Simon Scarrow: The Legion

Ajax frowned. 'You are already dead. Face it with dignity.'

Philipus was still for a moment and then he lowered his hand and turned his head up and to the side, baring his throat. He clenched his eyes shut. Ajax drew back his arm, aimed the point just above the notch in the trierarch's collarbone, and then drove the blade in with a powerful thrust. He ripped the sword free and a jet of crimson spurted out. Philipus's eyes snapped open, his mouth sagged and he gurgled briefly before he bled out, limbs trembling, then he was still. Ajax used the sleeve of the dead man's tunic to wipe his sword clean and then sheathed it with a metallic snap.

'Karim!'

One of his men, a dark-featured easterner, came trotting forward. 'Sir?'

'Take five men, work through the buildings. Kill the wounded and any others that may have been missed. Have the bodies rowed across the bay and dumped in the mangrove. The crocodiles will make short work of them.'

Karim nodded, then looked above the head of his leader and thrust out his arm. 'Look!'

Ajax turned and saw a thin trail of smoke rising up into the clear sky beyond the wall of the fort. 'That's the watchtower. They've fired their signal beacon.' Ajax looked round quickly and waved over two of his lieutenants. He addressed a tall, muscular Nubian first. 'Hepithus, take your squad to the lookout post at the double. Kill the men and put the fire out quick as you can. Canthus, take the tower at the head of the bay.'

Hepithus nodded and turned to bellow the order to his men to follow him, before running back through the gate. The other man, Canthus, had dark features and had once been an actor in Rome before he was condemned to the arena for seducing the wife of a prominent and vindictive senator. He smiled at Ajax and beckoned the other party to follow him. Ajax stood aside to let them pass, and then strode across to the wooden steps that led up on to the wall of the fort. From there he entered the gatehouse and a moment later emerged on to the tower platform. He surveyed the supply station and took in the fort, the bay, the small river craft drawn up on the sand a short distance from the mangrove where a stretch of river led inland. In the other direction he watched as Hepithus and his men stormed into the lookout post and extinguished the signal fire. The smoke trail that marked the sky began to disperse.

Ajax scratched the stubble on his jaw as he considered his situation. For months he and his men had been on the run from their Roman pursuers. They had been compelled to seek isolated bays on the coast and watch the horizon of the sea for any sign of the enemy. When supplies had run low, the ship had emerged from hiding to snap up lone merchant vessels or raid small coastal settlements. Twice they had seen Roman warships. The first time, the Romans had turned to pursue them and had chased Ajax and his men into the night before the fugitives changed course and then doubled back, losing their pursuers by dawn. The second time, Ajax had watched from a rocky islet as two ships sailed past the hidden cove where his vessel had lain hidden, palm fronds tied to the mast to disguise it.

The strain of being on the run for so long had taken its toll on his followers. They were still loyal to him and followed his orders without complaint, but Ajax knew that some were beginning to lose hope. They could not long endure a life where they lived in daily fear of capture and crucifixion. They needed a new sense of purpose, like they had once enjoyed when they followed him during the slave revolt on Crete. Ajax looked round at the supply base and nodded with satisfaction. He had taken a second ship, together with stockpiles of food and equipment that would last for many months. The outpost would be a perfect base from which to continue his struggle against the Roman Empire. Ajax's expression hardened as he recalled the suffering that Rome had inflicted upon him and his followers. Years of hard slavery and the perils of life as a gladiator. Rome must be made to pay, Ajax resolved. As long as his men were willing to follow him, he would take the war to their enemy.

'This will do for now,' he said softly to himself as he considered the supply base. 'This will do very nicely indeed.'

Centurion Macro swung his legs over the side of the cot and then stretched his shoulders with a grunt before he carefully rose to his feet. Even though Macro was short and stocky, he still had to bow his head to avoid cracking it on the deck timbers above. The cabin, tucked into the angle at the stern of the warship, was cramped. Just large enough to fit his cot, a small table with a chest beneath it, and the pegs on which hung his tunic, armour, helmet and sword. He scratched his backside through the linen of his loincloth and yawned.

'Bloody warships,' he grumbled. 'Who in their right mind would ever volunteer to join the navy?'

He had been on board for over two months now and was beginning to doubt that the small force despatched to hunt down the fugitive gladiator and his surviving followers would ever find them. The last sighting of Ajax's ship had been over a month before, off the coast of Egypt. The Romans had followed, once catching sight of a sail on the horizon, only to lose contact during the following night. Since then the search for the fugitives had proved fruitless. The two Roman vessels had searched along the African coast as far as Lepcis Magna before turning about and heading east, scouring the coastline for any sign of Ajax and his men. They had passed by Alexandria two days earlier, low on provisions, but Cato – the prefect in charge of the mission – had been determined to push his men on to the limit before breaking off the search to resupply his vessels. Now Centurion Macro was hungry, frustrated and fed up with the whole business.

He pulled his tunic over his head and climbed up the narrow flight of steps on to the deck. He went barefoot as he had quickly discovered the disadvantages of wearing army boots on a warship. The neatly sandstoned decks provided little grip whenever they got wet and Macro and the other soldiers had a hard time keeping on their feet with iron nails on the soles of their boots. Two centuries of legionaries had been assigned to the warships to augment the strength of the marines; a necessary measure since Ajax and his followers, most of whom were former gladiators like their leader, were more than a match for even the finest soldiers in the Roman army.

As soon as the trierarch saw Macro emerge on deck, he approached him and nodded a greeting.

'A fine morning, sir.'

'Is it?' Macro scowled. 'I'm on a small, crowded ship, surrounded by the briney and without even a jar of wine for company. Fine doesn't enter into it.'

The trierarch, Polemo, pursed his lips and looked round. The sky was almost clear, only a handful of brilliant white clouds drifted overhead. A soft breeze filled the sail with a satisfying bulge, like an over-indulged epicurean, and there was a gentle swell on the sea so that the ship rose and fell in a regular, comfortable rhythm. To the right the thin strip of coastline stretched out peacefully. To the left the horizon was clear. A quarter of a mile ahead lay the stern of the other ship, leaving a creamy churn of water in its wake. All in all, as good a day as a sailor could wish for, the trierarch mused.

'Anything to report?' asked Macro.

'Yes, sir. The last barrel of salted mutton was broached this morning. The hard bread will be exhausted tomorrow and I've halved the water ration.' The trierarch refrained from offering any advice on the troubling supply situation. The decision on what to do about it was not his, nor even Macro's. It was up to the prefect to give the orders to put into the nearest port and reprovision the ships.

'Hmmm.' Macro frowned. Both men glanced towards the leading warship, as if trying to read the mind of Prefect Cato. The prefect had conducted the hunt with a hard-driving obsession. One that Macro could understand easily enough. He had served with Cato for some years now, as his superior until very recently. Cato's promotion had been deserved, Macro accepted readily enough, but it still felt peculiar to have their former relationship inverted. Cato was in his early twenties, a slender, sinewy figure that belied his toughness and courage. He also possessed the brains to plot his way through the dangers that had faced them over recent years. If Macro had to choose a man to follow, it would be someone like Cato. Having served for nearly fifteen years in the Roman legions before being promoted to the rank of centurion, Macro had enough experience to spot potential and yet he had been wrong about Cato, he reflected with a rueful smile. When Cato had trudged into the fortress of the Second Legion on the Rhine frontier, Macro had thought that the skinny youth was hardly likely to survive the hard training that lay ahead. Yet Cato had proved him wrong. He had shown determination, intelligence and above all courage and had saved Macro's life in his first skirmish with a German tribe raiding across the great river that marked the boundary of the Empire. Since then, Cato had proved himself to be a first-rate soldier again and again, as well as the closest friend Macro had ever had. Now, Cato had won promotion to the rank of prefect and for the first time he was Macro's superior. It was an arrangement that both men were struggling to get used to.