The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Can you blame them? It’s why appointment to the Guard corps is top of every soldier’s wish list.’

  ‘That’s as maybe, but I can’t help feeling we’d be better off with some legionaries. Not those wasters who have gone soft in the Syrian garrisons. I’m talking about proper legionaries, like the lads of the Second Legion.’ He smiled fondly at the memories he shared with Cato of their former unit, then raised his cup. ‘To the Second Augusta. Best legion in the army by a bloody mile.’

  Cato raised his beaker and tapped Macro’s vessel. ‘To the Second Augusta.’

  They each took a sip and reminisced in silence for a moment before Macro caught a bit of bread in his throat and coughed, and coughed again to dislodge it. ‘Seriously, though, once this job is over, we should look at getting transferred back to the legions. Much as I like the privileges that go with being a Praetorian, I’d rather put some distance between me and Rome. That place is too dangerous for my liking.’

  ‘Easier said than done,’ said Cato. ‘Easier for you, anyway. Any legion would be proud to have you on its strength, but there’s no opening for a tribune like me. Best I could get is command of another auxiliary cohort. Unless I took a demotion to the centurionate.’

  ‘That’s a possibility,’ Macro mused. ‘That, or you go the whole distance and try and get yourself the prefecture of Egypt. Now that would be something.’

  ‘It would indeed.’ It was the kind of ambition that Cato tempted himself with in more reflective moments, but was reluctant to speak of for worry that such hubris might be held against him. The people of Rome, especially the senators, were hidebound by tradition and considered it distasteful for an individual to enjoy too much social advancement. For a man of his equestrian rank the highest office he could achieve was Prefect of Egypt. That province alone was considered so vital to the interests of Rome that no emperor would ever bestow it upon a member of the Senate in case it tempted the office-holder to higher ambitions. On the other hand, Cato reflected wryly, the emperors had a habit of creating their own traditions, and breaking others, as the whim took them. If Caligula could decree that his favourite horse, Incitatus, be elevated to the Senate, then anything was possible.

  Then his thoughts returned to his immediate concerns and his levity faded like a field of brilliant flowers cast into gloom as a dark cloud swept over, veiling the sun. He smiled cynically at the poetic image he had conjured up. He felt veiled by black, threatening clouds sure enough.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Macro.

  ‘Funny? Not much. Not much at all,’ Cato replied morosely. He wondered, once again, if it might be better to share his knowledge with his best friend. Then he dismissed the notion. It would only place Macro in the same danger as himself. Better to wait until the mission was over. So he took a strip of dried beef from his mess tin and began to chew in order to forestall any more conversation for the moment.

  Macro finished what remained of his own food, drained his beaker, held a fist to his chest and burped loudly. At the sound, Cato and Bernisha looked at him and Macro raised his hands. ‘What? Better out than in, eh? Anyway, I’d best do the rounds, sir. The men are tired and cold, and if any sentry is going to take the chance for a quick nap, now’s the time. If I catch any of them at it, they’ll be feeling my vine across their shoulders.’

  Cato winced mentally at the prospect. He remembered his time as a fresh recruit and how often he had incurred the wrath of Centurion Bestia, and bore the bruises from his cane for many days afterwards. ‘Very well, but as soon as you are done, get some sleep.’

  ‘Look who’s talking,’ Macro chuckled. ‘You look like shit, sir.’

  ‘Thank you for that,’ Cato muttered.

  Macro’s expression became more serious. ‘I thought we’d seen the back of that mood. What’s up?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  They stared at each other in silence briefly before Macro raised his eyebrows. ‘If you say so. But—’

  ‘I think you’d better get going,’ Cato interrupted.

  Macro shrugged. ‘Please yourself. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  The centurion rose from the table and gave Bernisha a knowing wink before he left the tent and the flaps slid together behind him. She waited a moment before she spoke in an undertone. ‘It seems your friend would willingly have me in his bed. Why won’t you?’

  ‘Because I don’t trust you, my dear. Besides, Macro already has a woman. Someone far better than you, so don’t go getting any ideas about seducing him as well.’

  She scowled. ‘I am not a woman of easy morals.’

  Cato laughed dryly. ‘You are not a woman of many morals at all, as I have discovered.’

  ‘But not to your cost.’

  ‘No?’ Cato rounded on her. ‘If you had told me what you knew before, then the people of Ligea would have been spared. The men who died taking it would still be alive. The boy . . .’ He paused and drew a breath. ‘And all along you could have prevented that. I’d say that any person with morals would struggle with all that on their conscience. But you? It’s hard to say. I wonder if you regret any of it at all.’

  She looked away and spoke in a low voice. ‘I know what I have done, and I have told you why. There is nothing more to be said. If you have no further need of me, then I’ll sleep outside.’

  Without waiting for a reply, Bernisha stood up, took a fur from Cato’s bed and left the tent without a backward glance. He stared at the flaps as they settled into place and then continued his meal in silence.

  It took another three days before the column reached the far side of the mountain range and descended towards the last river crossing before the Armenian capital. Two of the wagons had been lost the day before. The first had suffered a split axle and had been abandoned. The second had been at the rear of the baggage train when a section of the road had given way and the wagon, its driver, several of the wounded, and the entire mule team had plunged into a gorge. Aside from the deaths of some of those wounded at Ligea the rest of the column had emerged from the mountains unscathed but exhausted and hungry, as they had endured half-rations over the last two days.

  Ahead of them the river flowed like a great silken ribbon across a plain of rich farmland. Small homesteads and villages spread out towards another mountain range, hazy grey in the distance.

  ‘Rich pickings,’ Macro grinned as he stood beside Cato, who had dismounted for a moment to relieve himself at the side of the road.

  ‘Not this time.’ Cato contradicted him. ‘We’re only a few days’ march from Artaxata. It’s best that we treat the locals well and pay for our supplies if we don’t want to find ourselves surrounded by enemies. I’ll make sure our Iberian friends do the same.’

  ‘You’ve changed your tune.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Not so long ago you were as happy to kill and destroy as our friend down there.’ Macro pointed far down the road to where Rhadamistus and his cavalry were watering their horses on the near bank of the river. He glanced at Cato. ‘Change of heart?’

  ‘Something like that,’ Cato admitted as he surveyed the landscape spread out before them.

  Macro watched him for a moment, wondering at the changes he had seen in his friend over the course of the campaign: the spiral down into the black mood during and after Ligea, a slow recovery and now this stand-offish demeanour of the last few days. He wondered, had there been some kind of falling-out with the slave girl? She had seemed to be a devoted enough nurse to Cato when he needed caring for. For his part, Cato had appeared to be pleased by her attention and her company, and Macro guessed that their relationship went much further than patient and carer. Or, at least, it had until the last few days, when Cato had adopted a cold disregard towards Bernisha. And that was a waste of a fine opportunity, Macro decided. His friend badly needed to indulge himself in the arms of a pretty woman. It did not require any special degree of insight to work out that Cato was still coming to terms with the loss of Julia. Not that it was
grief exactly, more an abject sense of betrayal of all that he had been so confident about in his wife. But then Julia had been cunning and ambitious and Macro wondered if perhaps she had come to regret her choice of a low-born husband. While Cato was fighting far away in Britannia, Julia had been immersed in the high society of Rome, with all its sophistication, temptation and intrigue.

  Macro gave silent thanks to Fortuna that he himself would face no such concern over Petronella. Hers was a far simpler life and Macro had absolute faith in her fidelity and firmness of character. Her strong voice and loud, honest laughter warmed his heart, and he suddenly realised just how much he was missing her and yearned to return to her embrace, and what would inevitably follow on a necessarily robust bed. He shook his head in amusement at this side of his character that he had not guessed at before. He actually needed Petronella.

  ‘What the fuck has become of me?’ he muttered under his breath. If he was not careful, he’d end up writing poetry at this rate, and the gods knew what a bunch of useless pansies those bloody scribblers were, he frowned.

  He hurriedly put his feelings aside and turned his attention back to his friend. ‘Care to explain your change of heart?’

  Cato looked at him shrewdly for a moment before he responded: ‘No, Centurion, I don’t think I do.’

  He took the reins from the Praetorian looking after his horse and swung himself up into the saddle. ‘I’m going ahead. Get the rest of the column down to the river as quick as you can. It’ll be dark by then but we’ll still need to fortify the camp. I’ll try and buy some goats for the men to cook tonight. Should lift their spirits.’

  ‘I’ll say.’ Macro’s eyes lit up at the prospect of roast mutton.

  ‘Carry on, Centurion Macro,’ Cato concluded formally and they exchanged a salute before he clicked his tongue and spurred his horse into a trot as he rode down the track towards the distant Iberians.

  As a new moon rose above the mountains and bathed the Armenian landscape in a ghostly silver veil, the night was pierced by the campfires of the Romans and their Iberian allies. Despite the arduous labours of the day, the men of the two cohorts were in a cheerful mood now that they were out of the cold and wind of the mountains and had plenty of firewood to warm them, and roast meat to fill their bellies. There was plenty to drink too, thanks to the cart filled with jars of wine Cato had purchased from a nearby village, along with a score of goats. All of which he had paid for with silver from his personal strongbox. The locals had been nervous as he approached with Narses and a squadron of Rhadamistus’s horse-archers. Once the Roman officer had announced his intentions they had swiftly recovered, and gouged him after a brief bout of haggling. Cato had little doubt he was paying over the odds but was content with the knowledge that his generosity would be handsomely repaid by the gratitude of his men.

  And so the air was filled with the aroma of roast meat and the cheery exchanges and bursts of song from the men warming themselves around the fires. As Cato strolled through the camp in the company of Macro, he was pleased to see that some of the Praetorians and Iberians were fraternising, and some of the former were even introducing their allies to the joys of dice games.

  ‘Our boys will skin the Iberians if they get the chance,’ Macro smiled. ‘You know what they can be like when they find an innocent mark.’

  ‘Then it might be an idea for you to have a word with the officers. If the men are going to play at dice, then they’ll do so fairly, or they’ll regret it.’

  ‘I’ll make sure they know, sir.’

  As they passed the end of the tent line of Macro’s century and turned towards headquarters, one of the men stood up and saluted them.

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  ‘What is it?’ Then the man’s name came to Cato. ‘Tertius . . .’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The Praetorian smiled with pleasure at his commanding officer remembering his name. ‘Well, sir, the lads heard you’d paid for the meat from your own purse. We was wondering if you would care for a bite of food by our fire.’ He stood aside and waved his comrades to their feet. The men looked at Cato expectantly. In truth he was keen to return to his tent and rest, but knew that he would be a fool not to humour the men on this occasion. There was a time for being stern and insisting on hard discipline and driving the men on, and another time for treating them like comrades. Some officers switched deftly between the two roles, but Cato was reluctant to be too familiar with his men. He had known other unit commanders who had tried to treat them more like friends than comrades and had only won their contempt and ridicule as a result.

  ‘Very well. Centurion Macro and I can spare a moment.’

  ‘Thank you, sir. If you please?’ Tertius indicated a log bench set close to the fire and Cato sat down cautiously, making sure the bench was stable and unlikely to slip and cause him to fall into an undignified heap.

  Macro sat beside him. ‘Let me guess what’s on the menu, boys.’ He made an elaborate show of sniffing the air. ‘Could it be goat, perhaps?’

  The men around the fire smiled and some laughed.

  ‘Not just any goat, sir. We’ve done it special, like. Hirtius over there used to be a cook’s boy in Senator Seneca’s place at Baie before he joined the Guard. He knows a thing or two about preparing decent grub, sir. Tell the tribune and the centurion what you’ve cooked up.’

  A round-faced Praetorian with a spotty complexion picked up two mess tins close to the fire and came over. He paused to try and salute, but frowned in confusion as he raised the two tins. Cato could not help chuckling at his discomfort and took mercy on him.

  ‘Here, hand me that one.’ He angled the mess tin towards the fire to illuminate the contents and saw chunks of meat swimming in a dark, glutinous sauce. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘The mutton you got us, sir. I’ve stewed it in wine and prepared a garum and honey glaze.’

  ‘Garum and honey?’ Cato arched an eyebrow. The idea of the pungent salty condiment being mixed with sweet honey struck him as an unlikely combination.

  ‘What the fuck would you do that for?’ Macro demanded.

  Hirtius stood his ground and offered the other mess tin to Macro. ‘Just try it, sir. It is one of the senator’s favourite dishes.’

  Macro drew his dagger and speared a piece of meat. ‘Just because some bloody snooty aristocrat likes his food fancy . . .’

  He popped the dripping meat into his mouth and chewed. Then his jaw slowed and his eyes widened. He swallowed and looked at Hirtius in awe. ‘That is the most fucking delicious thing I have ever eaten. Cato, the lad’s a prodigy! Try it.’

  Cato took out his pocket-tool and unfolded the spoon attachment and chose a small piece of lean meat to sample. As soon as the sauce touched his tongue he knew Macro had not exaggerated. The rich flavour was overwhelming and he hungrily began to work through the rest of the contents of the mess tin as Hirtius rested his hands on his wide hips and beamed with pride.

  Macro finished first and proffered his tin. ‘Any chance of seconds?’

  Before Hirtius could reply, there was a sudden burst of angry shouting from the direction of the Iberian section of the camp. Everyone turned towards the sound and for a moment no one moved. Then, as the shouting grew louder, Cato put down the mess tin and stood up.

  ‘Macro, on me.’

  At first Cato restrained himself to striding through the tents but as the shouting swelled he broke into a run. Close to the gap between the Roman tents and those of the Iberians they came across a small crowd. More men were coming from amongst the tents to see what was happening.

  ‘Make way there!’ Macro bellowed. ‘Commanding officer coming through!’

  The soldiers at the rear of the crowd glanced round and peeled aside to let the two officers past. Cato led the way, shouldering through those too slow to obey Macro’s order. Then they were through the press of bodies and emerged on to open ground. In front of them was a campfire. Two men were facing each other, knives drawn: a slinger and one of the
Iberian spearmen. The latter was clasping his spare hand to his side, and blood was oozing out between his fingers as he swayed on his feet. The slinger was in a crouch, eyes fixed on his opponent as he swept his blade slowly from side to side, daring the Iberian to strike. Neither of them registered the arrival of the two officers. The slinger moved in and feinted and the Iberian slashed desperately and caught the other man on the forearm and opened a gash just below the elbow. The slinger let an angry roar and braced himself to spring forward and land a final, fatal blow.

  ‘Enough!’ Cato shouted. ‘Stand down!’

  The crowd, who had been shouting their support for the two men, fell silent as the slinger paused and glanced towards the tribune, then backed a safe distance away before he rose to his full height and nursed his wounded knife arm.

  ‘What in the name of Jupiter is going on here?’ Cato demanded.

  The slinger stiffened to attention, still holding his wound. ‘A fight between me and that barbarian bastard, sir.’

  Macro moved round so that he stood between the two men.

  ‘A fight? About what?’ Cato continued.

  ‘He accused me of cheating, sir. Me and some of the lads had a dice game going, and some of the Iberians wanted to play. Only they was losing money. When I tried to take me winnings, he ups and starts shouting his nonsense and slaps my hand away from the coins.’ He gestured to the ground near the fire where a small scattering of silver gleamed in the light of the flames.

  ‘How do you know he was accusing you of cheating?’

  The slinger opened his mouth, hesitated, then shook his head. ‘That’s what I assumed he was doing, sir.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘He draws his knife, I go for mine and he has a go at me. Only I got him first, sir.’

  Cato looked round at the crowd. ‘Is this true? Anyone see what happened?’