There was a dreadful pause as Cato stared into the face of the man, who was looking back, with shocked wide eyes, from inside a Roman helmet. Cato gasped, and yanked his weapon free, as if he could undo the blow if he moved fast enough. The blade came out with a jerk, a sucking sound and a rush of blood as the auxiliary sank to his knees, staring at Cato with a puzzled expression. He shook his head slowly and sank back on to the ground.

Cato stood over him, holding his dripping sword as his other hand momentarily flashed up in front of his face, as if to protect it. Then the moment of sick panic passed and he hurriedly looked round. The nearest auxiliaries had their backs to him as they grabbed a rider and hauled him from his saddle. No one had seen him, then. Cato swallowed, and knelt down, stabbing his sword into the sand where it would be ready to snatch up if he needed it. He hurriedly undid the man's neck scarf and pressed it against the blood gushing from the wound. The man cried out as he felt the pressure and his hand grasped Cato's wrist like an iron manacle.

'Fuck, it hurts,' he moaned through clenched teeth.

'Let go of me,' Cato growled. 'I'm trying to help you. You're injured. If I can't staunch the wound, you'll bleed to death.'

The man nodded and released his grip, before his eyes widened suddenly and he stared at Cato and hissed, 'It was you…'

'Quiet,' Cato said urgently. 'Save your breath.'

'It was you,' the man repeated, then his eyes clenched shut and he slumped back, moaning. Cato crouched over him, pressing the scarf on to the wound with one hand while he kept his sword ready with the other. Glancing round he saw that the surviving horsemen were in full flight, and only a handful were still hemmed in by the auxiliaries, desperately wheeling their mounts one way then another as they tried to parry the thrusts of the men around them. It was an unequal duel, and the last rider was cut down moments later.The auxiliaries raised their swords and jeered as the sound of hooves receded into the night.

'Over here!' Cato shouted at the nearest of his men. 'On me!'

Several trotted over and Cato indicated the man on the ground. 'This man is wounded. Get him to the carts.'

'Yes, sir.'

As the auxiliary lowered his weapons to tend to his comrade Cato scrambled to his feet and hurried away. Around him the rest of the cohort was busy finishing off the enemy wounded and looting the bodies. Cato cupped a hand to his mouth.

'Centurion Parmenion!'

He called out again before Parmenion replied and came running towards him.The centurion was hurriedly tying off a strip of dressing round his sword arm as he reached Cato.

'How bad's the wound?' Cato asked.

'Flesh wound, sir. I can still swing a sword.Which is more than can be said for those bloody horsemen.They've bolted like rabbits.'

'For now,' Cato conceded. 'But they may yet cause us trouble.'

'You really think so, sir?'

The surprised tone was tinged with disbelief and Cato irritably drew a breath.'Let's not take the risk, all right? Now I want our wounded collected and made as comfortable as possible.The cohort is to form up round them. Understand?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Any sign of Centurion Macro?'

'Haven't seen him, sir. But I heard him.' Parmenion pointed over his shoulder.

'Hard not to,' Cato muttered and patted his subordinate on his shoulder. 'Carry on.'

He set off across the site of the skirmish, stepping round the bodies of men and horses littering the ground. The first few legionaries he encountered were still dazed by the fast and furious fight and had no idea where their commander was. With a growing sense of frustration Cato pressed on until he found one of Macro's centurions.

'What the hell's going on?' Cato asked angrily. 'Why aren't you re-forming your men?'

'We've beaten them, sir. I don't see the need…'

'Where's Macro?'

'By the standard, sir. There.'

'Fine.' Cato nodded as he picked out the faint shape of the cohort's standard-bearer. 'Now form your men up, Centurion. Quick as you can.' Cato pushed past the man and strode on.

'Centurion Macro? Are you there, sir?'

'Cato!' A bearlike shape loomed out of the darkness as Macro came over to him.'By the Gods, we gave them a damn fine pasting! Must have taken down half of them at least.'

'Maybe, but it's the other half than concerns me.'

'They've run for it, lad!' Macro laughed jubilantly. 'I doubt they'll stop until dawn.'

'They'll stop long before then,' Cato replied quietly. He pointed to one of the bodies of the horsemen sprawled beside his mount a short distance away. 'See. This one has a bow case. There's plenty like him out there.'

Macro examined the body and prodded it with his toe. 'Parthian?'

Cato glanced at the loosely robed corpse. A conical helmet with a twisted fabric rim lay near the head. 'Could be. But he's more likely to be one of the rebels from Palmyra. The Parthians can't be on the scene yet,' he added cautiously. 'Surely?'

Macro tipped his head to one side. 'Maybe… I hope not, or we're really in the shit.'

'Either way we're dealing with the same type of horseman and the same tactics. We may have surprised them, but the moment they reach a safe distance and re-form they will come after us.'

'Come after us?' Macro shook his head.'After that hiding we gave 'em? I don't think so.'

'Macro, now that the element of surprise is gone, they can use their bows and pick us off at will.' Cato slapped his hand against his thigh. 'If only we had got them all.'

'We did well enough,' Macro insisted. 'Still, better get my lads formed up. Just in case. Better if we put the cohorts together, with the wounded in the middle.'

'I think that would be wise, sir. I'll fetch my men.'

'What about our cavalry?'

Cato thought for a moment. 'Better leave them where they are for now. There's still the risk of confusing them with those horse-archers. If we need them, we can call on them quick enough.'

'Good. Then we'd better get moving.'

The centurions and optios called their men together and the ranks formed behind their standards while those detailed to move the injured to safety carried them towards the slight fold in the ground that Macro had chosen as the position where the two cohorts would wait for daylight. If there was an attack then the enemy would have to close the range to see their target.They might even venture within reach of the cohort's javelins and slings where they would pay the price soon enough, Macro mused grimly.While the wounded were laid down in the centre of the shallow bowl of dust and rock others drew the supply carts in.Then the two cohorts formed into a defensive box and sheltered behind their shields as they stared out into the desert, wrapped in darkness.

Macro and Cato stood on the side facing the direction the enemy had retreated and shared the tense anticipation of those around them. The men had been ordered to stand in silence and the only noise came from those wounded who could not contain their pain. The occasional groan or gasping cry of agony wore away at the nerves of the other men so that they eventually fell to cursing their injured comrades.

As soon as that thought occurred to him, Cato vividly recalled the auxiliary he had wounded, and the sick feeling of guilt welled up inside him again. He wondered if he should say anything to Macro. It had been an accident, he reassured himself. But even so, it was a tragic mistake, one that no officer with battle experience could be forgiven. After a while Cato wondered if the man was still alive. If he was, had he told his comrades about the officer who had stabbed him in a blind panic? For an instant Cato wished the man dead. Then at once he cursed himself for the thought. But the urge to know the man's condition was irresistible and in the last hour before dawn he turned to Macro.