Traitors of Rome (Eagles of the Empire 18)

by Simon Scarrow

  He woke with a start as Apollonius shook his shoulder. It was still dark, and the agent loomed against the stars.

  ‘Easy there, Tribune. We need to get ready. Dawn’s not far off. Look.’

  Cato turned to the east, and sure enough, he could just make out the band of lighter sky along the horizon. It was bitterly cold, and his cloak was covered with tiny ice crystals. He stood up and rubbed his hands together vigorously. The fire had died hours ago, and offered no warmth.

  The two men ate some more of the hardtack and drank some water before they heaved the blankets and saddles onto the horses and fastened the straps. By the time they had loaded the feed and their rations and water, a thin light was spreading across the desert as the first camels stirred and made their characteristic groans. Then Cato looked back along the road and froze.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Apollonius.

  He pointed towards a low ridge a few miles away. ‘There. See the dust?’

  Apollonius squinted for a moment. ‘I see it now.’

  The tell-tale plume rose from the edge of the ridge, barely visible to the untrained eye. A body of men, possibly on horseback.

  ‘Trouble?’ asked Apollonius. ‘I don’t see how they can be on to us. Otherwise they’d have stopped us at the checkpoint.’

  ‘Maybe they’ve spoke to someone and found enough information to think again. Either way, we can’t afford to take any risks. We have to get moving.’

  ‘But won’t they spot us riding ahead, just as we spotted them?’

  ‘I dare say. It may give us away. But we have no choice.’

  They climbed into the saddles, turned the mounts towards the road and urged them into a canter, heading towards Palmyra. Cato saw a handful of figures from the caravan rise briefly to watch them ride off, no doubt wondering at the foolishness of two men heading out on the road alone. It was a risk, but then they were beset by risks, and Cato’s choice seemed the least dangerous course of action.

  As they continued down the road, they looked back from time to time to track the progress of the men making for the caravan. The light strengthened, revealing that the dust was being kicked up by a party of riders coming on at a gallop. It was possible they had already seen the two men some miles ahead of them, but Cato hoped they would be delayed by stopping to ask questions of the merchants. Someone was bound to mention the two horsemen and their spare mount leaving the camp at first light. That alone would arouse enough suspicion to warrant a pursuit. The chase was on.

  The road followed a course almost straight across the desert, only deviating when a steep slope or rocky escarpment broke up the undulating expanse of sand and stone. Even though it was November, the air warmed quickly as the sun climbed into the sky. At noon, they stopped by an outcrop of boulders and took shelter in the shade. Cato positioned himself to look back down the road, and as they prepared to remount, he spotted the plume of dust five or six miles back.

  ‘Shit. I’d hoped they’d be held up at the convoy for longer.’

  ‘It must be us they’re looking for,’ said Apollonius as he shaded his eyes and squinted into the distance. ‘I can’t think of any other reason for them being this far out along the road.’

  ‘Then we’ll have to stay ahead of them. Time to go.’

  They continued to follow the road, and late in the afternoon passed a smaller caravan, ignoring the entreaties of some of the drovers to stop the night with them and sample some of their wares. As darkness fell, they took shelter in the lee of another outcrop as a biting wind blew up, carrying fine grains of sand that caught in their eyes and mouths. Once their horses were unburdened and fed, Cato climbed the rocks and saw the glow of the caravan’s campfires a few miles back, and then another fire the same distance beyond, and realised that the horsemen had made up some ground.

  By the end of the following day, their better-mounted pursuers were closer still, and Cato knew that if they did not find some way to throw them off, the horsemen would soon catch up with them. He confided his concern to Apollonius, who coughed to clear his throat before responding.

  ‘If it comes to that, Tribune, I have no intention of being taken back to Ctesiphon in chains so that my head can be used to decorate the gatehouse of Vologases’ palace.’

  ‘I share the sentiment, but since the only weapon we have is your knife, the question of making a last stand is somewhat academic. If we want to avoid the fate you mention, there’s only one way of going about it.’

  Apollonius sighed. ‘I understand . . . Do you want me to do it? I can make it quick for you.’

  Cato thought for a moment. ‘I’d like to say something noble about a Roman officer choosing death at his own hand, but I’ve seen you use a blade. Better that you make a good job of it than I foul it up.’

  ‘All right then. I’ll see to you first.’

  Cato nodded. ‘In the meantime, let’s just do our best to get to Palmyra ahead of them. It’s a day’s ride from here, I estimate.’

  ‘A day too far, then . . .’

  They were back on the road as soon as there was enough light to see the way ahead. And so were their pursuers. All day they closed the gap, until they were no more than two miles away, riding towards a fold in the ground below the low ridge on which Cato and Apollonius had halted. Dusk had started to fall across the barren terrain, and it would be dark within the hour. The Parthians were close enough for Cato to count them. Twelve soldiers. There could be no thought of turning to fight them, even if they could fashion any makeshift weapons more effective than Apollonius’s knife.

  The horses had been pushed almost to their limit, and Apollonius dismounted to swap the saddle onto the spare mount for it to take its turn. As he worked, Cato spotted a clump of bushes with vicious-looking needles growing along the edge of an ancient wadi. He ordered the other man to give him the knife, and hurriedly began to cut some boughs from the shrubs and tie them together with rope.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Apollonius.

  ‘You carry on with the saddling. I’ve got an idea that might buy us some time.’

  Once Apollonius had completed his task, Cato called him over to hold the large bundle of scrub away from the unsaddled horse as he fastened the rope to each side of the harness that stretched across the animal’s back. Then he took the reins and moved the beast round to face the open desert.

  ‘Let go!’

  Apollonius released his grip, and the bundle swept down and landed right by the rear hoofs of the horse, the long, thorny spikes gouging the animal’s flesh all the way up its legs as far as the gaskin. At once it let out a pained whinny and lurched forward, only to be scratched and pricked yet again. Desperate to escape the pain in its legs, it kept moving, and galloped off into the desert, heading north, the brush stirring up plenty of dust as it trailed along just behind the horse’s rear legs. Apollonius grasped the idea at once.

  ‘Clever. Let’s hope it works.’

  ‘Get down into the wadi,’ Cato ordered as he returned the knife and led his horse over to the edge, some thirty paces away, then down the steep slope beyond.

  Apollonius followed him into the hiding place. Dust swirled about them for a moment before it settled, and they stood by their mounts’ heads and stroked them in an effort to make the horses still and quiet before the Parthians approached. The light steadily faded as they waited, and then Cato’s ears picked up the sound of hoofs pounding along the road, the volume swelling quickly as their pursuers galloped up to the ridge. Then there was a shout and a confusion of noises as the horsemen drew up, followed by a hurried exchange. From the tone of the voices, it sounded as if there was a difference of opinion, and Cato prayed that they would fall for his bait.

  The agent looked at him anxiously as he listened.

  ‘What are they saying?’ Cato whispered.

  ‘Shh!’ Apollonius cocked his head to one side, frowning
. Then there was a curt word of command, and the horsemen started moving again, drawing away from the edge of the wadi. He grinned. ‘They’ve fallen for it!’

  They waited until the sounds had faded into the distance and then climbed out of the wadi to see two clouds of dust racing away from the road. It would be dark soon, Cato realised. Before long the Parthians would not be able to see their prey and would have to slow down for fear of their mounts stumbling and breaking a leg. It might take hours for them to catch up with the horse dragging the thorny bundle of brush.

  Apollonius smiled with satisfaction and relief and clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Fine work.’

  ‘I have my uses.’ Cato grinned. ‘We’d better make the most of it.’

  They mounted and walked their horses down the far slope of the ridge, not daring to go faster in case they raised any dust that might expose their ruse. When the last of the daylight had gone, they increased their pace to a steady trot, following the road towards Palmyra and the promise of sanctuary from their Parthian pursuers. After that, it would be no more than two days before they crossed the frontier into the Roman Empire and made their way to Tarsus to report to General Corbulo. While Cato’s vain attempt to win a treaty had failed, Apollonius would set down all the details of the intelligence he could recall from their journey. It might be enough, Cato hoped, to swing the delicate balance of the coming war in Rome’s favour.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  ‘Are you certain he’s dead?’ Macro asked Manlius, the centurion of the watch, as they marched through the camp towards the southern gate.

  ‘Certain of it. The body was already cold when I was sent for.’

  December had come, and the first heavy snowfall of the winter had started early the previous night and continued until a few hours before dawn. Now the camp and surrounding landscape were covered by a gleaming mantle of unblemished white. The snow had been carried on a biting gale that had howled over the ramparts, building up drifts against the windward side of the palisade. Inside the camp, the men were emerging from their shelters to prepare for morning assembly. They stamped in the snow to try to keep their feet from getting cold as they blew steamy breath into their hands and then rubbed them. There was no mistaking their surly mood as they stared at the two centurions passing by. Much as he believed in discipline, with all the fervour of a religious fanatic, Macro had some sympathy with their grievances.

  They were still on half-rations and were getting thinner and weaker with every passing day. Even though the bridge had been repaired, the supply convoys from Tarsus took far longer to get through than had been anticipated, thanks to the autumn rains turning the mountain road that linked the city to Thapsis into a quagmire. Now that winter had arrived in the mountains, the snow and ice made matters even worse for the supply wagons as they struggled to get through to the siege camp, while the forage parties were finding it ever more difficult to supplement the dwindling stocks held in the supply huts close to headquarters.

  Starvation might have been a grim prospect for the legionaries and auxiliaries, but it was already a daily torment for the gangs of local people toiling to complete the ditch and rampart that would surround Thapsis. Over a hundred of them had already perished, their bodies stacked in a burial pit outside the stockade where they lived when they were not labouring on the siege works alongside the Roman soldiers.

  Those were not the only deaths over the month since the Third Cohort had followed the Syrians into exile outside the main camp. Eighteen men from the two units had already died from the effects of being exposed to the harsh weather that had seized the valley in its freezing grip. Prefect Orfitus and Centurion Pullinus had begged the general for another thirty to be taken back into the camp to be treated in the hospital shelters. But Corbulo had refused and told the two officers not to repeat the request on pain of a further reduction in their rations. Accordingly, more deaths had followed, as the older and weaker of the men had succumbed. While Macro could accept that the general’s harsh methods might result in a tougher army, inured to suffering, he could not help wondering if the losses that entailed would be an acceptable price to pay for it.

  There was, however, one development that promised hope to the men suffering outside Thapsis. Replacement siege engines had reached the army the day before and were already being assembled behind the palisade of the siege battery. Soon they would be adding their weight to the bombardment being carried out by the large catapult that the engineers had managed to construct from local resources. A section of the wall to the left of the gate had been chosen as a target, and already the battlements had been beaten down and the top eight feet or so of the wall pounded into a ruin. With the added missiles from the replacement weapons, Corbulo anticipated a practicable breach within a month. But before then, half-rations and more deaths might well prove too much for the men to endure.

  Mutiny was in the air. Macro had heard rumours of men going from unit to unit to provoke dissent and hostility towards General Corbulo. He even had the name of the purported ringleader: Borenus, who claimed to be a legionary from the Eighth Cohort of the Sixth Legion. Only there was no such man in the unit. The conspirators were playing cautious, he reflected. As well they might, given that they would face the death penalty if they were identified. When they were identified, he corrected himself.

  And now there was this new matter to take into account: the discovery of the body of one of the centurions from the same legion. It was bad enough to lose a valuable officer, but if his death proved to be suspicious, it would be infinitely worse. If he had been murdered by a disgruntled man, or men, under his command, it would set a hideous precedent across the rest of the army. When soldiers were driven to killing their officers, the collapse of discipline and the chaos that followed couldn’t be far off, thought Macro as he regarded the men slowly forming up on either side as he passed by.

  The body of Centurion Piso lay face down beside the drain that passed through the latrine block on the low ground in the corner of the camp. An optio and two of his men were standing guard, while a small crowd of curious legionaries and auxiliaries had gathered around the block.

  Macro turned towards them with a scowl and brandished his vine cane. ‘What are you hanging around here for? Either have a piss or a shit, or fuck off out of it and get ready for morning assembly. Before I decide to pick a new team for latrine duty . . .’

  The soldiers hurriedly dispersed, and he bent over the body for a closer examination. There was no sign of blood on Piso or the ground around him, and no obvious signs of stab wounds. Nor was there any snow on the body, so he had died within the last two to three hours. Macro took his arm and turned him onto his back. The centurion’s eyes were wide open and his jaw hung slack, giving his face a surprised expression. Just above the fold of his neck cloth, Macro saw a patch of discoloured skin, the blue and purple of bruising. He undid the loose knot of the cloth and removed it to reveal a distinct ring of bruises around the officer’s neck either side of a vivid red line.

  ‘Strangled,’ Manlius observed.

  ‘Garrotted, more like.’ Macro straightened up. ‘Who found him?’

  Manlius pointed out one of the legionaries standing with the optio. ‘Pindarus.’

  Macro looked over at the young man. He had a pimply face and a runny nose that caused him to sniff every few breaths. ‘What’s the story, Pindarus?’

  ‘Story, sir?’

  ‘Tell me how you found him, in as much detail as you can recall,’ Macro said patiently.

  The youngster collected his thoughts. ‘I was on duty on the south tower when the change of watch was sounded. I really needed a piss and came running down here to the ditch, and that’s when I found the centurion, sir.’

  ‘What was wrong with pissing in the latrine block?’

  ‘It’s hard to see your way in the dark, sir. If you go inside.’

  ‘May
be, but it’s against regs to take a piss or shit outside of the latrines. What if everyone did that? Imagine what the camp would be like. That’s why we have rules. And that’s why you’re going to have a week on latrine duty. Continue.’

  ‘I saw him lying there, sir. I thought he might be drunk. That happens sometimes, when a lad’s the worse for wear. Then I realised he was an officer. I asked him if there was anything wrong, and when he didn’t give me any response, I went to turn him over. But it was obvious he was dead, sir. So I went and got the optio. He saw the body and then sent for the centurion.’ Pindarus shrugged. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘When you found the body, was there anyone nearby?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Did you hear anything? Anything unusual?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And did you do it? Did you kill him, Pindarus?’

  The youth’s mouth sagged open and he shook his head. ‘No, sir!’

  Macro stared back for a moment and nodded. ‘All right. That’ll do. You and the optio keep the body under guard.’

  Pindarus saluted, and Macro ordered the other legionary to report to headquarters to inform the general about the discovery. As the soldier ran off over the snow, Macro looked at the body again and gave a deep sigh.

  ‘Corbulo’s not going to like this one bit . . .’

  ‘Murdered, you say?’ Corbulo growled as he stared down at the body. Snow had begun to fall again, fine flakes swirling on the light breeze, and Macro had to brush off a thin layer to expose the ligature marks.

  ‘Garrotted, sir. I imagine he had just come out of the latrine when the killer jumped him from behind. It would have been quick, and there would have been very few people about at that hour.’

  ‘What about those on sentry duty?’

  ‘They tend to keep an eye on the approaches to the camp, sir, rather than on what’s going on inside it.’

  ‘I’ll thank you to keep your sarcastic comments to yourself, Centurion. Someone must have seen or heard something.’