The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

‘Training?’ The Iberian prince shifted on his cushions and sat up. ‘I thank you for the offer but I am confident that my troops will acquit themselves excellently when the time comes.’

  Cato was tempted to remark that if that was so then they would be comfortably ensconced in the Armenian capital rather than in exile, living in tents along the banks of the Euphrates, protected by the frontier of the Roman Empire. Instead, he concentrated his weary mind on being diplomatic.

  ‘I do not doubt their quality. I am fully aware of the potency of your horse-archers and cataphracts. Nevertheless, your troops and mine must work together if we are to defeat your enemies, Majesty. For example, I noted that your camp is unprotected. No rampart. No defences of any kind. If a band of Parthian raiders were to attack tonight then they would rout your men and carry away your mounts before I could lift a hand to help you.’ Cato took the opportunity to drive the message home. ‘Why, you yourself would be virtually defenceless, to be killed or captured. And Tiridates would remain on the Armenian throne. We cannot allow that to happen.’

  ‘No, we can’t.’ Rhadamistus stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘Very well, Tribune. I will have my infantry mustered tomorrow for your men to train.’

  ‘What of your mounted men?’

  ‘Most are from noble families, the rest are paid retainers of their households. Are you suggesting men of high rank be trained alongside peasants? They would not stand for it.’

  ‘But you are their king. They will do as you say, surely?’

  ‘Yes, to a point. And if you humble or humiliate enough of them then you can be sure muttered complaints will lead to whispered plots and then no king is safe. I would hope that is not your intention, Tribune. It is better we do not undermine their pride. Therefore they will not be part of the training,’ he concluded firmly.

  Cato considered protesting, but realised there would be little purpose to it, and so nodded instead. ‘As you wish, Majesty. I will have Centurion Macro take charge of drilling your infantry. He does not speak your tongue, though he has some Greek, so if one of your officers who knows some Latin could act as translator?’

  ‘Of course.’ Rhadamistus spoke quickly to the man who had given up his place for Cato. ‘Narses will be at your service. You will find that Greek is widely spoken in the east, but Narses will be on hand for those who don’t speak it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Cato had concluded his business and stirred, ready to rise to his feet. But the audience was not yet over.

  ‘One last thing, Tribune.’

  Cato paused, halfway up, and then decided it would better to stand. ‘Majesty?’

  ‘My men require some additional training. Beyond obeying simple commands and digging camp fortifications.’

  ‘I can arrange for weapons drill, or basic formations, Majesty.’

  ‘That’s not what I had in mind. It occurs to me that it would be useful for my men to become familiar with your siege engines, when they reach us. Together with the rudiments of siegecraft.’

  Cato was silent for an instant while he considered his response. Mindful of his orders from Corbulo, he was reluctant to agree to the suggestion. ‘Majesty, it is a difficult art to master, and we will be advancing to Armenia the moment the siege train arrives in any case. There will be no time available for such training.’

  ‘I am sure that we can find time for a little instruction at the end of each day.’ Rhadamistus smiled. ‘After our camp has been constructed to your satisfaction. Surely it would only benefit our cause? If anything happened to your men then mine would be able to replace them. Otherwise the weapons would be quite useless. I am sure you see the good sense of my request.’

  Cato saw the possible purpose of it clearly enough. In the event that the Iberians turned against Rome, they could take prisoner, or massacre, Cato and his men and use the siege weapons against their former owners. But for the present the prince’s argument was sound enough.

  ‘I will see what can be arranged, Majesty.’ Cato bowed his head. ‘Now, if I may, I need to return to my cohort.’

  ‘A pity. I would offer you the hospitality of my humble tent. Perhaps I might entertain you, and your officers, another evening?’

  ‘You are most generous.’

  ‘It would be a pleasure.’ Rhadamistus gestured towards the tent flaps. ‘And now you may leave our presence.’

  Cato backed away several paces before he turned and strode outside. The sun had sunk behind the belt of palm trees and their fronds were dark against the brilliant orange glow of the sky. Swifts darted through the warm air hunting for insects and the river looked cool and inviting as it flowed languidly towards the bluff on which Bactris perched. Despite the beautiful tranquillity of the scene, Cato’s mind was troubled. Already it was apparent that his ally would not accept that the command of the column should fall to a mere Roman tribune. Rhadamistus was determined to lead, with Cato relegated to an advisory role. Worse still, he was determined to learn the Roman way of siege warfare, the very thing that Corbulo was determined to prevent. Cato was caught between the orders he had been given and the need to maintain an alliance with the ambitious and headstrong Iberian prince.

  ‘Fuck,’ he muttered to himself as he approached the man holding his horse. He took the reins and swung himself up into the saddle, wincing as his thighs rubbed on the tough leather. With a quick jerk of the reins and a tap of his heels he wheeled his mount round, then trotted back through the trees and rode around Bactris to rejoin his cohort.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘What a bloody shower of utter wasters.’ Macro scowled as he ran his eyes over the Iberians loosely assembled before him, some five hundred men dressed in blue robes and leather jerkins. Most had armour and helmets, though of widely varying pattern and quality. Some had no armour at all. They ranged in age from boys of fourteen or so up to a handful of wizened veterans who leaned on their spears as if they were walking sticks. The men occupied a patch of relatively flat open ground in the shadow of Bactris’s walls. The sun had barely risen and the air was pleasantly fresh as the spearmen casually strolled out of their camp to the appointed place, chatting happily in small groups. Cato was also present, in order to make the introductions between Macro and Narses. After a brief exchange of greetings, Macro faced his new charges and stood with legs apart, gently tapping the vine cane in the palm of his spare hand. He had already prepared for the morning’s drill by planting slender poles in a line across the stony scrub. A cart stood at one end, filled with picks and shovels. Two mules grazed nearby while a section of Praetorians leaned against the cart with amused expressions as they looked upon the men they would be helping their centurion to train.

  ‘A more infamous-looking band of rogues I have rarely seen,’ Cato agreed. ‘But we must work with what we have. I need them to march at our pace, adopt our formations, respond to commands in Latin. But above all, I need them to be able to construct decent fortifications. The column is lacking in numbers as it is. If we run into any larger force then our lives are going to depend on fieldworks to even the odds.’

  ‘That’s fine, sir. By the time I’m done with ’em they’ll be treating those pickaxes like an extension of their arms.’

  ‘I have every confidence in you, Macro.’ Cato slapped him on the back and raised his voice to conclude the exchange formally. ‘If you need me, I’ll be with the garrison quartermaster in Bactris. Carry on, Centurion.’

  Macro saluted as his friend turned away and strode towards the town. Both of them had stripped and bathed in the river the previous evening, once the camp had been established and the passwords given to the duty officers. A change of clothing and a shave had made them both feel more comfortable and presentable. All to the background noises of the three auxiliary cohorts labouring into the darkness to construct proper fortifications to protect their camps. The Praetorian Guard might well be the most pampered formation in the Roman army, but they trained diligently and so were able to erect their camp in half the time of their auxil
iary comrades.

  Only the slingers had been up to the standard of the auxiliary units Macro and Cato had campaigned alongside in Britannia. The other cohorts had been stationed in Syria for far longer than was good for them. Garrison duty and escorting tax collectors meant that the nearest thing to combat that most of them had experienced was manhandling an irate taxpayer. Their kit was in poor shape and Macro could not help wondering how General Corbulo was ever going to mould this unpromising material into anything proficient enough to confront and defeat the Parthians. To Macro’s mind, it was a toss-up as to who was more likely to break his heart: the auxiliaries, or the Iberians waiting in front of him.

  He breathed in and turned to his translator.

  ‘All right, Narses. Let’s begin. I’ll keep it brief. You translate when I pause. First thing is timing. We have to get these lads to do everything at the same time, or it’ll all go tits up in no time.’

  Narses frowned as he glanced at the birds circling overhead. ‘Tits up?’

  ‘Military term,’ said Macro. ‘I’ll try and keep it jargon-free then. The term means it’ll end in confusion. Which we do not want.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘So, when I give a command, I want the men to count to three very loudly and together before they carry out the order. That way, they’ll do it at the same time. See?’

  Narses nodded.

  ‘Tell them to repeat exactly what I say.’ Macro waited for Narses to translate, then filled his lungs, raised his hand to count off with his fingers and bellowed: ‘ONE . . . TWO . . . THREE!’

  There followed a ragged mumbling noise like a crowd gathering in a marketplace. Macro did not even wait until the noise had faded away.

  ‘What the flying fuck was that?’ he raged, then, as Narses struggled to find the right words to convey the colloquialism, he rounded on the translator. ‘Stop!’ He took a calm breath. ‘Right, then, I will point at you when I need you to speak. You will not utter a single bloody sound until that moment. Clear?’

  ‘Yes,’ Narses said sheepishly.

  ‘“Yes, sir” is the correct form of address when you speak to me from now on. Understood?’ Macro gave him a warning look to ensure Narses got the point at once.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘That’s better. Right. Let’s try again. ONE . . . TWO . . . THREE!’

  This time the Iberians at least managed to pause between each outbreak of cacophony.

  ‘Holy fuck!’ Macro shook his head in despair. ‘Right, let’s try one number at a time. ONE!’

  It took most of the morning for Macro to drill them to get the timing right and repeat and act on basic commands. Then he divided them into centuries and chose those who seemed to be the best amongst them as their officers. Narses intervened to explain that they were usually divided into companies based on the regions they had been recruited from and were led by their local lord. But Macro was having none of it and insisted that they were organised according to the Roman model. The Iberians were happy to acquiesce, as any change from the norm was of passing interest to bored soldiers.

  At length he told them to lay down their spears and watch as he turned on the Praetorians and ordered them to construct a ten-foot section of a marching camp rampart. The men had spent most of the morning watching in amusement from the shade of the cart, but rose nimbly and set to work with a will, keen to impress the Iberians with their professionalism. Once Macro pronounced himself satisfied with their efforts, he clambered on to the rampart and gave the order for the Iberians to line up to be issued with their pickaxes, which they examined curiously.

  ‘In case you are wondering,’ he began, ‘you are holding in your hands Rome’s secret weapon. This tool is what makes us all but invincible. Because it allows us to turn the terrain to our advantage and keep the barbarian bastards at bay while we cut ’em down with javelins, slingshot and every other nasty thing we can throw at them,’ he explained with relish. ‘In this world there are two kinds of men. Those who die and those who dig. You dig.’ He indicated the sweating Praetorians. ‘They’ve shown you the way. Now it’s your turn. Line up!’

  Narses translated and the Iberians formed up along the line of posts Macro had erected for them. When the last man was in place Macro raised his arm.

  ‘On my command . . . Dig!’

  ‘One, two, three, dig!’ the Iberians chorused and then swung their picks into the hard ground and set to work.

  Macro wiped the perspiration from his brow and reached for his canteen as he looked on with the severe expression he customarily used to hide his satisfaction from the men he trained.

  ‘Not too bad,’ he muttered grudgingly. ‘I may make half-decent soldiers of ’em yet.’

  The quartermaster’s office enjoyed a fine outlook from the wall above the Euphrates, offering a panoramic view over the river and along the bank where the auxiliary camps stretched out across open ground. At one time, the room served as the magazine for the bolt-throwers and onagers that had been mounted on the platform outside. But during the long years since any Parthian army had been sighted from the fortress, the weapons had fallen into disrepair and then finally been dismantled and removed. In their place a canopy had been erected, and the quartermaster was cultivating tomatoes and oranges in large pots arranged about his well-appointed sanctuary. No doubt, thought Cato, an occasional gift to the commander of Bactris’s garrison ensured that he retained his pleasant accommodation.

  Graniculus was a slender man, as cultivated as his carefully tended plants, and he had a small library in his office along with the shelves laden with records of the supplies that came and went from the large granaries and storage cellars beneath the fortress town’s citadel. He had welcomed Cato to his offices and plied him with good wine and such fine snacks as the local market provided. His posting, while comfortable, must have been frustrating in the dearth of companions with similarly elevated interests, and for the first hour or so he had insisted on discussing the news from Rome, political, cultural and intellectual, whenever the occasion arose. For his part Cato was happy to relate what he knew, before steering the conversation back to the matter at hand.

  The document bearing the general’s authorisation was read through once before Graniculus smiled and led the tribune through to his terrace, where they sat on cushioned seats either side of a cedar table inlaid with ivory geometric patterns. There, sipping his wine, Cato enquired about what stocks of food and equipment were being held at Bactris, and then proceeded to list his requirements. The quartermaster nodded as he took notes on his waxed slate and raised only one issue as he sucked a breath in through his teeth.

  ‘Lead shot for your slingers is a problem, sir. We have very little on the inventory. There’s been no need for it as long as I’ve been in this post. I did send a request to Antioch for fresh supplies when I did my first audit, but received no reply. Perhaps, given the situation, the clerks there might be more forthcoming now.’

  ‘They might,’ Cato agreed. ‘But it’s going to be a bit bloody late for my needs. Are there any forts or outposts nearby that might be able to send us their stock?’

  ‘I doubt it, sir. They get their supplies from us. And I can’t recall them ever asking for shot.’

  ‘Damn. What about sourcing some supplies here in Bactris? There must be some metalworkers and forges. We’d just need the lead to melt and cast. Of course, they’d need to make the moulds, but that’s simple enough.’

  The quartermaster nodded. ‘I know some of the local smiths. Let me talk to them, sir. See what I can do.’

  He made another note. ‘Is there anything else, sir?’

  Cato reflected. He had already been guaranteed all the supplies he needed for the men, horses and mules for his column, together with spare leather for boots, jerkins and armour fastenings, javelin tips, shafts, caltrops, and ammunition for the siege train when it arrived.

  ‘I think that’s everything.’

  Graniculus closed his tablet and set down the stylus be
fore reaching for the wine jug to top up their cups. Cato could not help smiling.

  ‘In all my years in the army I can’t recall encountering a more helpful quartermaster. I must say, it makes a delightful change from having to beg or make threats to get just half of what I need.’

  ‘That’s because you are first in line, sir. It’ll be different when the rest of the army turns up. Then I imagine you’ll find I become more like those you have met before.’ Graniculus sighed sadly. ‘I shall miss this being a quiet little backwater. I’ve never known a more peaceful posting. I intend to remain here when I get my discharge. Even though there are few enough men of letters from Rome passing through.’

  ‘What about merchants and traders from the east? Surely they have some learning of interest to you?’

  ‘You may be right, sir. But I’ll never know. They’re strictly forbidden from entering Roman territory. They can bring their merchandise across the river to the landing platform to trade, but they are allowed no further. It’s the same for trade going the other way. There may not have been war between Rome and Parthia, but there has always been deep suspicion and both sides have been anxious to limit the opportunities for spies to cross the frontier.’

  ‘So there’s no one I could speak to about the terrain on the other side of the Euphrates and the route to Artaxata?’

  Graniculus shook his head. ‘There are spies on both sides, to be sure. But I have nothing to do with that side of things. As far as the terrain goes, no Roman in Bactris knows more than what they can see from the top of our tallest watchtower. But that will change, of course, once Corbulo crosses the river.’

  ‘True. However, I can’t help thinking that advancing across unmapped ground with the vaguest idea where the next town, river or mountain range happens to be is a little chancy, to say the least.’

  ‘An itinerary of the route would be useful, I agree, sir. But there is none as far as I know. I imagine there might be something useful to be found in the Great Library in Alexandria, or one of the libraries of Rome. If only there was more time or inclination to consult such resources. But . . .’