Centurion

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Get him out of here,’ Thermon ordered, then turned to some more men and pointed to the slave’s body. ‘And remove that.’

  Balthus was dragged from the chamber under the eyes of the Roman officers and the Palmyran nobles. Once he had gone, Vabathus’ shoulders drooped wearily and he stepped down from the dais.

  ‘Thermon, I am returning to my quarters. See to it that I am not disturbed.’

  The chamberlain glanced awkwardly at Longinus and the Roman officers. ‘But, Your Majesty, the celebrations … the banquet tonight.’

  ‘Celebrations?’ Vabathus shook his head. ‘What have I to celebrate?’

  He was still for a moment, then continued. ‘But you are right. The celebrations must go ahead. They will not be spoiled by the absence of a grieving man. See to it, Thermon.’

  He turned and made his way to the small rear entrance to the audience chamber. The nobles bowed their heads as he passed, but Vabathus ignored them, staring down at the floor as he walked through them, disappeared through the small doorway and left them standing in silence.

  Long shadows were stretching across the palace courtyard as Macro stood stiffly to attention in front of General Longinus and the Roman ambassador. The two senators were sitting at a small table drinking lemon-scented water. Behind them a slave wafted air over them with a large fan made from woven palm leaves.

  Longinus lowered his cup and cleared his throat. ‘So then, Centurion Macro, what is it that you want to say to us?’

  ‘Sir, it isn’t right. This business with Balthus. The man saved my neck, and those of every man in the relief column. He fought alongside us in the citadel, and that battle with the Parthians. He’s a brave man,’ Macro concluded with a firm nod. ‘It’d be wrong to let him be killed like a dog. It ain’t right, sir.’

  General Longinus pursed his lips for a moment, as if in thought. ‘I see. And I agree, we owe him a debt of gratitude. Under any other circumstances there would be no question of letting him go to his death like this.’

  Macro felt a leaden fatalism settle on his heart at the general’s words. ‘What do you mean, sir? Under any other circumstances?’

  Sempronius leaned forward. ‘If I might explain the situation to our friend here?’

  Longinus waved a hand dismissively. ‘Be my guest.’

  The ambassador looked at Macro and smiled sadly. ‘I’ve no doubt that what you say about the prince is true.’

  ‘Then why must he die?’ Macro cut in stubbornly.

  ‘Political necessity, that’s why. Rome needs to make Palmyra a client kingdom. We must have that treaty, and so must Vabathus. There is no place in the new arrangement for Balthus. He cannot become the ruler of Palmyra. Balthus knows that and would scheme against his father just as Artaxes did before him, just as surely as summer follows spring. Why else would he have had his other brother killed? He was clearing his way to the throne.’ Sempronius waited a moment to let his words sink in. ‘I’m sorry, Centurion. There’s nothing we can do about it. Prince Balthus may well have fought at your side. He may well be a brave man. But he is also ruthless and ambitious and if he was allowed to live, then there would be no peace in Palmyra. So, tomorrow morning, Prince Balthus will be executed.’

  Macro felt a wave of bitterness welling up inside him and it took a great deal of self-control to bite back on his anger. He looked at the two men with contempt. ‘Political necessity, you say. That’s a fine euphemism, sir. From where I’m standing, it just looks like murder.’

  Longinus set his cup down violently. ‘Now just a minute, Centurion! I’ve had enough of your impertinence. I’ve a good mind to—’

  ‘Macro’s right,’ Sempronius interrupted. ‘Strip away the weasel words and it’s murder, plain and simple. There’s no hiding that. But it changes nothing, Centurion. For the good of all, Balthus must be disposed of …’ The ambassador smiled self-deprecatingly. ‘He must be killed. There is no alternative. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good. Then there’s one last thing.’ Sempronius reached inside the bag that rested on the ground beside his stool and pulled out a folded document bearing the imperial seal. ‘The imperial courier brought this with the other dispatches yesterday. It’s addressed to you and Cato.’

  Macro took the letter and glanced at the words under the seal. ‘From Narcissus, Imperial Secretary. Bound to be bad news.’

  Sempronius chuckled and after a moment Macro joined in. ‘Well, I’d better read it through and find Cato.’

  ‘Yes.’ Sempronius nodded, and then smiled at some private amusement. ‘I imagine you will find that remarkable young man in the king’s gardens.’

  ‘Cato! Cato! Where are you?’

  Macro strode through the garden courtyards, looking round the potted shrubs and trees that were arranged around ornate colonnades and peristyles. A short distance behind him hurried Jesmiah, still in the tattered remains of her stola and cloak. Around them the cooling dusk air brought out the scent of jasmine and other herbs. The final preparations were being made for the night’s banquet and many of the king’s courtiers and servants were either sitting down enjoying the evening while they could or passing through the gardens on some errand or other. They stopped conversing and glanced irritably towards the bellowing Roman officer.

  ‘Cato, where are you, damn it?’

  A figure rose up from a stone bench and waved to attract Macro’s attention in the failing light. ‘Over here.’

  ‘Ah! At bloody last!’ Macro strode towards his friend, and drew the opened letter from Narcissus from inside his harness. ‘News from Rome! Great news.’

  As Macro approached the bench he saw another person sitting just beyond Cato and drew up awkwardly as he realised who it was. ‘Miss Julia, sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.’

  ‘Oh, that’s all right.’ She beamed at him. ‘We’ve said what needed saying. Don’t mind me.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Macro turned to Cato and thrust the letter at him. ‘Read that.’

  ‘Can’t it wait?’ Cato replied, then cocked his head slightly to one side as he caught sight of the girl behind his friend. ‘Who is this?’

  Macro glanced back, and waved her forward. Jesmiah stepped up to join the others shyly. Macro placed his hand on her shoulder as he explained. ‘This is Jesmiah. She and her baby brother were with us in the citadel.’

  The full implication of his words was not lost on Cato, who shifted uneasily as he recalled the harsh manner in which the civilians had been forced out of the citadel.

  Macro continued. ‘Her family died in the revolt, and her brother followed them yesterday. He was no more than an infant and very ill during the siege. Now Jesmiah has no one to look out for her. So, I was wondering …’ Macro fixed his gaze on Julia. ‘A young Roman lady is always in need of good servants and companions, from what I’ve heard.’

  ‘Oh really?’ Julia arched an eyebrow. ‘I can’t imagine where you heard that.’

  Macro shrugged. ‘Well, anyway, I was hoping you might find a position for Jesmiah. She has nothing here in Palmyra. No family, no friends. Her house was burned to the ground and she’s been living on the streets since the siege ended.’ He cleared his throat.’I can’t look after her. I was hoping you could, my lady.’

  Julia looked at him in amusement, and then quickly ran her gaze over the bedraggled girl. ‘Very well then, I’ll see to it.’

  Macro’s expression brightened at once. ‘Thank you. I mean, I, er … thank you on the girl’s behalf … Anyway.’ He turned his attention to the letter in Cato’s hands. ‘You have to read that. Now.’

  Cato glanced at the broken seal. ‘Why don’t you spare me the trouble and just tell me what it says?’

  ‘Very well then, you idle sod!’ Macro grinned as he slapped Cato on the shoulder. ‘Narcissus has read our report and recalled us to Rome. Job’s done and we’re out of here. Best of all, he says we are to be given a new posting to a legion. We’re to quit the army in Syria the
moment it returns to Antioch and then head to the coast to take the first available ship to Ostia, and – oh, read the bloody thing for yourself.’

  ‘That’s great news.’ Cato smiled back and tapped the letter with his finger. ‘I doubt there’s much to add to what you’ve just told me.’

  ‘Just read it.’

  ‘In a moment. First I have some good news for you too.’

  ‘You have?’ Macro frowned. ‘Well, don’t be so bloody coy, lad. Spit it out.’

  ‘Very well.’ Cato tucked his hand under Julia’s arm and eased her up so that she stood at his side. ‘It seems I am to marry Julia after all.’

  ‘Marry?’ Macro’s eyebrows climbed up his forehead. ‘Sempronius gave his permission?’

  ‘He did, and very graciously too. Although I must admit I had feared that he was saving Julia for Balthus at one point. But as things have turned out …’

  Macro’s expression hardened for a moment. ‘Yes, quite. Hardly a fair death.’

  ‘Anyway.’ Cato put his arm round Julia’s shoulder and kissed her forehead. ‘As soon as we reach Rome we’ll make the arrangements.’

  ‘Well, I’m buggered,’ Macro said in astonishment, and then recovered his manners. ‘I mean, my heartiest congratulations to you. To both of you, that is.’

  Julia laughed. ‘Why, thank you, Centurion Macro.’

  ‘Yes, thank you,’ Cato echoed. ‘I have to confess, Sempronius’ permission came as something of a shock to me as well.’

  ‘Well, it shouldn’t have,’ Julia said firmly. ‘I had made up my mind to marry you. And it’d be a brave father who tried to stop someone like me.’

  Macro stared at her for a moment and then raised the back of his hand to his mouth and spoke in a stage whisper. ‘Cato, my lad, you’d better watch yourself with this Amazon.’

  Julia swatted his arm, and then before Macro could react she slipped it under his so that she had a man in her grasp on either side. ‘Well then, that’s that. Now let’s go and join the other celebrations and find something to drink.’ She paused a moment and smiled at Jesmiah. ‘You too. I imagine you could use some good food.’

  Jesmiah nodded vigorously, causing the others to laugh. Julia turned to Macro and squeezed his arm. ‘We could all use a good drink. What’s that expression? Wetting the baby’s head, yes, that’s the one.’

  Macro looked quickly at his friend. ‘She’s not up the—’

  ‘No,’ Cato cut in.

  Julia laughed at their embarrassment. ‘As I said, just an expression … for now. Come, let’s go.’

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The ruins of Palmyra still stand in the eastern desert of Syria and are well worth a visit. Much of what remains provides evidence of the main developments of the city across the centuries since its founding. The high water mark of Palmyra’s history comes some two hundred years after this tale when the warrior queen, Zenobia, briefly threatened to overrun the eastern half of the Roman Empire. That is an epic tale in itself (and one I might well turn to at a later date!). I have taken a few liberties with the layout of the city as it would have been in the mid-first century. A vast temple was built over where the citadel of this book would have been, and I have largely followed the lines of the later walls.

  The kingdom of Palmyra occupied a critical position between two powerful empires who were separated by desert. Rome and Parthia had long been engaged in a protracted cold war that had, on occasion, flared up into open warfare. Rarely had these conflicts been resolved in Rome’s favour. General Crassus, at the head of a mighty army, had been annihilated at Carrhae in the first century BC, and Mark Antony failed in a disastrous campaign a few years before he was crushed by his political rival Octavian (the future Augustus).

  Ultimately Palmyra was annexed and brought into the Roman province of Syria around the time this novel is set. The typical means by which this was achieved was through a treaty conferring client kingdom status on the small kingdoms that surrounded the Roman Empire. In exchange for Roman protection, the autonomy of the kings who signed these treaties was gradually eroded until their lands were absorbed into the Empire.

  The key difficulty faced by Roman armies was the highly mobile nature of the Parthian army, which was made up of mounted missile troops and a small force of heavy shock cavalry. The Romans had great difficulty in finding a way to pin the enemy down long enough for the legions to close on them. An early case of asymmetrical warfare, one might argue. The only way to force the Parthians into a full-on battle would have been to choose a confined ground over which the armies must clash. The trick of it would be to lure the Parthians in, since they would be very wary of closing with the Romans unless the prospect of victory was imminent. In other words, something very much along the lines of the plan conceived by the acting prefect of the Second Illyrian.