'Well, that was a storming success,' Macro muttered as the last of them left and only Cato remained, picking at the dates in the bowl in front of him. 'Might as well surrender the fort to Bannus right now and be done with it.'

'They'll fight hard enough when the time comes, sir.'

'Oh? What makes you think that, my esteemed veteran friend?'

Cato looked up. 'They haven't got any choice. It's fight or die.'

'So what's new?' Macro grumbled. 'I tell you, Cato, if that lot were legionaries instead of auxiliaries the spirit would be different. They'd be thirsting to get stuck into Bannus and his mob.'

'Maybe they would feel the same, if Scrofa and Postumus hadn't got to them. It's a question of leadership. They'd been badly commanded for months before you took over. You've had too little time to return them to battle-readiness.'

'Maybe.' Macro reflected. 'Perhaps the first attack might put a little bit of iron back into them.'

Cato smiled. 'I hope not. A wound is the last thing they need.'

Macro winced at his friend's attempt at humour. 'It's not a laughing matter, Cato. Our lives depend on it.' He snorted. 'The fate of the bloody province depends on it. So no stupid quips please. Not unless we've had a skinful of wine first, eh? Even then…'

'All right then, sir. No more jokes.'

'Good.' Macro was silent for a while, deep in thought. Then he suddenly turned to Cato. 'How do you suppose Vespasian did it?'

'Did what, sir?'

'Prepared his officers for battle.You remember, back in the Second Augusta, whenever we were about to go into a fight, the legate would find a few words for us, make a toast, and we'd all head back to our men raring to go? How did he do that?'

Cato recalled their former commander, the stocky frame, the thinning hair crowning the strong-featured face. The steady, deep voice with which Vespasian could equally charm and lambast his men. It was hard to define what made the legate the kind of man you'd fight to the death for. Maybe it was the fact that you believed that he, in turn, would fight to the death for you. Whatever the quality of leadership was, Cato concluded, it was clear that some men possessed it and many more did not. Macro was one of the former; he just had a different style from Vespasian's.

Cato smiled. 'I can't answer that.'

'Great. Thanks,' Macro responded sourly.

'Don't fret, sir. You'll do well enough. I'd follow you to the ends of the earth.'

Macro looked at him with a surprised expression. 'You mean that, don't you?'

'Of course, sir. And when these men get to know you better, they'd do just the same. Now that we've a battle on our hands they'll see the quality of their new prefect soon enough. Maybe that's what Vespasian had.'

'What?'

'The benefit of an example.We followed him because we'd seen him in battle. He'd proved himself to us. Once a commander's done that, I'd say that was the point where he won his men over.This is your chance to do the same with the Second Illyrian.'

Macro stroked his chin thoughtfully, then refilled Cato's cup and his own before raising the latter in a toast. 'To those who lead from the front.'

Cato nodded. 'I'll drink to that.'

Cato was roused from his sleep in the last hour before dawn. An auxiliary was gently shaking his shoulder. 'Sir, the prefect wants you.'

Cato blinked, yawned and rubbed his eyes. 'Right, where is he?'

'On the main gatehouse, sir.'

'Very well, my compliments to the prefect. Tell him I'm coming.'

'Yes, sir.' The soldier saluted and turned to leave the room. At once Cato threw back his covers and swung his legs over the side of his bed. By the light of a single lamp the soldier had left on his table he pulled on his boots, tied them up and stretched his shoulders before standing up. Then he lifted his chain mail over his head, collected his helmet and sword belt and went to join Macro. Outside headquarters the air was cold and the pale light of the stars provided just enough illumination for Cato to see the barracks on either side of the street as he made for the main gate. Faint glimmers of light showed round the door and window frames of some of the barracks as those auxiliaries who could not find sleep passed the time at dice, or carving, or the myriad ways that soldiers occupy themselves while waiting for action.

As Cato climbed up through the hatch of the gatehouse tower he saw Macro's broad silhouette over by the breastworks.

'You sent for me.'

'Yes, I thought you should see this. Look out there.' Macro extended his arm towards the enemy camp and pointed to an area, perhaps three hundred paces away, where several torches burned, casting a wavering patch of light. In front of the torches was a wicker barricade that concealed the activity beyond. But the sounds of hammering and the shouts of men carried clearly to the two centurions on the gatehouse.

'Any idea what's going on?' asked Cato.

'Could be knocking up some assault ladders, or a battering ram. Not that that worries me, unduly. They still have to cross the dead ground before they can get close enough to use that sort of equipment.'

'Of course, they might be constructing something else,' Cato mused.

'That's what I thought. Perhaps the Parthians have provided Bannus with a company of engineers.'

'As well as arms and those horse-archers? That's uncommonly generous of them. But then again, we're all playing for high stakes.'

'True. Well, there's nothing we can do about it now.' Macro turned away from the enemy camp and glanced at the opposite horizon. 'It'll be light soon. Then we'll see what they're up to.'

It was not long before the darkness began to dissipate and detail by detail the landscape around the fort became visible. Soon the enemy extinguished the torches and Cato, whose young eyes were better than Macro's, strained to make out the details of two thick wooden frames beyond the wicker screen. Then, he felt a sick feeling in his guts as he realised what he was seeing. He waited a moment longer to be sure before he turned to Macro.

'Onagers. Two of them.'

'Onagers?' Macro looked astonished. 'Where the hell would Bannus have got onagers?' Even as he spoke, a memory flashed through his mind. Weeks earlier, when the caravan had rejected Postumus's offer of protection. In amongst the camels had been two covered ox-carts, carrying heavy timbers. No doubt the iron ratchets and other mechanisms had been hidden beneath the load. Very clever of the Parthians, Macro conceded. Rather than send the siege weapons across the desert, they had shipped them round Arabia and then smuggled them to Bannus under the guise of caravan goods. Macro bunched his hands into fists and thumped them down on the rampart.'I saw those a while back, broken down for transport. On that first patrol with Postumus. Of course, I was too foolish to recognise the components for what they were. Shit.'

Cato shook his head. 'Well, it's too late to do anything about it now.'

Macro was about to reply when they both heard a sharp shout from the enemy camp. They turned just in time to see the throwing arms of the onagers slash up and forwards until they struck the padded cross pieces. The dull thud of that impact sounded an instant later. Cato saw the first two boulders hurled up through the cold morning air. They rose to the top of the arc that defined their trajectory, seemed to hang there for a moment, and then came down at an alarming speed, rapidly gaining in size as they plunged towards the gatehouse.

Cato grabbed Macro and hauled him away from the rampart. 'Get down!'

07 The Eagle In the Sand