
hoofbeats and raised a hand in greeting.
‘Are your men ready,
Centurion?’ Cato called out, loud enough for others to
hear.
‘Champing at the bit,
sir,’ Macro replied lightly. ‘Keen as anything to get stuck
in!’
‘Good! By the end of
the day, every standard in the legion is going to have won a
decoration!’ Cato reined in and swung his leg over the saddle and
dismounted, handing the reins to Junius. He patted Macro on the
shoulder and muttered, ‘A word with you.’
When they were beyond
earshot, Cato spoke softly. ‘Everything depends on the First Cohort
holding its ground today, and the rest the legion timing its move
precisely. You understand?’
Macro turned towards
him, just able to make out the strained expression on the younger
man’s face in the gloom. Cato had briefed him thoroughly on the
battle plan the night before, along with the rest of the officers,
and once more in person before they had marched out of the camp.
Any irritation that Macro might have felt about being reminded of
his duty yet again vanished as he recognised the anxiety that was
consuming his friend. Macro slowed to a halt and faced his
superior. ‘Sir, I know what I have to do. So do the men. Don’t let
that concern you. The plan is in place. All that is left now is to
wait for the enemy.’
‘And when the Nubians
come?’
‘The men will do
their duty. This is what they have trained for. When the fighting
starts, that will be what governs their actions.’
Cato stared back.
Despite Macro’s reassurance he could not assuage his fears over the
coming battle. He was not afraid for himself. No, he corrected
himself, there was always the dread of a crippling wound and a long
drawn-out death amid the carnage of the battlefield. Or, worse,
mutilation and survival that would leave him an object of pity and
ridicule. That prospect always haunted him before a battle and Cato
had made himself charge forward with his comrades, or stand his
ground, in spite of it, for the simple reason that he feared shame
more than anything. That had always been a burden of his close
friendship with Macro, he recognised; he never wanted to betray the
confidence that Macro placed in him. Now that he was responsible
for the lives of thousands, the burden had increased. Macro and all
the other men looked to him, Cato, to lead them to victory, or die
at their side.
Cato did not consider
himself a brave individual. He could already feel the unsettled
flutters in the pit of his stomach and the cold sweat pricking out
down his spine. He wondered why he had not become used to it after
so many years of fighting. What was it in him that preyed on his
mind, thrusting forward terrifying images from past battles as well
as imagined scenes of dreadful vividness? For Cato it seemed that
there were two sides of his being locked in a perpetual struggle.
The Cato he wanted to be - courageous, bold and respected,
unburdened by self-doubt - and that other, truer, version -
fearful, anxious and agonisingly sensitive to the view other people
had of him. The latter could only ever act out the role of the
former, winning the applause of the moment, before withdrawing into
the shabby robes of his real nature. The thought sickened him and
it was only when Macro cleared his throat and spoke again that his
attention was redirected.
‘This plan of yours .
. .’
‘Yes?’
‘Seems a bit
unorthodox. Mind me asking how you came to think it
up?’
‘It’s not my idea,’
Cato admitted. ‘I remember something I read in
Livius.’
‘The
historian?’
‘That’s
right.’
Macro raised a hand
and rubbed his brow. ‘You, er, think that we are refighting another
battle, then? Something from history. Which you’ve got out of a
book.’
‘More or less. A
similar situation in many respects. An outnumbered army taking on
and crushing the enemy,’ Cato explained. ‘I expect you’ve heard of
the battle of Cannae?’
‘Yes, thank you,’
Macro replied patiently. ‘But it didn’t work out terribly well for
our lads, as I recall.’
Before Cato could
respond, there was a flat blast of a horn away to the south. The
sound was picked up by other horns and soon the first of the
enemy’s drums added to the din. A thin blue light filtered through
the air and the faintest of mists hung across the Nile like a silk
veil.
Macro regarded the
stirring Nubian host for a moment and then muttered, ‘Now we shall
see if Prince Talmis will give battle on our terms.’ He shot a
quick glance at Cato. ‘Let’s hope that Livius was never on
his reading list, eh?’
Cato did not reply
but stood erect, staring out over his men towards the enemy camp.
It did not take long to discern the dense blocks of men and horses
massing opposite the Roman line. As the sound of their horns,
cymbals and drums rose even higher, the Nubian army began to emerge
from their camp, blotting out the sight of the campfires they were
leaving in their wake.
‘It seems they are
going to take the bait,’ said Cato with a relieved nod. ‘The first
round to us then. I’d better return to my command post.’ He turned
and smiled at Macro. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t remind you of the plan
again.’
‘As if I could
forget.’ Macro tapped his helmet. ‘The skull might be as thick as
oak but the brain still works.’
They clasped each
other’s forearms and then Cato strode swiftly back towards his
horse and climbed into the saddle. He waved a hand at Macro and
urged his mount into a trot as he headed back towards the small
cluster of officers sitting in their saddles to one side of the
reserve cohort. Macro watched him a moment, then went through the
familiar routine of checking each strap and buckle of his armour
and weapons. Satisfied that all was well, he handed his vine cane
to one of the medical orderlies who was passing by with a bag
stuffed with linen strips to dress wounds.
‘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 grinned briefly at
the sight and then took a deep breath and strode across to the
optio in the First Cohort’s colour party who was minding his
shield. Macro grasped the handle and lifted it. He eased his way
between two of the centuries and strode out some ten paces in front
of the Roman line. He stared ahead, his gaze slowly sweeping round
as he took in the enemy battle line trudging towards them. The dust
kicked up by the Nubians was already smudging the air above them.
Macro turned his back on them and examined the men of the First
Cohort. They were all picked men, the best of the legion, and they
would be the first of the infantry to come into contact with the
enemy. Macro drew a deep breath and addressed them.
‘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 announce the birth of another day. For many
men on both sides, it would be their last, and Cato felt an icy
ripple flow across his scalp, and prayed that it was not a
premonition of his own death. The image of Julia momentarily filled
his mind and he felt a heated desire for her such as he had not
experienced since the last time he touched her flesh.
‘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 channel that ran up the
central bed of the weapon. When all were ready, the centurion
raised his arm and called out. ‘On my word, prepare to
shoot!’
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.
Prefect Herophilus
nodded a greeting as his commander rode up.
‘Your men will be in
action soon.’ Cato pointed to the dark line of riders approaching,
the rumble of their hoofs clearly audible above the ongoing
cacophony of Nubian instruments. ‘Are they ready to do their
duty?’
It was a rhetorical
question, but it gave the prefect the chance to speak up for his
men.
‘My boys will be as
steady as a rock, sir. You can depend on us.’
‘I know it. If you
don’t mind, I will join your command for the present, and see for
myself how your men fight.’
Herophilus bowed his
head. ‘My pleasure, sir.’
Both officers turned
to watch the enemy. Cato struggled to make sense of their numbers
due to the dust that engulfed those a short distance behind the
leading ranks.
‘There must be
thousands of them,’ said one of Herophilus’s
decurions.
‘Quiet there!’ the
prefect snapped at him.
The enemy closed to
within half a mile and Cato heard the clack-clack-clack of the bolt
throwers as the crews prepared to shoot up the Nubian cavalry. Some
of the auxiliary horsemen, distracted by the spectacle of the enemy
force, allowed their mounts to move out of position until
Herophilus cupped a hand to his mouth and bellowed, ‘Keep the
bloody line there! Decurions! Take the name of any man who can’t
control his horse!’
The sound of drumming
hoofs filled the air and now Cato could feel the vibration through
the ground beneath his mount. To his right he heard the officer in
charge of the archers order his men to make ready. Then there was a
brief stillness over the left flank of the Roman army as they stood
their ground and waited for the action to begin. In that moment the
sun finally crested the hills to the east and its rays poured over
the battlefield, bathing polished armour and weapons in a fiery
glitter.
The warm glow was
suddenly pierced by the shadowy dashes of the missiles as they were
unleashed from the bolt throwers and an instant later the crack of
the torsion arms carried to Cato’s ears. He watched the fall of
shot and saw a rider plucked off his horse and hurled to the
ground. More riders went down, together with horses, but they were
quickly swallowed up by the waves of Nubian cavalry surging
forward. More bolts slammed into the charging mass, and then the
archers added their weight to the bombardment, their arrows angling
higher into the sky before plunging down. Scores of Nubians were
struck down, and yet it seemed to make little difference to their
numbers or break the pace of their charge.
Cato drew his sword
and his officers followed suit. Herophilus slipped his left arm
through the straps of his shield and took up the reins as he
shouted orders to his men, his voice shrill with the strain of
being heard above the deafening pounding of hoofs. ‘Close up!
Shields to the front! Make ready your spears and prepare to receive
the charge!’
There was a shimmer
as the long line of spear tips swept down towards the Nubians. The
auxiliary horsemen drew their shields in close, covering as much of
their bodies as possible. Beneath them some horses stirred
nervously until steadied by a press of the thighs or a calming
word. The enemy riders had closed to within a hundred paces now and
Cato could see individual details. The riders’ mounts were all at
full stretch. Their formation had lost cohesion due to the speed of
the charge and the loss of those who had been shot down by the
archers and bolt throwers. They were still shooting, keeping the
range long enough to avoid any danger to their own side, while
lashing down on the Nubians at the rear of the charge.
‘Here they come!’
Herophilus shouted, his eyes wide.
An instant later the
first of the enemy reached the Roman line. Their horses shied at
the line of mounted men and the deadly points of their spears, and
the impact of the charge broke as the melee spread along the line.
The prefect and his officers dug their heels in and forced their
way amongst the men to join the fight, the cohort’s standard bearer
following on, keeping the standard raised high for all his comrades
to see. Cato edged his mount forward, to just behind the second
rank of Roman horsemen. Beyond was a savage sea of gleaming blades,
thrashing limbs, the dagger-like ears of horses and wild tossing
manes, all accompanied by the harsh clatter and thud of weapons and
the cries of rage and pain and whinnies of terrified and stricken
cavalry mounts.
‘We’ll not hold back
that host,’ said Junius. ‘We can’t.’
‘We must,’ Cato
replied simply. ‘Or die.’
But even as he spoke,
more and more of the enemy were pressing forward, forcing the Roman
line back.
‘Follow me!’ Cato
commanded, urging his horse forward. He pressed into the melee,
knee to knee with the men on either side. They glanced at him in
surprise before focusing again on the enemy. Cato raised his sword
and gripped the reins tightly in his left hand. He was conscious of
not having a shield but it was too late for that. He was committed
to the fight and must stay with the men or look a coward if he drew
back. To his right he was aware of Junius struggling to stay with
him, but another rider intervened and the tribune was forced away
and could not safeguard Cato’s side.
A gap opened up
between two auxiliaries directly ahead and Cato edged his mount
into the space, fixing his gaze on the nearest of the Nubians, a
lean figure with an ebony face split by brilliant white as he bared
his teeth. He spotted Cato and urged his horse forward, raising a
heavy curved blade overhead. Cato punched his arm up to block the
blow and it glanced away, thudding into the shield of the auxiliary
to Cato’s right. The man swung round in his saddle and, with an
overhand grip, thrust his spear at the Nubian, striking him in the
chest. The folds of the robes he wore, together with whatever
armour he had beneath, kept the spear point out of his flesh, but
the impact drove him back all the same, almost toppling him from
his saddle. Cato took advantage of the moment of imbalance and
slashed at his sword arm, cutting into his elbow joint. The sword
hand spasmed, releasing its grip, and the heavy weapon tumbled down
between the flanks of the horses and out of sight. The Nubian
howled with agony as he recovered his seat and hauled on the reins,
trying to turn his horse away. He succeeded in bringing the beast
side on, where it was trapped between the battle lines and left the
man exposed to the second spear thrust which pierced his side,
under his armpit, and went in deep. A rush of blood accompanied the
spear as the auxiliary yanked it free, and the Nubian swayed a
moment before falling amid the dust and stamping
hoofs.
Cato took the chance
to glance round and saw Junius dispatch an enemy with a savage cut
to the head. Elsewhere the line had stopped giving ground and the
better armour of the Romans meant that they were getting the best
of the individual duels. Nor was the enemy pushing forward any
more. They had been fought to a halt and as Cato saw, they were
giving ground. The reason for this was clear enough. Over the heads
of the men in front of him, Cato could see Roman arrows plunging
down into the tight press of bodies behind. The Nubians there were
anxiously doing their best to shield their bodies with the small
round hide shields that most of them carried, but they were poor
protection against the barbed iron points. Several men and horses
were hit at a time, the wounded animals rearing as the pain of
their injuries made them panic and impossible to
control.
‘Push them back!’
Cato roared, edging his mount forward, pressing up against the
riderless horse and forcing it aside. A Nubian passed in front of
him, out of sword reach, and Cato stabbed his mount in the rump
instead. The horse let out a shrill cry and kicked back, narrowly
missing Cato’s leg, but striking the flank of his mount so hard
that Cato heard a rib snap beneath the glossy hide. Abruptly both
animals reared up, the Nubian thrown back into Cato’s side as he
threw his weight forward and clung on tightly to the reins to stay
in his saddle. The Nubian’s flailing hand caught Cato’s tunic above
his knee and the fingers clenched. Cato felt himself shift to the
side and the terrifying prospect of falling to the ground and being
trampled seized him. He cursed the man through gritted teeth and
then swung his sword arm over and tried to cut at the hand. But the
gap was too cramped to get a swing and the edge pressed into the
flesh and did not cut through. Cato desperately started a savage
sawing movement in the space that he had and the Nubian howled and
a moment later was forced to release his grip and fell beneath
Cato’s horse where his panicked cry was brutally cut
short.
Looking up, Cato saw
through the haze of dust that the rearmost ranks of the Nubian
cavalry were falling back, away from the arrows that rained down
mercilessly. The fear swiftly spread through the enemy and as the
last of them turned their mounts and galloped off, Cato looked down
the battle line. The auxiliaries stared after the Nubians in
silence for a moment, too stupefied by the blood rushing through
their veins to realise that they had beaten the enemy off. Then
Prefect Herophilus thrust his bloodied blade up and let out a roar
of triumph, instantly taken up by the rest of his men as they
watched the enemy flee. Bodies of men and horses, many still
living, lay scattered across the ground amid the angled shafts of
arrows.
As the cheers began
to die away, Cato was aware of the sound of fighting from the other
flank where the enemy had made another attack in an effort to break
the Roman cavalry. Cato squinted to make out the details. It seemed
that the Alexandrian cavalry unit was holding its own well enough
and on the left flank, the archers and bolt throwers were taking
their deadly toll.
Cato sheathed his
sword and walked his horse over to Herophilus. ‘Well done! That’s
fine work by your men. Get them re-formed and ready for the next
charge.’
‘Yes,
sir!’
Cato beckoned to
Junius and the others and then trotted back towards the centre of
the line. He made a quick estimate of the cohort’s losses. No more
than a tenth of the cavalry had been lost in the first struggle but
the Nubians would surely make another charge. Each time they did,
the cohort’s strength would be whittled down. The Nubian army must
be broken before such attrition broke the Roman
cavalry.
The small party of
officers made their way across the rear of the Roman line and
returned to the centre. Macro looked back and nodded a relieved
acknowledgement that Cato was still alive, then turned to face the
front. Over the helmets of the First Cohort, Cato could see the
main bulk of the enemy army advancing straight at them, no more
than half a mile away, dense blocks of infantry, with the most
heavily armoured making up the centre of the line under the banner
of Prince Talmis. Cato wondered if Ajax was there amongst them,
with the last of his followers from Crete. For an instant he
fervently hoped that fate would give him, or Macro, the chance to
face the gladiator one last time to settle the consuming hatred
that had brought all three men to this battlefield on the fringe of
the Empire.
He thrust thoughts of
Ajax aside and turned to one of his orderlies. ‘Tell the commanders
of both bolt-thrower batteries to target the enemy infantry as soon
as they come within range. The same order to the archers.
Go.’
The officer nodded
and wheeled his mount around and galloped off. Cato turned his
attention back to the Nubians. It was impossible to gauge their
number through the haze of dust rising up a short distance behind
the leading ranks. If this was Prince Talmis’s main blow, then
there could be more than twenty thousand men tramping across the
level ground towards the Roman line, three men to each of Cato’s.
The sheer weight of numbers would be certain to drive the small
army back, which was what Cato had allowed for, indeed counted on,
in his plan.
The steady rhythm of
the enemy’s drums and the clash of cymbals and blare of horns
swelled in volume as the host advanced. Once the centurions were
satisfied that the lines of their men were dressed as smartly as
possible, they took up their places at the right of their commands
and waited in silence. The Nubians were now close enough for Cato
to make out their officers shouting encouragement and waving their
men on with their gleaming swords. There was a moment when Cato
felt tempted to say something, some word of comfort to the men
around him, but he realised it would only betray the anxiety that
bound his stomach in a vice-like knot. Far better to remain silent
and seem calm and imperturbable in the face of an approaching sea
of enemies.
On both sides the
crews of the bolt throwers began to ratchet back the torsion arms
with a sharp metallic clatter. Then the heavy, iron-tipped shafts,
as long as a man’s arm, were loaded on to the weapons and there was
a brief pause before the order bellowed out, ‘Loose!’
The brief chorus of
cracks drowned out the enemy instruments as a veil of missiles
seemed to waft up and over the intervening ground before
disappearing in amongst the Nubian foot soldiers. Cato well knew
the damage that such a volley could wreak amongst dense formations
of men and yet the enemy came on without any sign of hesitation, or
diminution of their battle cries. It was as if the host had simply
absorbed the missiles rather than lost scores of men, pierced
through and hurled back against their comrades by the force of the
impact. A second volley arced towards the enemy, and this time the
bolts struck some of the leading men, tearing through two or three
at a time. Then the dead and wounded were lost from sight as their
companions stepped round or over them and continued the
advance.
At just over two
hundred paces the Roman archers loosed their first arrows, with a
sound like a rush of wind through the leaves of some great tree.
The arrows lifted high into the air and then dashed down amid the
enemy, and still they came on at an unbroken pace, hefting their
shields round and grasping their weapons firmly as they closed on
the waiting Romans.
‘Front rank!’ Macro
called out. ‘Prepare javelins!’
The first line of
legionaries raised their javelins in an overhand grip, shifting
side on to the Nubians as they took two steps forward and waited
for Macro’s order to hurl their weapons.
Just within a hundred
paces of the Roman line the Nubians shuffled to a halt. They
continued to yell their cries and taunts, and waved their weapons
to challenge their foe.
‘What are they
waiting for?’ asked one of the tribunes. ‘Why don’t they
charge?’
Cato knew why, well
enough, and drew a deep breath. ‘Stand by to receive
missiles!’