The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘How is telling me that you speak other tongues placing your family in any danger?’ Cato demanded. ‘And how exactly did Rhadamistus manipulate me, as you claim?’

  The Armenian girl’s brow furrowed as she held a loose fist over her mouth and then lowered her head into her hands as she let out a sob.

  ‘Enough of this!’ Cato growled. ‘Tell me straight. Or I swear by my gods that I will drag you over to Rhadamistus’s tent myself, and I will tell him that you have been spying on him.’

  She looked up, her face a mask of fear, as tears gleamed in her eyes.

  ‘If I tell you, then you will become angry . . . enraged. If I tell you the truth, then you will be a danger to yourself, and your men.’

  ‘Speak!’ Cato shouted.

  She recoiled, as if struck a hard blow, and shook her head. ‘I cannot. Not while your passions are aroused. Please, Tribune, do not make me.’

  Cato’s frustration was fast turning to anger, and he felt fire in his veins. He steadied himself, took a long, deep breath, and forced himself to be calm and continue in a low, level tone as he addressed her again.

  ‘Bernisha, I have to know everything you can tell me. Right now. I will give you a fair hearing. If you have good reasons for concealing the truth from me then I will not punish you. If not, or you refuse to reveal all, then I will return you to Rhadamistus, immediately.’

  Her shoulders slumped and she nodded. ‘Very well. What I said about not letting him know I spoke your tongue is true. When his men took me from my home I hoped that if I played along with them, and endured what they had in store for me, they would eventually let me go. If they knew I could speak Greek and Latin then they might find a use for me, and I would never be released. My father had taught me the value of silence, a lesson I have never had any reason to regret, until now. You see, I overheard things in Rhadamistus’s tent, exchanges between him and his closest followers. Powerful men always seem to think that their slaves and servants are dumb beasts and often speak without caution in front of them. But I overheard nothing of note. Until that night you came to the tent and he offered me to you.’ She paused and met Cato’s gaze. ‘You may recall how frightened I looked?’

  Cato nodded. ‘I remember. It’s the reason I chose you.’

  ‘The reason for my fear is because shortly before, I had heard Rhadamistus giving orders to one of his officers . . . Orders to take a squadron of his horse-archers out of the camp to hunt down and kill some prey.’

  ‘A foraging party,’ said Cato. ‘I remember. We sent out quite a few parties that day. Nothing unusual about that.’

  ‘But, Tribune, the prey these men were sent to hunt were your soldiers . . .’

  Cato felt an icy chill creep up his spine. ‘My soldiers?’

  ‘I thought they were talking about animals. But then Rhadamistus said something about Roman pigs, and the need to kill them in order to stiffen the backbone of their commander. Those were the very words.’ She looked up at him fearfully.

  Cato’s mind was a foment of ghastly images as he recalled the fate of Centurion Petillius and his men.

  ‘It’s not possible,’ he said softly. ‘Surely not?’

  Bernisha remained silent, not daring to say anything more for the present as she watched his reaction, and the realisation dawning in his face.

  Cato recalled the details of the night. He had taken Rhadamistus’s insistence on joining him to investigate the suspicious movements on the edge of the forest as a further display of his bravado. But if Bernisha was telling the truth, then Rhadamistus would have known there was no danger waiting for him in the darkness. And then there was the matter that had troubled Cato when he played the event over in his mind. How was it possible for Petillius and his men to be taken by surprise so that there had not been any sounds of fighting, or cries of alarm, to alert the other forage parties? It was obvious now. Why would they be on their guard against another forage party from the camp? They would have seen the Iberians as allies, as friends, and that would have made them easy enough prey to the killers sent by Rhadamistus.

  Cato felt nauseous about the scale of the betrayal and the scheming of the Iberian prince. Rhadamistus had wanted him to share in his ruthless ambitions to cow the Armenians and make them so terrified of him that they would not dare stand between him and the throne in Artaxata. Cato had refused to co-operate, so the Iberian had devised a way to fill him with wrath and a thirst to avenge his men. The manipulation did not stop there, Cato reflected bitterly. When the Ligeans had sent that deputation to discuss the surrender of the town, Rhadamistus had seen an opportunity to add fuel to the rage burning in Cato’s heart. That was why he had been so keen to translate their words for Cato, why he had said that Petillius’s killers were hiding behind the walls of the town, knowing full well that would inflame Cato’s wrath still further.

  He burned with shame that he had been so completely duped. Rhadamistus had manipulated him like a cheap street entertainer’s puppet, pulling every string to make Cato dance to the Iberian’s tune. As a result, Ligea had been reduced to ashes and the charred remains of its slaughtered people left buried beneath the ruins. Not only that, but good men had been killed and wounded in the attack. And there was the matter of the darkness and anguish that Cato had been dragged through in the days that followed. All of it at the hands of Rhadamistus.

  No doubt the king thought that the ends justified the means. A reasonable enough philosophy to apply, Cato reflected, as long as you were not the means.

  He hissed with frustration and anger and sat himself down on the opposite end of the bed to Bernisha.

  ‘What are you going to do, Tribune?’

  Cato turned to her and had to refocus his thoughts before he could respond. ‘Nothing, as far as you are concerned, if that’s what is worrying you.

  She looked hurt. ‘I was more worried about you. About what you will do now that you know.’

  ‘Do?’ Cato ran a hand over his head, ruffling his curls. He had no desire to share his thoughts with this woman who had already given him enough reasons not to trust her. So he kept his silence as he considered the dangerous situation. He could order Macro and his century to follow him over to the king’s tent and cut down Rhadamistus and his nobles, but then the rest of the column, Iberian and Roman, would be at each other’s throats in an instant and the force would be destroyed. The Parthians would make mincemeat of what was left . . . He could abandon Rhadamistus, return to Antioch and report his murder of Petillius and the other Praetorians. Cato doubted the emperor would be very pleased to hear that his ally had murdered Roman soldiers. But Nero might well mourn the loss of his men somewhat less than he would mourn the loss of the chance to reclaim Armenia as a Roman protectorate. And for that Cato would be held responsible. Besides, what proof had he got that Rhadamistus really was responsible? All he had was his suspicion and the word of some serving girl.

  He glanced at Bernisha. ‘I have no idea what to do.’

  ‘But do you believe me?’

  Cato hesitated before he gave a cautious nod. ‘At the moment, I think so. It makes some sense of what has happened. I wish it didn’t. It would be easier if you were a liar, or a spy. But, as it is, I believe you, and that means that my mission here in Armenia is more dangerous than ever. Rhadamistus has proved to be as ruthless as he is ambitious. Such men cannot be trusted, and I’ll have to watch my back at every moment. If he discovers that I know the truth then I am sure he’d lose no sleep over having me go the same way as Petillius. Better that, and cover his tracks, than let me live to report his crime back to Rome.’

  ‘Then you are in danger, whatever you do.’

  Cato smiled wearily. ‘That’s the story of my life . . .’

  ‘You could get away from him. Go now. Take your men and return to Syria,’ Bernisha suggested. ‘What’s stopping you?’

  Cato leaned forward and rested his chin on his folded hands for a while before he replied: ‘No. I have to continue with the missio
n What else can I do? For now, at least, I must continue as if you never told me what you have. I will do all that I can to help Rhadamistus take his throne. Though it revolts me to the very core, this is what I must do. It is in the best interests of Rome and my emperor.’

  ‘You would let him kill your comrades with impunity?’

  ‘I did not say that. If the situation changes, and that bastard ever becomes of no further use to Rome, I swear by Jupiter, Best and Greatest, and by Nemesis, that I will do whatever I can to take his life with my own hand, so that he knows his crime has not been forgotten, nor forgiven. Until then, this must remain our secret. You have not told anyone else of it, I trust?’

  ‘And put my life at risk?’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘Why would I?’

  ‘Quite . . . Then let’s keep it that way. For all our sakes.’

  ‘And you will not tell anyone?’

  Cato shook his head.

  ‘Not even your friend, Centurion Macro? I have seen that the two of you are very close.’

  Cato felt uncomfortable about any exchange that she might have listened to and which might have given her any knowledge that she might later use against them. ‘And now that confidence has been betrayed,’ he told her pointedly. ‘As it happens, there is no one in this world that I trust more than Macro.’

  ‘Really? Not your family? Not any wife?’

  ‘Especially not my late wife,’ Cato said through gritted teeth. ‘And, apart from my young son, Macro is the closest thing I have to family. You’d do well to remember that. If you do anything to cause harm to him, or deceive him, then I will make you answer for it. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, Tribune.’ She nodded. ‘What happens to me now?’

  ‘You stay close to my tent and my bodyguards and keep out of sight as much as possible. Hopefully Rhadamistus will overlook you, even if he doesn’t forget about you. And you don’t speak to anyone.’

  ‘And what about Centurion Macro?’

  Cato thought briefly. It was important to him that Rhadamistus’s deed was reported back to Rome so that there was a chance that Petillius and the other victims might be avenged one day. There would be a better chance of that if knowledge of the Iberian’s treachery was shared. Yet he knew that Macro’s blood flowed even more hotly than his own. At some point he might need to tell Macro, in case anything happened to him. Cato had little doubt that his friend might be inclined to ensure that vengeance came swiftly, rather than waiting for the emperor to act, a process that might well take many years. Macro was also not a great keeper of secrets and there was a risk he would give himself away. Then Rhadamistus would be sure to put an end to them both before knowledge of his crime spread any further. No, it was not fair to tell Macro, and thereby put his life in danger, Cato concluded.

  ‘I will tell him when I judge the moment is right. I cannot afford for him to be distracted when the campaign is reaching the decisive moment. Once we’re over these mountains and across the river, then we’ll be laying siege to Artaxata in a matter of days.’ He paused, suddenly aware that he was sharing so much information with a woman who had deceived him, and suddenly a flood of memories and suspicions about Julia filled his mind and he realised that he must keep on his guard. There was no good reason to trust Bernisha any more than was necessary.

  ‘There’s nothing more to be discussed. The hour is late and the road ahead will be exhausting. We should sleep.’

  Bernisha nodded and eased her legs back under the blankets and furs. She edged to the far side of the bed and propped herself up on an elbow as she held the covers back for Cato to return to his place beside her. He recalled the arousing warmth of her body and the soft touch of her skin from earlier. She was undeniably pretty. Some might even call her beautiful and seductive. At that, Cato felt himself recoil from the prospect of enjoying her charms that night. He cleared his throat and shook his head.

  ‘No. I said I believed you. But I still don’t trust you. That has to be earned, and you have some work to do there, my little Bernisha. So, I’ll have you out of my bed. You can take one of the coverings and sleep the other side of the tent. Over there.’ He indicated a patch of ground just inside the tent flaps.

  She looked at him as if he were joking and laughed. ‘Surely not . . . Tribune. It’s a cold night. We can keep each other warm. Just like we did before.’

  ‘Out you get.’

  When she still did not move, Cato hardened his tone. ‘Get out of my bed, or I’ll have that guard come and drag you outside to sleep in the open. Move!’

  She recoiled from the sharpness of his tone, then slithered out from under the covers, pulled a cloak around her shoulders and scowled as she walked past him. Cato eased himself down and pulled back the covers. He thought about blowing out the candle, then thought it best to have some light, so he could see her. Bernisha slumped down and huddled herself into the fur covering so that only her eyes showed beneath her dark fringe. She muttered something that Cato could not make out.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘That you are as cruel and ruthless a swine as Rhadamistus,’ she spat back defiantly.

  ‘You think so? Then you’d better start praying to your gods that you are wrong. Better still, get to sleep.’

  Cato turned on his side, facing her, and they glared at each other for a while, as the wind grew outside and stirred the flaps and shook the sides and ridge of the tent. After a while she lowered her head, and only when he heard the faint rasp of her snoring did Cato relax and close his eyes before falling into yet another troubled sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  For the next two days the column battled along the narrow track that climbed through the mountains. The condition of the route steadily worsened and at times Cato had to halt his men where the slope was steep enough for the wagons to have to be hauled up one at a time, for fear of having any of them breaking loose and mowing down the men and mule teams immediately behind. Each delay weighed on Cato’s mind, for it meant that the rations would have to stretch for that bit longer before they reached the gentler landscape at the foot of the mountains and could more easily forage amongst the farms and villages once again. Here, in the mountains, there were scant pickings, and what goats, hovels and passing merchants they encountered had already been looted by Rhadamistus and his men riding at the head of the column. At night, as their allies cooked mutton over the handful of campfires they had managed to build, the Romans ate their rations cold and tried to ignore the aroma of roasting meat wafting from the direction of the Iberian tents. Those men with sufficient coin, and the willingness to spend it, bargained for some of the meat, and the dissent that had been sown between the Iberians and the Romans then spread amidst the ranks of the Praetorians and slingers as others looked on while their comrades feasted.

  Cato approached Rhadamistus on the second evening to request that his men share their bounty but was curtly rebuffed, as the Iberian prince explained that it was not the tradition of his people to share the spoils of war.

  ‘Spoils of war?’ Macro sniffed when Cato returned to his tent following his fruitless encounter. ‘It’s not as if the bastards have had to fight for it. The only enemy they’re going to find in these bloody mountains is some knackered old shepherd and his young goatherd. And I doubt even Rhadamistus’s lads are going to have much of a struggle overcoming such tough opposition.’

  He shook his head and broke off another chunk off the stale bread in his mess tin and dipped it into his wine beaker to soften it before eating.

  ‘I tell you, we should put the Iberians at the back of the column for a day and send our lads to scout ahead. In this terrain, a man on foot is just as effective as cavalry.’

  ‘It’s a nice idea,’ Cato agreed. ‘But the truth of it is that we need them to keep the Parthians at bay. Last thing I want is any arrows raining down on the wagons while they’re caught on a slope.’

  Macro pursed his lips and conceded the point. ‘I suppose. In the meantime we’ll just have to
make do with dried meat, stale bread and cheese so hard you could build a bloody aqueduct with it.’ He looked up as Bernisha entered the tent. ‘More wine here, girl.’

  She looked at him blankly, and then Cato raised his own beaker and spoke a few halting words of Armenian. She nodded and left the tent, and returned a moment later with a stoppered jug to top Macro up.

  ‘So, you’re picking up a bit of the local lingo then?’

  Cato nodded. ‘I’m teaching the girl a few words of Latin and she’s returning the favour.’

  As she turned and headed to the corner of the tent, Macro cast an eye over her shapely body. ‘I bet she is. And I’ll bet you are a willing student, eh? Well why not? I would.’

  ‘It isn’t like that,’ Cato objected.

  ‘Well, maybe it should be. Fine-looking girl like that going to waste. You could use a little female company. It’s been a while.’

  ‘That’s my business, Macro. I’ll thank you not to tell me what I do and do not need.’

  Macro dipped some more bread in the wine and popped it in his mouth as he mumbled: ‘Suit yourself.’

  Cato was angry with himself for being so terse with his friend. He was tired but that was no excuse for the way he had treated Macro recently. ‘Look, I know I haven’t been the easiest of comrades since that business at Ligea . . .’

  ‘Really? I can’t say I fucking noticed.’ Macro chuckled briefly. He was just happy to have Cato return from the black trough into which he had fallen. ‘It’s nothing. What’s done is done.’

  Cato decided to turn the conversation to less troubling ground. ‘How are the men holding up?’

  ‘They’re fine. The usual grumblers making a song and dance of it, but no one pays them much attention. A few days on hard rations out in the open up here will remind ’em what proper soldiering is about. These Praetorians are good lads, but they’re inclined to whine about what they’re missing back in Rome.’