The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  Macro’s jaw sagged open in surprise. Then he stood to attention. ‘Will that be all, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I’ll return to the camp and set the evening watches.’

  ‘You do that. Dismissed.’

  They exchanged a formal salute, then Macro about-turned and marched away, towards the path leading down the hillside. His face was flushed with suppressed anger and hurt that his views had been so curtly dismissed and derided. At the same time, he had seen the weariness eating away at Cato, compounded by the loss of Petillius and the others. Cato was not himself, Macro decided, but there was nothing he could do to help his tribune if the latter refused his advice and, more tellingly, his friendship.

  Cato watched his friend stride off. It was a pity that their brief exchange had been so fraught, but the plain truth of it was, Cato was not prepared to have any subordinate criticise his orders. Not even Macro. As for his change of heart over the best way to win the people of Armenia over to Rhadamistus’s cause . . . He paused to reflect over the contesting trains of thought that had plagued his mind for the last two days. While he had previously pressed the case for mercy as the most persuasive means of winning support, it was possible that Rhadamistus had been right all along, and fear and terror were the best guarantees of loyalty, or more importantly, obedience. If so, then the fate of Ligea would be the proof of it. Besides, it was too late to try any alternative. They were committed now and it would be unwise to leave a force of Parthians in their wake. The siege must be seen through to its conclusion, he told himself. And then the Parthians and their Ligean allies, whether the latter were willing accomplices or not, would pay the price for their slaughter of a veteran centurion and twenty of Rome’s finest men.

  Cato looked over his notes for the disposition of his forces and his plan of attack once the town was breached. Despite what he had said to his friend, time was a pressing issue. The sooner the siege was resolved, the better. Balanced against this was the need to preserve as many of his men, and those of Rhadamistus, as possible for the final stage of the campaign: the capture of Artaxata. The best way to achieve victory was to pound away at the enemy’s defences, day and night, crushing their will to resist before the assembled ram was brought forward to smash through the gates. That would require a prodigious supply of rocks for the onagers and would exhaust the supply of heavy darts for the bolt-throwers. He had already given orders for the latter to be used only when a viable target presented itself on the town’s walls. Meanwhile, Porcino’s century had been assigned to find ammunition for the onagers, an exhausting task of scouring the hills for exposed outcrops, chipping away at them and loading usable rocks on to the mules before leading them down to the battery to unload.

  A soft crunch of footsteps behind him interrupted his thoughts and he turned to see Rhadamistus approaching. The Iberian was wearing a green silk tunic, cut long and loose so that it allowed the air to flow around his body. He carried a stoppered jar in one hand and two silver goblets in the other.

  ‘Drink with me, Tribune?’

  Cato stood up respectfully. ‘I would be grateful for a drink, Majesty.’

  Rhadamistus set the goblets down, took out the stopper and filled the first goblet and handed it to the Roman as he spoke in a warm tone. ‘You do not have to defer to my title when we are alone, Tribune. We may have met as allies of convenience, but I feel that we have a much better understanding of each other now. Wouldn’t you agree?’

  He filled his own cup and raised it in a toast. ‘To allies, comrades and friends.’

  Cato nodded and took a sip. He had thought it might be wine, but it was the juice of some fruit, or fruits, sweetness and bitterness combined in a refreshing blend. He drained half his goblet and felt far better for it.

  ‘How is our siege progressing?’ Rhadamistus continued.

  ‘Well enough. The onagers will keep up a steady bombardment. However, Ligea is not like the fort we took earlier. That was merely an outpost and it was never intended to withstand siege engines. Ligea, on the other hand, is protected by a wall of stone. The lower courses are dressed blocks. Above the first ten feet or so, the stonework is irregular and set in mortar. At some point it must have been decided that the wall was not high enough and the Ligeans needed to complete the improvement either quickly or cheaply. The results look impressive from a distance, but are no match for our siege weapons. The onagers will destroy the upper works easily.’

  They watched as two of the weapons swung their arms almost at the same moment, the pouches flicking forward and releasing their rocks. The tiny black dots inscribed a gentle arc towards the wall and plunged down, one striking the top of the gatehouse with a puff of dust and dislodging a small shower of debris, while the second rock smashed into the solid base with a smaller burst of dust and grit, but no other visible effect.

  ‘How soon until your men create a practicable breach?’

  Cato thought for a moment before he answered. ‘It depends on a number of things. We need a ready supply of rocks for the onagers, then there’s the wear and tear on the weapons. A throwing arm may split and need replacing. Same goes for the receiver bar. The torsion ropes will be under a lot of strain and may need to be renewed. Then there are the defences and defenders to consider. If I am right about the construction of the wall, then we may be able to sweep the top of it away within two or three days. But it’ll take far longer to create a breach in the lower courses. We may have to scale those if the enemy attempt to clear the debris slope in front of the wall. I’ll give orders for ladders to be constructed tomorrow. By keeping the bombardment going through the night, we’ll deny the defenders the chance to make repairs, but if I were them I’d be hard at work on the construction of an inner wall, behind the gatehouse and the sections we are attacking on either side. If they do that, then we’ll have to attack the inner wall as well.’ He summed up his thoughts. ‘So, if all goes well, I reckon we should be in a position to bring the ram up in three or four days. The gates will be broken in within a few hours at most, then my cohorts and your spearmen will launch their assault through the gate and the breaches on either side. If there’s an inner wall, you can add a day or so to reduce that. Seven days at the outside is my best estimate.’

  ‘Seven days . . .’ Rhadamistus repeated thoughtfully. ‘That is an acceptable delay. Of course, when our men make their attack they will be instructed to spare no one.’

  ‘Yes, if that is still your wish?’

  ‘It is. There will be no mercy.’

  There was a brief silence as both men regarded the town below them. They could see figures on the walls either side of the area under attack, and behind the walls Cato could pick out women on the roofs, laying out washing as children played at their feet.

  ‘Why did you change your mind, Tribune?’ Rhadamistus asked. ‘Was it because of the killing of your men?’

  ‘Partly that,’ Cato admitted. ‘Partly because I have come to think that it is quicker to win people’s obedience by fear than win their loyalty through gratitude. Although I believe that the latter is more inspiring and enduring. But we are short of time and must cut our cloth accordingly. It is a calculated risk.’

  Rhadamistus laughed. ‘Now that is a Roman speaking. There is a saying here in the east, you know. In peacetime Romans drill their men as if they are fighting a bloodless battle. In war they fight battles as if they were conducting a bloody drill.’

  ‘I have heard that said. And it is true. That is why there is none to rival the power of Rome.’

  ‘Except Parthia.’

  Cato mused briefly. ‘Even Parthia. Given the right strategy.’

  ‘You think so?’ Rhadamistus thought briefly before continuing. ‘It would appear that you Romans have failed to find the right strategy so far. I wonder when you will? For my sake, I hope it is sooner rather than later.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The ram and mantlet were ready the next afternoon, and stood idle as the onagers
continued their ceaseless routine of lobbing rocks at the gatehouse and the wall on either side. From time to time one of the bolt-throwers lurched on its stand as it unleashed a shot when any defender unwisely revealed himself in the target area. On most occasions the shot either slammed into the battlements or passed too high and dropped out of sight in the heart of the town. As Cato had anticipated, the effects of the bombardment were mostly felt above the height of the dressed blocks, where the defences were steadily beaten down. The lower courses remained intact, and the Romans prepared a supply of assault ladders accordingly. Since there was no let-up in the rocks dropping out of the sky, the defenders’ efforts to repair the damage under cover of darkness lasted only two nights before they lost enough men to discourage any further attempt.

  The dim glow of torches behind the gate told of other efforts made by the defenders to prepare for the coming assault, but the spur upon which the command post was positioned was not high enough to afford any view of the activity behind the gatehouse. Attempts were made by the Parthians to send messengers out of Ligea by night, but they were captured or killed by Romans patrolling the siege lines. Those that were taken alive were interrogated but only divulged that they had been sent to request a relief force. They kept tight-lipped about the situation in the town, even under torture, and were eventually tied to stakes posted around the town and left to die from their injuries, or thirst. Their pitiful cries carried over the wall to undermine the spirit of those within. As their strength failed, their voices died away to mere croaks and then they hung silently from their bonds as their lives gave out.

  On the third day, as Cato was standing in the battery with Macro observing the fall of shot against the gatehouse some two hundred paces away, there was a sudden splintering crack and a shouted warning. Spinning round, he saw that the throwing arm of one of the onagers had split apart and the rock had been flung down instead of sailing towards the town. One of the slingers had been hurled against the inside of the earthworks as the rock struck him between the shoulder blades, shattering his spine so that only his arms responded to his will as he tried to ease himself up on to his feet and failed each time, before collapsing face down.

  ‘Get that man back to the dressing station in camp!’ Macro snapped at the nearest of the slinger’s comrades, even though it was obvious that the casualty was finished as far as the army went. If he lived, and survived the return journey to Syria, then the auxiliary would spend the rest of his days as a wretched street beggar.

  They hurried over to the onager to inspect the damage. The throwing arm was ruined and would need to be replaced from the limited stock of spare seasoned timber carried in the wagons. That would entail carefully unfastening the pins that locked the torsion ropes in place and easing them round so that the stump of the arm did not swing wildly and cause any further injuries, a ticklish business that was best handled by a small party of men covered by shields. It would also mean that the crews on the onagers on either side would have to retreat to a safe distance while the work was done.

  ‘Look at that.’ Macro tapped the shaft close to where it had split. ‘Something’s been eating away at it.’

  Cato leaned closer and saw that the exposed interior of the throwing arm was riddled with the trails of boring insects. Because the outside of the wooden shaft had been bound with ropes at intervals, it would have been impossible to tell that the throwing arm had been weakened.

  ‘It’s a miracle the bloody thing lasted as long as it did,’ Macro commented. ‘Could have gone at any time. Makes you wonder how much of the rest of the weapon is unfit to use.’ He gave the frame a kick with the toe of his boot.

  Cato glanced round at the other onagers. ‘I want them all checked over, inch by inch. As well as the spare timbers on the wagons. If any more rot is found, or even suspected, I want the carpenters to make repairs or replacements as need be.’

  Macro sucked in his cheeks. ‘That means we’ll lose the use of them for a day or so. Worse still, the enemy will make good as much damage as they can while there’s no danger of being hit.’

  ‘I worked that out by myself, thank you.’

  Macro raised his eyebrows briefly. ‘Yes, sir. I don’t doubt it. I’ll need to get the carpenters down here from the camp. Permission to carry on?’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  Macro cupped a hand to his mouth as he bellowed the length of the battery. ‘Cease shooting! Artillery crews stand down!’

  As the centurion made his way to the opening at the rear of the battery, Cato felt angry with himself. He had not meant to be so terse with his friend. He was even angrier with the quartermaster back in Antioch who had allocated him siege weapons that were barely fit for purpose. No doubt the pick of the onagers and bolt-throwers had been set aside for the local units. Given that General Corbulo had decided to leave most of them in Syria, it was likely that the best siege weapons would never see action throughout the entire campaign. Meanwhile, it was the likes of Cato and his men who would have to rely on worn-out and unserviceable kit when they found themselves facing the enemy. It was an intolerable state of affairs, and Cato made a mental note that he would represent his views in person to the quartermaster if he returned from Armenia.

  He took a moment to try to calm his bitter frustration and glanced towards the town. A few heads had popped up behind the defences to investigate the pause in the bombardment. As they caught sight of the shattered throwing arm and the crews seeking shade, more of the defenders joined them and began to jeer and whistle.

  ‘Sir?’

  Cato turned to see one of Metellus’s optios salute him. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Let me have a crack at them bastards with my bolt-throwers, sir. I’m sure I can hit one of ’em. At the very least it’ll shut them up.’

  Cato nodded. Anything that nibbled away at the enemy’s morale was worth the effort.

  The optio jogged back to the nearest of the weapons he commanded and had his men ratchet back the torsion arms before he carefully sighted the weapon and made some careful adjustments. Rising up, he ordered: ‘Stand clear!’

  He paused long enough for the crewmen to step away from the weapon and then tugged the firing lever. The throwing arms snapped forward and the bolt zipped in a dark blur towards the gatehouse, the trajectory low enough for it to be missed by the small crowd that had gathered to mock the besiegers. Cato followed the line of flight and was rewarded with the sight of two of the defenders being plucked off the top of the ruined tower, snatched from sight as the iron-headed shaft pierced them through and carried their bodies away with the impetus of the shot.

  Now the Romans and slingers let out a loud cheer and made crude gestures at the defenders as the latter scurried back into shelter.

  ‘A fine shot, Optio!’ Cato called out to him. ‘If any of those Parthian bastards thinks he can take the piss again, you have my permission to shoot him down.’

  ‘Yes, sir! My pleasure, sir.’

  ‘But only clear targets. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cato scrutinised the town for a little longer, assessing the damage that had already been achieved. As things stood, the gatehouse was well on the way to being a ruin and unable to protect the gates below. The battlements on either side had been largely destroyed. It would take no more than another day before an assault could be made with a reasonable expectation of success. Now there would be a delay, and the enemy would make good use of the time to effect repairs.

  Unless the besiegers took action.

  It was an hour after nightfall when Cato reached the position he had chosen during the afternoon, using the bed of a stream that must have dried out many years ago. With him he had half the force selected for the spoiling attack: forty Praetorians from Macro’s century, and forty slingers. Each man was wearing a brown cloak over his tunic and exposed skin had been smeared with mud and ash to help conceal them. The Praetorians carried only their spears. The armour, shields and swordbelts had been left in cam
p to avoid any clink of kit that might give away their position as they crept towards the gatehouse. A hundred paces away Macro was lying with a similar force to the right of the gatehouse but there was no sound or movement to give away their location.

  A similar distance ahead lay the wall, and the sounds of men carrying out repairs carried clearly to Cato and the others. The enemy were working without any kind of illumination and doing their best to talk as little as possible, and even then in low voices. But the faint shifting of rubble and the grunts of men carrying heavy loads were impossible to muffle. A handful of Parthian skirmishers stood or crouched a short distance from the wall, keeping watch, and it was these who had made Cato’s progress so slow as he and his men moved into position. As long as the skirmishers dared not venture too far forward they posed no danger.

  ‘Sir,’ Rutilius, the cohort’s standard-bearer, whispered. ‘They’re lighting the braziers.’

  Cato glanced back towards the battery and saw that there was a glow from behind the earthworks, over and above the flicker of torches. ‘Pass the word to make ready.’

  The men lying on either side turned to their neighbours and spoke as softly as they could. Cato was recalling the orders he had left with Centurion Metellus in charge of the battery. The bolt-throwers had been half-cocked at dusk so that the final loading would not be accompanied by too much clanking from the ratchets, while at the same time not overloading the torsion bars. Incendiaries had been prepared by tightly tying strips of linen soaked in pitch around the shafts of the heavy darts. And now the crews were stoking up the braziers and lighting up the ammunition for the first volley.

  It was then that Rutilius nudged him and pointed towards the town. For a moment Cato saw nothing, then his eyes caught the movement. A figure was approaching cautiously. It stopped and squatted, there was a pause, and then Cato heard the sound of someone emptying his bowels.

  The metallic sound of ratchets being levered back came from the battery, and Metellus’s voice called out clearly: ‘Release!’