The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘I will not say it again, Tribune. Sheathe your swords and leave your man to us.’

  ‘No,’ Cato refused, keeping a careful watch on Rhadamistus’s followers, who had spilled out on either side. ‘Just keep edging back, Macro.’

  Aiming their swords high, the two officers backed away, while Glabius retreated behind them, never too far that he got separated from the two officers. Now some of the Romans from around the nearest campfires edged forward, some with swords drawn. The Iberians kept pace with the two Roman officers and their prisoner for a short distance before Rhadamistus called out a command and they halted, glaring at the Romans as they retreated to the safety of their lines. As soon as he felt safe, Cato returned his sword to its scabbard and ordered Macro to do the same. Then, with Glabius between them, they quick-marched to headquarters to make the arrangements for the following morning.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘The men are ready, sir,’ Macro reported as Cato stood in front of the punishment party. With him were the standards of both cohorts, and four Praetorians formed up around Glabius. The auxiliary had been stripped to his loincloth and stood barefoot in the rosy light of dawn. In front of them, on three sides, were ranged the cohort of slingers, each man in his leather cap, cape, tunic and boots. Their capes were swept back on one side to expose their sword handles. Optios and centurions stood in front of their denuded commands. Rhadamistus and his senior officers and eight men from the dead man’s unit waited behind the punishment party, ready to bear witness to the execution. The rest of the column had already crossed the river and formed up on the far bank, waiting for the order to resume the advance, once the execution was over.

  Cato and Macro exchanged a salute before the latter stood beside the prisoner. Cato paused a moment to look round at Glabius’s comrades, trying to gauge their mood, but their faces were impassive and their discipline seemed unaffected by the plight of their comrade. Glabius had spent the night under guard outside Cato’s tent. He had not slept, but begged Cato plaintively to spare his life, until Cato could stand it no longer and told him to keep his mouth shut if he wanted to avoid being gagged and bound. After that, the auxiliary had muttered miserably to himself in an undertone.

  Cato remained alone through the night, his sleep disturbed by the occasional moans of anguish from Glabius as the night remorselessly consumed what little time was left to him. As the first glimmer of dawn appeared on the horizon Macro brought some food for him but the auxiliary had no appetite and instead begged Macro to help him escape.

  ‘Can’t do that. Sorry, lad. The tribune’s word is the law and there’s no getting round it.’

  ‘But I have a family, Centurion. What’s to become of them?’

  ‘How am I supposed to know? Now come on, try and eat something. A little food in your belly ain’t going to do you any harm.’

  ‘Ain’t going to do me much good either.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ Macro set the bowl down. ‘I’ll be back when the morning assembly is sounded.’

  Once he was sure that Macro had gone, Cato rose from his bed and put on his boots before emerging from his tent. Glabius looked up, then automatically stood to attention.

  ‘At ease,’ Cato ordered, then gestured at the bowl of gruel. ‘Centurion Macro is right. That might do you some good.’

  Glabius ignored the food and met his commander’s gaze directly. ‘Why are you doing this to me, sir?’

  ‘You know why. You committed an offence that is punishable by death.’

  ‘That’s your interpretation, sir. I doubt whether it would hold up in front of a magistrate back in Rome.’

  ‘But we’re not in Rome.’

  It was a glib comment and Cato felt guilt and pity stir in his breast. ‘Look here, Glabius, you killed a man. That is the bald fact of the matter. Then I have the Iberians’ account of what happened, and yours.’

  ‘And the optio’s account, sir. Besides, we told the truth. The Iberians are lying bastards.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Cato conceded. ‘But the two versions do not agree. So all I know for certain is that there is the body of Rhadamistus’s man, and that you admitted killing him. On that basis I am obliged to carry out the punishment laid down in the regulations. You will die within the hour, Glabius. The question you must ask yourself is: in what manner do you choose to die? Will you die like a coward, crying and protesting your innocence? Or will you die like a Roman soldier? Proud and defiant in the face of death.’

  ‘Why should I care, sir? I’m dead either way.’

  ‘Yes, but how do you wish your comrades to remember you? More to the point, how do you want those Iberian bastards to remember you? It might not seem like much, but there is a small measure of revenge to be had here. Show them how a Roman dies. Head high, staring Charon in the face and showing his contempt for his enemies. If what you say is true then the man you killed was a coward. His comrades have dishonoured themselves by lying about him. They will be looking at you and hoping that you dishonour yourself by showing your fear and crying for mercy. Deny them that and you will have won a small victory over them, and you will leave an example behind to encourage your comrades . . . Do you understand?’

  Glabius sniffed with derision. ‘I understand that my own commanding officer has betrayed me for the sake of cosying up to his Iberian friends.’

  Cato felt anger surge through his veins, but restrained himself from snapping at the man. Glabius’s point hit home more acutely than he could know.

  ‘There are no further words to be said then. I’d suggest you eat that food. Like I overheard Centurion Macro say, it might help. Otherwise, make your peace with whichever gods you worship. Your time is short. It might be a good idea to make your last words count. Goodbye, Glabius. I’ll see you in the afterlife.’

  ‘Sir?’ Macro prompted quietly. ‘The men are waiting.’

  Cato stirred, suddenly aware that he had been staring at the assembled auxiliaries in silence for some time while his mind had been recalling the earlier hours. He nodded and cleared his throat before he ordered: ‘Very well. Escort the prisoner to the centre of the formation.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Macro saluted and took his place in front of the men guarding the prisoner. ‘Punishment party . . . Advance!’

  They made their way out into the open space, Macro and the Praetorians marching while Glabius did his best to keep up as they crossed the stony ground.

  ‘Punishment party, halt!’ Macro called out and the six men stopped beside a small pile of rocks that had been prepared for the occasion.

  There was a brief pause before Cato stepped forward and drew a breath. ‘Comrades! We are assembled here in accordance with the military code to bear witness to the execution of Gaius Glabius for the crime of killing a comrade. Glabius has freely confessed to the crime and therefore, by virtue of the power vested in me by the Senate and People of Rome, I have condemned him to death by stoning. Sentence to be carried out by his section of the second century of the cohort. Proceed!’

  Macro turned and took Glabius firmly by the arm and led him a few paces away from the Praetorians, then shoved him down on to his knees.

  ‘Execution party, advance!’

  At Macro’s order, seven men stepped out of the ranks of the auxiliary cohort, strode towards the pile of rocks and took one in each hand before forming a shallow crescent in front of Glabius. None would meet his defiant gaze for more than an instant. When the last of them was in position Macro spoke in a voice loud enough to be heard by all those gathered to witness the execution.

  ‘Gaius Glabius, do you have any last words?’

  Cato felt his stomach tighten anxiously as he looked on, praying that the auxiliary would do his best to die with some dignity, especially in front of Rhadamistus and the small group of Iberians standing with him.

  Glabius swallowed, then straightened his back and raised his chin defiantly. ‘Sir, I wish it to be known that I hold no ill-feeling towards my commanding officer, who is carryi
ng out his duty . . . To my comrades I offer my thanks for the companionship of the many years we have served together, for all that we have shared. As we have grieved for fallen comrades before, I would ask that you grieve for me now. I . . . I ask that you bear news of my death to my family in Antioch and tell them that though I was put to death, I did not dishonour myself . . .’ He paused, then gulped and lowered his head and Cato feared that his nerve had failed at the last moment and that his dignity might crumble into abject despair. He gestured quickly to Macro to bring things to an end.

  ‘Execution party . . .’ Macro began.

  Glabius snapped his head up and shouted, ‘Long live the emperor! Long live sacred Rome!’

  ‘Begin!’ Macro bellowed as soon as the condemned man’s final words died on his lips.

  His comrades hesitated, no one wanting to cast the first rock.

  ‘Do it!’ Glabius cried out. ‘Now, brothers! Let’s show those barbarian bastards how a true Roman dies!’

  The man on the extreme right hurled his rock with all his strength, sacrificing accuracy as a result, and the missile glanced off Glabius’s hip. He opened his mouth to cry in pain, then snapped it shut. Another rock flew at him, striking him on the chest, then another, cracking against the skull just above his ear. Then they were all throwing rocks at him in earnest, desperate to get the deed done as swiftly as possible and spare their comrade by granting him a quick death. Cato looked on with gritted teeth as a rock gashed Glabius’s forehead and blood flowed over his brow and streaked down his face to spatter his breast. Another hit him on the eye and he tumbled back on to the ground. The execution party snatched up more rocks and threw them at his body as Glabius instinctively curled into a ball. The sound of the impacts reminded Cato of a laundry he had visited in Rome where men beat wet cloaks with great wooden paddles. Now and then Glabius lurched and spasmed as blood flowed from the gashes in his skin. Then he lay still, his body moving only under the impact of the rocks still being thrown at him.

  Macro allowed it to continue for a little longer before he gave the order to stop and the men drew back, some still holding rocks, as their chests heaved with exertion and their faces were fixed in masks of anguish. He paced over to the body and stood over it. Glabius still lay in a ball, his knees drawn up to his chest. The curve of his back was a mass of bruises, cuts and streaks of blood. His collar bone had been shattered and a bloodied shard of bone projected through his skin.

  ‘Glabius?’ Macro spoke softly. When there was no response he used the toe of his boot to turn the body over so that Glabius flopped on to his back. Macro’s breath caught in his throat as he saw that the jaw had been smashed and in the mangled remains of the mouth broken teeth fringed the stump of his tongue where Glabius had bitten through it. Then Macro saw that Glabius’s chest was still rising and falling, and a moment later a hideous gurgling moan came from his throat.

  ‘Right, lad, you’ve had quite enough,’ Macro muttered as he drew his dagger. He kneeled beside the body and placed the point of the blade in the soft tissue under Glabius’s chin and rammed the dagger home, twisting it from side to side as blood gushed over his knuckles. Glabius’s limbs trembled violently as his toes and fingers stretched to their fullest extent. With a grunt of effort, Macro jerked the blade free and eased himself upright. The stink of urine and shit came from Glabius’s loincloth and Macro wrinkled his nose as he found a clean patch of cloth to wipe off as much of the blood as he could from the dagger and his hands. Then he sheathed the blade and stood up, turning towards Cato.

  ‘Beg to report that the prisoner is dead, sir!’

  Cato crossed over to Rhadamistus. ‘I trust that Your Majesty accepts that justice has been done?’

  Rhadamistus’s face betrayed no emotion as he gave a curt nod. ‘I am satisfied.’

  Then he turned and walked away, his men following behind like a pack of cowed hounds. Cato regarded them with contempt for a moment and then filled his lungs to give the order for the cohort to be dismissed. The auxiliary slingers broke ranks and filed back to take up their packs and make ready to march, while the colour party made for the ford to cross the river. At a quiet command from Macro the men from Glabius’s section who still had rocks in their hands let them drop and stood silently by his body as Cato approached. He glanced briefly at the mutilated features of the dead man before he addressed Glabius’s comrades sternly.

  ‘There’s no time to give him full funeral rites. Get him on the pyre and make sure it’s alight before you catch up with your cohort. I know that some of you feel that Glabius should not have been executed. That’s too bad, and there’s nothing that can be done about it now. There will be no further trouble with the Iberians and no attempts at avenging Glabius. If there is, then I will hand the individuals responsible over to Rhadamistus to deal with. And we already know how harshly he deals with those in his own ranks who fail him. Imagine what he might do to one of you . . . Now, pick up the body and get it on the pyre.’

  He and Macro stepped aside as the auxiliaries stooped to lift Glabius from the bloodstained ground, and as they made off his head lolled back, so that he seemed to stare directly at Cato, forcing him to suppress a shudder.

  ‘A pity that.’ Macro clicked his tongue. ‘I had a word with his mates before the execution. Seems that Glabius was a good sort. And a decent soldier. Such a waste.’

  ‘Yes,’ Cato conceded. ‘At least he faced his death with courage. I’m grateful to him for that.’

  ‘Grateful?’ Macro shook his head slowly. ‘Ain’t going to do him much good now, is it?’

  ‘Not him. But I swear before Jupiter, Best and Greatest, that I will ensure that his savings reach his family, and that I will match whatever sum he leaves them from my own purse.’

  ‘If that’s what it takes to make you feel any better about this.’

  Cato felt pricked with irritation by his friend’s remark. ‘We have finished our business here, Centurion.’

  Macro stood to attention. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cato indicated the smears of blood still on Macro’s hands. ‘Get yourself cleaned up and join the column. Dismissed.’

  As the column marched away from the river along the road to their goal at Artaxata, Cato glanced back down the shimmering ranks of the Praetorians, over the baggage train to the men of the auxiliary cohort, and wondered if the loss of Glabius was more keenly felt than those men they had lost in combat. An execution always hit the men’s morale hard and it was poor timing given that the decisive encounter of the campaign was imminent. Glabius’s death weighed heavily on Cato’s conscience, even though he had done his best to conceal the depth of his misgivings. What else could he have done? he asked himself. In war, a commander must always weigh the cost of his men’s lives against the desired outcome as sparingly as possible. The certainty of the death of one man was a lesser evil than the risk of the death of many. It seemed like a sound enough policy, until a face was put on the man who was required to die. Then the obvious thought formed in his mind. What if it had been Macro? What would he have done then? Try as he might, Cato could not imagine ever giving the order to condemn his closest friend to such a death. And that self-knowledge concerned him deeply. Not just for the shaming depth of the hypocrisy of having Glabius executed while Macro would have been spared, but also because it proved that Cato lacked the necessary steel that he believed a man of his rank should possess. It was a hard truth, and it echoed in his mind as he led the column to face the enemy and decide the fate of the kingdom of Armenia.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The character of the landscape changed dramatically as they approached the Armenian capital. The hills gave way to undulating terrain, watered by tributaries of the Araxes river, where sprawling farms and orchards spread out either side of the road. The surface was free of the rocks and irregular ruts that had hindered steady progress before, and the column was able to cover a good fifteen miles each day before constructing a fortified camp. The fertile ground was
easy to break up to form a rampart and ditch and there was no shortage of food to replenish the stores that had been depleted while crossing the mountains.

  Word of Ligea’s fate had spread far in advance of the marching column, and the local people hurried forward to proclaim their loyalty to Rhadamistus and offer the best of their food and wine to him and his soldiers, as well as the Romans marching with them. The advance soon took on something of a carnival appearance as farmers, villagers and the folk of small towns thrust bright blooms into the hands of the soldiers and many of the men took to turning them into wreaths to wear about their heads. Wineskins and haunches of meat were bought from the locals for a handful of bronze coins and shared freely because they were so cheap. Though there was still dust in the air along the road, the men chatted and joked, and occasionally bursts of marching songs were picked up by one century after another and the soldiers sang lustily, as was their wont when their individual voices were magnified into such a rousing volume.

  ‘They’re in a good mood.’ Macro grinned as he joined Cato, who was sitting in the shade of a copse of cedar trees as the column halted for a rest at noon on the third day since crossing the Araxes river. He lifted his canteen and took a swig of the watered wine before offering it to Cato.

  ‘Thanks.’ Cato took a swallow and for once he found that Macro had diluted the wine just enough to make it pleasurably palatable. Or was it that he had simply become used to the brew? he wondered.

  ‘It’s just as well,’ he remarked on Macro’s comment as he handed the canteen back. ‘We should reach Artaxata tomorrow. Late in the day, I should think, so we’ll make camp and start the siege the next morning. Once Tiridates is removed the rest of Armenia should fall in behind the people of the capital, and swear loyalty to Rhadamistus.’

  Macro nodded, then scanned the surrounding countryside. Distant patrols of Iberian horse-archers dotted the landscape in an arc two miles ahead of the column. ‘Funny, I would have thought that we would have seen some Parthians, given how close we are.’