Traitors of Rome (Eagles of the Empire 18)

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Centurion Macro, you know better than most men here that if we do as you say, Corbulo will show us no mercy. Not only would he crucify the ringleaders, he’d make the rest of us face decimation.’ He turned and shouted to the men gathered about the prisoners in the darkness. ‘Brothers! There is no road back from where we are now. We have cast off the chains of oppression that Corbulo forged around us. We are now free of his tyranny and we demand justice for the soldiers of this army. Corbulo has as good as murdered more than twenty men from my cohort and half as many from the legionary cohort.’

  Some of the men shouted angrily, and others joined in. Orfitus waited a moment for their rage to reach fever pitch before he raised his hands and called out to them to be quiet. When they had fallen silent, he spoke again. ‘Shall we do as Centurion Macro suggests? Shall we put ourselves back at the mercy of Corbulo? How many more of us will he kill before this campaign is over? Shall we surrender ourselves to the general, boys? I say no! No!’

  The crowd roared their agreement for a moment, and then the noise subsided and Orfitus turned back to Macro. ‘You see? The men no longer recognise your general as their superior. Now, Macro, step back and don’t cause any more trouble. If you do, I’ll have you stripped and run out of the camp. Let’s see how long you last in this freezing night. Meanwhile we’ll be warm in front of the fires, cooking up all the rations that bastard has been keeping from us!’

  The mutineers jeered at Macro, and he snatched a deep breath of cold air. ‘What do you fools think you can achieve?’ he bellowed. ‘What happens when you’ve gorged yourself on what’s left of our supplies? You’ll starve! At least Corbulo was keeping you alive.’

  ‘Barely!’ Orfitus shouted back. ‘You call this cold and misery being alive? Some of us are already little more than walking corpses. I tell you, one more month of Corbulo in command and this entire camp will be nothing but a graveyard. Besides, we will have food. Plenty of food, brothers. The people of Thapsis have promised to feed us if we stop the bombardment of their city and dismantle our siege weapons as a sign of good faith.’

  ‘You’ve been dealing with the enemy?’ Macro shook his head angrily. ‘You traitors! Traitors all!’

  ‘Quiet!’ Orfitus snapped. He grasped the handle of his sword and spoke softly. ‘Still your tongue, or I may just cut it out myself.’

  ‘Do your worst, you bastard—’

  Without any sign of warning, Orfitus delivered a savage backhand that snapped Macro’s head round and silenced him. At once he tasted blood in his mouth, and he spat to one side as his head throbbed painfully.

  ‘Tonight we dine off the stores that Corbulo has denied us. But tomorrow, the people of Thapsis will open their granaries, and send bread, cheese, meat and wine in exchange for peace between us. One of our men has already spoken to the rebel leaders some days ago, and the deal is agreed. Tomorrow we feast!’

  Orfitus’s followers cheered deliriously at the prospect of filling their bellies. He called them to silence again and faced the prisoners. ‘Brothers, you have a choice: join us, or be kept in binds, under guard, until our terms are met. Centurion Macro says that our cause is bound to fail and that a savage punishment will be delivered to us all. He is wrong. Corbulo has no choice but to give in to our demands. Especially when the hunting party returns to the camp and he falls into our hands. And what are those demands? First, that he grants a full pardon to every man who has sided with the mutiny. Second, that he raises the siege and marches the army back to winter quarters in Tarsus. Third, that he takes a list of our demands for full rations, full pay and fair discipline to Rome to represent our case.’

  ‘That’s a load of bollocks!’ Tortillus interrupted. ‘The general will never agree to it! No Roman general ever would.’

  ‘But he will. For one very simple reason.’ Orfitus half turned and point to the east. ‘At the end of the valley is a road that leads to Armenia and Parthia. If Corbulo refuses to agree to our demands, we will march to the frontier and set up a new camp there. If Rome sends troops after us, we will defect to Parthia. Even if Rome leaves us alone for fear of us defecting, our presence there will serve as proof that the Empire is turning against itself, and that will only embolden the Parthians.’

  ‘You would do that?’ Tortillus asked in horror. ‘You would sell us out to the enemies of Rome?’

  ‘We won’t have to. Rome will grant our demands far more readily than expose herself to the humiliation of so many of her soldiers going over to the enemy. Trust me, there is no question of Corbulo forcing us to betray Rome. We will get all that we ask for. Now then, who amongst you will join us? Speak up, and your bonds will be cut and you can take your place along with us. There will be food for you, and warm shelter. For those too foolish to accept the truth of what I say, you will continue to eke out your lives on quarter-rations until the mutiny is over. Who is with us? Speak now. This will be your only chance to choose your side. Choose wisely, my brothers.’

  There was a brief hesitation before one of the legionaries close to Macro responded, ‘I’m with you!’ He pushed his way out into the open and crossed over to the mutineers, and Orfitus ordered one of his men to cut him free.

  ‘And me,’ said another.

  More men abandoned the group of prisoners. When Macro saw Optio Martinus walk past him, he shook his head and muttered, ‘Don’t be a fool, lad. You join that mob and you will regret it for the rest of your life.’

  The young officer paused, but could not look Macro in the eye, and then carried on towards Orfitus. There were a handful of others, and the prefect waited a beat before he nodded.

  ‘That’s it then. Martinus!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Take thirty of your men and escort the prisoners to the latrine. Put them inside and then block up the doorway. Leave enough space to pass them food and water. Free the last man you put inside. He can untie the others. Now get these fools out of my sight.’

  Throughout the next day Macro took turns with some of the other prisoners to observe what was going on outside through the gap between the lintel and the bed of the cart that had been turned on its side and pushed against the latrine doorway to block it. As far as he could see, there were six guards directly outside the entrance, with two more patrolling along its length. The guards were changed at noon, and Martinus handed over to an auxiliary officer and his men. Beyond, the camp had the atmosphere of a public holiday, as the men sat around their fires eating and drinking while they laughed and sang. Sentries were stationed along the palisade, mostly on the western side of the camp, watching for any sign of the early return of the hunting party, but there was little evidence of the usual routine and no sense of the purposeful order of an army camp. Few of the soldiers were wearing their helmets or armour, and no salutes were exchanged with the handful of officers who had chosen to follow Orfitus. With the latrine block being used as a prison, the men were freely relieving themselves along the bottom of the rampart. Beyond the north wall, Macro could see the wooden limbs of the largest catapult, still against the grey sky. There was no regular trumpet call to announce the changing of the watch and the passage of the hours. No sound of hammering from the blacksmiths. The mutineers had abandoned the siege.

  In contrast to the mood in the rest of the camp, the atmosphere inside the latrine block was grim indeed. The air, foul-smelling at the best of times, was now made worse by the men packed inside. It was not too cold, thanks to the heat given off by their bodies. The only seating was on the wooden boards with slots cut in them set over the drain that ran the length of the rock-walled and timber-roofed structure. Other than that, there was only the cold ground, now turned to mud by the tramping of so many boots, so most of the prisoners preferred to stay on their feet and lean against the wall while they waited for a place on the lavatory bench to become available.

  The first food and drink they were given since being closed in was passed through th
e gap to them shortly before noon. Two baskets of bread and some jars of water. There was an immediate scramble towards the baskets before Macro took charge of distribution to ensure that every prisoner was given an equal share of the meagre rations the mutineers had allowed them. He took the last hunk of bread for himself and leaned into the corner of the building chewing disconsolately as he considered the situation. Once he had finished and found one of the jugs to slake his thirst, he sought out Tortillus.

  ‘We have to get a warning to Corbulo,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Oh yes?’ the centurion responded. ‘How are we going to do that from in here, eh?’

  ‘Get someone out of here, obviously. I’m up for it.’

  ‘Good for you. But how?’

  Macro indicated the corner of the room where the drain passed under the wall. ‘Out through the drain, under the rampart, then make a bolt for the nearest cover and go and report to the general.’

  Tortillus shook his head. ‘You’re mad. You couldn’t even get a kid out through that.’

  ‘Let’s see.’ Macro made his way to the corner and jerked his thumb at the optio sitting there. ‘Move.’

  Once the optio had reluctantly given way, he gritted his teeth and ducked his head to look through the opening. The angle was tight, but he could just make out the glimmer of daylight and its reflection in the effluent slowly running into the ditch outside. An acrid stench filled his nostrils, and he straightened up and looked along the bench towards the men sitting nearby. ‘You lot, move!’

  They stood, and Macro grasped the length of wood, eased it up and slid it along. Below, there was a drop of perhaps two feet into a channel a foot wide that ran towards an opening where it narrowed to half the size. Tortillus was wrong, thought Macro: not even a child could squeeze through the opening.

  ‘See?’ grunted the other centurion.

  But Macro was not ready to give in. He reached down and tested the soil and rock around the opening and found that it was not quite frozen. Leaning back against the wall, he undid the buckles of his greaves and took them off. Then, picking one up he grasped the end and used the curve that protected the knee to dig into the ground and scrape away some of the soil, pausing to pull the lumps of rock aside. Soon he had managed to hollow out enough to widen the drain beside the hole and sat back, nodding. ‘We can do it. Dig out enough this side of the hole to keep our work hidden until we break out after dark.’

  ‘What do you mean, we?’ asked Tortillus as he wrinkled his nose.

  Macro quietly ordered several of the other prisoners to stand by the entrance to block the view into the latrine for any guard passing by, and then handed his spare greave to the centurion.

  ‘Let’s get to work.’

  For the next few hours, the two centurions and the other prisoners worked in relays to dig out enough space for a man to fit into the drain, and then carefully scooped away the foundations around the drain hole, leaving a thin shell that would look undisturbed from the outside. Then they waited for night to fall. At dusk, more bread and water was brought to them as the guard was changed. Optio Martinus approached the latrine doorway and announced a fresh offer from Orfitus to any who would join the mutiny. None did, and Martinus turned away and stood over his men as they played dice beside a brazier and drank from a jar of wine liberated from the officers’ mess.

  Once Macro was certain their attention was focused on the dice game, he turned to Tortillus. ‘We’d better get ready. Tunics and boots only if we’re going to get through the hole. And we’ll need to darken up to help keep out of sight.’

  He reached into the drain, scooped up a handful of filth and started to smear it on his exposed skin, including his face. Tortillus frowned with disgust before he forced himself to follow suit, and soon the rest of the prisoners were giving the two men a wide berth. Macro looked down at himself. ‘Why, in the name of Jupiter, do I seem to live my life up to my neck in shit?’

  Tortillus shrugged. ‘Don’t know, sir. Maybe there’s something about you that just pisses Jupiter off.’

  Macro chuckled, and then turned to one of the other officers. ‘Once we are in the drain, put the board back on and start kicking off. I want their attention drawn to the front of the latrine. Got that?’

  The optio nodded, and Macro took a last deep breath before climbing into the drain and lying down. Tortillus moved into place behind him, and then the board was lowered over them and several of the officers sat down on it for good measure. At once Macro felt uncomfortably closed in, and the stench was overpowering. He gripped the greave and waited. A moment later, a voice called out angrily, ‘Hey, you give me that bread back, you bastard!’

  ‘Come and get it!’ came the reply. The two men started shouting at each other, and others joined in.

  ‘Here we go,’ Macro whispered over his shoulder as he drew the greave back and then punched it against what was left of the soil and stone around the drain hole. The debris collapsed into the ditch outside, and there was a swirl of effluent around him as it flowed out. Quickly he worked to enlarge the hole, and then crawled forward and eased his head outside, looking along the side of the latrine. A guard stood at the corner, leaning on his spear, but as the shouting inside grew in intensity, he picked up his weapon and moved towards the entrance and out of sight. At once Macro drew himself forward, wriggling through the hole and into the ditch, which was wide enough to lie down in and deep enough to hide him from anyone who was not close by. He crawled forward, and heard Tortillus grunt softly as he emerged from the hole and followed him.

  Ahead of them, some thirty paces away, was the dark entrance to the drain that passed under the rampart into the ditch beyond. They continued crawling towards it until Macro heard voices approaching, and drunken singing. He stopped and pressed himself down, and felt Tortillus brush up against his boots before he too halted. Ten paces ahead, a soldier collapsed on his knees at the edge of the ditch and threw up, the contents of his stomach splattering and splashing down into the ditch. He paused, retched a few times, and then sat swaying from side to side. Another man appeared and slapped him on the back.

  ‘If you can’t keep your drink down, Nucer, perhaps you should have joined the Praetorians. I hear they’re a bunch of lightweights. Come on. Up you get.’

  He dragged the first man to his feet, threw his arm around his back and half carried him away. Macro waited a moment in case the soldier’s nausea got the better of him again, then crept on, wrinkling his nose as he crawled through the vomit. Behind him, he heard Tortillus curse under his breath.

  It was tempting to move faster as they neared the outer drain, but Macro managed to control the urge and kept going at a cautious pace. Then he was at the foot of the ramp and moving on into darkness. Just as he entered the covered drain, he heard the voice of the second soldier again.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Nucer!’ The sound of someone groaning with nausea seemed loud and close, and then there was a sharp exclamation. ‘What the hell are you doing? Hey, you! Get up.’

  ‘Macro!’ Tortillus whispered sharply. ‘He’s seen me! You go. I’ll deal with this.’

  Before Macro could respond, Tortillus’s heavy frame exploded from the ditch as he leaped out and charged towards the legionaries. ‘Fucking vomit all over me, would you? You streaks of piss!’

  Macro worked his elbows and knees furiously as he crawled through the rest of the drain as quickly as he could, coming out halfway up the reverse slope of the outer ditch. He slithered down over the snow into the drift at the bottom with a soft powdery crunch. This was the danger point. The filth that he had smeared over him to conceal him in the ditch now contrasted sharply with the surrounding whiteness. He swept some snow over his body, and then paused to stare up along the rampart. There was only one man in sight, standing watch in the corner tower barely twenty paces away. It had started to snow again, dull white flecks drifting down from the darkness.
Tortillus’s bellowing as he threw himself on the drunken soldiers and the more distant din from the latrine were clearly audible in the crisp night air, and an instant later, the sentry turned to look into the camp to observe the confrontation beside the drain.

  Macro rose to a crouch and worked his way along the ditch until he was midway between the corner tower and the gatehouse, then climbed up the outer slope and ran on into the night, fearing that the alarm might be raised at any moment. But Tortillus and the other officers had done their job well, and no one saw the solitary figure racing across the smooth expanse of snow that stretched away from the camp. There was no avoiding leaving tracks behind him, but Macro hoped the snow would last long enough to obliterate them before he was missed.

  All that mattered now was finding the hunting party and reporting the mutiny to General Corbulo. He knew that the odds were against him. He had only a vague sense of where he was going. If he stopped moving, it was likely that he would freeze and be buried in the snow. And yet he knew that he must find Corbulo before the general, Cato and the men of his cohort returned to the camp to be taken by surprise. With no cloak to keep him warm, Macro folded his arms about his body and plunged on through the snowstorm into the night.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ‘If I ever get . . . out of this,’ Macro muttered to himself, ‘I swear by all . . . the gods that I will never use . . . a frigidarium again.’

  As far as he could estimate, some two hours had passed since he had lost sight of the torches above the camp gates. Since then, he had pressed on through the snow, trying to keep a straight course to the west. Without reference points, it was impossible after a while to know where he was headed, but he kept going, hoping that the blizzard would pass and that the sky might clear enough for him to make out the mountains that ran along the northern and southern edges of the valley plain. It was also necessary to keep his limbs moving to stave off the cold. His tunic had become saturated from the crawl along the drain and the snow in the ditch outside, and it felt freezing against his skin. Its only benefit was to serve as a guard against the biting wind. He was starting to lose feeling in his toes and fingers, and tucked his hands into his armpits as he trudged through the ever-deepening snow.