The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Why did he send you to spy on me?’

  ‘Why do you think? Rome cannot be trusted. You pretend to be his ally, and all the while, Rome serves no interests but its own. Who knows what secret orders you had been given? Only a fool would not have wanted to try and discover what your true purpose was. Now Armenia is in our hands and there is no need for further subterfuge. And so Bernisha becomes Zenobia.’

  Cato shook his head. ‘But you didn’t just spy on me. You went further than that.’

  ‘True. You are not an easy man to read, Tribune. I needed to get close to you, under that hard shell you present to others. They say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. But what do “they” know?’ She reached down and pressed her hand against Cato’s groin and he stepped back hurriedly.

  She laughed again. ‘Besides, I have needs, like anyone else. Like you. Oh, come now, Tribune. Was it so bad? You seemed quite content at the time.’

  Cato shook his head. ‘Macro is right. You’re a bitch. A slimy, calculating, evil bitch . . .’

  This time there was a crack in her composure and she glared at him with open hostility. ‘You had better be careful, Tribune. You are living under my roof now. My rules. And if you think how well I played you, then you’ll have to trust me when I say I know how to play my husband even more ruthlessly and effectively. He really thinks that he is the ruler of Armenia. I made him what he is. He thinks we are partners. He trusts me because it serves his interests to. Together we have achieved all this.’ She waved a hand towards the city. ‘He is king and I am his queen. Something that would have taken years if we’d remained in Iberia and been content to wait for his father to die. That dotard seems set to endure for ever . . .’ She paused a moment then wagged a finger at Cato. ‘Never forget, it serves Rome’s interests at the same time to have Rhadamistus on the throne, so spare me your anger and outrage, Cato. Your emperor needs this as much as I do, and it is your duty to serve him.’

  Cato felt trapped by her words. She was right. This was the goal of Nero’s policy here in Armenia. His mission was a success. All that remained now was to quit Artaxata as soon as Rhadamistus’s reign was secure.

  He drew himself up and pointed a finger at her. ‘Stay away from me.’

  She tilted her head to one side and shrugged. ‘As you wish. Enjoy the rest of the feast, Tribune. No doubt our paths will cross again another time. Goodnight.’

  She turned and strolled comfortably back towards the palace. Cato watched her until she disappeared inside, then heaved a deep, calming sigh and went to rejoin his comrades.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Cato stayed away from the palace as much as he could over the following days. There was plenty to occupy him at first. The defences of the redoubt that had been built outside the city were dismantled as the owners returned to their homes and businesses. Now that his soldiers were comfortably billeted, they could rest and make repairs to their kit. The wounded were cared for in one of the palace’s empty grain stores, and the cohort surgeon’s daily reports were encouraging. Most of the sick and injured were recovering well and would soon return to duty. Some were not so fortunate: they were either maimed or crippled and would never return to the ranks. They would have to be discharged when the column returned to Syria. A grim prospect for most of them, Cato reflected sympathetically. Some men, bitter at the loss of a limb, or left with a debilitating limp, frittered away their discharge gratuity and spent what was left of their life as street beggars. Others were fortunate enough to have family to return to, and if they husbanded their meagre resources, they might eke out a simple life. That was as good as it got for the vast majority in their predicament. Life in the army was tough enough. Life outside of it, in such circumstances, could be very harsh indeed.

  Idleness was the main enemy of soldiers in comfortable billets when there was no campaigning to be done, and Cato gave orders that the duty roster was to be maintained, with one century always keeping watch from the walls of the acropolis while the other units were inspected, paraded and sent on patrols around the city. While the rankers grumbled and cursed him for it, the Praetorian centurions and optios had no complaint. The enforced leisure of the cohort was a fine opportunity to get back to the spit and polish of the barracks routines in Rome that had been sadly lacking on the march. For the first time in months the Second Cohort of the Praetorian Guard was turning out immaculately each morning and being drilled with inch-perfect precision in the palace courtyard.

  Cato spent much of the time catching up on the minutiae of administrative tasks. The wills of those who had been concerned to make such arrangements had to be unsealed and read through. Some men had left their savings for their families back in Rome and their wills had to be carefully set aside until the cohort returned. Others had left their possessions to their comrades and these wills could be executed at once, producing small windfalls for the individuals concerned. Money that was swiftly spent in the drinking houses and brothels of Artaxata.

  However, it seemed to Cato, on those occasions when he ventured out to walk Cassius, that the Roman and Iberian troops were amongst the few who were enjoying the delights of the city without restraint. The mood of the people was fearful, and King Rhadamistus was doing little to assuage their fear. Worse, he seemed to provoke it with reckless glee. Hardly a day passed without the execution of another group of people who had been denounced as having collaborated with Tiridates and the Parthians, or simply as having failed to display unquestioning loyalty to the king. Cato witnessed these wretched individuals being dragged through the streets to the platform in the middle of the great market, where they were put to death one by one, according to the method pronounced by Rhadamistus. The fortunate ones were beheaded. The others were made to endure the torments of flaying, burning and strangling. Afterwards the bodies were carted out of Artaxata and piled into a common grave, minus their heads, which were added to those already adorning the spikes that Rhadamistus had ordered to be set up along the city walls.

  Cato could see the fear in almost every face as he walked the streets of the capital with Cassius trotting at his side. Few dared meet his gaze or do anything that might incur his displeasure since, as a Roman, he was seen as a close ally of the tyrant living in the palace. Inevitably those people who could afford to began to leave the city, packing their belongings on to carts and trundling off to farms they owned away from the capital, or to the homes of distant family and friends in other cities and towns. Only the poor could not afford to leave, but as long as they kept their heads down and made no complaint they were safe enough. After the numbers of those leaving began to increase, Rhadamistus decreed that anyone who tried to flee the capital would be treated as an enemy and put to death. As for those who had already left, he announced that they too were traitors and that their homes and any other property remaining in the city would be confiscated and sold at public auction, and the proceeds added to the royal treasury.

  The day before the deadline Rhadamistus had set for the nobles to come to pay homage to him, Cato was resting on his bed, looking out through the open doors of his balcony towards the distant mountains. His dog lay stretched on his back beside the bed as Cato stroked his belly. Although the height of summer was a month or so away, the hours around noon were hot and the streets airless, and Cato preferred to remain in the cool shade until later in the afternoon. Besides, it decreased his chances of encountering Zenobia. The merest thought of her caused him to feel sick with anxiety. She held his life in her hands and could bring the wrath of Rhadamistus down on him in an instant.

  So far, not one noble, or representative of the kingdom’s towns and cities, had entered Artaxata in answer to the king’s ultimatum, and there were rumours that rebellion was brewing. If so, then Cato feared that it would take months, if not years, before Rhadamistus was secure on his throne and the Romans would be able to return to Syria. The prospect was daunting and depressing, and Cato’s mood was bitter indeed, even as he gazed out
on the fields and hills of the surrounding landscape set against the backdrop of the mountains, the peaks of which still glistened with snow.

  There was a knock on the door, and Cassius rolled over and pricked his remaining ear up. A moment later Macro entered. ‘You’d better come quickly, sir. There’s trouble brewing in the town.’

  The brothel was located in a large yard. A portico ran along one side, giving out on to the city’s main avenue. Opposite was a wine shop with benches and tables set outside, most of which had been overturned and were surrounded by shattered wine jars and clay beakers. On either side of the yard stretched buildings with shabby hangings covering the entrance to cubicles where prostitutes plied their trade. Several bodies lay amid the upturned benches and tables, and others who had been wounded sat or lay nearby, moaning and crying out in pain.

  By the time Cato and Macro reached the scene a large crowd of Armenians had gathered in the avenue outside, and there were angry shouts and hostile looks as the two officers at the head of the squad of Praetorians forced their way through the mob and entered the yard. One of the duty patrols was holding the crowd at bay and the optio in charge looked relieved as he saw that his commander had arrived to take charge of the situation.

  ‘What in Hades is going on here?’ Cato demanded.

  The optio turned and gestured to a group of off-duty Praetorians standing in a corner of the yard. ‘That lot are to blame, sir. They came in here, got drinking and kicked up a fight with the locals. Blades were drawn and it got out of hand.’ The optio nodded towards the bodies and Cato gritted his teeth at the euphemism.

  ‘I’d say it got more than out of hand, Optio.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I suppose.’

  Macro sniffed. ‘You suppose? I take it that lot aren’t just lying stretched out in all that blood for their health.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Macro put his hands on his hips. ‘So what exactly happened?’

  The optio rubbed his chin nervously. ‘We heard the commotion while I was leading the patrol further along the street, sir. The lads and I came running and when we got here they was all over the place. By the time we’d knocked a few heads together and put a stop to it there were a number of dead and wounded. That’s when I sent a man for you.’

  Cato looked round and saw several men and heavily made-up women in another corner guarded by two men from the optio’s patrol. He felt a weary frustration that once again the tension between his men and those they were supposed to call allies had led to bloodshed.

  ‘So who started it?’

  ‘Once I’d stopped the fighting I questioned the Praetorians, sir. They reckon the owner of this place had cheated them on the wine bill. When they refused to pay he called in his heavies. The owner pulled a knife out. One thing led to another.’ The optio shrugged. ‘You know how it goes.’

  Macro nodded. ‘Aye, that’s what happens all the time. Bloody easterners try to gouge our lads every chance they get.’

  ‘What did the locals say happened?’ asked Cato.

  ‘I tried to find out, sir, but all I could get was their jabbering away. Couldn’t get any sense out of them and told them to shut up.’

  ‘You told them to shut up?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, sir,’ the optio agreed uncomfortably. ‘They needed a bit of encouragement . . .’

  ‘I see,’ Cato said flatly, keeping his temper under control. ‘Wait here.’

  He strode over to the Armenians and they regarded him warily.

  ‘Any of you speak Greek? Well?’

  One of the men half raised his hand. ‘Me, sir. Some Greek.’

  ‘What’s your name?’

  The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Why?’

  ‘Just tell me your name,’ Cato spat impatiently.

  ‘Philadates, sir.’

  Cato doubted that was true, but it made no difference. He just needed to give the man some confidence to speak. ‘Philadates, tell me what happened?’

  The Armenian thought briefly and then began. ‘We see Romans here many times now. They drink and use our whores. So far they pay for what they get. But today, these men came. We have not seen them here before. They come early in the day, and drink, and drink. They use the women. Then the owner tells them, you pay me now. They laugh at him, they say they are guests of the king and will not pay. They go to leave and he stops them. Calls his men to help him. One Roman takes his sword and tells him to move. The owner says no, and draws knife.’

  ‘Wait,’ Cato interrupted. ‘Where is he? Which one of you is the owner?’

  ‘There.’ Philadates pointed to a body near the upturned tables. Cato saw a fat man spread-eagled on his back. His throat had been torn open and his tunic was saturated with blood.

  ‘What happened? Who killed him?’

  ‘That man there. Close to portico,’ Philadates said warily, not willing to point him out publicly. ‘He stabs owner as soon as he sees knife. Then there is fight. And . . .’ He gestured to the carnage and destruction in the yard.

  Cato nodded. ‘Right. Stay where you are.’

  He crossed to the far corner where the auxiliaries were waiting and Macro fell into step beside him. ‘So what excuse did that one give?’

  ‘He says our lot caused this.’

  ‘He would say that,’ Macro sniffed. ‘You know what they’re like. That incident with Glabius was proof enough.’

  Cato did not respond. He fixed his gaze on the man that Philadates had indicated, a lean soldier with a slim face and dark curly hair tied back with a thong. Then he looked over the rest briefly before he addressed them. ‘The optio says the locals started the fight. Is that right?’

  A few heads nodded and there were murmurs of assent. The lean man made no response, Cato noted, before he continued, with a smile: ‘And once they started it, you showed ’em what we’re made of, eh lads?’

  This time there was more agreement, and no small measure of drunken arrogance that they had taught the locals a lesson.

  ‘The optio tells me that the fat bastard who owns this dump was the first to draw a blade.’ Cato shook his head with contempt. ‘Doesn’t surprise me. That lot would stick a knife in your back as soon as smile at you.’

  Macro shifted uneasily beside him and muttered, ‘Sir, I don’t think—’

  Cato ignored him. ‘The scum got what was coming to him. I’d do the same in your place, lads.’

  The Praetorians smiled openly now, at ease with their commanding officer’s attitude. Cato smiled back. ‘So who stuck it to him, eh?’

  Instinctively some of them glanced towards the thin man, then realising what they had done they cast their eyes down. Cato turned to the guilty party, who gritted his teeth as he shot a look of contempt at his comrades.

  ‘You, step forward.’

  The Praetorian heaved a sigh and advanced two paces and stood to attention as well as he could, given his drunken state.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Titus Borenus. Second Century, sir.’

  ‘Borenus. The locals say you and these others were responsible. They say you refused to pay, and when the owner confronted you, it was you who struck the first blow and killed him.’

  ‘If that’s what they say, then they’re liars, sir. Like I told the optio, he drew a knife on me. I had to defend myself.’

  Cato pointed towards the fat corpse. ‘That’s him, right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I can’t help noticing that his dagger is still in the scabbard on his belt.’

  A brief look of alarm flitted over Borenus’s face as Cato continued addressing him.

  ‘So you claim he drew his blade first?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And you stabbed him in the throat in self-defence. At which point he then carefully replaced his dagger in its scabbard before he fell dead. Is that it? . . . Well?’

  Borenus opened his mouth to reply, but no words came. He refused to meet Cato’s gaze now and cast his eyes down at the grou
nd between them.

  ‘Look at me, damn you!’ Cato snapped, and the Praetorian reluctantly obeyed. ‘What the fuck do you and these other idiots think you were doing? Have you already forgotten what happened to Glabius? We were sent here by the emperor to win Armenia back to our side. We’re supposed to be their allies. We are not their conquerors, we are here to be their friends, whether they like it or not. That means we pay our way and treat them nice. But now you fools have spilled their blood, and they want yours. Listen to them.’ Cato gestured to the mob outside in the avenue. ‘I’ve a good mind to throw you out there and let them deal with you.’

  Now he saw fear in the faces of the Praetorians, and he let it feed on them for a moment longer before he turned to Macro. ‘I want this lot to have their hands bound behind their heads, where the crowd can see it. Then we’ll march them back to the acropolis and deal with them there.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ Macro saluted and turned to the men. ‘I’ll have one bootlace from each man. Right now!’

  Cato left his friend to deal with it and returned to the optio. ‘We’re marching back to the acropolis the moment the centurion’s done. I want your men closed up tight around the prisoners. I want them protected, but I don’t want any more of the locals harmed. Tell your men they are not to strike out, or even strike back, unless I give the order. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then form them up.’

  Cato crossed over to Philadates. ‘I believe you told the truth. Those men will be punished, and you will be compensated for the loss of life and damage here. You have my word on it.’

  ‘Your word?’ Philadates said mockingly.

  ‘Yes. And I stand behind my word.’ Cato nodded a brief farewell and returned to the optio and his men, who were formed up in two lines with a space between for the prisoners, who were shoved in that direction by Macro as he bound each man’s hands. When the last of them was in place, Cato and Macro closed up the rear of the small formation.