Traitors of Rome (Eagles of the Empire 18)

by Simon Scarrow

  The driver threw his whip aside and jumped down from the bench, then turned to sprint back the way he had come, heedless of Corbulo’s enraged shouts.

  ‘Leave him, sir!’ Macro said as he ran over to the heavy iron shackles that fastened the traces of the wagon. He grabbed the first pin and yanked it out savagely, calling out to the general, ‘Get the yokes off ’em, sir!’

  Corbulo nodded and eased his way between the first pair, fumbling for the locking bolt that secured the animals to the wagon’s pole. One of the oxen handlers edged in and was caught and crushed for a moment between the leading beasts before they parted and he was able to work the bolt free and move onto the next yoke. Meanwhile Macro had ducked under the pole, keeping clear of the hoofs of the rearmost oxen, and was struggling to work the other pin free, but it was jammed. Gritting his teeth, he pulled with all his strength, but the iron pin would not budge under his straining fingers.

  He released it and exhaled explosively. ‘Fuck!’

  Snatching out his dagger, he reversed the grip and hammered the shackle with the pommel as he growled, ‘Move . . . you . . . bloody . . . little . . . bastard!’

  Suddenly the pin shifted; a moment later, it came free and the end of the chain dropped to the ground. He turned at once and saw that the general had removed the second yoke and held the chains near the head of the right-hand leading ox.

  ‘That’s it, sir! Get ’em moving!’

  With the wagon no longer anchored to the oxen, the front wheels rolled back as the timbers under the rear wheels gave way and the vehicle began to slip into the gap opening up in the central span. Corbulo had drawn his sword and now struck the rump of the leading ox hard, so that it jerked into motion and began to trot towards the safety of the next span, drawing the other beasts with it. Macro hurried after them as the air filled with further splintering crashes and splashes. Abruptly he was thrown to his knees as the surface of the bridge canted over violently, openings ripping through the central span and shattered timbers, brushwood and grit bursting into the air. With a loud rumble, the front of the wagon tilted up and disappeared and the whole of the span trembled as the ponderous vehicle crashed through what remained of the trellis beneath. There were only moments left before the whole structure gave way, Macro realised, and he launched himself to his feet and sprinted after the oxen. Behind him the collapse of the central span filled his ears with a cacophonous roar, and his heart filled with dread and desperation.

  A short distance ahead, the last of the oxen had made it to safety and Corbulo was running back towards him, bellowing, ‘Run, man! Run!’

  Macro had barely two paces left to go when he felt the ground start to slip away beneath him. He hurled himself forward, splinters bursting around him, but he was already falling. He threw his arms out, and the fingers of his right hand caught on the edge of the end of a length of wood. Instantly he closed his grip as his left hand desperately scrabbled for purchase and clawed only air. He spun slowly on his arm, feeling the muscles stretch and burn with effort. Glancing around and down, he saw that the entire central span had gone and the last of the timbers had splashed down into the river twenty feet below. He felt his fingers starting to give way under the burden of his weight, and he knew that if he fell, he would be drowned or smashed to pieces against the boulders further downstream.

  ‘Not yet!’ he growled to himself, finding a final reserve of energy. He saw a cross beam running underneath the end of the timber he was already grasping, and snatched at it with his left hand, curling his fingers over the edge. He had won only a brief reprieve, though, as he lacked the strength to haul himself to safety.

  ‘Here!’ he shouted, straining to be heard above the rush of the current. ‘Down here! Help me, for fuck’s sake!’

  His forearms were trembling violently, and he clenched his eyes shut to offer a last prayer before the end, the words spoken through clenched teeth. ‘Jupiter, Best and Greatest, I beg you to take care of my Petronella. And Cato and his boy, and all the lads of the cohort . . .’

  He felt a hand clamp round his right wrist, and then another took his left, and he blinked his eyes open to see Corbulo’s face straining with effort against the clear sky beyond.

  ‘Hold on, Macro. I’ve got you.’

  One of the Praetorians appeared at the general’s side and took Macro’s left hand from the general, and a moment later, a rope flicked over the edge of the ruined bridge beside him.

  ‘Put your foot in the loop,’ Corbulo ordered.

  Macro looked down and saw his boots dangling in space. He reached out and got his left foot securely into the loop.

  ‘Haul him up!’

  With the general and the Praetorian keeping a firm grip on Macro’s wrists, he was raised over the edge of the broken timbers. He rolled away from the drop and lay there for a moment fighting for breath, limbs trembling and his heart drumming against his ribs. The general knelt beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re still with us, Centurion. Catch your breath before you try to get up, eh?’ He stood and picked up his riding crop before moving away to inspect the damage.

  Macro’s mouth was dry and he did not trust himself to reply coherently, so he merely nodded. After a moment, he eased himself up into a sitting position, hunched forward. He felt nauseous, and for a moment he was sure he was going to be sick. After a few deep breaths, however, the feeling began to pass, and he climbed to his feet and made his way to his commander’s side.

  The gap between the two remaining sections of the bridge yawned wide over the torrent below. Most of the trestles and the timbers of the roadway lay in a tangled heap on the rocks at the foot of the stone piers, along with the shattered remains of the wagon and the dismantled catapult. The centurion in charge of the engineers had rushed forward to the far side of the gap, and now cupped his hands to his mouth as he called across.

  ‘General, sir! Are you all right?’

  Corbulo nodded as he looked up from the wreckage, across the river towards the baggage train, contemplating his next steps. The failure to repair the bridge had divided his army. Although the vanguard and the bulk of the column was on the road to Thapsis, the siege train, supplies and Prefect Orfitus’s Syrian cohort of auxiliaries were cut off on the far side of the river. It was a difficult situation, Macro reflected. Corbulo faced a choice between halting his advance to stop and repair the bridge, while fending off further attempts by the rebels to interfere with the work; or continuing the advance with the troops that had already crossed the river, trusting that they could find fresh supplies along the line of march. The third choice was the least palatable: taking the bulk of the army back across the ford to rejoin the baggage train before taking a much longer route through the mountains to Thapsis. He might lose as much as half a month by the time he was in a position to attack the rebels in the town. And time, as he had made clear from the outset, was not something he could afford to waste.

  The general filled his lungs and called across to his chief of engineers. ‘We’ll continue the advance. I want you to find Prefect Orfitus. Tell him he is in command of the baggage train. He’s to fall back to where the column camped last night and wait for further orders. Have you got that?’

  The centurion nodded.

  ‘Very well. Give the order for the wagons to turn round, and then find Orfitus.’

  The man saluted and turned to stride back to the waiting wagons and their drivers, and the muleteers leading their small teams of animals laden down with sacks of barley and rolled-up tents. Corbulo turned his back on the gap and met Macro’s gaze.

  ‘Not a happy state of affairs, Macro.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, there’s no point in wasting any more time. Get the escort mounted up; we’re returning to the main column. We’ll make camp as soon as we catch up with the vanguard.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Macro replied. Although the legionarie
s carried their pickaxes on their marching yokes, the tents and the stakes for the palisade were on the wagons. It was going to be an uncomfortable night and the men would have to consume what rations they had with them sparingly. The column was already divided, with two thirds of its strength lacking ready supplies as it marched into enemy territory.

  He turned away and strode off to carry out his orders. General Corbulo was right: it was not a happy state of affairs. Unless their fortune changed soon, the situation had all the makings of a disaster.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  They crossed the Euphrates before dawn to make sure they would not be seen by any Parthian scouts observing Bactris. Keeping close to the river, Cato led the way downstream for three miles before they came to a wadi cutting into the steep bank. They turned away from the Euphrates and followed the dried-up watercourse as it wound inland. The reeds, grass and trees that grew alongside the great river quickly gave way to a barren expanse of undulating terrain where stunted bushes dotted the rock-strewn landscape. As dawn rose over the desert, they stopped close to the edge of the wadi and dismounted. Cato took Apollonius with him to the rim and cautiously rose to inspect their surroundings.

  There was no sign of life apart from a distant haze of smoke to the north, in the direction of Bactris.

  ‘Looks like campfires,’ Cato decided. ‘Probably a Parthian screening force guarding their side of the ford.’

  Apollonius nodded, and then pointed to the east, squinting into the rising sun as it burnished the desert with a fiery red glow. ‘And that, I would say, is the road we’re looking for.’

  Cato shaded his eyes and saw distant movement. Straining, he could just make out a line of camels moving with their characteristic forward and backward sway. Some of the animals were mounted, and there were drovers walking amongst them to keep the caravan moving at a steady pace and avoid gaps opening up.

  ‘How can you be certain?’

  ‘I’ve travelled it before. It follows the general direction of the Euphrates all the way from Samosata to Ctesiphon. It’s a well-used trade route and serves our purpose. We can ride parallel to it without drawing too much attention from those on the road. They’ll assume we’re a Parthian patrol covering the river. We’ll be fine. As long as we don’t run into a real Parthian patrol.’

  ‘Quite,’ Cato responded. ‘But I want to put some distance between us and any nervous, arrow-happy Parthian war bands guarding the frontier before I reveal our presence and announce that we’re an embassy sent from General Corbulo. Hopefully we’ll be treated well enough while we’re escorted to Ctesiphon.’

  ‘If they don’t just kill us on the spot, of course.’

  Cato looked at him. ‘Is that likely?’

  ‘If I thought that, I wouldn’t be here, Tribune. But I’ve learned never to take things for granted. From previous experience I know that the Parthians respect diplomatic niceties. Not only that, but if any harm comes to us, King Vologases will not be inclined to show mercy to those who provide Rome with one more reason to wage war on Parthia.’ Apollonius nodded. ‘I doubt we’ll come to any harm on the way to Ctesiphon. After that, it’s down to your qualities as a diplomat, and how Vologases responds to the general’s terms.’

  ‘That’s not very reassuring,’ said Cato. ‘I’m a soldier, not a diplomat.’

  ‘Just be yourself. Be honest and direct. And leave the deceit and back-stabbing to those who are better qualified for such things.’

  ‘Like you?’

  Apollonius grinned and nodded. ‘Just like me. So what now, Tribune? Shall we get moving?’

  Cato hesitated. They were in the enemy’s land now and it was tempting to stay in concealment for as long as possible. But at the same time he realised that his embassy needed to make itself known in order to avoid being taken for a raiding party or a reconnaissance mission.

  ‘We’ll ride down the river, keeping between the road and the Euphrates for a few days. That should get us clear of any Parthian war bands.’

  ‘And if we encounter any soldiers before then?’

  ‘Then we explain our purpose here, and request that we be taken to the nearest authority.’

  ‘If they refuse to listen?’ Apollonius regarded him searchingly. ‘What then?’

  ‘Then we draw our weapons and fight our way out and make for the safety of the frontier.’

  ‘And abandon the embassy?’

  Cato nodded. ‘I’ll not lead my men to a pointless death if I can avoid it.’

  Apollonius shrugged. ‘I hope General Corbulo shares that point of view, should you live to account for the failure of the embassy.’

  Cato slithered back down the slope of the wadi and gave the order to remount. Once all the men were back in their saddles, he turned his mount towards a stretch of the wadi where the slope was less steep and waved his arm forward.

  The small column emerged from the wadi onto the level ground and began to head south, keeping a mile’s distance from the caravan making its way along the trade route. Turning in his saddle, Cato saw the trail of dust kicked up by their horses and knew that they would easily be seen by anyone glancing in their direction. As long as they kept their distance, however, he doubted if anyone in the caravan would be curious enough to ride out and investigate the small party of men shadowing them. They might report their sighting at the next watering hole or village, but by the time the information reached anyone in authority who might be inclined to act, the embassy would have long since passed by. The real danger, Cato knew, was a chance encounter with a Parthian patrol.

  They rode on as the sun climbed into a clear sky and beat down mercilessly on the parched landscape. At noon, the caravan stopped and Cato did likewise, since he needed to keep the camels in sight in order to maintain his course between the road and the river. Once the horses were tethered, the men found what shelter they could in the shade of the sparsely leaved bushes that dotted the terrain. Apollonius produced a cane from one of his saddlebags and used it like a tentpole beneath his cloak to provide shade. The horses stood, heads down, ears and tails twitching as small clouds of flies buzzed around them.

  There was some muted conversation for the first hour, then only silence as the men closed their eyes against the harsh glare of sunlight and breathed softly through their mouths. Flaminius, sitting closest to Cato, kept tapping his fingers on the side of his canteen in a relentless staccato that became more and more irritating as time dragged on. Cato’s exasperation grew moment by moment, and he felt an urge to shout at the slave to stop it, but refused to allow himself to relinquish the calm veneer he adopted in front of his command. It was vital, he felt, for an officer to appear imperturbable.

  From time to time he opened his eyes and looked round the horizon, but the only movement he saw was a handful of buzzards inscribing languid circles high above. Then, satisfied that no one was approaching, he looked over at his men. He caught Apollonius’s eye. The agent nodded towards Flaminius and rolled his eyes, then eased himself out from under his shelter and crossed over to the slave, sitting down beside him in the shade of a stunted shrub. He offered his wineskin to Flaminius and entered into a quiet exchange that Cato could not make out. Within a short space of time, however, Flaminius had stopped drumming on his canteen and was smiling and laughing with Apollonius.

  It was an interesting exercise in man-management, Cato reflected as he watched them. The agent had noted Flaminius’s edgy mood and the wearing effect it was having on Cato and acted to put an end to it in a way that was far more effective than Cato simply snapping an order, something that would have caused bad feeling. Once again he found himself wondering about the true nature and motivations of the general’s agent. He was undeniably irritating in the way that most individuals with uncamouflaged intelligence were. At the same time, he had a keen understanding of other men and could – when he chose to – speak to them on their own terms, thereby
winning their confidence and willingness to share what they knew. It was no wonder that General Corbulo prized him so highly.

  On the other hand, he was elusive about his origins and unwilling to share what he was really thinking. Instinctively, Cato did not trust him. There was too much about the man that reminded him of another imperial agent, Narcissus, who had schemed his way to influence under Emperor Claudius. Before his death, Narcissus had drawn Cato and Macro into his shadowy world on a number of occasions.

  Cato reached for his canteen and took a small sip of water, gently swirling it about with his tongue before he swallowed. He put the stopper back into the canteen and lowered it to his side as his gaze returned to Apollonius.

  If he was truly similar to Narcissus, then he would surely have valued his skin too highly to have embarked on this dangerous embassy. So why was he here? Cato briefly considered the possibility that Apollonius was motivated by altruistic notions of patriotism, and then dismissed the idea. From what he had revealed of himself so far, the agent seemed to be rather more of a cynic than an idealist. And such men, while agreeably open-minded, were equally disinclined to put any cause before themselves.

  Cato squinted into the sky and then over towards the road, and saw the faint haze of dust that revealed the caravan was on the move. He stood up stiffly and cleared his throat.

  ‘On your feet! Mount up.’

  They kept pace with the caravan until dusk, when it halted again. As darkness fell, Cato could see the glow of campfires and gave the order for Optio Pelius and four of his men to feed the horses, then take them to the river to water them. Two men were posted to keep watch while the rest ate and prepared the bedrolls for the night. Cato had ordered that no fire be lit, even though it was cold at night in the desert. So the men huddled up in their cloaks and lay down to sleep.

  Cato himself stayed awake for a while longer, his restless mind anxious about the perils that lay before them. The faint silver crescent of the moon and the bright glint of the stars provided enough illumination to see for some distance. His eyes and ears strained to detect any suspicious movement or sound. At length he heard the men returning with the horses. Once they had tethered the mounts and turned in, he waited a while longer just to make certain there was no sign of danger, and then made for the bedroll that Flaminius had prepared for him. As he did so, he spotted Apollonius slipping silently away from the others.