The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘I’ll have her.’ He spoke in Greek. ‘You can take one of the others to enjoy, my friend. My men took them from a local village just the other day. I gave orders that they were not to be touched by the common soldiers. So I offer you a gift. Which one shall it be?’

  Cato shook his head. ‘A Roman officer is always on duty, Majesty. I have no time for such pleasures. I must take my leave of you and do the rounds of my sentries.’

  It was a bald lie, but Cato was tired and he had spent as much time as he could bear in the company of the Iberian prince.

  ‘So soon? A pity. Then perhaps I shall have them given to my bodyguards for their pleasure.’

  Just then, the woman on the right glanced up and caught Cato’s eye and he thought that she looked terrified. He could imagine her fear at being torn from her home by the Iberians. It was only for a moment that their eyes met but there was something in her expression, a plea, and Cato resolved to do what he could to save her from the abuse at the hands of Rhadamistus’s bodyguards.

  ‘You are right, Majesty. A soldier needs such diversions. I’ll take that one.’ He pointed.

  ‘Bernisha? A good choice. I’ll have her sent to you. With some wine. Enjoy them both, my friend.’

  Cato bowed his head and eased himself up from the couch, just as a guard ducked through the main entrance to the tent. He lowered his head as he addressed Rhadamistus, who then turned to Cato.

  ‘It seems your centurion Macro is outside. He wishes to speak to you urgently.’

  Cato hurried under the flaps and into the cool air outside. Night had fallen and the stars pricked out above the jagged lines of the surrounding mountains. Macro stood to one side, vine cane resting on his shoulders. In the glow from a campfire nearby Cato could clearly see the anxiety in his expression.

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s one of the forage parties, sir. Centurion Petillius and twenty men. They haven’t returned to camp. They were due back well before dark, but there’s been no sign of them. I’ve ordered a man to sound the recall at intervals, but there’s been no response, no sighting of Petillius and his lads.’

  The effects of the wine and the prospect of female company for the night were thrust from Cato’s mind as he took this in. It was possible, but unlikely, that the centurion and his men had ventured too far and become lost. Petillius was too experienced to make such a mistake. A niggling fear crept into Cato’s mind as he became more certain that there was a sinister reason for the failure of the foraging party to return.

  ‘Shall I get Ignatius to call out his men to look for them, sir?’

  ‘No,’ Cato replied instantly. There was no point in sending more men out there in the darkness, to blunder around and possibly fall into the same trap that might have caught Petillius. ‘Have Ignatius’s century stand ready to man the palisade, if there’s any trouble.’

  ‘Do you think there will be?’

  Cato thought for a moment. ‘I hope not. I hope the fools are just stumbling around in the forest, but if they’re not, then we’ll need to be ready for anything. Give Ignatius his orders. I’ll be at the gate facing the forest. Find me there.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  They exchanged a salute and Macro turned to trot back towards the Roman tent lines while Cato strode towards the gate. He was inclined to rush, but did not wish be seen by his men as anything other than a calm and unruffled commander. By the time he had climbed up on to the rampart he could hear Ignatius bellowing orders to his men and the soft chink of kit as the men moved to take up their positions. A moment later his century marched up to the gateway and halted as Macro joined Cato.

  ‘Anything, sir?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Cato had scanned the shadowy treeline but could detect no movement, no sign of the missing men. The bucina sounded the recall three times and fell silent. The quiet around the camp was eerie and Cato felt his skin tingle with expectation in the cold night air. Something had happened to Petillius and his men, he was sure of it now. Time crept by, like a caterpillar picking its way across a flagstone, and at length he was aware of some men approaching from behind and turned to glance down into the fort, where he saw Rhadamistus and four of his bodyguards. The Iberian prince climbed up to his side.

  ‘Narses told me there was something going on amongst your men. What’s happening, Tribune?’

  Cato explained briefly and then the three of them continued to squint into the darkness, ears straining for any sound of movement. Aside from the occasional mournful cry of some birds down by the river, and from time to time the noise of an animal picking its way through the undergrowth, unnerving enough in itself, there were no other sounds. No voices, no sign of a body of men blundering through the pitch darkness of the forest.

  At length Rhadamistus growled softly. ‘This is foolishness. If your men are out there, we should find them. I’ll take some of my men, and torches, and look for them.’

  ‘No, Majesty. We wait until they return, or until dawn comes. Then we’ll start searching. Not before,’ Cato concluded firmly.

  Rhadamistus was about to protest when a sentry a short distance along the rampart called out. ‘Something’s moving! Over there!’ He thrust his arm out to where the track entered the forest and Cato narrowed his eyes as he looked towards the spot. Then he saw them, barely, dark shapes shifting against the even darker shadows.

  Macro cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed. ‘Petillius!’

  There was no reply, and a moment later no further sign of movement, as though whoever, or whatever, the sentry had spotted had dissolved into the night. Macro called out again.

  ‘Who goes there? Petillius?’

  His challenge was greeted with silence and stillness and it seemed as if everyone in the camp was holding their breath in anticipation of some dreadful event. All that could be heard from that direction was the faint rustle of a light breeze blowing the topmost boughs of the trees.

  ‘What are your orders, sir?’ Macro asked quietly.

  Cato hesitated. Part of him reasoned that the right thing to do would be to avoid any risk and wait until dawn before sending any men out to search for Petillius. It was possible that the enemy were out there preparing to attack the camp, waiting for the order to rush from the trees. But if that was so then they must know that they had been spotted and so the element of surprise had been lost. In which case there was no need to conceal their presence. Even if it was not the enemy, there had been somebody, or something, out there, watching them, and maybe they were still there, lying in wait. Another part of his mind was anxious to resolve the fate of Petillius and his men. Cato’s instinct demanded to know the answer. In the end his instinct, tempered by the calculation that if a large body of enemy soldiers was out there, then they would surely have revealed their presence by now, won out and he cleared his throat.

  ‘Macro, I want torches for Ignatius and his men. The rest of the cohort is to stand to. The slingers as well. You’ll take command here.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Macro acquiesced reluctantly and then hurried down from the wall to carry out his orders. Shortly after, the bucina sounded the stand-to, strident notes carrying over the camp, and instantly the quiet of the night gave way to shouted instructions as the officers roused the men and figures, illuminated by the dying campfires, rushed to form up into their units. Macro returned with a squad bearing flickering torches in each hand. These were handed over to the Praetorians waiting inside the gate as Macro approached Cato.

  ‘I can lead them out, sir.’

  ‘No.’ Cato rejected the suggestion firmly. Then he relented. ‘Not this time, my friend. You’ve taken more than your share of risks in the past. Look after the camp. If anything happens to me, then you take command of the column and continue the mission. If anything happens to Rhadamistus, get our men back across the frontier as quick as you can.’

  Cato went down to join Ignatius, borrowing a shield from one of the sentries manning the gate. As he hefted the shield, Rhadamist
us joined him. The Iberian took a spear from the same sentry and stood beside Cato.

  ‘Majesty, you should stay here.’

  ‘I will come with you, Tribune. The dark holds no fear for me. If the enemy are out there then it will be my pleasure to deal with them.’ He patted the hilt of his sword.

  ‘Majesty—’

  ‘No more protests, Tribune. If there is a fight, I want to be at your side. Let us go.’

  Cato nodded reluctantly and gave the order. ‘Open the gates!’

  The sentries removed the locking bar and hauled the hewn timbers aside on their rope hinges. Cato raised his shield and drew his sword. ‘Advance!’

  The distance from the fort to the forest was just beyond bowshot and they covered the ground at a measured pace, all the while straining their eyes and ears for the slightest hint of danger. The torch-bearers held the torches aloft, and the wavering flames lit up the Praetorians and cast a glow over the ground around them. It made them easy targets, Cato knew, but if the forest fringe was to be searched, it would be possible only by torchlight. They reached the track at an angle and then followed it towards the point where it entered the forest. That was where there now seemed to be some obstacle arranged across the track.

  ‘Steady boys,’ Ignatius intoned. ‘Keep shields up and eyes open.’

  It was an unnecessary comment, Cato realised, and hinted at the nervousness of the centurion.

  At the front of the formation, Cato’s keen eyes were the first to see what he had thought was an obstacle. As the light of the torches revealed the bodies, he ordered the century to halt and advanced cautiously with Rhadamistus. Petillius and his men had been bound to wooden frames set up across the track. Each man had been crudely flayed and strips of flesh still clung to the red muscle tissue beneath. Worse still, their genitals had been cut off and hung from thongs about the stumps of their necks. Having inflicted the mutilation the enemy had put an end to their lives by cutting their heads off and these were impaled on spikes on the top of each frame. All save one. Petillius had been set up a short distance in advance of the rest and now his head lifted slightly as he let out a keening cry.

  At once Cato set down his shield and hurried to the man and lifted his chin gently, keeping his eyes off the bloodied flesh and small sack hanging upon his chest.

  ‘Petillius . . .’

  The centurion’s eyes flickered open and he blinked weakly as he tried to respond. His mouth opened but only a gargled croak emerged from his lips and Cato saw that his tongue had been scorched to a blackened stump. He took half a step back in horror and disgust. Petillius’s expression twisted into one of agonised frustration as he tried to speak again but all he could manage was a series of bestial groans. There was nothing that could be done for him, Cato realised. The centurion was a ruin, tortured and tormented by the agonies he had endured at the enemy’s hands. Death was now only a release from suffering. Cato raised his sword and looked into Petillius’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry, brother . . .’

  The centurion stared back, shaking his head slowly as the ghastly noises from his throat rose in volume. Cato hesitated, unable yet to bring himself to end the man’s agony.

  Rhadamistus stepped forward and spoke gently. ‘Let me do this, Tribune. It will be done swiftly. He will not suffer any more.’

  ‘No.’ Cato shook his head. ‘No. I have to. He was one of my men.’

  The Iberian moved aside and Cato raised his sword to the vertical and rested the point in the soft tissue just behind Petillius’s collar bone. Then, grasping the handle firmly in both hands, he drove it down deeply into the centurion’s chest, tearing into his heart. Petillius convulsed, shuddered powerfully and then again more weakly as his head lolled back and his jaws opened and closed and then hung slack. Cato worked the blade free as hot blood coursed from the wound. He wiped the blade on the grass quickly before returning the sword to the scabbard. It took a moment before he was in full command of his wits again and called out.

  ‘Cut the bodies down and take them back to the fort.’

  While Ignatius instructed his men in their grisly duty, Cato looked on, a cold fury building in his heart. It seemed likely that word of what had happened to the Parthians in the fort had reached the enemy. This was their revenge. He had lost one of his officers and twenty good men, butchered like sheep. They would be avenged, he swore to himself. No one could commit an atrocity like this on Roman soldiers and be allowed to go unpunished. No one.

  ‘Tribune.’ Rhadamistus spoke quietly. ‘This is the handiwork of my enemies in Armenia. Now you see what these craven savages are capable of.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cato replied numbly.

  ‘There is no question of showing them mercy. Not after this. You agree?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They must be punished, Tribune.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They must be put to the sword, every single one of them. How else can we teach these dogs to respect Rome? Ligea must be burned to the ground and its people slaughtered. Let their bodies feed the crows. Let that serve as a warning to all who defy us.’

  Cato felt his numbed outrage steadily twisting into a dark, implacable wrath as he watched Ignatius and his men cut down the bodies and remove the heads from the spikes. Petillius was the last to be dealt with, and as the cords around him were cut, his body fell limply to the ground at Cato’s feet. He swallowed bitterly and cleared his throat.

  ‘Tomorrow, Ligea dies.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  ‘And who are those fellows?’ asked Macro as a small party of horsemen in fine robes were escorted towards the main column by a squadron of Iberian horse-archers.

  Cato said nothing as he regarded the strangers’ approach. He was still profoundly absorbed by the funeral that had taken place that morning. The bodies of Petillius and his men had been laid upon a long corduroy platform of logs and the pyre was lit by Cato himself. The Second Cohort had stood in silence as they formed up on three sides around the pyre and watched the flames catch and spread until the wooden logs and bodies were engulfed in a swirling inferno. Above, the smoke billowed into the sky and the air was filled with the acrid tang of roast meat and burned pine resin. At one point, as the corpses began to contort in the heat of the blaze, one of the bodies rose slowly into a sitting position and seemed to look directly at Cato as he stood in front of the other officers and the standards of the cohort. It had unnerved him for a moment and he felt as if the figure was demanding something of him. Demanding vengeance. Slowly, too slowly, the flames consumed the body and the remains collapsed amid the charred logs as the pyre settled and steadily burned itself out, leaving a pile of glowing embers and thin trails of smoke.

  ‘Remember our comrades!’ Cato had called out. ‘Never forget that they were denied a soldier’s death and they passed into the shades with hearts filled with the desire for revenge. Praetorians, they were slaughtered like animals by our enemies. Subjected to torture and humiliation that went far beyond what is tolerable in war. Their spirits cry out to us from beyond the grave, demanding vengeance! Demanding that we visit fire and fury and ferocity upon the enemy! We shall not rest until the Parthians responsible for this outrage are hunted down and butchered without mercy. Only then will our brothers, Centurion Petillius and his men, know peace.’ Cato raised his arms and face towards the smoke-stained heavens. ‘This I swear, before Jupiter, Best and Greatest! Brothers, swear it with me!’

  The Praetorians chorused the oath with an angry roar. ‘This we swear, before Jupiter, Best and Greatest!’

  As the cohort formed up to march, Cato had seen the bitter determination in their faces and he felt cold satisfaction at the prospect of the wrath they would unleash against the enemy when the chance presented itself. The deaths of their comrades would be avenged many times over before their thirst for blood was slaked. The column had progressed in silence all morning, with none of the customary banter and occasional marching songs that usually accompanied them.

  Now
, just after noon had come and gone, Cato and Macro were riding a short distance behind Rhadamistus and his coterie when the prince halted and sat tall in his saddle, reins in his right hand while his left rested on his hip, with his elbow projecting imperiously. The two Romans caught up and waited until the newcomers approached. Close to, Cato could see that they wore gold chains and jewelled rings, and their robes had a silky sheen to the material. Clearly men of some worth, but also men who feared Rhadamistus, judging by their nervous expressions. They dropped from their saddles and bowed low, before their leader stepped forward and addressed the prince in the native tongue. He spoke in a humble tone and gestured frequently towards his colleagues and beyond in the direction of Ligea, still hidden from the main column by a low ridge.

  Rhadamistus listened in silence and when the man finally dried up and stood, head down, awaiting the response, he turned to Cato.

  ‘Our friends here are the leaders of the town’s ruling council. They have come to tell me that there is a small force of Parthian soldiers in the town, besides their militia. These men claim that they have arranged for the gates to be opened for us, and that the council has voted to take my side and swear to be loyal to my cause.’ He smiled thinly. ‘It is a pity that their loyalty was not offered when I needed it most. So, Tribune, it seems that we may not need to fight our way into Ligea after all. Nevertheless, some example will need to be made to ensure that they know the cost of defying me. What would you suggest? That I decimate the council? That has a nice Roman touch about it and will please Emperor Nero, I should think. But decimation is a game of chance, and I want those who gave the order to close the gates against me last time to be the ones to pay for it with their lives. Namely, most of the men sitting on Ligea’s ruling council, skulking behind the walls in Ligea. Well, Tribune? What do you say?’