The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  At once the man rolled aside and clambered to his feet, half crouching in mortal terror as he looked up at his king.

  Rhadamistus pointed a finger at him as he spoke. ‘You will send a message to every nobleman in Armenia. And to the leader of the council in every city and town. You will inform them of what happened here. If they do not present themselves at my court within thirty days, and swear an oath of loyalty to me, on the lives of their families, then I will have them condemned as traitors, and their heads, and those of their wives and children, will be added to the others on the palace wall. Thirty days only. I will accept no excuse for any delay. Now go, you dog, and send the messages out, before I change my mind and add your shrivelled little head to the others.’

  Arghalis shuffled away, bent low, and then turned as he drew close to the door and rushed from the king’s presence. Rhadamistus raised his chin imperiously as he turned to his cronies. ‘You may help yourselves to the riches and estates of these traitors. And you, Tribune, what reward does my loyal Roman ally ask of me?’

  Cato felt numbed by the display of butchery, but he controlled his expression and made himself reply clearly and tonelessly.

  ‘There is no need to reward me, Majesty. It is my bounden duty to serve you. This land is your kingdom alone, and no Roman should ever be a part of it. Now, with your permission, I must see to the quartering and provisioning of my men.’

  Rhadamistus wafted a hand towards the entrance. ‘You may leave us for now. But there will be a feast tonight, Tribune. We must celebrate my homecoming. And my reunion with my Queen.’

  ‘As Your Majesty wishes.’ Cato bowed his head and turned to march from the room as steadily as he could, desperate to get outside into the fresh air and away from the tang of blood and the urine and shit of those victims who had loosed their bowels as they were cut down for the pleasure of the king.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Terror was a powerful motivation, Cato conceded, as he entered the palace that evening in the company of Macro and the other centurions and optios from the column. The chamberlain had managed to organise an elaborate banquet in a matter of hours, and the chamber where the nobles had been cut down had been transformed. Gone were the pools of blood and gobbets of flesh, and in their place were low couches arranged in rows either side of bowls and platters heaped with delicacies and freshly cooked meats and baked bread. Flowers and ribbons of brightly coloured cloth decorated the walls and columns of the chamber. To one side a small group of musicians were playing jaunty tunes on duduks accompanied by cymbals and some stringed instruments.

  Rhadamistus was sitting alone on the dais, propped up on a large divan heaped with cushions. One of his bodyguards stood at each corner of the dais while his taster sat below his table and was careful to sample each dish and glass of wine that was set before the king. For a man who had just been returned to his throne, Rhadamistus did not exude an air of celebration and delight, thought Cato. Instead he wore a brooding expression as he gazed out over his guests. Not many of them appeared to be enjoying the event either, and while Cato recognised the faces of most of the king’s closest followers and the senior officers of the Iberian troops, the rest of the guests must have come from Artaxata: rich merchants, minor nobles, tax farmers and the like. And all of them clearly anxious not to attract the attention of Rhadamistus or his cronies.

  As the Romans entered the chamber, Cato noticed Arghalis standing close to the entrance as he oversaw the servants to ensure that his master had no excuse to berate him. The chamberlain raised his staff and rapped it on the marbled floor three times to draw attention to the new arrivals.

  ‘His Majesty welcomes Tribune Quintus Licinius Cato and his officers. True allies of Armenia, and heroes who have fought at the side of the mighty Rhadamistus!’

  His introduction was met with a chorus of cheers from those who had marched from Syria, and a less hearty welcome from the other guests, who no doubt resented the Roman interlopers almost as much as they dreaded the king who had returned from exile. On the dais, Rhadamistus raised his cup, smiled, and toasted Cato and his officers, and those in the chamber hurriedly followed suit.

  Cato acknowledged the greeting with a formal bow. All the same he was conscious that the Romans would stand out in their plain woollen tunics and sturdy leather belts and boots, while the Armenians and Iberians would be wearing their finery, scents and make-up. Since there was no way of competing with the wealthy appearance of the nobles, Cato had decided that it would be better to make a virtue of being plain-speaking, hard-fighting soldiers, and left his best tunic and toga in his travel chest. He had hoped to have his tunic brushed for the feast, but Bernisha was nowhere to be found. The last time he had seen her was before the cohort formed up to enter the city. None of the headquarters clerks or guards knew where she had gone, and Cato assumed she had chosen to disappear into the city before finding her way back to her family. He felt a keen sense of hurt at the girl’s abandoning of him, and guilt that he had prompted it by being too suspicious of her motives.

  ‘Your seating is over there, Excellency.’ The chamberlain indicated two rows of empty couches to the side of the hall. ‘Take your places and I will have food and wine brought to you as swiftly as possible.’

  Macro raised an eyebrow. ‘Seems we are no longer good enough to dine with His Majesty, or even near him. You’d think his allies deserved better.’

  ‘Maybe it’s important for him to show these people that he is not too dependent on Rome,’ Cato speculated. ‘Besides, I’d rather concentrate on filling my boots than making small talk tonight.’

  ‘And now you’re talking my kind of small talk.’ Macro patted his stomach.

  Cato nodded his thanks to Arghalis and led his officers around the feast towards the couches. As the senior officer he took the spot nearest to the king, with Macro opposite, and then the other centurions sat before the optios. Looking at his men, Cato was struck by their casual demeanour, then it occurred to him that as soldiers of the Praetorian Guard they would be used to such entertainments, unlike the men of the legions and auxiliary cohorts garrisoning the frontier. But this was a feast like few others. Despite being a celebration to mark the return of Rhadamistus, the mood was subdued and anxious. Most of the other guests were making a show of eating and barely picked at their food, as if they were fearful that it was poisoned but were even more afraid of causing offence by giving the appearance of fearing that it was poisoned. Only a small group seemed to be enjoying the food and the bonhomie: those who had returned from exile, and the others who had remained loyal to Rhadamistus in his absence, or were recent converts to his cause and swift to declare their loyalty and offer him gifts of gold and silver. Some, no doubt, hoping to profit from the new regime, or at the very least save their own heads.

  There seemed to be no rush to feed the new arrivals and Cato turned his attention towards more professional matters.

  ‘How are the arrangements for the men’s accommodation going, Macro?’

  ‘Very nicely, as it happens. That fellow that showed us in just now couldn’t have been more helpful.’

  ‘That comes as little surprise. Go on.’

  ‘As you know, the officers have quarters in the wing of the palace closest to the stables and stores where the rest of the men are. The first four centuries have cleaned out most of the stables allotted us and are making themselves comfortable. Our friend the chamberlain has provided them with rations. Good stuff too. And wine.’

  ‘Make sure there’s not too much of that going round. At least not until we find our feet here.’

  Macro nodded, making a mental note, then continued. ‘The last of the men were tasked with bringing in the wagons. I had left orders to raze the marching camp, but that Iberian, Narses, said the Iberians want to use it to corral their horses. I didn’t see any problem with that.’

  Cato thought a moment. ‘It makes sense. Better than our lads having to give up the stables.’

  Macro grinned.
‘That’s what I thought, sir. Anyway, the wagons are parked in a merchant’s yard below the acropolis, under guard. Those men we have no room for in the palace are billeted in houses near the yard. That’s Ignatius and Porcino’s centuries, and the auxiliaries. Their rations have been arranged, or so that chamberlain says.’

  They glanced at Arghalis, hovering at the rear of the chamber, anxiously watching over it to ensure that the guests’ needs were catered for.

  ‘I think we can rely on him to be as good as his word,’ Cato said, with a wry smile. ‘That’s one job I’d be happy to give a miss.’

  ‘Ah, about time!’ Macro’s eyes lit up as a line of servants approached, carrying platters and wine jars. They set them down before the Roman officers and hurried back to the door leading to the kitchens. Macro ran his gaze over the food and reached out towards a glazed capon, and then paused to look at Cato to take the lead.

  ‘Go ahead, lads,’ Cato grinned. ‘Tuck in.’

  His officers needed no further encouragement and fell upon the food and drink laid out for them with all the gusto of men who had put up with simple marching rations, leavened by occasional looted fare, for most of the campaign. Cato’s approach was more restrained as he was conscious of the need to set a refined standard of behaviour appropriate to his rank. He picked out a few small pies and munched steadily as he reclined on his couch and surveyed the other guests and their host. The strained atmosphere that hung over most of the chamber was palpable, and Cato decided that he and his men would stay for only as long as was necessary and then make the excuse that various duties demanded their attention. He had no desire to remain and witness any further displays of Rhadamistus’s cruel despotism.

  And just then the demeanour of Rhadamistus changed dramatically. The sour, brooding expression gave way to a broad smile as he sat up and stared towards the entrance. Cato followed his gaze and saw that a new party had arrived: four women in veils and flowing gowns of brilliant colours and designs. Behind them came another woman in a dress made of a rich dark-blue material. She carried herself imperiously, and her eyes were surrounded by kohl, so that they were even more striking above the veil that covered her nose and jaw with slender chains of gold and silver over the fabric. There was more gold on her arms: bejewelled bands that stretched from her wrists almost up to her elbows. The hubbub in the chamber quickly subsided as all eyes turned towards her.

  Macro swallowed hard and muttered, ‘By the gods, that woman’s a walking king’s ransom.’

  Cato nodded, realising at once who she must be, even before the chamberlain announced her. The rapping of his staff echoed off the surrounding walls to demand the silence that she had already won with her dazzling entrance.

  ‘Her royal Majesty, Queen Zenobia . . .’

  There was a rustling of robes as the guests hurriedly rose to their feet and bowed their heads respectfully. The servants in the middle of the hall stood aside and bowed low as Zenobia’s companions proceeded ahead of the queen at a stately pace. As they approached the dais Rhadamistus rose to his feet and held out his hands. The other women moved to the side to take their place at a small table set there for them, while Zenobia climbed the steps to the dais and took her husband’s hands.

  ‘My dear wife,’ he intoned. ‘It brings great joy to my heart to have you at my side again.’

  She dipped her head before replying in a clear voice: ‘And to my heart also, Majesty.’

  ‘Come, sit at my side.’ Rhadamistus indicated his couch and she eased herself down carefully so as not to let the folds of her voluminous gown catch awkwardly beneath her. Once she was seated, the guests resumed their places, and the conversation, such as it was, slowly swelled in volume.

  ‘How very touching,’ Macro said quietly. ‘Seems the Iberian lad’s got a soft side after all.’

  But Cato was not smiling as he stared towards the dais. The pleasure of eating good food and drinking fine wine in the company of Macro and the other officers turned to ashes as his stomach knotted with anxiety and shame over the exposure of his wretched stupidity. Macro regarded him with amusement.

  ‘Cato? Lad, what’s wrong? You look like you’ve just lost a denarius and found a sestertius shoved up your arse . . . Cato?’

  When Cato failed to respond to his attempt at humour, Macro’s smile faded on his lips. ‘What in Hades is wrong? Poison?’

  He looked down at the food in horror, and let the pastry he had been about to eat drop on to his plate.

  ‘No,’ Cato told him coldly. ‘Not that kind of poison at least. Look at her . . . Look closely.’

  As food was brought to the queen she reached up and unhooked the veil and set it down beside her before leaning forward to pick up a fig.

  ‘Fuck me . . .’ Macro shook his head. ‘It’s her. Bernisha.’

  ‘Yes . . . Though I doubt that was ever her name.’ Cato gritted his teeth as the full scale of her deceit crashed down upon him. ‘Zenobia, then.’

  ‘But what in bloody Hades is going on?’ Macro demanded. ‘What was all that business about her being a captive of Rhadamistus? Of her being afraid of him? What’s their game?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Cato shook his head, still struggling to think it through, and then he was struck by the cold, numbing fear of what might happen to him if her husband knew about the night she had slept with him. Men had died for far less egregious wrongs done to Rhadamistus. Men had been burned alive and beheaded for incurring his wrath one way or another. He had already proved that he was willing to murder Petillius and a score of Praetorian guardsmen to achieve his aims . . . Or had he? Perhaps that was a deceit too? Maybe they had been killed by the Parthians all along. Or . . . or was there some still deeper game that had been played against Cato? He frowned as he tried to think it through. Perhaps Rhadamistus had been suspicious of his allies. After all, Rome was inclined to use various princes and kings as playing pieces in the great game of imperial influence against her enemies. A client king could be easily held in check if he knew that Rome could replace him with one of the hostages living as ‘guests’ of the emperor. What if Rhadamistus had schemed to have Cato take Bernisha – Zenobia – into his tent? She would be perfectly placed to eavesdrop on Cato and his officers and report back to her husband if she discovered the Romans were playing Rhadamistus in order to win back Armenia for him before deposing him and seizing the territory for the Empire. There were many things she could glean from Cato, especially if she seduced him. But why tell him what she had about Petillius? What was there to gain in that? He had been on the point of throwing her out, Cato reasoned. She would need to do something desperate to retain her place in his tent. So she told him a story so shocking yet convincing that he would buy into it, and it would fool him into ‘protecting’ her from Rhadamistus.

  Cato was appalled by his naïvety. He felt used and worthless and disgusted with himself.

  ‘Cato?’ Macro’s expression was troubled beyond words. ‘What did that bitch do to you?’

  Cato shook his head. ‘Not now. Not here.’

  His head was swimming and the chamber suddenly seemed far too hot and suffocating. He swallowed and rose from the couch. ‘I need a piss. Stay here. I’ll be back soon.’

  Moving unhurriedly in order not to attract attention, Cato edged round the chamber and slipped out through a side entrance. He came out in a narrow service corridor. To one side he could see servants coming and going from a kitchen, taking empty platters out while fresh food headed into the feast through another side entrance. There was no sound or movement from the other direction and he strode that way, anxious to get into the cool night air. At the far end of the corridor was a door, and he opened it to see that it gave out on to a yard behind the stables. A handful of Praetorians were playing dice on the far side of the yard, and he kept away from them as he left through the gates into the open ground in front of the palace. Opposite him was a pillared pavilion overlooking the city, and he made for that. The only other people in sight were the f
igures of sentries further along the low wall of the acropolis. The muffled hubbub of the banquet vied with the carousing of Roman soldiers in the stables. Below him lay the city, sparkling with the flickering glare of torches and from which rose the cries of drinking men, the occasional wail of infants and outbursts of angry exchanges. He leaned his head back and stared into the starry sky for a while, where a sliver of moon hung. He breathed intensely while trying hard to make sense of the treachery of those it was his duty to treat as allies.

  ‘I bid you a good evening, Tribune Cato.’

  He turned quickly, hand reaching for the hilt of his dagger, but she was alone, dimly visible in the faint light of the stars and moon. Her face looked smooth and silvery, like the belly of a snake, he thought bitterly. Her dark eyes were fixed on him as she took a step closer, but he retreated, keeping a safe distance between them.

  ‘Can it be that you hate me?’ Her lips lifted in a slight, seductive smile. ‘After all that we have shared while on the road to Artaxata? You were not so unwilling to be close on that cold night.’

  ‘We have shared nothing,’ Cato snapped. ‘It was all a complete fiction. A lie. You are as treacherous as a snake. I should kill you now with my bare hands.’

  ‘But of course you won’t. Not if you wish to live and return home to that young son of yours.’

  Cato felt his flesh creep with the urge to strangle this woman who had played him like a cheap lyre. He lunged and took her by the arms and thrust her against the wall and pushed her so that she was bending back over the void and the rocks below.

  Zenobia laughed in his face, her expression flushed with excitement. Cato held her there for a few beats then drew her back and released her, his heart pounding.

  ‘Does Rhadamistus know?’ he demanded.

  ‘Does he know that I told you what he did to Centurion Petillius? Or that I fucked you?’ She ran her tongue across her lips. ‘Of course he does. He just hasn’t decided what to do about it yet. Fortunately, he is just intelligent enough to listen to me and heed my advice that it would be foolish of him to have you killed. For now.’