Pullinus, who had been tracking the victim’s progress, bellowed the order to cease, and the nearest executioners drew back, chests heaving from their exertion. He bent down to prod the body with the end of his vine cane, then ordered it to be dragged aside as he made his way back to fetch the next victim. This time there was a struggle, with the condemned man writhing in the centurion’s grip and pleading for mercy.
‘Don’t harm me, brothers!’ he cried out to the men from his century. ‘For pity’s sake, lads! You’re my mates . . . I was starving!’
‘Quiet, you!’ Pullinus snapped, and moved round behind him and grabbed his shoulders.
The legionary tried to push back, then turned to the general. ‘You bastard!’ he spat. ‘You’ll starve us all before this is over! I curse you!’
Pullinus thrust him between the two lines. The legionary made no attempt to run, and strode steadily forward, as if marching on parade. This time, the first pair showed no mercy, and lashed out at his head. The first blow caught him on the jaw, blood and teeth spurting from the impact. The second blow snapped his neck, and he collapsed in a heap between the two men, who made his end mercifully brief with a savage flurry of blows.
The body was dragged aside and the centurion returned for Selenus, shoving him into position. Then, at the last moment, as Pullinus braced himself to push the condemned man to his death, Corbulo’s voice rang out.
‘Stop!’
The first pair of legionaries were already braced to strike, and they lowered their clubs but stood ready. Pullinus released his grip and took a step back. Selenus stood trembling, his body tense with nervous energy as the general urged his horse forward. He stopped close to the legionary and pointed to him as he addressed the rest of the cohort.
‘I am sparing this man, not because he deserves to live, but because he doesn’t. Selenus will spend what is left of his life as an object of contempt. Every day he lives will be a reminder to him of the comrades he betrayed and led to their deaths. Every day he lives will be a reminder to the rest of you of the fate that befalls those who fail their brothers in arms. He will be the cause of your suffering the discomforts of sleeping in the open. From this day on, Selenus will endure as nothing more than a walking death sentence. His only chance of redemption will be to die in battle.’
Corbulo allowed the men a moment to reflect on his words before he turned to Pullinus and issued a quiet order. ‘Get rid of the bodies. The execution parade is over.’
Then he wheeled his mount around and urged it into a trot as he rode back towards the camp gate without waiting for his Praetorian escort.
Macro stepped out and faced his men.
‘Second Cohort! Right turn! Advance!’
As he marched them off, the last two Praetorians collected the pick handles and tossed them in the back of the cart to return them to stores.
Pullinus dismissed the rest of his own cohort, then cut the ropes binding Selenus before ordering the legionary to drag the battered bodies to the hole that had been dug not far from the latrine ditch, where he was forced to bury them without ceremony.
That night, the legionaries of the Third Cohort huddled around their campfires, trying to keep warm as a cold breeze swept through the valley. After the execution of their comrades, a sombre mood had affected them all as they went about their duty advancing the trench that approached the city walls. Each century in turn marched up the existing trench, passing those coming back tired and grimy from their shift. Then began the weary toil of breaking up the ground and heaving the spoil up to create a berm to protect them from arrows and rocks shot at them by the defenders. On return to their lines, the rest of the day was spent scraping shelters in the ground and collecting firewood.
As dusk closed in, a cart emerged from the gate with the allocation of rations for the two cohorts banished from the camp. The half-ration of barley, together with whatever else the men had managed to forage, was added to each section’s pot to produce a thin stew to be ladled out into their mess tins. The evening meal, such as it was, did little to alleviate the hunger gnawing at their guts, and the only real comfort was the temporary warmth in their bellies. Then, mess tins licked clean, they sat around their fires and tried to stay warm as they talked in muted tones or sang in an attempt to keep their spirits up.
As night fell, a figure entered the lines; a legionary carrying a large sidebag. He pushed the hood of his cloak back to reveal the felted skullcap he wore to keep his head warm, then made his way towards one of the fires, where he paused to hold his hands to the flames.
‘It’s a bloody cold night, brothers.’
‘Aye,’ one of the seated figures replied. ‘But all right for those buggers inside the camp. Come out to slum it with us, have you?’
‘Not at all.’ Their visitor sat down, slightly apart from the others. ‘I’ve come to show a little solidarity, that’s all. And to give you this.’
He opened his sidebag to reveal that it was stuffed with bread and cheese, and the others leaned forward hungrily. They took the food he handed out and began to tear the bread and chew voraciously on the lumps of cheese. The visitor picked out a small loaf for himself, and they all ate in silence for a while before one of the men from the Third Cohort looked up anxiously. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘The lads in my century chipped in with whatever they could spare. They want you to know that you’re not in this alone.’
‘What do you mean, brother? I don’t want a part of anything that’ll get us in trouble. I’m not going like those lads did this morning.’ The man held up his half-eaten loaf. ‘So this better not be stolen.’
‘It ain’t. Like I told you, it’s a gift from your friends. I swear it. Now eat up.’
The man stared back for a moment. ‘And what did you mean about not being in this alone? I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’
‘It’s nothing.’ The visitor took a bite of his own bread and chewed. ‘Just that there’s a lot of us who think the Third Cohort got the shit end of the stick over the business about stealing from the stores. Your man Selenus was right. We’re all starting to bloody well starve. And I wonder how many of us are going to end up buried with your mates before all this is over. I’ll tell you something else. I’ve got a mate at headquarters who swears that Corbulo ain’t living on the same rations as the rest of us. The general’s got a personal store of the best stuff the forage parties bring in. Saves it for himself. Him and the woman he’s got in his tent, keeping him nice and warm at night . . .’ He paused and tore off another hunk of bread with his teeth as he looked round the faces gathered about the fire to gauge the impact of his words.
‘He’s got himself a woman?’ One of the younger legionaries chewed his lip.
‘Stuff the woman!’ an older man cut in. ‘What about this personal store? What’s the general keeping from us, eh?’
The stranger was silent for a moment, as if trying to recall what he had been told. ‘My mate said he saw hams, a haunch of venison, some pastries and honeyed cakes.’
‘Honeyed cakes . . .’ someone murmured.
‘That’s bollocks.’ Another man spat into the flames. ‘I don’t believe a word of it. The general’s one of the few aristocrats that plays straight with his men. He looks after himself no better than he looks after the rest of us.’
‘Then why are we freezing our bollocks off out here while he’s in his nice warm bed with some local tart?’ demanded the man who had asked about the food. ‘If you think he’s living like one of us out here, then you’re a bloody fool.’
‘Brothers!’ The stranger raised his hands. ‘Look, I didn’t come out here to cause any trouble. Just wanted to share what we can spare with you. That’s all. Maybe my mate got it wrong.’
‘Maybe he didn’t,’ a man said angrily. ‘Anyway, thanks for this. We needed it. And make sure you thank your lads for helping us out. We’
ll return the favour if we ever get the chance.’
The others murmured their gratitude too as the stranger stood up. He smiled and nodded his head in farewell. ‘Goodnight, boys. I better get off.’
‘Here, if there’s any more food going spare, you know where we are.’
‘Sure. I’ll be back.’ He waved, then turned away into the darkness. As he walked, he heard the men muttering behind him, and a small smile of satisfaction lifted the corners of his mouth.
When he was a safe distance away, he changed direction and made his way down the lines until he found what he was looking for: a legionary sitting alone some distance from his comrades. He had not made himself a fire and sat hugging his knees with his cape wrapped around his shivering frame.
‘Brother Selenus,’ the stranger greeted him as he approached. The legionary looked round warily.
‘Who the fuck are you?’
‘Borenus. From the Eighth Cohort.’
‘I don’t recognise you.’
‘Not surprised. I was transferred in just before we left Tarsus. Mind if I sit with you for a moment?’
‘Why would you want to? You know who I am, and what I did.’
‘I know. I’ve got some food to share. Compliments of the lads in my century.’
Selenus swallowed and then nodded. His visitor squatted and rummaged in his bag, then held out some cheese and a hunk of bread. ‘Here.’
Selenus hesitated. ‘Where did you get it?’
‘It’s safe. Take it.’
Selenus snatched at it eagerly and began to eat without any further questions. His visitor regarded him closely before speaking again.
‘Selenus, the general was wrong to do what he did today. He as good as killed those two boys himself. Only he’s like all them aristocrats and doesn’t want to carry out that kind of deed in person and get blood on his hands. There’s a lot of us in the camp think Corbulo’s little better than a murderer. And those lads won’t be the last of his victims. Listen . . .’
He leaned closer to continue talking in an undertone. Every so often Selenus would nod, or break off from his eating to make an angry comment. At length the other man patted him on the shoulder and stood up.
‘I’ll see you again soon, brother.’
Then he paced away into the night, making his way back between the lines before crossing over the open ground to the nearest of the Syrian cohort’s campfires, where he smiled as he waved a hand in greeting.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
It was impossible to tell what time of day it was in the cell. It measured no more than eight feet by five, and the air was cool and clammy. There were no windows, and the only opening besides the low, narrow door was a foul-smelling drain that ran through the walls and across the middle of the room. Previous prisoners appeared not to have exclusively used the drain for their ablutions, and Cato had cleared away some of the soiled rushes to sit on the grimy flagstones rather than risk sitting in someone else’s shit. There was a small grille in the door through which a very faint light entered the cell from the flames of a torch further along the corridor running underneath the palace’s stables. The prisoners were fed twice a day, as far as Cato could estimate; he had lost feeling for the passing of time. Apollonius was in the next cell, and they were able to communicate with each other through the drain. Since there was little to say, however, and any exchange required bending over the drain and enduring the noisome stench of the effluent trickling beneath, both men preferred to limit their words.
Cato sat back against the wall and folded his arms as he thought about their situation. After Vologases had revealed his proof of the agent’s spying, Haghrar was dragged off through a side door while Cato and Apollonius were escorted from the audience chamber. They were taken out of the palace to the vast complex of stabling set far enough away from the main building that the odour did not offend the noses of the king and his court. There they were shoved through a guarded doorway and down two flights of steps to the end of the long corridor before being thrust into their cells and left there.
At first he had expected their incarceration to be long enough only for Vologases to choose their method of execution. But the hours had stretched into a day, then longer, until it was hard to determine how long they had been held there. He could not believe they had been forgotten. Rather, Vologases was saving them for some public occasion to make a spectacle of their deaths so that his people could see what happened to Roman spies. He used the buckle from his belt to score a mark on the wall each time one of the guards brought him food and then swapped the empty pail of water for one filled with brackish water through a small opening at the bottom of the door. The water had caused him to suffer a bout of diarrhoea before his body became accustomed to it. He continued to score the mealtimes even after he came across a similar record. Sensing a row of notches further along the wall, he ran his fingers over them until he found the start, and then began counting. He gave up after four hundred, but continued brushing his fingertips over the notches until they finally came to an abrupt end. Apollonius had fallen silent for a long time after Cato shared his discovery and the prospect that they might be destined to eke out the rest of their lives in their grim, stinking holes far from sunlight and the attention of those going about their business in the palace.
From time to time the two men would stand at the doors and talk to each other through the grilles, but since other prisoners did the same, or shouted for the guards – who never responded – or simply babbled insanely, it was necessary to raise their voices to be heard and it was too much of a strain to keep it up for long. It suited them both to think that as long as they lived, there was hope that the Parthians might include them in a prisoner exchange, or that General Corbulo might attempt to pay a ransom for their release.
Cato clung to that thought, as he found the idea of never being able to see his son again almost impossible to bear. Even if it took years for them to be released, he might return to Rome a wasted shadow of the man he had once been, and Lucius might not recognise him. That filled his heart with grief, and there were moments when he gave in to his misery as he sat propped up in the corner of his cell. It never lasted for long; when he realised he was slipping into the mood, he forced himself to rise and exercise as best he could in the confined space. He could stretch, and do squats and press-ups and a limited number of other activities to keep his body supple and as strong as possible. But already he could feel the hunger eating away at him, and he was certain that the bones of his slender frame were becoming more and more prominent as time wore on.
He did not need to urge Apollonius to do the same, as the agent was determined to be ready to act if ever the opportunity to escape presented itself, however unlikely that might be given the regime the Parthians imposed upon their prisoners. The only time the door to a cell was opened was when the guards came to take a man to his death, or when a prisoner died and the body was removed.
The damp air affected Cato badly, and his body was racked by painful coughing fits more and more frequently. He prayed to Asclepius that he might recover and not die from a wasting illness in this terrible place. If that was to be his fate, then he hoped that he had served Rome well enough to win the right to enter the Fields of Elysium in the afterlife.
His thoughts were interrupted by the agent’s voice.
‘Cato . . . Cato!’
Cato stood up and rolled his shoulders to ease the stiffness that had set in from leaning against the wall. Stepping up to the door, he bent to place his mouth close to the grille. ‘I’m here. What is it?’
‘I need to say something to you.’
‘So?’
There was a pause before Apollonius continued. ‘I wanted to apologise, Tribune. It was too bad that I could not tell you the true purpose of my mission.’
‘Yes. It was. You should have trusted me.’
‘What differenc
e would it have made if I had? Vologases would still have found my notes. I wonder, has it occurred to you that he might have spared us because he thought your surprise was genuine?’
‘No. I hadn’t thought of that. I doubt the king is troubled by the notion of whether those he condemns are innocent or not.’
Apollonius gave a dry chuckle. ‘You are right. Poor Haghrar. If only I hadn’t made notes on what you told me about the conversation you had with him at Ichnae he might still be alive. And, more importantly, considering plotting against his king. Speaking of Vologases, I wonder what fate he intends for us. You know, we might yet get out of this alive.’
‘How so?’
‘My mission was a success, as far as it got. I had made detailed notes to help Corbulo plan his campaign.’
‘And they have been taken from you. I somehow doubt that Vologases will be sharing them with the general any time soon.’
‘He doesn’t have to. I can recall most of the details accurately enough.’
‘Then why, for pity’s sake, did you commit them to paper?’
‘In case anything happened to me. That’s why I asked you to return the flute to Corbulo.’
‘Well, he’s not going to be getting it back now, is he?’
‘He doesn’t need the flute if I am still alive. He may try to ransom me. And you too, of course,’ the agent added quickly.
Cato had heard this line of reasoning from Apollonius before and wondered if the agent truly believed it, or whether he was merely clinging to the possibility to stave off despair. He coughed and cleared his throat. ‘Let’s hope you are right. I’m sure the general won’t want to lose one of his best agents.’
Traitors of Rome (Eagles of the Empire 18) Page 30