Centurion

Julia chuckled. 'Hardly a surgeon. But one of my father's slaves in Rome was. He taught me some basics, and the rest I have learned in the last month, on the job as it were.'

'You seem to know what you're doing,' Macro conceded, a little grudgingly. 'For a woman, that is. Not that a woman should have to do this in the first place. Especially not a senator's daughter.'

'Nonsense. There's no reason why a senator's daughter should not be allowed to serve the Empire in any way that she can. Some would say it was my duty to help. In any case, I want to.'

Macro smiled slyly. 'Do you always get what you want, miss?'

She looked up and caught his expression and smiled back. 'Always.'

'Your father must find you something of a handful.'

'I wouldn't say that. I'm a loyal daughter and I would never shame him. But I know my own mind, and he respects that well enough.'

'Not sure that I would let any daughter of mine be so headstrong.'

'Good thing I'm not your daughter then.' She leaned back towards the pot for some more ointment. 'Other arm, please.'

She was silent for a moment as she began to gently apply the grease. 'Your friend, Cato, seems to be rather an unlikely warrior.'

'You're telling me, miss. But, for all his quirks, he's a damn fine soldier. Fights like a fury and can march almost any man into the ground. Except me, of course.And he's got a good head on his shoulders. His only fault is that he thinks too much at times.'

'Yes, he does seem rather a sensitive type.'

'Sensitive?' Macro repeated the word with distaste as if it was an insult, which in his view it certainly was. If any man ever had the balls to call Macro sensitive to his face, he resolved, he would knock seven shades out of him. Of course, he'd try to feel bad about it afterwards. Maybe. He looked up at Julia. 'Don't know about sensitive, but he has a heart as well as a head, if that's what you mean.'

'Yes, that's what I meant,' Julia replied diplomatically. 'I imagine being an officer doesn't leave much room in your lives for family.'

'No, it doesn't. Especially if you're not on garrison duty. Since Cato turned up I've been on campaign in Britain, served in the fleet, and been sent out here.'

'No wife then,' Julia concluded. 'And how about your friend Cato? Is he married?'

Macro shook his head.

'And no woman waiting for him back in Antioch, Rome, or wherever?'

'Hardly.We've not been anywhere long enough, or we've simply been too busy to find time for such things, beyond the odd tart or two.'

'Oh.'

Macro looked at her shrewdly. 'So he's available, if anyone's interested, miss.'

Julia blushed as she finished applying the fat in a rush, rubbing it on firmly enough to make even Macro wince at the pain it caused. She stepped away and reached for a rag to wipe her hands on.'There you are.Try not to disturb that – it'll protect the burns for a short time. I'll have a pot sent to your quarters. Apply it at the start and end of each day.'

Macro nodded. 'Thank you, miss.'

'Off you go then,' she responded tersely.'There are other men who need my attention.'

I bet, Macro thought as he rose to leave the room. Now that he looked at her she was something of a beauty, but her aristocratic air killed any appeal she might have had for Macro.Too well brought up, too clever and too independent for his taste. Still, for the right man, she would be a fine catch.

There were no further attempts to attack the citadel and the sentries patrolled the walls and watched over the city as the sun beat down. A handful of rebels kept an eye on the defenders from the edge of the agora and from small lookout posts outside the city with a view of the citadel where it stood on top of the rise in the ground. Otherwise a semblance of normal life continued in and around the city. A handful of traders and merchants still entered the gates of Palmyra to sell their wares and an unladen caravan of camels began its return journey to the distant banks of the Euphrates. The only sign of the struggle for power was the steady procession of bodies out towards the funeral plain to the south of the city. There, scores of pyres had been built to receive the bodies of the fallen and one by one they were set alight and greasy black smoke billowed into the air as the corpses were consumed by the flames. Later the ashes were scooped into small pottery urns, which were sealed and then carried to the strange funeral towers that rose up from the plain, where the remains were reverentially placed with those of their forebears.

Inside the citadel there was little room for such rituals and the bodies were burned on a common pyre in the royal garden, before the remains were scooped into urns and placed somewhere where they could be stored until the siege was over and they could be interred properly.

Macro and Cato made a tour of the defences to ensure that adequate supplies of arrows, sling shot and other missiles were ready and to hand in case of further attacks. Towards the end of their reco

'It depends.They could sit on their arses and try to starve us out, or wait until the Parthians arrive, complete with siege experts and maybe some equipment. Or they could build a better ram and try again.'

'What would you do in their place?'

'Me?' Macro considered the matter for a moment. 'I'd assume that a Roman column, however small, that had been sent to aid Vabathus was a sign of Roman commitment. I'd expect a much larger force to follow.That would mean that I had a limited time in which to reduce the citadel.' He turned to Cato.'I'd attack again as soon as I had the chance.'

Cato nodded. 'So would I.' He glanced quickly over his shoulder, but the only other men on the tower were on the far side, absorbed in a game of dice. 'And I'd take further comfort from the fact that there's a fair amount of dissent amongst the defenders.'

'How can Artaxes know that?'

'Because he's family. He knows how deeply divided his brothers are, and how little faith his father has in either of them. Artaxes will also know that Balthus is no great admirer of Rome and is likely to resent our presence here. There's one other thing. If any of the nobles or refugees begin to lose confidence that the king will hold out against Artaxes, they might well come to believe they have more to gain by throwing their lot in with the prince, and betray us. The prospect of some kind of reward might be an added inducement to treachery.' Cato smiled bleakly. 'Not the best situation we have ever been in.'

'And not the worst, either.'

'Perhaps not.'

Macro gave his friend an appraising look.

'What?' Cato frowned. 'What is it?'

'I'm just glad you and your devious mind are on my side. It's as I told that woman: you're a thinking man, a thinking soldier.'

'Which woman?'

'The one in the hospital. She saw to my wounds. The ambassador's daughter, Julia Sempronia.'

Cato felt a tremor of nerves in his gut. 'You were discussing me?'

'Sort of. She was asking questions.'

'About me?'

'Yes. What of it? I didn't tell her anything you wouldn't have told her yourself.'

Cato wasn't sure about that at all. He thought he knew Macro well enough to fear that some indiscretion, large or small, would eventually be teased out of him by Julia. 'What did she want to know?'

'What I thought of you. Whether you were married, or had a woman of some kind.'

'And what did you say to her?'

'That there was no one at the moment, and that you were available.'

Cato swallowed nervously. 'You told her that?'

'Of course!' Macro slapped him on the shoulder. 'She's a lovely-looking girl. Bit too classy for my liking, though. More your type.'