‘Hmmm.’ The surgeon touched the flesh as lightly as he could and traced his fingers along the collarbone. ‘No breaks there. I’ll have to probe the shoulder joint. It’s going to hurt. I’ll need you to hold him down.’
Macro knelt down and firmly grasped Cato’s uninjured arm with one hand and pressed his chest back with the other. ‘Ready.’
The surgeon leaned forward and gently took hold of Cato’s shoulder in both hands. He felt softly for any sign of broken bones or the slackness of torn muscle tissue. Cato’s eyes rolled up and he groaned in agony. Satisfied with his superficial examination the surgeon probed more deeply into the shoulder.
‘Fuck!’ Cato yelled, attempting to sit bolt upright. His eyes were wide open and he glared at the surgeon. ‘Bastard!’ He head-butted the other man on the cheek.
Macro thrust him back down. ‘Easy, lad! He’s just tending your injury.’
Cato turned his gaze to Macro with a dazed expression. He nodded and gritted his teeth. ‘All right. Go on, then.’
The surgeon rubbed his cheek and then turned his attention back to Cato’s shoulder. He pressed his fingers into the discoloured flesh and Macro felt his friend go as tense as a length of timber as he stared straight up, focusing on fighting the agony of his examination. The surgeon thoroughly examined the shoulder and then eased himself back with a satisfied nod.
‘Some bad bruising but no broken bones. It’ll hurt like hell for some days and you’ll need to keep it strapped up, but there should be no lasting effects. I understand you took a blow to the head as well.’
Cato frowned, trying to remember.
‘It’s common not to recall the incident. How do you feel?’
‘Not good.’ Cato swallowed and winced. ‘Head hurts. Still feel a bit dazed . . . I can recall the attack. Then a spear in the air. Then nothing.’
‘Well, that’s fine,’ the surgeon concluded with a reassuring pat of Cato’s hand. ‘At least your brain’s not been scrambled.’
Macro shrugged. ‘Can’t say that I’d notice much difference . . .’
The surgeon stood up. ‘I want you to rest. Until the dizziness has passed. Then you can get back on your feet. The shoulder’s going to be painful for several days, and stiff. Better keep it in a sling. Other than that, I’d say you have had a lucky escape, sir. Just try to stay out of the path of spears, javelins and arrows from now on, eh?’
Macro gave him a droll look and then turned his attention back to Cato as the surgeon left the stable. For a moment neither man spoke, then Macro cleared his throat self-consciously. ‘I suppose I should thank you.’
‘Thank me?’
Macro frowned. ‘Of course. You saved me from that spear.’
‘I did?’
‘You don’t remember it then?’
Cato closed his eyes briefly and then shook his head.
‘All right,’ said Macro eagerly. ‘Forget about it. I’d better go. The legate will want to know what to do next. You stay here and rest, eh?’
He turned and strode across to the entrance to the stable.
‘Macro . . .’ Cato called weakly.
The centurion turned and looked back.
‘Whatever I did, you’d have done the same for me,’ Cato said. ‘If you’d been standing in my place.’
‘True, but I wouldn’t have ended up here.’ Macro chuckled. ‘I’m not lanky like you. If I’d pushed you aside, the bloody spear would have missed me by a mile. Now do as the surgeon said and get some rest.’ He left the stable and gestured to Hamedes to follow him.
The legate was sitting on a crude table outside the ruins of a peasant’s hut when Macro found him. His staff officers and the centurions from Macro’s cohort and the auxiliaries were gathered about him in the loom cast by an oil lamp, waiting. Another of the legion’s surgeons had just finished suturing a small gash on the legate’s forearm and began to apply a dressing as Aurelius addressed Macro over the surgeon’s shoulder.
‘Good of you to finally join us.’
‘I was seeing to the senior tribune, sir,’ Macro replied with a hint of bitterness. ‘He was struck by a spear during the attack.’
‘How bad is the wound?’ Aurelius asked with a trace of anxiety.
‘He was lucky, sir. The tribune’s a bit battered but he’ll recover.’
‘Good, we need every man.’ Aurelius nodded down towards the dressing being tied round his arm. ‘I took a wound myself. An arrow tore open my arm.’
The surgeon glanced up with a surprised expression and shook his head as he finished tying off the ends of the dressing. He straightened up and stood off a respectful distance. ‘It’s only a flesh wound, sir. But I’d advise you to keep it clean all the same.’
Aurelius nodded and waved the surgeon away. He smiled warmly at Macro. ‘A bloody business that first attack, eh? I came forward to watch your progress from the breach. That’s when I was wounded.’
He gestured proudly at the dressing with his other hand. Macro did not miss the tone of elation in his voice – the elation of a man who has finally received his first wound after many years of peaceful service without the least chance to prove himself as a soldier.
‘Still,’ the legate went on, ‘it’s only a brief setback. We’ll take the place with the next attack. I’m certain of it.’
Macro regarded his superior thoughtfully. Aurelius was in a dangerously cheerful mood. Macro had served in the legions long enough to know the symptoms. Having survived an injury, even one as slight as being grazed by an arrow, Aurelius felt invulnerable. He had nothing to prove to his men. He had bled on the battlefield and had earned his right to order them to continue the fight, whatever the cost. The effect would wear off in a few hours, Macro knew. That was the usual experience of having survived a near miss. Cold rationality would soon moderate the legate’s sudden zeal for battle. The trick of it would be restraining the man’s urge to fight until the proper measures could be taken for the next assault on the temple.
‘We’ll take it all right, sir,’ Macro agreed. ‘The moment we’ve made our preparations.’
‘Preparations?’
‘Of course, sir. We need to bring forward the bolt throwers to cover the assault at close range. If we knock some loopholes through the curtain wall, the bolt throwers can easily pick off the enemy archers without exposing our crews. Also, we should make sure that any escape routes from the temple are covered.’ Macro nodded towards Hamedes. ‘The lad here used to be a priest. He knows the layout of the temple. He visited it only recently. Isn’t that right?’
Hamedes nodded nervously in front of the legion’s senior officers. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘So tell us what you know,’ Macro continued. ‘How many exits does the place have?’
Hamedes collected his thoughts as best he could before he replied. ‘There’s the main entrance between the largest pair of pylons. The doors there are huge, sir. Several inches thick. Even then, there’s a small courtyard in front of that with another gate. Besides the main entrance, there are two entrances on either side of the main temple. The one we attacked earlier, and another on the opposite side. They are bound to have fortified that as well, sir.’
‘Well, there is only one way to be certain,’ Aurelius responded testily. ‘I want you to go and see. Report back to Centurion Macro the moment you return.’
Hamedes glanced at Macro who nodded subtly. Hamedes swallowed and bowed his head. ‘As you command, sir.’
He walked hesitantly towards the temple and was soon swallowed up in the darkness. Aurelius turned back to Macro. ‘While Cato is out of action you are my second-in-command. You’re an experienced soldier, so we’ll do as you suggest. Get the bolt throwers forward. Do whatever else you have to to make sure the next attack succeeds. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Macro nodded.
‘And make certain there is no way for the enemy to escape. I want them all killed or captured.’ Aurelius reached a hand up to touch his brow. ‘Now, I must rest. My wound has weakened me. Wake me the instant we are ready to launch the second assault.’
As the night wore on and a hunter’s moon rose low on the horizon, the sound of the Romans’ preparations carried clearly to the defenders of the temple: the steady pounding of the outer wall as the legionaries gouged holes out of the mud bricks, and the sawing of wood and hammering of nails as they laboured by the light of some fires out of sight behind a mound two hundred yards back from the curtain wall. From the top of the pylon Ajax could just glimpse some of the legionaries at work and guessed that they would be making new assault ramps and, in all probability, a ram as well. If the first failed, then the latter would surely smash down the roughly constructed barricade. Once that happened, nothing could stop the Romans forcing their way into the temple and crushing the defenders.
Ajax had already considered making an attempt to break out, but he had seen the legionaries patrolling round the temple earlier in the night, as well as the small parties of men methodically laying a barrier of obstacles on the ground. Caltrops, Ajax guessed. Four vicious iron prongs forged in such a way that however they were cast on to the ground, one spike always pointed up, ready to impale the hoof or foot of anyone attempting to charge over it. Beyond the foot patrols he had also heard the sound of cavalry; hoofs and occasional neighs as they patrolled further out beyond the temple walls.
Midnight came and went and the low moon drifted across the sky, casting a glimmering trail of reflections across the water of the Nile before passing out of sight behind the hills on the far bank. Ajax knew that he was trapped. The remainder of the men who had survived the rebellion on Crete, and the Arab warriors entrusted to him by Prince Talmis, all of them were doomed. The sentiment that filled his heart was not fear, nor failure, only a profound sense of frustration that he had not caused more damage to Roman interests in his brief life. He hoped that his spear had fatally wounded the prefect, and raged that Macro still lived, and might well outlive the final assault on the temple. The thought of dying with his thirst for revenge only half satisfied sickened Ajax. Not that his men would know it; his expression was impassive as he stared towards the Roman lines. To his fighters he was as fearless and resolute as ever and they were readily inspired by his example.
An hour after midnight there was a hurried slap of sandals on the steps inside the pylon and a moment later the dark form of Karim stood panting at his side.
‘What is it?’
‘General, please come with me. Now.’
Ajax caught the urgency in the other man’s voice and turned to face him. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s simpler if you follow me, sir.’ Karim looked meaningfully at the other men on the pylon. Some of the Arabs and their officer were in earshot.
‘Very well.’ Ajax nodded and followed his companion down the stairs. Once they had descended the first three flights, he spoke softly. ‘What’s happened?’
Karim glanced back over his shoulder. ‘It’s our man, General. He’s here in the temple.’
‘Canthus?’ Ajax was surprised. He could not think why the spy had taken such a risk to enter the temple, and stifled a surge of anger. The spy had provided useful information about the Roman army and its senior officers, passed on to Prince Talmis’s scouts waiting outside Diospolis Magna. His identity had to be kept safe. Whatever the spy’s reason for crossing the lines, it had better be good.
Karim nodded. ‘Came over the northern barricade. He said he must speak with you.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I took him to one of the offering rooms, to keep him out of sight.’
‘Good.’ Ajax approved. Even if the temple fell, Canthus might yet provide some advantage to Prince Talmis, if his identity remained a secret.
They crossed the courtyard and entered the colonnaded hall leading to the shrine. It was dark inside and only the flame burning in the shrine at the far end lit their way. Two small chambers stood each side of the shrine holding the sacred barge. It had been a very long time since the priests of the temple had received the kind of rich offerings to the gods that had once been commonplace. Now the hall and the chambers smelled musky and abandoned.
A dark shape appeared in the doorway of the offering chamber to the left of the shrine.
‘General?’ a voice whispered.
‘Canthus.’ Ajax approached him, his expression hard. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘General, you have to get out of this trap while there is still the chance. If you stay here, you will die.’
‘If that is what the gods will then I will show those Romans how a real man dies, with dignity and honour.’
There was a brief silence before Karim spoke. ‘They will not allow that. They will kill you only once you are a broken man, when you can be disposed of in the most humiliating manner possible. That will be the legacy you leave behind for the Empire’s slaves, General.’
Ajax knew it was the truth and he nodded wearily. ‘Then I must not be taken alive. I shall die here, if not by a Roman sword, then by my own hand, or by yours, my friend.’
‘No,’ Karim interrupted. ‘While there is a chance of you continuing our fight against Rome, you must live. With Ajax at large, no Roman can sleep easily. That is what matters. That is all that can give hope to those who are still in chains, General. You must live. You must escape.’
‘He’s right,’ said Canthus. ‘And I’m the only one who can get you out through the Roman lines. There is a way, and if we are challenged they will recognise me.’
‘Escape?’ Ajax shook his head. ‘You would have me shame myself.’
‘There is more at stake than your pride,’ Karim insisted. ‘Sometimes a man becomes more than himself. He becomes an inspiration. His name is a weapon in the hearts of those who follow him, and a threat to his enemies.’
‘This is true even if he dies,’ Ajax countered.
‘If you die, then all that you might still achieve, all your name might yet stand for, is lost.’
Ajax lowered his head and thought for a moment. Earlier that evening he had set his mind to meeting his death here in this obscure temple on the fringe of trackless wasteland. He was tired of running from Rome. Yet, as Karim said, there was more to be wrung out of the situation. He looked up at the dark figure of Canthus. ‘What is your plan?’