Traitors of Rome (Eagles of the Empire 18)

by Simon Scarrow

  The horse loomed in front of Cato, its nostrils flaring as foam flicked from around the bit. Without hesitating, he struck the animal between the eyes, gashing the flesh there and jarring, but not shattering, the heavy bone of the beast’s skull. Maddened with shock and pain, the animal bucked viciously, rear legs lashing out. The rider tried desperately to cling on, but was thrown forward and crashed down on top of Cato, driving him face first to the ground. At once he released his shield and thrust himself up, rolling to the side as the winded Parthian gasped for breath. Cato’s sword arm was on the wrong side and he lashed out with his left fist instead, striking his foe high in the throat. There was a crunch as cartilage gave way under the blow, and the man’s jaw worked furiously as he tried to draw breath.

  Cato clambered back to his feet and snatched up his shield, backing towards the rock where Apollonius had dragged the wounded man he had hauled from his saddle. He was now holding the Parthian down at sword point while he covered them both with his shield.

  ‘What in Hades are you doing with this one?’ Cato demanded. ‘Finish him off and get stuck in.’

  Apollonius shook his head. ‘I need him if we are going to get out of this trap alive.’

  Before Cato could respond, another rider burst around the side of the rock. He rose up to strike him, but the horse carried the Parthian beyond reach and the tip of Cato’s sword cut into the air a moment too late. He swore with frustration as he stood in a braced crouch, weighing up the balance of the skirmish. From where he stood he could see that two of his men were down, one pinned under a crippled horse that was frantically struggling to rise. Several of the Parthians were also down in the dust, and loose horses swerved and ran across the crest. The men tasked with holding the reins had been forced to release the mounts in order to defend themselves. As Cato watched, the Praetorian with the wounded arm backed against a rock, desperately fending off two riders. A slash from the first cut deep into his wrist, and as his sword tumbled from his fingers, the second Parthian stabbed him in the throat, driving his helmet back against the rock with a dull clatter, blood spurting from the wound.

  ‘You bastards!’ Pelius bellowed as he charged forward, smashing the rim of his shield up into the face of the nearest man, crushing his nose, and then turning on the other, stabbing him in the thigh and then again in the arm. Both Parthians kicked their heels in and galloped their horses away, down the slope towards their comrades waiting at the foot of the hillock. Their flight panicked the handful of Parthians still fighting, and they hurriedly disengaged and rode off, leaving the surviving Praetorians masters of the hill.

  ‘Pelius!’ Cato called over to the optio.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Check on the men and horses and report to me.’

  ‘Yes, sir!’

  Cato’s breathing was laboured and his heart was beating wildly. He inhaled deeply before he paced out from the rocks and looked over the ground around their position. The larger body of Parthians were now forming up in two groups to the east and south, already stringing their bows to rain arrows down on the crest of the hill. Elsewhere, riderless horses – wounded and unhurt alike – were galloping away in every direction. He edged back into cover and met Apollonius’s enquiring gaze with a shake of the head.

  ‘We’re fucked. They’re going to hit us with a barrage of arrows and then charge up and kill off any of us still left.’ He pointed his sword at the Parthian who lay propped up against the rock, looking anxiously at his captors as he clasped a hand to the bloody cloth around his wound. ‘Now, tell me why he’s still alive.’

  ‘Unless we can parley with them, we’re dead,’ Apollonius replied.

  ‘I don’t think they’re in a mood to talk.’

  The brief exchange was interrupted as Pelius trotted over, puffing with exertion. ‘Sir, we’ve lost two. Two more are injured badly enough to be out of the fight. And the horses have bolted. Looks like we’re stuck here.’

  Cato nodded grimly. ‘Better tell the others to get ready for more arrows. They’ll hope to take some more of us down before they risk another charge. But the next time, they’ll all be coming for us.’

  The optio grasped the point immediately and responded steadily. ‘Last stand, then. I’ll tell our boys to make sure the enemy never forget the cost of taking on the men from the Second Praetorian Cohort, sir.’

  ‘Very well. See to it.’

  They saluted each other solemnly before Cato planted his sword in the ground and mopped his brow.

  ‘There is another way,’ said Apollonius. ‘Let me speak to them.’

  Cato thought for a moment. ‘It’d be better if you saved your effort for the last charge.’

  ‘Then what difference does it make? I’m dead either way.’

  ‘Fair point . . . All right, then. For what it’s worth, give it a try.’

  Apollonius released his grip on the shield and let it fall aside as he grabbed the Parthian by the folds of cloth around his neck and hauled him to his feet in one powerful movement. He spoke to the man in a harsh tone, gesturing with his sword to emphasise his words. The Parthian nodded vigorously, and Apollonius paused before he slowly sheathed his sword and turned to Cato.

  ‘Here goes.’

  ‘Good luck,’ Cato said flatly, fully expecting this to be the last exchange between them in this life.

  Steering the Parthian in front of him, the agent emerged from cover and took several paces away from the rocks on the crest, so that the enemy could see him and the prisoner clearly. Some of the men from the party who had attacked them readied their bows, but a curt order from their leader caused them to lower them and ease off their bowstrings. Then he walked his mount forward and called out to Apollonius. The agent replied, and Cato caught a mention of his name and that of Corbulo, followed by a further long explanation, before the Parthian spoke again. There was no mistaking the anger in his tone.

  Apollonius looked back towards Cato. ‘He says he doesn’t believe we’re an embassy.’

  ‘Then ask him what other reason we’d have for being on this side of the bloody frontier.’

  Apollonius turned to direct the question down the slope, and there was another outburst from the Parthian.

  ‘He says we’re spies, and his men will put us to death like the dogs we are.’

  Cato’s gaze was drawn to two riders approaching from the other party. They were led by a man in shimmering blue robes. Behind him came a standard-bearer with a long flowing banner designed to look like a serpent. They galloped up to the man who had been addressing Apollonius, and there was a brief conversation before the new arrival waved the other man aside and trotted his horse directly up the slope, stopping no more than ten feet from the agent. He looked at Apollonius haughtily as he spoke.

  ‘He asks what proof we have that we are an embassy.’

  ‘That’s easy enough,’ Cato responded. He leaned his shield against the rock and reached into his sidebag for the document setting out his credentials, signed and sealed by General Corbulo. Holding it up, he stepped into the open and approached the rider. As he did so, he suddenly became aware that he was still holding a sword stained with Parthian blood. Realising that this might not provide a sufficiently diplomatic appearance, he slowly replaced the blade in its scabbard before he held up the scroll bearing the general’s seal.

  ‘Here’s the proof. Now tell him that Emperor Nero will be angered when he hears that his embassy was attacked before we could state the purpose of our mission in these lands. Tell him that I demand that we are taken to the nearest city so that our wounded can be treated and fresh horses provided in order that we might continue our embassy to King Vologases.’

  Apollonius translated, and there was a brief silence as the Parthian considered Cato’s demand. Then he spoke.

  ‘He says that our credentials will be presented to his lord, who will then decide our fate.’
<
br />   ‘Did he give the name of his lord?’

  ‘Yes. Haghrar.’

  ‘Haghrar?’

  ‘He demands that we surrender our weapons to his men. He says that they will escort us to the city of Ichnae and that no harm will be done to us.’

  ‘I see. And if we refuse to surrender our weapons?’

  Apollonius relayed the question, and the Parthian’s lips lifted in a sneer as he gestured to the men at the bottom of the slope and the others surrounding the hillock.

  ‘He says that if we refuse to lay down our weapons, he will give the order for his men to unleash a blizzard of arrows against us before they come up here to take our heads as trophies.’

  ‘Can’t say I find that a terribly appealing prospect.’ Cato was silent for a moment, as if reflecting on the other man’s demands. But in the end, it came down to a simple choice: die under a hail of arrows, or concede to the Parthian’s demands. He let out a deep sigh, then put the document back in his sidebag, slipped the leather strap over his head and folded it around the scabbard before laying it down on the ground. Then, turning back to the crest, he drew a breath and called out the order.

  ‘Praetorians! The fight is over. Lower your weapons and come out.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ‘I thought this was supposed to be an easy run for the troops,’ Macro mused. He was standing to one side of the road, shading his eyes from the midday sun as he scrutinised the defences of Thapsis, two miles off in the middle of the small plain bordered by mountains. The modest city was built on a ridge that dominated the surrounding terrain, through which snaked a modest river. One end of the ridge rose gently from the plain, while the other, half a mile away, ended in sheer cliffs. A low wall surrounded an acropolis overlooking the city.

  The only feasible approach for any attackers was the easier ground at the far end of the ridge. And here lay the bulk of the defences. Sturdy-looking towers were linked by stretches of a formidable wall, in front of which lay a wide ditch crossed by a single narrow causeway leading up to the gates of Thapsis. Beyond that there was an open patch of ground before a further sprawl of buildings, where the city’s growing population had been permitted to expand the settlement. A column of tiny figures and carts was making its way up to the city, while more columns snaked away across the open countryside towards the safety of the mountains on the far side of the plain.

  Two of the other centurions from the cohort stood with Macro surveying the terrain as the rest of the Praetorians marched past at the head of General Corbulo’s force. The general had ridden ahead with a cavalry escort for a closer inspection of the defences, and Macro could see them where they had halted on rising ground a mile further along the road.

  ‘I wondered why the rebels hadn’t sent someone to ask for surrender terms,’ Centurion Nicolis commented. ‘Now I can see why. There’s no chance of us overcoming those defences with a quick attack. The only hope we’ve got is to bottle them up in there and wait for the siege train to join us, however long that takes.’

  ‘Even then, we’ve got our work cut out for us,’ said Metellus. ‘They have the high ground. If the rebels have any artillery, they’ll easily out-range our weapons, and that’s going to make life hard for the crews if they’re to get close enough to batter the defences.’ He sucked his cheek for a moment before concluding, ‘I’d say we’re going to have to starve those bastards out of their defences.’

  ‘If we don’t starve first,’ Macro observed sourly.

  Three days had passed since the bridge had collapsed and the bulk of Corbulo’s small army had been cut off from its supplies on the baggage train. Since then, the men and horses had been living off the thin pickings to be had from the land either side of the road twisting through the mountains before it gave out onto the plain. A few herds of goats had been snapped up by the cavalry scouts before their shepherds could run them off into the hills, and the army had scavenged what little was left in the villages they passed by. Almost all the inhabitants had gone, taking with them whatever food they could carry and doing their best to destroy or spoil what they were forced to leave behind. And now, as Macro beheld the richly cultivated plain around Thapsis, he saw columns of smoke rising up from farmsteads and fields as the rebels burned most of their grain stores and homes to deny the Romans sustenance or shelter.

  ‘And you can bet those bastards have been stocking up on supplies while they waited for us to appear,’ he added.

  He turned to watch the last of the Praetorians marching past, followed by the leading cohort of the detachment from the Sixth Legion. The men wore grim expressions, and there were none of the usual jocular exchanges and occasional bursts of singing that Macro had experienced on many of his previous campaigns.

  ‘Any news about the bridge?’ Nicolis asked hopefully.

  Macro cleared his throat and spat to one side. ‘It’s still being repaired, according to the messenger who came in at noon. Two more days at the earliest, Prefect Orfitus reckons. Then four, maybe five days before the baggage train catches up with us.’

  Nicolis grimaced. ‘We’re going to be hungry, then.’

  ‘You said it, brother.’ Macro sighed. ‘I want all our men to hand over whatever they’ve got left to their officers. Metellus, I’m putting you in charge of rationing. Every man in the cohort gets an equal share. We’ve got to make it last, so half-rations it is.’

  ‘That’s going to make me a popular lad, sir.’

  Macro glanced at the passing legionaries before he responded. ‘I don’t like the mood of the soldiers in some of the other units. I don’t want that spreading to the Praetorians. Keep your ears open. Listen to the men. If they start grumbling, come down hard on them. Put ’em on fatigues. Better we keep them occupied than let them have a chance to grumble. Nicolis, your lads are going foraging as soon as we’ve made camp. I want them out there before the other units get their hands on whatever the rebels have left behind. But mind you make it clear to them: anything they find is to be handed over to Metellus. Any man caught eating anything, or trying to hide food, is to be given a good hiding. Understood?’

  Nicolis raised his vine cane and nodded. ‘I’ll make sure they do as they’re told, sir.’

  ‘Good.’ Macro paused briefly. ‘And see if you can find anything we can use for shelter.’

  Since the cohort’s tents, along with those of all the other soldiers marching with Corbulo, had been loaded on the carts of the wagon train, the men had slept in the open for the last three nights. It had rained hard the night before last and they had been forced to march in sodden kit for most of the next day, souring their mood even further. The same rain, according to the messenger sent by Orfitus, had caused a surge in the flow of the river and carried away one of the trestles at the bridge, causing yet more delay to repairs. What was supposed to be a straightforward punitive expedition was turning into a punishing trial of frustration and endurance, Macro reflected as he nodded to the other centurions.

  ‘Right, lads, you have your orders. Let’s get back on the road.’

  He led the way along the column and they fell into step beside him. Once they caught up with the Praetorians, he continued to the front of the cohort and gave the command to increase the pace, so that they would set an example to the rest of the column as well as impressing the enemy with their tirelessness.

  By the time they reached the general and his escort, one of the staff officers had chosen the site for the camp: a stretch of open ground at the end of the ridge, just beyond the overflow settlement. It was not far from the ford where the road crossed the river, so the men and horses would not have to go far for their water. It was also well beyond the range of any missiles that might be shot from the walls and towers of Thapsis.

  The engineers were still marking the ground with tall poles as the Praetorian cohort marched up and were directed to their lines not far from the centre of the c
amp, where Corbulo’s headquarters would be located. Macro gave the order for the men to down packs and take up their picks before the officers led their centuries to the stretch of ground assigned to them for the construction of the defence ditch and rampart. They set to work at once, breaking up the soil and digging, throwing the spoil inside the perimeter to be packed down to form firm foundations for the rampart. As the other units arrived, they joined in the work, and the sounds of the picks striking earth and stone carried across the campsite.

  Satisfied with the progress his men were making, Macro made his way over to where Corbulo’s headquarters staff were setting up shelters fabricated from materials looted from one of the hill villages the Romans had passed through. The general was sitting on a stool, scrutinising the approach to the gates of the town. His small group of staff officers stood behind him swapping observations about the defences. As Macro joined them, a servant came forward with a wine jar and a basket filled with bread, cheese and meat.

  Corbulo glanced at the contents of the basket before turning towards the servant. ‘Where did you find all this?’

  ‘In some of those buildings, sir,’ the servant explained. ‘There was plenty of food left behind. Looked like they’d tried to hide it.’

  ‘Good work,’ Corbulo acknowledged. ‘Now take it away.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You heard me. I’ll have the same as the men from now on, as will my officers. There’s little enough to go round. Take this to the quartermaster and tell him to add it to his stocks. Then get him to send his men forward to those buildings to search for more food.’