The Legion - Scarrow Simon (книги читать бесплатно без регистрации TXT) 📗

A blast from a bucina sounded and an instant later the arms of the bolt throwers sprang forward and cracked against their padded restraints as they discharged the long heavy shafts, tipped with iron, arcing across the water ahead of the flotilla. Macro clambered up on to the foredeck of the felucca to watch the fall of shot and made a fist as he saw a bolt cut through one of the groups of Arabs with a swirl as three men went down. Another slammed into the flank of a camel and there was a sharp, terrified grunt, before the animal collapsed, sending its rider sprawling into the long grass. A man on horseback rode down the riverbank waving his arm and shouting orders and the Arabs quickly dispersed to present less of a target to the bolt throwers.

'Bloody hell,' Macro muttered as he stared at the man. He squinted and then felt a cold tremor as he recognised the rider. 'It's him… Cato! Sir! It's him, Ajax.'

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Cato stood up and climbed on to the foredeck. He shaded his eyes as he squinted across the glinting surface of the river at the rider. There was no mistaking the powerful physique and the undeniable aura of command that the gladiator wore like a second skin. 'You're right.'

'What I'd give to be in command of the bolt throwers now,' Macro growled. 'I'd have every one of them trained on that bastard.'

Cato nodded vaguely as he continued to stare at Ajax. Some of the crews on the island had realised the significance of the mounted figure and the first of the slender missiles whipped across the river towards him in a shallow arc. It missed, as did the second, and the third struck one of the small group of horsemen reined in behind their leader. Another flew on a true trajectory towards him, but Ajax flicked his reins and moved along the bank and the bolt disappeared into the long grass a short distance beyond where he had been just a moment before.

Macro had been noting the fall of shot. 'That man has a charmed life.'

'Not in the round,' Cato replied. 'He's had his share of suffering.'

Macro looked at his friend sharply. 'What? You pity him?'

'Nothing so undignified. It's just that had his fate been different, Ajax is a man we might have been pleased to call a friend, and proud to have fight at our side.'

Macro snorted. 'And I might have been the fucking Emperor. There's only one course through life, Cato. We are what we are, never what we might have been. As for what we will be, well,' Macro spat over the side into the river, 'that bastard will die. He has the blood of thousands on his hands. I only hope that it's my blade that does the deed when his time comes. I defy the gods to try and stop me.'

For a man who was disposed towards superstition, this was strong stuff and Cato glanced at Macro in surprise. But before he could respond, there was another blast from the bucina and the sharp cracks of the bolt throwers died away as the artillery battery ceased shooting and trained their weapons round towards the flanks. At once the Arabs closed up and Ajax and his men took their shields up from their saddle horns and drew their swords.

'Steer towards those men!' Macro bellowed at the crewman on the tiller. 'There!' He thrust his arm towards the riverbank.

The crewman glanced round at the other boats on the left-hand side and shook his head. 'I can't, sir. We'd have to cut across their bows. We'd risk a collision.'

'Just do it!'

'No!' Cato intervened. 'Macro, we have to hold our course. If we hit another boat we're going to lose men.'

Macro clenched his teeth and nodded, seething with frustration.

The boats moved in towards the bank, cutting ripples through the calm surface of the Nile. On the bank the Arabs gathered and stood ready to resist the landing. Hundreds had dismounted and stood in bands, armed with round shields and curved swords. Some wore an assortment of conical helmets and scaled vests. Behind them, others sat atop their camels and prepared to shoot their bows, or hurl light javelins.

'Prepare to receive arrows!' Macro shouted across to the other boats.

The legionaries presented their shields towards the riverbank and hunched down behind them. Cato and Macro climbed down from the foredeck and took up their own shields and crouched down, peering over the rims as the boats drew closer to the riverbank.

'Here they come!' a voice cried out as the first volley of arrows slashed into the air, rising briefly before they seemed to slow fractionally at the top of their arc, then plunge down swiftly towards the line of boats sailing towards the bank. The enemy had held back until the boats were well within range and so none of the arrows fell short. There was a brief whirr before the splintering thud of an arrow striking the foredeck, the clatter as more ricocheted off the curved surface of the legionaries' shields and the plink of those shafts that missed their targets and plunged into the river. Cato glanced round at the men in the boat. There were no casualties amongst the soldiers. The two crewmen, however, looked terrified. As well they might, Cato thought. They wore simple tunics and lengths of cloth wrapped round their heads, and had no protection from the arrows.

The second wave of missiles shot out across the Nile in a more ragged volley as the more proficient archers notched, aimed and loosed their arrows ahead of their comrades. Then the rain of missiles merged into a continuous stream and the air around Cato was thick with the sound of the lethal iron heads splintering wood and punching into the shields. Some inevitably found their way through the shields, or were deflected by them and struck the men. The cohort's standard bearer, squatting down in the centre of the boat behind Cato and Macro, let out a sharp cry as a shaft pierced his bicep and he lost his grip of the standard. It began to topple towards the side of the felucca and one of the legionaries, fearful of the shame that would fall upon the cohort if the standard was lost, dropped his shield and grabbed the shaft of the standard just in time to stop it falling over the side.

'Good lad!' Macro called out to him. 'Take over from the signifer.'

'Yes, sir.' The legionary raised the standard and then passed his shield across to the wounded signifer before turning his attention back to the enemy.

'Watch it!' The man beside Cato pointed towards the bank. 'Javelins!'

Cato followed the direction indicated and saw that some of the camel riders had dismounted and were now preparing to hurl their weapons. The first ran forward a few paces and threw his javelin. It rose up into the sky at a more languid pace than the earlier arrows. More followed as the first dipped down towards the boat to the right of Cato. It slammed into a shield, piercing the cross laminated strips of wood and bursting through the forearm of the man behind. He let out a cry, then held the rim of his shield and wrenched his arm free of the head of the javelin with a roar of pain and anger. A loud thud wrenched Cato's attention back and he saw the shaft of a javelin quivering in the foredeck.

'Close,' Macro muttered.

There was a groan from the rear of the felucca and Cato glanced over his shoulder and saw that the helmsman had been struck in the midriff by an arrow. He stared down in shock until the blood began to blossom in the dirty cloth around the shaft. He let go of the tiller and grasped the arrow, pulling at it, and then screaming in agony as he blacked out. At once the boat began to come up into the wind, angling round towards the vessel to their left.

'Shit…' Cato muttered, seeing the danger at once. He turned swiftly to Macro. 'Hold my shield!'

His friend grasped the handle with his spare hand and Cato thrust his way back through the legionaries crowded into the boat, trying to ignore the continuing barrage of arrows and javelins. Above him the leech of the triangular sail began to flutter. The other crewman sat on the floor of the boat, pressing into the side of a legionary, his face a mask of frozen terror as he clutched the mainsheet in his hands as if it was a lifeline. Cato ignored him and pressed on. He reached for the end of the tiller and forced it round so that the craft began to turn away from the nearest boat. For a moment Cato thought the collision might be avoided, but the felucca was turning too slowly. On the deck of the other boat, faces turned towards the looming menace and then the beam of the felucca struck the side of the other boat. Both sails shimmered violently and the shock of the impact threw the men against each other. On the other boat an optio had been crouching on the foredeck, ready to lead his men ashore the moment his boat grounded. Instead, he lost his balance, tumbled to the side and slid overboard with a splash and did not resurface. More men were sent sprawling in a confusion of limbs and shouted curses.