The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  Cato caught the cautious look on the other man’s face and completed the sentiment. ‘But when the glory and honour of Rome are at stake our leaders tend to act before they think. That’s what you were going to say, I take it?’

  ‘Something like that, sir.’ Graniculus smiled cautiously. ‘Then again, it’s not my place to question my superiors.’

  ‘Nor mine, alas.’

  They were interrupted by the thin blare of trumpets and Cato saw tiny figures scurrying from amongst the tents as those on duty made for their places on the walls. He rose to his feet and shaded his eyes. Away to the west he could see a column of horsemen trotting down the road from Antioch. Now and then there was a glint amid the cloud of dust kicked up by the horses’ hoofs as the sun caught a helmet or armour.

  ‘No point in asking if it’s ours or theirs,’ said the quartermaster, who was also on his feet now. ‘Coming from that direction. Bound to be another cohort sent forward to Bactris. You’d better get your hands on those supplies while you still can, sir.’

  Cato made no reply and continued straining his eyes to pick out details in the force rapidly approaching the Euphrates. Then he caught a glimpse of red at the head of the column, then more capes and crested helmets, and he realised he was looking at General Corbulo and his staff leading a small column of cavalry.

  ‘That’s Corbulo,’ he muttered. ‘I need to go. Make sure you and your clerks sort out my supplies. I’ll have my men come and get them tomorrow morning.’

  Their conversation had slipped into a more formal tone, and now Graniculus stood stiffly as they exchanged a salute before Cato strode across the terrace and back into the shaded interior of the quartermaster’s offices. He had not anticipated the general’s arrival coming so soon. Clearly Corbulo was not one to let the grass grow beneath his boots. The days of Bactris being a quiet back-water of the Empire were over. From now on, it would serve as the forward base for the Roman army. Soon the ground below the fortress would be swarming with tens of thousands of men preparing to cross the Euphrates and hurl their weight against the might of Parthia.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘It’s beyond farcical,’ Corbulo fumed as he strode up and down Cato’s tent in the Praetorian camp. ‘The information I had about the condition of the legions was true, up to a point. But the reality is shocking. The Tenth and the Twelfth are in a deplorable state. I doubt if half the men are even fit enough to lead into battle. Nearly a quarter of them should have taken their discharge many years ago. But they’ve got a taste for the comforts and pay that go with being a legionary, so why quit when Rome is putting a roof over your head, food in your mouth and money in your purse? Especially when there’s no campaigning to be done. Their kit’s a joke. Hardly any men have complete equipment, and what there is of it is in a poor state of repair. There are almost no stocks of spare weapons or armour. Discipline is poor. The centurions openly accept bribes in exchange for avoiding duties and the legates spend more time attending banquets and hunts than they do with their legions. The thing is that the Third and the Sixth are not that much better.’

  He paused and clenched his jaw, then shook his head. ‘Apologies, Tribune. But I have never seen the like. I tell you, if Vologases had the balls to invade Syria by himself and take on our legions single-handed, I’d give him favourable odds.’

  Cato sensed that his superior’s rage was fading to a level where he might tolerate hearing a word from another officer.

  ‘It would seem that our preparations for the campaign are going to take a little longer than anticipated, sir.’

  ‘Not half. The gods know what that fool Quadratus was thinking when he claimed he should be leading those men into Parthia. Our forces are in shit order and that is his responsibility. Frankly, I should send him back to Rome to be prosecuted for dereliction of duty. But he’d only use the opportunity to spread lies about the situation and try to pin the blame on me. So we’re stuck with him for the time being. In the meantime, I’ll have to send for kit to resupply the legions. The time-servers will have to be dismissed and fresh recruits found to fill their places. That means several months of training before they are ready to fight. Several months of lost campaigning time, which you can be damn sure the Parthians will make the most of.’

  Cato cleared his throat. ‘From what I’ve seen of the auxiliary troops here at Bactris, you’re going to have the same issues with them. I would imagine that applies for most of the other units under your authority as well, sir.’

  ‘I fear that’s true.’ Corbulo clasped his hands behind his back and looked down for a moment, deep in thought.

  ‘Does this mean that you will be delaying sending my column into Armenia, sir?’ asked Cato.

  The general looked up sharply. ‘Absolutely not! We must have Rhadamistus back on his throne as soon as possible. The longer we delay, the more opportunity we give Tiridates to consolidate his position. We have to take the initiative and strike fast and strike hard. Knock the Parthians off balance in order to win some breathing space to ready the army for war.’

  ‘That won’t be until spring next year, sir. At the earliest.’

  ‘I appreciate that, thank you, Tribune. So you will be out on a limb for at least a year. An unenviable prospect, I agree, but we have to make the attempt. Even if that comes at the price of you and your men.’

  Cato felt his respect for Corbulo cool. It was hard to hear the fate of his cohort dismissed in so few words. But the general seemed to be missing a wider issue.

  ‘What about Rhadamistus, sir? The Empire might be able to risk and lose a cohort. But if Rhadamistus is taken prisoner or killed, then Rome will have lost its claimant to the Armenian throne.’

  ‘Rome will have lost Rhadamistus, to be sure. But there are plenty of sons of eastern kings living at the emperor’s pleasure in Rome. We can always rustle up another to place on the throne.’

  So there it was, thought Cato. He and Macro were expendable. Along with the cohort, Rhadamistus, and all his retinue and soldiers. Mere stakes in Corbulo’s throw of the dice to take the initiative from the enemy. He was tempted to feel bitter but forced himself to put himself in the general’s place for a moment. He considered the forces in play and reluctantly concluded that he too would make the same gamble. All this passed through Cato’s mind in a matter of heartbeats before he responded: ‘I understand, sir.’

  Corbulo stared at him searchingly, then nodded. ‘I believe that you do, Tribune. It’s a bad business, and if I thought there was any alternative, then I would not order you to go.’

  ‘I believe you, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. Then you’ll need to be ready to march the moment the siege train arrives. I passed it on the road, two days ago. It should be here in no more than three days.’

  ‘Three days . . .’ Cato repeated as he reflected on all the preparations he must make. The supplies would be ready. Macro’s training of the Iberians would have to be curtailed, or at least continued on the march as the opportunity arose. And there was another matter he had considered and needed to raise with his general. Now was the time, since Corbulo had voiced some sympathy for Cato’s predicament.

  ‘There’s a cohort of slingers here, sir.’

  ‘Yes,’ Corbulo said wearily. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Given that my column is going to be isolated for longer than you anticipated, then we need to defend ourselves as best we can. It’s not just a question of numbers. I have fought the Parthians before, sir, as you know. I have seen the damage their horse-archers can do. But I know that our slingers can shoot further. It should give us the edge if we run into any bands of Parthians that try to harass our column. I’d like to request the slingers be transferred to my command, sir.’

  ‘And what if they are lost along with you if your column is defeated? It would be throwing good after bad, Tribune.’

  ‘Conversely, it might just tip the balance in favour of my column achieving its mission, sir. You spoke of justified risk a moment ago. It’s
my belief that giving me the slingers is also a justified risk. But one that improves the odds in Rome’s favour.’

  Corbulo laughed dryly. ‘You dare to play me at my own game . . . Very well, you may take them. One cohort more or less is not going to change things here in Syria. But that is all.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The general was silent for a moment before he continued in a more emollient tone. ‘Cato, there is one final matter. I could have raised it earlier, but I needed you to fully understand the strategic situation before I told you.’ He reached for the saddle bag he had set down beside the tent opening when he had entered Cato’s headquarters. Drawing the flap back, he took out a small waxed slate with a broken imperial seal. ‘I received instructions from the emperor to send your cohort back to Rome once I had taken command of the army here. You were sent to escort me to Syria. That job is done and Nero wants his precious Praetorians back. My difficulty is that your men are far more precious to Rome here, not least because they are the only Roman soldiers worthy of the name available for the task I have given you. If I send you back now, then Rhadamistus will not be able to retake Armenia . . .’

  He left it to Cato to complete the line of thought he had worked through on his ride to Bactris.

  The tribune smiled faintly and nodded. ‘Then it is a pity the dispatch from Nero only reached you after my column had marched and it was too late to recall me.’

  ‘Yes. I will be sure to record that you were unaware of the dispatch and acted on my orders in good faith. I trust that you will back that version of events up if it becomes necessary in the future.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Of course.’

  ‘Sometimes it is the soldiers in the field who have to decide what is best for Rome, whatever their orders say.’

  ‘I understand that, and accept it.’

  Corbulo clasped his hand and shook it firmly. ‘Good man. Now then, you’ve surely had the chance to scout out Bactris. Where can an old soldier find a decent drink and a comfortable bed for the night?’

  Fortunately, the general stayed just long enough to inspect the facilities of the fortress and the state of the three cohorts that had already arrived, in addition to the cavalry cohort he had brought forward from its base at Zeugma. Then he and his staff and bodyguards rode back to rejoin the legions trudging to the assembly point at Bactris.

  Over the next two days Cato laboured to ensure that his column would be ready to march as soon as the siege train arrived. Five days’ rations were issued from stores, together with bundles of leather to repair boots and straps, and fodder for the mules that carried the baggage for the two cohorts, as well as all the supplies needed for the Iberians and their mounts. To which requirements were added fodder for the draught animals drawing the siege train as well as spare timber and nails for the inevitable running repairs. Carts and mules were bought from the local market to carry the extra rations and fodder needed to keep the column on the march. As was the custom, Cato intended to replenish his stocks at the end of each day’s march while they were in friendly territory. Once they crossed the frontier region into Armenia, they would be obliged to forage and live off the land and its people. With luck there would be some towns that would welcome the return of Rhadamistus and resupply the column. Otherwise Cato and his men would be forced to take what they needed and risk turning the local people against them, where they could not be cowed.

  Once the logistical arrangements were settled Cato turned his attention to the cohort of slingers. At first light on the second morning he had the Third Balearic and their commander assemble a short distance from their freshly erected ramparts. Tribune Pasito was a corpulent individual with a fringe of grey hair around his sunburned head. He was at least twenty years older than Cato and did little to conceal his resentment over Corbulo’s decision to place him under the Praetorian officer.

  ‘Where’s your helmet?’ Cato demanded.

  ‘Helmet? Back in my tent.’

  ‘Go and fetch it at once. You and any other officer who has failed to turn out without the proper equipment.’

  ‘We are not in the habit of wearing helmets,’ Pasito protested. ‘Not unless battle is imminent.’

  ‘I don’t give a shit about that. Every officer under my command will carry a helmet with him at all times. And you will pay due deference to my rank from this point onwards. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now fetch your helmet. I expect every man of the cohort to be properly equipped when he is called on parade from now on. Go.’

  Once Pasito returned, sweating heavily and puffing, Cato had him stand at attention while he addressed him.

  ‘What’s the story with the Third Balearic? How long has the cohort been posted to Syria?’

  Pasito swallowed and breathed deeply as he collected his thoughts. ‘The cohort was raised in Palma twenty years ago, sir. The unit was sent straight to Syria to serve in a policing roll. Been here ever since.’

  Cato eyed the cohort’s bare standard. There was not even a single decoration. ‘Any combat experience at all?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘How long have you been in command?’

  ‘Two years.’

  ‘And before that?’

  Pasito hesitated briefly. ‘Assistant to the tax collector in Antioch, sir.’

  ‘A lucrative position, I have no doubt. So the command of the cohort is a sinecure for an old friend of the tax collector, I take it? In exchange for providing a ready escort for any of his officials whenever he requires it.’ Cato leaned forward and dared the man to contradict him.

  Pasito wilted and nodded awkwardly. ‘Something like that.’

  ‘I see.’ Cato straightened up to his full height so that he could look down at the other officer. ‘Well, it seems that you and your men are now going to have to earn your keep. Let’s have a closer look at them and see what they’re made of.’

  He turned and strode towards the end of the front rank of the cohort. The slingers, due to their specialism, were armed and equipped quite unlike most other cohorts. They were the lightest of infantry. Only the centurions and optios wore helmets and any kind of armour. The rankers had leather skullcaps with iron plates sewn on to give minimal protection from glancing blows of edged weapons. Some had linen cuirasses, but most just wore light tunics, sandals, and sidebags to carry their sling and shot. A canteen, belt and sword completed their equipment. They would be cut to pieces in close combat, Cato thought. But then they were never intended for such a role. Slingers had come to replace most of the light infantry armed with javelins who once skirmished ahead of the legions. In the hands of a proficient user the sling had a far greater range than a javelin and most bows. Moreover, the lead shot was far more lethal, tearing through flesh and shattering bones with more destructive power than any arrow. Their function was to wear down the enemy and break up their formations before the legionaries charged home to finish the job.

  Cato made his way along each line, building up an overall impression of the Third Balearic. Despite the duration of the unit’s existence, it was still untried and unblooded. As natural wastage had thinned out the ranks, so local youths had been recruited and trained as slingers. Very few of the original islanders remained on the cohort’s strength, and those who did were well past their prime. Cato noticed that most of the men had the darker skin and features of easterners and probably had not the slightest idea about the island after which their unit was named. Many of them looked too old or too out of shape to endure a long march, but there was only one way to find out.

  Once he had completed his inspection, Cato gave the order to form columns of centuries, and when all the officers and men were in position he gave the order to follow him as he marched around the ramparts of the cohort’s camp. He increased his pace for the next lap and then broke into a steady trot after the third, and continued lap after lap as the morning sun rose across the river and clim
bed slowly into the sky, bathing the landscape in its harsh glare. Despite the extra weight of his scale armour, Cato was able to keep up the pace thanks to his hard-won fitness over many years of campaigning across the length and breadth of the Empire. It took less than five laps for the first man to fall out. Others began to slow their pace so that the centuries started to lose their shape, and by the end of the first hour, as best Cato could estimate the passage of time, the cohort was a stream of men with laboured breath struggling to keep up with him. Pasito was an early casualty, staggering to a halt and then bent double as he vomited. Cato stopped briefly to order the rearmost centurion to round up those who had fallen out and take them aside. Then he ran back to the head of the remaining men and continued until he began to feel his own stamina starting to fail him. He called a halt once they returned to the original starting point.

  Of the original strength of nearly five hundred men, just over three hundred remained, Cato estimated. Only three of the centurions were still with the unit. Almost all of them were blown and stood chests heaving, faces streaming with sweat. Some bent over, gasping or retching. But they had proved they had the ability to keep up, Cato conceded. As soon as he had recovered his breath sufficiently to give clear orders, he gave permission for them to use their canteens and called Pasito over.

  ‘These are the men I want. You and those others are to return to Antioch at once and report to the governor for posting to garrison duties. That is all you are fit for. Return to camp, pack your kit and make ready to leave. I’ll have your written orders prepared before you march.’

  Pasito opened his mouth to protest but Cato raised a hand to forestall him. ‘It’s for your own good, Prefect. You and these others would only hold us back. And when we can’t afford to delay any further, you’d be left behind, at the mercy of the enemy. Better you remain here in Syria where you can do some good.’

  ‘But . . . but who will take my place?’