Traitors of Rome (Eagles of the Empire 18)

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘I think you overestimate your position, Orfitus. You and the rest of the men are starving. The only food directly available to you is in those wagons.’ Corbulo twisted in his saddle to point back towards the Praetorians guarding the heaped carcasses of boar and deer. ‘You and your fellow conspirators must surrender yourselves immediately to Centurion Macro. The rest of the men are to swear a new oath of loyalty to me, as the representative of the emperor acting for Rome. They are to march out here, one century at a time, to do so. If any of you refuse, then I will give the order to torch the wagons. The meat in them will go up in smoke, and we will all starve.’

  ‘Burn them, General!’ Orfitus responded mockingly. ‘We are made of stronger stuff than you think. We can wait until the supply convoy arrives, or get the food we need from other sources.’

  ‘The rebels, you mean?’ Corbulo laughed with contempt. ‘Have they given you one scrap of food yet? No? I thought not. Nor will you get anything from the supply convoy. I have given orders for them to halt and burn their wagons too if they do not receive orders to the contrary by nightfall tomorrow.’ He paused, then drew a deep breath and raised his voice so that it reached as many of the men along the rampart as possible. ‘The only food that can save you from starvation is in those wagons just behind me. Come now, lads. Put an end to this nonsense and we can all fill our stomachs with fresh roasted meat. I can almost smell it now.’

  ‘Enough of your lies!’ Orfitus shouted. ‘You wouldn’t dare burn the supplies. You would starve along with the rest of us. And we all know how much the general likes his food, don’t we, boys?’

  Some of the men on the palisade jeered Corbulo, and then Orfitus thrust his arm out towards the general in challenge. ‘You wouldn’t dare burn the wagons. You wouldn’t dare destroy the convoy. You are a liar!’

  ‘A liar, you say?’ Corbulo turned towards the Praetorians and raised his arm straight up in the air. ‘Centurion Macro! When I lower my arm, give the order to set fire to the first wagon.’

  As the men on the palisade heard his words, many let out anguished cries. Some pleaded with him not to give the order. Others turned towards Orfitus to demand that he open the gates and accept the general’s terms. Cato saw the prefect look to both sides, his expression fearful as he sensed his authority beginning to melt away.

  ‘Let’s get those wagons!’ he cried out. ‘That meat’s ours for the taking, lads! Follow me!’

  He turned and disappeared from sight. A moment later, Cato saw the gates open to reveal Orfitus at the head of his auxiliary cohort.

  Cato reached for his sword, but did not draw it. He was hoping desperately that the general would find the words to win over the mutineers. As the Syrians paced out of the camp towards him, Corbulo held his ground and kept his hand raised.

  ‘This is your last warning! Halt at once, or the wagons burn!’

  ‘Ignore him, boys!’ Orfitus shouted back. ‘The bastard wouldn’t dare!’

  The clear notes of a bucina carried across the camp, sounding the alarm, and the auxiliaries faltered and stopped just beyond the ditch. Distant shouts and cries drew Cato’s attention towards Thapsis, and he saw that the city’s gates had been opened and men were pouring out and rushing down the slope towards the earthworks that surrounded the siege battery. More of the rebels had reached the head of the approach trench and were already smashing down the protective hoardings and hacking the wickerwork of the fascines to pieces to let the soil and stones spill into the trench. It was clear that the rebels had seen the wagons and the ensuing confrontation and recognised the opportunity to strike a blow against their enemy. If they could destroy sections of the trenches and the siege weapons, they would set the siege back many months. With the morale of the Roman soldiers already eroded by hunger and mutiny, this might well be the decisive action that broke the spirit of Corbulo’s army completely.

  ‘Sir, it’s the rebels!’ Cato called out to Corbulo, loudly enough that Orfitus and the mutineers would also hear him. ‘They’re after the siege battery. If we can’t stop them, all is lost!’

  Corbulo turned to look towards the city, then back at the mutineers. Orfitus froze, not sure whether to go for the wagons or respond to the new danger. It was Cato who reacted first. He wheeled his horse about and cupped a hand to his mouth as he bellowed an order to his men.

  ‘Praetorians! On me!’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The men by the wagons tossed their torches into the snow and snatched up their weapons, striding forward to join their commander. Cato was swiftly gauging what was unfolding and what had to be done to counter the rebels’ attack. He turned to Corbulo and pointed in the direction of the latrine block as he spoke urgently.

  ‘Sir, we have to release the prisoners. The men need their officers. You must take command here. Before Orfitus does.’

  Corbulo clenched his jaw and nodded. ‘I’ll deal with it. Get the Praetorians to the battery and hold it at all costs. We cannot afford to lose those catapults.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I understand.’

  As Cato took a firm grip on his reins and turned his horse, he heard one last comment from Corbulo.

  ‘Apollonius, stay close to me,’ the general ordered. ‘I have a special job for you . . .’

  Cato spurred his mount towards the corner of the camp and drew up a short distance beyond as he saw the rebels streaming down the slope towards the battery. At their head was a band of mounted Parthians, and it was clear that they were going to reach the earthworks surrounding the catapults first. Of the handful of men that Orfitus had ordered to defend the battery, several had abandoned their post and were fleeing towards the camp. The few that remained were already closing the gate, but Cato knew there would not be enough of them to cover the length of the palisade. Under normal circumstances the battery would be adequately garrisoned and the duty cohort would be forming up to counter the threat from the rebels. But the mutiny had robbed the army of most of its officers, and without leaders, the men had no cohesion or purpose to direct their efforts. Scores of them stood by and watched anxiously from the camp’s ramparts as the rebels approached.

  Cato glanced round and saw that the Praetorians were doubling across the snow towards him, led by Macro. His friend was wearing a spare tunic and cloak borrowed from one of the men and holding a boar spear in his hands. Even without a helmet or armour, Macro was a force to be reckoned with, and Cato could not help grinning at the sight. Beyond, by the camp gate, the confrontation between Corbulo and the Syrian cohort appeared to have been resolved, as the general took command, issuing orders and directing the men with out-thrust hand. Orfitus stood to one side, then saluted and turned to wave his men forward to form up outside the gate. The general, with Apollonius at his shoulder, then rode into the camp and out of sight.

  As Macro and the Praetorians approached, Cato swung his leg over the saddle horns and dropped down into the snow. He drew his sword, then undid the clasp at his shoulder and let his cloak fall away. There were some soldiers who believed that the heavy folds of a military cloak offered some protection from glancing blows, but Cato preferred not to be encumbered when he went into battle. Macro slowed his stride, tendrils of steamy breath swirling around his face in the bitterly cold morning air.

  ‘We’ll advance in close formation,’ Cato announced. ‘At the quick step.’

  Macro bellowed the orders and the Praetorians closed up, shields raised as they ensured that their chilly fingers held their spears in a firm grip. Cato took his place alongside the centurion in the front rank, and as soon as the last of the men had formed up, he raised his sword and drew a deep breath.

  ‘Second Praetorian! At the quick step . . . advance!’

  The small column of two hundred and fifty men moved off through the snow, their boots kicking up a dazzling spray of white powder and clods of compacted ice. Jets of exhaled breath swirled about their helmets as
their loose equipment jingled and creaked. Looking ahead, Cato saw that the battery’s gate, facing the camp, was over two hundred paces away. The remaining men inside had succeeded in closing it just before the first of the Parthians reached them. Now some of the enemy had raised their bows and were shooting arrows at any Roman who dared to reveal himself above the palisade. Even as Cato watched, one of the legionaries took an arrow in the cheek and tumbled back out of sight. While their companions were busy keeping the defenders occupied, more of the Parthians had dismounted and crossed the ditch to clamber up the ramparts, turning to hoist up those behind them so that they could haul themselves over the wooden stakes and climb into the battery.

  The first of the rebels on foot had now also reached the battery, and Cato could see them flowing around the sides while others raced on towards the camp. The gate facing the city was open, and a handful of legionaries had emerged to stand between the rebels and the rest of the camp. Even though the enemy could not number more than two thousand – more than the general had originally thought – they had the advantage of surprise over the mutinous Romans, and the morale of the besiegers was as brittle as thin ice. If it broke now, they would be at the mercy of the rebels and their Parthian allies.

  A brassy note carried through the sharp winter dawn, clearly audible above the din of the cheering attackers. Someone had had the presence of mind to order the call to arms, and Cato fervently hoped that the training and habits of those who had served in the army for many years would govern the actions of the rest of the men. The signal sounded again, and the men lining the camp’s palisade, who had been frozen by indecision a moment earlier, began to turn away and hurry back to their huts to take up their arms and form into their units.

  ‘They’re in!’ said Macro.

  Cato looked round and saw that the gate to the battery was starting to open. At once, the gathered Parthians surged forward, thrusting the gate aside as they burst into the fortified earthworks. Cato felt his guts lurch at the sight. The legionaries within had given their lives to buy the briefest of delays, and now the enemy were free to fall upon the catapults and do as much damage to them as possible before retiring to the safety of Thapsis.

  The Praetorians had closed to within a hundred paces of the battery, and Cato drew breath to give another order.

  ‘Second Praetorian! At the double!’

  The column picked up the pace as the ground beneath them began to incline gently towards the battery. Ahead, the first of the Parthians still on horseback in front of the gate turned towards the Praetorians, raised their bows and reached for fresh arrows from their cases.

  ‘Shields up!’ Cato warned, then ordered the two men behind him and Macro to take their places at the head of the column.

  The arms of the nearest Parthian bow leaped forward as the arrow was released. The dark shaft whipped through the air in a shallow arc and landed in the snow just to the right of the head of the column, quivering momentarily against the unblemished white. More arrows shot towards the Praetorians, some clattering off their shields while the points of others punched through with sharp, splintering cracks. The man directly ahead of Cato flinched and stopped as an arrowhead burst through his shield and showered his face with splinters. Cato shoved him in the back.

  ‘Keep moving!’ He raised his voice so that others might hear his command. ‘Don’t stop! Keep going forward!’

  The mounted Parthians continued to shoot arrows at them, moving out to the flanks as the column drew closer. More archers appeared along the battery palisade to add to the steady barrage. The first of the Romans went down as a shaft struck a man in the thigh on the exposed right-hand side of the column. Gritting his teeth, he stepped aside and sank to one knee behind his shield. He shouted some final words of encouragement to his comrades before he laid his spear down to try to deal with the wound.

  Two more men were lost as the cohort closed the distance to the battery. They were only some twenty paces away when the nearest of the rebel militia from Thapsis charged towards them. The enemy were equipped with an assortment of armour and weapons, some of which looked to date back to the days of Alexander the Great but were no less deadly for that. As the rebels rushed forward, the Parthians stopped shooting for fear of striking their allies and returned their bows to their cases before they drew their spears and swords.

  ‘Second Cohort! Halt!’

  The column drew up abruptly, and Cato cupped a hand to his mouth to be heard above the din of the charging rebels.

  ‘Face out!’

  The men on either side turned to present their shields and spears, and a heartbeat later, the first of the rebels slammed against the shield wall, while others were stabbed by the Praetorians’ spears. The air rang with the clatter of weapons and the thud of blows landing on shields. Cheers and war cries sounded from the rebels at the rear, while those directly struggling with the Romans fought in silence, as did their opponents, save for the grunts as they struck blows and the gasps of the wounded. Macro grasped the stout shaft of the boar spear firmly in both hands and punched it between the shields of the men in the front rank, striking one of the rebels in the stomach and tearing a gaping wound. He retrieved the blade and readied himself for the next strike.

  Cato held himself back to gauge the situation. His men were holding their formation well enough.

  ‘Second Praetorian! Advance at the slow step! One! Two!’

  At each count, the men sidestepped towards the battery gate, the column moving steadily through the swirling ranks of the rebels as men continued to be cut down on both sides and bright blood splashed onto the churned snow. Cato could not see beyond the narrow confines of the fierce struggle raging around him. He had no idea if Corbulo had succeeded in persuading the mutineers to fight, or if the enemy had burst into the camp and routed the few men who had rallied to their colours when the earlier signal had sounded. All that mattered to him was saving the siege weapons.

  He craned his neck to look over the front rank of the column and saw that they had almost reached the causeway across the ditch. Several Parthians stood behind the palisade on either side of the gate, taking deliberate aim as they loosed arrows into the heart of the Praetorian cohort, steadily picking off men. But there was nothing that could be done about them until the Praetorians gained the interior of the battery, Cato realised.

  Even as the thought went through his mind, he saw one of the bowmen take aim at him, drawn by the sight of the crest on his helmet. In one fluid movement the Parthian drew back the arrow, squinted fractionally and released the bowstring. At the same instant, Cato ducked. He heard the hiss of the arrow and glimpsed the flicker of the passing shadow as the shaft cut by his helmet, passed between the men behind him and pierced the foot of one of the rebels beyond. Not for the first time, he rued the need for an officer to stand out from his men so he could be easily seen in battle. It might make it easier to rally soldiers, and for them to be inspired by their leaders, but equally it made the same leaders prime targets for the enemy.

  ‘Almost there, lads!’ Macro called out. ‘Keep moving!’

  Little by little the Praetorians edged over the causeway towards the open gate. The gap between the sturdy posts was packed with rebels keen to get at the Romans, and none of the enemy seemed to have grasped the need to close the gate. Even if they had, it would be impossible to swing it shut with the seething mass blocking the way. The column passed through the opening and the melee began to spill out over the interior of the battery. Cato saw that scores of rebels, under the direction of the Parthians, were hacking away at the cables and torsion bindings of the catapults. Others were piling combustible materials on and around the weapons, while two men were busy fanning the flames of a sentry brazier smouldering in the far corner. There was little time to spare if the siege weapons were to be saved.

  ‘Macro, take ten men and clear the palisade. When Porcino’s men are across the causewa
y, have him hold the gate.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  As Cato fed more men through the gate and into the battery, Macro gathered a small squad of Praetorians and led them up the wooden steps onto the walkway that ran behind the palisade. Ahead of him, the nearest of the Parthian bowmen turned and quickly raised his bow. Heavy as the boar spear was, it was still a spear, and Macro hurled it at his foe with all the power of his throwing arm. The blade struck the Parthian in the shoulder and spun him round so that he released the shaft out over the palisade and into the open ground beyond.

  Macro bounded forward and grasped the spear as the Parthian writhed below him. He ripped it free, then levelled it again, calling out to his men behind him, ‘Time to hunt some Parthians, boys!’ Then he let out a roar and charged home behind his weapon. The next enemy turned to flee but collided with the man beyond, and Macro ran him through low in the back, driving both men on until they collided with more of their companions and forced him to a stop. As he twisted the boar spear from side to side to try and free it, he called over his shoulder to the Praetorians.

  ‘Go by me, lads! Finish the job.’

  One by one they shoved past and charged along the walkway, cutting the Parthians down.

  As soon as Macro managed to wrench his spear free, he paused to look down over the palisade. The tail of the cohort had reached the gate, and he called to Porcino, ‘Centurion Porcino! Up here!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You and your lads are to hold the gate. Clear the bastards out and get it closed.’

  Porcino nodded and focused his attention back on the fighting around him as Macro turned to survey the interior of the battery to see how Cato was faring.

  The fight for the siege weapons was raging across the snow-covered ground inside the ramparts. Groups of rebels were clustered around the catapults, doing their best to cause as much damage as possible. Three were already alight, assisted by the jars of pitch that some of the rebels had brought with them from the city. The snow around them gleamed dully in the glow of the roaring flames as they consumed the timbers, tackle and torsion ropes. The other three weapons that had been brought up from Tarsus had been hacked about, but the Praetorians had got to them before they could be set alight. The largest of the catapults, towering above the others, was undamaged, and Cato had ordered Placinus and his century to guard it while he himself formed up the centuries of Ignatius and Metellus in a line to sweep across the interior of the battery and trap the remaining rebels and Parthians against the far rampart.