Traitors of Rome (Eagles of the Empire 18) Page 18

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  Corbulo turned towards the voice and nodded. ‘What is it, Prefect Cosinus?’

  ‘If their catapults can reach ours, they’ll be able to destroy the battery long before it breaches the wall.’

  Corbulo frowned. ‘A good point. However, I don’t expect they’ll have anything on a scale to match our catapults.’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. After all, they have the high ground. Even a modest catapult might out-range anything we have in the siege train.’

  ‘We’ll discover the truth of that soon enough,’ the general responded tersely. ‘And if we need bigger weapons, then by all the gods, I’ll have them made. Meanwhile, we’ll need to fortify the river crossing as well to ensure there is no repeat of the earlier debacle, and have outposts established to guard the road to Tarsus.’

  As the scale of the undertaking became apparent to the officers, Macro noticed some of them exchanging anxious looks. Their response was not lost on Corbulo either. He cleared his throat and continued in a commanding tone. ‘This expedition is about to become a much more difficult operation, gentlemen. But it is necessary if we are to march into Parthia without having to worry about being stabbed in the back. It is also something of an opportunity. I was already planning to take the army into the hills for training and to toughen up the troops. Now that will be no mere exercise. They will have to face a real enemy and endure the privations and discomfort of an actual campaign. It’s about time the army did some proper soldiering.’

  Macro nodded his approval, along with many of the others. He felt a surge of professional excitement at the prospect, and then guilt over having to delay his return to Petronella. He had told her that Corbulo’s expedition into the mountains would be a quick affair, and now it was clear that this was no longer the case. A siege could last a matter of days, months, even years. A cursory inspection of the natural defences of Thapsis and the strength of the wall and towers protecting the only feasible line of attack revealed that General Corbulo and his army faced a considerable challenge. Still, there was always the promise of loot and slaves to be had when the city was taken. If Macro was fortunate, his share of the spoils would bring a gleam to his wife’s eyes, and she would find it in her heart to forgive him. But first he would have to break the news to her. His smile faded somewhat as he contemplated writing the required letter. It would need careful consideration, and he was not good with words. If only Cato were here to advise him. He’d know precisely what to say to mollify Petronella.

  ‘Oh shit!’ one of the centurions exclaimed, and pointed towards the town. In the gathering gloom of twilight, Macro saw a fiery orb rise over the wall and flare a course against the backdrop of the first stars to emerge in the night sky. There was a faint roar of flames as it plunged towards the settlement and crashed through a roof with a burst of sparks and shattered tiles. A moment later, further blazing bundles dropped amongst the buildings, and a wavering glow between a cluster of houses revealed that a fire had started.

  Macro turned to the general. ‘Sir, should I take some men forward to put the fire out?’

  Corbulo shook his head. ‘We’ve lost enough men today already, Centurion.’

  ‘But there are still supplies and materials to be had in there, sir. We’ll need those for the fortifications and the camp.’

  ‘Maybe, but it’s not worth the cost.’ Corbulo watched as flames licked into the sky, and then added resignedly, ‘Let it burn.’

  As the men in the camp looked on, a steady barrage of incendiaries struck the settlement and started further fires, which steadily spread through the abandoned buildings until the settlement was ablaze from end to end and giant tongues of flame flayed the starry heavens and cast their glare across the surrounding land for over half a mile. The heat from the conflagration drove the sentries from the rampart facing the settlement, and even where he stood beside the general, Macro winced at the blistering wave that swept over the camp. His ears were assaulted by the din of the roaring flames, pierced by explosions as the timbers of the buildings burst in the heart of the inferno. The ground around the settlement shimmered with rats, dogs and cats as the fire drove them out from their hiding places and forced them to flee into the night.

  For over an hour, Macro and the rest of the men in the column stood mesmerised by the spectacle. Then, at length, he turned away and made his way over to the tent lines marked out for the Praetorians, though there were no actual tents. Most of the men would have to lie on makeshift bedding composed of scrub covered with their spare cloaks. Those who had been first into the settlement had returned with an assortment of leather wagon covers and rolls of linen that could be fashioned into shelters. But most would be sleeping in the open, as they had done since crossing the river three days ago. At least tonight they’d be warmed by the fire. Macro smiled grimly to himself.

  He found Centurion Metellus sitting on the back of a small wagon that had been recovered from the settlement and drawn by hand back into the camp.

  ‘What’s this for?’ asked Macro.

  ‘Supplies, sir.’ Metellus lifted the leather cover to reveal bags of grain, an assortment of jars, slabs of salted mutton and rounds of cheese. ‘It’s what we have left from foraging on the march and what we found in the settlement. I thought it would be best to keep it all in one place and under guard.’

  ‘Good idea. Any problems with men hoarding food?’

  ‘No, sir. Not that I’m aware of. They’re obeying your orders. Same goes for the officers.’

  Macro cocked his head to one side in amusement. ‘Normally, the very first person I’d suspect of helping himself to supplies would be the quartermaster, but seeing as it’s you . . .’

  Metellus smiled back. ‘Don’t worry, sir. If I catch myself sneaking anything off the wagon, I’ll give myself a beating I won’t forget in a hurry.’

  ‘That’s the spirit.’ Macro clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Right then, you’d better start preparing tonight’s issue. I’ll have the men come one century at a time. Make sure they all get a fair share; I don’t want any arguments or fights breaking out. Carry on.’

  He made his way to the Sixth Century and ordered Centurion Porcino to send one man from each section to collect rations, then did the rounds of the other centuries of the cohort to explain the arrangement. While the supplies were carefully measured out by Metellus, some of the men began to prepare fires using rocks and soil to provide a base for the small iron grilles they cooked their meals on. Each section had a cauldron in which they cooked up the grain and meat they had been issued into a stew, which the section leaders ladled out into mess tins. Soon the comforting odour of woodsmoke and food wafted over the tent lines and the men gathered around the fires as they waited to be fed.

  Macro did the rounds, swapping jokes and pausing for brief exchanges as he gauged the mood of the cohort. Satisfied that the Praetorians were in good heart, he gave the watchword for the duty century, commanded by Porcino, and then joined the men of the headquarters section of his own century: his second in command, Optio Pantellus, the four clerks, the bucina man, the standard-bearer of the cohort’s insignia and the man who carried the imperial image. A space had been left for him beside the fire, and he squatted down gratefully, warmed through by the cooking fire and the heat on his back from the burning settlement. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

  ‘Better make the most of it, lads. When that lot dies down, it’ll soon get cold again.’

  ‘Something we’re going to have to get used to, sir,’ said Pantellus.

  ‘Word travels fast,’ Macro observed. ‘But you’re right. And don’t tell me you really believed that nonsense about this all being over in a matter of days so we could march back to the inns and fleshpots of Tarsus.’

  Pantellus shrugged. ‘I’d hoped.’

  ‘Come now, we’re soldiers, this is what we’re paid for. Best of all, there�
�s going to be plenty of loot to go round once we take Thapsis. We’ll all do very nicely out of it. And there’s nothing a Tarsus whore likes better than a Roman soldier weighed down by silver.’

  ‘I’ll drink to that.’ The standard-bearer raised his canteen and took a slug of wine. Macro caught his eye and raised a brow. The man handed the canteen to his neighbour, then watched helplessly as it was passed round the circle until it was returned to him all but empty.

  The wine did not eliminate Pantellus’s misgivings, and he stared at the cauldron as he addressed his companions. ‘If we don’t take Thapsis soon, we’ll be here when winter comes. It’ll get much colder very quickly up here in the mountains. Mark my words. And there’ll be rain. Lots of rain.’

  At that exact moment, Macro felt something strike him softly on the cheek. He blinked and looked up, and another raindrop fell on his exposed forehead. The patter of rain on the ground and the plink of drops landing on armour grew steadily into what he hoped was a passing shower.

  ‘Now look what you’ve gone and done,’ he said sourly as he stared at the optio. ‘Tempting fate like that.’

  Pantellus looked sheepishly at the others. ‘I was just saying, lads . . . The gods are having a bit of fun with us.’

  ‘Oh, piss off,’ the standard-bearer growled as he gathered his cape around his shoulders and pulled the hood over his head. ‘Next time, keep it to yourself, eh?’

  The section leader, the senior clerk, leaned over the cauldron and gave it a brief stir with the ladle to test the stew’s consistency. ‘It’s ready, boys. Time to tuck in.’

  Macro was served first, making sure the clerk scraped the ladle along the bottom of the cauldron so that he got some chunks of the meat that lay there. He ate quickly before handing his mess tin to one of the other clerks to clean and return to his kitbag, then stood up and stretched his shoulders as he returned his attention to the burning settlement. The flames had already begun to die down before the rain started to fall, and he hoped it would douse the flames before they consumed all the remaining food and useful materials in the buildings. As if in answer to his prayers, the blaze began to shrink back and separate into a number of smaller fires. His men, however, were groaning and complaining as they did their best to cover up under their cloaks. The veterans amongst them had waterproofed their capes with applications of animal fat, and they mocked the discomfort of those companions who had not yet learned how to survive a mountain campaign.

  Macro bade them goodnight and hurried over to the wagon guarded by Metellus and two of his men. Climbing into the rear of the vehicle, he eased himself under the leather cover and out of the rain. There, propped up against some sacks of grain, he let his chin sink onto his breast and quickly dropped into a deep slumber, to the accompaniment of the steady sound of rain and distant thunder as sheet lightning flickered along the mountains surrounding Thapsis.

  A grey dawn sky revealed that the sprawling camp surrounding the wagon had been turned into a quagmire overnight. The lanes between the tent lines were slick with mud, and large puddles dotted the ground. Many of the men awoke to find themselves lying in icy water, their clothes drenched. A handful of small fires still burned in the settlement, and slender columns of smoke curled into the air. Most of the buildings were now blackened ruins. Beyond, the walls of Thapsis looked all but impregnable to Macro, regarding them as he climbed out of the wagon, and rubbing his back as he yawned. He was hungry and thinking about having something to eat when one of Corbulo’s clerks came squelching through the mud towards him.

  ‘Centurion Macro, sir! The general sends his compliments and wishes you to join him as soon as convenient.’

  Which inevitably meant at once, Macro knew.

  ‘Very well.’ He broke off a hunk of bread from a small loaf in one of the sacks in the wagon and took a bite. The bread was stale, but the aching hunger in his stomach was such that even the simplest of food tasted delicious. Chewing, he followed the clerk back through the camp, past the sodden soldiers stirring into life under leaden clouds that threatened further rain. The air was chilly, and he prayed that the siege would not endure well into winter, as Pantellus had suggested. It did not take much effort to imagine the biting cold in the mountainous terrain that surrounded Thapsis. Any supplies brought up from Tarsus would have to struggle through the snow and ice of the mountain tracks, and while the general might consider such conditions a useful means of toughening up his army, it would not do much for morale.

  Corbulo’s headquarters had been much improved by the timber, furniture and leather coverings that had been recovered from the settlement before the incendiaries had set fire to the buildings. There was a cluster of crudely made tents, and boards had been laid down over the mud immediately around them, as well as within. Macro returned the salute of the two Praetorians from Nicolis’s century standing guard outside the entrance of the largest tent, and ducked inside the flaps. A large pole held up the middle of the structure, and a section had been removed at the rear to provide light to work by. The general was seated at his desk writing on some waxed slates. To one side stood a cavalryman, spattered with mud.

  Macro approached and coughed. ‘You sent for me, sir.’

  Corbulo glanced up. ‘Centurion Macro, I have a job for you. This man has just brought word from Orfitus. It seems the prefect questioned one of the locals, who revealed a usable ford some miles upriver from the bridge. So he has taken it into his head to lead the baggage train and rearguard to this ford and cross the river to join us while the repairs to the bridge continue.’

  ‘That’s good news, sir.’

  ‘Well, I hope so. But I can’t help having a few misgivings about Orfitus blundering about on mountain tracks in enemy territory. I need an experienced officer to take command of the rearguard and make sure it reaches Thapsis safely. You’re the best man I have to hand, so I’m sending you.’

  Macro could not hide his surprise. ‘But sir, Prefect Orfitus outranks me.’

  Corbulo tapped the waxed tablet with the end of his stylus. ‘Not any more. This is your authority to take command until the rearguard reaches the camp. Once I have set my seal to it, you will be in charge. I’ve also passed word to the Macedonian cohort to have one of their squadrons made ready to ride with you to ensure you get through.’ He paused to indicate the man standing beside him. ‘This is Optio Phocus of the Syrian cohort. He will be able to provide confirmation of the authority if that is needed. Since I have no idea about the location of this ford Orfitus claims to have found, I suggest you stick as close to the river as you can while you track down the rearguard. When you have found them, take over from Orfitus and get the baggage and siege train here as quickly as possible. We need the supplies, and I want those weapons assembled and pounding the walls of Thapsis. Don’t take any risks along the way. You will construct fortified camps each night. I’d sooner a short delay in the rearguard getting here than take any chances. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Who’s the senior centurion in the Praetorian cohort after you?’

  ‘Centurion Porcino, sir.’

  ‘Then tell him he’s in command during your absence.’ Corbulo thought briefly, then nodded. ‘That’s all. Get whatever kit you need, and the optio here will find you a horse. I want you on the road as soon as possible.’

  Corbulo hurriedly concluded writing the authority, then pressed his seal ring into the wax, snapped the tablet shut and handed it to Macro.

  ‘There. May Fortuna ride with you, Centurion, and bring me my catapults, safe and sound.’

  A light shower was falling as Macro led his small force out of the camp. The Macedonian auxiliaries had arranged their long cloaks to cover their saddlebags and slung shields as best they could while keeping themselves warm. The road, which had been worn and heavily rutted when the Romans had approached the city, was now slick with mud and strewn with puddles. Macro gave t
he order to move off it and advance along the more solid ground at the side.

  Shortly before noon, they reached the point where the road climbed into the mountains that surrounded the plain of Thapsis. Macro looked back at the city and the outline of the Roman camp below it. If the general had misgivings about Orfitus, then Macro had misgivings about himself. While he was perfectly confident and competent in his role as an officer fighting on the battle line, and quite capable of taking temporary command of the cohort, he felt anxious about the task now entrusted to him. The stakes were high. Without the baggage train, the general’s column would have to abandon the siege and hand the rebels a victory that could well spark further uprisings and threaten the stability of the Eastern Empire at the same time as Rome faced the threat of war with Parthia. It seemed to Macro that the outcome hung on the success of Cato’s embassy and his own safe shepherding of the rearguard to Thapsis. If either of them failed, a high price would be paid by the Empire.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  ‘They’re treating us well, all things considered,’ said Apollonius as he set down his flute and reached for another fig.

  ‘Are you ever going to play that thing?’ asked Cato.

  Apollonius laughed. ‘One day. For now I prefer to practise in private, until I can get a decent tune out of it.’

  His expression became serious. ‘If anything should happen to me, I’d be grateful if you would return the flute to Corbulo for me.’

  Cato frowned. ‘Why?’

  ‘It has a certain sentimental value to the general. I know he’d be grateful.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’ Cato gazed out across the flower beds and fountains to the wall that surrounded the palace of Haghrar at Ichnae.

  There were slender towers at regular intervals along the wall, for decorative purposes rather than defensive, Cato reflected as he sat on the couch opposite the agent. The thin pillars supporting the roof were covered with reliefs depicting vines and small birds. They would be pulverised by the very first missile hurled from a catapult. Like much of the city, the palace had been built by those unused to the powerful siege weapons deployed by Rome, and Greece before them. Since the days of Alexander, the nature of warfare in the lands watered by the Euphrates and the Tigris had changed, and the plodding ranks of Alexander’s phalanxes had largely given way to bodies of horsemen moving swiftly across the landscape. All the same, Cato mused, the walls were tall enough to serve as a prison, and the vigilant sentries patrolling between the towers discouraged any thought of escape.