The Blood of Rome

by Simon Scarrow

  Cato considered their few remaining options. They could defend the camp until the enemy inevitably found a way over the ramparts and swamped them, or, if the rebels were wise, they would wait until thirst and hunger drove the defenders into submission. There was another possibility Cato considered. He and the others could attempt to break out and fight their way back to the frontier. The futility of the idea made him shake his head mockingly. In the end, it came down to surrender or fighting to the death. With the stark clarity of those choices ringing in his mind he returned to Macro and found his friend sitting propped up against one of the posts supporting the sentry walk. The medic had left him there while he attended to the other wounded. Cato undid the straps beneath his chin, took off his helmet and stretched his shoulders before squatting down on his haunches.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  ‘Bloody awful,’ Macro winced. ‘Head feels like it’s a blacksmith’s anvil. Your bloody hound keeps licking my face, and everything’s spinning and . . .’ He bent and retched.

  ‘You had a bad blow to the head, brother,’ said Cato. ‘What do you expect?’

  Macro wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and then reached round cautiously and flinched as his fingers encountered a lump the size of a hen’s egg. ‘It’s always the bastard behind you that knocks you down.’

  He shut his eyes a moment and continued. ‘What’s the situation, lad?’

  Cato shook his head. ‘This time, we’re truly fucked. There is no way out. We either die in here or we give up.’

  ‘Surrender? No bloody chance. After what our Iberian friend’s done to the locals they’ll want our heads along with his. I’d rather take my chances and die with a sword in my hand.’

  ‘What chances?’ asked Cato. ‘We’re done for either way. In any case, you’re in no shape to fight now.’

  ‘No?’ Macro grumbled. He thrust himself up and on to his feet, then stood a moment swaying, before he slumped against the post and slid back down on to the ground with a frustrated groan. ‘Fuck . . . Fuck . . . Fuckity-fuck.’

  ‘Quite,’ Cato agreed with feeling. He wanted to offer his friend some words of comfort, but there were none. It was tempting to sit down beside Macro and give in to circumstances, but that was a luxury no commanding officer had a right to indulge. He must look after the men as best he could until the very end. Only then would his duty to them be fulfilled.

  ‘Stay here, Macro, until you’re fit to fight. That’s an order.’

  Cato reached up and mopped a lock of perspiration-drenched hair away from his forehead before he replaced the sodden skullcap and then his helmet. Then striding off he called out:

  ‘Officers! On me!’

  Having ordered the optios to provide strength returns and assigned each centurion a stretch of rampart to defend with his men and apprised them of his gloomy conclusions about their situation, Cato made his way over to where Rhadamistus was sitting on a pile of straw a short distance from the remainder of his men. His sleeve had been cut away and a dressing tied about his arm. His expression was bleak as he looked up at the Roman officer and then he forced a smile.

  ‘I would imagine that the brevity of my reign will win me a special place in history, eh?’

  Cato smiled back. ‘More than likely.’

  The king’s smile faltered. ‘There is no hope then?’

  ‘None that I can see, Majesty.’

  ‘Majesty?’ Rhadamistus shrugged. ‘Some king I turned out to be. If Zenobia could see me now she would surely sneer.’

  Cato doubted it. Even if Zenobia had not been captured yet, she would be dreading her own fate at the hands of the rebels.

  ‘What happens to me now, Tribune?’

  Cato felt a stab of contempt. Where was Rhadamistus’s compassion for the men he had led into a trap, the men whose bodies lay scattered over the ground before the capital, or those others still living, being hunted down by the rebels? Where was his concern for Cato and his Praetorians, compelled to follow him to defeat? He cared for none but himself, and Zenobia. This was not a man who should be king, Cato judged. Rome had chosen the wrong ally. He tried to clear his mind of such considerations as he made his reply: ‘You can try to escape. You have a fine horse, but if I were a betting man I would not give good odds on outrunning your enemies. But if you stay here, your choice is the same as the rest of us. Surrender, or fight to the end. Some might argue that an honourable king would choose the latter.’

  Rhadamistus considered this for a moment. ‘And what do you advise?’

  ‘It’s not my place to advise you in such matters. The choice is yours alone.’

  ‘I see.’ Rhadamistus fixed Cato with a searching stare. ‘You’ve never really admired me, have you?’

  ‘Admired?’ Cato was unprepared for the observation. Until now he had lived in fear of what this man might do to him and others, on a whim, or as a result of some cynical calculation. ‘You have some admirable qualities, sure enough. You have courage. And strength, and that is enough to inspire others to follow you . . .’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But you are a man who is prepared to use treachery and murder to get his way. The lives of others carry no weight in your choices. You are also cruel and foolish. And you are a man who is guided by one even more self-serving than you.’

  ‘Zenobia?’

  Cato nodded. ‘For all that, I pity you. But not as much as I pity all those who have had to suffer because you are the man you are.’ He paused. ‘I have a son. A little boy, who I may never see again, thanks to you. And there are many amongst my men who will leave widows and orphans because of you.’ It was a relief to unburden himself of all these thoughts; a cold pleasure to present the naked truth to a powerful man wreathed in the conviction of his own infallibility and the flattery of servants, until defeat had stripped him of all his finery and high self-regard. At the end he was merely a man after all.

  Rhadamistus frowned. ‘You dislike me, Tribune.’

  Even now, he lacked the awareness to see the bare truth, Cato realised, and he laughed bitterly.

  ‘What is so funny?’ Rhadamistus demanded.

  ‘You are, Majesty,’ Cato said simply. ‘You are beyond even pity. Dislike is too feeble a word for all that I feel about you.’

  They stared at each other a moment, and Cato could see anger vying with reason in the other man’s expression. At one point he was sure that Rhadamistus was about to spring up and try to strike him down in rage. But before that could happen, a cry went up from the sentry walk above the gate.

  ‘Sir! Tribune Cato!’ Centurion Keranus was waving to attract his attention. ‘There’s something happening. Over at the city gate.’

  Cato was grateful for a chance to turn away from the king and hurry over to the rampart and climb up to join Keranus and the slingers spread out either side of him. A compact group of horse-archers had emerged from the gate and were approaching the marching camp. At their head rode two men. One raised a horn and began to blow a series of notes, while the other was dressed in a nobleman’s robes and wore a breastplate and helmet. Beyond the wall a column of smoke was rising into the sky in the direction of the royal palace.

  ‘Want me to give them a little encouragement to turn round and run back into the city?’ asked Keranus.

  ‘No. Let’s hear what they have to say. At least it will buy us some time.’

  The party approached to within a hundred paces before they halted and the two riders continued towards the ramp and stopped. The noble looked up at Cato and addressed him in Greek. ‘Are you the Roman officer in command?’

  ‘I am. What do you want?’

  The noble smiled slightly. ‘I have been sent by the high council of Armenian nobles to demand your surrender.’

  For a moment Cato was tempted to brazen it out. ‘What are your terms?’

  ‘Very favourable, I think you will find. We will allow you and your men to leave the camp, and return to Syria unmolested. Armenia has no quarrel with
Rome. We merely seek to govern our own affairs, without interference from Rome, or Parthia. We regard Rome as a friend of Armenia.’

  ‘Friends don’t kill each other.’

  ‘Nor do friends impose tyrants on each other.’ The nobleman’s smile faded. ‘Your emperor made a grave error when he attempted to force Rhadamistus on us once again. The Iberian is a foreign usurper, and we will not tolerate him. Any more than we will tolerate another ruler imposed by Parthia. If the gods were to grant us justice then we would take Rhadamistus into the great market of Artaxata and visit every cruel torment on him that he has used on his victims and grant him as slow a death as many have endured at his hands. However, our proposal does not permit us to dispose of the tyrant.’

  ‘Oh? Why not?’

  ‘Our rebellion is supported by Iberian gold and Iberian weapons. In exchange, King Pharasmanes has also offered us a ransom for the safe return of his son. He has sworn to us that Rhadamistus will never be allowed to enter Armenia again.’

  Cato struggled to control his reaction to the news. This was a strange turn of events indeed. What game was the king of Iberia playing? Why would he offer to help the rebels topple his son when it was through his support that Rhadamistus had become king in the first place? He drew a breath.

  ‘What precisely is your proposal?’

  ‘You will surrender the camp, and Rhadamistus and any of his men, to us at once. Your men will lay down their arms and be our prisoners until you, and an escort of Roman soldiers, convey Rhadamistus to the frontier and hand him over to the Iberian governor of the town of Iskerbalis. When you return, the rest of your men will be released. Your weapons will be returned and then you will march back to Syria, taking with you a letter for your emperor stating that we will remain allies of Rome. The actions of the last few months notwithstanding. Are the terms clear to you?’

  ‘Why are my men needed to escort Rhadamistus to Iberia? You could do that yourselves. You don’t need us.’

  ‘King Pharasmanes does not trust us to hand his son over alive. A Roman escort is his guarantee of safety.’

  ‘I see.’ Cato nodded. ‘And how do you know that I would not take Rhadamistus to Syria so that a fresh attempt can be made to place him on the throne of Armenia?’

  ‘Roman, I trust you even less than the king of Iberia trusts us. That is why we will hold your men hostage until you return from delivering Rhadamistus. If you fail in that task, for any reason, then we will kill your men. Those in the camp with you, and these we captured in the city.’ He turned and shouted a command. The horsemen moved aside to reveal a group of men in the tunics of Praetorians. They had been stripped of their shields, weapons and armour. There was one other figure with them, a woman, and Cato knew at once who she must be. The horsemen gestured to the prisoners and motioned towards the camp. The prisoners moved forward warily.

  ‘These men, and the queen, we return to you as a sign of our good faith,’ the nobleman continued. He glanced up and shaded his eyes. ‘I give you until noon to agree to our terms. If you do not, then we will wait and let thirst weaken you. When the moment is ripe, we will enter the camp and kill anything still alive within, except Rhadamistus. Until noon, Roman.’ He bowed his head, turned his mount away and trotted back towards the city, passing the prisoners as they hurried by in the other direction. Cato waited until he could clearly recognise Nicolis and some of the others to make sure this was not a trick. Then he turned away and saw Rhadamistus standing halfway up the rampart staring at him.

  ‘I assume you heard it all?’ Cato said.

  ‘I did . . .’ Rhadamistus cleared his throat. ‘And what will you decide to do about their proposal?’

  Cato drew himself up and looked down at the other man. ‘I have already decided.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  A month later Cato was sitting in the garden of the governor’s villa in Iskerbalis, a town just beyond the frontier with Iberia, where he and the others had been held for the previous twelve days. The section of Praetorians he had brought with him were playing dice in the shade of a cedar tree in the corner of the garden. It was a hot summer’s day and the air was still and stifling, and he would have preferred to be out riding or walking in the hills that surrounded the town or swimming in the cool waters of the river that flowed past its walls and which marked the boundary between Armenia and Iberia. However, the governor was under firm orders to ensure that his guests, as he addressed them, were to remain in the villa under close guard. They were treated well enough, with ample food and drink and comfortable living quarters, but the entrances were locked and they resorted to making their own amusements within the walls of the villa, while the sounds of the streets beyond served only to remind them of their confinement. It was as well that Cato had left Cassius in Artaxata; the dog would have hated being cooped up and would surely have outworn the governor’s hospitality very swiftly.

  Cato made a routine of exercising and drilling his men each morning before dismissing them and heading to the villa’s bath-house, where he enjoyed the steam room before plunging into the small pool that was refreshed daily from the river, which fed off mountain streams, and so the water was delightfully cold. After that he walked round the courtyard garden until noon, when the governor was pleased to invite him up to the roof terrace for a light meal and amiable conversation about Cato’s experiences of travel and conflict across the Empire. The governor was a friendly-seeming man with an appetite for knowledge of the wider world and he had a library, modest by Roman standards, in a room leading off the terrace. Most of the manuscripts were written in languages Cato had not seen, but there were enough works in Greek for him to while away the hours until the evening meal. This was the least pleasurable part of the day, as the governor insisted on entertaining Rhadamistus and Zenobia along with Cato, and the exchanges were often stilted, except for the spells when the Iberian prince’s optimism fed his ambition and he talked of his plans for future conquests, the moment his father saw fit to furnish him with fresh soldiers. All the while the governor listened politely and even seemed amused at the hubris of Rhadamistus from time to time. Cato, by contrast, affected to ignore the prince and refused to get drawn into any protracted conversation with him, or Zenobia. Especially as there was already a palpable tension between the erstwhile king and queen of Armenia, following his humbling defeat.

  As the days passed and his frustration at inaction increased, his thoughts turned to the unavoidable prospect of reporting to General Corbulo when the column returned to Syria having failed to carry out its mission. Rhadamistus’s short reign was over and Armenia was ruled by a council of noblemen for the present. Cato could not see that enduring for long. Neither Rome nor Parthia would tolerate a neutral Armenia. Control of the hapless kingdom was all that would satisfy either great power. That Tiridates had been driven out, along with his Parthians, would be scant comfort, and the Armenian offer of de facto neutrality would be taken as a setback when word reached Rome. And then there was the matter of the loss of the baggage wagons and the siege weapons. At least they had been denied to any potential enemies, Cato reflected with some small satisfaction. As soon as he had seen that the battle was lost, Centurion Nicolis had taken the initiative, withdrawn his men from the gate and rushed back to the palace to set fire to the baggage train and siege equipment. All had been destroyed, along with much of the palace, once the flames spread, before Nicolis was forced to surrender.

  Macro had been left in command of the remaining troops, and the rebels had assured Cato that they would be well looked after until his return. Even so Cato dreaded that they would not honour their promise to treat their hostages fairly. Especially as they had taken all the Iberian soldiers to one side after the surrender, and then shot them down with arrows. Only Rhadamistus and Zenobia had been spared, since that was all that was required of the rebels to comply with the deal they had struck with the king of Iberia. The day after, Cato, his escort, and the deposed king and queen rode out of Artaxata and to
ok the trade route to the border and the city of Iskerbalis. There was no need to guard against escape since Rhadamistus was eagerly anticipating his return to Iberia and the opportunity to pursue fresh dreams of power. The greater danger came from the Armenians as they journeyed through the land, and Cato did his best to avoid towns and large villages where he and his men might be overwhelmed by angry mobs stirred up by memories of Rhadamistus’s first reign. In truth, he had grown sick of the sight of the man, and his scheming wife, and could not wait for the chance to leave the governor’s villa and return to Artaxata.

  His one immediate cause of anxiety was the refusal of his host to permit the Romans to leave until the king of Iberia gave his permission. The king, Cato was told, had been sent a message announcing that his son had reached Iskerbalis safely and a royal courier had galloped back to inform the governor that His Majesty was coming to meet his son in person. Which raised the question, why did he simply not send for his son instead? Nor was it just Cato to whom this question occurred. At the cordial evening meals Rhadamistus raised it from time to time, only to be politely deflected by the governor, who insisted he was merely obeying instructions and had no insight into the king’s reasoning.

  On this fine morning, a month after the defeat outside Artaxata, Cato was stretched out on a couch in the warmth and had closed his eyes to doze briefly when he sensed a shadow had fallen across his face. He blinked his eyes open and saw Zenobia looking down at him, her expression cold and calculating for an instant before it was masked by the sweet smile that Cato was now certain she used on any man she wished to manipulate into serving her purposes.