Traitors of Rome (Eagles of the Empire 18)

by Simon Scarrow

  The dog nuzzled Cato’s hand and then jumped up, resting its long forelegs against his chest as it tried to lick his face.

  ‘Down, Cassius!’ Cato pushed it away. ‘Sit!’

  At once the animal went down on its haunches, the tip of its tail still wagging.

  ‘At least someone can be trained,’ said Macro. ‘I’m starting to wonder if we’d be better off with a pack of dogs rather than those layabouts.’

  There was a shout from the officer riding at the head of the Syrian column as he raised his arm, and the soldiers shambled to a halt. Without waiting for permission, some of the men lowered their spears and shields and bent over, gasping for breath. The commanding officer wheeled his mount and rode back down the column, berating his subordinates and gesturing furiously.

  Macro shook his head and spat to one side. ‘Just as well today’s drill ain’t an ambush, eh?’

  Cato nodded. It was easy enough to imagine the chaos that would have caused amongst the exhausted auxiliaries. ‘Get our men ready. I want them to go in hard when the Syrians make their attack. They need to understand that we’re not playing at war. Better a few bruises and broken bones now than have them thinking it’s going to be a gentle stroll into Parthia.’

  Macro grinned and saluted before striding out in front of the length of rampart. He halted near the middle and turned to face the Praetorians. They had been issued with training weapons: wicker shields, wooden swords and javelins with blunt wooden heads. Though designed to cause less damage than the real thing, such weapons could still deliver painful blows and injuries. He raised his centurion’s vine cane and patted the head of the gnarled length of wood in the palm of his spare hand as he addressed the men in the clear, loud voice he had perfected over the years for training soldiers and commanding them in battle.

  ‘Time for a little exercise, lads! There’s nearly six hundred auxiliaries over there. Twice as many as us. And that’s bad odds for them.’ He paused to allow the men to smile and chuckle. ‘That said, if even one of those idle bastards gets over the rampart, I’ll have every last man of the century manning that stretch on latrine duties for a month. And since the remaining men will be fed a diet of prunes, you will be so deep in the shit that you will be dreaming of fresh air!’

  There was a chorus of laughter from the Praetorians, and Macro indulged them a moment before he raised his cane to command their silence. ‘Never forget, we are the Second Praetorian Cohort, the finest body of men in the entire Imperial Guard. Now let’s show these Syrian layabouts why!’

  He punched his stick into the air with a savage roar, and the Praetorians followed suit, stabbing the rounded tips of their training javelins towards the heavens as they shouted their battle cries. Macro encouraged them for a moment longer before he turned away and strode back to join Cato and his dog. Cassius’s remaining ear had pricked up at the sound of the cheering, and now he rose back onto four feet, his hindquarters swaying as his bushy tail swept from side to side. Cato took a sturdy leather leash from his belt and tied it to the dog’s iron-studded collar as he muttered, ‘Can’t be having you eat any of the Syrians . . . Bad for morale.’

  Taking a firm hold on the leash, he straightened up and looked out over the open ground towards the Syrians. The centurions and optios were busy marshalling their men into a battle line opposite the rampart. Cato saw that the lines were poorly dressed even as the officers pushed and shoved the auxiliaries into position.

  Macro stood with the top of his cane resting against his shoulders and let out a long sigh. ‘Sweet fucking Mars, have you ever seen such a shower of shite? I wouldn’t bet on that lot being able to fight their way out of a roll of wet papyrus. If they ever go up against the Parthians, they’d better pray that the enemy kill themselves laughing, or they haven’t got a hope.’

  A glint on the track behind the Syrians drew Cato’s eye, and he saw several riders approaching. They were bareheaded, but wearing gleaming breastplates. ‘Looks like Corbulo has taken an interest in today’s drill.’

  Macro sucked his teeth. ‘Then he’s in for a bit of a disappointment, sir.’

  They watched the general and his staff officers ride round the far flank of the Syrian cohort before drawing up a short distance beyond to observe. Cato glanced at the prefect in command of the auxiliaries and felt a brief twinge of pity for the heavy-set and balding man. Paccius Orfitus was a decent enough officer. He had served as a legionary centurion on the Rhine frontier before being promoted to command the Syrian cohort barely a month before, and had only just begun training his men for the coming campaign. And now he had the additional burden of carrying out an attack drill under the scrutiny of his commanding general.

  With the cohort formed up in two lines of three centuries, Orfitus dismounted, took his shield and helmet down from the saddle horns and armed himself to lead the formation. Like the Praetorians, the auxiliaries had been issued with training equipment that was heavier than their field kit, and no doubt added to their evident exhaustion. Orfitus waited until the colour party took their place between the two lines, then paced to the front of his cohort and gave the order to advance. The glint of the sun on their helmets shimmered as the formation rippled forward.

  Macro watched for a moment before he commented grudgingly, ‘At least they can keep in step. That’s something for the prefect to be thankful for.’

  Cato nodded and then jerked his thumb towards the rampart. ‘Better get yourself up there with the lads.’

  ‘You not joining in the fun, sir?’

  ‘No. Just observing.’

  Macro shrugged, then saluted before jogging off behind the rampart to pick up his kit and join his men. Cato was left alone with the dog. Sometimes, he reflected, it was best to stand apart from such drills to get an overview; it was easy to miss important details from the heart of the action. He wanted to see how his own cohort performed during the exercise.

  The Syrian auxiliaries steadily closed the distance, and then, just out of arrowshot, Orfitus gave the order to halt. His men drew up and there was a moment of shuffling amid the shouting of the officers to dress the line, before the formation stood still and awaited his next command.

  ‘Second Century! Prepare to form testudo!’

  Cassius pulled on his lead and Cato tugged him back as he watched the auxiliaries in the centre of the front line form into a column. When they were ready, their commander moved into the front rank and shouted the order. ‘Form testudo!’

  What followed was every bit as bad as Cato had anticipated. Those in the front rank were supposed to present their shields to the enemy before the second rank raised theirs overhead, followed by each rank in turn. Instead, many men moved to lift their shields as soon as the order was given, causing chaos as they knocked into the men around them and clashed shields with the surrounding ranks. Once again the air filled with the curses and bellowed instructions of the junior officers as they struggled to restore order. In the end, Orfitus was obliged to make his way down the column, overseeing each rank’s efforts to adopt the formation. From the rampart came a ragged chorus of jeers and laughter as the Praetorians looked on.

  When at last the century was ready, Orfitus returned to his position and gave the order for the cohort to advance. The men of the two flanking centuries began to open their ranks as they prepared to hurl their training javelins. At the same time, they raised their shields until the rims covered most of their faces. Glancing back towards the rampart, Cato could make out the crest of Macro’s helmet as the centurion hefted his own javelin and waited for the Syrians to come within easy range. The mockery and taunts faded, and a relative quiet fell over the training ground as the men on both sides prepared to engage. Cato looked on with professional approval. This was as it should be. Training was a serious matter. It was the quality of their training that allowed the armies of Rome to dominate a vast empire and defeat the barbarians who regarded its riche
s with envious eyes.

  ‘Prepare javelins!’ Macro bellowed.

  The men along the rampart eased back their throwing arms and widened their stance before bracing themselves. Then they stood still, like sculptures of athletes, thought Cato, as the Syrians tramped closer, sheltering warily behind their wicker training shields.

  ‘Loose javelins!’ Macro ordered.

  The Praetorians stretched back their throwing arms and then hurled the weapons into the air with a ragged chorus of grunts. Cato watched the shafts, dark against the clear sky, as they arced towards the auxiliaries. The men of the front rank stopped in their tracks, causing disruption as those behind were forced to draw up. Even so, there was just time to duck behind their shields as the training javelins pelted down. Their light construction and blunted tips meant that there would be few injuries, but the auxiliaries’ instincts made them hesitate and take cover, just as they would in a real battle. It was up to their officers to keep driving them forward.

  ‘Don’t stop!’ Orfitus bellowed. ‘Keep moving! Advance!’

  He called the pace as the testudo edged forward, with the flanking centuries keeping up on either side. On the rampart, fresh javelins were being passed forward to the men along the palisade, and the Praetorians were hefting them as they prepared to unleash another volley. But the attackers got in first, the centurion on the right of the line raising his sword and calling out to his men.

  ‘First Century! Halt! Ready javelins! Loose!’

  The rushed sequence of orders led to a ragged response from the Syrians. Already tired from their forced march, many of the men were unable to throw the training javelins far enough, and the shafts plucked handfuls of soil from the foot of the rampart or fell into the ditch. Less than half, Cato judged, struck at the palisade and the men standing behind it. The Praetorians had raised their shields, and the shafts clattered aside, save for one lucky shot that caught one of the men on the shoulder. He stumbled back a pace before losing his balance and rolling down the rear of the rampart in a cloud of dust and loose soil.

  As soon as the men on the other flank realised that their comrades had unleashed their volley, they followed suit, with just as little effect. By contrast, the Praetorians’ second throw was well ordered, and the javelins clattered down on the auxiliaries’ shields with a brief rattling staccato, causing some of the more nervous men to lose grip of their shields.

  Orfitus continued to count the pace as he led the testudo towards the narrow causeway in front of the gate, where Macro was positioned. On either side individuals snatched up the training javelins from the exchange of volleys and hurled them back at the opposition in a steady flow of shafts to and fro. As the testudo reached the causeway, Orfitus ordered his men to halt. And Cato wondered what the prefect was planning to do next. The assault ladders were in the rear with the three centuries of the reserve line. There was a brief pause as they were brought forward and fed through the testudo, ready to be thrown up against the rampart for the assault to begin. Then it would be man on man between the auxiliaries and the Praetorians, and he had little doubt that his cohort, though outnumbered, would be able to hold the rampart.

  ‘Form pontus!’ Orfitus called out. At once the leading ranks of the testudo ran across the causeway and raised their shields, bracing their spare arms against the timbers of the gate. As the following ranks moved up, adding their shields and each assuming a lower posture, the bridge of overlapping shields began to form a ramp leading up to the palisade.

  Cato tensed in surprise, and then smiled grudgingly. He had not expected this bold manoeuvre, particularly from a unit he had been ready to dismiss as third rate. ‘Well, well,’ he mused quietly, realising how well this must have been rehearsed.

  Some of the Praetorians along the palisade were equally surprised, and leaned forward to observe Orfitus and his men, until their officers bawled at them to face the front.

  ‘Seems like our friend Orfitus is more than a little resourceful . . .’ Cato clicked his tongue and fondled Cassius’s ears.

  The dog twitched its head to one side and gave its master’s fingers a quick lick, then gently eased forward until restrained by the taut leash.

  ‘Keen to get stuck in, eh? Not this time. Those men are on our side, boy.’

  Cato focused his attention back towards the causeway. The new formation was almost complete, and the century that had been following the testudo was trotting forward to advance over the makeshift assault ramp. Ahead of them the Praetorians stood waiting, training swords levelled at the edge of the wicker shields, ready to strike. But there was no sign of Macro’s crested helmet amongst them. Cato frowned, wondering what had become of his friend in the moment the dog had distracted him. Had he been knocked down? Or slipped back off the rampart? That was hard to believe, as Macro had the veteran’s keen awareness of danger, as well as sure-footedness in the heat of battle. So what had happened?

  He noticed a party of men gathering behind the gate, a half-century or so, in tight formation. Above them their comrades were duelling with the first of the auxiliaries to reach the palisade, wooden swords striking at wicker shields, helmets and exposed limbs with the flat of their weapons. Already, one of the Syrians was attempting to climb over the palisade to gain a foothold on the walkway above the gate.

  Just then there was a roar as Macro and the Praetorians opened the gates and bellowed their war cries as they surged forward. A tremor went through the auxiliaries who formed the assault ramp. A handful of the men making their way up to the fight toppled off and rolled into the ditch on either side before the formation crumbled into a confused mass of men struggling to stay on their feet. Then Cato saw that the gate had been opened, and there was Macro’s crest bobbing above the fray as he and his men drove forward, thrusting the attackers back and causing yet more men to tumble into the ditch. Prefect Orfitus tried to rally his men at the end of the causeway, but there was no time to steady them before the Praetorians charged on into their disordered ranks. Cato caught one last glimpse of Orfitus before he was knocked down, then his men turned and fell back before Macro’s onslaught.

  Cassius tugged at the leash again. He strained and looked up at Cato plaintively.

  ‘You want to play?’

  The dog wagged its tail and Cato loosened his grip. At once Cassius bounded forward, the leash whipping from side to side behind him.

  Cato shrugged. ‘Whoops . . .’

  More of the Praetorians clambered down inside the defences and poured out of the gate in pursuit of the retreating Syrians, roughly knocking them down or tripping them over. Cassius raced in amongst them, jumping up at men from both sides as he weaved through the mayhem. Cato watched for a moment longer before strolling forward, cupping his hands to his mouth as he drew a deep breath.

  ‘Second Praetorian! Halt! That’s enough, boys!’

  The nearest of his men turned and drew up obediently. Those further off had one last go at their opponents before following suit as the officers relayed the command. Macro gave the order for the centuries to form up, then watched with an amused grin as the downed auxiliaries struggled to their feet, retrieved their equipment and stumbled back across the training ground to where the rest of their comrades stood, catching their breath as they regarded the Praetorians warily. Cato caught sight of the crest of the prefect’s helmet as Orfitus sat up and shook his head. He made his way across, bending down and holding out his hand. Orfitus blinked and squinted up at the shape looming over him before he realised that it was Cato.

  ‘Your men don’t seem inclined to take prisoners, Tribune Cato,’ he gasped, then coughed to clear his throat.

  Cato chuckled. ‘Oh, they’re happy enough to take prisoners as spoils of war. But there was no profit in sparing your lads, I’m afraid.’

  They grasped forearms and Cato hauled the other officer to his feet. Orfitus briefly dusted himself down as he scanned the training g
round and saw the last of his men limping over to rejoin the rest of their comrades. Then he glanced towards Corbulo and saw the general sitting stiffly in his saddle, his amused-looking officers exchanging comments to one side.

  ‘I don’t think the general is pleased with the way that went.’

  ‘Don’t take it too badly,’ Cato responded. ‘It was a neat move to use the pontus. I didn’t see that coming.’

  ‘Didn’t do us much good though, did it?’

  ‘Not this time,’ Cato admitted. ‘But you were up against my Praetorians. And men like Macro know just about every trick in the book, and how to counter them too.’

  There was a chorus of angry shouting from across the training ground, and the officers looked round to see that Cassius had herded several men off to one side and was racing around them, nipping at anyone who tried to break away.

  ‘Would you mind calling off your cavalry, Tribune? I think he’s caused enough mayhem.’

  Cato stuck two fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. Cassius stopped in his tracks and looked back. Cato whistled again, and the dog gave a last longing look at its prey before turning sharply and bounding back towards its master.

  ‘I owe you a drink when I next see you in the officers’ mess,’ said Orfitus. ‘You and that bloody wildman, Centurion Macro.’

  They exchanged a nod before Orfitus marched stiffly to take command of his cohort, trying to preserve as much dignity as he could. Cassius ran up and skittered to a stop, flanks heaving as his long tongue lolled out of his panting jaws. Cato took up the leash and made his way over to where Macro was standing in front of the Praetorians drawn up before the rampart. The men stood at ease, wicker shields grounded as they laughed and joked.

  ‘Good work, Centurion. That was quick thinking.’

  Macro grinned. ‘Coming from you, that’s praise indeed, sir. Of course, me and the boys had some help.’ He patted Cassius on the head and was rewarded with a lick.