Cato lay down on his side facing the open side of the stall. He watched as Apollonius’s shadowy figure remained still for a moment and then moved away in the direction of his hammock. Cato kept his eyes open a while longer, and strained his ears, but there was no further sound of movement, apart from the shuffling of the sleeping men and the rustling of rats above. At length he let his eyes close. It felt uncomfortable to be in the presence of a man who was a step ahead of him, he mused. Apollonius’s intelligence was as formidable as his skill with a blade, and Cato fervently hoped that the agent would be on his side rather than fighting against him, or worse, stabbing him in the back. He was not yet sure if such a man was an ally to be prized, or an enemy to be feared.
CHAPTER NINE
Cato had been gone some four days. In his absence, Macro was obliged to take on the cohort commander’s duties as well as his own. He was not enjoying the experience, he reflected grumpily as he spent yet another morning at headquarters. Besides drilling the men, he was now required to deal with the pay and savings records, since Cato insisted on checking the calculations of his senior clerk. Working with figures had always been something of a trial for Macro, and he had to apply himself diligently as he balanced the payments and withdrawals from the cohort’s treasure chest. Moreover, there were other records that also had to be kept an eye on: the quartermaster’s inventory, requests for leave, the daily strength returns and the tally of those fit for duty, those being treated for sickness or injury and those who were on temporary duties away from Tarsus, such as the six men under Centurion Ignatius who had been sent to Antiochia to fetch a batch of new recruits for the Praetorian cohort.
The latter were extremely fortunate young men, Macro reflected as he sat behind the desk in the tribune’s office. Normally the cohorts were stationed at the camp on the edge of Rome, and there was much competition for any vacancies in the guard units. But since the Second Cohort had been sent on active service under General Corbulo it had lost nearly half its men and was now obliged to make the numbers up from those Roman citizens in the eastern provinces eligible to join the legions and the Praetorian cohort. When the unit was eventually recalled to Rome, these men would enjoy all the privileges heaped on the elite corps of soldiers entrusted with the safety of the emperor, without having to compete for places against candidates who had influential sponsors.
All the same, the recruits would need months of training before they could be trusted to fight alongside the rest of the Praetorians. It took time to prepare men for war, and they would have to remain in Tarsus to complete their training if any conflict began before spring. Macro recalled the day when Cato had turned up at the fortress of the Second Legion on the Rhine. Back then the tribune had been a pasty streak of piss, soaked through and shivering as he clutched his meagre belongings amongst the other recruits who had been marched up from Rome. The intelligence that made him such an effective commander now had been a positive burden back then, when the other recruits and the veterans had mercilessly mocked what they saw as his pretensions and his clumsiness. On one occasion he had nearly managed to skewer Macro with a poorly aimed javelin. The centurion smiled as he recalled the moment. And yet, from such an unpromising start, Cato had proved himself a fine soldier and officer, and Macro felt a fierce pride at the way his protégé had turned out. He wondered if any of the new intake would make such a success of themselves. You could never tell, he mused. The tough-looking men sometimes proved to be cowards when they fought their first battle, and the ones you thought were timid had the hearts of lions.
The sound of laughter, hurriedly suppressed, came from the corridor outside. With a frustrated sigh, he rose to his feet and crossed to the window, turning his back on the heap of waxed slates he was working through. There were several disciplinary charges he had to deal with before he could knock the day’s record-keeping on the head and get back to training the men of the garrison units that had been called up to form Corbulo’s army. The room assigned to Cato to serve as his office overlooked the great market of Tarsus, and Macro leaned his hands on the wooden window frame and leaned forward slightly for a better view over the city. Below, the stalls stretched out under rows of brightly coloured awnings with people and a few mules threading between them like ants, weaving from side to side as they hunted for bargains. In amongst them he saw the tunics of off-duty soldiers, and he longed once again to get out of the stuffy atmosphere of the office.
He took in the view for a moment longer. If anyone in Tarsus was anxious about the prospect of a war between Rome and Parthia, they weren’t making their fears apparent. The inhabitants of the city and the merchants passing through seemed oblivious to any danger, carrying on with their routines with an untroubled air. No doubt they looked to the swaggering confidence of the Roman soldiers who were camped outside the city for their cue. If the army’s training achieved one thing, it was to give its men the belief that Romans were the finest soldiers in the world. Macro clicked his tongue. While he tended to share that view most of the time, he was well aware that such confidence could prove brittle when tested under the harsh conditions of a campaign, especially in the tough terrain the other side of the frontier. The only solution was good training, and plenty of it. Which was why he was frustrated at not being able to do more of it.
‘Shit,’ he muttered bitterly as he turned away from the window. ‘Bloody stylus-pushing bollocks is driving me mad.’
He strode to the door and wrenched it open. Three Praetorians were leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the corridor and hurriedly stood to attention. Macro glared at them one at a time, noting the bruises on their faces.
‘Are you the lairy bastards who started the fight with those auxiliary layabouts from the Syrian cohort? Well?’
He stood in front of them, hands on hips. The three men continued to stare straight ahead, but none spoke, so Macro picked on the man in the middle.
‘Guardsman Sulpicius, what do you have to say for yourself?’
Sulpicius was the oldest of them by several years, and his face bore scars on the cheek and jaw. He was well built, with creases about his steely eyes.
‘Begging your pardon, sir, but it wasn’t us who started the fight.’
‘That’s not what Prefect Orfitus says in his report. He claims his men were sitting at a table minding their business and having a quiet drink when you three rolled up at the inn. You were drunk, insults were exchanged and then you waded into them. The result of which is that two of them are in the army hospital and the innkeeper is demanding that you compensate him to the tune of two hundred sestertians for breakages. If the provosts hadn’t arrived to save your arses, the three of you would have ended up in hospital as well, no doubt. What do you say to that?’
Sulpicius’s lips curled in contempt. ‘Well, sir, it’s like this. First, if the oily little shit who owns the inn reckons his rickety tables and benches are worth half what he says, then I’m the emperor’s fucking uncle. Second, we were not drunk. We’d barely had two jars of wine by that stage.’ He paused and glanced towards the man on his left. ‘Isn’t that right, mate?’
His comrade gave a slight nod, not wanting to commit himself to supporting a bald lie.
‘Eyes front!’ Macro snapped. ‘I’m speaking to you, Guardsman Sulpicius. Not your pet fucking monkey.’
Sulpicius faced forward instantly. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Continue.’
‘Yes, sir. Third, we did not start the fight. We said our hellos and one of the bastards blew a raspberry. So I gave him the benefit of the doubt and told him not to talk out of his arse, sir. Then he said that the Praetorians were a bunch of overpaid, toga-lifting freeloaders who served as the emperor’s ponces . . . or some such. Well, I thought I must have misheard him, so I went over and asked him to repeat what he’d said, loudly, so there would be no danger of misunderstanding him. And, er, that’s when I busted him over the head with his jar of wine, sir. Can’
t recall much after that. Harsh words were exchanged. Blows were struck. That kind of thing. Until the provosts broke it up.’
Macro nodded. ‘I see. As it happens, I also have their report. According to them, the three of you were backed into a corner and being given a good hiding when they entered the inn.’
‘We were outnumbered three to one, sir,’ the man to Sulpicius’s right protested.
Macro rounded on him. ‘Who the fuck said you could speak?’
The Praetorian froze under his superior’s ferocious glare. Macro gave him the evil eye for a moment longer before he took a step back to address all three.
‘The Second Praetorian is the best cohort in the Imperial Guard. We pride ourselves on our turnout. There is no body of soldiers smarter than us. We pride ourselves on our discipline. There is no order we will not see through until the bitter end. But most of all we pride ourselves on being the toughest bastards in the entire army. And you three allowed yourselves to be beaten up by a bunch of Syrian auxiliaries? I don’t care how many of ’em there were. You are a fucking disgrace.’ He took a deep breath and exhaled through clenched teeth. ‘Since I am the acting commander, your punishment is for me to determine. So, for damage caused to the premises, you will pay one hundred sestertians. The innkeeper can chase the Syrians for the balance. As for brawling and injuries caused to other soldiers, that is not an offence in my book. Kicking others’ heads in, and being the best at it is what the Praetorians are there for.’
The three men struggled to contain their grins, but Macro’s expression remained hard and uncompromising as he continued. ‘The real offence, as far as I am concerned, is that you let a bunch of bandy-legged auxiliaries get the better of you. For that you will each be fined a month’s pay and a month’s fatigues cleaning out the headquarters stables. That’s all. Dismissed.’
They exchanged a salute before the three guardsmen turned and marched off down the corridor towards the staircase. One of the orderlies from Corbulo’s staff came hurrying in the other direction and quickened his pace as he caught sight of Macro as the latter made for the door to his office.
‘Centurion, sir! A moment!’
Macro paused and looked round irritably. ‘Whatever it is, keep it brief. I’m a busy man.’
The man pulled up in front of him and saluted. ‘General Corbulo’s compliments, sir. He wants all the unit commanders to report to him at once.’
‘Oh?’ Macro arched an eyebrow. ‘What’s up?’
‘Not quite sure, sir. But a messenger rode in from the north about an hour ago. Looks like trouble to me.’
The assembled officers rose to their feet as Corbulo entered the large hall outside his suite of offices. He halted, then swiftly ran his eyes over his subordinates before he spoke. ‘Be seated, gentlemen.’
Macro and the others eased themselves back onto their benches and stools. Besides the two legates, and the tribunes and senior centurions from the Third and the Sixth legions, the commanders of the auxiliary units were also present, some fifty men in all.
Corbulo turned to his secretary who had entered the room in his wake. ‘Who is absent?’
The man consulted his wax tablet. ‘Tribune Maxentius is in hospital with a fever, and Tribune Lucullus and Centurion Laminius are away on a hunting trip, sir.’
‘Send someone to find them as soon as we are finished here. I want all my officers back in Tarsus as soon as possible.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Corbulo clasped his hands behind his back as he collected his thoughts, and then began to address his officers. ‘Earlier this morning, a messenger arrived from an outpost on the road to Thapsis. For those who’ve just arrived in the province, that’s one of our smaller allied kingdoms in the mountains to the north, a small city state no more than a hundred miles from where you are sitting. The commander of the outpost reports that the king and his court were murdered by a faction of his nobles, backed by Parthia. Thapsis is now in their hands and they have proclaimed their loyalty to King Vologases.’
He paused, and there were anxious murmurs from some of the officers around Macro until Corbulo raised a hand to silence them.
‘On its own, Thapsis is of little consequence. It does not sit astride any important trade routes, or cut across any lines of communication. It generates very little revenue to the imperial treasury and it has no military value to either side. And yet we cannot ignore this development, nor allow it to stand. The king of Thapsis was an ally of Rome, and as such, our reputation is at stake. There is no question of us standing by and doing nothing, or even letting this little uprising run its course. Our authority must be re-established. We must put down the revolt, punish the rebels and ensure that all our other allied kingdoms, large and small, understand what being an ally of Rome entails, and what the consequences are for upsetting that arrangement.
‘Parthia too needs to be taught a lesson. Consequently, I will be leading an expedition to Thapsis to put down the rebellion. A modest force should suffice. I will be taking five cohorts of the Sixth Legion, the Syrian auxiliaries and the Third Cohort of Macedonian cavalry. In addition, engineers and crews for a battery of siege catapults in case the rebels oblige us to lay siege to the city. Some four thousand men in all.’
Corbulo paused to indicate an officer sitting in the front row, and Macro craned his neck so that he could see the individual better: a tall, grey-haired officer whom he recognised as the legate of the Third Legion.
‘Gnaeus Pomptilius will take command in my absence and has orders to continue the training and provisioning of the rest of the army. Any questions?’
Macro stood up. ‘What about the Praetorians, sir? Are they remaining in Tarsus?’
Corbulo smiled. ‘I don’t think I can afford to leave your gang of drunken thugs out of my sight for a moment, Centurion Macro. A bit of hard marching in the fresh mountain air will do wonders for their pent-up energy. From what I hear, it may also be something of a relief for certain innkeepers of Tarsus.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Macro grinned as he sat down. He felt a familiar surge of excitement at the prospect of marching to war, but it was overwhelmed almost immediately by guilt at having to leave Petronella behind. And not a little anxiety over how she might take the news.
‘Anyone else?’ asked Corbulo.
Prefect Orfitus, the commander of the Syrian cohort, rose and cleared his throat. ‘Sir, will four thousand men be enough for the job?’
‘Absolutely. More than enough of a show of strength to scare the rebels and their Parthian friends into surrendering. It will be a good chance to put the auxiliary units through their paces if nothing else. They’ve grown far too used to sitting on their arses in comfortable postings these last few years. Your cohort is no exception, Orfitus. You and your men could use some campaign experience.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Orfitus remained on his feet.
‘Is there anything else you wish to ask, Prefect?’
He shifted. ‘Do we have any idea of the enemy’s strength, or the composition of their forces, sir?’
‘Indeed we do,’ Corbulo replied confidently. ‘One of the tax farmers here in Tarsus visited Thapsis only a month ago. I’ve already spoken to the man and he reckons the city has no more than ten thousand inhabitants. The militia, assuming it has gone over to the rebels, numbers no more than five hundred. Plus any Parthians who may have reinforced them. Given that the only reports we have of enemy forces crossing the frontier relate to small raiding parties, I doubt we are talking about more than a few hundred Parthians at most. Nor are the city’s defences likely to cause us much of a problem. I’m told the walls are most old and in a poor state. No match for our siege weapons.’ He paused for a beat. ‘Does that put your mind at rest?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Orfitus replied self-consciously.
‘Then do sit down. Anyone else? No? Very well. Those of you involved in the operation will
receive your orders later today. The column will leave Tarsus the day after tomorrow. The rest of you will continue your training, but for the sake of caution, have your men ready to march at a day’s notice in case I need to call for reinforcements. It’s unlikely, but we’d be foolish not to be prepared for any eventuality. That’s all, gentlemen. Dismissed.’
‘So soon?’ Petronella said tonelessly. ‘But we’ve only been married a few days.’
‘It can’t be helped, my love,’ Macro sighed. ‘Orders are orders. There’s a small rebellion to put down in the mountains. Should all be over before you know it, and I’ll be back here in your arms.’
He reached out to enfold her, but she quickly darted back and raised a finger, her eyes narrowing suspiciously. ‘You didn’t volunteer for this, did you? I bet you did, you bastard.’
Macro affected a hurt look. ‘My love, why would I do such a thing? Believe me, I’d rather be here with you every night than shivering under some goatskin tent up in the bloody mountains. I need you to keep me warm.’
Her lips pressed together in a thin, bitter look of contempt for a moment before she continued. ‘You’re a soldier, Macro, first and foremost, and you just love marching off on some wretched campaign. I know that; I know it will always be your calling, and I know there’s nothing I can do about it.’
She shook her head and stood looking at him, inviting him to explain himself. But Macro could not think of anything to say. Petronella was right. He was a soldier before he was anything else, even her husband and lover. He desperately tried to think of something that might comfort her, or at the very least assuage the anger that was swelling up inside her. He had known her long enough to recognise the danger signs: a softening of her voice – the calm before the storm – a slight forward tilt of the head and a tightening of the lips that was more unnerving than a lion coiling to spring on its prey. But no inspired thought came to his rescue and he was reduced to offering her the kind of imploring look that a dog offers its master after having enacted some mischief it knows it will be punished for. It seemed to work well enough for Cassius, thought Macro.
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