The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  Cato allowed the slingers to shoot several more quick volleys and saw that the path ahead was clear of any enemies still standing, although the ground was covered with the bodies of the dead and wounded cut down by slingshot. He quickly ordered Narses to move his spearmen in front of the slingers and then called out the order:

  ‘Formation! Advance!’

  With Macro again calling the time the box edged forward as the first of the rebels reached the flanking centuries and a running skirmish enveloped the Praetorians. At the front of the box the Iberian spearmen began to stab the rebels wounded by slingshot, sparing no one, despite their pitiful cries for mercy. The slingers, then Cato and Keranus, made their way over the bodies and blood-splattered ground. The slingers now stooped to picking up rocks and weapons and hurling them over the heads of the Praetorians into the enemy massed on each side.

  The formation was slowing as the men fought off their attackers and Cato looked ahead to gauge the distance to the city gates. They were still open and he could see Centurion Nicolis and his men formed up across the entrance. It was too soon, Cato raged. The box was not close enough to the city for the gates to be opened for them yet. Nicolis was just offering the enemy a tempting target. And already the rebel archers had turned on them and had started to loose arrows. A dark shape dashed from between Nicolis’s men and darted between the rebels before disappearing from sight and Cato cursed the man who was supposed to be looking after his dog. But there was no time to spare Cassius any further thought.

  ‘Sir, look there, the king!’ Macro had thrust his arm out and pointed in the direction of the battle. The dust still swirled and there were many figures visible in vague outlines, some still fighting. A party of riders had emerged from the gloom and Cato saw the towering figure of Rhadamistus amid several of his bodyguards. The standard was not with them. As soon as they sighted the box they galloped towards it. Macro called for his men to let them pass, and they stood aside briefly as the horses thundered by, and then closed ranks. Cato hurried over to the king and saw patches of blood glistening on the black of his robes and armour, and smeared on the flanks of his horse. Some of his companions were wounded and one was hunched over his saddle horns as blood dripped from his fingertips.

  ‘Majesty! Are you injured?’

  Rhadamistus looked dazed, then glanced down at his robes and felt his limbs and chest and shook his head. ‘No . . . Nothing.’

  Cato could not help wondering if the gods were saving the reckless king for some purpose, so charmed was his life.

  Rhadamistus looked round, taking in the situation now that he was in no immediate danger. ‘What are you doing, Tribune? Why are your men retreating? Turn them about and charge the enemy.’

  ‘Majesty, the battle is lost. It was a trap, the enemy outnumbers us. We must save what we can. And fight another day,’ he added to help reassure his ally.

  ‘No. We must strike now, while we can sway the battle in our favour.’

  ‘The battle is lost,’ Cato said firmly. ‘It was lost before it began. Stay here, with us.’

  He turned to the men guarding the standards. ‘Take their reins. Don’t let them leave the box.’

  Cato moved off before the king could protest at his orders and saw more of the enemy closing in on them from the flanks and the rear. Soon they would have exhausted their bloodlust on the Iberians and would move in for the kill against the Romans. The city was over half a mile away, and Cato feared that his men would not make it. They might not even make it as far as the abandoned camp if the rebels managed to arrive in sufficient numbers to surround them and halt their progress. Already a number of wounded Praetorians had fallen out of position and were being helped along by the medics inside the formation, but soon, Cato knew, they would be forced to leave the wounded behind.

  He quickly gauged the distances and the slowing pace of the box and made his decision. The camp offered the nearest protection and they could take shelter there and then attempt a breakout towards the city when it was dark. If they attempted to reach the gates now, there was a good chance that they would never make it. He made his way to Macro to quickly explain his plan, in case he was struck down and needed his friend to see it through.

  ‘The camp?’ Macro looked doubtful. ‘There’ll only be a ditch and a rampart between us and them.’

  ‘Better defences than we have now.’

  ‘True.’ Macro sucked a breath through his teeth as he considered the situation. ‘You’re right. Best chance we have.’

  Cato clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Be ready for it when I give the order.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  The formation continued slowly along the road as more and more of the rebels closed in and forced them to fight every step of the way. Over at the city gates the archers and a swarm of mounted men had forced Centurion Nicolis back inside the capital and, as Cato watched, the gates were closed. The sight caused a moment’s despair, then relief. At least the gates were safe and the centurion had not risked his men in some foolhardy attempt to hold the route open. There was certainly only the slimmest chance for Cato and his men to cut their way through to the city. The camp was much closer now, the nearest entrance no more than a hundred paces away. As yet the enemy did not appear to have realised the opportunity it presented to the Romans. It would be difficult and time-consuming to attempt to pivot the formation, Cato realised, and he decided the solution would be to continue the advance, then halt opposite the entrance and simply lead with the left-hand centuries and continue to advance at a right angle.

  The horsemen who had driven Nicolis and his Praetorians back into the city were now approaching the Iberian spearmen at a canter, in front of a mass of infantry. The slingers flung their shots over the heads of the spearmen into the attackers, striking down more of the enemy. Timing the moment as best he could, Cato ordered a halt and then a change of face as the men on the perimeter held their shields up in a continuous wall and stabbed at the rebels attempting to hack their way through. As soon as the formation was ready he gave the order to move again and the box edged towards the camp.

  At first the change in direction confused the enemy and there was alarm from those facing the two centuries that now formed the front and thrust the rebels back. Those closest to the Romans backed away but were caught by the ranks compacting behind them and presented easy targets for the Praetorians’ thrusting spears tearing at their exposed flesh. Cries of fear and panic rose up and the first of the enemy turned from the rear of the press and edged back and then began to run. It was not a rout. Most still fought on, but the box was able to press a steady pace. By now Cato could see that the rebels around them numbered in their thousands and it was clear that any attempt to make for the city would have ended in failure and massacre.

  They were almost at the ramp over the outer ditch and the next part of the manoeuvre was going to be difficult, as so much hung on the situation inside the camp. Cato crossed over to Centurion Ignatius and indicated the camp entrance.

  ‘When we get close, you break off with your men, go through the gate and then secure the other entrances. Don’t stop to deal with any of the enemy you find inside. Just take and hold the other gates.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  As soon as the rebels realised they were caught between the advancing Romans and the ditch, a fresh panic ensued as men tumbled down the steep incline and some were impaled on the short sharpened stakes that had been driven in at an angle to hamper the progress of any attackers. Cato halted the box at the edge of the ditch and gave the order to Ignatius. At once the centurion called on his century and they charged over the ramp, through the open gates, letting out a loud war-cry to unnerve any rebels still inside.

  ‘Keranus!’ Cato called to the auxiliary commander. ‘Your men next. Get them on the rampart and have them shoot at will.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  As soon as the slingers had entered the camp, and then Rhadamistus and his bodyguards, Cato began to feed more men a
cross the ramp, taking every fifth man out of the line as he went round the rest of the formation, so that it shrank progressively until only Cato, Macro and fifty men remained, closed up around the end of the ramp. Behind and above them, the slingers were laying down a barrage of shot into the rebels pressing hard against the Romans still outside the camp. It was impossible to miss such a target at that range, and Cato saw rebels constantly being struck in the head, or on the limbs holding their weapons high, as blood sprayed over those around them.

  He tapped a man on the shoulder. ‘You. Fall back. Over the ramp!’

  The Praetorian thrust his shield forward, then stepped back, and the men on either side closed up and the tiny perimeter shrank a little bit more. Cato continued pulling them out one man at a time until there were just enough left to hold the end of the ramp, four men either side of Macro.

  ‘Centurion! When I give the order, you and your men turn and run for it.’

  ‘Don’t keep us waiting,’ Macro called out, not daring to look back.

  Cato ran across the ramp and into the camp. A quick glance round the interior showed that his men were in command of the defences. The remaining gates were closed and sections of slingers lined the ramparts to keep up a steady barrage on the enemy beyond. He turned to the soldiers beside the gate.

  ‘I want that shut as soon as the last of our men are across the ramp.’

  The Praetorians nodded, and three picked up the locking bar and stood ready. Cato turned to see the rear of the Praetorians as they braced their studded boots and leaned into their shields as they were pressed back.

  ‘Macro! Now!’

  ‘Go, lads!’ Macro bellowed and then lunged forward, slashing wildly with his sword to drive the enemy off. Then he turned and bolted after his men. The slingers above the gate unleashed a fresh hail of shot to cover the centurion, and several more of the enemy went down. Then, from the swirling ranks of the rebels, someone hurled an axe. It spun end over end as it flew after Macro and the blunt head struck him on the back of his helmet. He staggered on two steps and then collapsed on the ramp, halfway to the gate, and lay still.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Cato was running forward even as Macro went face down on the ground. There was no thought of the responsibility to his other men, or the need for a commander to accept one loss for the greater good. All he saw was Macro sprawled and vulnerable, and the first of the rebels surging forward, mouths agape with triumphant roars as they raised their weapons to kill the Roman centurion. Cato’s sword scraped from its scabbard as he charged the few paces it took to reach his friend and stood over his body, teeth gritted and lips drawn back in a snarl as he squared up to the enemy and prepared to defend Macro.

  The first of the rebels came at him with a levelled spear, desperate to claim the honour of killing a senior Roman officer. Cato cut down on the broad iron spearhead with a ringing blow and knocked it to the side. Then he snatched at the shaft with his spare hand and grabbed hold and wrenched it towards him, pulling the rebel off balance just as he slashed at the man with a savage back-handed cut that laid open his face from cheek to cheek in an explosion of blood, bone fragments and teeth. The rebel released his grip and reached his hands to his face as he staggered to the side of the ramp and fell into the ditch.

  Two more men ran up, armed with long curved swords and shields. Cato knew that he could not keep them both at bay. As the first feinted and Cato moved to block the blow, the other moved against his exposed flank, sword raised to strike. But before he could make the blow, he let out a cry of surprise and pain as Cassius burst through the rebels behind and clamped his jaws around the man’s ankle, pulling him off balance. The rebel fell back, almost on top of the dog, who released his jaws and leaped to the side, then turned quickly as he crouched beside his master, hackles raised and teeth bared in a ferocious snarl that caused the rebels to hesitate for one brief, decisive instant that saved the lives of Cato and Macro.

  ‘Move, sir!’ a voice cried out and Cato was roughly shouldered aside as a Praetorian took position just ahead of him, shield to the enemy and sword raised. Another man joined them, just as more rebels came forward, swinging curved swords at the Roman shields. Cato reached down to grasp Macro’s harness with his spare hand and tried to drag him towards the gate.

  ‘Damn you for being so bloody heavy,’ he grunted as he heaved and only managed to lurch a short distance. Cassius gave one last growl and padded after his master.

  Two more Praetorians came rushing forward. The first joined the two men fighting the rebels, while the other sheathed his blade and grabbed Macro’s arm. ‘Pull, sir!’

  Working with the other man, Cato managed to draw Macro’s inert body the remaining distance across the ramp and into the camp. Then he let go and called out to the three men still covering the rescue. ‘Fall back!’

  They did not need any further encouragement and retreated from the enemy, cutting and thrusting as they went. As they passed under the sentry walk above the gate, the slingers dispatched a volley into the faces of the rebels and struck down the nearest men. An instant later the Praetorians stumbled into the camp and their comrades closed the gates and thrust the locking bar into its brackets as the first of the enemy crashed against the timbers.

  ‘Shoulders to the gate!’ Cato ordered, pressing himself against the bar to keep it in place as the iron hinges began to protest. From the other side he could hear the grunted efforts of the rebels and dust shook from the gate as they struck at the outside in frustration. He could hear the continuing cracks and clatter as the lead shot crashed against helmets and armour. The enemy took the punishment for a little longer before their losses unnerved them and they fell back across the ramp and retreated to whatever scant cover they could find to shelter from the slingers.

  Cato eased himself away from the gate and hurried across to Macro, who had been turned on to his back as a medic squatted beside him and looked over him for signs of wounds.

  ‘There are a few cuts and scratches but I can’t see anything else.’

  ‘He was hit on the helmet, from behind,’ Cato recounted as he undid the straps and eased the helmet and skullcap off Macro’s matted hair. He saw a shallow dent in the back of the helmet and showed it to the medic. ‘There.’

  Macro’s eyes fluttered and he let out a low moan. Then his head rolled to the side and he vomited. The medic eased him over to prevent him from choking and wrinkled his nose at the acrid stink. ‘Proves he’s alive at least.’

  Cassius came over and eagerly sniffed the vomit, and with a feeling of disgust Cato thrust him away before the dog was tempted to lap it up. Cato turned to the medic.

  ‘Look after the centurion, and keep an eye on my dog,’ he ordered and then stood and clambered up on to the sentry walk. The sounds of battle had all but ceased, and as he surveyed the ground surrounding the camp he saw that the rebels had pulled back from the ditch. Keranus gave the order to his men to lower their slings and conserve their ammunition. The enemy’s archers had also ceased shooting and retreated out of range. The only movement on the ground immediately to Cato’s front came from the injured amongst the bodies strewn about the route the Praetorians had taken as they fell back. Most of them were rebels, but there were many Romans and Iberian spearmen out there as well and Cato spared them a moment’s pity; there was nothing he could do to help them. They were fated to be finished off by the enemy when they began to pick over the battlefield looting the bodies. More dead were scattered over a far wider area and these, Cato knew, were mainly the victims of the routed Iberian forces. In the distance, a rough band of corpses marked the original battle line, up to the point where the trap had been revealed.

  He sighed and found that his limbs were aching slightly after the intensity of combat, and it took a moment before his mind had calmed enough to think carefully about the situation he and his men were now in. A quick look over the interior of the camp revealed that most of the men of the two cohorts had survived. Besides them
the only Iberians remaining were the survivors of the contingent of spearmen and Rhadamistus and his bodyguards, no more than thirty men in all. Together with the three hundred Praetorians and just over two hundred slingers, that was not enough to defend the ramparts of the camp if the enemy decided to mount an attack from all sides simultaneously. Of course, there was also the handful of men still under Centurion Nicolis, Cato reflected, glancing towards the city. Then he saw that the gates were open and a party of mounted rebels casually entered under the arched entrance. He felt his spirits sink at the sight. Nicolis and his century must have been betrayed from within the city and now Artaxata was in the rebels’ hands. There was no hope for the survivors now. They were trapped, outnumbered and cut off from the refuge of the acropolis in the city. There was no hope of being relieved either – the nearest Roman troops were hundreds of miles away. They were without no food, and only had the water carried in canteens. All was lost, he realised bitterly.

  Cato turned away and sat down on the rampart overlooking the inside of the camp. Close by were the scattered remains of the feed piles where the enemy had been concealed. The sight wounded his professional pride. He should have guessed something was awry when he and Macro had scrutinised the camp from the walls earlier that morning. That already seemed like a long time ago, Cato thought. But there was no time for such indulgent self-recrimination, he told himself. He had to come up with a plan, any plan. His men expected it of him. Looking over the camp he quickly decided that there was no chance of defending the entire perimeter. They would have to construct some kind of redoubt in one corner, but the only tools to hand were their weapons. Their picks and shovels were with the wagons and siege weapons in the palace stables. All of which had fallen into enemy hands.