The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  There were other reasons to be grateful to be heading far from Rome. A new emperor meant change, and those who had enjoyed the favour of Claudius now faced an uncertain future. New men would be appointed to positions of power and there were scores to settle. There always were in the seething pit of Roman politics. Inevitably powerful men would be accused of crimes committed under the previous regime and there would be trials; some senators would be exiled, some quietly disposed of, and their property would be divided between informers and the imperial treasury. Innocence was irrelevant when informers and lawyers scented blood and, more importantly, money.

  Cato had no desire to be caught up in such matters. Especially as he had been rewarded with the estate of his father-in-law, who had been rash enough to be part of a plot to depose Nero in the early days of his reign. The surviving friends of Senator Sempronius had made little secret of their feelings about the source of Cato’s recently found wealth, and he knew that his fortune had come at the price of making enemies who would seek to do him down as soon as they were confident the time was ripe. And so he had been happy to join the general’s retinue as it journeyed to the eastern frontier. Moreover, he had chosen to bring his son and the boy’s nurse, rather than leave them as hostages to fortune back in Rome, a decision that had delighted Centurion Macro, since he had struck up a relationship with Petronella, a woman who could match him drink for drink and throw a punch that was the envy of any seasoned veteran of the legions.

  So here the four of them were, in rented rooms at the home of a Jewish silversmith in a street just off the Forum in Tarsus. They had been here a month already, without sign of Quadratus, and, pleasant enough as Tarsus was, the city had soon grown weary of the novelty of having a Roman general and a cohort of Praetorians in residence. And still wearier of the loud drunkenness of off-duty soldiers. In the normal course of events Cato would have been fretting about the enforced inaction. But the delay had meant that he had time to spend with his son, and he was grateful for it. Just as Macro was grateful for the chance to enjoy Petronella’s ample charms.

  Macro poured them both a cup of wine and they sat on the stools either side of the table and looked down into the small, neat courtyard of the silversmith’s house. A fountain splashed in a pool at the centre of the courtyard, around which were arranged a series of couches shaded by trellises. It put Cato in mind of the garden of his house in Rome and he wondered when he would next see it.

  ‘This war with Parthia,’ said Macro. ‘How long do you think it’ll take us to give Vologases a hiding?’

  ‘Depends on Corbulo. If he does what’s right, he’ll ensure we get our man on the Armenian throne and be satisfied with that. If he gets a taste for glory, then who knows? We could end up marching in the footsteps of Crassus. And that would not be for the best. Either way, it’s almost certain to come to a fight. Nero won’t be satisfied unless there is a great victory to celebrate in Rome.’

  Macro nodded and then indicated Lucius. The child was sitting, thin legs splayed, a wooden soldier in each hand, muttering in an excited low tone as he clashed them together and simulated a fight. ‘What about them? Lucius and Petronella? What happens to them when the campaign starts?’

  ‘They can remain here. I’ll make sure our host, Yusef, is paid up long enough in advance to keep him happy. He’s a decent sort. I’m sure he’ll look after them when we head off. And keep them safe until we return. If we return.’ Cato was glad that he had lodged his will with a lawyer in Rome before they had set off. At least Lucius’s future was secure, even if his own was not.

  ‘If? Tch!’ Macro shook his head. ‘Always the jug half empty with you . . . Speaking of which.’ He topped up their cups. ‘We’ll be fine. Once we’ve given those Parthians a decent slapping, they’ll be happy to return Armenia to us and bugger off back into the desert, or wherever it is they come from.’

  Cato made a rueful expression. ‘It’s that kind of lack of hard intelligence that worries me, and should worry the general.’

  Macro shot him a dark look before Cato shook his head. ‘I’m talking about military intelligence, not yours.’

  ‘Fair enough.’

  ‘We don’t know nearly enough about the terrain on the other bank of the Euphrates,’ Cato continued. ‘Where are the river crossings? Where are the rivers, for that matter? And the mountain trails, fortifications, towns, villages and so on. We have no idea about enemy numbers, their intentions or the disposition of their forces. We’ll need guides to lead our armies by the safest routes, and yet how do we know we can trust them? It was the treachery of guides that led Crassus to disaster.’ Cato took a sip and reflected a moment. ‘I went to the imperial library before we left Rome to see what kind of references to Parthia and Armenia I could turn up.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Books. You can solve every problem by reading books,’ Macro said wryly. ‘Bound to be an answer there, somewhere.’

  ‘Mock them as you will, but there was some useful information. Not much, I grant you. There was an itinerary left over from Antonius’s campaign. Didn’t make for good reading. I had no idea of the scale of Parthia until I went over the distances between the towns and cities he encountered. And the man who drew up the itinerary left a note that our legions barely penetrated a third of the way into the region, according to his sources. He also records great swathes of desert and many days between opportunities to water the men and horses, and feed them. And then there was the enemy. Rarely risking a pitched battle, while all the time harrying our columns and picking off patrols and stragglers.’

  ‘Then let’s pray to the gods that Corbulo doesn’t get drawn into Parthia – just keeps his attention on Armenia and settles for carrying out the emperor’s orders.’

  Cato took a sip and looked down into his cup, gently swirling the contents. ‘He wouldn’t be the first Roman general tempted by the prospect of winning glory in the east.’

  ‘And I’m sure he won’t be the last. But there’s not much we can do about it, lad. I’m just a centurion, and you’re the tribune commanding his bodyguard. We’re here to obey the general’s orders, not quote advice from dusty scrolls back in Rome. I doubt Corbulo will look very kindly on that.’

  ‘Well, yes. Quite . . . Whatever happens, I suspect our new posting will not be a short one.’

  ‘I can live with that.’ Macro drained his cup and wiped his lips on the back of a hairy hand. ‘This part of the world is warm and comfortable for the most part. The wine’s cheap and the tarts are cheaper still.’ He glanced towards the door to the next room. ‘Er, not that I’m on the lookout for that sort of thing these days.’

  Cato grinned. ‘Centurion Macro, what has become of you? Petronella has changed you into a new man. I barely recognise you.’

  ‘With respect, you can fuck right off, sir.’ Macro sat back and folded his thick arms. ‘I’m the same soldier I ever was. No change there. Just a bit grey around the temples, and a few aches and pains. But I’m good for one last campaign. If it goes on as long as you fear.’

  ‘Last campaign?’ Cato arched an eyebrow. He knew that Macro had been serving in the legions for over twenty-six years. He was eligible for a discharge and the gratuity that went with it. If he wanted it. But Macro had put off any application and said the time was not yet right. Not while he had some years of good soldiering still left in him. And Cato was glad about that. He had an almost superstitious need to have Macro at his side when he marched off to war, and dreaded the day when his friend finally demobbed and retired to some sleepy backwater, while Cato continued his career alone. He forced himself to redirect his thoughts.

  ‘I wonder what Petronella will have to say about that? If this campaign does drag on, she’ll not be happy to be separated from you.’

  Macro shrugged. ‘That’s what you have to accept if you hitch yourself to a soldier.’

  ‘Very considerate of you, I must say.’

  ‘It’s the way of it. She knows that and understands it.’

  ‘Then
she’s a fine woman indeed.’

  ‘Aye, she is that.’ Macro poured the last of the wine into their cups. ‘And when I do finally quit the army, I’d be proud to have her as my wife.’

  Cato smiled broadly. ‘I wondered if you’d thought about that.’

  ‘We’ve talked it through. Can’t get married while I’m still serving. But the least I can do is guarantee her the wherewithal to get by if anything happens to me. I’ve drawn up a will. Just need a witness, if you wouldn’t mind, sir?’

  ‘Mind? I’d be delighted to do it.’ Cato raised his cup. ‘To a long and happy life together. Subject to the exigencies of military service, of course.’

  Macro affected a frown. ‘Get away with you!’

  Then he raised his cup and tapped Cato’s. ‘And a long and happy life to you too. You and Lucius both.’

  They turned towards the child and saw that he had slumped forward, resting his head on folded arms, eyes closed and breathing deeply and steadily.

  ‘Asleep on duty?’ Macro sucked his breath in. ‘What’s the penalty for that? No piggybacks round the courtyard or picnics with Uncle Macro tonight then.’

  Cato shook his head. ‘Anyone ever tell you you’re a hard bastard, Macro?’

  ‘Nah, not me. Soft as a lamb. Just ask the lads in my century.’

  They laughed and drained their cups. The wine, the warmth of the afternoon, the companionship of his long-time friend and the peaceful slumber of his son combined to give Cato an immense sense of well-being, and he prayed that Governor Quadratus held off from presenting himself to the general for a few days yet.

  Then he heard the sound of boots at the end of the corridor and a moment later there came a sharp knock on the door.

  Cato cleared his throat. ‘Come!’

  With a soft grating of the hinges the door swung open and a Praetorian entered and saluted the two officers.

  ‘Beggin’ your pardon, Tribune, but the general wants you at headquarters.’

  ‘What’s up?’ asked Macro.

  ‘The Governor Quadratus’s trireme has been sighted, sir. Should reach the port within a couple of hours. The general’s calling out the cohort to form an honour guard.’

  ‘Shit,’ Macro sighed. He eased himself to his feet and looked down at the boy, still fast asleep. ‘Like I said. No picnic today after all . . .’

  CHAPTER THREE

  ‘Cohort’s formed up for inspection, sir.’

  Macro squinted into the mid-afternoon sun as he exchanged a salute with Cato while the latter finished securing the ties of his helmet and adjusted it so that it sat squarely on his head.

  ‘Very well, Centurion. Any absences?’

  Macro consulted his waxed tablet and went through each of the six centuries in turn, his own, and those commanded by Ignatius, Nicolis, Petillius, Placinus and Porcino, before he gave his account: ‘Three men excused duties on medical grounds. Eight on duty at headquarters. Two more guarding the pay chest. Six absent without permission, last seen at one of the inns behind the Forum. I’ve sent Optio Marcellus to find ’em and give them a roasting. I’ll be docking their pay and giving them fatigues for a month, if you agree, sir.’

  ‘Very good.’ Cato nodded. ‘Let’s get this done before the governor’s ship ties up.’

  They both glanced out over the quay to where the trireme was passing the end of the watchtower, oars rising, sweeping forward and splashing down as the warship glided over the calm waters of the River Cydnus. The square leading off the quay had been cleared of civilians and the cohort was drawn up along three sides facing the quay, two centuries on each side, standing to attention in four ranks. Their shields were grounded for the moment, while they clasped the shafts of their spears in their right hands. Polished scale armour gleamed over their off-white tunics. At the rear of the square was a platform facing the temple of the divine Augustus, where General Corbulo and his staff officers stood waiting, in front of the cohort’s standard, held by Rutilius, a burly veteran chosen for the honour. The ceremonial welcome for the governor of Syria was an impressive enough sight, thought Cato, but no matter how assiduously the men had cleaned their kit, it would never be perfect enough for Macro’s eagle eyes.

  The two officers paced over to the First Century, Macro’s own unit, and Cato slowed down, pausing every so often to scrutinise one of the guardsmen.

  ‘This strap is loose . . .’

  Macro noted the man’s name and his misdemeanour with a few deft strokes of his stylus in the waxed surface of his centurion’s tablet.

  ‘Dirt on this man’s scabbard . . . And rust on the cheek flap.’

  So it continued down the lines of the cohort, notes being taken by each centurion in turn, until their commanding officer had completed the inspection. Cato turned to Macro and took a deep breath so that he could be heard right across the square. ‘On the whole, a fine turnout, Centurion. These men would grace the presence of the emperor himself. Well done. Keep it up!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cato lowered his voice for Macro alone. ‘Right, the show’s about to start. Back to your men. I’ll be with the general for the formal greeting.’

  They saluted each other, and Macro turned about and marched across the square to the First Century while Cato climbed the steps to the platform in front of the temple and approached Corbulo.

  ‘Cohort’s ready, sir.’

  The general gazed briefly at the neat ranks of the Praetorians and nodded. ‘So I can see. A fine body of men you have there, Tribune Cato.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

  ‘And from the accounts I’ve heard they acquitted themselves well in Hispania under your command. Not to mention that unfortunate business back in Rome recently.’

  Cato said nothing. It was true that his men had been instrumental in the suppression of the plot against Nero to replace him with his younger stepbrother, Britannicus. That had involved a street battle in the capital itself, as well as an assault on the island of Capri, where the plotters had made their final stand. Since the capture and poisoning of Britannicus there had been a concerted effort to brush over the entire incident, which meant that the cohort had received no battle honours or any other official reward for its actions.

  Corbulo patted him on the shoulder. ‘Relax, Cato. We’re well away from Rome and the politicians, informers and conspirers now. We’re just soldiers here. Do your duty and don’t worry about anything else, eh?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now then. Let’s see what Governor Quadratus has to say for himself.’

  The officers on the platform stared out across the square, beyond the quay, to where the trireme turned gracefully to present its beam as the rowers hurriedly shipped their oars. On deck sailors stood ready with coils of ropes and heaved them towards the dockers waiting on the quay. They hurriedly looped the ropes around the mooring posts and heaved the warship in until the hull bumped softly against the cork fenders, then tied off the mooring cables.

  At once a gangplank was run out and a party of marines dashed ashore, formed two lines on either side and stood to attention. A group of officers and men in togas stood towards the stern of the trireme, waiting. A moment later an individual wearing an elaborately crested helmet and silvered armour emerged from the small cabin at the rear and led his followers along the deck, across the gangplank and on to the quay. There he paused and briefly surveyed the Praetorians drawn up in front of him before he turned and snapped an order to one of his subordinates. Eight men carrying bundles of rods taped around them ran ahead and formed up in front of the governor.

  ‘Lictors?’ one of Corbulo’s staff officers muttered. ‘Bit over the top for a ceremonial at the arse end of the Empire, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘Indeed.’ The general chuckled. ‘In any case, with this particular pissing competition I have the home advantage. A cohort of Praetorians trumps a pack of lictors any day. Especially here in my new command at the arse end of the Empire, as you helpfully point out.
’

  The officer’s jaw sagged, then he made to respond, thought better of it and clamped his mouth shut as his face coloured with embarrassment.

  There was a long pause as Quadratus stood motionless, waiting for the general to descend and greet him. But Corbulo did not move, standing as still as the Praetorians lining the square. At length the other man gave in and waved his party forward.

  Cato smiled as he thought, Round one to the general.

  As the governor’s party reached the steps, Quadratus gestured for the others to halt and began to climb alone. Cato saw that Quadratus’s features were far more lined since their last encounter. The responsibilities and strain of his office had taken their toll. He was clearly unused to wearing armour and was breathing hard by the time he stepped up on to the platform and held out his hand.

  ‘Gnaeus Domitius Corbulo, welcome.’

  ‘It is for me to welcome you, Quadratus, since I sent for you.’ Before the governor could react to the barbed greeting, Corbulo stepped forward, smiled, clasped his forearm and gave it a brisk shake before he continued. ‘I take it you have received word from Rome with respect to my purpose here?’