The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘But I killed him,’ Cato insisted and swallowed hard. ‘Me. No one else.’

  Macro thought of all the dead and dying in the surrounding streets and of the casual rape, slaughter and mutilation being carried out by his men, the auxiliaries and the Iberians, and for a moment he was tempted to be angry with Cato’s self-indulgence. But there was more to it than that. This was not one of his friend’s flights of poetical and philosophical fancy about the nature of good and evil. Something in Cato had broken. What he needed at this moment was not a stiff talking-to, a harsh shaking to bring him to his senses. He needed time to rest and recover. Macro could only pray to the gods that he recovered swiftly. The men needed Cato. So did Macro. With a shock he realised that he had grown so used to following his friend that he wondered how he would cope now that he might have to assume command. For a while at least.

  He took hold of Cato’s arm and lifted him on to his feet, and then put his friend’s arm over his shoulder as he supported Cato’s weight with his other hand.

  ‘Come on, lad. We have to get you away from here.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  ‘I will be taking command of the column until the tribune has recovered from his injury,’ Macro announced to the officers at the briefing that evening. The sun had only just set and there was still plenty of light to see the faces of the centurions and optios sitting around the headquarters tent. The sides had not yet been unrolled and the air was already cool, which suited Macro as it would discourage anyone from making the briefing last any longer than necessary.

  ‘For now, you are all in my tender care, not that that should concern you unduly.’ He forced a smile. ‘It will only be a temporary measure. Until the tribune is back on his feet.’

  ‘What happened to him?’ asked Centurion Porcino.

  It was the question Macro knew was coming and yet he still felt uneasy about lying to the others. The cohort’s surgeon, Ignatius and the two men he had set to guard Cato had all been sworn to secrecy, and now Cato was in a deep sleep in his private tent, and orders had been left that no one was to disturb him under any circumstances.

  ‘The tribune received a blow to the head,’ Macro announced. ‘It’s scrambled his brains for a bit, according to the surgeon. So that should give the rest of us a chance to keep up with him for a while.’

  There were a few smiles from the officers who had long since recognised the quality of their commander’s intellect and grasp of nearly every detail of administration off the battlefield and sound grasp of tactics on it.

  ‘But he will recover?’ Porcino persisted. ‘He won’t be left, you know, simple. I’ve seen it happen often enough when someone gets a hard knock.’

  ‘Even simple, Cato is smarter than most,’ Macro replied. ‘For now you will have to put up with me. I’ll do my best to run things as he did.’

  He paused a beat to see if anyone challenged his version of what had happened to their commanding officer, and was relieved when Porcino let the matter drop.

  ‘Very well, our first order of business is the butcher’s bill. Twenty-eight dead, thirty-four wounded, twenty of whom are fit enough to walk. We lost twelve men from Keranus’s cohort, and eight wounded. The Iberians are counting their own casualties, but that will be less than ours since they supported the attack. We have also lost one of the onagers. The cross beam has begun to split and we haven’t got time to make a repair, so once it is broken down we’ll use the parts for spares.’ Macro nodded. ‘Not bad losses considering the nature of the action. But we won’t have the final figure on the strength returns until Marcellus’s squadron rounds up the last of the men still looting the town. I’m not best pleased that they did not respond to the recall. The lad on the bucina nearly burst his lungs for the best part of an hour so there’s no excuse for them. If any of them are in your units, then I want them disciplined. Loss of a month’s pay and latrine duties until we reach the Armenian capital. No exceptions,’ Macro said sternly. ‘I don’t care what they offer you. I’ll not have men ignoring the signal and getting away with it. That clear?’

  The officers nodded, some reluctantly since accepting bribes was an accepted way of supplementing an officer’s income, especially in the Praetorian Guard, where there were plenty of opportunities to extract bribes from soldiers. They in turn were flush with silver from the bribes they were handed by the emperors ever keen to buy their loyalty.

  ‘Anyone else still not back when we march tomorrow will be left to the enemy, and treated as a deserter if he tries to rejoin the column.’ Macro let his words sink in so there was no doubt about the seriousness of his intent. ‘We have lost several days dealing with Ligea. The men have had their fun, and now they’re going to have to be soldiers again. Not a rabble of drunken thieves and rapists. You’d better make sure they understand that. I hope the spectacle that took place in the town will not be repeated. It was my understanding that Rhadamistus persuaded the tribune that an example needed to be made of Ligea. Now it has been, and so we don’t stick it to any civilians we meet from here on. Not unless the tribune orders it. Another thing. This is a Roman column. The Iberians are allied troops and that means we’re in charge. Rhadamistus is a king in name only until we put him back on the throne. Until then, he is in our charge and we must not forget it, even if he does from time to time. If you have any dealings with him and he gives you any orders then you clear them with me first.’

  Macro drew himself up as he concluded. ‘Any questions? . . . No? Then the cohorts will assemble at dawn for the funeral for our fallen brothers. We march straight after that. Dismissed!’

  Once the last of them had gone, Macro made his way to Cato’s tent and found the surgeon waiting for him. Cato lay on his side on his camp bed, curled up in a ball, asleep.

  ‘How is he?’

  ‘No change, sir. Been out since you last saw him. Hasn’t stirred once.’

  ‘I suppose that’s good. Let the lad have a decent rest and he’ll be right as rain when he wakes up.’

  The surgeon puffed his cheeks. ‘I’m not sure it is as simple as that, sir. I’ve seen this kind of thing before.’

  Macro arched a brow. ‘What kind of thing would that be?’

  ‘There’s no medical term for it, sir. At least none that I am aware of.’ The surgeon stroked his jaw as he gathered his thoughts and continued. ‘It’s a kind of nervous exhaustion. If a man takes on responsibilities and refuses to take the rest he needs, then he’s storing up trouble. It’s worse if he is on campaign and facing the stress of battle, and the loss of friends and comrades.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ Macro exclaimed. ‘I know him. He’s been through far worse than this without getting into such a state.’

  ‘All men have a breaking point, sir. Most of us are lucky that we are never pushed beyond it. Some men I’ve known, men both of us would regard as heroes, have coped for years and then something happens. It could even be something that seems quite trivial to you and me, but not to them.’ The surgeon looked at Cato thoughtfully. ‘I see he has quite a few scars on his body. There will be others too. Scars of the heart and mind. Experience does that and we all cope with it differently. I’ve served with you for a couple of years now, sir. We’ve seen plenty of action together. We both know that the tribune never spared himself. It’s also no secret that he was troubled by the loss of his wife.’

  ‘That’s none of your damn business.’

  ‘I’m just saying, sir. The tribune has endured more than most men have at his age. Are you really surprised that this has happened? I wonder what it was that tipped him over the edge?’

  ‘He killed some kid in the town. An accident. Something about the boy reminded the tribune of his own son.’ Macro shrugged. ‘That’s as much as I can make of it, anyhow.’

  The surgeon nodded. ‘And did he?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Did the boy look like the tribune’s son?’

  Macro did his best to recall the details. ‘No. Looked nothing like him. Not to m
e.’

  He regarded Cato sorrowfully for a moment before continuing. ‘How long until he gets over this black mood of his?’

  ‘Who can say?’

  ‘Well you bloody well should be able to. You’re the surgeon. You said you’ve seen this before. So what’s the answer? How are you going to cure him?’

  The surgeon looked indignant. ‘I said I’ve seen it. Never said anything about curing it. This isn’t a cut or a broken bone. It goes deeper. The tribune needs to cure himself. Rest will help, I am sure. I can give him something to help him sleep, but that’s all.’

  ‘You’re not much good then, are you?’ Macro sniffed. ‘Rest it is. I’ll have a covered cart prepared for him. Hopefully he can get some sleep on the road to Artaxata. You’ll have to keep an eye on him, I’ve got duties to take care of.’

  ‘I have other patients too.’

  ‘So deal with them,’ Macro snapped. He was starting to lose his patience with the surgeon. ‘We’ll let him sleep then. You’d better go.’

  The surgeon bowed his head and left the tent. Macro stayed a little while longer, watching his friend as Cato’s chest rose and fell with a steady rhythm. Once he stirred suddenly, as if disturbed by a dream, then the mumbling subsided and the tension eased and he slept on.

  Outside the tent Macro saw the girl that Cato had brought back from the Iberian encampment several days before. She had been given food and water and slept outside Cato’s tent each night. He had given strict orders that she was not to be touched and was to be regarded as a servant of the tribune. Since when Cato had seemed to ignore her, as far as Macro was aware. He had put it down to that aspect of Cato’s character that insisted on protecting the weak and vulnerable. A shame, he reflected, as she was attractive enough to be welcome in any man’s bed. Still, Cato was Cato and he was not just any man. Even so, the girl could make herself of some use to him.

  The girl stirred as she saw Macro looking at her and sat up and hugged her knees as she stared back anxiously.

  ‘Bernisha? Right?’

  She nodded shyly.

  ‘The tribune did you a favour, taking you out of the Iberian camp. You could look after him, you know,’ Macro said gently. He pointed at Cato’s tent and mimed sleeping, then mopping his brow. She did not react.

  ‘Fuck this . . .’ Macro stepped over to her, grasped her wrist and dragged her to her feet and into the tent. She struggled for a moment and then gave up when she realised it was futile. Macro pointed to Cato. ‘I want you to see to his needs.’

  She looked at him blankly. Macro sighed and mimed mopping his brow again, then drinking and feeding and pointed at Cato. Bernisha opened her mouth and spoke in her own tongue and nodded.

  ‘Good.’ Macro smiled. ‘Then you see to it. Mind you . . .’ His eyes narrowed. ‘If anything happens to him, if you do anything to harm him or get in the way of his recovery, I’ll have you flogged and thrown back into the Iberian camp for them to use you as they want.’

  His threatening tone was unmistakable, even if she did not appear to follow any of the details of his words. Macro pointed at Cato, then at her and then at his eyes and pointed at her again.

  ‘Get on with it.’

  With that, he left the tent and stood outside for a moment to collect his thoughts. Macro was disturbed. If this had happened to almost any other man he’d have said the man’s nerve had failed him and that he’d given in to that sentiment that all soldiers dreaded: cowardice. But he knew Cato better than most men knew their own family. He knew that Cato never lacked for courage, and even when the odds were daunting he forced himself to fight on. He was the bravest soldier Macro had ever known. And if this could happen to Cato, then it could happen to anyone. Including Macro himself. That was a frightening enough thought in itself. All the more reason to do whatever he could to help his friend recover. Their roles might be reversed one day if Macro ever discovered his own breaking point. He shuddered at the prospect, then made himself think about his most pressing responsibilities: to do the rounds of the sentries, ensure the column would be ready to move at dawn, and oversee the preparations for the morrow’s funeral. The burdens of command were his now, he mused, as he strode towards the area of the camp occupied by the Iberians. Before he saw to anything else he decided that he must inform Rhadamistus he had taken temporary command. That was a task he did not relish. Not one bit. Cato was better at handling that sort of thing.

  Macro steadied his breathing, and prepared himself to be firm but polite. ‘But,’ he muttered to himself, ‘if that Iberian ponce thinks I am going to toady up to him then he’s in for a fucking big disappointment.’

  ‘Wounded?’ Rhadamistus frowned.

  ‘Yes, sir. A head injury. It’ll take a few days before he recovers. Meanwhile, I’m the senior officer in the column, so I’ll be taking command, temporarily.’

  ‘You?’ Rhadamistus seemed suspicious. ‘Please pardon me, I hardly know you, Centurion Macro. Not as well as I have come to know your superior at least.’

  ‘I can’t help that, sir. But that’s the situation. Just thought you should be informed.’

  ‘Quite right. And as we will no doubt have to confer regularly over the coming days, until your tribune is well enough to resume command, it would be best if you addressed me as “Majesty”. Just to prevent any further awkwardness.’

  Macro’s mouth opened, then he shut it quickly. He had no idea that there had been any awkwardness. But if the Iberian wished to be called ‘Majesty’, then ‘Majesty’ it would be, if only to keep the peace. He cleared his throat and bowed his head.

  ‘Yes, Majesty.’

  Rhadamistus nodded condescendingly. ‘From what I understand of the Roman military, you centurions are the backbone of the army. You are chosen for your courage, your willingness to be the first into battle, and the last to leave the fight. Is that so?’

  Macro could not help but be flattered by the observation, swiftly followed by wariness at the purpose of such praise. ‘I wouldn’t know about all that, sir. It is an honour to be chosen to lead other soldiers. We centurions just try to be the best soldiers we can.’

  ‘The modesty of the true hero,’ said Rhadamistus. ‘You are a man after my own heart. A fighter and leader of men.’

  Macro said nothing in reply, and just wished to remove himself from the Iberian’s presence as soon as he could. So he cleared his throat. ‘Well, yes. Thank you, Majesty. Now, I mustn’t impose on your valuable time any longer.’

  Rhadamistus’s benign smiled faded. ‘You’ll quit my presence when I say so, Centurion. I have not finished with you quite yet. As I said, I am sure you are a fine warrior. And your main duty is to lead the men of your century into battle. You are the senior centurion of your cohort, but the tribune is the commander.’

  ‘Unless he is unable to command. Then the responsibility falls to me.’

  ‘. . . Majesty,’ Rhadamistus reminded him.

  Macro nodded. ‘Yes, Majesty.’

  ‘So, in the normal run of things, you are not used to the command of a cohort, let alone two cohorts, or even a column of men as numerous as ours. Is that right?’

  Macro could see at once where the exchange was headed and chose his words carefully. ‘All Roman centurions must be ready to assume greater responsibilities as the need arises, Majesty.’

  ‘I understand that. But such responsibilities are assumed only in the absence of an officer of higher rank. Correct?’

  ‘Yes, Majesty.’

  ‘And would you not agree that a king ranks higher than a centurion?’

  Macro placed his hands behind his back and flexed his fingers anxiously. ‘It depends—’

  ‘It depends? Centurion Macro, you are clearly a veteran with many campaigns behind you. No doubt you have fought across many different provinces of your Empire. Tell me, in all that time did you ever once encounter a situation when a centurion was accorded more authority than a king?’

  ‘No, sir, I did not. But—’

&
nbsp; ‘But what? There is no but anything that contradicts my point.’ Rhadamistus leaned closer and stared intently down into Macro’s eyes. ‘I am a king, and you are a centurion. Moreover, I am king of the very land under your feet as we speak. This is my kingdom. I am its ruler. You are here on my sufferance. By every measure we care to apply, I am your superior and therefore I should command this column in the absence of Tribune Cato. I agreed with your General Corbulo to accept Cato as commander of our little army. I made no such undertaking with regard to you. Therefore I tell you now that I will lead the column. Do you understand?’

  ‘I understand, Majesty.’

  ‘Good, then I will expect you to follow my orders, just as you followed those of Tribune Cato.’

  ‘No, Majesty. I will not.’

  Rhadamistus’s jaw sagged momentarily before he recovered from the shock of being addressed so directly. ‘I warn you, Centurion, do not cross my path.’

  Macro pulled his shoulders back. ‘Majesty, my orders ultimately come from the emperor. And the emperor of Rome outranks any man alive. Whether they be a king or a humble centurion. As things stand, you are not a king. Nor will you be until Roman soldiers place you back on your throne. I serve Tribune Cato because the tribune was appointed over me by the emperor. In his absence my duty is to serve the emperor directly. Not you. Not unless my orders specifically require me to. Which they don’t. It is my intention to take command of the column.’

  ‘You will not command me! Nor my men.’

  Macro stared back as he organised his thoughts while struggling to control his rising temper. ‘I command the Praetorian cohort. I also command the auxiliaries. And I command the siege train. It is in both our interests that your men and mine march together, Majesty.’

  Rhadamistus glared back. ‘If you value your life then you will do as I say.’

  ‘Majesty, I value my life dearly. But I value duty and honour even more. And my duty is clear. Until Tribune Cato recovers, I am in command. That is the end of the matter. I bid you goodnight.’