Centurion

'No, sir,' Amatius interrupted. 'They will see this balls-up for what it is.'

Longinus stared at him and then a smiled flickered across his face. 'It seems that Legate Amatius disagrees with my version of events.'

'I do, sir. We should have attacked.'

'Attacked? Against that host?'

'It was our best chance of defeating them, sir.' Amatius shrugged. 'And now? We'll be lucky to get out of this alive.

Even then, it will have cost us thousands of good men, not to mention dealing a serious blow to our prestige right across the region. Parthia will come to be seen as the major power in the east.'

'That's enough!' Longinus slapped his hand down on the table. 'You are overplaying this, Amatius. Once I get back to Syria I will raise another army. I will use all three legions next time, and come back here and destroy the Parthians.'

'Really? And do you think there is a man here who would follow you?'

There was a fraught silence as the two men glared at each other.Then Longinus opened his hands in a gesture of resignation. 'That's an issue for another time. We are where we are, gentlemen, and we need to move on, to coin a phrase. I need solutions to our predicament. Not complaints.'

Amatius sagged back into his chair with a sigh, and the general looked round the tent. 'Well? Has anyone got anything to suggest?'

Cato bit his lip, cleared his throat and stood up. Macro glanced round at his friend and then lowered his head into his hands and stared helplessly at the ground between his boots as he muttered to himself, 'Bollocks, here we go again.'

'Prefect Cato, speak.'

All heads turned to look at him and Cato had to make an effort to keep calm and control the thoughts rushing through his mind as he considered the landscape on the road ahead of them and what might be achieved in the remaining hours of the night.

'There is a way we might turn the tables on the Parthians, sir. It will be risky, but no more of a risk than continuing to retreat as we are. The trick of it is finding a way to contain their horsemen. What we need is the right ground to do it on, and a few items from stores.'

Cato paused, suddenly aware that he was surrounded by older and, in most cases, vastly more experienced officers than himself.They might well ridicule his plan, but he knew with certainty that it was the best chance to save the army. If it didn't work it would cost his life and those of many more. Men who might well die along the route in any case. His eyes met the general's and Longinus nodded. 'Well, Prefect, you'd better tell us what's on your mind.'

08 Centurion

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

'Not much longer until first light,' Centurion Parmenion muttered. He stretched up and took a last look round their position. The broken ground with its deep gullies spread out on either side. Towards the north they became steadily more shallow until they gave out on to the flat desert. A mile or so beyond that the ground crumbled again, forming a similar set of rough channels and jumbles of rocks. Behind Cato the men of the Second Illyrian and another two cohorts of auxiliaries lay concealed at the bottom of the gully that wound roughly north across the landscape. On the other side of the open ground, Macro lay hidden with his cohort, Balthus and his men, and another auxiliary cohort. The rest of the army was retreating along the trade route, steadily marching towards Palmyra, a dark mass crawling across the loom of the sand. Cato watched it for a moment, with a growing sense of unease. It was vital that Longinus did not march the men too swiftly so that they cleared the chokepoint before the Parthians caught up with them and forced the battle. He stared back into the open desert behind the army. By now the Parthian scouts must have seen the abandoned camp and picked up the trail of Longinus and his army. They would have raced back to their commander and told him that the Romans were trying to steal a march. If, as Cato hoped, the Parthian leader was as much of a glory-hunter as Longinus, then he would break camp at once and come after the retreating Romans. Even now, his advance troops must be close at hand, probing forward as they searched for the exhausted legions.

'Better keep your head down then,' Cato responded. 'Don't want to risk giving the position away.'

Parmenion nodded and lowered himself until his eyes were just level with the lip of the gully. Both officers had removed their helmets with the familiar, and conspicuous transverse horsehair crests. It had been a cold night and with the coming of dawn Cato was sitting hugging his knees against his chest as his teeth chattered and his muscles trembled from time to time. Parmenion looked at him with sympathy. The veteran was more generously covered with flesh, and long years of service in far colder climates had gone some way to inuring him to the present discomfort. He reached into his sling and pulled out a strip of dried mutton, and tore a strip off.

'Sir, have some of this.'

Cato stirred from his thoughts and looked at the dark fibrous meat and shook his head. His stomach was knotted with anxiety over the details of his plan and he felt more sick than hungry.

'Be a good idea,' Parmenion persisted. 'It will take your mind off the cold and you'll need food in your belly for when the fighting starts.'

Cato hesitated for a moment and realised that this was an opportunity to make himself look calm and unconcerned in the face of battle. He took the offering. 'Thanks.'

The dried meat had the consistency of wood until it had been gnawed at and chewed for a while, when it gradually became as pliable, and about as desirable, as boot leather. Still, Cato mused as his jaws worked, the smoked flavour became fairly pleasant to a man with an empty stomach.

And, as Parmenion had said, the vigorous effort expended in eating the dried mutton made him forget the cold for a moment.

'It's good,' he mumbled between mouthfuls.

Parmenion nodded.'I have it done to a recipe I got from an old Alexandrian merchant I knew once. The trick to the flavouring is to marinade it in garum before it's hung to dry.'

'Garum?' Cato was not a heavy consumer of the sauce made from rotten fish guts, though Macro tended to dash it over everything whenever he got hold of a flask. 'Well, it works well enough. Tasty.'

Parmenion smiled, pleased to have given his superior some small comfort as they waited for the enemy to appear. They ate for a little longer in silence, watching as the first faint hues of dawn spread across the eastern horizon.

'If we get out of this in one piece,' Parmenion transferred a wad of chewed meat to his cheek as he spoke, 'what do you think will happen to the general?'

Cato thought for a moment before he responded bitterly, 'Nothing. If this goes as well as I hope then you can be sure he will claim the credit and be revered back in Rome as the man who beat the Parthians. Yesterday's little fuck-up will be quickly forgotten. I imagine some lickspittle in the Senate will stand up and recommend Longinus for an ovation.'

'Not a triumph?'

Cato turned to him in surprise before he reflected that Parmenion was not Roman by birth, and probably had never been to Rome, so had no reason to be conversant with the ritual celebrations that Rome conferred on her successful generals. When a triumph, or the lesser ovation, was awarded, the Sacred Way, the ancient street that passed through the heart of the great city, would be packed with jubilant citizens, freedmen and even slaves, cheering their hearts out as their heroes paraded in full military regalia at the head of the soldiers who carried aloft the spoils of their conquests.

'Triumphs are reserved for members of the imperial family these days.Wouldn't do for a senator like Longinus to have one. Might just turn his head and encourage just a little bit more ambition than is good for the Empire. So he'll have to settle for an ovation instead, and our reward will be that he gets given a different command as far from Syria as possible.'