Cato frowned. ‘That is my decision. Soldier, you are dismissed. Return to your century.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The auxiliary saluted and marched from the room, and out of the sight of his commander, as quickly as he could. Once he had gone Cato waited on the bench. Julia stared at him a moment and then placed her hands on her hips impatiently.
‘Well, what is it this time?’
‘Sword wound.’ Cato gestured to the streak of blood on his arm.
‘Come over here then,’ she replied tersely. ‘In the light, where I can see properly. Don’t keep me waiting, Prefect. There are others who need my attention.’
And they are welcome to you, Cato reflected irritably as he rose to his feet and crossed over to her. The ambassador’s daughter took his elbow and eased him round into the shaft of light streaming through the window. She inspected the wound briefly. ‘So, you are intent on losing this arm one piece at a time, it seems.’
Cato pursed his lips, and his frown deepened. Julia glanced up at his face and he could see that she was fighting back the urge to laugh. To mock him. He sniffed bitterly. ‘A soldier expects wounds, my lady. Whether he’s a common soldier, like that man, or an officer. It’s in the line of duty. Not something I imagine a lady of fine breeding would be used to.’
The words had been spoken before Cato realised how rude he must seem. Julia’s eyes widened for a moment, and when she replied she spoke in a cold tone.
‘I know my duty, Prefect. And, in recent days, I have come to know more wounds than I care to remember. I’d be obliged if you would remember that.’
Their eyes met and Cato gave her the kind of hard stare he reserved for scaring raw recruits, until Julia gave way and turned her gaze back to his wound. ‘It’s a flesh wound. Looks clean enough, but I’ll wash it and stitch it.’
She reached round to a bowl of water on the table and pulled out a damp rag and squeezed the excess water out. She poised it over the wound. ‘Well, here we go again. You know the routine. It’s going to be painful, but then a hard case like you never feels pain.’
Cato flushed angrily but refused to respond to her baiting. ‘I am obliged to make my report to your father. So, my lady, I’d be grateful if you finished dressing the wound and let me get back to work.’
‘Very well,’ Julia muttered. She prepared a needle and twine, and set to work at once, pricking the point through Cato’s skin and gradually sewing the wound shut, until there was a length of puckered purple skin and bloodstained thread. Cato stared fixedly at the door with gritted teeth despite the pain. At length Julia completed her work and tied the knot with a sharp tug. ‘There you are, Prefect.’
Cato nodded his thanks and turned to stride back towards the door, grateful for the chance to get away from the woman. As he reached the door she called after him.
‘Until the next wound, then.’
‘Hmmphhh,’ Cato managed to grumble before he quit the room and emerged into the corridor. Outside the surgeon was organising a party of men to fetch the day’s water and food rations for his patients. He looked up as Cato approached, and cocked an eyebrow.
‘Feeling better, sir?’
‘Better?’ Cato paused. ‘Of course not. It’s a sword wound, not a bloody cold.’
‘Still,’ the surgeon continued, ‘a woman like that has a way of taking a man’s mind off his pain.’
‘Oh, yes.’ Cato nodded with a bitter smile. ‘I could hardly wait to get away from her.’
The surgeon looked confused. ‘I didn’t mean …’
But Cato was already marching off again, his expression fixed in a frown as he contemplated the prospect of being shut up in the citadel in the company of an irritating, haughty daughter of Rome’s aristocracy. As if her superior manner was not bad enough, she had the kind of looks that could only serve as a distraction to the officers and political leaders packed into the citadel. The thought came upon him in an instant, and considering the matter a moment longer Cato was forced to concede that the ambassador’s daughter was indeed attractive; beautiful even.
‘Beautiful,’ he muttered sourly to himself. What did it matter what she looked like? She was an irritant and a distraction at best. And at worst? He felt a sudden light surge of heat in his breast and slapped his fist against his thigh as he strode off to find the ambassador.
Lucius Sempronius looked up as the two officers entered the small chamber that had been allocated to him by the king’s chamberlain. Although as an ambassador of Emperor Claudius he deserved better, the severe overcrowding of the citadel meant that there was little opportunity to observe diplomatic niceties. His small staff was crowded into the corridor outside, which served as both their office and their sleeping accommodation. Macro had smiled as he and Cato had marched past the huddle of young aristocrats forced to rough it with the ambassador’s clerks and his bodyguards. It would do them good, he thought, to get a bit of hard experience before they rose through the ranks of the imperial bureaucracy. That was assuming they survived this siege, of course, he reflected, his smile fading.
They strode up towards the ambassador and halted.
‘Centurion Macro and Prefect Cato reporting, sir.’
The ambassador nodded to the seats arranged before the table he was using as a desk. ‘You look tired, gentlemen. And no wonder, given what you’ve been through in recent days, and nights.’ He smiled at Cato. ‘My thanks to you both. The arrival of your column has given the king and his supporters fresh hope. I was very worried that they were about to surrender before you turned up. Now they can see that Rome does not abandon her friends. However …’ Sempronius paused and lowered his voice. ‘The arrival of Prince Balthus is something of a mixed blessing. He is not the king’s favourite son. That honour lies with Prince Artaxes.’
‘Artaxes?’ Macro looked puzzled. ‘The rebel? The one who’s thrown his lot in with the Parthians?’
‘The same.’ Sempronius nodded. ‘Vabathus doted on the young scoundrel. He was blind to the prince’s faults, and even though word of his treachery had reached the chamberlain’s ears some months before the revolt broke out, the king dismissed the reports and refused to act against Artaxes. Even when the rebels rose up against him the king would not believe that Artaxes was behind it. He said that Artaxes was being forced to lead the rebels against his will. Can you imagine?’ Sempronius shook his head wearily. ‘It appears that some fathers are utterly blind to the faults of their children. Well, that’s not entirely true. Vabathus has little regard for his eldest, Amethus. Not that I can blame him. Amethus is a fool. Quite stupid, you understand, and easily persuaded. He spends his life being a passionate advocate of the last thing that anyone says to him. The king may be fond of Amethus, but he has long since given up on him as a worthy successor. Same goes for Prince Balthus. Or did, until the revolt broke out. Now that Prince Artaxes has proved to be a treacherous little snake, the king has been forced to reconsider his choice of successor.’ Sempronius leaned a little closer to Macro and Cato. ‘What’s your impression of Prince Balthus?’
Macro stirred uneasily and resisted the impulse to glance at Cato before he replied. ‘He’s a damn good fighter, sir. Just the kind of man the king needs at his side at the moment.’
‘Well, that’s good to hear.’ Sempronius eased himself back in his chair. ‘I haven’t met the man yet. From what I’d heard, Balthus was supposedly no more than a drunken rake. A wastrel with no sense of duty. I just hope there’s more to him than a good fighter.’
‘Oh, there’s more to him than that, all right,’ Macro responded uneasily. ‘The prince has disturbing ambition, sir.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘He aims to be king after Vabathus. Once Rome persuades Vabathus to abdicate after the revolt is crushed.’
Sempronius chuckled bitterly. ‘Taking rather a lot for granted, isn’t he?’
This time Macro could not help glancing at Cato before he responded, ‘Well, there’s something more, sir.’
�
��Which is?’
‘Well, sir, it seems that I made something of a deal with Prince Balthus. In exchange for helping the column make its way through to the citadel, sir.’
‘A deal?’
‘Yes, sir. I said as how I’d do my best to help him out when we reached here, sir. We needed his help. There was no way we could have got through without Balthus. We owe him our lives.’
‘I see.’ Sempronius rubbed his face wearily. ‘And did it not occur to you that he was in the same predicament as you were?’
‘Sir?’ Macro frowned and turned to Cato with a questioning expression as the ambassador continued.
‘Once the revolt started, our friend Prince Balthus might well have been desperate to join his father, to trade on the old man’s vulnerability. The problem was getting through to him. And then you came along, desperate for help, and he sees his chance. He offers you a deal, and you jump at it. What exactly did you promise him, Prefect Cato?’
Cato started guiltily. During the previous exchanges his eyelids had been growing irresistibly heavy and he would have fallen asleep but for the ambassador’s sudden shift in attention. Cato swallowed and hurriedly collected his thoughts.
‘Sir, we had little choice in the matter, as Centurion Macro has said. Either we cut a deal with the prince or he would have left us stranded in the desert. Or at least—’
‘At least that’s what he’d have you believe,’ Sempronius completed the sentence. ‘Dear Gods! So you have pledged your word to help this man become king. Is that it?’
Macro pursed his lips briefly. ‘Well, yes, sir. That’s about the size of it.’
‘Centurion Macro,’ Sempronius replied with considerable restraint. ‘You are a soldier. What the hell did you think you were doing making any kind of deal with such a man? You’re supposed to stick to soldiering. That’s what you are paid to do. That’s your job. So please, concentrate on fighting your man from the front. Leave it to the diplomats to put the blade in from behind, all right?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you, Prefect Cato. Did you know about this?’
‘Yes, sir. I was there when the deal was made.’
‘And you made no attempt to intervene?’
‘No, sir. It seemed the best thing to do at the time. Prince Balthus was the only chance we had of finding a way through the enemy’s defences.’
‘You’re as bad as Centurion Macro.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cato conceded meekly.
Sempronius ran a hand through his thick grey-streaked hair. ‘There’s nothing we can do about it now. Best I take this up with the prince later on. In the meantime, you do not play at politics in Palmyra. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir!’ Macro and Cato chorused.
‘Then we’d better make our way to the king’s audience chamber. He’s summoned what’s left of his council, and us. When we get there I’d be greatly obliged if you both kept your mouths shut. Let me do the talking. That’s an order.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Sempronius rose abruptly from his chair. ‘Come on, then. I’m keen to see exactly what kind of man we are dealing with in Prince Balthus.’
CHAPTER TWENTY
The guards closed the doors to the royal audience chamber and a dull boom echoed off the high walls. For a moment then there was a brief silence as the king’s chamberlain, Thermon, rose and looked round at the small gathering of Roman officials and Palmyran nobles. King Vabathus had abandoned his earlier melancholy, Cato noticed, and now sat erect and attentive as his chamberlain opened proceedings, speaking in Greek so that all might follow his words.
‘The king bids you welcome, and in particular he welcomes the brave commanders of the Roman relief column. The arrival of fresh troops has greatly strengthened the king’s position and the news that a Roman army is on its way to crush the rebellion fills his heart with hope. The king is also grateful that Prince Balthus has seen fit to join His Majesty’s side in the present conflict. It is hoped that he will have further opportunities to prove himself worthy of his royal lineage in the difficult times to come.’
Cato glanced at Balthus and saw that the prince was sitting quite still with a composed expression as he gently nodded his acknowledgement. To his right sat another Palmyran, in a richly decorated tunic. The man was thin with a weak chin and fine features yet there was no mistaking the family resemblance between him and Balthus. Prince Amethus, Cato realised, studying the man more closely as Thermon spoke. Amethus did not have the same controlled poise as his younger brother and his left foot tapped in a continuous light rhythm as he stared at some point on the ceiling, mouth slightly agape.
‘His Majesty has summoned this council to deliberate the options that are open to us, given the current state of the siege. This morning, after the relief column had entered the citadel, we received the usual demand to surrender. Only this time, the rebels have added a warning to our Roman allies. Every Roman citizen and soldier in the citadel is to quit the city by dawn tomorrow or they will be put to death if the citadel is taken.’ Thermon paused and looked towards Sempronius who was already pulling his formal toga into shape to rise up and respond, and Cato realised that this part of the meeting had already been prepared for. The ambassador looked steadily round the room until he stared at the king and began to speak in the deliberate, measured manner in which most Roman aristocrats were trained by their teachers of rhetoric.
‘Your Majesty.’ Sempronius bowed his head. ‘It is with scorn that I respond to such a demand from our enemies. Rome is your ally, and Rome honours her obligations to her allies, whatever the cost. I speak for every Roman in the citadel in this regard.’ He gestured towards Macro and Cato. ‘While these fine officers and their gallant men draw breath we shall fight for King Vabathus. We shall not quit the great city of Palmyra, no matter what vile threats are made by the craven enemies of His Majesty. Together, we shall hold the citadel until the governor of Syria arrives with his army and crushes the rebels!’
Before Sempronius had sat down another figure had risen to his feet, just behind Prince Amethus. The man was broad-chested and clearly had a powerful physique beneath the folds of his fine embroidered robes. He bowed his head to the king and turned to the Roman ambassador.
‘Might I ask our Roman ally how long we are to wait before the army of Cassius Longinus reaches us?’
Sempronius remained in his seat as he replied, a calculated rebuff and expression of contempt for the speaker.
‘The commander of the relief column tells me that the governor will reach us within a matter of days, Krathos.’
‘Days? How many days, exactly?’ The man’s gaze shifted to Macro and he held up his hand to silence Sempronius as the latter started to respond. ‘I address my question to the centurion. Well, how many days?’
Macro shifted uncomfortably as all eyes turned towards him. He looked to Sempronius and the ambassador nodded, and muttered, ‘Be honest, Centurion.’
Macro swallowed and thought hard as he calculated the likely time it would take for the governor to concentrate his forces and march across the desert to Palmyra. The baggage train would find it tough going, Macro realised. He drew a deep breath and gave his answer.
‘At least another fifteen days. Perhaps as many as twenty, sir.’
‘Twenty days,’ Krathos repeated emphatically.
Sempronius leaned slightly closer to Macro and hissed, ‘Not that honest, Macro. For pity’s sake!’
‘Twenty days!’ Krathos spread out his arms. ‘How can this citadel endure for twenty days?’
‘We have held out for longer than that already,’ Sempronius countered. ‘We can last another twenty days.’
‘On what?’ Krathos shot back. ‘The water supplies are close to exhausted, and the food will not last much longer. Thanks to the arrival of Prince Balthus and his friends, and our Roman allies, we now have another thousand mouths to feed, not counting the hundreds of horses they have brought with them. Far from rescuing us, these Ro
mans have made the situation even worse! By the time the governor’s army reaches us we will have died of thirst and hunger and Prince Artaxes and his rebels will be picking over our bones.’
‘Very well then,’ Thermon interrupted, rapping his staff on the flagstoned floor. ‘What would you suggest we do, Krathos?’
‘Negotiate with the rebels. Come to terms so that those who have taken shelter in the citadel are spared.’
‘Even if that means His Majesty abdicates? And we break our treaty with Rome?’
‘Even that.’ Krathos nodded. ‘Although my loyalty to His Majesty is boundless, he must accept that his continued reign would divide Palmyra. As would Prince Artaxes, should he take the citadel and proclaim himself king. As I see it, there is only one way out of this predicament. We must offer the people of Palmyra a compromise: a ruler who is beholden neither to Rome, nor to Parthia. We must offer them Prince Amethus as their new king.’ He took a pace forward and laid his hand on the prince’s shoulder. Amethus started and glanced round quickly. Krathos gave him a reassuring smile and Amethus nodded happily and stared off into the mid-distance again.
Krathos cleared his throat and continued, ‘Let Prince Amethus preserve the balance of power between the great empires that have us caught between them. Let His Majesty step down from the throne, in favour of his eldest son and heir. And let Prince Amethus bring peace to our kingdom.’
‘Peace!’ Prince Balthus snorted as he stood up and faced Krathos. ‘There would be no peace under my brother and you know it. Amethus is a fool. He’s easily led. Particularly by you, Krathos. You have but to tug his leash and Amethus follows you like a whipped cur. Everyone knows it. Just as everyone knows that you would have us beholden to which ever empire offered you the most gold!’
Cato noticed that Amethus barely stirred during his brother’s tirade. He wondered how Amethus could be oblivious of the insults. Unless his simpleness had made him immune.
For a moment Krathos’ eyes widened in anger, then he forced himself to smile and wave his hand dismissively. ‘The prince forgets himself. Has my family not supported King Vabathus, and all his forebears, with unimpeachable loyalty? I will take no lectures on loyalty from a man whose sole sense of duty is to his own self-indulgence.’
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