Traitors of Rome (Eagles of the Empire 18)

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Any injuries?’

  ‘A few bruises. Nothing to worry about.’

  Cato nodded with satisfaction. ‘Good.’

  They were interrupted by the thud of horses’ hoofs as the general and his staff rode up and turned to face the disordered ranks of the auxiliaries. Corbulo looked older than his forty-nine years; grey-haired, with a deeply lined face and a wide downturned mouth that made his expression appear sour and severe.

  ‘Prefect Orfitus!’ he bellowed. ‘Get your bloody men formed up! I’ll not have them milling around like a bunch of wasters on a public holiday!’

  The hapless prefect saluted, then gave orders for his officers to have the men fall in. With much shouting, liberal use of vine canes and optios’ staffs, and shuffling boots, the six centuries of the Syrian cohort took their places and stood to attention under the glowering stare of their general. When at last they were formed up, Corbulo flicked his reins and walked his mount along the front of the unit. There was no mistaking the contempt in his expression as he regarded them. He returned to his former position in front of the centre of the cohort to address them.

  ‘That was the most ludicrous display I have ever seen from any unit in the entire Roman army,’ he announced in a harsh, strident tone. ‘Not only did you fail to keep up anything like a decent pace on the march, you failed to remain in formation. Ye gods! A band of one-legged vagrants could have turned in a better performance. If that was not bad enough, you shambled onto the training ground like a bunch of first-day recruits. From what I can see of your kit, it is poorly maintained, and some of you don’t even have the full issue. Centurions! I want you to take the name of every man here who has failed to turn up in full regulation kit. No exceptions. Officers included. Those who don’t come ready for war get to sleep in the open for the rest of the month, and will be issued nothing but barley gruel to eat.’ He twisted in his saddle to indicate the rampart. ‘As for what might laughingly be referred to as your attack on prepared defences, I swear before Jupiter, Best and Greatest, that a gaggle of vestal virgins would have presented a more fearsome prospect to the enemy.’

  There was some laughter from the Praetorian ranks before a sharp curse from an optio silenced the men.

  Corbulo glared at the Syrians for a moment before he continued his dressing-down. ‘If that’s how you perform when you go up against the Parthians, I promise that not one in ten of you will survive the experience. You may have amused our Praetorian friends, but I can assure you that the Parthians will not be laughing when they come for you. You and all the other men in the eastern army who have spent their lives sitting on their fat arses in comfortable garrison postings.

  ‘Life has been far too easy for you, but that has now changed, gentlemen. When spring comes, we will be invading the Parthian empire. It will be the greatest test of Roman military might in the east since the days of Marcus Antonius. For those who live to see the final victory, there will be enough booty to make us all wealthy beyond measure. For those who fall along the way, there will only be an unmarked grave at the side of a dusty road, soon to be lost to memory. That is the fate that awaits if you cannot perform far better than you just did.

  ‘Too long you have merely played at being soldiers. Now you must earn the coin of Rome. You must earn it through shedding sweat and blood. You must strengthen your hearts, thicken your muscles and harden your resolve. You must look after your kit. If your armour is weak and worn, it will not save you. If your blade is rusty and blunt, it will not kill for you. If your boots are worn out, they will not carry you far, and you will fall behind to be picked off and butchered by the enemy. And the enemy we face is perhaps the most formidable foe that Rome has ever encountered. Oh, I know there are some who say the Parthians are corrupt and weak, flouncing around in their flowing robes and kohl eye make-up like women, but those who dismiss them as such are fools, and make themselves easy prey for the enemy. Be not mistaken: the Parthian is a skilled warrior. He rides as if he was born in the saddle. He can shoot arrows from atop his mount just as steadily and accurately as if he was standing on the ground. The Parthian cavalry is as the flow of a river. It sweeps round obstacles and moves on unhindered, until its way is blocked by a dam. We will be that dam. We will be the line of rocks the enemy cannot pass. Not even the mailed might of their cataphracts will break us. On our shields and on our spears and swords they will dash themselves to pieces. And then we will have victory.’

  Corbulo paused to let his words sink in before he continued in a sombre tone. ‘But that will never happen while you shame the reputation of Rome as you do now. I see no soldiers before me worthy of the name. I see only the lazy detritus of a once proud cohort whose men did honour to their standard and their emperor. That must change. If it doesn’t, you will all end up carrion for the buzzards of Parthia. Prefect Orfitus!’

  The cohort’s commander stepped forward. ‘Sir!’

  ‘These are your men. You set the standard. If they fail from now on, it is because you have failed. And if you fail, then I will show you no pity. I demand the best from my officers. If they can’t give their best, then they have no place in my army. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Then you will see to it that these men are trained properly. Those who fail to meet the required standard will be discharged without the usual gratuity. That goes for every other unit under my command. Including the legions.’ He jerked his thumb back over his shoulder. ‘And the Praetorians.’

  Cato and Macro exchanged a quick look.

  ‘That’s taking things a bit too far,’ Macro said quietly. ‘It won’t go down well in the ranks.’

  ‘Nor in Rome, once Nero hears about it,’ Cato added. ‘If there’s one lesson every emperor has learned, it’s that you don’t mess about with the privileges of the Praetorian Guard.’

  ‘Quite right too,’ Macro responded with feeling.

  Corbulo gave the cohort one last look of withering contempt before he snapped at Orfitus, ‘Dismissed!’ Then, wheeling his horse around, he spurred it into a canter and led his staff officers back in the direction of the main gate of Tarsus in a swirl of dust.

  Cato regarded him for a moment before he glanced towards the Syrians. ‘Not quite the inspiring address those men needed from their general.’

  ‘It’s exactly what they needed,’ Macro responded. ‘They’re a pile of shit, and they know it. The sooner Orfitus whips ’em into shape, the better.’

  Cato nodded. ‘Corbulo was right about one thing. If they’re not ready when the time comes to face the Parthians, then they’re as good as dead.’

  Macro grunted. ‘On that cheery note – what are your orders, sir?’

  Cato thought briefly. ‘The men could use some exercise. March them around the city a couple of times before dismissing them.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I’ll see you when you’re done. Push ’em hard, Centurion.’

  ‘Is there any other way?’

  Cato nodded, tugged at Cassius’s leash and set off towards the city gate with the dog trotting at his side.

  Macro turned to the Praetorians, many of whom were still grinning at the discomfort of the Syrians. It was a fact of life that the units of any army had a competitive rivalry. The legionaries felt superior to the auxiliaries, the auxiliaries resented the legionaries’ arrogance, and both groups of soldiers hated the Praetorians. If any of the Syrians ran into Macro’s men in the city’s drinking holes that night, there was bound to be trouble. In that case, the only thing that concerned Macro was that the Praetorians gave the other side a bloody good kicking.

  He sucked in a deep breath as he looked over the depleted ranks of the Praetorian cohort and affected a dark frown as he bellowed, ‘What in Hades are you bastards grinning at? You won’t be laughing when you know what’s in store for you! Stand to! Shields up! Prepare to march!’

  CHAPT
ER TWO

  While the rest of the army lived in tents in their camps outside Tarsus, Cato and his men were billeted in the city, as the Praetorians had been assigned to serve as the general’s bodyguard. Corbulo’s decision to send them into action the previous year had been a calculated political risk as well as a military one, since the emperor would have taken a very dim view of the loss of one of his prized guard units. At the time, though, the general had had so few reliable men at his disposal that his hand had been forced. The Second Cohort had suffered many losses, and there had been no way of replacing them with fresh recruits, as far from Rome as they were. It was small comfort to know that there were too few men left for Corbulo to send them into the field again. They would serve out the campaign at the side of the general and his staff, away from the battle line. That might well frustrate Centurion Macro, but it was a source of profound relief to his woman, Petronella. Especially as she was about to become his wife.

  Cato smiled in anticipation of the next day’s wedding celebrations. It would be a small enough affair. Besides himself and the other officers of the cohort, there were a few men from other units that Macro had befriended, as well as a handful of the local people and Cato’s five-year-old son, Lucius.

  It was because of Lucius that Macro had come to meet his bride-to-be. Petronella had been the boy’s nurse, bought from the slave market in Rome for the purpose. Fierce and intelligent, she was exactly the kind of woman Macro needed, thought Cato. Moreover, she doted on Lucius, and he in turn loved her. His mother had died shortly after he had been born, and since Cato had been away on campaign for most of the youngster’s life, a powerful bond had grown between Lucius and his nurse. Not that she was a slave any longer. Cato had granted her her freedom a year ago, and she and Macro had been living together with him in the house he rented in Tarsus. And now the centurion had decided to make their relationship legal.

  Over the last month, Petronella had been joyfully preoccupied with making the arrangements while Macro looked on in a state of bemusement that turned to concern as soon as he took stock of the money she was spending. But, she explained, such things as a silk stola for the day, flowers, the feast, entertainers and the blessing from the priest of the imperial cult in Tarsus did not come cheap, still less free. Cato had watched in wonder as his friend, the fearless veteran of so many battles, shrugged meekly and surrendered to her wishes. It seemed that love had been able to achieve what no enemy weapon, nor any barbarian warrior, ever had.

  Cato turned into a street leading out of the forum towards the Jewish quarter and the comfortable house in which his small household rented rooms. The afternoon heat was even more cloying in the confines of the city, and sweat trickled from his brow as he strode along, avoiding the small heaps of refuse and sewage that had collected in the street. He exchanged a salute with a party of legionaries, who stepped warily aside as Cassius strained towards them. Passing through an arch with a menorah carved into the facing of the keystone, he entered a small square. The house of the silversmith, Yusef, was on the far side, the entrance flanked by a bakery and a shop selling pottery. As he approached, he saw Petronella sitting on a step a short distance from the door, trying to cool herself with a straw fan. In front of her, Lucius played with some of his wooden soldiers. A small, dark-haired girl in a plain tunic sat beside him. Cato recognised her as the daughter of one of the neighbours; the girl Lucius often spoke of as his friend, before he became self-conscious and denied that he had chosen to play with a girl and that she just tagged along.

  Petronella stood up as she caught sight of her former master and waved a greeting. ‘Look who’s here, Lucius!’

  The boy looked up and smiled brightly as he sprang to his feet. ‘Cassius!’

  Cassius tugged at the leash, but Cato held him back firmly as he drew up outside the silversmith’s house. Lucius rushed forward to hug the dog, Cassius’s long tongue playing over his face, but the girl flinched away. Cato could well understand her nervousness, given the size and wild appearance of the beast.

  ‘Cassius, eh?’ He sighed theatrically. ‘No greeting for your father?’

  He hunched down and ruffled Lucius’s dark curls. His son gave him a perfunctory hug and then continued patting the dog’s flank. Cato glanced towards the girl. ‘And how is little Junilla today?’

  She smiled back shyly, then abruptly turned and scurried away, darting into a passage a little further down the street.

  ‘What did I say?’ Cato frowned.

  Petronella laughed. ‘It’s not you, master. Just the dog. He looks like a wolf to most of the townsfolk. If I didn’t know him better, I’d be the same. Come now, Lucius, pick up your toys. It’s time to go inside.’

  The boy gave the dog a last pat on the head, and then recoiled as the long tongue flickered towards his face again. Scooping up his wooden figures, he followed the others up the steps to the front door and into the silversmith’s house.

  Inside, there was a short corridor leading to the simple atrium, where a shallow basin reflected some of the light coming from the opening above. Arranged around the four sides were the owner’s office and living quarters and the kitchen. The rooms that Cato and Macro rented overlooked the small courtyard garden at the rear. The faint tinkle of the fountain greeted Cato’s ears as he led the way into the garden and down the gravel path to the pool where the water splashed. He untied the dog’s leash and then eased himself down onto one of the benches shaded by the vine-covered trellis that surrounded the pool.

  Lucius set his toy soldiers down beside his father and then sat on the pool’s marble edge and swung his bare feet over into the water, kicking gently to cool his toes. Glancing round with a hopeful wag of his tail, Cassius waited a moment for someone to play with him. When no one responded, he sat heavily at his master’s feet before lowering his head between his paws and letting out a deep sigh.

  ‘How are preparations going for the big day?’ asked Cato.

  Petronella settled on the neighbouring bench and smiled happily. ‘I think everything is ready, master.’

  ‘You think?’ Cato arched an eyebrow and smiled. ‘Best to be sure, before the centurion gets back. He’s a stickler for details, as you know. I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of Macro.’

  ‘Oh, he’s a pussycat, if you know where to tickle him. Besides, I think I’ve made it clear to him who wears the breeches.’

  ‘Are you sure you weren’t a centurion yourself in a previous life? That or a camp prefect. For a fine-looking woman, and wife-to-be, you seem to have the bearing and demeanour of a hardened veteran.’

  Petronella’s expression became strained. ‘Spending most of your life as a slave will do that to a person, master.’

  ‘But you are no longer a slave. You are free. I am no longer your master.’

  ‘Force of habit, sir.’

  They exchanged a slight smile. Although she was no longer Cato’s property, Petronella, like any person who had been freed, was obliged to regard him as her patron for the rest of her life. In exchange for her loyalty and occasional services, it would be his duty to ensure her welfare. Of course, he reflected, that was the guiding principle. Many failed to honour it. Some masters treated former slaves as but one step removed from their previous status. And many slaves repaid their former owner’s kindness with cold contempt once they were freed. In a few instances, freedmen proved themselves so successful in their endeavours that they amassed vast fortunes and became far wealthier than their former owners. Nevertheless, slaves they had once been, and no amount of fine clothes or expensive perfume would ever change their place close to the bottom of Rome’s social hierarchy.

  But for the imperial preference enjoyed by his father, Cato too would have suffered the fate of a freedman. As it was, he had been granted citizenship, on condition that he served in the army. But even now, he wondered how many of the officers knew of his humble origins and mocked him behind
his back, despite his elevation to equestrian rank. Not that he had much cause to care what they thought of him. He had won his reputation the hard way, unlike those who had acquired prestige by mere accident of birth. He had a degree of wealth too, having inherited the estate of his father-in-law, Senator Sempronius. There was a house in Rome, a farming estate in Campania, and rental income from an apartment block on the Aventine Hill, for as long as the building remained standing.

  And yet despite such riches, Cato was not content to live a life of comparative luxury in Rome. Although born and raised in the capital, he had found it overwhelming after returning from years campaigning on the empire’s frontiers. The stench of a million people and animals living in such close proximity was unbearable, and he had been astonished at himself for not being aware of it earlier. Moreover, the teeming streets made him feel hemmed in, like a sack of grain tightly packed into the fetid hold of an old cargo ship. And then there was the need to cautiously pick his way through the maze of Rome’s social and political life. An unintended slight might unwittingly make him an enemy for life. Given the right connections at the palace, or with the criminal underworld of the Subura, such an enemy could prove deadly indeed. Cato might be stabbed in a crowded thoroughfare, or poisoned at a banquet, without ever knowing the reason why.

  For all these reasons he preferred life in the army, where a man knew who his enemies were and could count on his comrades. For the most part, he conceded. The influence of Rome could stretch to the furthest corners of the empire for those whose influence was deemed a threat by the emperor and his advisers. For now, though, Cato felt confident that he was too insignificant to be at risk from such attention. The same could not be said for General Corbulo. He might well be a fine soldier who had served Rome well and won the respect of those he commanded. He might even be utterly loyal to whichever emperor sat on the throne, but that would not save him if he was deemed to be too successful.

  Cato smiled bitterly to himself. Such was the paradox of empire. Good generals were necessary to defend Rome from its enemies, but if such men were too good they could easily come to be regarded as just another enemy. In which case they would be stripped of their command and spend the rest of their days in Italia, under the scrutiny of the imperial spies. If they were less fortunate, they would be accused of some capital crime and executed, or offered the honourable way out by taking their own life.