Traitors of Rome (Eagles of the Empire 18)

by Simon Scarrow

  When they were ready, Cato picked up a shield from beside the body of one of the Praetorians and took his place on the right of the line. Overhead, unnoticed by the combatants, the skies had darkened and the snow had begun to fall again; large white flakes that swept through the air on a freshening breeze. Cato muttered a quick prayer of thanks to Jupiter in the hope that a heavy fall of snow would smother the flames before the three blazing catapults were damaged beyond repair. Then he raised his sword and cleared his throat.

  ‘Second Century and Fourth Century! Advance!’

  The line undulated as the men paced out, shields to the front and spears lowered and ready to strike. A handful of the more enraged rebels charged the line and were quickly cut down. The rest fell back towards the rampart and braced themselves for a desperate fight. They were joined by those who had surrounded the burning catapults.

  As the Praetorians approached, Cato saw that Porcino and his men had succeeded in closing the gate. The choice facing the hundred or so rebels still inside the battery was simple: fight or flee. Some chose the latter, scrambling up the low rampart and climbing over the palisade to drop into the ditch beyond. One of the Parthians called his men to form around him and then edged into a corner of the battery, not far from the nearest of the burning catapults.

  Cato hurriedly ordered two sections to fall out and attempt to put out the fires, while the rest of the Praetorians closed in on the enemy. When no more than ten paces separated the two sides, he saw a commotion at the rear of the curved formation waiting for the Romans to close in. On the rampart, Macro stopped and shouted across to his comrades.

  ‘Watch it! Fire!’

  Three or four small clay pots with flaming wicks flew across the open ground between the two small forces. One of them burst on the head of a Praetorian close to Cato, showering him with an oily liquid that instantly ignited, engulfing him in flames. He staggered back, his comrades recoiling in terror, then threw himself into the snow and rolled over to put out the flames. Five more of Cato’s men were alight, and presented a terrible spectacle as they staggered about like human pyres, crying in panic and beating at the flames amid the swirling snowflakes. The Praetorians wavered, and Cato realised they would only present further targets if they did not attack at once.

  ‘Praetorians! Charge!’

  He burst forward, making for the man at the end of the enemy line, a large Parthian holding a slender curved blade and a black buckler decorated with silvered designs. To his left, the rest of the Praetorians surged forward and crashed into the rebels, slamming their shields forward and stabbing with their spearpoints as their opponents tried to parry the strikes and edge close enough to use their swords, axes, clubs and spears. The Parthian raised his buckler and punched it at the side of Cato’s shield to blunt the impetus of his charge, then slashed his sword down at an angle towards his neck. Cato ducked and moved into the blow so that the edge of the sword glanced off the trim of his shield. An instant later, he thrust his own sword toward the Parthian’s torso, but the man made a lithe sidestep and it missed its target. The Parthian sneered and brought the edge of the buckler down hard on Cato’s forearm. He snatched his hand back, only just managing to retain his grip on the sword handle.

  The Parthian circled to the right, against the backdrop of the flames of the nearest catapult. Cato winced at the glare and heat of the blaze but grasped the opportunity his foe had unwittingly presented him. Swinging his shield round in front of him, he charged forward, rushing inside the reach of the Parthian’s sword, throwing his weight behind the shield as it struck his opponent in the chest, then powering on and driving him back. The Parthian was trying desperately to stay on his feet and did not realise the true danger until it was too late. He slammed against the burning frame of the catapult and the flames eagerly lapped at the folds of his robes and cloak, setting them alight.

  The force of Cato’s charge was spent and the Parthian thrust him back two paces as he raised his buckler and sword and made ready to fight again, even as his clothes began to burn fiercely. He slashed wildly at Cato, and again, and Cato blocked with his shield before striking his own blow. The Parthian thrust his sword forward to parry it, but Cato did a quick cut-over and struck his opponent at the base of the throat. The sword point pierced flesh and cartilage and opened up a blood vessel. His opponent dropped his buckler and thrust a hand to the wound to try and staunch the flow of blood, his sword wavering in his other hand. Cato stepped up, blocked a clumsy blow and then thrust again, this time at the Parthian’s groin. The man bent double as he staggered back, then stumbled over the edge of the base of the catapult and fell into the heart of the blaze with a pitiful cry of terror.

  At once Cato turned, shield up, sword ready, but saw that the fight was almost over. The ground was covered with the bodies of the rebels, cut down mercilessly by the Praetorians as they pressed them back into the corner, where they had no chance to wield their weapons and could only wait for their turn to die. Now the Praetorians were picking over the heap of bodies to finish off the wounded, while their less seriously wounded comrades were helped to a safe distance from the burning catapults.

  Cato turned towards the blazes and saw that there was little chance of anything useful being salvaged. But the Praetorians had saved four out of the seven weapons. Enough to continue the siege if needed. As he stood, breathing hard, he was aware of the crackle of flames and then the muffled cries of the fight still going on outside the battery. He hurried across to the steps beside the gate and climbed to the palisade.

  The main force of the rebels was battling to enter the camp by the three closest gates. To Cato’s right, the Syrian auxiliaries had held off the enemy attack and were now driving them back steadily along the side of the camp. The conflict on the far side was not visible from the battery, but already there was a steady stream of injured rebels, and those whose nerve had failed them, making their way back up the slope to the city. Several hundred were fighting for control of the north gate and rampart of the camp. Even as Cato watched, he saw parties of legionaries forcing their way along the rampart from each flank. He sensed that the battle was reaching its crisis. The initial advantage of surprise enjoyed by the enemy had been spent, and now the Romans were winning back ground as the rebels’ morale began to crumble. He judged that they would break soon and then flee back to the safety of Thapsis. With most of the siege weapons saved, it would only be a matter of days before the wall was breached. If the mutiny was suppressed, the final assault would surely win the day. Or . . .

  Cato’s line of thought was interrupted by a fresh possibility, and he swiftly surveyed the ground and the relative position of the forces before smiling to himself and turning to shout an order.

  ‘Centurions! On me.’

  They came running and climbed up to join him. Ignatius had been wounded in the arm, and one of his men had followed him to dress the wound as Cato spoke to the officers.

  ‘Ignatius, I want you and your men to guard the battery. Keep any rebels out and do what you can to extinguish the fires.’

  Ignatius nodded, and then winced as the Praetorian tied the dressing off with a firm knot.

  ‘As for the rest of you, this is the plan.’ Cato grinned as he pointed towards Thapsis, now barely visible through the snowstorm. ‘The Second Cohort has a chance to end this siege today, but we need to act fast. A blizzard is almost on us, and soon it’ll be hard to make out friend from foe at any distance. The gates of the city are ours for the taking.’

  He had their full attention now, and he issued his orders quickly before dismissing his officers. As they hurried back to their men and ordered them to discard their shields and helmets, Macro clicked his tongue.

  ‘I hope you know what you’re doing, sir. If this goes awry, we’ll all be dead long before the general can act.’

  A short while later, the man chosen to carry the message to Corbulo to inform him of Cato�
��s plan had stripped down to his tunic. He raced off through the snow in a wide arc around the melee still being fought between the rebels and the Syrian auxiliaries. Cato watched him go, and then turned back to the men waiting behind the open gate, dressed in cloaks and furs taken from the bodies of their enemies in the battery. He removed his helmet and spoke to Macro.

  ‘A more motley collection of vagabonds it would be hard to imagine.’

  ‘Aye,’ Macro acknowledged. ‘If ever the story of this gets out to the other Praetorian cohorts, we’ll never hear the end of it.’

  ‘I think they’ll forget soon enough if we succeed. Let’s get moving.’

  Cato gestured to the first group of men and waved them through the gate. They ran past, then rounded the corner of the battery and headed up the slope. The second group of ten or so men followed, and spread out like their comrades. Cato made ready to join the third group.

  ‘Keep ’em coming, Macro, and I’ll see you at the gate.’

  ‘Yes, sir. May the gods go with you.’

  ‘And you, brother.’ Cato nodded and clapped his friend on the shoulder before turning away and beckoning to the group of men waiting just inside the gate, the cohort’s bucina man amongst them. ‘Come on, boys!’

  He led them out and turned in the opposite direction to the previous group, working his way round the other side of the battery before angling across the slope, indicating to his men to break up singly and in pairs as they made their way up towards the city. The bucina man followed close behind Cato, covering up his brass instrument as best he could. Already the blizzard had blotted out the camp and the noise of battle was deadened by the falling snow. Cato could see the figures of rebels close by, many of whom had been injured, making their way to safety. But all of them were keeping their heads down as they struggled through the seething mass of white flakes.

  He adjusted his pace to move just a little faster than theirs as he continued up the slope. To his right he saw the irregular shape of the ruined settlement, its blackened remains blanketed in a virginal veil of snow, and beyond it the line of the siege trench, battered down in places where the rebels had attacked the workings. He passed close to one of the wounded rebels, who held out a hand and spoke imploringly in his native tongue. Cato lowered his head and trudged on, ignoring the man’s cries, which continued until they lost sight of each other. From time to time he saw other figures he felt certain were Praetorians, but did not dare take the risk of calling out to them for fear of exposing his ruse. Closer to, there was no mistaking the off-white tunics of the guardsmen under the borrowed coverings, but he hoped that a casual glance through the snow would not betray their real identity. Every so often he looked back to make sure the bucina man was still with him.

  As he climbed the slope, the wind increased in strength and buffeted him, and he had to raise a hand to shield his eyes so that he could see where he was headed. At length he spotted the grey mass of the walls looming out of the blizzard and slowed his pace to allow as many of his men as possible to catch up with him. He noticed others around him halt and begin to move towards each other as the rebels continued to stagger by. He made his way over to the largest group and saw some familiar faces gathered round. There were no more than twenty of them, and he spoke as loudly as he dared. ‘We’ll wait just a little longer, until there are a few more of us. Then we’ll strike. Make ready . . .’

  More Praetorians closed up on them. But there was no sign of Macro and most of the others yet, and Cato feared that they had lost their direction in the blizzard. Then one of the rebel wounded wandered amongst them. Horrified realisation dawned on his face, and the Praetorian behind him clamped a hand over his mouth before stabbing him repeatedly in the back. He laid him down in the snow, and the rebel gasped and bled out.

  More of the enemy were falling back to Thapsis, and Cato realised he must strike now while he still had the advantage of numbers, small as his group was. He indicated to his men to move out, and the party fanned out across the slope as they made for the city gates, some of them feigning injuries as they limped closer. The line of the outer ditch was all but invisible beneath the snow, and it wasn’t until they were close to the bridge directly in front of the gate that Cato could clearly make it out. He drew his sword and let his arm hang at his side as he approached, hunched forward.

  The gate was open, and a handful of anxious civilians looked out for familiar faces amongst those returning from battle. There were more on the battlements above. As Cato and the first of the Praetorians stumbled into the city, a woman came forward carrying a basket of dressings. Cato lowered his head and waved her away and she made for a wounded rebel instead.

  Some fifteen of his men were standing around the inside of the gate when a Parthian officer emerged from the door at the bottom of the gatehouse and strode over, shouting an order at one of the Praetorians. When the man did not react, he grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. Then froze. Cato saw a look of surprise on his face that swiftly turned to horror, and then a grimace as the Praetorian stabbed him in the guts. The Parthian let out a groan, and the nearest civilians and injured rebels turned towards him as he staggered back, his hands clasped across his stomach.

  Cato threw his rebel cloak aside and straightened up. ‘For Rome!’ he shouted.

  His men echoed the cry as loudly as they could before hurling themselves at the nearest rebels. There was no discriminating between those who were injured and those who were not, or between armed rebels and innocent civilians. The aim was to cause as much panic as possible before anybody thought to contest control of the gatehouse. The bucina man ran back through the gate, taking out his curved instrument and fitting the mouthpiece to his lips. He blew a weak note, and Cato cried out to him, ‘Spit, man! Spit!’

  The Praetorian nodded, cleared his mouth and tried again. This time a clear note blasted out down the slope. An instant later, figures came running forward out of the blizzard, and Cato turned to cross to the open ground just inside the city. A small mob was retreating in panic up the main thoroughfare, others fleeing into side alleys as the Praetorians struck down everyone around them, leaving bodies strewn across the slush-covered paving stones. Some of the rebels and Parthians attempted to resist, but they were too few and were quickly cut down. All the time, more Praetorians were appearing out of the swirling snow to join those already inside the gates.

  Cato ordered the bucina man to follow him, and they entered the door at the foot of the gatehouse. Some palliasses lay on the floor, one occupied by a wounded man curled up on his side and moaning. They ignored him and climbed to the top, where the bucina man continued blowing the signal to summon the rest of the Praetorians and guide Corbulo’s men through the snow. A brazier burned to one side of the tower, and Cato piled on more logs from the nearby stack, building the flames up so that they might act as a beacon. Then he gazed down the slope towards the camp. There were many more figures emerging from the gloom, and he realised that the rebels were in full retreat from their failed attempt to destroy the siege weapons and rout the Roman forces in the camp. It was time to close the trap on the enemy.

  He crossed to the rear of the tower and looked down. Macro was grinning up at him, his barrel chest heaving from the exertion of struggling through the snow and the fighting around the gate.

  ‘Centurion Macro, close the gate!’

  Macro’s grin faded. ‘But sir, there’s still plenty of our men out there.’

  ‘Then they’ll have to fall back on the rest of the army. We have to close the gate now, before the rebels can reach the city in force. Do it!’

  Macro nodded and called out to the nearest men, and a moment later, Cato heard the grating of hinges as the massive timbered gates were pushed together and the locking bar was dragged into the iron brackets fastened to their rear. As soon as the task was complete, the centurion formed the Praetorians up to protect the gate in case any of the enemy inside Th
apsis attempted to retake the gatehouse. A quick glance up the main street and at the entrances to the nearest alleys was enough to reassure Cato that there was no sign of danger from that direction.

  In front of the walls, the rebel forces were still streaming up the slope. Cries of anguish rose from below as the first arrivals hammered on the timbers of the closed gate. Others stopped and turned to look fearfully back down the slope. Within a short time, the ground in front of the gate was packed with the rebels and their Parthian allies, with only a handful of stragglers and wounded still appearing through the snowflakes spinning on the wind that moaned over the ridge.

  Cato strained his eyes, blinking away the flakes that blew into his face. At last he saw what he was looking for: the regular lines of the Roman cohorts as they emerged from the gloom and closed up on the enemy trapped against the defences of their own city.

  ‘The general’s here, boys!’ he called down to Macro and the others. ‘The general and every man in the bloody camp! We’ve done it!’

  Cries of fear, panic and despair swelled up from the throats of the rebels as they realised that their defeat was complete. The Roman soldiers halted fifty paces away, and as the rebels turned to face them, their cries faded and the only noise was the wind. Then a figure on horseback approached. Cato saw that it was Apollonius. He stopped his mount a short distance from the enemy and called out to them in their own tongue. His announcement was brief, and there was a short pause before the first of the rebels threw his sword and shield down into the snow and stepped warily towards the Roman line. Another followed suit and then more, until the entire force had accepted that there was no choice but to surrender, or face certain death.