The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  Cato had tried to shoo the dog away as he oversaw the initial work being carried out on the bastion, but the brute stayed close and then followed him as he returned to the camp. By the time he reached the gate, he had relented and took up the frayed leash. After all, the dog had saved him, and the least he could do was to see that it was watered and well fed before he decided whether to cast it loose or keep it. Almost as if it had read his mind the dog nuzzled his hand and licked his fingers and gave a plaintive whine until he stroked its head.

  ‘Oh, I think it’s love at first sight, as far as he’s concerned.’ Macro grinned. ‘What are you going to do with him?’

  ‘Haven’t decided yet.’ Cato looked down. As Macro said, he really was quite ugly, a bad cross between a hunting dog and the runt of a litter of the scraggiest of jackals, Cato reflected. And yet, as he regarded the dog, it looked up at him and began to wag its bushy tail, sweeping it happily across the gravelled ground. Something like affection stirred in Cato’s breast and he patted its flank. ‘Oh, he can stay for now.’

  Macro’s nose wrinkled in distaste. ‘He stinks. He needs a bath.’

  ‘Bernisha can see to it,’ Cato decided. ‘As soon as she has finished cleaning and dressing my wound. But he needs some food first.’

  ‘Here, let me,’ Macro intervened, delving into his sidebag for the remaining scraps of the meat he had smuggled out of Rhadamistus’s tent the previous evening. There was some gristle, and a few strips of meat still attached to the bones, and he tossed them to the dog. The beast leaped up and bolted down what was immediately edible and then settled to chew on a bone, one paw pinning it down while his jaws and tongue worked furiously.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Macro mused. ‘Poor bastard’s starving.’

  Bernisha tied off the dressing securely. Cato nodded approvingly and then indicated the dog and made a scrubbing motion. She scowled but took the dog’s leash and gave him a harsh tug before leading him towards the camp gate closest to the river.

  ‘The dog needs a name, if you’re going to keep him,’ said Macro. ‘But if he’s going to be a nuisance I can take care of it. I’ll make it quick. Don’t like to see animals suffer. Parthians on the other hand . . .’

  ‘Well, yes, naturally,’ Cato concurred as he watched the dog trotting beside Bernisha. It felt like a monstrous act of betrayal to allow Macro to put down the dog who had saved his life. ‘I think I’ll keep him. Feed him up and train him well and he’d make a decent hunting dog, I dare say.’

  ‘A hunting dog?’ Macro arched a brow at Cato. ‘Since when were you a hunting man?’

  ‘There’s always a time to take up a new interest,’ Cato said defensively. ‘And I’ll begin with . . . Damn, he needs a name.’ He stared after the dog once again. ‘Looks lean and hungry . . . Cassius is as good a name as any.’

  ‘Cassius?’ Macro pursed his lips. ‘Why not? Cassius then.’

  Cato stood up and flexed his elbow gently. There was a sharp stinging from the wound, but aside from a little stiffness it felt serviceable enough. He reached for his helmet and turned to Macro. ‘It’s time we formally announced the start of the siege. Let’s go.’

  They strode through the camp and out of the gate to where the bucina-man and Cato’s bodyguards were waiting beside their mounts. As Macro clambered on to his saddle, Cato fastened the straps of his helmet under his chin and mounted his own horse. From the slight vantage point he surveyed the night’s progress with satisfaction. The forward redoubt was coming on well, and the sound of hammering and sawing came from within as the work party continued constructing its defences. The gaps between the buildings had already been sealed with abandoned wagons and carts and doors and shutters nailed to the outside of the vehicles to act as a makeshift palisade. More men were visible on the roofs, erecting hoardings opposite the city walls to protect the slingers and provide shelter for the bolt-throwers once the pieces had been hauled up the internal stairs and the weapons assembled.

  To one side of the buildings, no more than twenty paces away, another party of men were busy putting the finishing touches to a crude earth rampart facing Artaxata’s main gatehouse. It would provide shelter for the construction of the rest of the siege battery once the approach trench was completed. A third party was toiling away on the first angle, just out of bowshot from the city walls, picks chinking into the stony soil to break it up before it was shovelled to each side to protect those passing along the trench. Around the walls the Iberian patrols kept watch for any attempt to break out of the city.

  Cato nodded with satisfaction. ‘Let’s hope that our efforts impress the other side as much as they impress me.’

  Macro clicked his tongue. ‘They’ll be even more impressed when the battery is complete and the first rocks start flying over their heads.’

  They were interrupted by the sound of horsemen and turned to see Rhadamistus and his nobles trotting out of the camp gate towards them.

  ‘Oh, wonderful,’ Macro growled. ‘His nibs does not look pleased.’

  Cato turned his horse towards the Iberian and raised his hand in greeting. ‘A fine morning, Majesty. I was about to offer terms to King Tiridates.’

  ‘Were you, indeed?’ Rhadamistus frowned as he gazed towards the redoubt and the other preparations for the opening of the siege. ‘Would you mind explaining this activity? I was not notified about it.’

  Cato affected surprise. ‘I apologise. These are merely the routine actions of any Roman army besieging a town. I had not thought to inform you. But, as you can see, we are making good progress.’

  ‘I would have preferred to have been told about your routine actions, Tribune.’

  Cato dipped his head. ‘Of course, Majesty. I will inform you of each step I take in future. As it happens, I would also like to be informed about the reports given to you by your patrols. Last night, while I was supervising our work parties, there was some kind of disturbance from further along the wall. I heard the blast of one of your men’s horns. Might I enquire as to the cause?’

  Rhadamistus glanced away towards the city gates to try and conceal his guilt. ‘A small matter. One of my patrols came across a party of enemy horsemen. A few blows were exchanged before the enemy bolted into the desert. One of my men received a flesh wound. I did not accord it sufficient significance to inform you.’

  ‘I see,’ Cato persisted calmly. ‘And did this enemy party come from the city, or from outside?’

  ‘Does it matter?’ Rhadamistus asked airily. ‘They were bested by my warriors and driven off. That is all that matters.’

  ‘I hope so, Majesty.’ Cato gestured towards Artaxata. ‘You have timed your moment well. Do you wish to accompany me as I ask for the surrender of your capital?’

  Rhadamistus looked towards the walls. Here and there, a helmet glinted briefly in the early-morning sunlight as defenders risked a brief glimpse over the battlements before ducking back out of sight of the slingers on top of the redoubt. He returned his gaze to Cato and smiled thinly.

  ‘There is nothing I would enjoy more than ordering that those dogs surrender Artaxata to me. However, the last time I stood outside these walls and demanded the surrender of the city I was obliged to deploy a ruse to win the day. I fear that some of my former subjects might be tempted not to honour the rules of parley.’

  ‘Ah yes. I recall that you bribed the Roman garrison to hand over the previous king, your uncle, and that you promptly murdered him and his family.’ Cato paused, as if in reflection. ‘I can see that such an action might undermine some people’s trust. You are right, Majesty, it might be best for you to leave negotiations to me.’

  Cato took up his reins and urged his horse forward. Macro and the others followed on and the small party of horsemen made its way towards the city gates. Some of the men in the work parties looked up as they passed by, before their officers snapped an order and they hurriedly continued their duties. The sun was well clear of the horizon and almost in their eyes so that Cato and his men had to
squint as they approached the capital.

  ‘I hope they don’t give us the same treatment they might want to give Rhadamistus,’ Macro said quietly.

  ‘We’ll know soon enough. Let’s hope there’s enough respect left for Rome that they wouldn’t dare trick us.’

  ‘If not?’

  ‘Then I hope you’ll accept my apology when we meet in the next life.’

  Macro laughed loudly and shook his head. ‘You’re a proper caution, Tribune Cato. Anyone ever tell you that?’

  ‘Not until just then. Now, what’s this?’

  They had just passed between the redoubt and the forward rampart set up for the siege engines when there was a dull rumble as the city gates began to open. Cato reined in and raised a hand to halt Macro and the others. Before the great studded timbers stopped swinging a party of men on foot emerged and conferred briefly as they glanced towards Cato. Then one of them, dressed in a plain black tunic and cap, was given a gentle shove before he paced warily towards the waiting horsemen. As he drew closer Cato and the others could see that the man was tall and gaunt and advanced in years. His eyes flicked from side to side anxiously as he warily observed the men on top of the redoubt and the sentries keeping watch from behind the rampart. There was no point in letting the enemy see too much, Cato decided, and he cupped a hand to his mouth and called out in Greek, trusting that the language was as widely used in Artaxata as it was across the rest of the lands that had once been ruled by Alexander the Great.

  ‘Stop there! Come no closer.’

  The old man halted and clasped his hands together in front of him. Cato clicked his tongue and urged his horse forward. He wondered if the enemy had also decided to discuss surrender terms. In which case it might be better to put them off their guard. A moment later the mounted Romans halted in a shallow curve in front of the man.

  ‘Who are you, and what do you want?’ Cato demanded. ‘Be quick about it, as we don’t have time to waste on pleasantries. We have a siege to begin.’ He gestured towards the work going on at the battery. ‘We’ll have your walls down in a matter of days, and then sack the city. So speak up, what do you want?’

  ‘Begging your pardon, Excellency.’ The old man bowed deeply and straightened up quickly. ‘I am Arghalis, the chamberlain of the royal palace. I have been sent by the Armenian nobles of the court to speak for them.’

  Cato’s ears pricked up. The nobles? Not Tiridates?

  ‘So? What do they have to say?’ he asked tersely.

  The man swallowed. ‘Excellency, the tyrant, Tiridates, has fled the city. He escaped last night with his remaining Parthians. Only a handful of palace guards remain.’

  Cato and Macro exchanged a look of surprise before Cato interrogated him further. ‘Why did he leave?’

  ‘Tiridates did not have enough men to resist you. As soon as he had news of the approach of your army he sent to Parthia for help. None came. Most of the Parthian soldiers were recalled by Vologases months ago, Excellency. There are rumours that the Parthians need every man to deal with a rebellion in Hyrcania. He had no hope of resisting your army. And so the people of Artaxata rejoice at the return of King Rhadamistus.’ He leaned to one side and looked past Cato to where the Iberian and his advisers were waiting just outside the camp. ‘I assume that is His Majesty over there?’

  Cato ignored the query. ‘So who is in charge of Artaxata? The nobles?’

  The chamberlain nodded.

  ‘They wish to surrender?’

  The old man made an anxious face. ‘They wish to discuss terms, Excellency. In return for the surrender of the city the nobles demand that you guarantee their safety, and mine, from reprisals.’

  ‘Reprisals? It’s hardly surprising that the Armenian people might want revenge against those who collaborated with the Parthians. But their fate is not a matter for me to decide. That will have to wait on the word of King Rhadamistus.’

  The expression of anxiety that had formed on Arghalis’s face took on a new intensity as he wrung his hands. ‘Excellency, it is not the wrath of the common people that we fear, but that of His Majesty. I wonder if you are aware of the circumstances under which he was forced to quit Armenia when Tiridates seized the throne? Loyalties were somewhat . . . divided, one might say.’

  ‘I imagine one might,’ Cato replied coldly. ‘That is a matter between you, the nobles and your king. Once you have surrendered. And let me tell you this . . .’ He leaned forward in his saddle and stared intently at the chamberlain. ‘There will be no guarantees for the safety of you and your friends over there. You will surrender Artaxata to Armenia’s rightful king, and you will do it immediately. If you don’t, and I have to take the city by force, then I guarantee that I will hunt down you and those noble men, and their families, and I will have your heads mounted on spikes around the walls of the city to feed the crows.’ Cato straightened up and stared at the man with disdain. ‘Those are the terms. The only terms on offer. Take them or leave them. I give you until noon to decide. If you surrender, then you will open the gates and I will lead my men into the city. If the gates remain closed then my men will batter your walls down and bring fire and the sword to you and your people, without mercy. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Excellency.’

  ‘Then begone!’

  The chamberlain turned abruptly and scuttled back to those waiting outside the gate.

  Macro chuckled as he watched the old man stumble and pick up his pace, glancing back over his shoulder in terror.

  ‘Well, lad, you’ll put the fear of the gods into that lot. They’ll be shitting themselves when he tells them what you said. Nice touch, that, about the heads feeding the crows.’

  ‘I meant every word of it. If we lose one more man than we have to then I will make those responsible pay for it.’ Cato wheeled his horse around and trotted back towards the camp to report to Rhadamistus. Macro stared after him briefly and puffed his cheeks before he urged his horse to follow. He had hoped that his friend had put his troubles behind him and been restored to the man Macro knew before. But there was an edge to him now, almost all the time, a world-weariness that permitted only a glimpse of the usual banter that had passed between them. It was as if Cato were hiding something from him, something he dared not reveal to Macro. And that smacked of a lack of trust that the latter found hurtful after all they had been through together. But one thing Macro had long since learned: there was little point in trying to coax it out of his friend. Cato could be an obdurate bastard at times and was prepared to take the burdens of the world on his shoulders rather than risk being seen as unequal to such an impossible task. The lad was a vine cane for his own back, Macro concluded. All he could do was stand at his friend’s side and do what he could to keep Cato out of harm’s way whenever it could be avoided. That was what friends and comrades did for each other.

  As far as Macro was concerned, the soldier’s world was characterised by hardship and violence, at the behest of scheming statesmen with no more integrity than a half-starved rat. In such a world the greatest treasure of all was the men around you that you could depend on. The men you would trust with your life, unhesitatingly. Cato was one of that rare breed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Macro screwed his eyes up at the sun, then tapped his vine cane against the side of his greave as he paced up and down at the front of the column. The first four centuries of the Praetorian cohort were formed up in close order, three hundred paces from the city gates. Rhadamistus and his small group of nobles, with his bodyguard, were sitting on horses in a gap between the second and third centuries, where they would be well protected once the column entered the city. Cato and the colour party and ten picked men would march at the head with Macro.

  ‘It’s time,’ Macro announced. ‘Noon, I’d say. Or just after.’

  Cato was standing still, feet braced apart, hands clasped behind his back, and had not moved for nearly half an hour, much to the irritation of his friend. Close by, Cassius was gnawing happily on
a bone as he tried to get at the marrow. It was important to Cato to try and recover the unflappable persona he had presented to his men before his world collapsed in on him at Ligea, as he cringed with shame at the thought of being considered weak-minded and unable to cope with the strains of command. An officer, especially one of his rank, must earn the respect of his men if they were to follow him confidently. For a man as plagued by self-consciousness as Cato, the very idea that his men would regard him with contempt, or, worse, pity, made him feel nauseous. The tapping of Macro’s vine cane interrupted his introspection and he stirred.

  ‘Patience,’ he said gently and cocked an eye at the sun gleaming in the heavens. As best as he could estimate it, Macro was right. It was noon. But there was nothing to be achieved by pig-headed punctiliousness and giving the order to dismiss the men and continue with the siege. Better to give the people of Artaxata the benefit of the doubt for a little longer.

  ‘They’d better stick to their side of the deal,’ Macro said sourly. ‘Not that you can expect much honesty from these bloody easterners. Treacherous dogs, the lot of them. I like my barbarians to play straight. Like those Germanian bastards. They may look like upright hunting dogs, but they fight fair and stick to their word.’

  ‘Really?’ Cato looked at him. ‘I seem to recall a certain Arminius leading General Varus up the forest path, and that didn’t end so well for Rome.’

  Macro frowned. ‘Well, Arminius was an exception, obviously. But my point about this lot here in the east holds true and I defy anyone to prove otherwise.’