The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  There was a cheer from the Iberian troops, and Cato and Macro turned to see the king and his entourage trotting down the avenue. Ahead of them the infantry and horsemen moved to the side to let the party pass by. Very few of the people on the wall echoed the cheers. Most looked on in silence and Cato had no doubt that they would be grateful to see the king defeated and killed on the battlefield in front of the city. Their reaction to Rhadamistus was a reminder of Cato’s prudence in deciding to leave the gatehouse in the charge of Centurion Nicolis and his men to ensure that the people of Artaxata did not take advantage of the king’s brief absence to lock him out.

  ‘Cuts quite a dashing figure, doesn’t he?’ Macro commented as the king approached the gates. Rhadamistus looked magnificent, Cato conceded. His already impressive physique was swathed in black robes glittering with silver braid. A black cuirass inlaid with a gold star encased his chest and a conical helmet added to his towering height.

  ‘Let’s go,’ said Cato and led the way down the stairs and out into the street, where the Roman infantry were waiting to one side in a long column stretching back towards the palace. On the other side the Iberians stood by the horses, waiting for the order to mount. The plan was for them to lead the advance, spreading out to cover the infantry before taking up their final position on the flanks. Cato kneeled down beside Cassius, who he had left leashed to a ring bolt close to the gate house, and gave his head a gentle stroke. ‘You’re going to have to stay here, boy. Can’t be having to look after a dog in the middle of a battle. Even a brave one like you, eh?’

  Cassius raised his nose and licked Cato’s face, and Cato smiled as he wiped his cheek. He turned to one of Centurion Nicolis’s men tasked with defending the gate. ‘Take care of him until we return.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Cato would be leading his men on foot, and he took the helmet held for him by one of Macro’s men. He pressed the skullcap down firmly on his head before easing the helmet into position and fastening the straps beneath his chin as he stepped into the street. Cassius gave a keening whine and Cato turned and pointed to the ground. ‘Down!’

  The dog sat obediently but continued a low whistling noise through his nose. By the time Cato had finished the last adjustments to his helmet and armour, Rhadamistus had reached the open ground beside the nymphaeum and reined in as he gestured towards the clear skies.

  ‘A fine day for battle! The gods are kind to us.’

  ‘I hope they will be, Majesty.’

  ‘Pah, we have two thousand mounted men and over fifteen hundred infantry. All well-trained and armed. They will scatter that rabble like chaff in the wind. Do you always sour your spirit with such thoughts, Tribune?’

  Macro clicked his tongue and muttered, ‘See? Not just me who thinks that.’

  Cato bowed his head apologetically. ‘There are some who say I am cursed with a cautious nature, Majesty.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Rhadamistus did not try to conceal his amusement. ‘I cannot think why. You should be rejoicing, Tribune. Today we will exterminate those traitors who refuse to bend to my will, and who frustrate the interests of Rome. Before the day is out we will have our victory and will celebrate with a feast and the finest wine as we survey the heads we have taken in battle.’

  ‘An alluring prospect indeed, Majesty.’

  Rhadamistus pointed in the direction of the enemy. ‘I saw that they are already formed up for battle.’

  ‘Yes, Majesty.’

  ‘Then we must not keep them waiting. Open the gates!’

  Centurion Nicolis repeated the order to his men and a moment later, with a section of men hauling on the thick ropes fastened to the iron rings on the back of each gate, the heavy timbers rumbled on their giant hinges and the vista of open ground beyond was revealed. At once Rhadamistus spurred his horse forward and cantered through the arch, followed by his men and then the rest of the cavalry as they swung nimbly on to their mounts and raced after the king. The air filled with the din of hoofs on cobbles and the choking swirl of the dust they kicked up. The contingent of Iberian spearmen quick-marched after them. When the last of the spearmen had cleared the gatehouse, Cato nodded to Macro and the latter coughed to clear his lungs and then barked the order to advance, and the order was relayed by the centurions further down the avenue.

  With Cato at the head of the colour party, and Macro’s men tramping in perfect time just behind them, the Praetorians and auxiliaries emerged from the city and followed the road leading west towards the enemy. The camp was set off to the right, two hundred paces away, and they would pass by at extreme range for the archers lining the nearest rampart. A small band of Iberian horse-archers was dashing across the front of the camp to harass the defenders and kick up dust to obscure the rest of the king’s army marching out to do battle. Even so, Cato could see the odd arrow shot high into the air, slowing at the top of its arc before it dipped and plunged swiftly towards the Romans. Most fell short, struck the ground and quivered briefly before taking on the appearance of a slender desert flower. Only one of the Praetorians was hit, halfway down the column, as a shaft pierced his calf and forced him to drop out and sit at the side of the road as a medic raced back from the colour party to treat the wound.

  They were soon out of range and had a clear view of the ground ahead. The enemy line stretched across a low rise, and, closer to, Cato could see no sign of any reserve formations behind them. The cavalry, mostly horse-archers, were standing by their mounts on each flank. The right flank extended to a thick belt of reeds that grew along the river, while the left hung on a stretch of open ground. Away to the left, half a mile beyond, was a thin line of fruit trees. Cato saw that there was plenty of space for Rhadamistus’s cavalry to sweep round the enemy flank and strike them from the rear and cut off any hope of escape once the Iberian spearmen and Romans had broken through in the centre. As soon as the bulk of the king’s cavalry drew close to the enemy they halted and began to deploy in a long line facing the rebels. The spearmen formed up just behind the centre, where Rhadamistus and his bodyguards sat on their mounts. The cover was taken off the new royal standard and a moment later the long silk pennant rippled out lazily in the faint breeze, the morning sun making the red lion design bright and fiery.

  Macro quickened his pace to catch up with Cato. ‘Looks like Rhadamistus wants his Iberians to win this one on their own, sir.’

  ‘That’s fine by me,’ Cato replied. ‘I’m in no rush for our men to pay a heavy butcher’s bill, if that can be avoided.’

  Macro sighed. ‘Not sure the lads will be happy about standing by and looking on.’

  ‘That’s as may be, but this is Rhadamistus’s show. If he wants to claim his victory without our help, then that helps him look stronger in his people’s eyes, and, more importantly, to the Parthians.’

  ‘And it means that he and his men will get the pickings from the battlefield loot,’ Macro responded from a somewhat less strategic perspective.

  Cato did not reply as he made a quick estimate of the distance to the spearmen and halted the column. ‘Centurion, we’ll deploy right and left. Slingers to advance fifty paces ahead of the Praetorians in open order. Send a runner to Centurion Keranus to let him know.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  As the centuries reached the colour party they deployed to the right and left in turn and turned to face the rear of Rhadamistus’s line. They stood four deep, to form a compact body of reserves compared to the extended Iberian battle line. The dust stirred up by the horses and the rear ranks of the spearmen totally obscured the rebels beyond and Cato doubted that he and his men would see much, if anything, of the clash before the enemy inevitably gave ground and then were routed. It would be frustrating not to be able to follow the course of the battle, but that was often the plight of those in the rear echelon, who suffered a degree of anxiety as a result. It could not be helped, Cato knew, but his men were disciplined veterans and unlikely to let their imaginations unsettle them.

  Whe
n the last of the king’s men were in position, the trumpeter close to the king raised his instrument, and blew a series of notes. As the signal died away, a roar ripped from the throats of the Iberian horsemen and the horse-archers galloped ahead all along the line. The cataphracts trotted forward, keeping in close formation and husbanding their mounts’ strength for the charge to ensure that they struck as one, at speed, when they crashed into the enemy line once that had been disrupted by the archers. Dust swirled and swiftly a pall hung in the wake of the horsemen and hid them from view, and a moment later the spearmen had followed them into the gloom. The periodic sound of the trumpet and the drumming of hoofs clashed with the muffled drums of the rebels and the occasional dull clatter of weapons along with whinnies from horses and shouted orders.

  ‘Going our way, do you think?’ asked Macro.

  Cato gestured towards the bank of dust stretching beyond them. ‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

  ‘Perhaps we should move closer, sir. In case we’re needed.’

  Before Cato could answer, there was a fresh blast of trumpets, but from some greater distance than the battle raging before them. After a brief pause they were answered from behind and the two officers turned to look back towards the camp. A dull cheer swelled up from that direction and was echoed a moment later from the river and then the direction of the trees away to the left. Figures were already emerging from the treeline: men leading horses, which they mounted and galloped towards the battle. On the other flank, more men spilled out of the reeds and surged towards the Iberian flank.

  ‘It’s a fucking trap,’ Macro snorted bitterly. ‘Clever little bastards, ain’t they?’

  As Cato looked back towards the camp he saw that the gates had been flung open and a horde of men were heading straight for the rear of the Roman line. Not the handful of archers he had seen earlier, but hundreds of infantry armed with spears and swords.

  ‘Where in Hades did they spring from?’ Macro demanded. ‘From under the bloody ground?’

  ‘Not quite,’ Cato replied in barely concealed despair at the realisation that they had been fooled by the enemy. ‘From under piles of straw.’

  It was a finely worked trap. Rhadamistus’s patrols had been shown the main body of the rebel army, and then under cover of darkness the rest of their men had been marched forward and hidden all round the area where Rhadamistus had been lured into deploying his own army. Any prospect of an easy victory over the rebels had vanished. Now all that was left to Cato and his men was to fight their way out of the trap and get back to the city. Cato could see his men looking anxiously around at the enemy closing in on them from the rear and both flanks. He had to steady their nerves.

  And prepare them to fight for their lives.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Cato grabbed a deep breath and cupped his hands to his mouth. ‘Second Praetorian Cohort will form square! Colours to the centre!’

  He allowed a beat for the centurions to prepare and then roared, ‘Form square!’

  As his officers echoed the order and controlled the manoeuvres of their centuries, Cato’s mind was racing to grasp the relevant details of the surrounding ground and the likely disposition of forces, friendly and enemy. Rhadamistus and his men must by now be aware of the trap and Cato had to trust that the king would be trying to escape it as swiftly as the Romans. Already he could see some of the spearmen emerging from the dust, falling back towards the city and the slingers.

  Cato felt a surge of panic as he rushed forward. ‘Centurion Keranus!’

  The auxiliary centurion looked back towards his commander.

  ‘Get your men back! I want them on the rear face of the square! Move!’

  As Keranus gave the orders to his men, Cato paused to look round. The city gates were nearly a mile distant and between the Romans and Artaxata stood the camp and the rebel force that had been concealed within. He estimated their number at over a thousand. The force emerging from their concealment in the reeds was roughly twice the size, the same as the cavalry approaching from the opposite flank. The latter were mostly horse-archers, as far as Cato could make out at the present distance. Both flanking forces were angling towards Rhadamistus and his Iberians, Cato realised. That left him with a dilemma. Should he advance to support the king, or hold his men together and cover the retreat to the city? The battle was already lost, he decided, as he saw yet more spearmen running back towards the Romans, and now the first of the Iberian cavalry. The sight of the fleeing Iberians persuaded Cato towards the latter choice.

  While Macro’s men formed the rear of the box, two more centuries formed each side. Shortly afterwards Centurion Keranus and the auxiliaries filled the gap at the head of the formation. They were the most lightly armed of Cato’s men but he was confident their slingshot would clear a path through any rebels that were to block their retreat to Artaxata. On either side streamed the Iberians. Some had already thrown down their shields and spears and those already beyond the Romans now realised the danger closing in on all sides. Blindly driven by fear, some changed direction and made for the diminishing gaps between the rebel forces. Others slowed and stopped and looked on in anguish. Cato saw an officer jogging towards the box, trying to rally more men to a small band still following him. As he got closer, Cato called out to him, waving his arms to attract the officer’s attention. The Iberian looked up and beckoned to his men to join the Romans. As Macro’s men moved aside to let them through, Cato saw that the officer was Narses. His sleeve was torn and bloody above his left elbow.

  ‘Where’s Rhadamistus?’ Cato demanded.

  Narses shook his head. ‘We got separated when he charged the enemy line. The last time I saw him, he had broken through their centre. I thought we were on the verge of victory. Then there was a signal and the rebels came back at us like wild animals.’ He lowered his gaze in shame. ‘That’s when my horse was piked. I rolled clear and when I came up I got cut. Then I tried to find my way to the rear, saw the men fleeing and tried to stop them.’

  ‘You haven’t seen the king since?’

  Narses shook his head.

  Cato gritted his teeth and then pointed to the slingers. ‘Take your men and form up behind the auxiliaries. If the enemy get too close, you’ll have to defend the front of the box. Clear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then go.’

  Cato looked up and saw that the formation was closed up and ready to move. Macro came trotting up.

  ‘I saw that Narses fellow. Does he know what’s happened up front?’

  ‘The Iberians have broken. The king was cut off. We’ve lost.’ Cato nodded towards Artaxata. ‘That’s our only chance. Let’s get going.’

  Macro shouted the order to move and then began to call the time to keep the men in pace as the box pulled back towards the city. Ahead of them the rebels from the camp had formed a rough line and their leaders were stirring them up into a frenzy as they brandished their weapons and their battle cries filled the air. More Iberians fled past the Romans, some on foot, but many were mounted, and a chorus of jeers rose from the Praetorian ranks.

  ‘Shut your fucking mouths!’ Macro screamed at them. ‘I can’t hear myself think if you bastards mouth off! Shut up!’

  Chastened, the soldiers fell silent again and Macro resumed calling the pace in a steady parade-ground voice.

  Centurion Keranus came up to Cato as he marched along beside the colour party. ‘Do you want me to try some shot at the rebels ahead of us, sir?’

  Gauging the distance between the box and the enemy line waiting for them Cato saw that the range was long. He wanted to save the full impact of the slingers until they were close enough to unleash a devastating series of volleys.

  ‘No, wait for my order. But when I give it, I want your lads casting shot as quickly as they can.’

  Keranus managed a grim smile. ‘They’ll do their job, sir.’

  ‘If they don’t then you’re all on fatigues for a month.’

  They exchanged a
quick grin and the auxiliary centurion hurried back to his men as the box trudged closer to the city. The king’s men fleeing the battle were now streaming across the open ground as the rebels came in from the flanks, desperate to run them down before they could escape. The first of the rebels from their original battle line were emerging warily from the dust, and as soon as they could see their enemy routed before them they let out a triumphant cry and rushed forward. Amongst them were individual Iberian horse-archers and cataphracts, and some small groups, trying to cut their way free.

  Cato ran to join Centurion Keranus and Narses and saw that the rebels between them and the city were edging forward now, as they built up their courage to charge. Although Cato heard no order given, a roar swelled up and the enemy rushed ahead. The archers held back and let their shafts fly in a high arc, over the heads of their comrades. Cato shouted a warning but most of the arrows fell short as the range was long. Only a handful reached the head of the Roman formation, lodging in the shields of the Praetorians on the side of the box and striking two of the slingers. One was pierced through the collar bone and the barb tore down into his vitals. He staggered a few steps and then slumped to his knees before rolling on to his side and writhing as he bled out. The other was struck in the shoulder and he fell back and called for one of the medics.

  There was time for one more ragged volley that wounded three more of the auxiliaries and then the charge was too close for the archers to risk any more arrows. At fifty paces’ distance Cato ordered the formation to halt and turned to Keranus. ‘Your turn.’

  ‘Third Balearic! Ready slings!’

  The men expertly slipped lead shot into their pouches, then the front rank stepped forward two paces and began to swirl the cords round and then up over their heads.

  ‘Loose!’ shouted Keranus.

  Even as the lethal missiles whipped over the open ground towards the rebels, the front rank of the slingers slipped back to the rear, while the next rank stepped forward and unleashed their volley just as the first smashed into the oncoming enemy. Although Cato had seen slingers in action before, he was still impressed by the impact of the simple-looking weapon. While it was easy to see javelins and arrows, slingshot were almost invisible and that added to the terror of their effect. At least a score of the rebels stopped dead in their tracks, as if they had run into a wall, as the lethal shot ripped through flesh and crushed bone. Rebels tumbled to the ground and those behind tripped over them, and the leading ranks were in immediate disarray. Those not facing the slingers charged on heedless of the slaughter of their comrades and raced towards the Praetorians on either side of the box.