'Carpex!' he hissed as loudly as he dared. 'Stop!'

The small passage fell silent as they froze and Cato struggled to control his breathing as the rebels approached the end of the tunnel. The entrance gleamed briefly, and then they had passed it. Cato waited a little longer and then whispered, 'Go.'

On they went, climbing the spur in the pitch darkness, until Cato heard the sound of the rebels coming back down the tunnel. A voice called out and then there came the sounds of men scurrying up the small passage behind them. There was no longer any need for quiet and Cato called out to Carpex.

'They're on to us! Move yourself!'

They hurried forward, ignoring the stench and the muck beneath their hands and legs as they moved on all fours. Behind them, their pursuers, aided by the light cast by their torches, came on swiftly, their grunts and shouts carrying up the narrow tunnel as if they were breathing down Cato's neck. Then he was aware of the faint details in the walls ahead of him and realised that the rebels were closing on him. If they should catch up before Cato and Carpex reached the end of the passage there was no chance of being able to turn and hold them off. All Cato had was a sword. He had glimpsed at least one spear amongst the men following him. They could easily outreach him and he had no room to move to avoid being skewered.

The tunnel began to flatten out and Cato was aware of voices ahead of him. 'Almost there!' Carpex called back.

Cato glanced over his shoulder and saw, perhaps only fifteen paces behind him, the torch of the first of their pursuers, and the grimly determined expression of the man behind it as he scuttled forward.

The voices above them quickly grew louder and then Cato saw a dim shaft of light shining down into the tunnel just ahead. Carpex hurled himself forward to cover the last few yards and then he rose up and grasped the iron bars of the grille above him and thrust. The grille did not budge, and as Cato reached him he too straightened up and pushed with all his strength, gashing one hand on a broken prong. A small trickle of mortar fell on them and then with a sudden scraping rush the grille gave and toppled on to the floor of the room above with a crash. Carpex clambered up, grasping the edge of the hole as he dragged himself up and then rolled to one side. Cato cast a glance down the tunnel and saw that the nearest rebel was almost on him, and had dropped his torch and drawn his sword as he came on, teeth clenched, intent on getting his kill.

There was a sudden roar of surprised voices in the room above and Carpex screamed. But Cato thrust himself up through the hole, heedless of the danger, to escape from the murderous intent of the man coming along the tunnel.With a grunt of supreme effort he drew himself up through the opening. His torso was halfway through when he saw Carpex sprawled on the flagstones beside him. The slave wore a dazed expression and blood was oozing from his mouth. Around them, a crowd of men in blue tunics was closing in, shouting furiously. Several were armed and one leaped forward, sword raised as he made to smash the blade into Cato's head.

'Don't!' Cato screamed out in Latin, throwing his arm up in an effort to protect himself as the blade swept down. 'I'm a Roman!'

08 Centurion

As soon as night had fallen Macro and Prince Balthus led their column along a less direct route than Cato and Carpex had taken. The Roman cavalry and Palmyran horsemen marched on foot, leading their mounts, whose hooves had been muffled by strips of cloth.The infantry had been ordered to leave their packs in a cave at the base of the hill and marched in a broken step carrying just their weapons in addition to their armour. All items of loose kit had been tied down so that the men might march as quietly as possible and all talk had been forbidden. The centurions and optios marched alongside their men, ears pricked for the slightest infraction of orders, which would result in a beating for any man they overheard.

As the column shuffled along in silence Macro could not help taking a great deal of pride in their achievement. They had crossed a wasteland and fought off an enemy to get this far and now their goal was in sight. However, unless Cato made it through to the garrison of the citadel, and then managed to persuade them to create a diversion so that Macro and the others could enter the city, this was almost as close to their goal as they would ever be. As he thought of his young friend, Macro once again regretted giving him permission to go with Balthus' slave. There were many other officers who would have done just as well, and Cato was needed by the men of his cohort. In truth, Macro realised as he pondered his decision, he too needed Cato in situations like this where timing, judgement and the ability to think on your feet were vital qualities. In a straightforward stand-up fight with an enemy Macro was in his element and there were few men in the legions who could match him as a battlefield leader. He was as strong and brutal as he was courageous and when the eager anticipation of battle flowed like fire through his veins he was open enough to admit that he actually enjoyed the prospect. Unlike Cato, who saw it as a necessary means to an end.

Or at least Cato used to see it that way, Macro reflected with a concerned expression. Earlier that day, for the first time, he had seen the excited glint in Cato's eye when he had insisted on accompanying Balthus' slave into Palmyra. It was a ludicrously dangerous task to volunteer for and Macro could not help worrying for his friend's safety. Not just because Cato would be venturing into the heart of an enemy-controlled city, but mostly because Macro was not convinced that Cato was a natural fighter. There was too much of the thinker in the lad, Macro mused regretfully. Filling his head with fancy philosophies read in obscure scrolls served no practical purpose, nor even provided much in the way of entertainment, unlike the comedy plays that were Macro's main pleasure.

In the years since Cato had taught him to read, Macro had mostly used his new skill to fulfil the tedious demands of military bureaucracy. But in recent months, thanks to the peaceful and pleasant posting to Antioch, Macro had begun to read for pleasure. Quietly putting aside the Latin translations of Socrates and Aristotle that Cato had dug out of the local library, Macro devoted his reading hours to comedies amongst other more racy material and had been working his way through the plays of Plautius before the present crisis with Parthia had blown up and brought him here to Palmyra.

Macro's mind snapped back to the present as one of the scouts came scrambling along the edge of the spur that projected into the plain. He raised his hand to halt the men behind him and the column awkwardly stumbled to a halt in the darkness. The scout was from one of the Second Illyrian's cavalry squadrons and he saluted as he made his report. Macro stopped him at once.

'Speak in Greek,' he nodded towards Balthus, 'so that we both understand.'

'Yes, sir.' The scout, like most troops stationed in the eastern Empire, spoke Greek first, and Latin as much as the army required him to. He pointed over the end of the spur. 'We've come across an enemy patrol in that direction, sir. Perhaps half a mile from the tip of the spur. By a few palm trees.'

'How many men?'

'No more than twenty, sir.'

'Which direction are they headed?'

'They're not heading anywhere, sir. They must have stopped for the night. Most of them seem to be asleep, but there's two on watch.'

'Damn,' Macro muttered. The rebel patrol had camped right across his line of advance.

'We could go round them,' Balthus suggested. 'March out from the spur for half a mile and then try to cut round.'