‘Good.’ Macro patted his arm. ‘Fine job. Is this our man Artaxes?’
‘That’s him. I’d better get his arm seen to.’
‘If you think it’s worth it.’ Macro shrugged. ‘I don’t see the point. I doubt he’ll survive the reunion with his doting father.’
‘I suppose not,’ Cato conceded. ‘But that’s their affair. Just as long as we deliver him to the king alive, we’ll gain some favour with Vabathus. And with the Parthian threat removed ..’ Cato turned and looked over the battlefield. Now that the fighting was over and the dust had begun to settle he could begin to see the scale of the enemy’s defeat. The Parthian army had been broken entirely, and was being ruthlessly pursued and run down by General Longinus and his men. Most of the Parthians were fleeing into the gullies of the broken ground, desperately trying to put some distance between them and the victorious Roman soldiers.
Macro chuckled as he saw his friend survey the battlefield. ‘I guess the plan worked then.’
Cato turned to him then, and after a brief hesitation he laughed. ‘So it seems.’ Around them the legionaries of Macro’s cohort crowded round Cato and his men surveying the auxiliaries’ handiwork with open admiration. Then, from the ranks, a voice called out, ‘A cheer for the Second Illyrian, lads!’
At once the legionaries let out a throaty roar of approval and after a moment’s surprise the faces of the auxiliaries looked on in delighted smiles and triumphant grins as they mixed ranks with the legionaries.
There was a drumming of hooves and they both looked round to see Balthus and his men approaching them. The prince was smiling broadly and his eyes widened in delight as he saw the standard. Slewing his mount to a halt he slid from the saddle and clambered across the bodies towards the two Roman officers.
‘My friends, it is a great victory. Parthia has been humbled. Humbled, I tell you! Have you seen my brother? Has his body been found?’
Macro stepped out of the way and gestured towards Artaxes. ‘There. Alive but perhaps not so well.’
Balthus’ smile faded and he stood and stared at his brother lying on the ground, nursing his nearly severed hand. ‘You … Still alive.’
Artaxes opened his eyes and sneered when he saw his brother. ‘Very much alive, brother, and when the king sees me, I shall be remorseful. I shall weep as I confess to the ambitious spirit that deceived me. And you know what? He will forgive me.’
Macro laughed out loud. ‘I don’t think so, sunshine! Not after what you’ve done.’
‘Really?’ Artaxes smiled and then winced as another wave of pain momentarily seized him. A cold sweat broke out on his brow as he continued. ‘You don’t know my father. Like most fathers, he has a weakness. A compulsion to indulge his favourite son, whatever I may have done.’
There was a moment’s silence as the others considered his words. Then Balthus nodded and said quietly, ‘He’s right. It will be a difficult situation …’ He turned to the nearest of his men and barked an order. Before Macro and Cato realised what was happening, several bows were raised and arrows whipped through the air, thudding into Artaxes where he lay on the ground. He gasped, looking at his brother with a shocked expression. Then his eyes glazed over and he slumped back and stared into the sky, mouth open and slack.
Balthus looked at him for a moment and tipped his head slightly to one side.
‘But not any more.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
The day after the battle the legions’ priests performed the funeral rites for the men who had been killed. The pyres flared up into the night sky and by dawn their blackened remains dotted the desert as the army began its march back to Palmyra. The suffering of the enemy injured was ended with merciful thrusts to their throats, while the Roman wounded were carried from the battlefield and treated as well as they could be before being loaded on to carts, the backs of mules and horses, or makeshift stretchers carried by their comrades. Other parties of soldiers scoured the battlefield to retrieve any usable weapons that lay scattered over the ground.
The enemy dead were left where they lay, sprawled in heaps across the sand. Many hundreds more were dotted about the surrounding landscape where they had been cut down by the pursuing Roman cavalry. The Parthian army had been effectively destroyed. The survivors were scattered and leaderless and most had abandoned their weapons and armour. There was nothing left for them now but a long retreat back across the desert to the Euphrates and the lands of Parthia beyond. Without water few would make it home, and those who did would have a sorry tale to tell. It would be many years before Parthia dared to challenge Rome again.
Two days later, as the army constructed a marching camp close to the walls of Palmyra, General Longinus led a procession of officers and Prince Balthus, picked soldiers and captives through the gates of the city and along the main thoroughfare towards the royal palace. As soon as the king had received a message from Longinus announcing the outcome of the battle Vabathus had declared a public holiday to celebrate the end of the rebellion and the defeat of Parthia. Yet there was little sign of rejoicing as the Romans tramped along the paved road behind their standards. Macro and Cato marched just ahead of the standards with the other officers and they could see by the rigid set of the general’s head that Cassius Longinus was not best pleased by his muted reception.
‘What’s going on?’ Macro asked quietly. ‘You’d think they’d be happy the rebellion is over.’
Cato glanced round. Only a handful of the city’s inhabitants stood along the route, and they watched in wary silence as the soldiers passed by.
‘You can hardly blame them. They’ve seen more than enough fighting this last month. They’ll be grateful once they accept that peace has returned.’
Macro considered his friend’s explanation for a moment and then shrugged. ‘Maybe, but I’d like my gratitude now. I didn’t march all the way across a bloody baking desert, and sit out a siege, then fight a battle just so that I could be made to feel as welcome as a fart in a testudo.’
‘Please yourself, but I’m grateful just to get back to Palmyra.’
Macro glanced at him and grinned. ‘I’m sure you are. Of course that has nothing to do with that daughter of Sempronius, right?’
Cato felt a flush of irritation but managed to make himself smile back. ‘It has everything to do with her. With Julia.’ He felt his heart warm even at the mention of her name. ‘Her father gave me his word that I could marry her when I got back.’
‘If you got back, is what he said.’
‘If, when, what’s the difference?’
Macro smiled sadly. ‘Everything, when you don’t expect a man to survive long enough to make you honour your word.’
Cato’s eyes narrowed. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, come on, lad! You’re not thick. Sempronius is an aristocrat. You’re the son of a freedman. Hardly the best match for his precious daughter. He was humouring you.’
Cato thought it over for a moment and shook his head. ‘No. It doesn’t make sense. If Sempronius had no intention of letting me marry Julia, then why promise her to me if there was any chance that I would return? I think you’ve got it wrong, Macro. Very wrong.’
‘Well … All I can say is that I hope so, lad. I really do.’
They marched on in silence, through the almost deserted avenue that ran through the city towards the palace complex. As they drew near the entrance, a lofty arch that spanned the paved road, a small crowd of ragged woman and children on either side began to cheer half-heartedly at their approach. Once General Longinus drew level with the crowd they began to throw brilliant white petals in his path.
‘A nice thought,’ Macro remarked quietly. ‘But hardly reeking of sincerity. This lot must be the dregs of the street, hired to greet us.’
‘You wanted a welcome fit for a hero,’ Cato responded. ‘Well, here it is. At least the general is making the most of it.’
Macro glanced ahead and saw that Longinus was bowing his head gravely to each s
ide and holding his hand up in an aloof gesture of acknowledgement. The centurion sniffed. ‘From the way he’s carrying on you’d think he had already been awarded his ovation and was marching down the Sacred Way in Rome with a vast crowd on either side and a personal escort of vestal virgins.’
‘Perhaps he’s treating this as a dress rehearsal for the real thing,’ Cato added wryly.
‘Do you really think Longinus deserves a prize for what he’s done? Those Parthian boys nearly had us cold.’
‘You know how it is, Macro. Doesn’t matter how many men you lose, nor how many mistakes you make along the way. As long as you get the right result. And any victory over the Parthians is bound to go down well in Rome. So there’ll be a celebration. Anything to keep the plebs happy.’
‘Great …’
Cato looked round at the other officers and then lowered his voice still further. ‘And it has the added benefit of separating him from his legions for a while. Given his ambitions, that’s no bad thing.’
Macro nodded. Despite having frustrated Longinus’ plans to build up an army capable of overthrowing the Emperor, they had still not uncovered enough evidence to prove his treachery. Narcissus was not going to be satisfied with their efforts, Macro thought with a sinking feeling. The Emperor’s secretary was not noted for his patience with those who failed to deliver what he required of them. Macro and Cato had been sent to the eastern provinces to expose Longinus as a traitor. Whatever else they had achieved, Longinus had not incriminated himself enough to justify removing him from office and destroying him. It had been different in the days of Caligula, when any Roman could be executed on a whim. His successor was determined that such extrajudicial excesses would no longer be encouraged. Macro smiled to himself as he reflected that Narcissus probably pined for the brutal simplicity of the previous regime.
Just then he caught sight of a familiar face on the edge of the crowd and he paused a moment and stepped out of line. Cato turned with a quizzical expression and joined his friend. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘You go on. I’ll catch you up.’
‘Why? What is it?’
‘Someone I have to speak to. You go on,’ Macro said firmly.
Cato shrugged, then rejoined the column. Glancing back he saw Macro walk slowly towards the small crowd of ragged people lining the street and stop in front of a girl.
Then the procession passed through the arch and into the large courtyard in front of the royal palace. A guard of honour, formed from the surviving Greek mercenaries, lined the steps leading up to the palace entrance, where Thermon waited in front of the two columns that supported the portico. General Longinus rode across to the base of the stairs and reined his horse in before slipping gracefully down from the saddle. He gestured to his officers and Balthus to follow him and climbed the steps towards the entrance. The commander of the royal bodyguard snapped an order and the mercenaries turned smartly inward, stiffened to attention and presented their spears. Thermon bowed deeply as Longinus approached him.
‘My lord Cassius Longinus, it is a great pleasure to welcome you back to the city. The news of your victory has been the cause of great joy and celebration in Palmyra.’
‘So I noticed,’ Longinus replied acidly as he nodded towards the avenue leading back through the city. ‘It seems that your people must still be sleeping it off.’
Thermon paused a moment as he understood the tone of the Roman’s remark and then he smiled at Balthus. ‘My prince, the king is delighted by your success and looks forward to embracing his conquering son.’
‘I’m sure,’ Balthus replied.
‘If we might get a move on,’ Longinus interrupted. ‘I must report to the king and then I must return to my army and see to the men’s needs.’
‘Of course, my lord. If you would be kind enough to follow me.’ Thermon bowed again and backed away through the entrance before turning to lead the party down a long wide hall whose walls were richly decorated with bright paintings celebrating the exploits of past kings of Palmyra. At the end of the hall were two large brass-plated doors which were swung open by palace guards to reveal the king’s audience chamber. Vabathus sat on his throne, raised above the heads of those around him by a round dais approached by a small flight of steps. A throng of Palmyran nobles and the richest men of the city stood before him in their best robes. They parted before Longinus and his party and retreated on each side. There were more guards inside the chamber and these now took up position to create an avenue of spears and shields leading towards the dais and King Vabathus.
Behind the general, Cato’s eyes darted round the chamber. He saw Sempronius standing close to the king, then looked over the crowd until he saw Julia, standing slightly apart from the rest beside one of the gilded pillars. He gave a brief nod towards her and smiled quickly. She half raised her hand in acknowledgement, her face illuminated by a mixture of relief and joy at the sight of him.
Thermon led Longinus up to the foot of the steps and then stood respectfully to one side as he announced them formally.
‘Your Majesty, I present Cassius Longinus, governor of the Roman province of Syria, his officers and Prince Balthus.’
The king nodded at his guests and there was a short pause before he drew himself up on his throne and spoke.
‘General Longinus, we welcome you to our palace. There are no words adequate to express my thanks to you and your fine soldiers. You have delivered us from the hands of Parthia and those traitors amongst my people who would have sold their city into slavery to the Parthian kingdom.’ There was a slight tremor in his voice as he continued. ‘I understand that Artaxes died on the battlefield, by the hand of Prince Balthus. That is, perhaps, fitting. But while I grieve for the loss of yet another son, even one who betrayed me, I accept that I am for ever in Rome’s debt.’
Cato noticed Balthus stir at these words. The prince frowned and his lips compressed into a thin line as his father continued.
‘Such is my gratitude that I have today signed a treaty with the ambassador of Emperor Claudius. Henceforth, Palmyra and its domain will be accorded the status of a client kingdom of the Roman Empire.’ The king paused and looked straight at his surviving son. For a moment there was pity in his eyes and then sad resignation. ‘I understand, full well, that this treaty will not be to the liking of some of my people. But the choice that faces us is between being an ally of Rome or a conquest of Parthia.’
‘No!’ Prince Balthus shook his head, then pointed at his father. ‘You know what client status means, Father. Once you are gone, Palmyra will become a Roman province. We will lose our independence. We will lose our king and fall under the heel of Rome.’
‘Yes,’ Vabathus said loudly. ‘But that is the price that I must pay, and that you must accept.’
‘I shall not accept it,’ Balthus replied hotly. ‘It is the king’s duty to preserve his kingdom. Anything less would be a betrayal of the people of Palmyra.’
‘You speak to me of betrayal,’ Vabathus said icily. ‘You dare to speak to me of betrayal? You who betrayed your own flesh and blood and ordered the death of your brother Amethus?’
Balthus shook his head. ‘I did no such thing! You have no proof.’
‘No?’ Vabathus turned to the side and barked out an order. ‘Bring him out here, where all can see.’
There was a soft grunt and moan of pain and some sounds of shuffling footsteps from behind the dais, and then two of the king’s bodyguards emerged carrying a dirty bundle of rags and scabbed and bruised flesh between them. They dragged their burden round to the front of the throne and threw it down.
‘What is this?’ General Longinus stepped back with a look of disgust. ‘This … this man?’
The king ignored the Roman and fixed his attention on his son. ‘Balthus, surely you recognise the most loyal of your slaves?’
Prince Balthus stared down at the man huddled on the ground, battered and bloodied all over, and yet still clinging on to life as the bones of his rib
cage rose and fell in a fluttering rhythm. Slowly a look of horror filtered on to Balthus’ face as he grasped the truth. ‘Carpex,’ he muttered. ‘Carpex, what have you done to me?’
The slave suddenly seemed to become acutely aware of his surroundings and recoiled from the voice as if he had been struck a hard blow.
‘Master.’ The slave’s voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. ‘O master, I beg for your pardon. I—’
‘Silence, you slave dog!’ Vabathus roared out. ‘How dare you speak in the presence of your king?’ He glared at Carpex as the slave shrank back with a look of terror. Vabathus nodded and gave a small sneer of satisfaction as he turned back to his son and continued. ‘Balthus, this worthless scum provided us with all the answers we needed, once enough torture had been applied. This slave confirmed what I already suspected, that it was you who gave the order to kill Amethus. And that it was Carpex who carried it out.’
‘Lies!’ Baltus blustered. ‘Lies, I tell you.’ He took a step forward and kicked Carpex. ‘This slave is deceiving you, Father. I had nothing to do with it. I swear by almighty Bel.’
‘Quiet!’ Vabathus glared at his son. ‘Would you debase yourself even further by lying under oath to the city’s God? Have you no honour at all?’ He rose up and stabbed his finger towards the prince. ‘You are no son of mine. I renounce you. A common killer and traitor is what you are, and there can only be one punishment for such crimes. Guards, seize him!’
As the mercenaries closed in on him Balthus gritted his teeth and looked round like a cornered animal. His hand dropped to the handle of his sword and he swiftly drew the blade with a quick rasp and pointed it towards the nearest of the bodyguards.
‘Another step towards me and I’ll gut you.’
‘Put that sword down!’ Vabathus ordered. ‘You cannot escape.’
For a moment Balthus stared defiantly at his father, and then took a deep breath and lowered his head. The tension eased for an instant and the guards paused a moment before continuing their approach towards the prince. At that moment Balthus sprang towards Carpex and his blade glittered through the air. Even as the slave let out a terrified cry the sword cut through the bony hand he had flung up to protect himself. The finely honed edge sliced through the arm and continued on through the slave’s throat and buried itself in his spine, silencing the cry. Blood spurted across the floor of the audience chamber as Carpex fell back, his head almost severed. Balthus watched with a look of contempt as the body trembled a moment and then lay still. Then he threw his sword down and made no effort to resist as the bodyguards seized him and pinned his arms behind his back.
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