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.'

'Oh?'

'Let's not forget what Prince Artaxes has in store for us, if he takes the citadel.'

'I hadn't forgotten.'

Macro shrugged. 'If it comes down to a choice between the civilians and us, well, there's no choice in my book.'

Cato did not reply. He was still thinking about the threat to massacre all the Romans found inside the citadel. That would include the ambassador's daughter, Julia – though not before she was handed over to Artaxes' soldiers to use as they wished. He felt anger rise up in him at the prospect, and there it was again, that thrill of affection, like a warm ache in his heart. Cato reached for the jug and took several mouthfuls. Macro watched him in amusement.

'You drink as if you've only just discovered wine.'

Cato lowered the jug.'I needed that. It's been a long day.'

'And then some.' Macro laughed. 'Ever the one for understatement, aren't you?'

Cato joined in the laughter and for a moment the strain of recent days lifted from his shoulders and he was glad that he would be at Macro's side in the struggle to come. Whatever the odds, whatever the likelihood of defeat and death, somehow Macro had always managed to make Cato feel that they would come through the ordeal alive.

He rose up and stretched his shoulders with a weary grunt.

'Going somewhere?' Macro asked.

Cato nodded. 'One last walk round the sentry posts before I turn in. That's all.'

'Make sure it is.You need the rest, lad. We all do.'

'Who are you, my mother?'

'No. Just your commanding officer. And I order you to get a good night's sleep.'

Cato smiled and made an exaggerated salute. 'Yes, sir!'

He left the stables and climbed up on to the battlements. Tonight it was the turn of the Second Illyrian to provide the watch and Cato went from post to post to make sure that his men were awake and keeping a close eye on the enemy. The sentries were as tired as the rest of the men, but they well knew the penalty for sleeping on duty – death by stoning – and kept moving, steadily marching up and down the stretch of wall that had been allocated to them.When he had checked the last of his men and was happy that the duty centurion had properly prepared the passwords and changes of the watch, Cato climbed up into the beacon tower to have a last look out over the city before he made his way to his bed and a desperately needed sleep.

At the top of the stairs, he paused to catch his breath, and then emerged on to the platform and nodded in response to the salute of the auxiliary manning the pyre.Within a heavy iron frame split palm logs lay on top of a pile of dried palms that acted as kindling. Under the frame lay the ashes of the fire that had been lit the previous night to signal Macro to make his attack on the eastern gate of the city. Cato crossed to the battlements overlooking the agora and stared across to the temple precinct where the rebels had laboured through the day to make repairs to the ram and its housing. Torches flared around the structure where men had replaced the severed ropes, and now long lines of men heaved on pulleys as the ram was raised into position and support ropes hurriedly lashed to the timber frame of the housing. As he watched their progress, Cato felt a sinking sensation in his stomach as he realised that the ram would be repaired before the next day dawned. The brave attack by the Greek mercenaries had cost the enemy one day.That was all it had achieved, aside from diverting the enemy's attention away from Macro's assault on the eastern gate. A small enough gain, Cato reflected, but he had been a soldier long enough to know that one day might yet mean the difference between success and defeat.