The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  Given what Bernisha had revealed to him, Cato was inclined to agree and the thought soured his spirits.

  ‘Ah!’ Macro stopped tapping his vine cane and craned his neck. ‘And about bloody time.’

  Cato turned to see that the gates were swinging open once again and a moment later a small squad of soldiers, no more than twenty men, he estimated, emerged from the entrance and formed up on either side of it. After them came what looked like the same party of nobles that had thrust the hapless Arghalis forward to ask for terms.

  A thudding of hoofs caused Cato to glance over his shoulder and he saw Rhadamistus, robes flying, galloping to the front of the column. He reined in sharply, his horse kicking up a small dust storm that caught in Cato’s throat and made him cough. Cassius stirred and his muzzle wrinkled as a low snarl rumbled in his throat.

  ‘Majesty,’ Cato tried not to splutter. ‘You see, your people welcome your return.’

  Rhadamistus grinned. ‘Indeed! Armenia is mine again.’

  ‘Yes, Majesty. You have your kingdom, and your throne returned to you. And I imagine that you are to be reunited with your wife very soon.’

  Rhadamistus’s lips lifted into an amused smile. ‘Yes. I shall be with her again. Now, let us not delay a moment longer, Tribune. Order your men to march into the city.’

  Cato nodded. ‘At your command, Majesty. But, for safety’s sake, may I ask you to return to your bodyguards?’

  ‘No. I will march at the head of my army, like any king returning in triumph should. You may ride directly behind me, in the place of honour, as my trusted ally and servant.’

  Cato made himself smile. ‘I thank you, Majesty.’

  ‘Then let’s be quick about it, and begin!’

  Cato had one of the headquarters clerks take the dog’s leash and then mounted his horse and gave the nod to Macro. The latter filled his lungs and faced down the column of Praetorians, four abreast, in neat ranks that would have graced the parade ground back in Rome.

  ‘Second Cohort of Praetorians! Prepare to advance at the steady pace . . . Advance!’

  At once the stillness was broken as the column stepped out, nailed boots crunching on the stony ground in a regular rhythm as each century rippled towards the city. Rhadamistus tapped his heels into his mount’s flanks and the horse walked ahead, with Cato half a length behind and just to the right of the Iberian. As the column approached the gatehouse Cato could see faces appearing along the wall on either side. The majority of them appeared to be civilians and therefore presented little danger. He felt his innate suspicion begin to ease. He should be feeling elation, he chided himself. After all, the campaign was over. It had been a success. Rhadamistus was on the verge of reclaiming his throne, and without a rock or bolt having to be shot at the city. But equally Cato knew that those who rushed to celebration often had cause to regret it. Until Rhadamistus was safely seated on his throne and Artaxata was in the hands of the Roman soldiers, and their Iberian allies, Cato would leave nothing to chance. He turned in his saddle to address Macro.

  ‘Keep the formation tight, Centurion.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  It was, perhaps, an unnecessary order, but Cato needed to feel reassured that the men would be ready to fight if there was any trickery. The closer they drew to the gates the more he felt the familiar icy tension in the back of his neck.

  As Rhadamistus reached the soldiers either side of the gate, they snapped to attention, staring straight ahead. Beyond them the chamberlain and the handful of nobles went down on their knees and bowed their heads. The Iberian stopped his mount just short of them so that the nearest flinched at the proximity of the horse’s hoofs. Behind him, Cato raised a hand to halt the column and Macro bellowed the order. Then, in the stillness, the chamberlain’s plaintive voice rose.

  ‘Your Majesty, we greet you in the name of the people of Artaxata, and all of Armenia. The kingdom welcomes the return of our true and only ruler. All hail King Rhadamistus!’

  ‘Hail the king!’ the nobles and soldiers echoed. ‘Hail King Rhadamistus!’

  As the echoes faded off the city walls, Rhadamistus surveyed the men in front of him with a stern eye before he responded to the greeting. ‘Yes, I have returned. There is much to be done, so let us waste no more time. What is your name and title?’ he demanded.

  ‘Arghalis, Majesty.’ The chamberlain’s voice trembled. ‘I am the royal chamberlain.’

  ‘Ah, yes. I remember you. You used to run the kitchens. Is that not so?’

  ‘Yes, Majesty.’

  ‘And after I was ousted, you were promoted by Tiridates, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, Majesty. After he executed your chamberlain he needed a replacement. He selected me. I had no choice in the matter, Majesty,’ he pleaded.

  ‘So you say. I’ll find out the truth soon enough and there will be many changes in the royal household. For now, you may remain my chamberlain.’

  ‘I thank you, Majesty. With all my—’

  ‘Later, Arghalis. I want to return to my palace at once. You and these others can lead the way, and clear the welcoming crowds aside before me and my army. On your feet, all of you!’

  The chamberlain and the others scrambled up and hurried back through the gates and into the city as Rhadamistus walked his mount under the arch, and Cato and the rest followed at a respectful distance, yet near enough to spring forward and protect Rhadamistus if there was any sign of danger. On the other side of the gate was an open area, with a nymphaeum to one side where water ran clear from spouts inside the mouths of sculpted lions. On the other side were a guardhouse, stables and the stalls of the tax collectors ready to assess the tariff on those entering the city, and on the goods brought in by merchants. Ahead lay a relatively broad avenue, lined with columns, stretching into the heart of the city. At the end, the avenue climbed up to an acropolis upon which the palace had been built and where the rulers of Armenia could look out over the capital and the teeming multitude that lived within its walls. But, glancing round, Cato could see no sign of any welcoming crowd. The small number of civilians on the walls either side of the gatehouse looked down at Rhadamistus in silence. A handful of people were abroad on the streets, but as soon as they spied their king and his soldiers they melted away, shutting themselves behind doors and disappearing up side alleys rather than risk attracting his attention.

  Macro, who was marching at Cato’s side, could not help feeling a little anxious about the brooding stillness around them, as he spoke softly. ‘A suspicious man might well think we were being led into a trap.’

  ‘It had crossed my mind too,’ said Cato, then he gestured towards the chamberlain and the nobles, walking a short distance ahead of Rhadamistus. ‘As long as they’re still with us I reckon we’re safe. That lot don’t strike me as the kind who willingly put themselves in any danger.’

  He stared at the figure of the Iberian prince who would be king. Rhadamistus sat stiffly in his saddle and stared directly ahead. The excitement and cheerfulness he had shown as the gates opened had swiftly died away. ‘I think they may be in more danger than they realise.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This is not the triumphant homecoming our friend has been expecting.’

  ‘I was under the impression he was keen to be hated and feared.’

  Cato shrugged. ‘I imagine that’s what all despots claim, until they need to be loved, and then it’s too late. Mark my words, he will take this as an insult and that means someone is going to pay for it.’ He glanced down at his friend with a wry smile. ‘It’s the same the world over. We’ve seen it often enough back in Rome. When the powerful feel hurt and frustration and unleash their rage, then the rest of us have to find a safe corner to shelter in, until it blows over. Something tells me there’s a storm brewing.’

  The motley procession reached the foot of the ramp leading up to the palace without incident. Ahead, the road rose a short distance then turned to one side to begin a two-stage zigzag before rea
ching the palace gates at the top of the acropolis. Close to, Cato could see that it was no more than half the height of the Capitoline Hill in Rome, but it still provided an easily defended strongpoint that dominated the city. A handful of guards grounded their spears as the new king rode through the arch under the gate tower. Possibly the same guards who had stood to attention as the previous occupant of the throne fled several hours before, Cato mused. It was also likely that many, if not most, of the servants of the palace were those who had waited on Rhadamistus before he had been forced into exile. In which case their reaction to his return would reveal much about the nature of the king and his kingdom.

  A low wall ran around the line of the rock upon which the palace had been built and the ground within had been levelled to provide plenty of space for the accommodation, gardens and storerooms. Despite the opulence of the buildings and their setting, Cato was surprised to see so few servants in evidence. Those that were there dropped to their knees and bowed their faces to the ground as soon as they caught sight of Rhadamistus and did not stir again until he had passed by and progressed another fifty feet or so. The chamberlain stopped outside a columned portico and the nobles drew aside and bowed their heads as their king dropped lightly from his saddle and strode through into the entrance to a lofty hall beyond. At once the chamberlain and the others scurried after him.

  Cato dismounted and handed the reins to one of his men before he glanced round the interior of the palace compound, rapidly filling up with Praetorians and the first of the Iberian cataphracts to enter the palace. He turned to Macro.

  ‘Your first section is to come with me. The rest can fall out, but I don’t want them wandering around. They stay here. I know how light-fingered some of them can be. But we’re guests, not conquerors. Make sure they don’t forget that.’

  Macro raised his vine cane and winked. ‘You can rely on this.’

  ‘I’m counting on it. Meanwhile, take some men and see what accommodation there is for us here. And somewhere for Cassius to be kept?’

  Macro glanced over to see the dog straining at the leash as it raised its nose to sniff the scents of the palace compound. ‘Don’t know what you see in that mongrel.’

  ‘Maybe he’ll make a nice pet for Lucius when this is over.’

  ‘I’m thinking maybe Lucius will make a nice snack for him.’

  Cato smiled, then turned the conversation back to the business at hand. ‘I’d rather we had both cohorts and the baggage train somewhere safe. If there’s not enough room then find some quarters as close to the ramp as possible. If you need me, I’ll be in there with the king.’

  ‘Sooner you than me, lad,’ Macro responded with feeling. Then he turned to order the first eight men of his century forward to act as the tribune’s escort.

  Cato checked his helmet was on straight, adjusted his sword strap so the scabbard hung neatly at his side, then drew a deep breath. ‘Right, let’s go.’

  He led them out of the sunlight into the shaded portico and thence into the reception hall, a modest space by comparison to the imperial palace in Rome, but imposing nonetheless as the columns along the wall supported a vaulted ceiling painted dark blue and pricked out with golden stars and a large silver crescent so that it was like looking up into a clear night sky. Corridors opened on both sides and ahead lay a doorway, three times the height of a man, and ten feet across. The doors were open and as Cato strode through them he noticed that they were of a dark wood inlaid with ivory and silver designs that depicted hunting scenes. Beyond lay the royal audience chamber, the ceiling towering even higher than the reception hall, and tall windows letting light and a breeze flow into the chamber. Cato quietly ordered his men to guard the door and took his position to one side and slightly apart from the group of nobles. A moment later those who had accompanied the king on his march from Syria, together with the dismounted cataphracts of his personal bodyguard, entered the chamber and formed a separate group.

  Rhadamistus had already mounted the dais set against the far wall where a tapestry covered with more gold stars against a rich dark-blue cloth hung behind the throne. The throne itself was constructed from ebony inset with geometric ivory patterns, and a large silk cushion covered the seat. Rhadamistus inspected the throne for a moment, under the anxious gaze of the chamberlain and the small party of nobles and courtiers, no more than twenty in number.

  ‘It stinks of Tiridates,’ he announced in Greek as he plucked the cushion from the throne and tossed it to one side of the dais. ‘Burn that and have a fresh one brought at once.’

  The chamberlain hurried to the cushion to pick it up.

  ‘Not you, you dolt!’ Rhadamistus snapped. ‘Have a servant deal with it.’

  ‘Yes, Majesty.’

  Rhadamistus looked round the chamber as he sat down on the bare wood. ‘Where are they all? The servants?’

  Arghalis lowered his head so that he would not have to meet his master’s gaze as he replied: ‘Many of them have left the palace, Majesty.’

  ‘A king cannot live without servants. Send for them and tell them I command them to return.’

  The chamberlain flinched. ‘Majesty, they have left the palace and Artaxata. As have many of its people when they heard of your return and the fate that befell Ligea . . . Only the most loyal of your subjects have remained at the palace.’

  ‘Only the most loyal?’ Rhadamistus repeated with heavy irony. ‘The same subjects who remained loyal to Tiridates as recently as yesterday?’ He glared at the nobles who had met him at the city’s gates. ‘You served that usurping dog. All of you. You are traitors. Hardly two years before, you chose him over me.’

  ‘Majesty,’ one of the noblemen began to explain, taking a pace forward, ‘we had no choice but to humour the tyrant Parthia imposed on us. All the time we were loyal to you. That is why we are here now to greet you. I swear this is true. On my honour. Before all the gods of Armenia, I swear that I am loyal to you until death.’

  ‘Really? Until death?’ Rhadamistus leaned back in the throne and rested his hands on its ivory arms as he stared at the nobleman. ‘I am deeply touched by your loyalty, Petrodenus. Deeply touched. Such a fine sentiment deserves to be put to the test.’ He turned to the captain of his bodyguard. ‘Cut off his head. Let’s see you profess your loyalty as you die.’

  The nobleman’s eyes widened in alarm and he rushed forward on to the dais and threw himself at his king’s feet. ‘Majesty, I implore you. Spare me and let me prove myself to you. I am loyal, I swear it. More loyal than any man here who calls you master.’ He gestured desperately to the others in the group who had been with him at the city gate.

  Rhadamistus looked at him with contempt and raised his sandalled foot to thrust the nobleman away. Then he glared at those who had remained at the palace. ‘It seems our friend here casts doubt on the degree of your loyalty to me.’

  The nobles dared not speak but some shook their heads, while others flinched. Meanwhile the captain of the guard and two of his men had climbed the podium and seized the noble cringing in front of the throne. While the cataphracts took his arms and forced him to bend forward on his knees, their captain drew his curved blade and looked to the king for instructions.

  ‘What are you waiting for? I said cut off his head.’

  ‘No!’ the noble screamed. ‘Majesty! I beg you. I am loyal! I—’

  The blade slashed down and caught in the awkward angle where the man’s neck bent as he looked up imploring the king. The muffled tchunk as the blade cut through gristle and bone made Cato shudder. But the horror was not over. The captain’s sword had cut only half of the way through and now his victim’s head hung to one side as blood spurted from the wound and an anguished gargling still came from his throat.

  ‘Do it properly, you fool!’ Rhadamistus raged.

  The captain raised his sword and cut again, then again, and only on the fourth time did the mangled head drop from the body and splash into the blood pooling below. The soldiers released th
eir hold and the corpse slumped forward before suddenly spasming and spattering blood across the king’s robe and face.

  ‘Get that filth out of here! And have the head mounted on a spike on the palace wall where everyone in the city can see it. Now!’

  The captain snapped an order to one of his men and the soldier clenched his fingers in the hair of the head and hurried out as he held it to one side, dripping.

  Then there was silence in the room as Rhadamistus, with a look of disgust, used a sleeve to wipe the blood from his face. He turned his gaze to the captain and pointed out the men clustered behind the chamberlain. ‘Kill the rest of them. Their heads can keep the first one company. Not him, though! Not Arghalis. He lives.’

  The nobles cried out in panic and protest as the soldiers clustered around them with drawn weapons. The chamberlain staggered to one side before his knees buckled and he collapsed and covered his face. Behind him the captain pointed towards the door.

  ‘Not outside,’ said Rhadamistus. ‘Here, where I can see . . . Kill them.’

  No sooner was the order given than the soldiers closed in, stabbing and hacking with their blades. Cato watched helplessly as the nobles raised their hands to try and protect themselves as blood sprayed through the air and bodies and severed limbs fell to the floor amid bloodied robes and puddles of gore. One of the nobles managed to duck out of the massacre and limped across the chamber directly towards Cato, arms outstretched as he begged to be saved. But before he could reach the Roman one of the cataphracts dashed after him and slashed at his head and struck him down.

  The flurry of blows and the cries of the mortally wounded came to an end and the soldiers, covered with blood and chests heaving, stood over the bodies heaped at their feet. The only sound was the quiet sobbing of the chamberlain as he lay curled on the ground to one side. Rhadamistus stood up, crossed over to Arghalis and kicked him.

  ‘Stop weeping! Get on your feet!’

  The chamberlain let out a wail and began to tremble violently.

  ‘On your feet, I said! Or I’ll cut your head off myself where you lie.’