The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  A series of sharp cracks broke the quiet of the night and bright flares of light carved through the night sky, streaking over the heads of the Romans pressed into the ground, briefly illuminating the Parthian, who saw some of Cato’s men in almost the same instant. He jumped up, turned and ran back towards the town as the first shafts crashed into the shattered walls in bursts of sparks that lit up the figures crouched over their work. They froze in the sudden harsh glare and Cato snatched his spear and jumped to his feet as he filled his lungs.

  ‘Up men, and get at ’em!’

  The plan was simple enough. The slingers were to cause the most damage. The Praetorians were there to protect them in the first instance and then do what they could to undo the defenders’ repairs if the opportunity arose. Cato ran forward, dark figures rushing up on each side. To his right he heard Macro bellow the order to charge, and from behind came the clanking din of the next volley being prepared. Aside from orders, no man was to make a sound. Cato wanted to unnerve his enemy as much as possible and the dark shapes with darkened faces rushing from the night would present a frightening spectacle.

  Another series of cracks sounded, then there was the crackling whoosh of projectiles flying above to fall a moment later amongst the enemy, striking down several this time as one landed squarely amongst a chain gang bringing up blocks of stone to build a new breastwork on the wall. As the Romans came within forty or so paces of the wall Cato shouted the order to stop.

  ‘Slingers! Forward five paces and loose at will!’

  At the sound of Cato’s voice Metellus ordered the bolt-throwers to cease shooting. As the Praetorians held back, the slingers moved up, slipped lead shot in their pouches and whirled their thongs overhead before sending the deadly little missiles hurtling towards the enemy. One of the first shots struck the Parthian who was still struggling to hold up his sagging breeches as he ran to safety. His head snapped forward and his arms jerked outwards, causing his breeches to drop and trip him up, and he fell headlong. More shot whirred and zipped towards the men clambering back over the wall, knocking down several more, and as the last disappeared into the gloom Cato called on the slingers to lower the weapons and for the whole force to double forward. He was the first to reach the foot of the rubble to the left of the gate and began to scramble up as his men followed suit on either side, pausing only to finish off the enemy wounded and to gather the burning incendiaries.

  As they reached the half-completed breastwork, Cato snatched up one of the flaming bolts, lodged between two stones and hurled it to the other side. Then he glanced over the breastwork and the light of enemy torches revealed hundreds of men milling about below. Many were Parthians, armed with bows and spears, but most were clearly townspeople, formed into repair gangs to work on the defences. All looked up, their fearful expressions caught in the glow of the flames. Behind them, as he suspected there would be, rose a low internal wall, topped with a crude palisade.

  Once more the slingers set about their work, sending lethal shot down into the compact mass. It was almost impossible to miss, and cries and screams of pain and panic filled the air. Cato felt consumed by the wild exhilaration of the spectacle before him and shouted for the Praetorians to throw down the breastwork. There would be only a short opportunity to do as much damage as possible before the Parthians counter-attacked in force. Already some were shooting arrows back from the heaving mass below. More Parthians were appearing along the inner wall and letting fly shafts from there. Nearby a slinger threw out his sling hand and was instantly struck down by an arrow through the throat and toppled back on to the rubble slope behind him. More arrows struck home, taking down two Praetorians and another slinger. Then one struck a block of stone close by and ricocheted close to Cato’s face so that he felt the rush of air at its passing. He dropped his spear, snatched up a rock the size of a small melon and hurled it down at the enemy below. He did not wait to see where it landed before picking up another and throwing it as far and as hard as he could.

  There was a grunt as the man next to him was struck and Cato glanced round to see the standard-bearer, Rutilius, stumbling back with the shaft of an arrow piercing his shoulder.

  It was time to leave.

  ‘Fall back! Fall back!’ He turned to his right and shouted again to be sure Macro heard the command, then picked up his spear in one hand and took the standard-bearer’s good arm in the other.

  ‘Can you manage on your own?’

  ‘Yes . . . Yes, sir.’

  ‘Back you go then.’

  Rutilius stumbled down the debris and away from the wall, but some of the Praetorians and slingers were still feverishly throwing down the barricade. Cato cursed them under his breath before he yelled again. ‘Fall back, damn you!’

  This time they obeyed at once, abandoning their work, grabbing their weapons and clambering down the ruins of the wall to safety. Cato took a last glance at the inner wall to fix the details in his mind, then saw an archer swing his bow round to take aim at him, and turned and bolted as the arrow whirred over his head. At the foot of the wall the men were carrying out the orders they had been given at the briefing just before dusk. The Praetorians dashed back towards the camp, dark shapes streaming through the night. The slingers followed them a short distance before turning about and loading fresh shot. Cato was the last man to pass through the skirmish line and stopped, chest heaving. The shouts of the defenders reached him, above the pounding of blood in his ears. They let out a ragged chorus of shouts as they set off in pursuit of the raiding party.

  The first heads appeared above the crest of the rubble – Parthians armed with bows and spears, lit up by the wavering flames of the incendiaries. The slinger next to Cato began to swing his arm.

  ‘Wait for it!’ Cato snapped at him, then louder for all to hear, ‘Slingers! Only on my order!’

  The enemy rose up and over the rubble, their shouts taking on a strident, triumphant tone as they saw most of the Romans running from them. In amongst the Parthians were some of the townspeople, armed with an assortment of swords, axes and spears, Some just had rocks in their hands, ready to hurl them at any Roman who came within reach. Cato waited until the target was hard to miss, slowly raising his arm, heedless of the fact that it would be invisible to most of his men. Then he swept it down as he roared.

  ‘Slingers! Loose!’

  Thongs whirred, then snapped as the shot spat out towards the enemy, and Cato was rewarded with the sight of several men tumbling down and others spun round by the impact.

  ‘Pour it on, boys!’ he yelled with excitement. ‘Kill ’em!’

  The slingers needed little encouragement as they unleashed their lethal missiles from the darkness, in amongst their targets, clearly visible by the glow of the flames still burning on the incendiaries. Once again the enemy faltered, frozen by fear of shot whipping out of the night. Those with cooler heads raised their bows and strained their eyes to try and pick out a target in the night before releasing their shafts. Some shot at shadows, and the air around Cato was filled with the soft drone of slings winding up and the sigh of arrows cutting through the darkness. He heard an oath as one of the slingers was struck, and then a voice shouted out.

  ‘I’m hit! I’m hit!’

  ‘Keep your bloody mouth shut!’ Cato called out. ‘Get to the rear, damn you!’

  He allowed the slingers a moment longer to take down as many men as possible while the situation was in their favour. Then one of the Parthian officers grasped the need to keep pushing forward and get out of the light cast by the incendiaries. He drew a curved blade and bellowed at his men and waved them on, and the Parthians and their Ligean allies rushed at the slingers.

  ‘Fall back to the battery!’ Cato ordered, turning to run with the slingers as the enemy took fresh heart and raced after them with wild cheers. Inside the battery the glow from the braziers was swelled by fresh orange blooms, and the two onagers that had been checked and found to be sound released tightly packed bundles of brushw
ood doused with pitch and set alight. These roared high in the air and then plummeted to earth to provide light for the remaining slingers and the Iberian archers shooting from within the battery. It was then that Cato realised he had waited too long before falling back. The first of the bundles reached its apex and then swept down towards him like the blazing sun falling from its place in the heavens. Cato just had time to hurl himself aside before the faggot struck the ground close by in a burst of flames and sparks that showered over him, singeing his exposed skin. His first thought was fury over the mistake in setting the onager’s range. If he discovered who was responsible for nearly cooking his commanding officer there would be more than a little trouble for the individual concerned.

  He rolled aside and on to his hands and knees. Then he felt someone grasp his arm and haul him up on to his feet.

  ‘Come on, sir. No dawdling,’ Rutilius grunted painfully through clenched teeth. Then he clamped his spare hand back round the shaft of the arrow as he applied pressure to staunch the flow of blood.

  Cato could not suppress a grin. ‘Good man, Rutilius. Let’s go.’

  They ran out of the pool of light, sprinting with the others towards the sides of the battery to get out of the direct line of sight of the archers and slingers. Two arrows thudded into the ground to Cato’s side and he swerved a short distance before changing direction in an effort to put off the aim of any Parthian picking him as a target. He heard Rutilius breathing hard to one side as the standard-bearer ran with him.

  The earthworks loomed ahead and Cato angled to the left, calling Rutilius to follow him. He slowed as he reached the corner of the battery and turned to look back. The walls and the ground in front of the town were lit up by the blazing faggots and he could see that there were many bodies, dead and wounded, on the ground and scattered across the debris slope. Much of the breastwork was in ruins and already most of the defenders had scurried back into Ligea to take cover. A few brave souls still stood their ground and shot arrows in the direction of the attackers, and then fell back. A satisfactory result, Cato decided.

  ‘Ah! There you are, sir!’

  He turned to see Macro striding up to him, just visible in the glow of the braziers inside the battery. The centurion was rubbing his hands together in delight. ‘Bloody good night’s work that! Knocked down most of their wall my side. And took out a score of the bastards at least! They’ll not be thinking about repairs again, I bet.’

  ‘You saw the inner wall?’

  ‘Of course. That won’t keep us out for long.’

  ‘No, but it’ll cost us some more men to get over it.’

  Macro shrugged cheerily. ‘That’s sieges for you, sir. Now tell me that scrimmage didn’t get you out of that dark mood of yours.’

  As they gazed towards the town, Rutilius came out of the darkness, staggering. Blood covered the hand he clutched to the wound.

  ‘Let’s get him to the camp,’ Cato said urgently and started forward.

  The standard-bearer stopped and shook his head wearily as he tried to stand to attention. ‘I can . . . manage . . . sir.’

  ‘Nonsense, man. Here, let me—’

  As Cato reached out, the standard-bearer spasmed wildly. His jaws snapped open and his eyes stretched wide, then his legs gave way and he sank on to his knees. Another arrow shaft stretched out almost vertically to one side of his neck, the fletching no more than six inches from the entry point – a freak of fortune as some Parthian had shot his last arrow at a high angle before turning to flee. Cato realised at once that the point had torn its way deep into Rutilius’s vitals and the wound was mortal. Blood pulsed up round the shaft and Rutilius groped at it as he let out a low groan, more blood spraying from his lips on to Cato’s face.

  ‘Rutilius . . .’ he began, but there was nothing he could say that would help.

  The standard-bearer suddenly grasped Cato’s tunic and drew him close. He swallowed and tried to speak, but spittle and gore clogged his throat and he coughed desperately to clear it away as he whispered.

  ‘My girl . . . Back in Rome . . . She . . .’ He choked again, and this time the sound was accompanied by a guttural gurgling as blood filled his lungs and he began to drown. Rutilius shook his head desperately and his hands trembled violently as the fingers clenched into the cloth of Cato’s tunic. Cato put his arms around the standard-bearer and drew him close and whispered in his ear.

  ‘The gods watch over you in the afterlife . . . Farewell, brother Rutilius.’

  The standard-bearer’s strength faded steadily and then he was limp, his head lolling against Cato’s shoulder.

  ‘He’s gone, lad,’ Macro said softly. ‘Rutilius has gone.’

  Cato eased the body away and laid him down gently, then reached to close the man’s eyes, before he straightened up and stared towards Ligea.

  ‘One more to be avenged . . .’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  At dawn, two days later, the Praetorians quietly formed up a short distance from the ruins of the gatehouse and the wall. The men carrying the scaling ladders stood behind the First Century, whose shields would protect them until the ladders were set against the inner wall. The ram had made short work of the gates the previous afternoon and the Iberian spearmen and the slingers had occupied the ruins, erecting hoardings to protect them from the defenders’ arrows as they hurled shot at any defender who dared show his head above the inner wall.

  The air was thick with the sharp tang of burning, and smoke still trailed into the pale sky from the fires that had raged the previous night. Having battered down the defences around the gatehouse, Cato had brought the onagers forward to unleash a steady rain of incendiaries on the town for most of the night, forcing the defenders to concentrate their efforts on putting out the fires started by the blazing faggots. Meanwhile, the men chosen for the assault had been fed and rested and would be far fresher than their grime-streaked and weary opponents. Macro’s and Ignatius’s centuries would spearhead the attack, while Porcino and Placinus and their men would form the reserve, ready to follow up, alongside the slingers and Iberian spearmen, the moment the inner wall was taken. The Praetorians had been ordered to leave their spears in the camp. The kind of scrambling close-quarters fight ahead was best conducted with their short swords.

  ‘Morning, sir.’ Macro greeted Cato brightly as the tribune approached. ‘The lads are keen to tear into those bastards in the town. Right, boys?’ He turned to the men immediately behind him and they grinned and nodded.

  ‘That’s good,’ Cato acknowledged flatly, not sparing them a glance as he stared towards Ligea. He had found it almost impossible to sleep since the siege had begun and now had to force himself to think clearly. Every time he had lain down on his camp bed and closed his eyes, his mind refused to stop going over the details of the siege, and his wider mission, as the serving girl, Bernisha, cleaned his boots and armour. Even when sleep came, it was disturbed by dark dreams about the fate of Centurion Petillius. Sometimes it was Cato himself being hunted through the dark forest, until he was run to ground by the Parthians and forced to share the terrible deaths of his men. He awoke sweating and trembling, and frustrated. He had endured sleepless spells before, but not accompanied by the nightmares that haunted him now. But why should the fate of Petillius have so unsettled him when he had seen the horrors of war many times? He could not quite fathom it: other than a vague sense that something had changed within him, and that he felt a perpetual weariness with being a soldier, and the overwhelming burden placed on him by the responsibilities of command. He had known other officers to falter under the strain, and had tended to put it down to some defect of character. And now he feared that he too had some flaw in his nature and he dreaded the shame of being found out by Macro and the other men he commanded.

  Macro’s smile faded as he saw the tribune’s haunted expression. He had been aware of the recent moroseness in his friend, but it was impossible to attribute it to any particular cause. The present campaign was no w
orse than the bitter fighting they had experienced in Britannia. Close friends and comrades had been lost too, and the icy cold and constant rains of the island’s mountains had been utterly exhausting. Macro had known far tougher men than Cato who had broken under such strains and he was concerned for his friend. All the more so as Cato had rebuffed his attempts to speak about it.

  Cato turned to the two centuries standing ready. He could see the eager anticipation in some faces, and the tight anxiety in others, and prayed that his courage would not fail him, nor would he suffer some agonising wound which he would not be able to endure with the affected indifference of veteran soldiers. He had to force such thoughts aside. His men looked to him. As did Macro. He must not fail them.

  He coughed lightly to clear his throat and then addressed them, as loudly and clearly as he could.

  ‘The enemy in the town are the ones who slaughtered our comrades. No one does that to the men of the Praetorian Guard. We are the emperor’s chosen. The finest soldiers in the Empire. A soldier’s death is ours by right.’ He paused and let an icy tone of anger fill his next words. ‘Our comrades were denied that right by the cowards who captured them, tortured them and finally killed them for their sport. The spirits of our comrades call out to us from beyond the grave to return the deed in full. By the end of this day, let no one dwelling in the town be left alive. No man, no woman, no child. Nor any beast. No living thing shall survive. They are yours to dispose of as you will. Yours to use before you cut them down. But there will be no prisoners. None to be sold as slaves. When we continue our march towards Artaxata we will leave Ligea behind us as a tomb. So that all the enemies of Rome, and the allies of Rome, will never forget the terrible price paid by those who dishonoured our comrades. This I swear, by Jupiter, Best and Greatest.’ Cato signalled to the Praetorian holding his shield and helmet and the man handed them over one at a time before Cato drew his sword and raised it. ‘For Petillius, and all our fallen brothers!’