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Traitors of Rome (Eagles of the Empire 18)

Page 36

by Simon Scarrow


  ‘It could be a step up. A nice number to end your career on. If the promotion is confirmed.’

  Macro shook his head. ‘You can keep the extra pay and privileges. The paperwork and the hours dealing with everyone’s requests and complaints ain’t worth it. I’ll be happy to revert to the centurion’s beat. Anyway, the blacksmith’s going to be busy knocking up boar spears all night. Which is going to add one more reason for him to feel pissed off. Can’t be helped. I’ll see you in the morning.’

  ‘Make sure I’m woken at dawn.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Macro nodded and ducked out of the shelter, and the leather curtain slipped back into place behind him.

  There was still enough daylight entering the shelter through the small gaps around the door frame and the chinks in the stone walls for Cato to see by as he removed his boots and slipped under the spare cloak and furs that Macro had left for him. He lay on his side and drew his knees up in a bid to stay as warm as possible. Outside the shelter he could hear the sounds of camp life, such as they were. It might have been the deadening effect of the snow, or the dangerous mood of the men, but there was an unusual quietness, like the prelude before a tempest. The simile was uncomfortably apposite, he thought.

  The only other sounds were the occasional crack of the siege catapult’s throwing arms snapping forward followed by the faint thump of a rock striking the city’s defences. From what he had seen of the activity in the siege battery earlier in the day, the city wall would be under sustained bombardment by several weapons before long. Once that happened, it was only a matter of days before the wall was breached and Corbulo’s men stormed the city. And then the army’s problems would be resolved. Perhaps Macro’s fears were less justified than the centurion thought. Cato comforted himself with that conclusion as he swiftly fell into a deep sleep.

  The next day, the sun rose into a clear sky and its rays made the snow gleam with an almost dazzling intensity as Macro oversaw the final preparations for the hunt. Corbulo was taking his headquarters officers and some of the cohort commanders with him, as well as the Praetorians to provide additional manpower in case they encountered any bands of rebels. Eight wagons had been hitched up to mule teams. The first two were loaded with rations and the sturdy eight-foot spears with broad points necessary to bring down a boar. Hunting such beasts was a dangerous task. The species that roamed the hills and mountains of the region were much larger than those found in the western provinces, with lethal tusks up to a foot in length. There were bound to be some injuries, or even deaths. But the chance of providing fresh meat for the ravenous troops could not be passed up. Besides, it was good sport, and Macro was not pleased at missing out.

  ‘We will be back by noon in two days’ time,’ Corbulo told him as he settled into his saddle. ‘Come what may. If it’s clear that there’s plenty of game still to be had, we can always send the hunting party back for more.’

  ‘I think that would be a popular move, sir.’ Macro jerked his thumb over his shoulder towards the men watching the preparations around the small convoy of wagons and harnessed mules lined up facing the camp’s west gate. ‘The rumbling in their guts is almost deafening.’

  Corbulo glanced at them and sighed. ‘It will make a pleasing change for them to look at me with a grateful expression on their faces for once.’ He tugged his reins and turned his horse towards the gate, giving the order for the hunting party to advance, and the wagons began to rumble through the slush and ice of the route that bisected the camp.

  Cato was standing by his horse, struggling with the ties of a leather bracer, and Macro sighed and shook his head as he approached his friend. ‘Here, let me help.’

  Cato held out his forearms for Macro to fit and securely fasten the ties. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You’re welcome. Just take care of yourself. It would be a bloody shame for you to escape from Parthia only to let some brassed-off boar take you down.’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’ Cato nodded towards the silent men watching the party making its way out of the fort. ‘Keep your eyes and ears open while we’re gone. I don’t like the feel of things.’

  Macro snorted. ‘Feel of things? Jupiter’s balls, you sound like some cheap soothsayer. There’s nothing like the prospect of a full belly to lift a soldier’s spirits. You’ll see. Once you get back with those wagons laden down with fresh meat, that lot will fall into line again, meek as lambs. After that, it’ll only be a matter of days before the wall is breached and the campaign can be brought to an end so we can get back to Tarsus.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  Cato pulled himself up on a saddle horn, swung his leg over and settled into position. He took up the reins and nodded a farewell to Macro. ‘See you in two days.’

  Then he trotted his mount along the side of the wagons and past the column of Praetorians to take his place with the other officers riding behind the general.

  Macro watched them for a moment before he turned away and strode towards the northern gate, facing Thapsis. To the left of the snow-covered ruins of the settlement lay the siege battery. The throwing arms of the large catapult that had been constructed by the column’s engineers were being ratcheted back with a steady clanking, slowing as the counterpoise lifted off the ground and the crew were forced to apply more effort. The frames of the replacement catapults brought up from Tarsus were visible above the palisade, and as Macro approached he could hear the rapping of hammers as the engineers laboured to complete their assembly.

  He crossed the narrow causeway over the ditch and passed through the gate. Inside, the snow had been packed down by the constant footfall of those working on the siege weapons. The catapult’s throwing arms had been drawn back far enough now for the crew to load the next rock into the large groove running along the weapon’s bed. Macro paused to watch. The optio in command of the crew waited until the rock, nearly a foot across, was securely seated. Then he called out, ‘Stand back! Prepare to shoot!’

  The legionary standing beside the ratchet release arm attached a small iron hook on the end of a length of rope and joined his comrade standing ready for the order to unleash the throwing arms. The optio took a look round to make sure every man in his crew was a safe distance from the catapult, and then barked the order. ‘Release!’

  The two men grunted as they yanked the rope, pulling the ratchet arm up, and at once the throwing arms snapped forward. The rock leaped from the weapon and flew up into the sky. Macro shielded his eyes to watch as it slowed at the top of its trajectory and then plunged towards the wall, striking three courses below the ragged open space where the upper reaches had already collapsed. The impact caused a burst of dust and snow, and then a small avalanche of stones and grit tumbled onto the debris at the foot of the wall.

  Macro nodded with approval, then lowered his hand and approached the observation platform in the corner of the battery. Standing there tapping his vine cane against his greaves as he watched proceedings was Tortillus, the centurion who had been given command of the siege battery.

  ‘Looks like the rest of the weapons will be ready soon,’ said Macro as he climbed the short flight of steps and indicated the men toiling over the frames, arms and torsion mechanisms of the other six catapults.

  Tortillus nodded. ‘At this rate, they’ll be ready by dusk. Should have been ready by midday, but the work’s gone slower than I’d like.’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Not once they’d had a bit of encouragement from Lucretia.’ He raised his cane. ‘They know she means business. But I have to keep an eye on them all the time. The moment they think I’m not watching, they start slacking off.’

  Macro gazed round the interior of the battery, observing the men at work. To a practised eye, it was clear that many of them were doing little more than going through the motions; swinging hammers half-heartedly or carrying timber and tools to and fro at a slow pace. Hunger might have weakened them, but
there was more to it than that. Their demeanour was that of slaves rather than soldiers.

  ‘Keep them busy, Tortillus. Busy enough not to cause any trouble, eh?’

  They exchanged a wary glance, and Tortillus nodded. ‘Too right.’

  Macro turned to look out over the palisade towards Thapsis. The approach trenches had been completed, and the gangs of prisoners were at work clearing snow from them and heaping it on top of protective berms facing the city. Inevitably some soil was scraped up with the snow, and now the zigzag of the berms was marked as if by specks of soot against the white backdrop. Beyond the protective hoardings at the end of the trenches there was a strip of open ground no more than thirty paces from the ditch in front of the city wall. Macro could see that the catapult had caused considerable damage already. Below the section that had already been beaten down, a number of cracks were visible even at a distance of nearly three hundred paces. The debris had filled the ditch, and by the time there was a practicable breach, the men assaulting the city would be able to get across it without too much difficulty. The defenders might attempt a tough defence, but they would not hold out for long against the men of the legions, especially men driven on by hunger and a desire to end the siege as swiftly and ruthlessly as possible.

  He stayed to watch the next shot strike the wall, then turned to Tortillus. ‘Very good. Keep them at it. I want the last of the catapults assembled and in action before nightfall. Tell the men I’ll buy wine for them all if they get it done. If not, it’s going to be extra fatigues all round. That should do the job.’

  Tortillus grinned. ‘When has a soldier never worked harder at the prospect of a free drink? And I’ll make sure Lucretia helps to drive home the point.’

  ‘Perhaps we’ll spare Lucretia the effort and let the wine do the talking, eh?’ Macro suggested in a deliberate tone, staring at the centurion just long enough to make sure he understood.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Carry on, then.’

  Macro returned to headquarters and spent the rest of the afternoon dealing with a succession of officers, each convinced that theirs was the most significant issue to be resolved by the acting camp prefect. First up was the quartermaster, who was adamant that the men would be forced onto quarter-rations if the next supply convoy didn’t reach the camp within three days, and who suggested that perhaps it might be advisable to cut rations at once, just in case there was a further delay. Macro gently pointed out that a cut in rations might well precipitate a mutiny, in which case it really didn’t matter how long it took for the next supply convoy to reach the camp. Second there was the commander of the cavalry cohort, who demanded extra feed for his mounts. Macro told him that the only feed left had to be shared with the draught animals, and if it came down to a choice, then in their present circumstances the mules came first. He sent him away with orders to kill the lame and the weakest horses at once and have the carcasses butchered and distributed to the men. Third was the priest of the imperial cult, who needed a live cockerel or piglet to sacrifice to the gods in order to gain their favour for the boar hunt. Macro suspected that the ultimate destination of any such sacrificial animal was more likely to be the priest’s mess tin rather than his altar, and sent him on his way with a curt dismissal. And so it went on, until the last and most junior supplicant approached the table at which Macro was sitting, just after the sun had set and the temperature had begun to drop sharply.

  ‘Who are you?’ Macro asked wearily. ‘And what do you want?’

  ‘Martinus, sir. I’m Centurion Piso’s optio. Or I was.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Well, you’re the acting centurion until Corbulo appoints a replacement, so start using the rank now.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Acting Centurion Martinus?’

  ‘It’s the funeral club, sir. I asked the lads for the usual contribution from the funds to cover the cost of the tombstone, and they voted against it.’

  ‘What?’ Macro felt a spark of anger strike in his heart. It was the custom to vote for the necessary funds to pay for a comrade’s tombstone. It should have been a formality. He glared at the optio and pointed a finger at him. ‘Well, you go back to your men and you tell them that they will reconsider and they will vote for the necessary funds. Enough to pay for a tombstone worthy of a centurion.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘You also tell them that whatever they thought of Piso, the man served Rome faithfully from a time when most of them were still sucking at their mother’s tit. If they still refuse to cough up, then you tell them that I will come down there and show them exactly what happens to any man who thinks he can piss over the reputation of a good officer. Given that the murdering bastard who did for Piso is more than likely someone in his century, I’m already not well disposed towards them. The very least they can expect if they cross me is to be shovelling shit from latrine ditches for the next year. Got that?’

  The optio swallowed nervously. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I want you to get his funeral pyre ready to light at dawn tomorrow. If his tombstone isn’t ready at the same time, then the first job of the day will be to appoint a new acting centurion, and the second will be to find a new acting optio. Now get the fuck out of my sight and go and sort it out.’

  At sunset, the trumpet sounded the change of watch. The tang of woodsmoke and gruel was carried on the air across the camp as the off-duty men cooked their evening meals. From the direction of the nearest lines there came the sound of raised voices, then angry shouts. Tempers were short, and such outbursts were not unusual, so Macro ignored it and continued working. He felt his stomach growl with hunger, and as soon as he had finished drafting the orders for the next day’s foraging expeditions, he laid down his brass stylus, stretched his shoulders and called for the orderly to bring him a mess tin of gruel. There was no response, so he ground his teeth and tried again.

  ‘Orderly! Hoi! Orderly, in here!’

  More shouting rose up nearby, and this time he resolved to deal with it in person. Rising swiftly from his stool, he made for the door of the shelter. But before he reached it, the leather curtain swept aside and Prefect Orfitus appeared, followed by two of his men. All three had drawn their swords, and by the glow of the brazier in the corner of the hut, Macro could see the dangerous glint in their eyes.

  ‘What’s the meaning of this?’ he demanded.

  Orfitus raised his sword swiftly so the point was at Macro’s throat. ‘Shut your mouth!’

  Macro made to protest, and Orfitus shook his head.

  ‘Don’t! If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep quiet.’ Without taking his eyes off the centurion, he gave an order to his men. ‘Bind his hands and then take him to join the others.’

  A moment later, Macro was jostled out of his hut. By the light of the campfires he could see hundreds of armed men swarming about, rounding up any men who protested. Most kept quiet, and merely looked on in silent complicity as the mutineers took over the camp.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Macro stood with the officers and men herded into the corner of the camp. All had their hands tied and were guarded by as many mutineers armed with swords and spears. He could see the torches of search parties working their way through the lines as they looked for any remaining men. As far as he could make out, most of the officers had not betrayed the general; there were almost as many prefects, centurions and optios as common legionaries and auxiliaries in the crowd around him. The section of Praetorians that had remained behind to guard headquarters when the hunting party set off had remained loyal to their military oath. The only other Praetorian centurion in the camp was Nicolis, who had been ill with a fever in the shelters erected to serve as the army’s hospital. He was propped up by two of his men as he tried to stay on his feet.

  A big crowd was gathering outside the supply huts, and every so often there was a loud cheer a
s a lock gave way and the mutinous soldiers burst in to ransack what remained within.

  ‘The fools,’ Centurion Tortillus growled as he edged through the tightly packed ranks of prisoners to stand beside Macro. ‘What do they think they’ll do for food once they’ve gorged on that and drunk the last drop of wine? Once the hangover wears off, they’ll have nothing left to live on. Then what?’

  He drew a deep breath and shouted, ‘They’re eating our rations! One of you bastards go and stop them before they finish the lot off!’

  ‘Shut your mouth!’ a voice called back from the men guarding them. ‘We don’t obey your kind any more!’

  ‘You will, laddie. And when this bollocks is over and done with, I’ll track you down and my Lucretia will beat the living shit out of you for your cheek. This I swear, by all that’s fucking holy.’

  ‘Quiet there!’ another voice cried out, and Macro saw the mutineers part to let a small group of men through, led by an auxiliary optio carrying a torch. Behind him strode Prefect Orfitus. He had sheathed his sword and now faced the prisoners and looked them over.

  ‘You won’t get away with this!’ Macro challenged him. ‘You know how Rome punishes mutiny. If you don’t give up and release us now, you’ll be signing your death warrants. Be sensible and do the right thing, and I will do what I can to persuade the general to show leniency.’

  ‘Leniency?’ Orfitus gave a bitter laugh, and many of his followers joined in. ‘Corbulo hasn’t a lenient bone in his body. Look how he’s punished my Syrian boys and the lads from the Sixth Legion. Treated us no better than dogs when he kicked us out of the camp. We watched our comrades die because of him. Frozen to death or racked with illness until they drowned in their own blood from the coughing sickness. So spare us any promise of leniency from the general.’

  Macro pushed through to the front of the crowd and stepped forward to confront Orfitus. One of the men guarding the prisoners took a pace towards him, sword raised as he looked to Orfitus for guidance. The auxiliary prefect shook his head.

 

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