Macro leaned towards Cato and whispered, ‘These Parthian buggers are partial to a poetic turn of phrase, aren’t they?’
‘Shh!’ Cato hissed as loudly as he dared. There was a pause as the Parthian emissary, Longinus and the legate of the Tenth turned to look at Macro and Cato before the emissary resumed his master’s diatribe.
‘Parthia will not tolerate such naked aggression. The fort was a clear sign of Roman intentions and you are warned not to attempt any such incursions again.’
‘Was?’ Longinus interrupted. ‘What has happened to the fort?’
‘It has been razed.’
‘And the auxiliary cohort sent to construct it. What of them?’
‘They were destroyed.’
‘Destroyed?’ Longinus was startled. ‘What of the prisoners? Where are they?’
‘Regrettably, there are no prisoners.’
‘Bastards,’ Legate Amatius grumbled. ‘Murdering swine.’
The emissary shrugged. ‘They did not surrender. Our men had no choice but to wipe them out.’
Longinus was silent for a moment before he responded. ‘Five hundred men, and one of the best field officers in the army. Centurion Castor …’ He glared at the Parthian prince. ‘Tell your master that this is an act of war.’
Metaxas smiled as his emissary translated his reply. ‘Which? The destruction of your cohort, or the threat it posed to our sovereignty?’
‘Don’t try to confuse the issue!’ Longinus snapped. ‘He knows what I mean. When word of this reaches the ears of the Emperor I doubt there is any power in this world that will prevent him from wreaking a terrible revenge on Parthia. And it will be a fate you have drawn down on yourselves.’
‘We have no wish to provoke war, my general.’
‘Bollocks!’ Amatius snorted. ‘You wipe out one of our cohorts and you say you don’t wish to provoke a war!’ The legate’s hand slipped towards the handle of his sword and the gesture was noticed at once by the Parthians. With a sudden rasp one of the prince’s escorts drew his sword and the curved blade glinted in the sunlight. Prince Metaxas snapped an order at the man and with a brief show of reluctance he returned the blade to its scabbard.
‘Sir.’ Cato spoke softly to the legate. ‘I’d take your hand off your sword.’
Amatius’ nostrils flared as his eyes fixed on Cato. Then he blinked and nodded and released his grip. ‘All right then. But there will be a reckoning for Centurion Castor and the men of that cohort. One day.’
The emissary was unimpressed. ‘Perhaps, but not in this life. Not if Rome truly values peace on its eastern frontier. My master says that you are to remove your forces from the lands of Palmyra. Furthermore, you are not to intervene in its internal politics. Breach of either condition will force Parthia to take military action. Much as the prince, and his father, King Gotarzes, desire peace, they will be forced to wage war on Rome. Such a war would cost Rome dearly. Many more of your countrymen would share the fate of Crassus and his legions. Those are the words of my master,’ the emissary concluded. ‘You have heard our warning, my lord, and there is no more to be said.’
The Parthian prince made one last comment to his emissary and then gestured to his companion carrying the wicker basket on his saddle. The man unlooped the handles from his saddle horn and let the basket drop heavily to the ground beside his horse. Then the Parthians wheeled their horses round and the emissary spoke to the Romans one last time.
‘My master bids you accept a gift. A gift plucked from the banks of the Euphrates. Consider it a token of the future should you choose to defy the kingdom of Parthia.’
The Parthians spurred their horses into a gallop and pounded back towards the distant line of their comrades who were already breaking formation to turn away from Antioch and disappear back into the ravine. For a moment the Romans watched them depart through the dust kicked up by their horses. Then Longinus turned his gaze to the wicker basket lying on the rocky soil. He gestured towards it.
‘Centurion Cato.’
‘Sir?’
‘See what’s in there.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Cato slipped his leg over the saddle horns and dropped to the ground. He approached the basket cautiously, as if it might be filled with snakes or scorpions. Swallowing, he reached down and pulled the handles apart. Inside there was a plain earthen jar, the size of a large watermelon. The bottom had cracked when the basket hit the ground and the odour of olive oil reached Cato’s nose as it slowly drained through the fibres of the basket. A dark tangled mass glistened in the top of the jar, and as the oil continued to drain it settled and gleamed on the domed surface beneath.
‘What is it?’ Amatius snapped. ‘Show us, man!’
Cato felt the bile rising in his throat as he leaned forward and grasped the oily dark tendrils. With gritted teeth he drew the heavy burden from the jar and raised it aloft. Oil ran down the ashen skin of the severed head and dripped from its parted lips on to the parched soil below.
Legate Amatius grimaced as he stared at the grisly spectacle. ‘Centurion Castor.’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Gentlemen.’ Cassius Longinus stared solemnly round the banqueting hall of his headquarters. He stood on a podium and surveyed the expressions of the centurions, tribunes and legates assembled before him. ‘War with Parthia has come.’
The officers exchanged glances and an excited murmur rippled across the hall before it died away and every face turned to the governor of Syria with an eager expression. News of the party of Parthian horsemen that had appeared before the very walls of Antioch the previous day had swept through the camp and the streets of the city. The rumourmongers had been tirelessly at work, until the event portended everything from an historic alliance between Rome and Parthia to the mortal terror of the prospect of a vast Parthian army no more than a day’s march away intent on the slaughter of every man, woman and child in Antioch. Longinus’ first words had eliminated some of the more fanciful notions and now his officers listened in tense anticipation for more detail. The governor waited until there was complete silence before he continued.
‘Some days ago, the Parthians surprised one of our outposts and slaughtered the garrison. Our visitors presented us with the head of its commander, Centurion Castor of the Tenth Legion.’
The men standing around Cato and Macro grumbled angrily and Macro nudged his companion and muttered, ‘Pity the Parthians that come up against our lot. This has the makings of some good fighting.’
‘Good fighting?’ Cato frowned. ‘I’m not sure I share your enthusiasm for this particular campaign. The Parthians are not going to die easily.’
‘Oh, come on! We’ve faced worse.’
‘Really? Do enlighten me.’
Macro stared at his friend for a moment and then pursed his lips. ‘Fair point. The Parthians are hard bastards,’ he conceded and then rubbed his hands together. ‘It’ll be a tough nut to crack.’
Cato stared at Macro for a moment and then shook his head. ‘Sometimes I swear that you think this is all some kind of game.’
‘Game?’ Macro looked surprised. ‘No. It’s better than that. It’s a calling. It’s what real soldiers live for. But of course you wouldn’t understand. Being a philosopher and all that.’
Cato sighed. As far as Macro was concerned the extensive education that Cato had enjoyed before joining the legions was more of a curse than a benefit, as he never tired of making clear. For his part, Cato felt that the army was now his family and as long as he performed his duties as professionally as possible the cultural baggage he carried with him was irrelevant, except on those rare occasions when his esoteric knowledge might actually find some practical application. And then even Macro grudgingly relented, although he tried to conceal any flicker of admiration he might feel for Cato’s learning.
Longinus held up his hands to still the angry tongues of his officers. ‘Gentlemen! I know how you feel about this news. I share your grief and rage and I swear, by almighty Jupiter, that
we will avenge Centurion Castor and his men. We will bring fire and the sword to the Parthians such that they never again dare to disturb the peace of our lands, and those of our allies. Our goal is nothing less than the elimination of Parthia as a military power, and we will not rest until their king kneels before the Emperor and begs for his mercy!’
The officers stamped their feet in approval and Macro nudged Cato. ‘That’s more like it. Longinus is my kind of general!’
Cato frowned. ‘Have you forgotten why we were sent east in the first place?’ He lowered his voice. ‘The man was plotting against the Emperor.’
‘We never proved that.’
‘No,’ Cato admitted. ‘There is no conclusive proof, that is true. But we know what he was planning. We know the nature of the man, Macro. I don’t trust him. Nor should you.’
Macro considered this for a moment and then scratched his chin with scarred knuckles. ‘Maybe this is his chance to redeem himself.’
‘Or maybe he is still trying to win a reputation, and a following, and make himself powerful enough to challenge the Emperor. Either way we should be wary of him. If he goes into this war recklessly, then we’re in great danger.’ Cato tipped his head towards the other officers in the hall. ‘All of us. We need a soldier’s general to lead us against the Parthians, not an ambitious politician. Besides, this campaign will present him with ample opportunity to get rid of us. Mark my words. We must be careful.’
Macro nodded thoughtfully. ‘Fair enough.’
On the podium, Longinus signalled for quiet again. ‘I have sent orders to the legates of the Third and Sixth Legions to join us here. As soon as the army is assembled we will march east and crush the Parthians. Until then, my comrades, we must ready our men for war. Every officer will prepare a full inventory of his equipment, recall any soldiers on detached duty and make all necessary requisitions. It is my intention that the army break camp the moment we are ready. You will receive your full orders for the coming campaign within days. I end with this thought … In the years to come, when we are all old men, people will look on us in wonder and say, there go the men who crushed Rome’s oldest and deadliest enemy. If we triumph – no, when we triumph, as we certainly will, then we shall have won more than a victory. Our deeds will win us all a share of immortality, and no true Roman can wish for more than that.’ Longinus drew his sword and stabbed the point into the air over his head. ‘For Rome and victory!’
All around Cato and Macro the officers punched their fists into the air and echoed the cry. After a quick glance at Cato Macro followed suit and joined in the cheering with a lusty roar. Cato sighed and shook his head before joining in half-heartedly. Not for the first time, despite his hard-won sense of himself as a soldier, he felt detached from the hardy professionalism of the other officers. Up on the podium Cassius Longinus was milking the martial mood for all he was worth, turning to one section of the audience at a time and thrusting his sword up in the air. At length he sheathed the weapon and stood back from the podium as the senior centurion of the Tenth Legion stepped forward and slammed his vine cane down on the flagstone and bellowed, ‘Dismissed!’
The officers turned and began to shuffle towards the doors, talking animatedly about the prospect of a new campaign. It would be the first action that many had seen since their posting to the province of Syria. The wary balance of power that had existed between Parthia and Rome since the days of the first emperor, Augustus, had finally crumbled. The long game of diplomacy and subterfuge that had been played out between the agents of the two empires was over and now the clash of great armies would decide the conflict.
‘Prefect Macro! Centurion Cato!’
Cato started at the shout echoing off the walls and with Macro he turned to see the senior centurion staring at them. ‘Remain behind!’
‘Shit,’ Macro muttered as the nearest officers briefly shot them curious looks. ‘What now?’
Cato shrugged his shoulders and began to ease his way through the crowd leaving the hall as he led the way towards the podium. Cato saw that Longinus and Legate Amatius were watching as he and Macro strode towards them. They stood before the podium as the last of the officers left the hall. Longinus nodded to the senior centurion.
‘That’s all. You may leave.’
‘Yes, sir!’ The centurion saluted smartly and turned to march after his comrades, nailed boots echoing across the flagstones. He left the hall, pulling the doors closed behind him, and then Longinus turned to Macro and Cato.
‘There’s one other matter to be resolved before my army goes to war. I have decided the fate of Legionary Crispus.’
All three subordinates stared intently at their commander as Longinus continued. ‘In view of the gravity of the offence, and the utmost need to preserve discipline given the present circumstances, I have decided that Crispus must be put to death.’
‘No!’ Amatius shook his head. ‘Sir, I protest. You gave me to believe that he would be spared.’
‘I said no such thing,’ Longinus snapped. ‘Did I?’
Amatius sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. ‘No, sir. But you implied it.’
‘Implication is not proof.’ Longinus glanced meaningfully at Macro and Cato before he continued. ‘Crispus will be broken by the men of his century, before the assembled ranks of the Second Illyrian. At dawn tomorrow. You will communicate the news to the prisoner, Legate, and see that he is held securely until the execution is carried out. I have heard of incidents when condemned men have escaped in the past. If Crispus is permitted to abscond, then the men assigned to guard him will take his place. Make sure that they understand that. Clear?’
Amatius swallowed his anger and turned to Macro with a bitter expression. ‘I imagine you’re delighted by the news.’
Macro stared back for a moment before he replied, ‘If you imagine that, sir, then I fear that you will never understand the soldiers that you command.’
Amatius glared at Macro for an instant, then turned back to Longinus and stiffened his back. ‘Is that all, sir?’
‘That’s all. Have Crispus’ comrades report to the parade ground outside the camp at first light. They are to wear tunics only and be issued with cudgels.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Amatius’ tone was subdued and Cato could well understand why. The haughty legionaries would be humiliated by appearing before the auxiliaries of the Second Illyrian without their armour and weapons. That was quite deliberate. Army discipline demanded that the comrades of a condemned man shared his shame so that they would be sure to punish him for humbling them. In future, they might be more careful about letting another man commit an offence that would rebound on them. Since Amatius would be obliged to lead the party from the Tenth and bear witness to the execution, he too would take some small share of the shame, hence the smouldering hatred in his eyes as he glared at Macro and Cato briefly before striding from the hall, and slamming the door behind him with a crashing boom.
For a moment nothing was said, then Macro dipped his head in acknowledgement to Cassius Longinus.
‘Thank you, sir. It was the right decision.’
‘I don’t need you to tell me that,’ Longinus snapped.
‘Very well, sir. But thank you anyway.’ Macro paused. ‘Is there anything else?’
‘No. Just make sure this doesn’t happen again. I’ve had enough of the pair of you interfering in my business in Syria. If it hadn’t been for the Parthians I’d have got rid of you. By now you’d be well on your way back to Rome to report in person to that snake, Narcissus. As it is … I need every man I can scrape together to face the Parthians. There’s no question that I would defeat them if I had the reinforcements I asked for. But there’s only the three legions and a handful of auxiliary units available to take them on. The odds are not good.’ Longinus smiled coldly. ‘So if I succeed then the glory is greater. But if I fail, then I shall draw some small comfort from the knowledge that you two will be dying alongside me.’
Ca
to wondered at the change in Longinus’ mood from the triumphalism of his address to his assembled officers. Then he realised that this was what Roman aristocrats trained so many years for: the perfectly pitched performance to win over their public, despite any personal misgivings over the cause that they were promoting. And Longinus had been persuasive enough, Cato reflected. It seemed that Cato alone had not been swept along on the wave of his rhetoric. Even Macro, who knew of the governor’s dubious political manoeuvres, had been momentarily carried away by the prospect of action and glory.
‘Leave me,’ Longinus ordered. ‘Go and make your preparations for the execution.’
He gestured casually towards the door. Macro and Cato stood to attention, saluted, and turned away, marching in step as they left the Roman governor of Syria alone in his makeshift audience chamber.
In the thin light of pre-dawn the men of the Second Illyrian were stirred from their tents by the harsh cries of their optios and centurions as the officers strode down the tent lines, yanking back the tent flaps and bellowing at the rudely awakened men inside. Hurriedly pulling on their rough woollen tunics, boots and chain-mail corselets, they emerged into the cool air before cramming on their skullcaps and helmets and tying the chin straps. Lastly, they gathered shields and javelins and took up their positions in the centuries forming in front of the tents. The cavalry squadrons, with their longer blades and thrusting spears, formed up on the flanks. Their mounts would not be needed for the assembly to bear witness to the execution, and they remained tethered in the horse lines, chewing contentedly on the barley in the feed bags that had been brought to them as soon as their riders had risen from their tents.
Macro, with Cato at his shoulder, paced down the lines inspecting his men. The execution of Crispus would be a formal affair. Even though the legionary was a condemned murderer he was still a soldier and would be accorded appropriate respect even as he died. Though the man he had killed was one of their comrades the men of the Second Illyrian would pay Crispus the honours due to a fellow soldier passing from this world into the shades. Every man had turned out neatly and had made sure that his helmet had been polished the night before, along with the trim and boss of his shield and every clasp and decorated facing of his scabbard. Macro regarded them with pride. He could ask for no better body of men to command, even in the legions, he admitted grudgingly, though he would never own up to such an opinion in public. The blood he had shed in the Second Legion and the comrades he had lost over the years had left him with an engrained love of the Eagles he had known for so long.
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