‘One of the remaining officers shows some promise,’ Cato said curtly.
‘You have no right to do this.’
‘Yes I do. I am acting on General Corbulo’s authority. The matter is decided. Dismissed.’
He did not give Pasito a chance to object further as he turned and marched back to the waiting survivors. He already had his eye on one of the centurions, a wiry man who looked to be in his mid-thirties, light-skinned and with the straw-coloured hair of those of Dacian descent. He was one of the few who had kept pace with Cato.
‘What is your name, Centurion?’
‘Spiracus Keranus, sir.’
‘Congratulations, Keranus. You’re the new commander of the unit.’
‘Sir?’
‘The prefect, and those others with him have failed to meet the standard and I am sending them back to Antioch. I need someone to take Pasito’s place. That’s you, unless I am given reason to decide otherwise. Do you accept?’
‘Er, yes, sir.’ Then he stood to attention properly, nodded and repeated firmly: ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. Then get some targets set up. Five posts in a row, ten feet apart. I want three rows at one hundred, two hundred and three hundred paces from the shooting line. Then we’ll find out how good the remaining men are. See to it.’
While Keranus called a section from his century and ran back to their camp, Cato took out a waxed slate from his sidebag and braced it against his left arm as he etched out a brief set of orders for Pasito and then pressed his seal ring into the wax. Snapping the slate shut he crossed to the prefect and handed it to him.
‘There. Now take these men back into the camp to pack their kit and then get out of my sight.’
‘But how do I know which tents to take down?’
‘Leave the tents. I can always use spares. You’ll have to make do without. It’s not so far to Antioch. A few nights in the open will do you good.’
Pasito stepped closer and lowered his voice. ‘You arrogant little bastard. I’ll make you pay for this. I have friends who have plenty of influence with the governor and—’
‘Lucky you. And by the time you have the chance to spill your guts to them, my column will be far away. If we’re successful, then no one will care about your complaints.’ Cato smiled grimly. ‘If not, then I’ll be past caring what you say. Now, if that’s all, I have to deal with some real soldiers. Not men who are taking the emperor’s coin and merely playing at being soldiers. Farewell.’
The rest of the morning was spent on the makeshift range as Cato watched closely as each group of five men loosed ten shots at each range. Only a handful reached as far as the furthest posts, but the vast majority were adept enough to shoot at two hundred paces and many managed to hit the targets at least once. At a hundred paces the slingers were far more accurate and tore splinters off the posts when they struck the targets. Only a few of the men failed to use their slings to Cato’s satisfaction. One mistimed his release entirely and the shot whirred close by Cato’s head. Accident or not, the man was a hazard.
‘You there!’ Cato bellowed. ‘Put that bloody sling on the ground! The sidebag too. Then join the others in the camp. Go!’
He had Keranus gather the remaining poor shots and bring them over. Cato stared hard at them for a moment before he spoke. ‘Looks to me that you men are in the wrong unit as things stand. You’re more of a danger than the bloody enemy. Keranus.’
‘Sir?’
‘You will take personal charge of these men. I want them shooting as well as the others long before we encounter the enemy. You will drill them in the use of slings at the end of each day’s march for an hour. Any man that still fails to meet the standard will be sent back to Antioch by himself.’
He paused to let them imagine the perils of trying to return to the province through enemy territory alone.
‘We’re done for the day. Have the cohort fall out.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’ll need to appoint some new officers to replace those I rejected.’ Cato pointed a finger. ‘No favouritism, mind. I’ll have none of Pasito’s habits any more. You pick the best men.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Dismissed.’
Cato planted his hands on his hips as he watched them march away to join the remains of the cohort. He had winnowed down their ranks considerably but was confident that those who remained would keep up with the Praetorians, and if there was a fight, they’d be able to unleash a deadly enough barrage of lead shot to thoroughly unnerve the enemy. He heard the crunch of boots and turned to see Macro striding towards him, a grin splitting his craggy features.
‘I can see you’ve been having fun. Nothing like a bit of drilling to lift the spirits, eh?’
In truth Cato was exhausted by his efforts that morning, but was trying not to show it. ‘It passes the time. But I can think of many things I’d rather be doing.’
‘Pfft!’ Macro sniffed, then nodded towards the slingers’ camp, where a small column of soldiers was emerging from the gate and making for the road that led west towards Antioch.
‘I heard that we were going to lose the wasters. But so many?’
‘Word gets round quickly.’ Cato shrugged. ‘Much as we’ll need every man we can get, I can’t let that come at the price of us dragging our feet.’
‘Maybe,’ said Macro. ‘But we’ll still have the siege train to contend with, and you know what awkward buggers the larger pieces can be. Anyway, that’s why I’m here. The siege train’s arrived. The centurion in command, Metellus, sent a man ahead to report their arrival. I said I’d let you know. Look.’
Macro turned and pointed towards the line of low hills a few miles away. Cato shaded his eyes and squinted. He could just make out the shapes of the heavy wagons carrying the siege equipment, each vehicle drawn by a long team of mules.
‘That’s good. Find a space for them in our camp for the night. Then pass the word to our men, the slingers and our Iberian friends: in the morning we march on Armenia.’
CHAPTER TEN
Cato’s modest force left Bactris in the cool air of dawn. The blinding heat of the midday sun dictated that the column marched in the early morning and late afternoon. During the hottest hours of the day Cato halted the column and ordered the men to fall out and rest. The soldiers found what shade they could, or made their own by propping their cloaks up with their marching yokes, or simply used their shields to block the sun’s glare. The Iberians and the slingers were more accustomed to the climate and moved as little as possible as they rested. The Praetorians, however, had not yet got used to the east and were still marvelling at the arid harshness of the landscape in this part of the Empire that few of them had seen before. At first they failed to conserve their water and tended to drain their canteens too quickly, so they had to march with parched throats until they came across the next town or village well. Some rivers still flowed towards the Euphrates, but already many were starting to dry up as spring gave way to summer.
In order to conceal his advance from the enemy for as long as possible, Cato had chosen to take the less direct route along the west bank, keeping to a well-worn trading route that ran north through the hills a few miles in from the river. Progress was steady, and though the road avoided steep inclines as far as possible, there were still many occasions when the column had to slow down to allow the ponderous baggage and siege wagons to keep up. There were a handful of Iberian carts as well, reserved for royal tentage, wines and other luxuries, and the small group of women who accompanied Rhadamistus and his court. They were veiled and swathed in cloth, and Cato assumed they must be servants, or wives, or simply there to service the carnal appetites of Rhadamistus and his friends.
On the more difficult slopes the soldiers had to assist the mules by attaching ropes to the vehicles and hauling them forward. If the hill was high, then the officers had to call a halt from time to time and large rocks were jammed under the wheels to prevent them rolling back. Going downhill was e
ven more gruelling as the soldiers had to use the ropes to control the wagons’ descent as carefully as possible, while keeping their own footing. All the while the drovers shouted at their mules and the choking dust was split by the crack of whips. But the men swiftly got used to manoeuvring the wagons and Cato was content with the greater progress they made from day to day.
The siege train was of a modest enough size: four heavy bolt-throwers, four onagers, and two rams and their housings. In addition there were the six smaller bolt-throwers of the Praetorian cohort. Not enough to batter down and storm the walls of any formidable city or fortress, but adequate for the kinds of defences they were likely to encounter in Armenia. Certainly Rhadamistus was fascinated by the prospect of seeing the siege engines in action and plied Cato with questions whenever they rode together. Cato did his best to keep his explanations vague without causing any offence.
At the end of the day’s march, the Roman soldiers and the Iberian infantry toiled together to erect a marching camp, while the nobles and their companies of mounted warriors arranged their horse lines and fed their mounts, disdaining the manual labour they deemed beneath them. For the first few days it took until after dark for the fortifications to be completed, but as the Iberians and the slingers became more proficient, urged on by the shouts and occasional blows from the officers, the work was completed in a respectable time.
When there was still an hour or so of light available after the camp was constructed, Macro continued his training of the Iberians and the slingers on alternating evenings. The former steadily learned to respond swiftly to formation commands, and even the veteran centurion was impressed. The latter lacked any combat experience, and Macro was determined that they should be as handy with their swords as their slings in case they ever ran out of shot, or closed with the enemy and had to resort to hand-to-hand combat. Once he had inspected their swords and ensured that the blades were thoroughly cleaned, sharpened and oiled, Macro introduced them to the ‘spirit of the blade’. He had the frames of the onagers set up in the open ground between the tents and marching camp ramparts, and sacks stuffed with straw were suspended from the crossbeams. The slingers were lined up in front of the practice dummies as Macro went into the training routine he had learned by heart long ago.
‘The two most important weapons in the army are the pickaxe and the sword. You have already met the first. Now I want you to meet my favourite.’ He drew his sword and held it up for all to see.
‘Here she is. She’s been by my side in the mountains of Asturica. She was my constant companion in the freezing bogs and dark forests of Britannia. She looked after me in the deserts of Nubia. She has always been faithful and protected me from harm . . .’ He tapped the flat of the sword on a livid scar on his forearm. ‘Well, most of the time at any rate. The bitch has been known to be fickle, like most women.’
The men chuckled, some knowingly. Macro let the amusement die down before he continued. ‘The reason she has looked after me is because I have learned the secret of keeping her happy. You see, she likes to grow grass. And I know that the secret of making grass grow well is to feed it blood. Lots of blood. And the blood of Rome’s enemies is best of all.’ He grinned cruelly and widened his eyes to emphasise his dangerous expression. ‘So, when I ask the question, “What makes the grass grow?”, what do you lads reply?’
There was a short pause before a handful of voices cried in a ragged chorus, ‘Blood?’
‘Bollocks!’ Macro bellowed. ‘I can’t hear you! When I ask again, I want to hear it. Blood! Blood! Blood!’ He paused. ‘What makes the grass grow?’
This time the slingers were primed. ‘Blood!’
‘Louder!’
‘BLOOD!’
‘How much blood?’
‘Blood! Blood! Blood!’
‘That’s it, lads!’ Macro punched his sword into the air and then rounded on the nearest target and slammed the point home, cutting into the sacking and driving the tethered bag back in an arc. He wrenched his arm back so the sword was horizontal at hip level, his arm bent and legs braced, ready to strike again. Then he relaxed his posture and turned to the slingers. ‘That’s how it’s done. Now draw your swords and line up. Officers, five good strikes for each man in turn. I want to hear ’em yell their guts out each time. Let’s go! Move yourselves!’
He kept them at it as the light faded and the hills to the west cast long shadows across the camp. The air was filled with the constant din of men shouting their war cries as they struck the targets. Macro moved from century to century watching closely, nodding his approval at times and stepping in when some hapless individual, fatigued by drilling on top of a day’s march, faltered or struck with insufficient force.
‘What the fuck do you call that? That’s a bloody Parthian you are stabbing, not a fucking winkle!’ Macro stepped in front of the man he had singled out and squared up to him. ‘Again. This time try me.’
The slinger looked surprised and hesitated, sword half raised.
‘Are you deaf as well as a bloody pansy?’ Macro screamed at him and punched him on the shoulder. ‘Strike, you bastard.’
The slinger snarled angrily and lashed out with his blade, aiming the point at the centre of Macro’s chest. The centurion reacted just in time and leaned to the side as the blade glanced off his mail vest. He grabbed the man’s wrist with his left hand and landed a heavy punch on his cheek with his right. The slinger went down, dazed and helpless, and Macro helped himself to the sword and held the point to his throat.
‘That happened because you didn’t strike the target hard the first time. You don’t get a second chance in battle. Understand?’
The man was still blinking as he tried to clear his head. He managed to nod. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘I catch you pulling your punches on target practice again and I’ll have your balls for breakfast.’ He raised the sword high and then stabbed it in the ground close to the slinger’s head. ‘There. Now get back in line.’
Macro moved to one side to oversee the rest of the men training, breathing carefully as the slinger’s blow had bruised his chest and each breath he drew was accompanied by a sharp pain. Then he saw Cato approaching from the direction of headquarters. The tribune was bare-headed and without his scale vest, but still wore his sword belt. If they had been close to the enemy Macro would have frowned, but here in the hills on the friendly side of the Euphrates they were safe enough. Still, he thought, it was always a good idea for officers to lead by example and be ready for action at a moment’s notice.
‘How is the training going?’ asked Cato as he joined his friend.
‘Oh, not bad. The Iberian spearmen are good. Better than I thought they’d be. Not a patch on proper soldiers like our legionaries, of course. It’s the slingers who concern me.’
‘How so?’
‘I know you picked the best of ’em, but they still fall far short of the standard of the auxiliary units we’re used to. That’s why I’m trying to get some fire into their bellies with sword drill.’
‘And doing it well. I saw your little demonstration. You were lucky.’
‘Lucky?’
‘He just missed stabbing you in the guts.’
‘But he didn’t,’ Macro retorted dismissively. ‘Barely grazed me. It’ll be a warm day in Hades before some ranker gets the drop on me.’ He laughed and then winced.
‘Right,’ Cato nodded. ‘Maybe you need to think twice about using that ploy in training again. I’d hate see you skewered, and then have to break it to Petronella. She would not be happy.’
Macro sucked his teeth. ‘You can barely imagine. Still, credit to the lad who grazed me. He was quick.’
Cato eyed him warily. ‘Or maybe you just aren’t as quick as you used to be?’
‘Stuff that. I can still deal it out.’
‘You do that.’ Cato looked round at the slingers as they stabbed their targets. ‘Think you can make this lot into decent fighting men if we get in a tight spot?’
&
nbsp; Macro grinned and clasped a hand to his side to press on his bruised ribs as he drew a breath and called out.
‘Lads! Tell the tribune. What makes the grass grow?’
The slingers paused from their drill and brandished their swords. ‘Blood! Blood! Blood!’
Macro turned to his superior with a happy smile. ‘There!’
Ten days after leaving Bactris, they reached a small town at the foot of the hills giving out on to sprawling farmland alongside the Euphrates. As usual, Rhadamistus and a group of his horsemen rode ahead to make arrangements for billeting the men, stabling the horses and arranging for replenishment of the column’s supplies. The townspeople would be assured that these would be paid for when the main column arrived. It was only when the supplies had been gathered that Cato made it clear that payment would be in the form of a promissory note, signed and sealed by him, that could be redeemed from the treasury at Antioch.
The ruse did not sit well with Cato, but it removed the opportunity for the towns they passed through to shut the gates in the faces of the Romans in an attempt to preserve their stocks of food, wine and fodder. In any case, it would have been a futile gesture as affronted Roman pride would demand nothing less than breaking in the gates and taking what was needed at swordpoint. Nothing else would have sufficed to make up for the failure of such towns to offer the hospitality due to the emperor’s soldiers. It was simpler, and avoided any bloody unpleasantness, to present the townsfolk with a fait accompli instead. With any luck, Cato comforted his conscience, they would be able to reclaim most of the value of the requisitioned supplies from the sestertius-pinching treasury clerks serving the governor of Syria.
As he led the infantry and the baggage train towards the town, he saw a rider galloping back towards the column, whipping his horse on.
‘Here comes trouble,’ said Macro. ‘I can feel it in my bones.’
A moment later horse and rider slewed to a halt in a spray of dust and grit, and Cato saw that it was Narses. He thrust a hand back towards the town.
The Blood of Rome Page 10