The first instruction was to make ready, the second to step back. As he called out, the line stepped away from the enemy, and for a moment there was a gap, before the rebels surged forward to renew the struggle, beating wildly at the auxiliaries’ shields and striking at any of the Roman soldiers who exposed their bodies. As Macro called the time, the cohort steadily retreated on the fork and then backed down the route leading to the ford, the slopes of the vale closing in on either side. Too late, the enemy realised that the moment had passed to seal victory. No longer would their superior numbers count in their favour as the Roman flanks were protected by the dense undergrowth beneath the trees.
As the gap between the belts of trees narrowed Macro pulled his flank centuries in, one at a time, until only two centuries stretched between the treeline either side of the road. Keeping one of the freed-up centuries in reserve, he ordered the others to fall back half a mile before forming a new line of defence. Once they were marching off, he turned his attention to the fighting raging across the narrow strip of ground between the trees. Both sides were tiring. Their blows were struck with laboured effort, and there was a perceptible reluctance for men to step into the place of a fallen comrade, or to renew a duel once they had stepped back to avoid a thrust. Now was the time to strike a mortal blow, Macro decided.
‘Fourth Syrian! Halt! Prepare to advance!’
Some of the men in the rearmost ranks looked towards him in surprise and anxiety, but obeyed the order. Already he saw the doubt in the expressions of the nearest rebels and knew that his instinct had been right.
‘Advance!’
The auxiliaries took a pace forward, punching out their shields and stabbing into the enemy’s tightly packed bodies. It was the work of a moment for the rebels’ fear to spread through their ranks like a wave, and as if of one will, they broke contact with the Syrian cohort and drew back, rapidly widening the gap between the two sides. The auxiliaries continued to advance, stepping over the bodies sprawled across the ground before them, pausing to stab at wounded rebels. Macro let them continue for twenty paces before he called a halt and ordered the century held in reserve to turn about and march off down the road.
As the sound of their boots crunching on the grit and packed earth faded, a quiet calm fell over the two forces still facing each other across the stretch of beaten-down grass splashed with blood and littered with bodies and discarded shields. Macro fully expected the enemy to sound their horns and charge again, but they had already lost many men and there was little resolve to continue the battle.
One of their leaders, however, still had fire in his belly and strode out into the open, advancing to within fifteen paces of the Roman line. Then he spread his arms wide, spear in one hand, shield in the other, and shouted a challenge at his enemy.
‘Hold your ground,’ Macro warned his men. ‘No one moves against that bastard unless I say so.’
The rebel thrust the point of his spear towards Macro and repeated his challenge, with unmistakable contempt in his voice, but Macro merely stared back as he growled.
‘Don’t tempt me . . .’
Then he cleared his throat and called out in a hoarse voice, ‘Second Century, about turn and fall back!’
As they withdrew, then formed column and marched away, Macro ordered the First Century to fall back too, until the trees drew close enough on either side to cover their flanks. Then they halted again. But there was no attempt by the enemy to follow them. Not even the man who had issued the challenge to Macro moved. He simply stood glaring as his enemy moved off. Before the trees closed in, Macro took one last look along the road. Burning and abandoned wagons stood in a line reaching out towards the distant crags. The rebels might have failed in their bid to destroy the entire baggage train and its escort, but they had done great harm to General Corbulo’s chances of taking Thapsis before winter came to the mountains.
‘First Century, form column!’
The sixty-odd survivors of the unit moved quickly from line to column before Macro gave the order to quick-march down the road. As Orfitus passed by, the two men exchanged a glance and a brief nod of mutual respect. The prefect had shown plenty of guts, thought Macro, but that would count for very little when he had to account to General Corbulo for the loss of the siege train and many of the supply wagons, and both men knew it.
Macro remained alone for a moment, staring back at the enemy and the devastation they had wreaked. Then he tugged the reins, gently wheeled his mount around and trotted after his men.
CHAPTER TWENTY
‘Wait here,’ Haghrar ordered as two crewmen slid the boarding ramp out from the side of the barge and onto the quay that stretched for over two hundred paces along the bank of the Euphrates. Trading vessels of all sizes were tied up alongside as gangs of stevedores toiled to unload and load their cargoes. On the far side of the quay lay a row of warehouses backing onto the wall of the town of Tanassur, which thrived from taxing the trade that flowed up and down the Euphrates and the camel caravans that came from Seleucia on the Tigris, carrying spices and silks for the markets of the Roman Empire.
In other circumstances, the sights, sounds and scents all around him would have excited Cato’s senses, but he largely ignored them as he stepped between the Parthian noble and the boarding ramp.
‘Wait for what, exactly?’
‘Instructions from the king. I will speak with the governor of the town. He may have received instructions from Vologases.’
‘And if he hasn’t? What then?’
‘Then you will wait here in Tanassur while I send a messenger to Ctesiphon to ask for further instructions.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘Two days at the most.’
That was not as long as Cato had feared. ‘Very well.’
‘Do you mind?’ Haghrar indicated the boarding ramp, and Cato moved aside to let the Parthian step ashore. He paused on the quay to look back. ‘I have your word that you and your men will not leave the ship? Nor make any attempt at escape?’
‘You have my word; besides, where would we go? It’s hundreds of miles to the frontier. We wouldn’t get very far even if we tried.’
‘All the same, don’t step off the ship. I’ve left orders with my men not to permit it.’
‘I have given you my word,’ Cato reminded him pointedly.
Haghrar nodded and then turned to stride across the quay, dodging out of the way of a string of heavily laden camels before entering the town’s gate and disappearing from view.
It was approaching noon, and already the crowd along the wharf was thinning as people went to find shelter from the sun. Cato moved to the bows of the barge, where a linen awning had been erected between the mast and the stem to provide shade for the crew and passengers. Apollonius and the Praetorians were sitting against the side rail, facing the river, so that they had a good view of the wharf. The Parthians and the crew sat opposite. Despite having fought off the pirates together only a few days before, the two groups had kept to themselves and regarded each other with wary suspicion, such was the long-standing enmity between Rome and Parthia.
Cato eased himself into the middle of the deck and lay back against a large coil of rope with his hands behind his head.
‘I must say, given that Haghrar may well return from the governor bearing orders to kill us, you seem very calm,’ Apollonius commented as he wiped some dust from his flute and blew an experimental note, which came out flat.
‘Would it make any difference if I wasn’t?’ Cato responded drily. ‘Our fate is in the hands of the gods. Well, Vologases at any rate. We’ll know his decision soon enough.’
‘And what do you think his decision will be?’
‘I think he will at least want to hear what we say. He’s got nothing to lose from doing that.’
‘But will he think there is anything to gain after we have presented Corbu
lo’s terms, I wonder?’ Apollonius paused briefly. ‘On reflection, it might be wise for you to consider what you say, as well as how you say it, if we are to have the best chance of surviving this mission.’
Cato opened his eyes and turned towards the agent. ‘What are you suggesting?’
Apollonius stretched his shoulders and shuffled closer, lowering his voice. ‘I am suggesting that you might want to think about tailoring what you say to suit your audience. The priority is getting a peace agreement with Parthia. We both know that the king will never concede to all of Corbulo’s demands, so the solution is obvious. Only make demands you know he will agree to. Then we draw up and agree the treaty and take it back to Tarsus.’
‘What’s the point?’ Cato demanded. ‘You know damn well that Corbulo won’t accept a treaty based on anything less than the terms he has stated. Even if he did, he would have to refer it to Rome. The Senate and Nero are even less likely to go along with it.’
‘Of course, but by the time Nero responds to Corbulo and the general communicates the response from Rome to Vologases, the best part of a year will have passed. A year in which Corbulo will have had the chance to further strengthen and equip the army for war with Parthia. Tribune, you know that as long as Rome and Parthia exist, there will always be conflict between them. But if Corbulo is in a position to crush Parthia decisively, there will be peace on the eastern frontier.’
‘So you think I should betray my honour and lie to King Vologases in order to get a peace agreement I know will not be accepted by Rome? Is that what you are saying?’
Apollonius gave a slight smirk. ‘I would say that is a succinct summary of the situation.’
‘Ye gods,’ Cato muttered. ‘What depths of cynicism will you not sink to? You spies are every bit as conniving as the most base politician in Rome.’
Apollonius’s smirk faded. ‘You soldiers really do think your shit smells better than other people’s, don’t you? What is politics but the continuation of war by different means? We fight with whatever weapons come to hand, but we all serve the interests of Rome. For an intelligent man, you can be woefully short-sighted at times.’ He spoke with a hard-edged tone that Cato had not heard before. ‘Think it through, Tribune. We cannot negotiate a peace with Parthia on Corbulo’s terms. He knew that when he set them out. And he will be able to present those terms to Rome to prove that he was not being weak. So he has covered his back as far as the emperor is concerned. Your true purpose here is not to make peace but to buy time. You must keep the negotiations going as long as possible, and then agree a treaty you know will not be honoured. And if you do that, then you, I and the men of your escort get to live. If, however, you stick by the word of Corbulo’s demands, the negotiations will collapse swiftly and Vologases will have our heads.’
‘So you are telling me to lie.’
‘Like I said, we use whatever is available. A lie is just another weapon at our disposal. You do what you must to get Vologases to agree a peace treaty, and you get us out of Parthia alive. Those are the only things that matter; that is the truth, and you know it.’
Cato gave a bitter chuckle. ‘Truth? That is a word that sits very poorly in your mouth. Your kind seem to think that the truth is the same as not being caught in a lie.’
Apollonius’s eyes narrowed fractionally. ‘Climb down from your pedestal, Tribune. Despite what you think, you are no better than any other man if you let yourself be blinded by self-regard for whatever principles you think you stand for.’
Before Cato could respond, the agent moved back to the side of the deck and picked up his wineskin, taking a slug before lowering his head and closing his eyes, as if in rest.
As the midday sun beat down, the quay was largely deserted. On board the barge, most of the men under the awning were asleep, and the air was filled with the dull buzz of flies and the rhythmic rumble of snoring. Even though his eyes were closed, however, Cato was awake and thinking through his earlier exchange with Apollonius. Much as he hated to admit it, even to himself, there was some merit in what the agent had said. What disturbed him, however, was the feeling that the real purpose of the embassy had never been to make peace with Parthia. Corbulo’s line was that it was worth making an effort to get a treaty, and Cato had believed him. Indeed, he had hoped that he might successfully appeal to whatever humanitarian instinct dwelled within the heart of King Vologases. After all, what sane man would wish a costly war with an unpredictable outcome on his empire if it could be avoided? Cato fully understood that he was something of an idealist, and that such a thought was an abstraction at best, and a dangerous delusion at worst. In real life, those men fated to rule empires did not subscribe to the same set of values as those they ruled. What did the lives of thousands of their subjects matter to the likes of Vologases or Nero? Even so, he had still believed he might win the Parthian king round to a different way of viewing relations with Rome, and persuade him that peaceful coexistence might at least be contemplated.
‘What a fool I am,’ he whispered to himself in a burst of shameful self-awareness.
He opened his eyes quickly to glance from side to side in case his words had been heard, but no one stirred. The only other man awake was one of the Parthians, a black-skinned man with yellow eyes who was thumbing gleaming beads along a string to help him concentrate and ward off drowsiness. He stared at Cato briefly but showed no other reaction, and Cato closed his eyes again as he continued following his train of thought.
Very well, he reflected, the embassy was little more than a ruse to buy more time for Rome to prepare for war. There had only ever been the possibility of a fragile peace. In which case it was Cato’s duty to get himself and his men out of Parthia safely, however that was achieved.
The sound of approaching footsteps on the quay interrupted his rumination; a moment later, he heard boots on the gangway and sat up. Haghrar had returned at the head of a squad of spearmen dressed in flowing green robes. Their officer was armed with a sword and wore a gleaming black breastplate inlaid with silver stars and the design of a rearing horse. As the spearmen jumped down onto the deck with a series of thuds, those sleeping under the awning stirred and blinked, looking over at the men fanning out across the deck. The last of the spearmen was followed by two men in green tunics carrying a studded chest. Haghrar and the officer stepped forward as Cato and the others under the awning scrambled to their feet.
‘What’s the meaning of this?’ asked Cato, gesturing towards the soldiers. He felt a cold dread in his guts that they had been sent to kill him and his men.
‘Tribune Cato, this is Ramalanes, a captain of the royal palace guard.’ Haghrar gestured to the officer. ‘He was waiting at the governor’s palace and has been ordered to escort the embassy to the capital. There are horses being saddled to take us to the Tigris, where we will cross the river to reach Ctesiphon.’
Cato squinted out into the bright sunlight. ‘What? Now?’
‘At once,’ Ramalanes cut in, addressing Cato in Greek. ‘But first, you and your men will hand over your weapons and all your belongings. You may keep only your clothes and boots.’
Cato frowned. ‘We are here on an embassy. We are not to be treated like prisoners. When Emperor Nero hears of this—’
‘You are to do this at once.’ Ramalanes spoke over the top of Cato’s protest. ‘Everything is to be placed in the chest. Do it now.’
He shouted an order to the men carrying the chest, and they set it down in front of the mast, slipping open the bolt and lifting the lid before standing erect on either side. For a moment, Cato was inclined to refuse, but his men were outnumbered and would be made short work of if the Parthians used force.
‘Now,’ Ramalanes insisted.
Cato sighed. ‘Do as the man says, lads. All blades and other personal items in the chest. Let’s be quick about it.’
The men hesitated, and Cato saw that they were looking to him for
a lead on how to respond. Reaching for the scabbard and sword belt he had set down by his saddlebags close to the coiled rope, he picked up the bags in the other hand and approached the chest, laying everything inside. One by one his men followed suit, then returned to their positions under the awning. Apollonius was last, handing over his belongings, except his flute.
‘I’d like to keep this,’ he said.
‘Everything,’ Ramalanes ordered.
Apollonius reluctantly placed the flute in the chest and backed away.
Ramalanes looked them over and then pointed to Cato’s equestrian ring. ‘That too.’
‘My ring?’ Cato held up his hand. ‘This is my sign of rank.’
‘That is not my concern, Roman. I have my orders. A ring may conceal poison, to be used against my king or yourself. Take it off and put it in the chest.’
Cato shook his head, but did as he was told before rejoining his men. The chest was closed and the lock slid back into place, then Ramalanes shouted an order over the quay and some more of his men led a string of horses out from the shadows between two of the warehouses. He beckoned to Cato impatiently.
‘Lead your men ashore, Roman.’
‘My rank is Tribune, Parthian, and I am leading an embassy on behalf of Emperor Nero,’ Cato blustered. ‘You will treat me with the respect due to my station.’
Ramalanes looked to Haghrar, and the latter nodded delicately.
‘Very well, Tribune,’ he said with exaggerated deference. ‘Please lead your men ashore.’
Cato turned to his men, most of who were grinning at the Parthian captain’s discomfort; even those who spoke no Greek had followed the gist of the exchange. ‘Let’s go, boys. Back in the saddle.’ He rubbed his buttocks, and the others, including Apollonius, laughed as they stepped up onto the gangway and crossed over to the quay.
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