The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  Macro turned and strode towards the entrance to the tent. The two Iberian bodyguards standing there crossed their spears in front of him, forcing Macro to draw up. He felt his fingers move towards the handle of his sword before judgement prevailed over instinct and he lowered his hand. He half turned towards Rhadamistus and raised an eyebrow.

  There was silence and a stillness that seemed to last far longer than a few heartbeats and then the Iberian barked an order and the bodyguards grounded their spears. Macro marched between them as he growled: ‘You won’t be so lucky if you try that on me next time, lads.’

  Then he was outside in the cool evening air. The sky was purple along the horizon and shaded into velvet darkness above, pricked by the glimmer of stars. He exhaled slowly as he marched back towards the Roman half of the camp and offered up a quick prayer.

  ‘Jupiter, Best and Greatest, I pray that you do everything in your power to return Cato to his senses. Before I do anything else I may fucking well come to regret.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  An hour after dawn, once the wounded had been loaded on to the wagons, the column continued its advance into the mountainous heart of Armenia. Behind them the Romans and Iberians left two blazing funeral pyres. The first consumed the bodies of their fallen comrades, and thick greasy smoke billowed into the air and the morning breeze blew the smoke after the column so they choked on the acrid tang of woodsmoke and roast meat, and it clung to their clothes for many hours afterwards. The second pyre was the town of Ligea, which had perished in all but name the day before. Fires had been set in every street and the flames, fanned by the breeze, had spread rapidly. Looking back, Macro could see that the blaze was almost continuous, bounded by the walls so that the town looked like a vast fire pit. Tongues of flame lashed the morning sky and the roar and sharp reports of bursting timbers carried clearly for the first mile of the march. When the column halted briefly at noon, the soldiers looked back in hushed awe at the thick pillar of smoke that rose into the heavens.

  Macro regarded the spectacle as he took out his canteen and took a swig of water. That smoke, he knew, was going to announce their presence for a considerable distance and soon the curious would be coming to investigate. When word of the devastation of Ligea spread across Armenia, they would discover if the act had chastened the people Rhadamistus aimed to rule once again, or so inflamed their passion that they would rise in arms against him. That remained to be seen, Macro reflected. Besides, he was concerned with more immediate matters.

  The Iberians had broken camp first and, disdaining the routine of shovelling the rampart back into the ditch, they packed their tents and marched away. The Romans regarded the departure in silence as they formed up for the funeral rites. The Iberian dead had already been buried during the night, but their refusal to stand with the Romans and honour the dead of their ally was taken as a calculated insult by every man of the Praetorian and auxiliary cohorts. Macro had considered challenging Rhadamistus directly and demanding that he halt his men, but such a confrontation could have escalated out of control very easily, given the previous evening’s fraught encounter. So he had let them march off, and then concluded the funeral rites as swiftly as possible before setting off in their wake.

  The Iberians had a two-mile start on the Romans and as the distance between them grew, thanks to the slow progress of the baggage and siege trains, Macro sent the slingers ahead with orders to bridge the gap between the two forces and keep both in sight. It was a highly unsatisfactory state of affairs for the column to be divided on a march through what it was prudent to regard as hostile territory. But it was better to march divided than be at each other’s throats, Macro reflected. He hoped that Rhadamistus’s wounded pride would soon give way to reason and that he would accept Macro’s command over the combined force. It might take a day or more, but the Iberian must surely come to realise that his ambitions stood a better chance of coming to fruition with Roman soldiers and siege weapons at his side.

  Macro’s attention turned to the covered cart that rumbled along the crude track a short distance behind the men of the First Century tramping along beneath the burden of their marching yokes. The flaps of the goatskin cover were untied and through the gap Macro caught a glimpse of his friend lying on his bedroll, the girl sitting beside him, atop the folds of Cato’s tent. He dropped back and fell into step at the rear of the cart.

  ‘How’s he doing?’

  Bernisha turned and looked down at him, guessed the nature of his query, mimed sleeping, then raised her palm and rocked it from side to side. Macro groaned with frustration. Cato was needed now more than ever. Grasping the side of the cart Macro pulled himself up and waved the girl forward and took her place. Beside him Cato lay on his back, his body jolting as the cart rumbled and lurched beneath him. He was shaded from the bright sunshine but the dust covered the interior in a grey patina, and occasionally he coughed as he slept. Other than his exhaustion there was not a mark on him. No wound. Macro still struggled with the idea that his friend could be so stricken by some sickness of the heart and mind. He was tempted to give the tribune a firm shake and tell him to pull himself together, but was concerned that such action might hinder his friend’s recovery.

  One of the cart’s wheels crashed down into a deep rut and the cart lurched violently. Cato’s eyes snapped open and he glanced around anxiously before he saw Macro sitting at his side.

  ‘What’s happening? Where are we?’

  ‘Back on the road to Artaxata, lad. If you can call this bloody glorified goat track any kind of a road.’

  Cato frowned, struggling to concentrate. ‘And the town? What happened to Ligea?’

  Macro eased aside the flaps to reveal the column of smoke in the distance. ‘Burned to the ground, as you ordered.’

  Cato flinched. ‘I ordered? Yes . . . Yes, I did. And the people?’

  ‘All killed. We took no prisoners.’

  ‘All dead?’

  Macro nodded heavily. He had derived no satisfaction from obeying the orders and, in truth, believed that the destruction of Ligea and its people was a stain on the reputation of Rome, and on the honour of the Second Cohort in particular. Worse still, it was a mistake, in Macro’s opinion. But the orders had been given and it was not his place to question them. Besides, it was too late.

  ‘I shouldn’t be lying here,’ Cato continued. He tried to rise up but found that his body felt utterly leaden and the effort exhausted him. The arm he had used to prop himself up trembled like a leaf in a gale. Bernisha regarded him with concern and eased herself round Macro so that she could support Cato’s shoulders. She spoke soothingly and gently eased him back on to the bedroll. Cato did not resist her and lay back with a deep sigh as he looked up at his friend.

  ‘What happened to me? Was I wounded?’

  Macro shook his head. ‘Not as such, lad. You’re just sick. The surgeon says it’s exhaustion and some kind of malady of the heart. I can’t tell you any more. You’d best hear it from him when we make camp tonight. I’ll send him to you.’

  Even though he was struggling to think coherently Cato heard his friend’s words with a growing sense of shame. He was weak when his men needed him to be strong. If there was no wound and none of the sicknesses that soldiers were prone to while on campaign, then there was no excuse for his incapacity. Certainly no excuse he would have accepted from any man under his command. He would have called them malingerers, the kind of soldier others regarded with knowing looks that led to contempt. Men who let their comrades down and invented illnesses to excuse themselves from labour or, unforgivably, from taking their place in the battle line. Cato’s thoughts turned in on him and he dreaded to consider what Macro might be making of all this. He rolled his head to the side and stared fixedly at the wooden plank just inches from his face.

  ‘I am sorry, Macro. I am failing you. Failing the men . . .’ Cato could imagine the snide comments that the rankers would be making about their commander’s weakness and the thou
ght filled him with even more intense self-loathing. ‘They’ll not think me fit to lead them again.’

  ‘That’s bollocks, lad.’ Macro forced himself to sound cheery. ‘Why, they’d follow you through the gates of Hades without a thought, and be sure you’d lead ’em out the other side.’

  ‘Not after this. Macro, I’ve served long enough to know how their minds work.’

  ‘They’ll be fine. Besides, as far as they know you received a head injury and you’ll be back in charge as soon as you’ve recovered. I should think they’ll be grateful not to have me bellowing at them any more.’

  Cato felt a mixture of gratitude to his friend and vulnerability. Even if the men never guessed the truth, Macro would always know. And that would be a burden for Cato to carry evermore.

  ‘I’m tired. I need to rest.’

  ‘Of course you do. Best I stop bending your ear then, and let you get on with it.’ Macro patted him on the shoulder and turned to Bernisha. ‘And I’m sure this one will do her best to help you recover. Think she’s taken a bit of a shine to you. Right, lass?’

  Bernisha smiled and dampened a cloth with some water from Cato’s canteen before folding it into a compress and placing it over his forehead.

  ‘You’re in good hands, lad. I’ll see you later, in camp. For now, you get some more rest.’

  Macro eased himself on to the tail of the cart, dropped down to the road and strode ahead to catch up with his men.

  Inside the rattling cart Cato did his best to settle into a comfortable position and closed his eyes. His brief moment of wakefulness had tired him out, and once more his thoughts came with difficulty, and even then they were random and rarely coherent. More like a dream, he mused. As the tension drained from his limbs, restless, unordered images and impressions flickered through his mind: the stark terror of the attack on the inner wall of Ligea – the first time he and Julia had ever made love – the conviction that he would be killed when he had swum to a wrecked ship off the coast of Britannia to rescue the survivors years ago – the dread of losing Macro when his friend had been wounded by an arrow in the same campaign – the nervousness of the occasion when he had first been introduced to his son, and the depth of love he had felt for Lucius thereafter – then the face of the boy he had stabbed in Ligea . . . So like Lucius, it had seemed. So much so that it felt as if he had murdered his son. And then darkness and oblivion as he finally fell once more into the deep sleep of the utterly exhausted and distressed.

  Bernisha sat by him, occasionally refreshing the compress and gently tamping it down over his forehead and eyes. When he stirred and shifted, and mumbled anxiously, she took his hand and held it until the moment passed, and then stroked his dark curls. This seemed to ease his mind. She muttered in Greek: ‘Rest, tribune. Rest . . .’

  For the next four days the column marched as two forces. The Iberians never advanced so far each day that the Romans could not keep up with them, Macro was relieved to discover. Each night he gave orders for the camp to be constructed on a scale that would permit their erstwhile allies to join the Romans if they chose. But they remained apart, at least a mile off, and erected their tents in the open, to Macro’s professional disapproval. If the enemy took the opportunity to attack them now, then they would raise havoc amongst the Iberians. Much as he was tempted to ride over to their camp and try and persuade Rhadamistus to unite the columns, Macro could not bear the thought of such an approach being taken as a sign of weakness. And so the two forces spent each night apart, their campfires forming two pools of light amid the dark masses of the surrounding mountains.

  The additional duties that fell to Macro tested his endurance, and he began to understand the strain his friend had suffered since the start of the campaign. Each evening he came to Cato’s tent to report on the day’s march, the condition of the men and the location of the Iberians. He was relieved to find the tribune recovering steadily, and by the fourth evening Cato announced he was ready to resume command the next day.

  ‘Are you certain, sir?’

  Cato hesitated a moment before he nodded. ‘I am.’

  Macro watched him closely and saw the faint tremor in his limbs as Cato stood up and crossed to the open tent flaps and looked out across the camp.

  ‘Looks like you could still use some rest, sir.’

  ‘I said I am ready,’ Cato responded firmly. ‘Well enough to ride, and my head is clear now.’

  ‘If you say so. If you need me to continue taking on some of your duties, then just let me know.’

  Cato glanced back over his shoulder and smiled. ‘Thank you, brother. I am grateful.’

  ‘Pah! It’s been fun to be the ranking officer these last few days.’

  ‘I sincerely doubt that.’ Cato’s experienced eyes and ears scrutinised the rows of tents stretching out around him. The pleasing sounds of singing and some laughter carried to his ears. It was good that the men’s spirits were still high despite being abandoned by the Iberians. A quiet camp would have indicated dissatisfaction and faltering morale. Along the rampart he could just make out the figures of the sentries, moving slowly along their beats. All was well. At least here in the Roman camp. The glow of distant campfires was visible to the east and Cato wondered about the mood amongst the Iberians. Was Rhadamistus regretting his hubris? Were his men anxious about abandoning the security of a Roman marching camp to sleep in the open? Or were they simply waiting for the Romans to come to them and agree to accept Rhadamistus as their commander? Either way, he concluded, it would be increasingly perilous to permit the present situation to continue. He turned back and returned to his camp bed and sat down heavily.

  There was a clatter of pots outside and a moment later Bernisha entered the tent with Cato’s mess tin. She set it down on the small table beside his camp bed and looked to Macro, miming eating.

  He nodded and gave her a smile. Once the girl had left the room he cocked an eyebrow at Cato. ‘Pretty one, that.’

  ‘I suppose she is.’ Cato took a sip of the gruel, but it was too hot, so he set the mess tin and spoon down. ‘What of it?’

  ‘Oh, nothing.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Macro, do I look like I am up for it? Well, do I?’

  ‘I guess not. But . . .’ Macro clicked his tongue, ‘ . . . be a shame to let her go to waste. Just saying, if I were in your boots . . .’

  ‘Well, you’re not. She looks after my needs and keeps my kit clean, that’s all. It’ll remain that way as long as I want and that’s the end of the matter.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Bernisha returned with a spare mess tin and handed it to Macro.

  ‘You must eat too.’ Cato pointed to her and raised his mess tin and nodded towards the tent flaps. She smiled at him quickly and scurried away. Macro eyed her departing figure appreciatively.

  ‘Not one word, Macro,’ Cato warned him. ‘Just eat, eh? We could do with a bit of peace and quiet for a while.’

  The midnight signal had barely sounded across the camp when Macro tore aside the flaps of Cato’s tent and rushed over to his bed. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the girl rise from the ground to one side with a frightened gasp.

  ‘Sir! Wake up!’

  The tribune was slow to respond and Macro shook his shoulder roughly. ‘Wake up.’

  Cato’s eyes snapped open and he propped himself up on an elbow. ‘What is it?’

  ‘The Iberian camp, sir. It’s alight.’

  Swinging his legs out, Cato slipped his feet into a pair of light sandals and stood up. He was already wearing a tunic due to the coolness of the nights in the mountainous terrain they were marching through. He hurried from the tent and with Macro at his side they ran to the gate tower closest to Rhadamistus and his men. Cato was out of breath when they reached the ladder and sent Macro up first before steeling himself for the climb. His heart was beating swiftly and his limbs were shaking as he heaved himself on to the platform and stood with Macro and the sentry, gasping for breath to ease the fire in
his lungs.

  Just over a mile away the Iberian camp lay on slightly lower ground, beside a bend in the river that the road followed as directly as possible. From their vantage point Cato could see that scores of tents were ablaze, and by the light of the flames he could make out hundreds of men and horses dashing in every direction. A short distance from the flames he could just see the dark outlines of riders on swift ponies racing around the camp loosing arrows. Further out, a handful of small fires burned and near them arrows cut fiery arcs through the night before plunging down amongst the Iberian tents.

  ‘Parthians,’ said Macro. ‘They must have been tracking the column. Given that fool’s arrogance, this was bound to happen. What are your orders, sir? Shall I tell the men to stand to?’

  Cato thought for a moment and shook his head. ‘No. Have the duty century moved on to the rampart, together with fifty of the slingers. I doubt the Parthians will attempt any attack on us, but best to be safe.’

  ‘What about the Iberians, sir? Should we send men to help them?’

  ‘There’s nothing we can do now.’

  While Macro climbed down to the ground to give the orders, Cato watched the raiders set light to more of the camp. But Rhadamistus was already reacting to the raid. Several bands of horse-archers and cataphracts had already mounted and now cantered out of the camp to chase down the enemy. The light barrage of fire arrows abruptly ceased and the dark figures of the mounted Parthians disappeared into the night. The Iberians remaining in the camp did their best to fight the fires, beating out the flames with lengths of brush and water drawn from the river. One by one the blazes were extinguished and the horses that had been scattered by the raiders were rounded up. Only when Cato was sure that the attack was over did he leave the tower and pick his way wearily back to his tent.

  Come the morning, he resolved, he would ride over to the Iberians and confront Rhadamistus and put an end to this foolish division of their forces.