‘You can lower your arms,’ Julia said as she straightened up and reached for a pot of fat on the table. ‘The burns will need to be protected for a few days. Those arms are going to smart for a while, but I dare say you will pretend not to notice it.’
Macro laughed. ‘It seems you have the measure of me.’
‘No. Not you, just soldiers in general. Most of you seem to think you’re as hard as the Spartans.’
‘Spartans?’ Macro snorted his derision. ‘Bunch of tunic-lifters, that lot. Wouldn’t last quarter of an hour up against the legions.’
‘If you say so.’ Julia dipped her hand in the pot and cupped a dollop of the fat in her palm. ‘Hold still.’
Macro clamped his lips together as she applied the unguent and started to smooth it out across the raw red burns on his arms. It hurt, as she had said it would, but Macro was damned if he would show it. He forced himself to speak in a relaxed conversational tone. ‘So, how long have you been a surgeon?’
Julia chuckled. ‘Hardly a surgeon. But one of my father’s slaves in Rome was. He taught me some basics, and the rest I have learned in the last month, on the job as it were.’
‘You seem to know what you’re doing,’ Macro conceded, a little grudgingly. ‘For a woman, that is. Not that a woman should have to do this in the first place. Especially not a senator’s daughter.’
‘Nonsense. There’s no reason why a senator’s daughter should not be allowed to serve the Empire in any way that she can. Some would say it was my duty to help. In any case, I want to.’
Macro smiled slyly. ‘Do you always get what you want, miss?’
She looked up and caught his expression and smiled back. ‘Always.’
‘Your father must find you something of a handful.’
‘I wouldn’t say that. I’m a loyal daughter and I would never shame him. But I know my own mind, and he respects that well enough.’
‘Not sure that I would let any daughter of mine be so headstrong.’
‘Good thing I’m not your daughter then.’ She leaned back towards the pot for some more ointment. ‘Other arm, please.’
She was silent for a moment as she began to gently apply the grease. ‘Your friend, Cato, seems to be rather an unlikely warrior.’
‘You’re telling me, miss. But, for all his quirks, he’s a damn fine soldier. Fights like a fury and can march almost any man into the ground. Except me, of course.And he’s got a good head on his shoulders. His only fault is that he thinks too much at times.’
‘Yes, he does seem rather a sensitive type.’
‘Sensitive?’ Macro repeated the word with distaste as if it was an insult, which in his view it certainly was. If any man ever had the balls to call Macro sensitive to his face, he resolved, he would knock seven shades out of him. Of course, he’d try to feel bad about it afterwards. Maybe. He looked up at Julia. ‘Don’t know about sensitive, but he has a heart as well as a head, if that’s what you mean.’
‘Yes, that’s what I meant,’ Julia replied diplomatically. ‘I imagine being an officer doesn’t leave much room in your lives for family.’
‘No, it doesn’t. Especially if you’re not on garrison duty. Since Cato turned up I’ve been on campaign in Britain, served in the fleet, and been sent out here.’
‘No wife then,’ Julia concluded. ‘And how about your friend Cato? Is he married?’
Macro shook his head.
‘And no woman waiting for him back in Antioch, Rome, or wherever?’
‘Hardly.We’ve not been anywhere long enough, or we’ve simply been too busy to find time for such things, beyond the odd tart or two.’
‘Oh.’
Macro looked at her shrewdly. ‘So he’s available, if anyone’s interested, miss.’
Julia blushed as she finished applying the fat in a rush, rubbing it on firmly enough to make even Macro wince at the pain it caused. She stepped away and reached for a rag to wipe her hands on.’There you are.Try not to disturb that - it’ll protect the burns for a short time. I’ll have a pot sent to your quarters. Apply it at the start and end of each day.’
Macro nodded. ‘Thank you, miss.’
‘Off you go then,’ she responded tersely.’There are other men who need my attention.’
I bet, Macro thought as he rose to leave the room. Now that he looked at her she was something of a beauty, but her aristocratic air killed any appeal she might have had for Macro.Too well brought up, too clever and too independent for his taste. Still, for the right man, she would be a fine catch.
There were no further attempts to attack the citadel and the sentries patrolled the walls and watched over the city as the sun beat down. A handful of rebels kept an eye on the defenders from the edge of the agora and from small lookout posts outside the city with a view of the citadel where it stood on top of the rise in the ground. Otherwise a semblance of normal life continued in and around the city. A handful of traders and merchants still entered the gates of Palmyra to sell their wares and an unladen caravan of camels began its return journey to the distant banks of the Euphrates. The only sign of the struggle for power was the steady procession of bodies out towards the funeral plain to the south of the city. There, scores of pyres had been built to receive the bodies of the fallen and one by one they were set alight and greasy black smoke billowed into the air as the corpses were consumed by the flames. Later the ashes were scooped into small pottery urns, which were sealed and then carried to the strange funeral towers that rose up from the plain, where the remains were reverentially placed with those of their forebears.
Inside the citadel there was little room for such rituals and the bodies were burned on a common pyre in the royal garden, before the remains were scooped into urns and placed somewhere where they could be stored until the siege was over and they could be interred properly.
Macro and Cato made a tour of the defences to ensure that adequate supplies of arrows, sling shot and other missiles were ready and to hand in case of further attacks. Towards the end of their reconnaissance, as they stood on top of the signal tower and stared out across the city’s roofs, Cato scratched his jaw and muttered, ‘What do you think they will do next?’
‘It depends.They could sit on their arses and try to starve us out, or wait until the Parthians arrive, complete with siege experts and maybe some equipment. Or they could build a better ram and try again.’
‘What would you do in their place?’
‘Me?’ Macro considered the matter for a moment. ‘I’d assume that a Roman column, however small, that had been sent to aid Vabathus was a sign of Roman commitment. I’d expect a much larger force to follow.That would mean that I had a limited time in which to reduce the citadel.’ He turned to Cato.’I'd attack again as soon as I had the chance.’
Cato nodded. ‘So would I.’ He glanced quickly over his shoulder, but the only other men on the tower were on the far side, absorbed in a game of dice. ‘And I’d take further comfort from the fact that there’s a fair amount of dissent amongst the defenders.’
‘How can Artaxes know that?’
‘Because he’s family. He knows how deeply divided his brothers are, and how little faith his father has in either of them. Artaxes will also know that Balthus is no great admirer of Rome and is likely to resent our presence here. There’s one other thing. If any of the nobles or refugees begin to lose confidence that the king will hold out against Artaxes, they might well come to believe they have more to gain by throwing their lot in with the prince, and betray us. The prospect of some kind of reward might be an added inducement to treachery.’ Cato smiled bleakly. ‘Not the best situation we have ever been in.’
‘And not the worst, either.’
‘Perhaps not.’
Macro gave his friend an appraising look.
‘What?’ Cato frowned. ‘What is it?’
‘I’m just glad you and your devious mind are on my side. It’s as I told that woman: you’re a thinking man, a thinking soldier.’
‘Which woman?’
‘The one in the hospital. She saw to my wounds. The ambassador’s daughter, Julia Sempronia.’
Cato felt a tremor of nerves in his gut. ‘You were discussing me?’
‘Sort of. She was asking questions.’
‘About me?’
‘Yes. What of it? I didn’t tell her anything you wouldn’t have told her yourself.’
Cato wasn’t sure about that at all. He thought he knew Macro well enough to fear that some indiscretion, large or small, would eventually be teased out of him by Julia. ‘What did she want to know?’
‘What I thought of you. Whether you were married, or had a woman of some kind.’
‘And what did you say to her?’
‘That there was no one at the moment, and that you were available.’
Cato swallowed nervously. ‘You told her that?’
‘Of course!’ Macro slapped him on the shoulder. ‘She’s a lovely-looking girl. Bit too classy for my liking, though. More your type.’
Cato shut his eyes and rubbed his forehead. ‘Please, please tell me that you didn’t suggest that she might like to . . . attach her affections to me.’
‘Oh, very well put!’ Macro swore softly. ‘Very romantic. Anyway, what kind of idiot do you take me for? I just hinted that you were free of any commitments and you’d be a fine catch. Cato, this isn’t a children’s party.There is every chance that we may not hold out against Artaxes for much longer. If that’s the case, what has she got to lose? For that matter what have you got to lose? I think she’s taken a shine to you. If you are interested in her then make your move, while there’s time.’
‘And if we all survive this? What then?’ Cato could imagine the awkwardness of a relationship forged in the shadow of annihilation, only for the participants to emerge unscathed back into the same old world of hazardless routine. That was assuming that Julia did not rebuff him in the first place.
Macro yawned. ‘You could always make an honest woman of her.’
They stared at each other for a moment, before Macro burst out laughing. ‘Just joking!’
‘Funny bastard,’ Cato muttered sourly. Nevertheless, the merest suggestion of marriage to Julia briefly filled his mind and made his heart feel light. Then he cursed himself for such foolish speculation. What could a highborn Roman woman ever see in the son of a freedman? It was unthinkable, and yet . . .
Cato pushed himself away from the parapet and composed his expression. ‘Sir, I think we’re done here. I still have to do an inventory of my cohort’s weapons.’
‘An inventory of kit?’ Macro tried not to smile at his friend’s obvious attempt to avoid further discussion of the matter. Instead he mimicked Cato’s officious tone.’Very well then, Prefect Cato. Carry on.’
They exchanged a formal salute and then, as Cato turned and strode stiffly away, Macro shook his head and muttered, ‘She’s got right under that boy’s skin . . .’
Shortly after noon a messenger from King Vabathus arrived at the makeshift quarters Macro was sharing with Cato.The latter had finally completed his inspection and reluctantly joined Macro in the cool interior of the citadel to sit out the heat and glare of the midday sun.
‘His Majesty requests your company at a small feast he is giving this evening in your honour,’ the royal servant explained. ‘At sunset. Formal dress code.’
‘Formal dress?’ Macro’s expression darkened. He gestured at his worn and dirty tunic and dusty boots. ‘This is all we have. When we set off from Antioch we were marching to war, not a bloody dinner party.’
The servant bowed his head and responded, ‘His Majesty’s chamberlain suggests that you procure some spare clothes from the Roman ambassador. His excellency Lucius Sempronius has already said he would be happy to provide you with tunics, togas and sandals.’
‘Oh, very well,’ Macro grumbled. ‘We’ll be there. You may go.’
The servant made a deep bow and backed out of the room, quietly closing the door behind him. Macro lay back down on his mattress, folded his arms behind his head and stared up at the rafters. ‘Here we are, surrounded by bloodthirsty enemies and we’re off to a fancy dinner. Still, at least it’ll make a nice change from horsemeat.’
‘I suppose so,’ Cato replied. ‘But I hardly think it’s going to do much for the morale of the people in the citadel to know that the king and his circle are feasting while they’re on limited rations.’
As the sun dipped towards the horizon and bathed the city in an orange glow Macro and Cato entered the royal quarters. At the rear of the citadel, tucked between the main building and the wall, was a small roof garden with a colonnade that stretched along each of the open sides. Occasional pergolas provided shade and small trees and shrubs grew in large tubs and raised flower beds. A slave was watering the plants as Macro and Cato entered and Cato could not help wondering about the king’s sense of priorities. On the far side, overlooking the city wall and the lush oasis beyond, a number of couches had been arranged around low tables. An awning had been rigged above the couches and in the light breeze blowing in off the desert it gently shimmered and billowed. Most of the guests were already present. Cato recognised some of the nobles, alongside Thermon, Balthus, Amethus, Sempronius and his daughter.
Cato felt a quickening of his pulse at the sight of her, but when she looked his way his gaze shifted to examine the other guests. He saw Balthus approach Julia and with a gracious bow begin to engage her in conversation.
Sempronius smiled as he caught sight of the two officers and came over to greet them.
‘Centurion Macro, I see that my tunic is a bit tight around the shoulders.’
Macro swung his arms loosely. ‘It’s comfortable enough, sir. I’ll manage. And thank you for helping us out.’
‘My pleasure.’ Sempronius turned to Cato. ‘You on the other hand seem made to fit my clothes. They look even better on you than on me.’
Cato shifted self-consciously and Sempronius smiled.
‘Don’t grow too used to them. I’ll want them back later on. Anyway, let me show you to your places.’ He put a hand on each man’s shoulder and steered them towards the couches. ‘The king will be seated at the head of the centre table, when he joins us.Thermon and the princes will sit to his left and you two have been given the place of honour at his right. I and my daughter will be on the other side. Normally the locals don’t approve of women feasting alongside the men, but they have made an exception for Julia.’
‘Very accommodating of them,’ said Macro.
‘I suppose so, but I imagine it’s mainly because Balthus has his eye on her.’
‘Really?’ Macro looked at Cato and raised an eyebrow. ‘That’s understandable enough, sir. She’s a lovely-looking young woman. Any man in his right senses would be proud to have her as his wife.’
Cato glared furiously at his friend, while Sempronius frowned and said with evident sadness, ‘I just wish her former husband had shared your sentiments. Anyway, the prince seems to like her well enough, which is useful.’
‘Useful?’ Cato was surprised by the odd choice of word.
‘Of course. Right now I value any influence that I can get over Balthus, or any of these people. So please, think like diplomats tonight, and not like . . .’
‘Soldiers?’ Macro suggested.
Sempronius nodded. ‘If you wouldn’t mind. For the sake of the Empire.’
‘In that case,’ Macro assumed a thoughtful expression, ‘I suppose I might try to avoid any behaviour that could cause a scandal, although I can’t speak for my friend Cato. He’s the one you should keep an eye on.’
‘Really?’ Sempronius looked at Cato with raised eyebrows.
‘Ignore him,’ Cato muttered. ‘Just ignore him.’
Thermon rapped his staff on the ground and the conversation died abruptly as the Palmyran nobles turned towards the entrance to the roof garden and bowed their heads. Sempronius gestured to his companions to do the same. After a moment’s stil
lness, King Vabathus came striding through the doorway. He swept through the small crowd of guests and eased himself down on to the royal couch. Thermon waited for his master to settle and then rapped his staff again.
‘All may be seated!’
The guests hurriedly took up their places and a low hubbub of conversation slowly swelled to a more comfortable volume. Macro and Cato, lying on their couches to the right of the king, kept quiet, waiting to be addressed by him.Vabathus regarded them for a moment and then cleared his throat.
‘We owe you our gratitude, Romans, for the fine defence of the citadel gates this morning.’
Macro bowed his head. ‘Thank you, sir, but we were just doing our duty.’
The king gestured towards Macro’s arms. ‘You are wounded?’
Macro shook his head. ‘Just some burns, sir. They’ll heal in a few days.’
‘I see.’ The king glanced past Macro to address Cato. ‘And you?’
‘Your Majesty?’
‘Are you wounded?’
‘No,Your Majesty. Not today.’
‘Ah.’ The king nodded and turned away with a dull expression to stare out over the wall, towards the oasis. The molten glow of the sun barely rimmed the horizon and long shadows spilled across the sand and the dark green fronds of the palm trees. Macro waited a little longer, in case there was any further remark from the king, and then he turned to Cato with a subtle shake of his head. But Cato was already looking the other way. Julia was lying beside her father and Cato was pleased that she was temporarily parted from Prince Balthus.
‘So tell me, Prefect.’ Sempronius spoke just loudly enough in Greek for the other guests to hear. ‘How much of a fight did the rebels put up?’
Cato could not help a small smile as he considered the staged question and he made sure that his reply was equally audible. ‘The majority of them are little more than a rabble, an armed mob. We have nothing to fear from them. Apart from that, I’m sure we can deal with Prince Artaxes’ regular soldiers if they have the stomach for another fight. But I doubt they’ll trouble us for a few days yet.’
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