'Sir, if I may, I'd like to check on my injured.'

Macro looked at him curiously. 'Now? Why?'

Cato forced himself to remain as calm as he could. 'While I'm acting prefect, I need to ensure that the men get what they need. That includes seeing to the comfort of the wounded, sir.'

'Yes…I suppose so. Go on then, but be as quick as you can.'

Cato tried to hide his relief as he stole away from Macro and quietly made his way towards the wounded lying in rows beside the supply carts.

08 Centurion

'What's the butcher's bill?' Cato asked the cohort's surgeon, a thin Greek only a few months away from discharge and a comfortable retirement. Themocrites stood up, wiping his bloodied hands on a rag before he saluted his prefect.

'Four dead so far, sir.' The surgeon gestured to the men around him.'Eighteen wounded.Three almost certainly will die, but the rest will recover. Most of them will be walking wounded.'

'I see.' Cato nodded. 'Show me the men with the mortal wounds.'

'Yes, sir.' Themocrites' eyes flickered with surprise. Then he beckoned Cato. 'This way.'

He led Cato to the end of the line of men lying on the sand. Most were still and quiet but some groaned and cried out at the agony of their injuries.The surgeon's small section of medical orderlies crouched amongst them, doing their best to dress wounds, tie splints to shattered limbs and staunch the flow of blood from wounds. The most severely wounded lay a short distance from the others. One man lay still, his breath coming in faint, fluttering gasps. One of Themocrites' orderlies was watching over the other two. As soon as he became aware of the officers' approach he stood up smartly.

'Report,' said Cato.

'Lost one of them a short time ago, sir. He bled to death. The other's not long for this world.'

He pointed to the man at his feet and in the gloom Cato could just make out the features of the man he had wounded. His heart fluttered wildly for a moment and he felt himself flush with shame and guilt, and gave silent thanks that it was still night and his expression would be hard to read by the pale gloom of the stars. He was aware that the orderly was watching him fixedly.

He cleared his throat and continued, 'What's this man's name?'

The orderly paused a moment before replying, 'Gaius Primus, sir.'

Cato squatted down beside the man and hesitated a moment before he patted his unwounded shoulder. The soldier started and his head jerked off the ground as he stared wide-eyed at Cato.

Cato forced a smile on to his lips. 'Don't worry, Primus. You'll be taken care of. I swear it.'

The auxiliary flinched from his superior's touch at the words. A wave of cold fury hit Cato as he cursed his thoughtlessness. That could have been better worded. He tried to inject a reassuring tone into his voice as he continued. 'You will be looked after.'

'You…' Primus muttered, and then winced as a wave of agony swept through him, causing him to clench his teeth as he fought to resist it. His hand suddenly grasped Cato's wrist and his fingers closed round the flesh painfully. As the auxiliary endured the agony Cato tried to pull himself free, but couldn't without an unseemly use of force in front of the medical orderly. He gently started to prise the fingers off, marvelling at the power in the wounded man's grip.

There was a sudden whirr and something landed in the sand close to Cato with a sharp thud. He glanced round and saw the shaft of an arrow sprouting up from the ground no more than a sword's length from his boot.

The orderly recoiled in fear as Cato instantly realised the danger they were all in. There was no time for Primus any more as Cato ripped his hand free and stood up.

'Incoming arrows! Take cover!'

The air was suddenly filled with a sound like leaves rustling in a high wind as the men scrambled to take cover beneath their shields. Cato snatched his up and swiftly raised it over his head as he shouted the order again. All around him the thin dark shafts sprouted up like stalks of wheat, some punching into the shields with splintering cracks. A sharp cry told of one auxiliary who had failed to act in time. Cato glanced round and saw that the wounded men and the medical orderlies were helpless under the barrage of missiles. Even as he watched, two of the injured were hit. One was struck in the forehead and the barbed head punched through his skull into his brain, silencing his moans at once. Cato beckoned to the nearest men.

'You! Shelter our wounded! Move yourselves!'

The men reluctantly crept towards the line of wounded and dead and covered themselves and an injured comrade with their shields as best they could. Once he saw that the orderlies and their charges were protected Cato returned to the rest of his men.They were already formed up when the order was given and had responded quickly, kneeling down and sheltering behind their shields.

'Centurion Parmenion!'

'Sir?' the adjutant's voice called back from nearby.

'On me!'

A dark shape scurried across the sand towards him.

'Parmenion.Take over. I'm going to find Macro.We need to pull the men in. Make a smaller target.You take over here.'

'Yes, sir.'

Cato crept down the lines of his men until he came to the first of Macro's legionaries and then edged along behind them towards the standard.The earlier volleys of arrows had become a steady shower, rattling like hail as the horse-archers nocked, aimed and loosed shafts at different speeds. Over the shields and helmet of the legionaries Cato could just make out the flitting shapes of the enemy as they rode along the face of the Roman square, shooting their arrows. It occurred to Cato that they might just as easily stand their ground, or even dismount, to aim at the two cohorts. They must be fighting the only way they knew how, he reasoned. But they were safe enough while they remained out of javelin range. As soon as they realised that, the Romans would be in trouble, and when dawn broke in a few hours' time the horse-archers would have an easy target.

When he reached Macro, squatting by the standard, Cato saluted.

'Hot work!' Macro grinned ruefully. 'Seems like it's their turn to stick the boot in.'

'Yes, sir. We have to do something about it, before they realise just how much of an advantage they have.'

'Do something?' Macro pursed his lips for a moment. 'Very well. We'll double the ranks up.'

'Yes, sir. That would be best,' Cato concurred and nodded towards the carts. 'And we might use some sling shot to discourage them.'

'Yes.Yes, good idea. I'll get some of my lads on to it.'

'How long do you think they'll keep peppering us with arrows?' asked Cato as one glanced off his shield with a sharp thud.

'Till they run out, I imagine.'

'That's helpful.'

'If you will ask a stupid question.' Macro shook his head mockingly. 'Anyway, you know the score. The archers are trying to soften us up. As long as we keep formation we'll survive. If we don't, then they'll ride over us and cut us to pieces.'

'Shall I give the signal for our cavalry to move in, sir?'

'Not yet. Not until there's enough light for us to see who is who. I don't want any of our lads taking on their own side by mistake.'

'Yes, sir.' Cato nodded. 'Right, I'd better get back to my men.'

As soon as he returned to his cohort Cato passed on the orders, and once the centuries had formed four lines of men they slowly drew back into a tight shield wall around the carts and the injured, whose number gradually swelled as the night drew on. Macro issued the slings to one section in each of his centuries, and the legionaries, having no clear sight of the horse-archers, whirled the leather thongs and released the shot in a shallow arc over the heads of their comrades in the general direction of the enemy. In the dark it was impossible to tell where the lead shot fell, or whether any of the horsemen were hit, but Cato hoped that it might at least help to keep them at a distance and unsettle their aim. The barrage of barbed missiles slackened as the enemy decided to conserve what was left of their arrows, and both sides exchanged occasional shots while the night crawled towards the coming dawn.