They were going at it with a will, Cato noticed, and he could imagine that each one of them had mentally imposed Crispus over each of the stakes. Be that as it may, they had been drilling for the best part of the morning under a hot sun without complaint. He decided to keep them at it until noon before sending them back to their tents to rest. The afternoon would be spent with the mounted contingent, practising attacks against the same stakes while riding at speed in and around them, an altogether trickier proposition for mounted men. Thanks to the relentless training Cato was confident that the Second Illyrian would give a good account of themselves when they marched to war against Parthia. He smiled to himself. He was already taking it for granted that there would be a war.
The coming campaign was never far from his thoughts, and despite his confidence in his men Cato was anxious about fighting the Parthians. He realised well enough the difficulties the Roman soldiers would face in dealing with Parthian tactics. The enemy had developed their skills in mounted warfare over hundreds of years and now fielded one of the most formidable armies in the known world. Their method was simple, and unvarying. The first attack would be made by horse-archers who would pepper their foes with arrows, attempting to break their formation up, and then the small corps of heavily armoured cataphracts would charge home with their lances and shatter their opponents. The tactics had worked well against most of their enemies, and had resulted in the destruction of the army of Crassus several decades earlier. Now a new Roman army was preparing to face the might of the Parthians, and with not a little trepidation.
‘Sir!’ One of the optios assisting Cato with the training called out to him, and thrust his staff towards the hills to the east. Cato turned and scanned the near horizon of rocky slopes studded with clusters of cedar trees. Then something flashed in a shallow ravine leading down towards Antioch. He squinted and raised a hand to shade his eyes as he tried to make out more detail. A column of tiny figures on horseback was emerging from the mouth of the ravine. The optio strode over to join him and both men stared into the distance as the relentless dull thuds of the training continued behind them.
‘Who the hell are they?’ the optio muttered.
Cato shook his head. ‘No way of telling just yet. Could be a caravan from Chalcis, Beroea, or perhaps even Palmyra.’
‘Caravan? I don’t think so, sir. I can’t make out any camels.’
‘That’s true.’ Cato stared as the distant party of horsemen continued to emerge from the ravine until at least a hundred men had appeared. As sunlight glittered off weapons and armour he felt the first icy trace of fear tingle down the back of his neck. Lowering his hand, he quietly gave his orders to the optio. ‘Get the men back into the camp and call out our cavalry. I want them out here ready for action. Send word to the general that we’ve sighted a column of horsemen to the east.’
‘Who shall I say they are?’
Cato shrugged. ‘No way to be sure just yet. But there’s no point in taking any chances. Now go.’
The optio saluted and then turned away, bellowing orders to the auxiliaries to cease their weapons drill and form up. The men wearily tramped into position and when all was ready the small column marched across the parade ground towards the camp gate, leaving Cato to watch the distant horsemen. By the time the last rider had emerged from the ravine he estimated that there must be at least two hundred of them. And at their head the thin red and gold strip of a banner flickered lazily in the shimmering air. The horsemen continued their measured approach towards Antioch, and the army camp sprawled across the landscape before the city’s walls. This was no attempt to surprise any unwary Roman patrols, Cato reasoned. The horsemen fully intended to be seen.
From inside the camp there was the shrill blast of notes from a bucina and a short while later the first of the Second Illyrian’s mounted squadrons trotted out of the gate and formed up in two lines at the edge of the parade ground, waiting for the men of the other three squadrons to take up position on their right. As the last of the cavalrymen edged his beast into line and the cohort’s mounted contingent tightened their grasp of their spears as they scrutinised the distant horsemen, a small party of staff officers emerged from the gates of the city and galloped along the track towards Cato and his men. Cato instantly identified the flamboyant red crest of the leading figure and felt some small comfort that the governor of Syria would take charge of the situation. The party of officers drew up in a flurry of dust and small stones and Cato saw that Macro and the legate of the Tenth were riding with the governor and his staff. Longinus thrust his arm out towards Cato.
‘Centurion! Report.’
‘It’s as you can see, sir.’ Cato nodded towards the approaching column. ‘They’re armed, but they’ve made no hostile moves yet.’
Longinus stared at the riders for a moment. The distant column had halted and formed a line across the track leading back into the ravine, and now a small party of horsemen, surrounding the standard Cato had seen earlier, detached themselves from the main body and galloped across the flat expanse of land between the hills and the camp. As they drew closer the dull, flat blasts of a horn carried across to the Romans.
Longinus turned to Legate Amatius on the horse beside him. ‘Seems someone wants a truce.’
‘Truce?’ Amatius shook his head in wonder. ‘But who the hell are they?’
Cato stared at the approaching riders, no more than half a mile away now. The dust kicked up by their mounts formed a backdrop that made it easier to pick out the details of their conical helmets and flowing robes, and the bow cases slung from their saddles. He lowered his hand and turned back to his commander.
‘They’re Parthians, sir.’
‘Parthians?’ Longinus’ hand slipped on to the hilt of his sword. ‘Parthians … What the hell are they doing here? Right under our bloody noses.’
The horsemen reined in no more than a hundred paces from Cato and the other officers, and after a moment’s pause one of them edged his horse forward and walked it warily towards the Romans.
‘Shall I order our men forward, sir?’ Macro asked, gesturing to the squadrons from the Second Illyrian.
‘No. Not yet,’ Longinus replied quietly, his gaze fixed on the approaching rider.
‘Parthians.’ Amatius scratched his chin nervously. ‘What do they want?’
Longinus tightened his grip round the handle of his sword and muttered, ‘We’ll know soon enough.’
CHAPTER FOUR
The Parthian stopped a short distance from the Roman officers and bowed his head. He pulled the silk scarf from about his face to reveal dark features. Cato saw that he wore smears of kohl round his eyes and had a neatly trimmed moustache and beard. He smiled slightly before speaking in faintly accented Latin.
‘My master, Prince Metaxas, sends his greetings, and would speak with the governor of the province of Syria.’ He glanced over the Roman officers. ‘I assume that one of you finely dressed officers can send word to the man I seek.’
Longinus puffed his chest out irritably. ‘I am Cassius Longinus, governor of Syria and commander of the army of the eastern Empire. What does your master want?’
‘Prince Metaxas has been sent by our king to discuss certain disputes between Parthia and Rome, in the hope that the two powers might resolve these disputes without recourse to force. Our king does not wish to cause any unnecessary loss of life amongst the ranks of your fine legions.’
‘Oh, is that right?’ Legate Amatius bristled. ‘Well, let’s just see how well his dandy little horsemen do when they come up against the Tenth.’
‘Quiet!’ Longinus snapped at his subordinate. He glared at Amatius and then turned back to the Parthian emissary. ‘I will speak to your master. Bring him here.’
The Parthian flashed a smile. ‘Alas, my master has heard that some Romans have not always honoured the traditions of the truce.’
Longinus’ expression darkened as he replied coldly, ‘You dare to accuse me of such infamy?’
&nb
sp; ‘Of course not, my lord. Not you, as such.’
‘Then bring your master here to talk to me. If he has the stomach for it.’
‘The stomach?’ The Parthian was puzzled. ‘Forgive me, my lord, I am uncertain of this idiom.’
‘Tell your master that I will not speak with his slave. Tell him that I will speak to him here and now, if he has the courage to venture from behind his escort.’
‘I would gladly tell him this, but I would anticipate that he might respond to your offer in kind.’ The Parthian gestured at the other officers and the cavalry of Macro’s cohort. ‘I am sure that so great a general as yourself would be brave enough to venture beyond the protection of such a formidable-looking bodyguard. But, in deference to your understandable anxieties, my master has permitted me to suggest that you and he meet between our forces.’
Longinus glanced briefly at the open ground between the camp and the richly robed horsemen. ‘Alone, you say?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Don’t do it, sir,’ Amatius muttered. ‘Bound to be some sort of barbarian trick. You’ve no idea what treachery that kind are capable of.’
Macro cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know. I doubt there’s much harm this Prince Metaxas could do by himself.’
Amatius rounded on Macro. ‘What the hell do you know, Prefect? The Parthians could shoot the governor down well before he even reached the spot.’
Macro shrugged. ‘That’s possible, sir. But they’d risk hitting their own man too. Besides, there’s the question of losing face. If the governor backed down … Well, I’m sure that at least the people back in Rome would understand.’
‘My lords!’ The Parthian raised a hand. ‘I beg your pardon for intervening in your dispute, but if you deem such a meeting to present too much of a danger then might I suggest that both supporting forces retreat to well beyond bowshot, and that my prince and the governor meet with, say, three companions each? Would that not assuage your suspicions and fears?’
‘Fears?’ Longinus bristled. ‘I’m not afraid, Parthian. Romans fear no one, least of all the barbarians of the east.’
‘I am delighted to hear that, my lord. In which case, may I inform my master that you and your companions will meet with him?’
Cato tried to hide his amusement that the governor had been so easily manoeuvred into consenting to the Parthian’s offer. Longinus, however, was furious and took a while to recover control of himself. As he glared round he caught sight of Cato’s expression and he thrust out his finger. ‘Centurion Cato, you will accompany me, since you seem to be in such good humour. You, your friend Macro and Legate Amatius. The rest of you, join those mounted men. You will remain here. If I give the signal, you come to our aid as swiftly as possible. Go!’
He turned back to the Parthian and growled. ‘Tell your master we will meet – once the rest of his men have retired to a safe distance.’
‘Very well, my lord.’ The Parthian bowed his head, and at once turned his mount round and galloped back towards his companions, before there was any chance for the governor to change the conditions of the meeting. As they watched him go Macro turned to Cato and spoke quietly.
‘Thank you so very much for involving me.’
‘Sorry, sir.’ Cato gestured towards the mounted squadron. ‘I’d, er, better find myself a horse.’
‘Fine. You do that. Before you cause any more trouble.’
While Cato trotted off in the wake of the other officers, Amatius, Macro and the governor watched as the Parthians wheeled their horses round and walked them away, leaving behind the emissary, the standard-bearer and two others. Macro puffed his cheeks out.
‘Any idea what they might want, sir?’
‘No. Not a clue.’ Longinus was silent for a moment before he continued. ‘I don’t understand how they got so close to the army without being spotted. Our patrols and frontier posts must be blind. Someone’s going to pay for this,’ he concluded sourly.
At the sound of an approaching horse the three officers glanced round as Cato rode up to them and reined in. Longinus glanced at his companions. ‘Keep your eyes open. At the first sign of danger, you shout a warning and lay into the bastards. But remember, this is a truce. We only make a move if they act first. So keep your hands clear of your weapons and in full view.’
Amatius sniffed. ‘Let’s hope their prince tells his people to do the same.’
‘Quite.’ Longinus nodded, then drew a deep breath to calm his nerves. ‘Better get on with it then. Let’s go.’
He gently dug the heels of his calfskin boots into the flanks of his horse and urged it forward. The others followed suit and the small party of Romans warily picked their way across the open ground towards the Parthians. As he rode a short distance behind and to one side of his commander Cato had to contain the impulse to rest his hand on the pommel of his sword. Instead he gripped the reins in both hands and stiffened his back so that he might appear haughty and fearless to the Parthians. But inside his stomach was a tight knot of fear and his heart pounded in his chest. He felt contempt for himself even as he struggled to maintain his brave façade. A glance to his side revealed Macro staring intently at the Parthians, his expression curious and appraising rather than tense and fearful. Cato snatched at the crumb of comfort that his fearless friend would be more than a match for any Parthian warrior that ever lived if the enemy had planned any treachery.
The two parties of horsemen drew closer to each other, the silence and stillness of the midday broken only by the sound of horses’ hooves scraping and thumping the uneven ground. Cato saw the elaborate decoration on the Parthians’ bow cases and the fine quality of their robes. Their mounts were smaller than the Roman horses, and seemed to be well cared for, muscular and moving with a fluid grace. There was little to distinguish the Parthians in their accoutrements, except that the man carrying the standard had a large wicker basket hanging from his saddle. By mutual consent the two sides drew up two spears’ length apart and for a moment exchanged searching stares. Then the tallest of the Parthians suddenly pulled aside his face cloth and began to speak.
The emissary listened intently and then bowed his head before turning to the Romans.
‘The prince wishes you eternal good health and prosperity. For you, your emperor and all your people. He also wishes to commend you on the fine lands you have acquired on behalf of Rome. He says that he was most impressed by your lines of watchtowers and forward outposts that guard the approaches to Antioch. They presented something of a challenge for us to approach and pass through unseen.’
Longinus’ lips pressed together in a thin line as he heard the last words and his free hand momentarily clenched. Then he raised it suddenly.
‘That’s enough of the courtesies. I take it we’re not here to discuss the details of your sightseeing. Get to the point. What does the prince want?’
There was a brief exchange between the emissary and the prince before the former spoke again. ‘Parthia demands that Rome desists from any attempt to spread its influence any further towards the Euphrates.’
‘Rome has every right to protect her frontiers,’ Longinus responded firmly.
‘Ah, but your frontiers seem to have a habit of creeping forward, like thieves towards the homes of fresh victims.’
‘What do you mean? We still honour the existing treaty.’
‘Between Parthia and Rome, yes,’ the emissary conceded. ‘But what of your arrangement with Palmyra? You use her lands as your own and your soldiers march up to the very borders of Parthia.’
‘King Vabathus has signed a treaty with Rome,’ Longinus said evenly. The prince snorted as the words were translated for him. Then he launched into a long outburst whose ill-humour was apparent to the Romans even before the emissary attempted to speak for his master. Macro glanced at Cato and raised his eyes wearily. Cato did not respond. His friend was a professional soldier to the core, but he hated any aspect of politics or diplomacy and it was clear to Cato that Macro’s
presence at this tense encounter was something of a liability for the Roman side. Cato widened his eyes and did his best to shoot a warning look at his friend. Macro briefly raised a questioning eyebrow and then shrugged slightly as the emissary spoke for his master.
‘Prince Metaxas says that the true intent of your treaty is a poorly kept secret. Everyone knows that it is merely a move towards annexation of Palmyra.’
‘King Vabathus entered into the treaty freely enough.’
‘And if the king, or a successor, was to decide that the treaty should be ended? What then?’
Longinus had already taken the bait once, and paused a moment to consider a suitable response. ‘But there is no question of that happening. Palmyra and Rome are partners.’
The Parthian prince laughed harshly and stabbed his finger towards the Roman governor as he made his response.
‘Partners?’ the emissary translated. ‘The only partners you have are Vabathus and his cronies. The great houses of Palmyran aristocracy denounce the treaty openly. There are even those in the royal palace who think the king little more than a traitor. Your treaty is a sham, and soon the king will be forced to renounce it. And if he fails to do that you can be sure that his successor will cut the chains that bind Palmyra to Rome. If Rome attempts to intervene in Palmyran affairs by force, then Parthia will do all it can to protect its neighbour from Roman aggression.’
Now it was Longinus’ turn to laugh. ‘Parthia the protector? That’s a new one! Your desire to seize Palmyra is transparent. What makes you think the people of Palmyra will welcome Parthian intervention?’
‘We have our reasons to believe they will. And we have made it known that we will protect their independence. From Rome and any other interlopers.’
‘And you think they believe that? Why should they have any more faith in your good intentions than ours?’
‘Because we have not sent soldiers into their lands to build fortifications that will slowly but surely become the bars of their cage. Already you have attempted to build a fort on the very banks of the Euphrates, and before long the camps of Roman armies will sprout along the banks of the river, like knives aimed at the throat of Parthia.’
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