The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  The men echoed his cry and rattled their swords against the trim of their shields in a deafening clatter. Macro looked on with conflicting emotions. There was his usual thrill of imminent action, but also an unsettling feeling about his longtime friend. He had never heard Cato speak in such cold, bloodthirsty terms. In place of the usual desire to win the battle with the minimum loss of life on all sides, which Macro fondly excused as the result of reading too much poetry and philosophy, Cato thirsted for death and destruction with a depth of sentiment that exceeded even Macro’s lust for combat.

  Cato rocked his head to either side to loosen the muscles in his neck and then took his place at the head of the assault troops. Macro fell in beside him.

  ‘Sir,’ he said in a low voice. ‘There’s no need for you to go in with me and the lads.’

  ‘You know me, Centurion. I’ll not ask men to do anything I’m not prepared to do myself.’

  Macro sighed. ‘You have nothing to prove. Not to them. Not to me. Not to anyone. Besides, we can’t afford the risk.’

  Cato smiled grimly. ‘Risk? Since when were you worried about risk?’

  ‘Since we first pitched our tents on the Parthians’ turf. If we’re going to see this folly through and get back to Syria with our hides intact, we’re going to need you to lead us, sir. Get yourself killed now, and there’s a good chance the rest of us are fucked.’

  Cato stared at him blankly and then gave a dry chuckle. ‘It is not for you to question my decisions. Do your job and lead your men.’

  Before Macro could even consider protesting, Cato called over his shoulder, ‘Praetorians! Advance!’

  He set off at a steady pace and the men rippled forward behind him. They passed through the gaps between the onagers and the faggots piled behind them. As soon as they moved on a safe distance the onager crews set light to the faggots and unleashed a final few volleys over the wall and beyond the inner wall to harass those sheltering behind. Cato walked towards the gatehouse, followed by Macro and his century, while Centurion Ignatius and his men brought up the rear. Ahead, some of the spearmen and slingers on the ruins either side of the gate glanced back and cheered the Praetorians on as they approached. The rubble and the shattered remains of the gates had been removed during the night and there was a clear path leading through into Ligea.

  Cato raised his shield and tightened his grip as he stopped just short and called out the order.

  ‘First Century! Form testudo!’

  Cato slipped back into the front rank, and Macro and one of his men closed up on either side, while those behind held their shields to protect them from the flanks and overhead. Once the thud of shields coming together had ceased, Cato gave the order to continue the advance. With Macro shouting the time, they moved slowly through the arch and emerged into the rubble-strewn space beyond. In the daylight the inner wall was clearly visible over the rim of his shield and Cato saw that it stretched round in a gentle curve from where the walls had not been damaged by the siege weapons. There were still scorch marks on the ground from the incendiaries shot over the wall and the dark patches and smears of dried blood from the spoiling attack. One way or another, Cato thought briefly, far more blood would be shed before the day was over.

  As soon as the Romans entered the town there was a blast of horns from beyond the inner wall and at once the defenders rose up from behind the low parapet and unleashed a hail of arrows and rocks as the slingers along the debris of the main wall returned the barrage. Cato halted the column halfway across the open ground and then saw one of the defenders topple down directly in front of him, his forehead caved in by a lead shot. He rose unsteadily on his knees, blood running from the wound, his nose and his ears as he let out a piercing scream that made Cato shudder and freeze.

  ‘Sir,’ said Macro. ‘We should deploy into line.’

  Cato heard the words but he could not think clearly.

  ‘Sir, what are your orders?’ Macro glanced sidelong at Cato’s blank expression. ‘Cato?’

  The centurion snatched a deep breath and bellowed: ‘First Century! Deploy into line.’

  The Praetorians peeled away on either side, the front rank extending the line of shields as the second rank raised theirs to provide overhead shelter. Behind them the men carrying the ladders kneeled down and waited for Ignatius’s men to take up position to their rear.

  Reassured that the plan was being carried out, Macro leaned closer to Cato and whispered harshly as he shook his arm, ‘For fuck’s sake, sir, take control of yourself. Before the men notice. Do you hear me?’

  Cato shuddered, blinked and then nodded. ‘Yes . . . Yes.’

  ‘You’d better pull back, sir. Outside the wall, where you can take overall command of the attack. That would be for the best.’

  ‘No. My place is here. With my men.’

  ‘Not when you’re in this shape.’ Macro ground his teeth. He could see that his friend was badly shaken. ‘All right, then. I’ll give the commands. Just stick close to me until this is over.’

  He did not give Cato a chance to protest and looked round. Ignatius’s men were inside the wall and formed up behind the First Century. Macro drew his sword and called out as clearly and loudly as possible.

  ‘Praetorians! Make ready! . . . Advance!’

  The First Century paced forward, directly into the storm of arrows and rocks being hurled at them, cracking off shields and splintering where they penetrated. Macro spared Cato a glance and saw the tribune’s fixed expression. There was fear there too. The mortal fear of battle to be sure. But perhaps a far greater fear of humiliation. And that could be dangerous, Macro knew from experience. He had seen men be reckless in combat in order to cover up their failure of nerves. Most of them had paid for it with their lives. But there was no time to think of that. The inner wall was directly ahead.

  ‘First Cohort! Shields up!’

  The men lofted them over their heads to protect them from the point-blank battering from above. The man to Cato’s right was too slow and a rock the size of a mutton joint crashed on to the crest of his helmet, driving him down, senseless. At once the Praetorian immediately behind him stepped forward, covering them both with his shield.

  ‘Ladders!’ Macro bellowed.

  The men carrying the assault ladders hurriedly raised them all along the wall with a rolling clack and clatter as the stiles struck the stonework at an angle that made it just possible to climb without using either hand. As the defenders focused their attention on the Praetorians the slingers took advantage of the diversion to rise up and pick off the enemy packed along the parapet before the first Romans climbed the rungs to fight their way on to the wall. Bodies tumbled down to join the first Praetorian casualties and the enemy wounded were quickly finished off without mercy. As soon as the ladders were raised and kept in place by their carriers, the first of the Praetorians began to clamber up. Cato placed a foot on the lowest rung but Macro thrust him aside and took his place. He raised his shield with his sword held up and out and surged from rung to rung as he made for the parapet.

  A Parthian was struggling to push the ladder aside, but abandoned the effort as soon as he saw Macro, drawing a curved sword and slashing downwards. The centurion thrust himself up behind the shield, catching the blade before thudding into the Parthian and knocking him back off the walkway to drop out of sight. The defenders to each side of him turned to strike him down and the press of bodies was so tight neither they nor Macro could wield their weapons effectively. To his right there was a Ligean, with a simple iron cap trimmed with cloth. He held a spear in his hands which was quite useless, but he clung to it desperately as he shoved the shaft at Macro. Gritting his teeth, the latter drew his head back and then slammed his forehead into his opponent’s cheek, gashing his skin and momentarily stunning the Ligean. Throwing his right shoulder forward Macro shoved hard and opened enough of a gap to work the point of his sword up to his enemy’s stomach and drive the blade home. Cloth and flesh held for an instant an
d then gave way and the metal cut through.

  The Praetorian behind Macro saw the slim space behind his centurion and made to jump down into it, only to collide with a Parthian and both men came down on the walkway in a tangled heap. A townsman carrying a heavy butcher’s cleaver hacked at the exposed neck of the Roman, nearly severing it, but continued to strike in a frenzy until the blood covered both men below him and he began to strike at the Parthian as well. So intent was he on slaughtering his foe that he fell victim to the next man up the ladder who slashed at the side of his head and cut him down. At once he jumped astride the butcher’s victims and thrust his shield in the opposite direction to Macro and hurled his weight behind it to gain another two steps before the packed bodies of the defenders held him up. But a space had been won and more Praetorians joined the fight.

  Further along, several more Romans were battling to win space on the wall. A handful of ladders had been shoved aside, as the men on them crashed down on to their comrades below. The slingers and Iberian spearmen were climbing down to join their comrades pushing towards the ladders, eager to join the fight, crush the enemy and sack the town.

  Macro, now that his back was covered, concentrated on the enemy to his front, alternately slamming his shield forward and stabbing with his sword. This was exactly the kind of fighting that favoured the heavy armour of the Romans and the short blade designed for close work. Each pace along the walkway he progressed opened the way for more of his men to gain the wall and join the battle.

  ‘Drive ’em back, lads!’ he yelled as his lips curled into a frenzied grin. He was in his element now, and already scented victory. With a lung-bursting roar he braced his boots and hurled himself forward again, battering the curve of his shield against his foes. Suddenly the shield splintered close to the left edge as an arrow point burst through and sent shards pinging off Macro’s cheekguard. Around him he heard the sound of impacts and the grunts of the injured. Risking a glance, he saw a small body of Parthian archers standing ten paces back from the inside of the wall. They were already nocking arrows for the next volley. It was a desperate measure as they stood as much chance of hitting one of their own men as a Roman.

  ‘Watch out for the archers!’

  Most of the Praetorians heeded his advice and did their best to cover themselves as the next volley lashed into the melee raging along the wall. Macro saw two of his men injured in the legs, and several of the enemy struck down. As they realised that the arrows were coming from behind them, the nearest defenders turned and fled, dropping down from the wall and running for the immediate safety of the streets beyond. Macro smiled grimly to himself. Once panic gripped men, it spread like a forest fire on a high wind. Now was the time to exploit the enemy’s mistake. He turned to look down the other side of the wall and cried out to his men.

  ‘What are you waiting for? The bastards are on the run!’

  His men let out a triumphant chorus of shouts and rushed up the ladders and threw themselves at the shaken defenders. Within moments it was clear that the wall had been won. And now the Romans presented a clearer target for the archers. Macro found a crudely constructed flight of steps and raced down them as he called to the closest men to follow him. There were perhaps thirty Parthians shooting at the Romans on the wall and as soon as Macro had been joined by ten or so of his men, he pointed his bloodied sword at the archers.

  ‘That lot need killing! On me!’

  Shield to the front, and head hunched down, he broke into a dead run, his men following him in a loose group. At once the officer in charge of the Parthians shouted to his men to turn and aim at the new threat. The first volley was unleashed quickly and aimed too high, so that the arrows glanced harmlessly off the shields, or lodged quivering where the points struck squarely. Macro had closed half the distance as the first shafts of the second volley streaked towards him. This time there was a cry from his left as one of the Praetorians went down on one knee, his ankle pierced through by an arrow. He staggered to a halt and looked down and was instantly hit again in the thigh.

  Macro sprinted on, blood pounding in his ears, and he was on the nearest Parthian just as he raised his bow. Macro slashed at his extended arm before he could shoot the arrow and the edge of the blade splintered the shaft before cutting into the archer’s forearm. The bow slipped from his grip and shot back towards the string and struck him a dazing blow in the face. Macro followed up with his shield, smashing into the archer and sending him down. He stabbed him between the shoulder blades, twisted and ripped the sword free as he looked for his next opponent. On either side the rest of the Praetorians piled in, using shield and sword with savage abandon. It was a one-sided affair, despite the unbalanced numbers, and with half their men downed the rest of the Parthians turned and ran.

  Macro drew up, chest heaving, eyes wide and glaring, teeth bared, as he looked round and assessed the situation. The last of the defenders had been driven from the wall and chased back into Ligea’s streets as a steady stream of Praetorians, and the most eager of the slingers and Iberians, clambered up the ladders and dropped down into the open space behind the wall. Their blood lust was up and those enemies who had been wounded were slaughtered on the ground where they lay before the attackers raced off into the streets to kill, rape and loot.

  ‘Where’s the tribune?’ Macro called out as he looked round anxiously. ‘Has anybody seen the tribune?’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Cato was running down a street, thinking of nothing but the need to find and kill his enemy. After Macro had shoved him aside he was forced away from the ladder, and by the time he came to the foot of another and pulled rank to get on it, the fight on the wall had developed into a frenzied blur of flashing blades, crimson droplets and bodies pressed up against each other, all accompanied by the grunts of men striking and receiving blows, the thud of blades landing on shields and the softer sound of metal striking flesh. He jumped down from the ladder and one foot caught on a body and caused him to stumble, lose his grip on the shield and then roll over the edge of the walkway and down on to the ground below. The impact winded him badly and he sat hunched against the wall, holding his sword out in front of him, until his breath returned. Thirty paces to his right he saw Macro gather his men for the charge against the archers. Then one of the Parthians saw Cato, and started to swing his bow towards him. Macro’s order cut across the noise of battle and the officer in charge of the archers snapped a command and the bowman turned away from Cato.

  Heart beating hard inside his chest, Cato rose to his feet and saw the opening of a street directly opposite the wall, perfect cover to save him from the archers if they survived Macro’s wild assault. Ahead of him he saw several of the enemy, Ligeans, and as the nearest slowed slightly and glanced back he saw Cato and shouted a warning, then he and the rest of his companions raced towards the heart of the town. Not knowing what else to do, Cato pursued them as fast as he could, determined to strike down those who shared responsibility for the deaths of Petillius, Rutilius and the others.

  His prey ran round a corner a short distance ahead. Cato followed and almost ran straight into the man who had spotted him a moment earlier. He had a club in his hand and swung it wildly at Cato. There was barely time to react and Cato rolled aside as the sturdy length of wood swished over his head. Then, continuing the roll, he was back on his feet, crouching low, sword moving side to side as he sized up the Ligean. His opponent was a heavy-set man, but no fighter, and he knew it. He backed off as he called out to his companions. Some of them had stopped a short distance further on and now that they saw Cato was alone they ran back to confront him. Four of them, ranged across the width of the street, armed with swords and an axe to add to the first man’s club. Like him they were not soldiers, but the advantage in numbers more than made up for that, Cato realised, as he backed away, towards the corner.

  There was the sound of more men approaching from behind and he felt a rush of relief before glancing back to see some Parthian bowman run
ning towards him.

  ‘Oh shit . . .’

  There was an alley to his left, shadowy and narrow, where he would stand a better chance of fighting it out. If he could down one of the Ligeans he might discourage the others. Two would cause the others to flee. Cato picked the man with the club as his target. He had turned back to fight and had more guts than the rest of them. Best to take him out first. Feinting at the man’s face caused his opponent to sweep his club up to block the blow as he stumbled back a step. Cato launched himself forward and stabbed up, tearing into the underside of the man’s weapon arm, and then sprang back, ready to defend himself against the others. It was a flesh wound, but it bled profusely and the clubman stepped away as he clutched his spare hand to the torn flesh.

  For the moment, none of the others dared to risk an attack and Cato continued to edge back towards the alley entrance. A sidelong glance showed that the Parthians had seen him and were nocking fresh arrows to their bows even as they ran. Cato turned on his heels and sprinted into the alley, running as fast as possible, expecting any moment to feel the barbs of an arrow tear through his back and burst out of his chest. There were shouts from behind and footsteps as the remaining three Ligeans raced after him. Cato felt some small relief that they would obscure the target for any of the Parthians.

  Then a piercing shout echoed down the alley and two arrows passed close by Cato, struck the stained wall of a two-storey building to his right and clattered off on to the street. He realised at once that the Parthians valued the lives of the townspeople so little that they were prepared to shoot them down to get at the fleeing Roman. A narrow street opened up to his right and Cato’s boots scraped and slithered to a halt as he changed direction and ran out of sight of the archers. At once he turned again and lowered into a crouch, sword raised. The footsteps of his pursuers loomed loudly and then the first burst into sight and ran straight on to the point of the sword that Cato slammed into his guts. He folded over the blade and the impetus of his charge knocked Cato back enough that for an instant he thought he might fall. But he staggered and stayed on his feet and thrust the man’s shoulder back with his left hand as he tore his sword free. The Ligean swayed and then reached for the wall of the building on the corner to steady himself, just as the two remaining Ligeans rushed round the corner and collided with him. All three went down with panicked cries.