The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  As Cato and his escort rode into the camp it was clear that the Iberians had suffered badly during the previous night’s raid. Scores of tents had been burned to the ground and the charred skeletons of their frames and shreds of blackened tent leather on the scorched ground were all that was left. Where the extensive spread of Rhadamistus’s personal tentage had stood little remained, and his slaves and servants were picking over the ruins to salvage what was left of the cushions, rugs, furniture, and the stocks of wine and other luxuries. The Iberian prince was standing with his small court of noblemen observing the scene of devastation when Cato reined in and dismounted. The ten men he had brought with him on the only horses in the Roman column remained in the saddle.

  Rhadamistus turned to greet him with a sour expression. His face and robes were smeared with scorch marks and grime and a blood-stained dressing was fastened about his forearm. The nobles behind him were similarly marked by the consequences of the raid.

  ‘Tribune Cato, I am glad to see you have recovered. I imagine you have come to gloat at my misfortune.’

  ‘I would hardly do that, Majesty. You are an ally of Rome. I feel your losses as keenly as you do. I merely came to see what assistance we can offer.’

  Rhadamistus sighed. ‘Unless it is within your power to conjure up fresh tents and supplies, and raise the dead, then there is little that you can do for us.’

  ‘How many men did you lose, Majesty?’

  The Iberian turned to his followers and there was a brief exchange before he replied. ‘Over fifty were killed. Many more were wounded. We lost over a hundred mounts. As well as those that bolted into the night and are still being recovered. Then there are the tents . . .’ He waved a hand over the surrounding scene and shook his head slowly. ‘Almost a third of them destroyed or damaged beyond repair. The Parthians lost a handful of men in return. I doubt there were more than fifty of them in the band that attacked us.’ His face darkened as he continued. ‘They would not have taken us by surprise if my sentries had been alert. They will pay the price for failing me.’ He gestured towards a party of men sitting on the ground a short distance away, their hands and ankles bound. ‘Those curs will be left to burn alive when we continue our march today. It is a fitting punishment, no?’

  Even at this distance Cato could see their terrified expressions and guessed that they had already learned their fate.

  ‘Majesty, you have lost enough men. Men who will be needed to win your throne. Why waste the lives of any more? Punish them, yes. If they were my men I’d have them flogged in front of their comrades. That would be a lesson on the consequences of poor watch-keeping that would not easily be forgotten.’

  ‘Perhaps, but burning them alive would be even more memorable, I think,’ Rhadamistus speculated coldly. ‘I do not tolerate the mistakes of those who follow me.’

  He scrutinised Cato for a moment. ‘You think I am being cruel, Tribune?’

  Cato replied calmly: ‘I think you are being wasteful, Majesty. I believe that there is a place for discipline and punishment at the heart of any army, but that has to be balanced against the effect it has on the army’s ability to fight.’

  ‘You Romans have a punishment called decimation, do you not? I have read that when your generals have been poorly served by cowardice or incompetence they have ordered that every tenth man is beaten to death by his comrades.’

  Cato had once been a junior officer in a cohort taking part in the invasion of Britannia that had been subjected to the most draconian penalty meted out in the Roman army. He nodded. ‘There is such a punishment, but it is rarely used. And the soldiers that survive it are demoralised for a long time afterwards. I would not advise employing such a measure, Majesty. It is a luxury that you can ill afford at present. Punish those men, flog them, but spare their lives. I am convinced you will need them before this campaign is over.’

  ‘I will consider your advice, Tribune,’ Rhadamistus concluded. ‘There is some merit in what you say. I will decide their punishment later as I have more pressing concerns. We must salvage what we can before resuming our advance, and attend to our dead and wounded.’

  Cato spotted the opportunity to start repairing the alliance. ‘Majesty, I would be happy for our surgeon to treat your wounded. And they can be transported, along with our sick and injured, in the wagons.’

  Rhadamistus was silent and Cato sensed pride battling with pragmatism within the heart of his ally. At length he simply nodded and spoke as if giving a command: ‘See to it then, Tribune.’

  ‘Have them placed beside the road and my men will load them on to the wagons.’

  The Iberian nodded.

  ‘There is still the other matter, Majesty.’

  Rhadamistus eyed him warily. ‘Other matter?’

  ‘After last night, it is clear that it would be best for our men to march together and make camp together.’

  The other man’s lips compressed into a thin line and Cato knew he had to press the point. He decided to sweeten his offer. ‘We can spare you some tents to make up for your losses. I think you and your men will appreciate the shelter since the nights are cold.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Rhadamistus said quietly. ‘And no doubt you will insist on exercising command over my troops as well as yours in exchange for your generosity?’

  ‘I should not have to insist. The danger of dividing our column has been demonstrated clearly enough.’ Cato gestured at the smouldering remains that surrounded them. ‘From now we must march together and fight together, and the best means of achieving that is to have one commander. General Corbulo’s orders were for me to command the column. He also told me that it would be best to exercise command with as much diplomacy as possible. I have done my best to carry out his orders. But the time for diplomacy is over. The situation is too dangerous for that. So I will tell you now: accept my command, without question, until you have regained your throne ‘

  The Iberian prince winced and folded his arms as he glared back. Then he exhaled with a hiss and looked down at his feet. ‘Very well, I agree.’

  Cato hid his relief as he continued in the same firm tone. ‘Thank you, Majesty.’

  ‘I place myself under your command, Tribune. But I warn you now: if, as a consequence of your orders, I fail to regain my throne, then I will have your head.’

  ‘Majesty, if I fail then it will cost me my head one way or another. I have no illusions about that. You will have your throne, or you and I, and every man in our column, will perish in the attempt.’

  Rhadamistus stared back and then smiled. ‘I could not ask for more.’

  He extended his hand and they grasped forearms briefly before the Iberian bowed his head. ‘Tribune Cato. I am yours to command.’

  Cato nodded, but wondered how long Rhadamistus would stick to his word this time.

  An hour later the Roman column reached the remains of the Iberian camp and the vanguard glanced over the ruined tents and the burial mound standing to one side. The Iberian wounded lay along the side of the road and at first they and the Romans regarded each other with cool suspicion – until a Praetorian stepped out of line to hand some of his dried meat to one of the injured. More followed his example, and Iberians responded to their kindness with smiles and thanks. Macro was about to bawl at the men to return to the ranks, but Cato stopped him.

  ‘Now and again a little tolerance is more effective than discipline.’

  ‘If you say so. But if I was still in command . . .’ Macro began, then clamped his mouth shut and tapped the end of his vine cane against the side of his boot.

  ‘And there you prove my point about being tolerant,’ Cato laughed, for the first time in many days.

  ‘Tolerance?’ Macro muttered. ‘Who fucking needs it? A quick kicking works better every time, if you ask me.’

  ‘I will be sure to ask you, brother. But that’s as far as I go. Now, let’s keep the men moving.’

  Macro forced himself to keep h
is tone neutral as he ordered the Praetorians to rejoin the column. As he stood at the end of the line of wounded Iberians the man nearest him caught his eye and reached out with his palm.

  ‘If you bloody well think . . .’ Macro began, then muttered bitterly. ‘Fucking tolerance, eh?’

  He reached into his sidebag, fished out a dry crust of bread and tossed it to the Iberian.

  ‘There you go. Don’t choke on it, friend.’ He forced a smile and strode off to take his place at the head of the cohort.

  The cataphracts and horse-archers had already ridden ahead to the front of the reunited force, and the spearmen fell in ahead of the Praetorians. Cato reined in to wait for the baggage train and oversee the loading of the wounded. He waved down the leading vehicle, where the surgeon was sitting on the bench beside the driver.

  ‘Have the Iberians loaded up. Do your best for them, same as you would for our men.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The surgeon’s orderlies, aided by the drivers and muleteers, began the task of lifting the injured on to the carts and wagons, some settling alongside the Roman wounded, who greeted them with the light-hearted grumbling that was characteristic of veterans. Before long the last of the men were loaded and the baggage train began to rumble forward once more.

  Cato turned at the sound of hoofbeats and saw a small party of Iberians riding off from amid the tattered remains of the camp. The distant crackle of flames reached his ears as a fresh column of smoke rose up.

  ‘What’s that?’ the surgeon asked nervously. ‘More Parthians?’

  ‘Not Parthians,’ Cato replied with a sharp sense of dread.

  Then they heard the first cries of terror and screams of agony and all doubt was banished from Cato’s mind. He thought of racing over to try and save the men, but from the density of the smoke and the flames licking up into the morning air, he knew it was already too late.

  The surgeon stood on his bench. ‘By the gods, what’s happening?’

  Cato pulled himself up into the saddle of his horse and picked up the reins as he spoke to the surgeon. ‘What you hear is the price of failure. Remember it well.’

  He tapped his heels in and urged his mount into a canter as he made for the head of the Praetorian cohort, keen to get as far as possible from the sound of men burning alive as their screams followed him down the road.

  In the days that followed, the column continued its advance following the course of the Murad Su river without any further attacks from the enemy, although the Parthians kept them under observation every step of the way. Small bands of cavalry followed them from the safety of the hills to their right, and along the far bank of the river. The Iberians and the Romans watched them warily for the first day but soon came to accept the distant enemy as part of the landscape and resumed the usual banter between comrades and the occasional bursts of marching songs. Once in a while the Parthians ventured close enough for Rhadamistus to send out a body of his horse-archers to try and engage their opponents, but they instantly turned and galloped away until the Iberians gave up the pursuit. Nor were there any attempts at further raids now that the entire column retired behind a ditch and rampart each night.

  Cato ordered that all forage parties went out in strength and were screened by an equal number of Iberian horse-archers, more than enough men to deter the largest band of Parthians they had seen. As the days passed he kept a note of the enemy numbers and calculated that no more than two hundred men were shadowing the column. Unless a far larger force was being concealed by the enemy then there was no immediate risk to the column, and nothing stood between them and Artaxata. Not yet.

  Cato’s strength returned with each day, and each night Bernisha cooked him a large meal and cajoled him by looks and comments in her own tongue to eat every spoonful. In return Cato taught her a few words of Latin to aid the minimal communication that was possible between them and was delighted when she seemed to learn quickly. Twice, Rhadamistus visited Cato’s headquarters, now reduced to a single tent as he had surrendered the others to the Iberian prince. Nor was Cato’s the only such sacrifice. Macro and the other centurions were now sharing a single tent, and all the spare goatskin tents on the wagons had been turned over to their allies.

  On each occasion that Rhadamistus visited him to confer on their progress, Bernisha had fled as soon as she was aware of the Iberian prince’s approach. Cato could only guess at the cause of her apparent fear, but, without the means to ask her for an explanation, there was nothing he could do to understand or reassure her that she was safe under his protection.

  At the second visit, as they shared a jug of heated wine with Macro, Rhadamistus informed him that the column would soon reach a place where the road divided; one fork continuing along the river to the south, while across an easily forded stretch of the river another road struck out into the mountains towards the final river crossing before they reached the Armenian capital.

  ‘How many more days until we arrive before Artaxata, Majesty?’ Macro asked.

  ‘Two days to the ford, and then we must cross the mountains. It would take my men another two days, but with your baggage wagons and siege train I would guess at least twice as long. After that there is another river to cross and then three days to the city.’

  ‘And this mountain route,’ said Cato. ‘What do you know of it?’

  ‘I have travelled it many times. It is well used by merchants and open for most of the year. Only in the worst of winters do the snow and ice make it impassable for wagons.’

  ‘What about choke points? Could the enemy block our way, or ambush us?’

  Rhadamistus recalled the route for a moment before he replied: ‘There are a handful of places where the road passes beneath cliffs or runs along a defile, but my men can clear the heights in advance of your cohorts and wagons. I see no danger we cannot deal with.’ The Iberian drained his cup and poured himself another. ‘It is not the enemy that will pose the greatest challenge, but cold and hunger. Even at this time of year the nights will be bitter, and there will be little food for our men to forage.’

  Cato nodded, and then asked: ‘What of other routes that avoid the mountains?’

  Rhadamistus shook his head. ‘We could skirt round them and approach Artaxata from the south, but that would add at least twenty days of marching.’

  Cato considered all this swiftly and reached a decision. With every day spent on the road the initiative passed more fully to the enemy.

  ‘We shall take the mountain road.’

  ‘I agree, Tribune. It would be best.’

  Cato stifled a smile at the other man’s attempt to share the decision. Since the two forces had been reunited, Rhadamistus had not directly challenged his authority once, and so Cato was content to let him save face from time to time. He began to consider the arrangements that would be needed for the coming days, frustrated by the slowness of his thoughts as a consequence of his continuing weariness. His recovery was not going nearly as well as he would like, or was needed.

  ‘Centurion, I’ll need an inventory of all the rations we are carrying with us. We will need to halt at the river tomorrow, then spend the next day foraging for sufficient supplies to see us through the mountains. And we must have fodder for the horses, fuel for campfires.’

  As Macro took out his waxed slate and made notes Cato raised his cup to Rhadamistus. ‘Majesty, all being well, this time in ten days, our soldiers will be in camp outside Artaxata. And then we will settle this affair in a final battle with your enemies. To victory!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Cato made a last inspection of the men, horses and wagons in the pale light of the dawn. The sun had not yet risen above the crests of the mountains to the east, and all was in shadow, and the air was suffused with a blue tint that seemed to make it feel colder. They had crossed the river in the hours before dawn, Rhadamistus and his horse-archers leading the way to clear the far side of any bands of Parthians who might be tempted to interfere as the infantry a
nd wagons struggled through the freezing current flowing swiftly across the shallows of the ford. The men had emerged on to the far bank dripping and shivering, before being formed up by their officers into the line of march.

  In addition to the wounded, each wagon was heavily laden with bags of grain, cured meats, bread and cheese from the villages and farms the forage parties had looted the day before. Nets of fodder hung from the saddles of the Iberian cavalry, and their spearmen carried yet more supplies, as did the Praetorians and slingers. Cato paused to check the traces of the mule teams drawing the siege weapons. There could be no room for careless preparations amongst the muleteers when the column climbed the road that led into the mountains. Looking at the rough track that wound its way up the nearest slope he wondered how anyone could describe it as a road. And yet Rhadamistus had assured him the route was well used by camel trains and merchant convoys. If that was true and they encountered anyone, then Cato intended to relieve them of any food and useful supplies in passing.

  As before, Rhadamistus and his men would scout ahead of the column, clearing away obstacles and dealing with any of the enemy who might attempt to make a stand. The wagons of the baggage and siege trains had been distributed amongst each of the Praetorian centuries, who would be tasked with adding their muscle to the mule teams whenever the road negotiated a steep slope. Returning to the small cart carrying his personal kit, Cato indicated his fur-lined cape to Bernisha and addressed her in Greek.

  ‘Hand me that.’

  She reached a hand towards it, then stopped abruptly and pointed to the cape, then at Cato, and arched an eyebrow. He nodded and she handed the cape over before huddling in the corner of the cart and covering herself with one of Cato’s spare tunics.

  Pulling the cloak about his shoulders and fastening the clasp he felt a little better protected against the elements and rubbed his hands together briskly before blowing into them to stave off some of the numbness creeping into his fingers.