The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘I will leave that to your judgement. And you’ll have that in writing too.’

  Cato tried to hide his sour reaction as he nodded. ‘I understand, sir.’

  ‘Don’t take it that way, Cato. I have faith in your ability. You will do what is best. I took the time to ask around about you when I was passing through Rome on the way here. Seems like you have earned an enviable reputation for commanding men in the most difficult circumstances. That’s why I have given you this job.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Cato replied flatly. It was in his nature to mistrust any flattery and to put most of his success down to contingencies over which he had no control. In his mind, he simply reacted as best he could. It would be the height of arrogance for him to even think in terms of mastering fate. Moreover, he was inclined to recoil from praise, suspicious of ulterior motives for it being offered. Almost the only person whose judgement of his abilities he trusted was Macro. The centurion never balked at calling him out on poor performance, and admitted any admiration grudgingly. And that suited Cato. He brushed the praise aside and turned to a matter that concerned him.

  ‘Sir, while I can see that our ally may need to use a siege train, it occurs to me that making such equipment available to him might be a double-edged weapon. The one thing all the kingdoms of the east lack is an understanding of siege warfare, and siege weapons. It’s what gives Rome a valuable advantage when we go to war in the region. If Rhadamistus decides to change sides, then we’ll be handing him the ability to destroy our frontier outposts and our fortresses. Worse still, if we are defeated and they fall into Parthian hands, then it may tilt the balance in their favour.’

  ‘Then your orders are to make sure that does not happen. If Rhadamistus betrays us, or there is any danger of the siege weapons being captured by the enemy, you will destroy them, at all cost. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Unless there is anything else, I think matters are concluded here. You can requisition supplies from the procurator’s stores in Tarsus to cover most of your needs for the march to Bactris. Anything else you can requisition on the way. Make sure you sign for it and direct the recipients to my headquarters. It may take them a while to be paid, but you may tell them that I will honour all requisitions. No point in alienating the people behind our backs when we face the Parthians.’

  ‘Indeed not, sir.’

  ‘I may see you at Bactris before you march on Armenia. Otherwise, the next time we meet will be at Artaxata, assuming your mission is a success. That’s all. Dismissed.’

  ‘That’s all?’ Macro growled as they descended the steps of the general’s headquarters and started down the street towards the silversmith’s house. ‘If we see this thing through, put Rhadamistus on the throne and stay long enough to make sure he’s secure, it could be a year or more before we’re back from Armenia.’

  ‘More than a year, I’d guess,’ Cato responded. ‘Given the time it is going to take Corbulo to concentrate his army and ensure it is equipped, supplied and trained for the campaign. He won’t be able to reach Artaxata until after the coming winter. After that we’ll be remaining in the field until the Parthians are defeated, or they sue for peace. That could take years.’

  ‘Shit . . . Petronella’s not going to like this.’

  ‘Nor Lucius. I’m going to miss him badly.’

  They walked on in silence for a moment, between the stalls that lined the street leading off the Forum, ignoring the appeals of the traders to stop and examine their wares. As they turned the corner into a quieter street, Cato spoke again. ‘You had your chance to apply for a discharge. Perhaps you should have taken it while you could.’

  ‘And miss all the fun?’

  ‘Instead, you’ll be missing your woman.’

  Macro coughed. ‘She’ll understand. Once we get past the shouting and the tears, anyway. I’m hoping that me leaving her everything in my will might go some way towards saving my knackers tonight.’

  ‘I think she might have another use for those, being the last night before the cohort marches out.’

  Macro laughed. ‘There is that. Just hope Petronella keeps it warm for me while I’m away.’

  Cato looked at him. ‘Come on. The woman’s smitten. I’ve seen the way she looks at you. She’ll be waiting and won’t forget you, nor even look at another man. I’d bet on it.’

  ‘Oh yes? How much?’

  ‘I’d place a wager, but it would be like stealing cake from a baby. Come on, Macro, you know I’m right. Petronella and you were destined for each other. Never seen a finer match. Mind you,’ Cato reflected bitterly, ‘I felt the same way about Julia. And we know how that ended.’

  Macro patted him on the shoulder. ‘We don’t know for certain, lad.’

  ‘And we never will,’ Cato replied through gritted teeth, and increased his pace so that he drew slightly ahead of the centurion in the narrow thoroughfare. Macro thought about catching up, but knew his friend well enough to leave him be when his thoughts turned to his late wife, whose fidelity he would never be able to be certain of now that she was dead. It would be good for Cato to get back in the field and have every hour filled with the duties and concerns of a commander, and leave little or no time for the things that tormented his soul and tipped him into that well of misery that was forever at his back.

  As for himself? Macro shrugged. He loved Petronella like no woman he had encountered before. Not that he had ever been much of a one for love. Lust, yes. Nothing better than drink and a good fuck with a cheery whore when he was off duty in any of his postings around the Empire. Some of the women he had liked well enough, but not enough to miss when he moved on. But Petronella had cut her way through his tough hide right to his heart, and the thought of being without her for over a year brought on a pang of despair that was an entirely new experience for Macro.

  ‘Fuck me,’ he muttered as he thrust his way past a pushy orange seller, upsetting his basket and spilling the fruit into the street. His curses filled the air, but Macro ignored him and trudged on without the slightest inclination to turn on the man and give him a thick ear. He shook his head. ‘What, in Jupiter’s name, has happened to me?’

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  There were already plenty of signs of the initial preparations for the coming campaign as they approached Bactris eight days later. A short distance from the frontier fortress a road joined them from the south, upon which rumbled an escorted convoy of supply wagons. A large cloud of dust obscured all but the leading wagons and Cato gave the order to pick up the pace so that the cohort would get ahead of the convoy before it reached the junction. It was bad enough for his men with the dust their boots kicked up, and the fine powder and grit cloaked them in an ashen patina. Lips and throats were dry and the lines in men’s faces were more clearly marked beneath their dusty fringes, so that each individual looked as if he had aged ten years or more since they had left the comforts of Tarsus. Cato and Macro rode at the front of the column and so were spared the worst of the dust.

  Turning in his saddle, Cato glanced back over the column with a wry smile. This was a far cry from the luxurious conditions the Praetorian Guard usually enjoyed, cosseted in their barracks on the edge of Rome. Some might have accused them of having gone soft long ago. Such complaints were usually to be heard from the legions based on the Empire’s frontiers, where life was harder, and usually more dangerous. But the men of the Second Cohort had proved themselves to be fine warriors when he had led them to put down a revolt in Hispania, and he had no doubts about how they would acquit themselves against the enemy here on the opposite frontier of the Empire.

  It was late in the afternoon, the heat was slowly dissipating and he looked forward to making camp at the end of the day.

  ‘Any stragglers to report, Centurion Macro?’

  ‘None so far today, sir. Been three clear days since the last one fell out of line. The lads are in fine fettle. Grumbling of course, and the usual barrack room lawyers have said their piece,
and I’ve said mine and I’m happy to say the matter is closed.’

  Cato could imagine that more than words had been exchanged between Macro and the men, but then that was why centurions carried knotted vine canes. They tended to emphasise the officers’ point very effectively.

  Ahead, the road curved between low hills and there, not two miles ahead, lay the gleaming ribbon of the Euphrates river, flowing through the heavily cultivated land spreading out on either bank. The road descended in an easy slope towards the fortress town of Bactris, built on a slight bluff from where lookouts could see a considerable distance into the lands claimed by Parthia. Around the town looped the river, flowing swiftly between shingle beds for a stretch which permitted fording of the river. Because of this Bactris had a crucial strategic significance for both Rome and Parthia. Spread along the riverbank were the camps of three auxiliary units and the single cohort of legionaries Quadratus had sent. Macro frowned as he shaded his eyes with a hand and scrutinised the lines of tents without any surrounding ramparts.

  ‘Lazy bastards haven’t even set up marching camps. Someone might have told them we’re at war.’

  Cato nodded. This close to the frontier the units should have constructed the regulation ‘camp in the face of the enemy’ with palisade-topped ramparts at least twice the normal height, with watchtowers at each corner. If this was the approach adopted by the soldiers of the eastern frontier then they would be in for a rude shock when General Corbulo arrived to take personal command.

  ‘And no sign of the siege train,’ said Cato. ‘Still on the road, I expect.’

  ‘Assuming they have started out. I doubt that Quadratus is going to be happy when he hears that he’s going to have to hand some kit over to Rhadamistus. A denarius to a sestertius he’ll be kicking up a fuss and delaying sending the siege train on for as long as possible.’

  ‘Maybe, but I suspect the general will have anticipated that and will be breathing down his neck to get the job done.’

  ‘You hope . . . Look there.’ Macro pointed to the other side of the town, where a large cluster of palm trees grew a short distance from Bactris’s walls. A much larger camp sprawled amongst the trees and along the fringes. Lines of tethered horses were shaded by the palm fronds and here and there were clusters of brightly coloured tents.

  ‘I expect those are our esteemed allies,’ said Cato. ‘We’ll make camp just beyond them.’

  ‘Not by the auxiliary lads?’

  Cato shook his head. ‘Might as well start setting an example to Rhadamistus and his men of what’s required when we march into Armenia.’

  He took a firm grip of his reins. ‘You take charge here. I’ll ride ahead and find our friend. One of those cohorts should be the slingers. Send a man to find their commander and have him report to my tent after the evening meal.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  They exchanged a quick salute, and Cato urged his mount into an easy canter and headed down the road towards the fortress town. Although he had said nothing to Macro, he was furious at the lack of precautions being taken by the auxiliary cohorts and was determined to give the commander of the slingers a dressing-down when they met later. He would pay the other units a visit as well, and make damned sure they followed suit and erected proper defences. After that, he’d tackle the trickier prospect of getting the Iberians to adopt Roman camp techniques. It would require a degree of tact and determination, since Rhadamistus would not take kindly to being treated as a subordinate. But that was bitter medicine he might as well have to swallow now before they marched to war. Better that than have unnecessary friction linger between the easterners and the Roman units.

  As he left the road and angled towards the Iberian camp, the sun was low in the sky, bathing the landscape in a rich red-gold hue that Cato recalled from his last posting to the eastern frontier. That was when he had first met Julia . . . Her face briefly loomed in his mind’s eye before he forced himself to dismiss any thought of her and concentrate on the preparations he must make to get his small column ready for war.

  He rode straight into the camp unchallenged and reined in beside a cluster of tents. A handful of richly dressed men were lying on cushions drinking and talking as one of their servants laid a fire. They paused to look over the dusty rider, who raised a hand in greeting.

  ‘Where can I find Prince Rhadamistus?’ Cato asked in Greek.

  There was a pause before one of the men replied in a thick accent: ‘The king is beyond the trees, by the river. Through there.’

  He rose on his cushion and indicated a path between the palms. Cato could see the gleam of water beyond and he nodded his head in thanks and slipped down from his saddle to lead his horse on. As he passed through the camp his keen eyes noted the details of the men around him. There was little of the uniformity of kit and dress of Roman soldiers, but the men seemed in good spirits and their mounts looked healthy and well-groomed. A few looked up curiously as he walked by. On the far side of the belt of trees the ground sloped gently to the reeds that fringed the Euphrates. Groups of horses were being watered and some of the men had stripped to splash around in the shallows. Others took the opportunity to wash clothes and rid them of the dust that was a constant discomfort of the region.

  To his left, a hundred or so paces away, were several tents, one of which was the largest in the camp, and Cato made for it. This time he was challenged by the guards in green robes who stood in a loose ring around their king’s encampment. Two men stepped into his path, spears in hand.

  ‘I would speak with Rha—, His Majesty,’ Cato corrected himself. ‘At once.’

  The two guards stared at him, then had a brief exchange. One gestured to him to remain where he was before turning and walking, unhurriedly, towards the largest tent. His companion watched the Roman visitor closely as Cato stood by his mount and patted its cheek as it loomed over his shoulder, champing gently. The inside of his thighs felt hot and sore from the long hours in the saddle and he looked longingly towards the men swimming in the river. At length the guard returned with a man in a black gown embroidered with golden stars and crescents. His skin was dark, his lips black, and he smiled as he stood in front of Cato, hands on hips.

  ‘Who have we here?’ He spoke in Greek as he tilted his head to one side. ‘What manner of creature is this that has blown out of the desert?’

  Cato glanced down at himself and saw that the medals on his harness and the finer accoutrements of his dress were dulled to a uniform grey grubbiness, along with every bit of his flesh exposed to the dust. Not a very favourable impression of Roman smartness, he conceded to himself. He cleared his throat to ensure that his response was comprehensible.

  ‘I am Tribune Cato, commander of the Armenian column. I wish to speak with your king.’

  ‘Commander?’ The Iberian noble arched an eyebrow. ‘I see. Please follow me. You can leave your mount with these men.’

  Cato handed the reins over and followed the noble towards the main tent. A large slave in a turban held the curtains aside as they entered. It took a moment for Cato’s eyes to adjust to the dim interior, and then he saw that it was fringed with cushions. In the middle sat Rhadamistus, and around him were arranged several men, dressed in the same fashion as the noble who escorted Cato. The king smiled a greeting and beckoned to his visitor.

  ‘My dear tribune! Your presence honours my humble tent. Please, be seated.’ He snapped a few curt words and one of his retinue scrambled off his cushions and backed away from the group. Cato sat himself down with as much decorum as his sore legs and backside permitted, and a small cloud of dust stirred from the folds of his tunic as he settled heavily.

  ‘Do you require a change of clothes?’ Rhadamistus asked solicitously. ‘I can send for a silk robe while your armour and clothing are cleaned.’

  It was a tempting offer, but grimy as he was, Cato did not feel it appropriate to disrobe or surrender to the comforts of an eastern potentate. ‘I thank you, but that will not be necessary. I will no
t be interrupting your gathering for long, Majesty.’

  ‘Something to drink then?’

  This Cato felt he could accept without compromising the dignity of Rome’s military. He nodded. ‘Thank you, Majesty.’

  Rhadamistus shot an order at the man whose place Cato had taken and he hurried out of the tent.

  ‘I take it your Praetorians are not far behind you on the road from Tarsus?’

  ‘They will be making camp within the hour.’

  ‘Good! And the siege train also?’

  ‘That is arriving separately, from Antioch. Within a matter of days.’

  ‘Then we are almost ready to march against Tiridates.’ Rhadamistus smiled briefly and Cato watched as the smile faded into a look of cruel amusement. ‘And when I have the man in my hands, along with his family and all those in Armenia who call themselves his friends, the waters of the Araxes will run red with their blood.’ Then he laughed and grinned at Cato. ‘Apologies, Tribune. A moment’s indulgence in the art of revenge. But we must not make our omelette before we have cracked our eggs. I believe that is the saying.’

  ‘Yes, Majesty, something like that. Which brings me to the purpose of my visit.’

  ‘Oh?’

  They were interrupted by the return of the noble. Behind him came a slave, stripped to the waist, carrying a large silver tray bearing a glass beaker and a tray of honeyed pastries and dried fruit. He set the tray down beside Cato and backed out of the tent, bowing deeply. Cato gratefully lifted the glass and took a sip. The water was delightfully cool and scented with something sweet, and he savoured every drop.

  ‘You mentioned the purpose of your visit,’ Rhadamistus prompted.

  ‘Ah, yes. Forgive me, Majesty.’ Cato set the glass down and sat straight, hands folded in his lap. ‘While we await the arrival of the siege train and the supplies bound for our column, we can begin training your soldiers in our ways of fighting, so that we might tackle the enemy in the most effective manner possible.’