Simon Scarrow: The Legion

'Get him down!' Cato ordered. He turned towards the Sobek and shouted, 'Send the surgeon over!'

While two marines supported the man's weight, a third grasped the head of the nail and began to work it free. The man gasped and cried out. His eyes, bloodshot and rolling up, flickered open. It seemed to take a long time to get the nail out of the mast and then the man collapsed into the arms of the marines.

'Lay him down.' Cato gestured to the nearest marine. 'Give me your canteen. You and the others, search the ship for any other survivors.'

He leaned over the man as he pulled the stopper from the canteen, wincing as he saw the cracked and bloody lips. Slipping one hand behind the man's head, Cato eased it up and poured a little water over the face. The lips smacked as they felt the water and there was a groan of relief as the liquid trickled inside his parched mouth. Cato fed him some more sips and stopped when he choked and coughed, spluttering as he turned his face aside.

'Thank… you,' he croaked weakly.

'What happened here?' asked Cato. 'Who attacked you?'

The man's swollen tongue licked his cracked lips and he winced painfully before he made his reply. 'Romans…'

Cato exchanged a glance with Diodorus. 'Romans? Are you certain?'

A shadow passed over the deck and Cato looked up to see the mast of the Ibis as Macro's ship drew alongside. An instant later there was a dull thud as the ships nudged against each other. Then the sound of boots landing on the deck. Cato looked up and saw his friend. 'Over here, Macro!'

Macro strode over, glancing round at the deck. 'Looks like they had quite a battle.'

'More of a massacre, I think. But we found this one alive.' Cato gestured towards the torn flesh of the man's hands. 'Nailed to the mast.'

Macro let out a low whistle. 'Nasty. Why would they do that?'

'I can guess. They wanted to leave a witness behind. Someone who might live long enough to report what happened.'

The surgeon from Cato's ship came trotting up with his haversack of dressings and salves. He knelt down beside the survivor and examined him quickly, feeling his pulse. 'He's in a bad way, sir. Doubt I can do much for him.'

'All right. Then I need to find out what I can before it's too late.' Cato leaned forward and spoke gently into the ear of the man. 'Tell me your name, sailor.'

'Mene… Menelaus,' the voice rasped softly.

'Listen to me, Menelaus. You are badly injured. You may not live. If you die, then you will want someone to avenge your death. So tell me, who did this? Romans you said. What did you mean? Roman pirates?'

'No…' The man whispered, and then muttered something more, a word Cato could not quite catch.

'What's that?'

'Sounded like he said worship,' Macro suggested. 'Doesn't make sense. Worship?'

Cato felt an icy thrill as he grasped what the sailor was trying to say. 'Warship, that's it, isn't it? You were attacked by a warship?'

The sailor nodded and moistened his lips. 'Ordered us to heave to… Said they were checking the cargo… Started killing us… No mercy.' The man's brow wrinkled at the memory. 'He spared me… Said I was to remember his name… Then they held me against the mast and forced my hands up.' A tear glistened in the corner of the man's eye and then rolled down his skin and dripped from his ear.

'His name?' Cato prompted gently. 'Tell me his name.'

The sailor was silent for a moment before his lips moved again. 'Cent… Centurion Macro.'

Cato sat up and looked at his friend. Macro shook his head in astonishment. 'What the fuck is he talking about?'

Cato could only shrug before he turned his attention back to the sailor. 'Are you certain? Are you sure he said his name was Macro?'

The sailor nodded. 'Macro… That was the bastard's name… Made me repeat it to be sure… Centurion Macro,' he murmured, then his face contorted in agony.

'Sir,' the surgeon intervened. 'I have to get him out of the sun. Below deck in the Sobek. I'll tend to his injuries there.'

'Very well. Do what you can for him.' Cato eased the sailor's head down and stood up. The surgeon called over four of the marines and ordered them to lift the sailor's body as gently as possible. Cato watched them make their way towards the gangway, and then turned to Macro. 'Odd, don't you think?'

'I have an alibi,' Macro responded with harsh humour. 'Been busy hunting fugitive slaves.' He jabbed his thumb at the sailor being carried across the gangway. 'What's that Centurion Macro business about?'

'It's Ajax. Has to be.'

'Why?'

'Who else would use your name?'

'No idea. But if it is Ajax, why do it?'

'His idea of a joke, perhaps. That, or something else.'

'What?'

Cato shook his head faintly. 'I'm not certain. But there's more to this than there seems.'

'Well, if it is Ajax and his men, then we're back on their trail.'

'Yes, we are.' Cato puffed out his cheeks. 'The timing isn't great, though.'

'What do you mean?'

'We've run out of supplies. Water's almost gone. We can't continue the pursuit until we've replenished our food and water. We'll take what we can find aboard this ship, and then make for Alexandria.'

Macro stared at him. 'You can't be serious… sir.'

'Think about it, Macro. If he has a day or more's head start then he could be over a hundred miles away by now. How long do you think it will take us to find him? How many days? If we attempt it then we run the risk of being in no condition to fight him, or being too weak to even make it back to port. I have no choice. We make for Alexandria. Then we take on supplies, and try to get enough reinforcements to search this area thoroughly.'

Macro was about to protest once more when Decurion Diodorus approached to make his report. 'Sir, my men have searched the ship. There are no other survivors.'

'Very well. Tell your men to bring whatever's left of the food and water up on deck and divide it between our two ships.'

'Yes, sir.' Diodorus saluted and paced back towards the marines milling about the cargo hold. 'Right, you dozy lot! Sheathe your swords and down your shields. There's work to do.'

Macro was staring hard at Cato. He cuffed his nose.

'What is it?' Cato asked wearily.

'I was thinking. You'd better be right about this. If Ajax gives us the slip again while we return to Alexandria, then the gods know how we'll pick up the trail again. It's been over a month since we last heard any news of him.'

'I know.' Cato gestured helplessly with his hands. 'But we have no choice. We have to go back.'

Macro pursed his lips. 'That's your choice, sir. Your order.'

'Yes. Yes it is.'

Three days later the Sobek led the way into Alexandria's great harbour. The vast structure of the lighthouse constructed on the rock of Pharos island by order of Ptolemy II towered above the two warships. The men aboard had all been seconded from the Roman forces at Alexandria to help crush the slave rebellion on Crete and so were used to the extraordinary vision of the lighthouse. Cato, too, had seen it before, but nevertheless paused from his pacing up and down the deck to marvel at the scale of Ptolemy's ambition. Besides the lighthouse, there was the vast complex of the Great Library, the tomb of Alexander the Great and the broad avenue of the Canopus which ran across the heart of the city. Everything about the city was designed to impress visitors and foster a sense of superiority in its citizens.

It was close to midday and the noon sun forced Cato to squint as he looked up at the lighthouse. A steady column of smoke rose from the fire that blazed permanently at the very top of the tower, proclaiming the presence of the city to ships far out at sea, or along the coastline of Egypt.

Cato looked down again, clasping his hands behind his back, and resumed his pacing along the main deck of the warship. It had become a habit since the hunt for Ajax had begun. Being cooped up on a small vessel was anathema to Cato's restless spirit and the routine of walking the deck gave a limited amount of the exercise he craved, as well as time to think.