Rhadamistus’s expression was dark and ominous for a moment and Cato wondered if he would refuse to let them leave. Then the Iberian waved his hand dismissively and turned his attention to the nobles seated to his left and raised his gold goblet in a toast.
‘Come on, Macro, let’s go.’
Macro cocked an eyebrow at Cato and then, with a plaintive expression, he gestured at the food spread out before him.
‘Oh, bollocks . . .’ With a quick glance at Rhadamistus to make sure he was not being watched, Macro hurriedly stuffed a small honey-glazed pie into his mouth, then grabbed a lamb haunch and shoved it in his sidebag as he scrambled to his feet and followed Cato out of the tent.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Using the point of his sword, Cato sketched out a rough plan of the buildings, the city’s main gate and the section of the wall on either side in the soil beside the campfire outside his tent. The signal for the third hour of the night had sounded shortly before and the soldiers selected for the task were filing by in the darkness as they made their way to the gateway on the side of the camp facing away from Artaxata. Even though it was a moonless night and thin skeins of cloud were threading their way across the starry sky, Cato was anxious to take every precaution to ensure his party was not spotted prematurely. He had picked Centurion Ignatius to act as his second in command, and an optio from the auxiliary cohort, Lycus, to command the thirty slingers who would be defending the buildings once the Praetorians had seized them. Macro and his century were to stand to behind the camp’s main gate in case the party ran into trouble and needed to be reinforced, or rescued.
Cato sheathed his sword and moved to one side to ensure that his rough diagram was easily visible to the others. He indicated the boxes he had drawn in the earth.
‘These buildings seem to suit our needs best. Since the enemy have demolished the houses between them and the wall, we’ll have a clear view of the wall at first light, and the range is good for your slingers, Lycus.’
The optio stared at the diagram, then spoke. ‘If we could get a couple of bolt-throwers on top of the buildings that would be even better, sir. The Parthians wouldn’t dare even risk a peep over the walls then.’
‘I agree,’ said Cato. ‘I’ve already given orders for two of the weapons to be brought forward the moment we’ve captured and fortified the buildings. You’ll be in charge of the crews. Centurion Ignatius will be in overall command of the party once things are set up.’ He paused as he leaned forward to draw out another box to one side of the buildings, directly in front of the gate. He then drew a zigzag leading back from the box towards the outline of the camp.
‘Centurion Nicolis, you will be in charge of the work party. While we take the buildings I want you to mark out the lines for the approach trench and the battery. We’ll start digging before dawn. By the time there’s enough light for the enemy to see, I want them to be in no doubt about our intentions. They already know we have siege weapons, and they’ll know we’ll be using them on the main gate. They’ll also see that the fortified buildings will mean we can sweep the defenders from the wall opposite, and cover the men digging the approach trench and the battery. I’ll let that sink in for an hour or two before I send a herald forward to demand their surrender.’
‘Do you really think they will surrender?’ Macro asked doubtfully.
‘They’d be fools not to,’ Cato answered. ‘Rhadamistus has already shown them what happens to those who defy him. And once they grasp that there’s not much they can do to prevent us taking the main gate, then I’m hoping they’ll see sense and surrender while they have the chance. It’s their best chance at coming out of the siege alive. And our best chance of making sure we don’t have to lose any more men from either cohort.’ He looked round at his officers to make sure they heeded his next words. ‘We need to surprise and shock them tonight. When they see what we have managed to achieve by first light, I want them to be convinced that it is only a matter of days before we break into Artaxata and let our men, and those of Rhadamistus, off their chains. We do this right and we’ll scare them into surrendering before we even start bombarding their walls . . . Are we clear, gentlemen?’
Macro and the others nodded and muttered their acknowledgement.
‘Good. It may be that we can take the buildings without a blow being struck tonight. But if we encounter the enemy then we go in hard and give no quarter. Now, join your men and wait for the order to move. Good fortune go with you all.’
Cato led the men out of the fort and headed away from the wall for a mile or so before he turned towards the barely discernible outline of the city gate rising up against the slightly fainter night sky. His plan was to come in towards the buildings at an indirect angle in case the Parthians were expecting any force sallying out from the camp. The Praetorians would seize the buildings and deal with any defenders before the slingers occupied them. Then the men of both cohorts would fortify their strongpoints as best they could in the remaining hours of darkness. In addition to the weapons they carried, they had been issued with rations for the next day and ordered to fill their canteens, in case the enemy attempted to retake the buildings or cut them off.
As Cato felt his way over the dark ground he could not help recalling the night attack on Ligea, and had to stop himself thinking about what had followed. This time, if all went as he hoped, lives would be saved. Armenian as well as Roman. There would be no excuse for Rhadamistus to visit death and destruction on the people of Artaxata. It would be different for Tiridates and his supporters, of course. Cato had no doubt about the grisly fate Rhadamistus had in mind for his enemies. But there was nothing he could do to save them.
He halted his men a hundred paces from the nearest of the buildings and then took five men forward with him to scout while the rest were quietly ordered to sit down and keep still and silent. Cato approached in a half-crouch, unhurriedly, watching ahead for any signs of movement and frequently glancing down to ensure he did not stumble over any obstacles. Directly ahead was a low building and the tang of manure gave away its function, but there was no sound of movement from the stables and Cato guessed that the animals must have been taken inside the walls. They passed the opening to the yard and stayed close to the wall as they made their way towards the cluster of buildings that the enemy had not yet torn down. Beyond the barn there was a patch of open ground around a well, and then a two-storey structure, the largest, with awnings running around three sides. An inn, Cato guessed.
Turning to the others, he whispered his orders. ‘I’ll take that building. You each take one of the others close by. Search them thoroughly and watch for any sign of the enemy. Then report back to me beneath the awning at the corner, over there.’
They padded over the open ground and fanned out. As Cato closed on the building he had chosen, he saw benches and tables beneath the awnings. There were even clay cups still left on some of the tables. He picked his way towards the arched entrance of the inn, ears straining for any sound of voices or movement, but all was quiet. Pausing outside, he forced himself to breathe as quietly as possible and then stepped inside. Although his eyes were accustomed to the night he could make out only the barest details of the interior. A counter ran along one wall, opposite more benches and tables, all of which would provide plenty of material to fortify the building, he decided with satisfaction. He felt his way along the counter until his hand came across a sticky patch. He caught the unmistakable odour of garum and wiped his fingers on his tunic before he proceeded. At the far end of the room, beyond the counter, was a narrow staircase. Bracing one hand on the rough plaster of the wall he climbed to the second storey.
A corridor stretched out in front of him. On one side there were storerooms, now empty of anything of value, and on the other side several small cells furnished with simple beds, where prostitutes plied their trade beneath shutterless windows. A ladder led up on to a flat roof, where Cato crouched as he looked around him. There was a low parapet running around the
roof, no more than waist height. Not ideal, he mused, but an adequate base upon which to construct protective hoardings. The other buildings he had chosen were close enough together to permit the easy construction of linking walls, and the whole would provide exactly the kind of bastion he had been hoping for: close enough to the city gates to harass the defenders while the siege weapons created a breach.
Something clattered down below and Cato froze. The noise came again, a soft scraping sound this time. He drew his short sword and crept back to the ladder and eased himself down each rung until he was standing on the floorboards of the second storey. The sound was louder now, but still coming from below, on the ground floor. He listened for any other sounds, but there were no voices, no whispering and no sound of footsteps. If there was someone else in the inn, then it seemed that they must be alone. Moving carefully towards the stairs, Cato eased his weight down on each step and bent low to see into the heart of the inn. All was still and then the scraping started again. He could hear it clearly enough now that he could identify it as the scraping of a clay pot across the flagstone floor, and it was coming from behind the counter. Hardly daring to breathe, he edged round the end of the counter, holding his sword out to one side, ready to strike.
A shape lurched out of the shadows, low and fast, and flew up at Cato’s chest before he could react. The impact drove him back and he lost his balance and tumbled to the floor with his assailant on top of him, pressing into his chest. His sword slipped from his fingers and Cato instinctively raised his hand to protect his face. Hot, stinking breath puffed across his cheek and then something wet and warm curled over his fingers while his other hand reached round what he thought was a fur cloak but turned out to be fur. Cato eased himself back and sat up as the dog continued to lick his fingers, and then he caught the odour of garum again and could not help a nervous chuckle. It seemed that the piquant sauce was valued as highly in the canine world as it was in the human. He felt for his sword and returned it to its scabbard.
‘Easy there.’ Cato spoke softly and stroked the dog’s broad head with his spare hand. He could just make out the proportions of the animal, large and solid. There was a rope halter around its neck with a short length that ended in frayed tatters. It seemed that the dog had been left tethered and chewed its way free. Cato stood up and let the dog continue licking his fingers for a moment, and it wagged its tail happily.
‘You gave me the fright of my fucking life, my hairy friend,’ Cato said in a low voice as he patted the dog’s flank. ‘And now, if you don’t mind?’
He withdrew his hand and made his way cautiously to the entrance of the inn, anxious that the sound of his fall might have alerted any enemy lurking nearby. But no alarm was raised and he sat down on a bench to wait for the other men to return. The dog had followed him outside and sat beside him and then dropped its head on to his thigh and nudged his arm until Cato stroked it again. A soft, blissful moan sounded in the dog’s throat. Then its head snapped up and there was a low growl. Cato glanced round as one of his men approached.
‘One of ours,’ he said to the dog and patted its flank.
The soldier hesitated as he heard the growl. ‘Is that you, sir?’
‘Yes, damn you. Keep it down. There’s a dog been left behind here. That’s all. Anything to report?’
‘Building’s empty, sir. But it’s good and solid and suits our needs.’
‘Excellent. Right, go back to Ignatius and have him bring the rest of the men forward.’
The soldier trotted away from the buildings and a moment later another arrived. One by one they came and made their report and each time the dog growled warily until Cato reassured it. When the last man had made his report, Cato decided to have a quick look at the approach to the city gates before the rest of his men turned up. He gave the dog a gentle shove.
‘Go on, you brute. Go . . .’
The animal retreated a step then came forward again and rubbed its muzzle against his hand.
‘Go, I said.’ Cato pushed more urgently this time, forcing the animal to retreat a few paces. It stood in the darkness, head cocked to one side, uncertain. Cato gestured to the others. ‘On me.’
They set off, along the street to the house standing at the end. After a moment the dog padded after them, then went on a short distance ahead of Cato before he could grab the end of its tether.
‘Blasted animal,’ he muttered. If only it had been the kind of abused stray that knew better than to come too close to people.
The dog was near the corner when it stopped dead and let out a low growl. Then Cato heard voices muttering and the crunch of boots on the gravelled street and he swiftly drew his sword and whispered over his shoulder, ‘Blades out.’
A shadow came round the corner, a large man with a club in one hand and holding a bundle over his shoulder with the other. He saw the dog first and drew up as it growled again. Then he saw the Romans along the wall. There was a beat as all stood still, then the man dropped his bundle and swung his club back to strike as more men came round the corner.
‘Get ’em, lads,’ Cato hissed urgently. ‘Before they give us away.’
He sprang forward as the leading figure swung his club at the dog. The animal darted aside just in time and scrambled off to a safe distance. Cato slashed at where he judged the man’s arm was and felt the point tear through cloth before the man lurched back. The other Praetorians rushed forward as more men came round the corner, dropping their bundles as they made ready to fight with a mixture of clubs and daggers. Lowering himself into a balanced crouch Cato thrust his point at the nearest opponent, who still held a bundle under one arm as he waved a club wildly with the other. The point of the blade caught his opponent high in the chest and penetrated a few inches until it struck bone. There was a gasp of pain an instant before the club struck above the elbow of Cato’s sword hand. It was a jarring impact and then agony exploded up and down his arm. He managed to hold on to his weapon but his arm was numb and limp and Cato knew it would not serve him in the fight. Blood trickled from torn flesh and he realised that his opponent’s weapon must be studded, or spiked. He transferred the sword into his left hand and rushed headlong into the man who had struck him, stabbing wildly and feeling his blows land again and again as warm flecks of blood spotted his face. His opponent stumbled back and staggered around the corner out of sight.
Cato flattened against the wall, his right arm hanging uselessly as he kept his left hand up, ready to strike again. In the darkness it was difficult to discern who was Roman and who wasn’t, unless he caught sight of the glimmer of a short sword in the furious melee being fought without a voice raised on either side. A figure was down on the ground, curled up in a ball and moving feebly. Another was staggering away towards the city walls. Just in front of Cato a man raised a club and brought it down savagely on his opponent’s skull with a sharp crack and the man collapsed. At once the attacker turned towards Cato as he raised his club again. There was little time to react as the club swept down. Cato threw up his sword and there was a dull clang as sturdy wood clashed with the flat of the blade. His clumsy parry saved Cato as the head of the club lost its impetus before striking a glancing blow off his right shoulder.
Sensing his advantage the man struck again. Cato ducked and the blow struck the wall behind him, showering him with fragments of mud plaster. But now he was down on one knee and he knew that if the next blow connected with his head then he would be out of the fight, even if the blow was not fatal. There was a throaty snarl and a dark shape leaped at Cato’s attacker, growling and snapping as it bit into the man’s arm and locked its jaws as it savagely shook its head. The man cried out in panic before suddenly cutting the sound short. He struggled back, wrestling with the dog, striking out with his spare fist, with no effect at first. Then a lucky blow caught the animal on the snout and it released its grip with a sharp whine and slunk down at Cato’s side.
With a rush of pounding boots Centurion Ignatius and his men came runn
ing forward. One of the others called out a warning to his comrades and they gave ground, snatched up some of the bundles they had dropped and ran back over the open ground towards the city. With difficulty Cato sheathed his sword with his left hand and leaned back against the wall, trembling with the excitement of combat. He swallowed as he picked out the crest of Ignatius’s helmet.
‘Sir?’ the centurion called out as loudly as he dared. ‘Tribune Cato?’
‘Here,’ Cato replied huskily. He cleared his throat. ‘Over here.’
Ignatius approached and stopped dead as the dog growled again.
‘It’s all right,’ Cato chuckled at the centurion. ‘I think the beast is on our side. Get the wounded men inside the inn over there. Then set your men to work. Ten in each building. Station the slingers on the roofs.’
‘Yes, sir. By the way, who were those men? Why aren’t they raising the alarm?’
Cato stepped over to one of the remaining bundles and prodded it with his toe. There were some bolts of cloth, and the rattle of metal goblets and dishes. ‘Looters. From Artaxata. That’s why they kept quiet.’
He was interrupted by the braying of a distant horn, of the kind used by the Iberians. A moment later there came faint shouts and the thin whinnies of horses and the clatter of weapons.
‘Get to work!’ Cato ordered sharply. ‘I want this area securely fortified by first light. Move!’
CHAPTER THIRTY
‘Now, that is a really ugly dog,’ said Macro as he looked over the animal sitting beside Cato as Bernisha bathed the punctures and cuts on Cato’s right arm where the club had struck him. The thin light that came before the dawn provided enough illumination for Bernisha to go about her work, and for the features of the dog to be revealed. He was not handsome to be sure. A tawny coat covered most of his skinny body and there were patches of bare skin where puckered scars were exposed. He had long, powerful limbs and a large head with a long snout, and a furry ear on one side was mismatched by the torn stump on the other. He leaned against Cato’s side and panted gently as his gaze flitted warily between Macro and Bernisha.
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