The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Cold enough to freeze your balls off, ain’t it?’ Macro grinned from where he stood by the colour party at the head of the cohort. ‘Still, we’ll all warm up soon enough once you give the order to advance.’

  Cato glanced round at the nearest men, who, like him, were trying to warm their hands. Some were using strips of cloth tied around their hands as makeshift mittens and Cato wished he had had the foresight to purchase the real thing before he left Antioch. A thin haze of exhaled breath swirled around the men, mule teams and horses, and for the first time in many days Cato felt a spark of joy. Yes, it was cold and his boots squelched, but there was something thrilling about the spectacle of a body of soldiers formed up and ready to march as a new day dawned. More than that, there were feelings of affection for, and belonging with, these men, mostly hardened veterans who had seen as much action as he had. In some cases more. There was also the sense of privilege at being in command of the Praetorians, the slingers and mule-drivers, over a thousand men all told. They were a force to be reckoned with, Cato felt, and given the chance he would prove it.

  ‘Let’s hope so,’ he replied to Macro as he looked up at the sky. It was mostly clear, promising a bright day, but clouds clustered above the mountains on the road ahead. If it was cold down here beside the river then there was a good chance that there would still be snow lying higher up, even this late in the year. He prayed that it would not be heaped in drifts across the road.

  ‘Just waiting on the last of the Iberians now,’ Cato continued. ‘Ah, here they come.’

  Both officers turned and looked back across the ford as the cataphracts and spearmen marched down the bank and plunged into the cold waters of the Murad Su. The horses tried to highstep at first, kicking up a fine spray, and then gave up as the river reached their barrels and then their chests surged through the current, directed by the armoured men sitting astride them. The spearmen waded through a short distance downstream, using the warhorses as a breakwater to make their passage easier. As they joined the waiting Romans on the far bank, the riders passed along the column and set off after the horse-archer contingent, already well advanced along the road. The spearmen fell in at the rear of the column, and when the last of them had emerged from the river, Cato mounted his horse and gave the order to march.

  At first the road wound through the foothills with an easy gradient that permitted the wagons to rumble along unassisted, and Cato was pleased with the rate of progress. The clearly defined ruts proved that Rhadamistus had spoken the truth about the frequent use of the road, and there were few rocks that needed to be moved aside to avoid them bringing any of the vehicles’ wheels to a jarring halt. The last of the spring wildflowers were blooming on the hillsides in clusters of yellow and purple amid the boulders and outcrops of rock. Swifts flitted overhead and filled the air with their screeches, while the morning sun appeared above the mountains and flooded the landscape with its ruddy glow. Though they were trudging along under heavy loads, the men were in good spirits, happy to have left the dusty plain and to be breathing clear air scented with the odour of the heather and pine trees on either side.

  Macro was marching along a short distance behind Cato’s horse, whistling happily as he indulged himself with raunchy memories of Petronella and occasionally swiped the heads of flowers with his vine cane. He was glad to see Cato emerging from the dark gloom that had laid him low at Ligea. It was a side of his longtime friend that he had never seen before and it had shaken Macro, since he had been unable to understand what Cato had been going through. Exhaustion of the body he was familiar with, and the passing dullness of mind that came with it. Cato’s physical and mental collapse had been far more severe and accompanied by a darkness of the soul that found its expression in the destruction of the town and the slaughter of its inhabitants. As he recalled the details of the sacking of Ligea Macro’s whistling faded from his lips and he breathed in deeply and sighed.

  ‘Oughtn’t to have done that,’ he muttered to himself. To his mind it was fair enough to loot a town, since given a bit of time the people would have recovered from their loss and put it down to life serving up one of its reverses. But the destruction of a town was wasteful. Ligea would never rise from the ashes. Her streets would never again know the hubbub of people going about their business, nor the shrill cries of children at play, or the chants of the local priests. Ligea was nothing more than a charred memorial now, blackened ruins to be slowly overgrown by weeds while wild dogs and crows picked over the bones of the dead. Such thoughts weighed heavily on Macro. He could not help thinking that whatever gods the Ligeans worshipped would surely be angered by such an outrage. Who knew what misfortunes they had in store for the desecrators of their temples?

  He offered a quick prayer to Fortuna to deliver him and his comrades from any misfortune then clicked his tongue and repeated: ‘Oughtn’t to have done that . . .’

  As the sun reached its zenith the gradient began to increase and their progress slowed as the Praetorians had to frequently down their packs and put their shoulders to the wagons to help the mule teams haul their vehicles up steeper stretches of the road. More onerous still was the need to carefully control the descent of the wagons on the downward runs. The men used ropes trailing from the rear of the wagons to slow the pace, while others stood ready with chocks in the event that the wagons’ speed presented any danger of crushing the mule teams beneath their heavy wheels, or lurching to the side and threatening to overturn. It was a tricky business and sorely tested the judgement and patience of the optios and centurions overseeing the process.

  Rhadamistus and his horse-archers were untroubled by such concerns as they scouted ahead and watched for any sign of the enemy lurking in ambush. The Parthians continued to hang about them, falling back before the Iberians and appearing from time to time on the crests of the hills and ridges that flanked the road. Their presence did not worry Macro unduly, but lingered on the fringes of his thoughts like some persistent nuisance, and his initial cheery mood began to give way to a weary and wary watchfulness as he kept half an eye on the enemy and half on the progress of the wagons in his charge.

  At the end of the first day, Cato calculated that they had advanced no more than eight miles, half the distance they had managed each day down on the plain. They camped on the crest of a hill above the treeline, surrounding their position with sharpened stakes as the ground was too strewn with boulders to permit the digging of a ditch. As the sun set, the temperature dropped sharply as the men huddled in their crowded tents and tried to sleep. The horses had no shelter, and as the wind rose they turned away from it and kept their heads down as it moaned through the rocks and rippled the tent leather and whipped any poorly tied flaps open with a sharp crack accompanied by the protests of the men within.

  Once he was satisfied that the camp was secure and that the sentries were keeping a good watch, Cato retired to his tent. A single candle, sheltered by a glass sleeve, provided barely enough light to make out the interior as he removed his armour and swordbelt. He saw that Bernisha had prepared his camp bed and laid his spare cloaks over it. There was also a small bowl set out on the table with cheese, bread and dried fruit. She gestured to it with an apologetic expression. This was the best meal that could be had under the circumstances. He ate hungrily and then took off his boots and eased himself beneath the covers. Bernisha took the bowl and finished off the crust and morsel of cheese Cato had left and then put the bowl away in his travel chest before taking a blanket and lying down in the corner of the tent.

  Cato rolled on his side, towards the candlelight, and though he was exhausted, sleep did not come to him. Instead his mind retraced the events of the campaign, always circling round the image of the boy dying in his arms. At length he was aware that the girl was also restless, shivering beneath her blanket. He watched her for a while before clearing his throat.

  ‘Bernisha . . .’

  She lowered the blanket a fraction and peered over the hem as Cato flicked back t
he covers and beckoned to her. After a brief hesitation, she rose and scurried across and climbed in beside him. The bed creaked as Cato made room for her and pulled the covers back. She continued to shiver and there was a light clicking from her teeth as she burrowed into his chest. He caught the unfamiliar scent of her hair, recalling that it had been over a year since he had lain with a woman, the wife of a senator who had a taste for decorated soldiers when she couldn’t find a gladiator to suit her appetite. He slipped his arm round her back and once Bernisha had stopped shivering they settled into an easy breathing rhythm as their bodies became warm. Cato felt a light tingle in his loins and shifted away slightly so that his groin was not pressed against her. He sighed. He felt tired, and tempted, and the two feelings did not sit easily together.

  ‘Mmm?’ Bernisha purred, edging herself up a fraction and looking up at him beneath the fringe of her dark hair.

  ‘Go to sleep,’ Cato whispered.

  She smiled and he felt her hand reach down and slide up under his tunic.

  ‘I said, go to . . .’

  Cato paused as her fingers curled lightly around his penis and applied the slightest of pressures. The tingle of a moment earlier intensified as Bernisha purred again in a deeper tone. ‘Mmmmm.’

  Cato was tense at first, and then slowly he relaxed into the bedroll and closed his eyes in bliss as she worked him into a state of arousal and erection. Then, shifting herself to straddle him she felt between her thighs and guided him inside her and began to ride him gently. This was against the usual custom for Roman men, most of whom regarded allowing a woman on top as degrading. But it felt good, and Cato let her continue without interruption. There was something about the fit of her that was different to the handful of other women Cato had known, something that fired up his sensitivity and which became more intense still as she increased the pace of her movements. Soon he felt the familiar tightening of his abdomen and then the release that flowed through his body like some divine sigh, before he slumped back into the bedroll.

  Bernisha rolled her hips gently as she stared down at him, her lips lifting in a saucy smile. As he became limp, she lifted herself, let him slip out, and then settled back at his side, pulling the covers up. Now they were warmer than ever and Cato’s previous troubled thoughts were banished and he felt calm and more content than he had been in a long time. But there was one issue he could no longer ignore.

  ‘Bernisha, you understand Greek, don’t you?’

  He felt her go tense and still beside him. Then she stirred but did not meet his eyes. ‘Hmmm?’

  ‘Don’t try and fool me any more. I’ve watched you when Greek is being spoken. You know the tongue.’

  She did not reply for a beat and then spoke cautiously. ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘Why have you been hiding that from me?’ Cato demanded, propping himself up on an elbow and turning her chin towards him. ‘Are you a spy, Bernisha?’

  She flinched. ‘No, my lord! I swear it.’

  ‘Are you spying for the Parthians, or for Rhadamistus? Did he send you to spy on me?’

  ‘I am not a spy.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘But, my lord, you chose me. In his tent.’

  That was true, Cato admitted to himself. She had been his pick. He searched his memory of the occasion for any hint that his choice had been surreptitiously directed towards selecting Bernisha, but could not think of anything. He nodded slowly, but his suspicions were still fully aroused. ‘Then why did you hide your ability to speak Greek from me? What possible reason could there be for you to do that? You have been able to follow exchanges between me and Rhadamistus. That smacks of espionage. Who are you working for? Tell me!’ He took her by the throat. ‘Tell me, or I’ll have you flogged.’

  She gasped, and then replied tremulously: ‘Lord, I swear I am no spy. I am simply a captive, taken by Rhadamistus’s men. That is all.’

  ‘Bollocks. You are no simple captive. Who are you?’

  ‘My father is a merchant. He trades between Armenia and Aegyptus. I often travelled with him, that is why I speak Greek . . . Greek and Latin.’

  ‘Latin?’ Now it was Cato’s turn to be still as he rapidly pondered her fresh admission. What had he said to Macro in her hearing? What of any significance?

  She nodded, still in his grip, and spoke in fluent Latin this time. ‘My father had me taught, so that he could deal with Roman merchants.’

  Cato’s mind was still reeling with the implications of what he had discovered. If she was not a spy, then she might have overheard things that made it impossible not to treat her as one. He would not trust her explanation because she had already deceived him. On the other hand, if she was a spy then she should be put to death.

  She had watched his expression closely and now spoke again. ‘If I was a spy then surely I would have done you harm? I had plenty of opportunity. But I looked after you. I cared for you, fed you, cleaned you . . . let you use my body. Because you saved me from Rhadamistus and that pack of animals he calls friends. Because I came to realise you are a good man. Have I done you any wrong, Tribune?’

  ‘Apart from deceive me?’ Cato removed his hand from her throat and sat up, making a little distance between them. ‘So why do that? Why hide from me your knowledge of Greek and Latin?’

  She pulled her tunic down to cover her nakedness. ‘When I was young, my father taught me never to reveal any more about myself than I had to. Sometimes, it served him well to have a daughter who could overhear the words of other merchants without anyone suspecting that she might understand. It is a lesson I have not forgotten.’

  Cato nodded. He could see the use of that and imagined a wily eastern trader using his daughter to gain intelligence from those he traded with. ‘A spy of sorts, then?’

  Bernisha nodded sheepishly.

  ‘And you have understood all of the conversations you heard in my tent, and that of Rhadamistus.’

  ‘Nothing I would ever repeat, I promise, Lord.’

  Cato stroked his jaw for a moment. ‘Does Rhadamistus know you speak other tongues?’

  ‘No. He knows nothing.’

  ‘Why are you afraid of him then?’

  ‘Afraid? Why would I not be afraid? His men took me from my home. He used me, and was about to hand me over to his officers as their whore, before he offered me to you instead.’

  Cato felt a stab of shame over what had passed between them earlier, now that he knew her story. Perhaps it was just a story, he mused. After all, she could be telling him anything, for any reason.

  She continued speaking in a low, husky voice. ‘I wanted to give myself to you. You saved me from Rhadamistus’s men. You have treated me well, and I have come to care for you, Tribune. I hoped you wanted me. I hoped it would please you. Instead you call me a spy, throttle me and threaten to have me flogged. If that is how you feel, then you might as well send me back to Rhadamistus.’

  It was a challenge and Cato decided to call her bluff. ‘I might do just that. In fact, I will.’

  He swung his legs out of the bed and stood up and strode towards the entrance to the tent, where he stubbed a toe on a rock. ‘Shit!’

  Standing on one leg he lifted his foot and rubbed the spot. He heard Bernisha laughing and glanced back angrily and she covered her hand with her mouth.

  ‘Guard!’ Cato called out.

  An instant later, one of the duty Praetorians entered the tent and snapped to attention. ‘Sir?’

  ‘I want this woman taken to the tent of Prince Rhadamistus.’

  ‘No!’ Bernisha cried. ‘You can’t!’

  ‘Get her out of my sight,’ Cato ordered, stepping aside for the soldier. He approached the bed and Bernisha cringed in front of him. The Praetorian grabbed her wrist and hauled her to her feet. She struggled like a wild animal and then bit his hand, hard.

  ‘Why, you fucken’ slut!’ The soldier balled his spare hand into a fist and drew it back.

  ‘Wait!’ Cato snapped. He stood
over Bernisha and grasped her by the shoulders.

  ‘You tell me the real reason why you are afraid of Rhadamistus, and you tell me now. Or I swear, by all the gods, I will send you back to him.’

  She glared at him for a moment and then lowered her head as her body slumped into a resigned posture. ‘Very well, Lord. I will tell you. If you give me your word you will keep me here.’

  ‘That depends on what you tell me.’

  She was silent and then sighed. ‘I will tell you the truth. Tell you everything. But only you.’ She glanced at the Praetorian, still grasping her wrist firmly, even as a dribble of blood rolled over his knuckles from the neat half-circle of the bite mark.

  ‘Wait outside,’ Cato ordered.

  Once the soldier had left the tent he sat Bernisha back down on the bed and stood in front of her, arms crossed.

  ‘Speak . . .’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Cato could see the anguish in Bernisha’s face as she carefully collected her thoughts before she explained. He prepared himself to hear her words with a high degree of caution and suspicion, until he was able to determine for himself if what she said turned out to be true. She had already concealed the truth from him once. By the same token she had tricked Rhadamistus as well, unless this was an elaborate double game and she had been spying for the Iberian all along to determine if his Roman allies were deceiving him. As he briefly considered this, Cato felt all the more vulnerable for himself and his men.

  ‘Tribune.’ Bernisha spoke softly, looking up at him with imploring eyes. ‘I bear you no ill-will. I swear that on the lives of my mother, my father, my sisters, and all the gods that I worship. Please believe me.’

  Cato said nothing and just stared back at her fixedly, his face a mask of severity.

  ‘I wish no harm to come to my family,’ she continued. ‘And that is why I hid my knowledge of Greek and Latin from you, and for no other reason. I wish, with all my heart, that I could have been honest with you, for I see that you are a good man. Despite what happened in Ligea. It is not in your nature to order a town to be destroyed and its people to be massacred. You were goaded into it by Rhadamistus. He poisoned your mind, Tribune, and directed your hand towards revenge and cruelty. The fate of Ligea was crafted by him, not you, and the blood that was spilled is on his hands and not yours.’