Traitors of Rome (Eagles of the Empire 18)

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘The block is filthy and infested with rats. I dare say you could have provided something better, but it will have to do. The men’ll need food. I want you to report to the leader of the escort party, Optio Pelius. Take him to the stores and give him everything he requires.’

  The clerk, a stout man in his forties with thinning hair, raised his eyebrows uncertainly. ‘I’ll need the permission of the quartermaster before I can issue rations, sir.’

  ‘As a tribune in the Praetorian Guard, I outrank any officer in the garrison,’ Cato responded impatiently. ‘Get it done, and settle the matter with the quartermaster in your own time. Where is the commander of the cohort? I need to speak to him.’

  ‘Prefect Sextilius usually takes a bath at this time of day, sir.’

  ‘Does he now?’ Cato said through gritted teeth. ‘Where?’

  ‘The bathhouse is outside the main gate, sir. Turn right and it’s about fifty paces down the street. Can’t miss it, sir.’

  ‘I’d better not.’ Cato turned and took a few paces towards the door, then stopped to look back. ‘Well, what are you bloody waiting for? I told you to report to Pelius. At the double!’

  The clerk scurried out from behind his table and bustled past Cato, who followed him to the arch before turning away towards the main gate of the fort. He passed between two occupied barracks blocks, where wavering light illuminated the frames of windows and doors and the figures of auxiliaries sitting outside as they relaxed in the cool evening air. None seemed to pay him any attention, but Cato was too weary to make an issue of it with men who were not under his command. He had seen many similar examples of laxity in garrison units across the Empire. Even if he took them to task and gave them a bollocking, they would revert to their usual ways the moment Cato and his party left the town.

  The optio of the watch casually waved him through the gate and into the street, and Cato turned in the direction described by the clerk. From the width of the street and the ruts worn into the cobbled surface, it was clear that it was one of the main thoroughfares of Doliche, and there were still some shops open along the route. The scent of baked bread gave way to a mixture of spices, and then the sharp tang of urine as he passed a fuller’s premises. He saw the sign for the bathhouse hanging from an iron bracket outside its entrance. It was illuminated by small braziers on either side and he could easily make out the name in Greek: The Palace of Dionysius – baths, gymnasium, good food and good women available. Pleasures for all budgets lie within!

  Sounds good to me, he thought with a smile.

  He climbed the steps between the pillars of the entrance and entered the hall. A surly-looking man sat picking his nose behind a red-painted counter. Two women with lurid make-up, wearing only loincloths, sat on stools at the end of a corridor with curtained cubicles on either side. On the opposite side of the entrance was another corridor lined with pegs and shelves where customers had left their belongings while they experienced whatever pleasures suited their budgets. A slave sat on another stool beside the pegs, a short club hanging from his belt to deter thieves. Despite the name on the sign outside, the initial impression was more than a little disappointing, Cato decided, as the man behind the counter sized him up.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’

  ‘I’m looking for a man.’

  ‘We cater for all tastes here. What kind of man do you desire?’

  ‘One who doesn’t jump to conclusions,’ Cato growled. ‘I’m looking for Prefect Sextilius. I was told this was the place to find him.’

  ‘Depends what you want to find him for. We take our customers’ privacy very seriously, sir.’

  ‘I’m here on imperial business. Tell me where I can find him before I order my soldiers to come in here and tear the place apart.’ Cato tapped his fingers against the hilt of his sword. ‘If I were you, I’d be a little bit more cooperative and a little less of a jobsworth.’

  The man raised his hands, palms out. ‘No offence meant, sir. You’ll find the prefect in the caldarium. You can leave your clothes and weapons in the changing room.’

  Cato had not considered that his need to confer with Sextilius might happily coincide with the chance to take advantage of the facilities at the Palace of Dionysius. ‘What’s the charge?’

  ‘For you, sir, nothing. We are honoured by your presence. Please make use of all that you need, or desire.’ The man nodded meaningfully towards the two prostitutes. Cato followed his gesture and saw that the women looked bored and tired.

  ‘Perhaps another time.’

  He divested himself of his weapons, tunic and boots and took the linen sheet that the man guarding the changing room held out to him. Wrapping it around his waist, he made his way through the opening at the end of the room into the humid atmosphere of the tepidarium. To one side a man was rubbing oil onto his skin while another was being attended to by a slave, who carefully scraped away the oil and the dirt it had loosened with a bronze strigil. They glanced up briefly as Cato passed by and pulled aside the thick linen curtain separating the room from the caldarium. Steam swirled out and he blinked at the wave of heat that struck his face and body, then stepped inside and let the curtain fall back into place.

  The caldarium was a smaller room, perhaps twenty feet across. Stone benches lined the walls, and in one corner there was a large iron bowl set into a marble base. Steam curled from within as the fireplace under the floor heated the water. In the other corner, opposite the entrance, was a brazier that provided illumination. By the dim light Cato could make out two other occupants of the small chamber: a slender youth with dark features and a rotund man of middle age. Both were naked and the latter was stroking the youth’s back. They looked up at Cato as he crossed the room and sat close by, his sheet draped across his shoulders.

  ‘Prefect Sextilius?’

  ‘Yes,’ the older man replied warily as he slipped his arm away from the youth. ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I am Tribune Quintus Licinius Cato.’ Cato glanced towards the youth and spoke in Greek. ‘Leave us.’

  The youth stared back briefly before turning to Sextilius, who nodded and patted the boy’s leg as he muttered, ‘Wait for me outside.’

  Once they were alone, the prefect shifted round, his pot belly resting on his flabby thighs. He wagged a finger at Cato. ‘What is this about? I’ve already had one imperial bean-counter go through the cohort’s books, a month back. He found nothing. Don’t tell me this is another investigation?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that. I’m not interested in your accounts.’ Cato paused. There was nothing to be lost in telling the truth. ‘I’m on the road to Zeugma, and then heading across into Parthia.’

  ‘What in Hades do you want to do that for? The bloody Parthians are threatening to wage war on us.’

  ‘That’s what I aim to prevent,’ Cato replied. ‘I’m leading an embassy. General Corbulo wants to offer King Vologases the opportunity of making peace.’

  Sextilius snorted. ‘Some hope of that! Those bastards are already crossing the border and attacking our trade routes, and even some of our outposts. I doubt that’s going to play well in Rome when the emperor gets to hear about it. Even if you, by some miracle, get the Parthians to accept peace, I’ll wager good money that peace will be the last thing on Nero’s mind. You’re wasting your time, Tribune. And you’re putting your head on the block, as well as those of the rest of your men.’

  Perspiration was already pricking on Cato’s forehead and he dabbed it with the corner of his sheet before he responded. ‘Maybe, but I will carry out my orders.’

  ‘Then you’re a fool.’

  He ignored the insult. There was no point in creating any further tension between them when he needed information. ‘So what exactly have you heard about Parthian attacks?’

  Sextilius leaned back against the wall and folded his arms. ‘I don’t know the full details, only what I’ve he
ard from the soldiers passing through the town. They say there’s some warlord operating out of Carrhae. He’s sending mounted columns to attack across the frontier, from Samosata nearly all the way to Sura. After Corbulo pulled his army back to Tarsus to train the men, it was only a matter of time before the enemy realised the frontier was weakly defended.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what the purpose of these raids is?’

  ‘From what I’ve heard, they seem to be after loot. Aside from the attacks on our outposts, there’s been no attempt to take any towns. As for the size of the columns, who can say? You know how it is. One man will swear there are thousands of them, another will report a fraction of that number. Either way, they’re terrifying the locals. The caravans coming from Nabatea have stopped and turned back, and many of the villagers are fleeing to the towns. As far as the military goes, we’re no longer patrolling the west bank of the Euphrates, since that’s too dangerous. Word has been sent to Quadratus, the governor of Syria, but so far we’ve heard nothing back.’

  Cato wiped his face again and thought over what he had heard. Quadratus would be warned of the attacks first, and might not pass the news on to General Corbulo. The two men were bitter rivals, as a result of which it was possible that Quadratus would delay sending a message to Tarsus for as long as possible. In the meantime, those living on the frontier would have to look to Syria for reinforcements to drive off the Parthians. Given that the governor’s best units had been transferred to Corbulo, any reinforcements that did reach the frontier would be too weak to do much good.

  ‘What do you know about the Parthian warlord?’ he asked.

  ‘Not much. The word is that his men call him the Desert Hawk.’ Sextilius yawned and stretched his arms out, then folded his hands behind his head. ‘Sounds to me like the kind of name a man might choose if he was trying to build a reputation for himself. You know the sort of thing – he strikes his prey out of the blue. Nonsense like that.’

  ‘Except that it’s not nonsense, though he’s striking from the desert rather than the skies.’

  ‘Well, he’s hardly going to call himself something like the Desert Camel, is he?’

  Cato glanced at him. ‘Fair point.’

  ‘Now, is there anything else you need?’ the prefect said testily.

  Cato thought about mentioning the rations and equipment he had demanded from the garrison’s stores, but Sextilius seemed like the kind of officer who would deny him what he needed unless he could provide written authority from Governor Quadratus, which Cato did not have. In any case, by the time the prefect discovered what had been taken from his stores, Cato and his party would be well down the road to Zeugma.

  ‘No. That’s all.’ He smiled. ‘Thanks all the same.’

  Sextilius narrowed his eyes, no doubt suspecting that he was being mocked, and responded tonelessly, ‘You’re welcome. Will you be staying a while to enjoy the baths?’

  ‘No. I’ll clean up in the frigidarium, then I have to get back to my men.’ Cato eased himself up from the bench. ‘We’ll be leaving at first light.’

  ‘What a pity. While you’re on your way out, please tell my young companion to rejoin me.’

  By the time he had completed his ablutions, dressed and returned to the barrack block assigned to the embassy, most of the men were already asleep, and the sound of snoring mingled with the faint sounds of rats scurrying along the roof beams. Flaminius had packed some feed nets under Cato’s bedroll to make it more comfortable for his master, and Cato sank down gratefully and took off his boots. He sat for a moment, hunched forward, resting his chin in his cupped hands, and let his thoughts turn to Lucius and the others back in Tarsus. He realised that his greatest fear was not for himself, but his son, and there was guilt that he might not live to protect and raise the boy in a world replete with danger and treachery. No man, woman or child was safe, no matter how far they tried to remove themselves from the politics of the capital. Even if one chose to live outside of the Empire, that would only mean exchanging one set of dangers for another. Cato offered a prayer to Minerva that Lucius would be granted the wisdom to survive should anything happen to him.

  His prayer was interrupted by the rusty squeal of hinges as the door at the end of the block opened. A slender figure was discernible against the faint glow cast by the stars, and then the door closed again and footsteps shuffled in the darkness.

  Cato called out softly. ‘Apollonius?’

  ‘It’s me,’ the agent replied quietly as he approached. He paused at the end of Cato’s stall, barely visible. ‘How did you get on with the commander of the garrison?’

  Cato briefly recounted his earlier conversation. ‘How about you? Did your merchants have anything to add?’

  ‘Plenty, once I had plied them with sufficient drink. They told me that the name of our Desert Hawk is Haghrar, of the House of Attaran. He’s the ruler of Ichnae and the surrounding territory, and seems keen to win influence at the court of Vologases.’

  ‘The same as most nobles, then.’

  ‘Quite. But is he carrying out his raids on the say-so of the king, or is he working to another agenda?’

  ‘What difference does that make as far as Rome is concerned? Nero’s advisers will attribute the attacks to Vologases and persuade him to go to war.’

  ‘It makes a lot of difference, Tribune. Let’s try and think through the possibilities. It might be that Haghrar is acting on orders from his ruler. If so, what is Vologases trying to achieve? The raids will disrupt trade for a while, but the booty to be had will be insignificant compared to the treasure he already possesses. Is he trying to provoke Rome into premature retaliation? If so, does he have intelligence about the weak state of Corbulo’s army? And who is providing that intelligence?’

  ‘That can be dealt with later. Let’s just hope your master doesn’t take the bait if you’re right about the raids.’

  Apollonius stirred and was then still again, and silent for a moment. ‘No man is my master. I choose who I work for. From what I know of Corbulo, he won’t act until he is certain his army is ready for the campaign.’

  ‘I agree. You suggested other possibilities,’ Cato prompted.

  ‘Indeed. There is something else. What if Haghrar is carrying out these raids in order to provoke his king?’

  Cato frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Suppose for a moment that Vologases is predisposed towards peace with Rome. We know that he is engaged in a war with his son, Vardanes, and the Hyrcanian rebels on the eastern frontier of Parthia.’

  ‘The same rebels being supported with Roman gold,’ Cato pointed out.

  ‘That’s true,’ Apollonius conceded in the patient tone of one confirming the obvious. ‘So it follows that Vologases will not be keen to wage two wars at the same time. But what if there’s a faction in his court determined to attack Rome? What if Haghrar is attempting to force the issue? If Corbulo was ordered to act immediately, then Vologases would have to come to the aid of the House of Attaran, and the pro-war faction would have the clash they desire.’

  ‘Interesting.’ Cato reflected. ‘There’s another possibility as well. What if the real purpose of this faction is not just to provoke a war, but to bring down King Vologases?’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Think about it. The king is already fighting one war, against the Hyrcanians. What if he is threatened with another? If he refuses to back up the House of Attaran in a fight against Rome, the nearest kingdoms to Carrhae will feel abandoned and betrayed and may well rise up against him. However, if he does choose to lead the struggle against Rome, he leaves himself open to an attack by Vardanes and the Hyrcanians from the east. In short, Vologases loses his crown either way.’

  ‘As long as there is a war with Rome.’

  ‘Exactly.’ Cato yawned. He was tired, and it was an effort to think clearly. ‘The question then is what outcome be
nefits Rome most. If there is a war between Rome and Parthia and Vologases falls, then there will be a struggle to replace him and Parthia will be weakened. But if we avoid a costly war and he remains in power, he will be able to gather his forces for future hostilities against us, if he chooses that path.’

  ‘Or if Nero decides to wage war . . . An interesting conundrum, wouldn’t you say?’ Apollonius took a step closer. ‘What would you do if you were in Corbulo’s place, Tribune?’

  Cato tried to think it through, weighing up all he knew of the state of the general’s army and the terrain over which it must fight if it was to invade Parthian territory.

  ‘In his place I would want to negotiate a peace treaty with Vologases more than ever.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Our army will be in no condition to fight for the best part of a year. If we are forced to fight now, it could go either way. Better we concentrate on holding the frontier until we are ready to strike and not allow ourselves to be drawn into an invasion before we are prepared. Better still if we can get a treaty that puts a stop to Haghrar’s raids. And without an external enemy to occupy their thoughts, the Parthians may well turn on each other. In the meantime, Vologases has the war against the Hyrcanians to worry about. And all of that suits Rome’s interests nicely.’

  There was a pause before Apollonius spoke. ‘Good. You have grasped the nuances of the situation precisely. Peace it is then. Of course, all of this depends on the war against the Hyrcanians. If it ends too soon, Vologases will be able to turn his entire might against us before we are ready to fight. We’d best hope the Hyrcanians can hold out as long as possible, with whatever assistance we can provide them.’

  Cato gritted his teeth at the implication that Apollonius had thought it all through well before him.

  ‘It’s late, and I’m tired, Apollonius. I need to sleep. I dare say you do too.’

  ‘As it happens, I can get by with little sleep.’

  ‘Then you have the advantage over me. I bid you goodnight.’