Centurion

'My lords! The king commands your attention! Quiet there.'

When the chamber had settled down once more, the king drew himself up and cleared his throat. 'It is my will that every horse in the citadel is to be slaughtered at once. There are to be no exceptions in this. All of you will surrender your horses to the commander of the royal bodyguard. Even you, Balthus.'

'Really?' Balthus smiled humourlessly. 'And what of the mounts in your stable,Your Majesty?'

'They will be the first to be killed.' The king gestured towards Cato. 'The Roman officer is right.We are all in this together. There is only one fate for every person in the citadel. And if Artaxes does get to hear of it then he will know that we are resolved to defeat him, or die in the attempt. That is my command. Now, the audience is over.'

Thermon's staff thudded down. 'All rise for the king!'

A handful of chairs scraped as the nobles and the Romans stood up and bowed their heads. King Vabathus rose and made his way across the chamber to a small doorway in one corner, and disappeared from sight. Thermon waited a moment longer, and then turned to the others and gave them permission to leave. The Palmyran nobles talked in hushed, bitter tones as they filed out of the hall, until only the three Romans and the supporters of Prince Amethus remained, standing behind the prince. Krathos glared at Cato.

'We could have negotiated with the rebels. We could have saved many lives.' He smiled thinly. 'We could even have spared the horses Prince Balthus cherishes so much. But now? Now you have persuaded the king to fight and we are all doomed. I hope you are satisfied, Roman.'

Cato stood stiffly and did not respond. For a moment there was a tense silence, and then Krathos sniffed with derision and turned to Prince Amethus. 'We should leave.'

Amethus nodded vaguely and rose to his feet. Krathos gestured towards the door and the prince walked away, trailed by Krathos and the rest of his small retinue.

'Don't worry about Krathos,' Sempronius said softly. 'He has little influence over the king, or even within the court for that matter. But his power over Amethus is a different matter.'

'I'm not worried about him,' Cato replied calmly. 'It's his brother who poses the real danger to us.'

'Prince Artaxes?' Sempronius raised his eyebrows. 'Of course.'

'No, not him,' Cato continued. 'Prince Balthus. Come what may, he will never forgive me for coming between him and his father. I fear we have just made a new enemy.'

'Really?' Macro shrugged. 'Right now, what's one more or less? Besides,' he licked his lips, 'it seems that fresh meat is back on the menu.'

08 Centurion

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

The slaughter of the horses began shortly afterwards, beginning with those of the royal stable, just as King Vabathus had commanded. The animals were held in place by strong men holding stout leather traces.Then the butcher from the king's kitchens cut the animals' throats, collecting the blood in wide wooden tubs to be saved as a thickening agent for the gruel that was cooked each day for the civilian refugees.The carcasses were quickly gutted and the inedible organs were carted away to be dumped over the side of the wall, downwind of the bulk of the citadel. The bodies were efficiently flayed and then the meat was cut from the bones ready to be packed into the massive brine-filled jars that had been prepared in the cellars beneath the royal quarters. Anything else that could be boiled down for stock was carried off to the pots steaming over the cooking fires in the barracks of the royal bodyguard.

Cato and Macro spent the day seeing to the accommodation of their men and drawing up duty rosters and inventories of their remaining equipment. All the time the air was thick with the whinnying of terrified horses, and the stench of cooking horsemeat filled their nostrils to such an extent that Macro had almost gone off the idea of fresh meat by the end of the day. Almost. When the duty orderly brought the two officers a tough piece of grilled horse meat and a jar of watered wine to share, Macro quickly forgot his complaints about the smell and tucked in eagerly, cutting a hunk off for Cato to eat. They shared one of the small tack rooms in the king's stables. The scent of the previous occupants still lent a sharp tang to the air.The rest of the auxiliaries and legionaries occupied the stables and courtyard and most of the men were already asleep, after being pushed to the limit in the last few days.

'Good idea of yours, this,' Macro managed to say as he chewed on the meat. 'I was getting a bit sick of bread and hard tack.'

Cato had pulled out his dagger and was busy cutting small strips off his portion. 'Maybe. But I doubt it has won me many friends amongst the nobles.'

'Bollocks to 'em.You were right. If they can't see beyond their bloody possessions to what's really important then they don't deserve them.' Macro chuckled.'But the expression on their faces was priceless. What I wouldn't give to see that again!'

He continued chewing for a moment before he looked at Cato and spoke again. 'That was quite a performance, by the way.'

Cato shrugged. 'I said what needed saying, that's all.'

'I know, but it's the way you said it that counted. I could never have managed it,' Macro said quietly. He felt a stab of pain at the recognition of this fragment of inferiority. He did not have the same facility with language as his young friend, and never would have, he realised. Despite being a good soldier, Macro doubted that he would ever be promoted to a senior command. In his heart, like most men of the legions, he harboured the ambition of one day becoming a chief centurion – the primus pilus. Very few men ever attained that rank. Most had been killed or injured and discharged long before they became eligible for the position. Even then, only those men with spotless records and a chestful of bravery awards would be considered. Macro reflected sourly on the last two years which he and Cato had spent performing special duties for Narcissus. The secret nature of the work meant that they would never be rewarded publicly for the dangers they had faced in the service of Rome. Vital though the missions had been, they would count for nothing when he and Cato returned to service in the legions.

Until then, Macro would have to make the most of his temporary command and hope that his good service would be entered on his record. That was his only path to preferment, he reflected. Cato, on the other hand, with his brains, was bound to be plucked from the ranks of the centurionate and appointed to permanent command of one of the more prestigious auxiliary cohorts. That would mean entry into the ranks of the equites, Rome's second tier of aristocracy, and Cato's heirs, if he lived long enough to have any, would be eligible for the senate. A giddy prospect indeed, Macro acknowledged as he watched Cato guardedly. It occurred to him that one day his friend would outrank him. The thought startled him, and for a moment he was pricked by resentment. Then he shook the feeling off, angry at himself for letting such an unworthy sentiment enter his head.

'Anyway,' Cato picked up a small piece of the meat and popped it in his mouth, 'it's not important now. What matters is making sure that we hold out until Longinus reaches Palmyra. If he takes longer than we expect then killing the horses won't be enough. We'll have to do what Balthus suggested.'

Macro paused a moment to recollect, then raised his eyebrows. 'Ah, you mean pitch the civilians out of the citadel.'

'Yes.'

'That's harsh, coming from you, lad.'

'What else can we do?' Cato sighed wearily. 'If they remain in the citadel and we are starved into surrender then Palmyra will fall under the control of Parthia. The Emperor won't allow that, so there'll be a war, in which case tens of thousands will die. If we have to sacrifice the civilians here, then it may be justified in the long run.'

'Maybe,' Macro responded. 'But there's a more immediate issue you might consider.'