The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  Cato stared down at them, smiling cruelly now that he had them at his mercy. Then he heard the shouts of the Parthians only a short distance behind and he snarled with frustration and ran off again. He took the first alley to his left, then left again in what he hoped was the direction of the main gate and the safety of his comrades. He realised that he was heading back in the direction of the street along which the Ligeans had chased him, and he stopped. Cato pressed himself into a doorway and tested the handle. The door was securely fastened.

  He looked both ways and saw that all the doors were closed along the street, and then it struck him that the streets were unnaturally still and silent, apart from the sounds of his pursuers, and the fainter sounds of the shouts and clatter of weapons from further off. He was in what seemed to be an impoverished quarter of the town, cut off from his men and surrounded by terrified townspeople who thought that locking themselves out of sight might save them from the wrath of the Roman and Iberian soldiers who had started the sacking of Ligea. For now, he was as doomed as the townspeople if he failed to escape his pursuers.

  A door creaked open a short distance along the alley and Cato readied his sword, sweat dripping from his brow and running down his cheek. A head poked out, then a woman emerged dressed in a dark cloak over her tunic. She clutched the hand of a young girl as they stepped into the street looking warily from side to side. Then she saw Cato and her mouth opened in horror.

  ‘Wait!’ he said as loudly as he dared, holding his left hand out, palm first. ‘I won’t harm you.’

  Even though his words would not be understood, Cato hoped his tone would be. But the woman grabbed the girl in her arms and ran off in a panic, sandals clacking on the paved street. Sucking air through his teeth in frustration, Cato made for the door she had left open and ducked inside as the sound of the Parthians’ footsteps swelled in the narrow alley. He shut the door quickly, reached for the sturdy bolt that fastened it and slammed it home, then backed into the gloomy interior of a small room with a bolted, shuttered window. The only light came from an opening in the ceiling in one corner, where a ladder led up to the next floor. As the sound of footsteps swelled outside in the street Cato grasped his sword and readied himself for the door to be battered down. He was gasping for breath now and his heart seemed to be beating so loudly he feared it would give him away. Shadows flickered across the strip of light at the bottom of the door and there was shouting from outside. The footsteps stopped and there was a brief heated exchange and then the door was battered from the outside and a demanding voice called out. Cato stood quite still, hardly daring to breathe as there was a pause, then the door was struck again. This time it shook on its hinges as the Parthian threw his weight against the outside. But the bolt held.

  Cato’s attention was so fixed on the door that he did not hear the soft padding of footsteps behind him. He felt something touch the back of his leg and instinctively swung round, low, sword tip raised as it cut through the gloom and bit through flesh and bone. There was no cry of pain, no sound at all for a terrible frozen instant as Cato stared down into the wide eyes of a young boy, the same age as Lucius. The resemblance was so striking, save for slightly darker features, that Cato’s lips formed the name of his son as he stared into the boy’s face. Then his gaze fell to where the sword blade entered the bottom of his small ribcage. Blood was already seeping out around the metal.

  The boy was quite still and stared back in shock.

  Then the Parthian kicked at the door again and cursed loudly. The boy’s eyes widened as he made to cry and Cato instantly reached down and clamped his spare hand over the child’s mouth to muffle him. Both sank down on to the floor, facing each other on their knees.

  ‘Don’t make a sound,’ Cato whispered soothingly. ‘For Jupiter’s sake, please don’t.’

  He eased his sword free and set it down beside them as the blood flowed freely from the wound. It was mortal, Cato could see that at once. Yet he unwound his neckcloth with his right hand as he continued to press the left over the boy’s mouth. Balling the cloth up he pressed it to the wound to try and staunch the flow of blood.

  The rattling of the hinges and the bolt sounded deafening in the hot, still gloom of the room and the boy started to struggle. Cato pulled him on to his lap and held him close, his left hand curled around the child’s head and covering his mouth.

  ‘Shhh. Please, be still. Be quiet . . . It’ll be over soon.’

  With a final, loud kick to the door the Parthian uttered a curse and moved on and the crack of light at the bottom of the door flickered a moment and then glowed clear.

  The boy began to moan and Cato rocked him gently as he eased his hand away.

  ‘There, he’s gone. We’re alone now. Safe.’

  The child’s wide eyes gazed up at him, his lips moving slowly as he breathed with difficulty. Cato stroked his hair for a moment, stricken by the similarity between the boy and Lucius. Guilt and intense self-loathing filled his heart. He looked round the room desperately and saw there was little, apart from some pots, a stool and a bedroll. Gently lifting the boy he crossed to the bedroll and laid him down and lifted the neckcloth away from the wound. For a moment the wound looked like a mouth, then the blood welled up and oozed over the boy’s smooth stomach as he whimpered and began to writhe. Cato saw a pile of rags at the end of the bedroll and quickly reached for one to press back on to the wound and then tied his neckcloth around the stomach to hold the wad in place. Then he eased himself back against the wall and rested the boy’s head on his lap. There was a dim shaft of light from the hole leading up to the next storey and faint motes of dust swirled lazily. Outside the sounds of the Parthians faded and then only occasional shouts broke the silence. Cato no longer cared if he was discovered by the enemy or not. Time seemed to have slowed to a complete stop and there was only himself and the dying boy, and the gloomy hovel in which they lay. His heart was leaden and filled with despair at what he had done and he no longer felt he wanted to live, still less deserved to.

  He looked down and stroked the fine curls as he spoke comfortingly.

  ‘I’ve done what I can for you . . . It’s not much, but all I know . . . There, hush.’ He smiled as he looked down. ‘I’m sorry. You came up behind me . . . I thought you were my enemy. I didn’t have time to think. I . . . I’m sorry.’

  The boy stared back uncomprehendingly as his breathing became steadily more shallow. Then he smiled gently and reached a small hand up and traced his fingers over the bristles of Cato’s cheek and then his lips. Cato felt his throat tighten and tighten until there was a raw ache and he could not trust himself to speak as he was overwhelmed by mortal horror at what he had done. At the life he had ended. At his powerlessness to save the child and avert this tragedy that was his own creation. Of all the evils that he had experienced in the long years of military service, this, he felt, was the greatest. And he was its perpetrator.

  The boy’s fingers stopped moving, and a moment later his hand slipped away as his arm slumped by his side. His chin rose, his jaw sagged and he gasped two or three times and then there was a slow, soft outward breath as his life left him.

  Cato stared at him, paralysed by grief. Then he lifted him tenderly and cradled the lifeless little body in his arms as he began to weep uncontrollably.

  ‘That is the good stuff!’ Macro sniffed then smacked his lips as he tapped the stopper back in the large amphora and stepped back to admire the rest of the row leaning against the side of the merchant’s storehouse. ‘Enough garum here to last us the rest of the campaign if we go easy on it.’ He turned to the four men of his century who had found the storehouse. ‘Find a cart and some mules to carry these. I want them packed safely in straw.’

  There was no need to tell them to take care with the valuable sauce. Garum was a luxury, and now the men of the Second Cohort were going to enjoy having it added to their cooking every day. Macro was already working out how much he might get for one of the jars from the auxiliary cohort
. Of course, it would be necessary to keep their find secret from the Iberians in case Rhadamistus demanded a share of the spoils from his allies.

  Macro patted the biggest of the jars affectionately before he turned to leave his men to carry out their orders. There were other valuables there to be sure, but he was wary of overburdening the column with loot and slowing down its advance. Besides, he had been diverted from a more pressing issue: discovering the whereabouts of his commanding officer. The last time he had seen Cato was at the foot of the assault ladder. Some of the men claimed to have seen the tribune climbing on to the wall but no one knew what had happened to him since then. Macro had searched the bodies piled along the wall and on the ground either side, and amongst the wounded propped up in the shade of the inner wall, but Cato was not amongst either the dead or the injured. So Macro had sent parties of men to search for the tribune, men who were disgruntled at not being allowed to join their comrades ransacking Ligea. That was tough on them, Macro accepted, but he would soon need a cadre of sober men to round up the remainder at the end of the day so that they could rest and recover from their debauchery in time for the column to resume its advance into Armenia.

  Outside the storehouse he saw smoke billowing across the end of the street and three Iberians came staggering through the haze coughing as they clutched small wine jars under their arms. A fourth man followed them, dragging a large woman by the hair. She was naked and her breasts swayed heavily as she screamed and tried to break loose. The Iberian turned and slapped her violently and the screams ceased. They got a safe distance from the smoke and then kicked in a door and the soldiers entered. The last man thrust the woman through the door and followed her inside. A moment later the screaming resumed, this time accompanied by drunken laughter and guttural chanting.

  For all his long years of service in the army Macro had never been involved in the sacking of a town. Forts and villages, yes. But never a town on even the modest scale of Ligea. Of course he had heard all the veterans’ tales of the rich takings and entertainments to be had in the bacchanal chaos that followed the taking of an enemy town or city and had hoped one day to be a part of such an occasion himself. But now that he was, he felt unsettled by the drunken disorder of those who had made it their priority to find wine, and the cruelty, bloodlust and actual lust that ensued.

  He turned in the opposite direction to the smoke and took the first street that he came to, a wide thoroughfare that led into the main square of the town. Here there were bodies lying in the street. An old man lay on his back, spread-eagled, his bowels opened from crotch to ribcage, and a cloud of flies was already feeding off his tacky blood and greasy-looking intestines. Further along Macro had to step round a group of bodies that seemed to be a family. An infant had had its brains dashed out against a wall and the body lay on the steps outside an open door. Two young boys had been cut down with swords and lay nearby. An older man, their father, Macro guessed, had been decapitated and his head left neatly upright in his lap with the body propped against the wall beside the doorway. A bloody trail led up the steps inside and Macro leaned across the threshold and called out on the off-chance.

  ‘Cato?’

  There was no reply. Just the buzzing of more flies. In the light shining in from the street he saw three more bodies. A naked woman lying on a bedroll, her head rolled to one side, dark eyes staring directly at Macro. Her legs were wide apart and dried blood matted her pubic hair and stained her thighs. On the floor nearby were two more naked bodies. Girls, no more than ten or twelve.

  There was a loud belch from the rear of the house and the sound of a chair or table leg scraping on a stone floor.

  ‘Who is there?’ Macro demanded.

  A moment later one of the Iberians stumbled into the room. He clasped a wineskin in one hand and his spear in the other. The point and the first two feet of the shaft were covered with dried blood and he grinned drunkenly as he saw the Roman officer. The Iberian began to babble in his own tongue and gestured towards the bodies with his spear, mimicked a woman’s cry and then laughed.

  ‘Fucking barbarian,’ Macro growled.

  The Iberian was too drunk to recognise the dangerous tone in the Roman’s voice and strode clumsily towards him and offered up his wineskin.

  Macro slapped it away and thrust the man back. ‘I’m not drinking with you, you murderous little bastard.’

  The Iberian’s cheeriness vanished in an instant and he took his spear in both hands and turned the gore-encrusted point towards the centurion.

  Macro sneered. ‘Fancy your chances against some decent opposition, do you? Well go on, then, my friend.’

  The Iberian hesitated and Macro slapped his hand on his chest and roared, ‘Go on! Right there if you think you’re hard enough! Brave bastard like you who can kill women and kids? Come on!’

  The man’s lips peeled back in a snarl and he lunged at the Roman. Macro swerved, snapped out his right hand and grasped the shaft and thrust it to one side, causing the man to lose his balance. Then he smashed his left fist into the side of the Iberian’s head, knocking him cold. He let go of the spear and dropped to the ground and lay still for a moment before he groaned. Macro stood over him and raised the spear, ready to strike down into the man’s throat. The Iberian blinked and then his eyes opened wide as he saw the point of his spear only inches away. He started babbling and begging piteously and Macro’s resolve turned to contempt.

  ‘You’re not fucking worth it.’

  He raised his arm, and the Iberian shrieked in panic, then Macro hurled the spear through the doorway at the back of the room and heard it crack into some stonework. He spat on the man in disgust as the latter curled into a ball on his side, knees pressed against his chest, then Macro turned away and returned to the street and marched off as quick as his legs would carry him.

  As Macro entered the main market square in the heart of the town he saw another centurion catch sight of him and come running.

  ‘Sir!’ Centurion Ignatius waved a hand to attract Macro’s attention. ‘I’ve found him. I’ve found Tribune Cato.’

  Macro felt a surge of relief sweep through him, banishing his morose thoughts.

  ‘Alive?’

  Ignatius hesitated ‘Yes, sir. Alive.’

  ‘What is it? Speak up!’

  ‘Best you see for yourself. Come. Follow me.’

  They left the square and entered the streets, passing more bodies and parties of drunken soldiers, and more sober individuals searching for valuables as the officers trotted past. Then Ignatius drew up outside a doorway where two Praetorians stood guard.

  ‘He’s in there, sir.’

  Macro stood on the threshold and looked round the small room, seeing his friend slumped against a wall with a child curled up on his lap.

  ‘Cato, thank Jupiter you’re alive. You had me worried there, my lad, I don’t mind telling you.’

  Cato did not seem to notice him, and then he frowned. ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘Cato? Are you wounded?’

  Macro entered the room and saw that there was a small shuttered window to one side. He slipped the bolt back to reveal an iron grille through which bright light pierced the gloom and fell squarely on Cato and what Macro could now see was a boy. The latter’s skin was pale and there was no sign of movement. Then he noticed the blood smeared on Cato’s armour and staining his tunic and hands.

  ‘Ignatius! Send for the surgeon. The tribune’s wounded.’

  The light had caused Cato to shrink away from it, squinting, and now he murmured: ‘I’m not injured . . . I’m fine. Quite fine.’ His right hand began to stroke the hair of the dead child and Macro saw that it was trembling. He squatted beside his friend and saw the distracted expression on his face as Cato continued: ‘I’m just tired . . . Very tired. That’s all. I just need some rest.’

  His words were slurred and half mumbled and there was a vagueness in his manner that Macro had never seen before. He reached out and touched the tribune’s shoulder. �
�We’ll sort that out. Let me get you back to camp. Then you can rest. I’ll see to everything for you.’

  There was no protest from Cato, as Macro had anticipated, just a nod.

  ‘Here, let me . . .’ Macro leaned forward to pick up the boy. Instantly Cato snatched at the body and held it close as the child’s limbs and head swung lifelessly.

  ‘Don’t touch him! Leave Lucius alone!’

  ‘Lucius?’ Macro frowned. Even though he knew it was impossible, he looked closely and shook his head. ‘Cato, that’s not Lucius. Just some boy. Here, let me take him from you.’

  ‘Don’t touch him, I said!’

  Cato’s eyes were red-rimmed and staring madly, so Macro eased himself back and raised his hands.

  ‘All right . . . But Cato, that isn’t Lucius . . . Look at him.’

  Cato was still for a moment, then lowered the boy’s body and looked down, his face creasing up in grief as he choked. ‘I killed him, Macro . . . Killed him with my sword . . . He surprised me. I turned and stabbed . . . I killed him.’

  Macro sighed. ‘It was an accident. You didn’t mean to kill the kid – I get that. Come, let’s put him down, eh?’

  This time he waited for Cato’s assent, and the tribune nodded. Macro lifted the little body away tenderly, as if it were a newborn, and set it down on the floor beside Cato. He arranged the limbs tidily and closed the child’s eyes before turning his attention back to Cato.

  ‘Come on, sir. There’s nothing we can do for the poor mite. It’s too bad, but you’re not to blame. In fact, you mustn’t blame yourself. It’s what happens sometimes. An accident of war. It’s not your fault.’