'They'll be able to climb over this easily enough.'

'When do you think they'll come?' asked Cato.

'Hard to say.' Macro looked up at the sky, already darkening to a velvet blue pierced by the first of the evening's stars. 'I reckon they'll wait until first light when they'll be able to see how the attack is progressing.' Macro shrugged. 'At least that's what I would do in their boots.'

Then they heard the sounds of drums being beaten and the harsh blare of a trumpet.

'What's that?' Cato asked. 'What are they up to now?'

'How should I know?' Macro grumbled. 'Come on, let's have a look.'

He beckoned to Cato to follow him and started to climb over the piles of stone, slabs of rock and splintered wooden beams. As they reached the top of the mound of rubble Cato stared towards the enemy camp. A large number of men were forming up opposite the gatehouse, comfortably outside arrow range.The sun, low in the sky, bathed them in an orange hue that glinted off their weapons like molten bronze.

'Nice!' Macro nodded towards the wash of colour along the distant skyline. 'Although I think the view is wasted on our friends out there.They've got other things on their minds.' He turned to Cato with an apologetic expression. 'Seems I was wrong. They're not prepared to wait until tomorrow morning. They're going to attack the fort at once.'

07 The Eagle In the Sand

While the enemy massed their forces outside, Macro hurriedly gave orders for the defence of the fort. The cornicen sounded the alarm and the men came running from their barracks blocks, equipment in hand, and went to their stations on the parade square in the lengthening shadows of the headquarters building. In addition to the duty century still on the walls, there were nine other centuries of infantry and four cavalry squadrons who would fight dismounted. There was no time for the customary pre-battle speech to whip up the unit's fighting spirit. Instead, Macro quickly commanded that the cavalrymen stand firm as a reserve. One century was sent to each of the other walls while the six remaining centuries were sent to the wall facing the enemy.

Macro turned to Cato. 'I want you in charge of the inner wall. I'm going to need to stand back from this fight and take overall command. So I want my best officer in the most critical position.'

'Thank you, sir. I swear I won't let you down.'

'If you do, then neither of us is going to live to regret it.' Macro forced himself to laugh. 'So don't let those bastards get past you.'

'I won't,' Cato replied. 'We'll hold them back until Symeon and his friends arrive.'

'Oh, he'll be here,' Macro said confidently. 'If I'm any judge of character, he's the kind of man who'd never miss a fight. So let's make sure we leave him a few of those Parthians to take care of.'

Cato smiled. 'I'll see what I can arrange.'

Macro stuck his hand out. 'Good luck, lad. We're going to need it tonight.'

Cato grasped his friend's hand firmly. 'Good luck to you too, sir.'

Macro nodded and there was awkward stillness between the two of them and Macro wondered if they would still be alive to greet each other in the morning. Cato seemed to guess what he was thinking and said quietly, 'We've faced tougher enemies in our time, sir.'

'Ah, but that was in the Second Legion.' Macro glanced round at the men filing off the parade ground to take up their positions.'These auxiliaries aren't even close to being a match for legionaries. But they look competent,' he conceded grudgingly. 'We'll know their quality soon enough. Now, off you go.'

As Cato caught up with his men and led the main force to its position on the wall facing the enemy, he thought once more of Symeon and hoped that Macro's assessment of the man was right. But even if it was, would the men that Symeon knew at Petra be prepared to honour their pledge to the Romans? Cato was not sure. He had too little knowledge of the peoples of the eastern frontier to judge their character. All he, and every other man in the cohort, could do was hope. They would be saved by Symeon and the Nabataeans or die.The Roman forces in Syria would not come to their aid. That was almost certain. Longinus was counting on Bannus to destroy Bushir, and with it the men who knew of his disloyalty to the Emperor. Cato smiled to himself. It would be good to live through this just to see the appalled expression on the Governor's face.

When he reached the inner wall, Cato placed two centuries on the fighting platform behind the breastwork. Those who were armed with bows were sent on to the walls on either side of the ruined gatehouse, and on to the roofs of the buildings behind the inner wall. Every arrow and javelin that could be spared by the other centuries in the fort was piled up in front of the remaining four centuries, which had been placed under the command of Centurion Parmenion to act as an immediate reserve.The first wave of Judaean rebels to enter the breach was going to be met by a hail of missiles from three sides. Cato could well imagine the devastating effect and hoped that it would be enough to break their spirit. If they could only be persuaded to give up the siege and return to their villages, now, before enough blood was spilt to give Rome and Judaea an insatiable taste for it. If Bushir fell, then the whole province was doomed to years of fire, sword and death on a terrible scale.Therefore, hard as it seemed, Cato must make sure that he and his men slaughtered the first wave of attackers with as much savage, ruthless brutality as they could manage.

As the last of the men quietly took up their positions the sun began to set, burnishing their faces and armour in a warm red glow. It was a small mercy that the rapidly fading glare of the sun made it impossible to see the enemy bearing down on them, but the Romans could clearly hear the cheers and triumphant cries as the rebels moved towards the breach. As they closed on the fort there came a rhythmic rapping of spears and blades against the rims of shields and the air was filled with the harsh din that swelled and magnified the sense of threat that lay beyond the mound of rubble where the gatehouse once stood.

Cato pulled himself up on to the fighting platform and shuffled past his men until he stood at the centre of the inner wall. He shifted his shield round to the front and drew his sword as the sound of the enemy's approach rose to a deafening pitch. On the main wall, the first of the archers began to loose their arrows at the target still hidden from those manning the inner line of defence. Slingshot whipped back at them, almost at once finding the first Roman casualty of the night's assault; a lead shot smashed the hand of one of the archers. Cato watched as the man dropped his bow, clutching his hand to his chest as he straightened up behind the rampart. At once a second missile struck him in the face and he pitched backwards off the wall.

Glancing at the men on either side of him Cato was reassured to see that most of them stood ready, staring steadily at the rubble in front of them. Some looked as nervous as Cato felt and he knew he must say something to encourage them.

'Steady, lads! They're just lambs to the slaughter. So don't disappoint them!'

Cato was relieved to see that remark raise some smiles and even a little laughter. But the shallow mirth was short-lived as the exchange of missiles suddenly grew more fierce and three more Romans toppled from the main walls. Then Cato saw the tips of the first spears appear over the crest of the rubble and blocks of stone, pitch black against the red horizon. He tightened his grip on his sword and turned to shout an order to the men standing ready behind the inner wall.

'Make sure you feed those javelins to the front as quick as you can!'