Traitors of Rome (Eagles of the Empire 18)

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Centurion Macro, isn’t it?’

  ‘The same.’ Macro swung his leg over the saddle and dropped to the ground, rubbing his buttocks. ‘How are things going, Munius? You don’t seem to have made much progress here.’

  The smile faded as the other man scratched his head. ‘Perhaps not. But things haven’t been helped by those rebel bastards.’

  ‘Oh? How so?’

  ‘They’re still sending logs downriver. Not all the time. A day or two can pass, and then they’ll hit us with a steady flow. My guess is that they have a small group working on the job, waiting until they’ve cut enough timber to send a whole load down. Still, we’ve used the intervals to put up the screen to divert the logs away from the bridge. Once that’s completed, we’ll be free to work on the trestles and repair the gap over the central span.’ Munius did a quick mental calculation. ‘Four to five days should see it done. Provided there are no more raids, of course.’

  Macro looked at him. ‘Raids?’

  The engineer nodded and pointed across to an open patch of ground a hundred paces from the river. Much of the ground was covered by a blackened mass of charred wood. More logs and cut timbers were stacked a short distance away. Several legionaries stood guard around the undamaged materials.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘They came down from the ridge three nights back, just after Orfitus led the baggage train off and took his cohort with him. The rebels killed the sentries, set light to the timber and fled into the night. They had archers positioned on the slope to pick off the men I sent to put the fires out. After we lost the first two men, I pulled the others back and we had to let the whole lot go up in flames. Took us two days just to cut enough new timber to continue the work. I sent some patrols after the rebels at first light, but they know the mountains well and are lightly kitted out, so they gave us the slip easily enough. But now that you’ve brought us some cavalry, we’ll be able to chase the bastards down if they try it on again.’

  ‘We’ve not been sent here to reinforce you. I’ve got orders to find Prefect Orfitus. We’ll be off just as soon as we can get across the river.’ Macro pointed towards the narrow walkway. ‘I hope that can take the weight of a horse. What do you reckon?’

  Munius laughed nervously, and then paused when Macro failed to join in. ‘Wait, are you being serious?’

  ‘Deadly serious. I haven’t got time to waste going downstream to find that ford. Besides, the water level has risen and I doubt the ford is safe any more. We have to cross here. Let’s go and have a look at that walkway, shall we?’

  Macro turned to order Decurion Spathos to dismount the squadron and have the men strip the horses of everything except their reins. Then he strode out onto the first span and up towards the edge of the gap where he would have fallen to his death if General Corbulo had not saved him. He slowed as he reached the end of the walkway and examined the slender structure. It was no more than a pace across, with a taut rope on either side serving as a handrail. Glancing beneath it, he saw that it was propped up at either end by wooden beams, but the ten feet in the middle had no support as the walkway crossed the raging torrent below.

  He took a deep breath and stepped forward, testing his weight. There was a slight creak, but no perceptible give beneath his boots. He continued, testing the surface every few paces. As soon as he got to the unsupported stretch, he felt the boards move slowly up and down with each step he took, and suddenly the rope handrail seemed to offer no security at all. At the midpoint, he stopped and flexed his weight on bending knees. The boards shifted and creaked alarmingly, but held firm. The walkway would be fine for a man crossing by himself, or even several at a time, but Macro could well imagine the difficulty of coaxing a horse across the slender span.

  ‘Hmm,’ he mused as he turned about and returned to where Munius was waiting. ‘It’ll do.’

  They returned to the Macedonians waiting beside the horses. Each man’s saddle, bags and kit was piled at the side. Macro jerked his thumb over his shoulder as he addressed them.

  ‘Right, lads, that’s the way across the river. And this is how we’re going to do it. First man leads his horse across while the second man carries his kit over afterwards. The second man returns for his horse while the next carries his kit, and so on. I’ve checked the walkway and it’s sound. Just make sure you keep well within the guide ropes and take it slow and gentle. Any questions?’

  Spathos shook his head. ‘It’s madness, sir. The horses won’t like it. Any of them panic, they’ll go into the river and take their rider with them if he’s not careful.’

  ‘That’s why I said slow and gentle, and put blinkers on the horses. That’ll help.’

  ‘There has to be another way across, sir,’ Spathos protested.

  ‘Even if there is, we can’t afford to waste time finding it.’ Macro sensed that any more discussion would only serve to unnerve the men. It was far better to keep them moving than give them time to think about the risk. ‘We’re crossing here and we’re doing it now. I’ll go first.’

  He pointed to the nearest auxiliary. ‘You carry my saddle and kit. Wait for me to get across before you come. Clear? Spathos, put the blinkers on my horse.’

  While the decurion did as he was ordered, Macro stripped off his helmet, harness, mail shirt and weapons so that he was left in only his tunic and boots. If he fell, and was fortunate enough not to be dashed to pieces on a rock, he hoped he might survive the drop and swim to the bank.

  Once the blinkers had been fitted, Spathos handed the reins to Macro.

  ‘Fortuna watch over you, sir.’

  ‘She always does, lad. She’s got a thing for me.’ Macro winked and then took his position close to the head of the horse, keeping it on a short length of rein. He stroked the mare’s cheek gently as he spoke in an undertone. ‘Come on, my girl. Let’s show these frightened streaks of piss just how it’s done.’

  He stepped a pace ahead, so that the mare could see him but not much else, and then clicked his tongue. ‘Walk on.’

  He paced in a slow, deliberate manner across the first span towards the gap and stepped onto the walkway without hesitating, keeping the horse as close as possible to the centre. The sound of the water churning beneath caused the mare’s ears to prick up and twitch, and Macro spoke soothingly. ‘Easy, girl. Easy there.’

  They continued steadily, the horse’s hoofs sounding loudly off the wooden boards. As he reached the weakest stretch in the middle, Macro felt his heart beating hard, and there was a moment’s hesitation before he forced himself to go on. The mare followed, nostrils flaring, and Macro hung on tightly to the reins to stop the animal looking from side to side. The boards creaked ominously beneath them and sank with every step they took towards the centre of the walkway, and then they were past the most dangerous point and the planking was more solid. Then, just as Macro placed his leading boot on the safe ground at the far end of the walkway, the horse gave a frightened whinny and stepped slightly to one side so the rope pressed up against its flank. Macro tightened his grip on the reins and pulled gently.

  ‘No silly buggering about, girl. Come on now.’

  For a moment the horse was still, and then it stepped forward again, walking off the end of the walkway and down the span to the far bank. Macro breathed deeply as he halted and reached up to remove the blinkers. ‘Thank you.’

  Handing the reins to one of the legionaries, he returned to the bridge and beckoned to the auxiliary carrying his saddle and kit. ‘Your turn!’

  The auxiliary hefted the saddle onto his shoulder and picked up the bundle of saddlebags in the other. There was no way for him to carry the armour and weapons as well, so Macro decided to send him back for that once he had completed his first task. He could see the rest of the squadron watching fixedly as their comrade made his way up the walkway and began to cross. When he approached the centre and the boards began to bow
under him, the auxiliary hesitated and looked down, but before Macro could draw breath to bellow at him to get moving, he suddenly picked up his pace and scurried forward the final few steps.

  ‘There you go.’ Macro grinned at him. ‘Piece of piss, eh?’

  The auxiliary smiled sheepishly. ‘If you say so, sir.’

  ‘I do. Now put that lot down and get back over there for the rest of my kit. Off you go, my lad.’

  One by one the other thirty horses were led across the slender walkway, followed by one of the laden men of the squadron, before the latter turned back to fetch his own mount. The horses, trained to endure the din of battle, were calm. There was only one, more skittish than the rest, that refused to make the crossing, rearing up and lashing out with its forelegs when its rider tried to draw it closer. Macro could see that the beast was more than likely to come to grief, and ordered the auxiliary to take it to the rear and try again when all the others were across. Still the animal refused, and Macro reluctantly ordered the man to remain with Centurion Munius and his men. The rest of the squadron and Optio Phocus replaced their saddles on their mounts and loaded up their kit in readiness to follow the route taken by Orfitus and the baggage train.

  As the last of the men made his preparations, Macro took Munius aside so that they would not be overheard.

  ‘Corbulo and the lads up at Thapsis are on short rations as it is. If the line of communication back to Tarsus isn’t established soon, things are going to get much worse. Especially with winter approaching. When the rains come, and then the snow, we’ll have trouble getting supplies and reinforcements through.’ He turned briefly towards the bridge. ‘I dare say the rivers will be swollen too. So you better make sure the repairs are as sound as they can be while the water level is still low.’

  ‘We’re doing a good job,’ Munius insisted. ‘And we’re doing it in good time, considering the circumstances.’

  ‘I’m sure you are. But Corbulo might see things differently. He’s a hard task-master and he’ll brook no delay and no excuses. I’d get the job done if I were you. Just saying, brother.’

  Macro strolled back to his horse and climbed into the saddle. Glancing round to make sure that the rest of the men accompanying him were ready, he raised his arm and swept it forward, and they rode out of the engineers’ camp and onto the road that followed the river upstream in the direction that Orfitus had taken.

  Macro was keen to catch up with the baggage train as swiftly as possible, and he drove the squadron hard, alternating a steady canter with an hour or so of the men walking the horses to rest them a little. The track ran close to the bank for several miles before the river entered a gorge and the route bent away sharply, following the floor of a valley as it rose into the mountains. By nightfall they had covered at least ten miles by Macro’s reckoning, and they left the road and entered the fringe of a forest for the night in case the enemy was watching the road from the heights. He permitted no fire, and the men ate a meal of hard bread and salted mutton before they cut small boughs from the trees for their beds and covered themselves with their cloaks to sleep. The horses were tethered in a small clearing, just large enough to provide some grazing. As darkness fell, Macro took the first watch with the horses, while one of the auxiliaries stood on the treeline watching the road.

  He still felt uneasy about the role the general had assigned to him. Orfitus was bound to protest, even if he could do nothing about the authority Macro held over him, and the prospect of commanding the baggage train while dealing with a resentful subordinate worried him. Worse still, once the baggage train rejoined the column, Orfitus would resume his seniority in rank and might well take advantage of that to avenge his humiliation. Perhaps not just for the duration of this campaign, but whenever their paths crossed in the future.

  ‘Shit.’ Macro pulled his cloak closer about his shoulders. It was a cold night, and the steely glow of the moonlight only served to heighten the chill. He longed to be back in a warm bed, pressed against Petronella’s body, and found himself yearning for the day when he took his discharge from the army to spend the rest of his life with her.

  ‘What the fuck am I thinking?’ he muttered to himself. ‘I’m a bloody soldier, not some old fart idling away what time remains to me.’

  But he could not shake off the desire for the comforts and female companionship promised by a life with his new wife. Sure, he had had many friends in the army, many of whom were as close to being family as you could get, but almost all of them were dead now, or long retired. He got on well enough with the other centurions of the Praetorian cohort, but only Cato remained from the old days with the Second Legion on the frontier with Germania and the invasion of Britannia. Perhaps that salutary fact was proof that Macro had defied the odds long enough. Even Fortuna might finally grow weary of him and let him perish on the battlefield, or waste away from sickness, or simply be stabbed in the back by a footpad on some dark street in Tarsus or Rome. He felt the cold hand of mortality upon him and knew that he wanted more life, and that he wanted to spend it with Petronella.

  A twig snapped somewhere in the mid-distance, and Macro was on his feet in an instant, sword drawn as his eyes searched the shadows for any sign of danger. Something moved, and he lowered himself into a crouch, muscles tensed and ready to spring into the attack. Then a deer cautiously crossed the edge of the clearing, paused and glanced directly at him before bolting out of sight. Macro let out a long sigh and sheathed his sword.

  ‘I am definitely getting too old for this . . .’

  The next morning, they were back on the road in pursuit of the baggage train. The route wound up the slope at the end of the valley as a fine rain began to fall from iron-grey clouds. Here they came across three men working to fix a wagon with a snapped axle. The solid wheels had been removed and lay at the side of the track, where unloaded nets of horse feed and sacks of grain were piled. A team of oxen chewed at the grass growing on the slope and looked up placidly at the sound of approaching riders. The rear of the wagon was propped up on stumps of wood and the replacement axle had been put in place. As Macro rode up, the men were lifting one of the wheels ready to replace it. They paused in their work, and the thickset drover raised a hand in greeting.

  ‘Have you been left alone to deal with this?’ asked Macro.

  ‘Aye, right enough.’ The drover spoke with the hard accent of the Suburra in Rome. ‘Prefect told us to sort it out and catch up as best we can.’

  ‘Taking a bit of a risk doing that in rebel territory.’

  ‘That’s what I told ’im, sir. Leave us enough men to keep us safe, I said. But he just rides off and leaves us ’ere at the side of the road. Bastard snotty officers . . . No offence meant to you, sir.’

  ‘None taken. I came up through the ranks. Right, let’s get you sorted out.’

  Macro ordered his men to dismount, and a section of the auxiliaries helped to replace the wheels and lift the cart while the drover knocked the stumps away. As the wagon was reloaded, he asked, ‘How long ago were you left here?’

  The drover eased his gut out and rubbed his back. ‘Oh, that was about noon yesterday. Hard to tell exactly, thanks to the bloody clouds. But about then.’

  Macro did a quick calculation. ‘If we ride hard, we should catch up with them before dark.’

  ‘Well, that’s all very fine for you,’ the drover said with a hint of bitterness. ‘It’ll take rather longer than that for me and my two lads. And we’ll be easy pickings for any rebels.’

  ‘No doubt.’ Macro turned to Spathos. ‘Decurion, have ten of your men escort the wagon. We’ll ride on with the rest. Let’s be off. Mount up!’

  The drover stepped between Macro and his horse and took his hand. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  Macro responded with a curt nod. ‘Just get your wagon back with the rest of the baggage train as quick as you can, eh?’

  ‘We’ll do our best, si
r. May the gods bless you.’

  Macro felt a touch of embarrassment at the man’s cloying gratitude. ‘That’s enough of that sort of thing now.’

  He retrieved his hand and stepped up to mount his horse before settling himself in the saddle and raking up the reins. ‘Detachment! Forward!’

  Breaking into an easy trot, he set off up the road, and within a short space of time they had climbed far above the wagon, which seemed to be crawling along. The rutted road soon became little more than a track as it emerged onto a plateau. In the distance, perhaps two miles ahead, Macro could make out more proof that the baggage train had come this way. A handful of individual soldiers were making their way along the track.

  ‘Stragglers?’ Decurion Spathos suggested.

  ‘Looks like it,’ Macro responded. If they were men from the Syrian cohort, it was a poor effort if they had only got this far before they fell out of the line of march. Prefect Orfitus should not have tolerated it, he mused. He certainly would not have.

  As they caught up with the men, the landscape changed. There were few trees, and the even landscape was mostly dotted with scrub and rocks. A chilly wind blew across the plateau as the rain began to fall in earnest, stinging drops driven almost horizontally into exposed flesh as cloaks and the manes of the horses whipped about. Macro did not stop for the stragglers from the Syrian cohort, but gave them a withering look of contempt as he rode past, ignoring those who pleaded for help. Some, he noticed, had already abandoned part of their kit, and they would be dealt a sober lesson when they caught up with their cohort and were put on a charge. Macro resolved that he would have a private word on the matter with Orfitus when he reached the baggage train. This was not acceptable. Not even in an auxiliary unit.

  When they reached the far end of the plateau, Macro saw that the track sloped down into another valley, curving gently for a few miles in the direction of the river before disappearing around the edge of some crags. And there, a mile down the slope, he saw the baggage train, standing still just past a fork in the road. The route to the left cut through a gap in the ridge that ran along the edge of the valley and, as far as Macro could work out from his recall of the terrain, seemed to be the most direct route to the river and presumably the ford Orfitus had reported. So why had the baggage train halted? More puzzling still was that there was no sign of the Syrian cohort apart from half a century guarding each end of the line of wagons, as well as the handful of stragglers doing their best to catch up. Where in Hades were the rest of the Syrians? Macro wondered.