The Siege (12 page)

‘Yes. He was one of the few to escape alive. He served Valerian’s son too, and it was while working for Gallienus that he was exiled from Rome.’

‘You don’t know the details?’

‘A disgrace of some kind,’ said Barates disapprovingly. Cassius suspected the veteran had a somewhat parochial view of Roman politics.

‘Barates, it’s often unwise to assume that those accused and sentenced in the capital are guilty of any real crime, particularly those unlucky enough to serve an emperor. The Guard have suffered as a result of our rulers’ intrigues as often as they have benefited. It may be that his unit simply fell out of favour with the wrong prefect or senator.’

‘Well, I must admit I would like to think he was innocent. The man was awarded three rampart crowns and they are seldom given to those lacking integrity.’

‘Indeed not.’

The crown was given to men who led successful charges against enemy defensive positions, usually city walls. They were not easy to come by. To win three was almost unheard of.

‘Well, I suppose I’d better be going. You sure you don’t mind being left alone out here?’

‘Won’t be the first time,’ said Barates, putting a hand on Cassius’ shoulder. ‘And us old ones need less sleep than you youngsters.’

‘Very well then. And thank you for all your help today.’

Cassius would have liked to say more than that. He would have liked to express his relief at finding such a willing collaborator in the honest, committed veteran. But these were the sentiments of an anxious youth, not an officer of the Roman Army.

‘I will send your relief at first light. Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight, sir.’

With that, Cassius trudged down the slope, slowing as he approached the camels so as not to alarm them. Julius walked towards him. Cassius reckoned him to be thirteen or fourteen. He was a skinny specimen, clad in a tatty green tunic, with the dark skin of a local and a mop of unruly black hair.

‘Back to Alauran.’

Julius answered with a barely comprehensible ‘Yes, sir.’ He then got Barates’ camel on its feet and led it over to the shelter.

Since meeting Julius at the stables, Cassius had been amazed at how well Barates understood the mixture of noises and garbled words that came out of the boy’s mouth. Cassius had met such people before but he soon saw that Julius was not doubly cursed with idiocy as Strabo suggested. He was very skilled in dealing with the animals, and responded quickly and efficiently to instructions. Cassius’ mother had always told him to keep an open mind about such people; after all, the first Emperor Claudius had been afflicted with many physical impediments, yet history had cast him as an effective, dynamic leader.

Waiting for Julius to return, Cassius recalled what Barates had earlier told him of the boy’s background. He had lived at the fort for as long as he could remember. His mother had died in childbirth and his father had held him responsible, shunning his son and leaving him in the care of his brother, an unmarried metalworker. This man had been pressed into service as an auxiliary with the Third Legion and had left Alauran the year before. Nothing had been heard of him since and Barates had told the boy to assume his uncle was dead. With nowhere else to go, he had stayed on to tend to the camels, even when the last of the Syrian civilians had been ordered to leave by Centurion Petronius.

Julius was not his real name. It had been given to him by the soldiers. If he was to have a Roman name, they said, he may as well have the greatest name of all.

The young man reappeared out of the gloom, then took the reins of Cassius’ camel, the largest of the three. He waved Cassius forward to mount. Apparently this camel was the mother of the other two – both males, not yet fully grown. Cassius clambered up on to the saddle. Lurching forward as the camel hauled itself to his feet, he took firm hold of the reins.

The boy moved swiftly over to his own mount and sprang up into position with ease. As the camel rose, he shouted yet more indistinct commands and kicked the animal into action, heading back round the crest towards the track. Without any bidding from its rider, mother obediently followed son.

During the trip out, Cassius had felt on numerous occasions that he was about to be thrown, but had found that by gripping the front of the saddle with one hand and the reins with the other he was able to balance himself. The saddles themselves were of a design unfamiliar to him, with a wooden base that sat upon the hump, topped by a layer of padding and surprisingly fine scarlet cushions.

As the camels plodded on, Cassius felt he should try to talk to the boy, but he knew the task required more enthusiasm and patience than he currently possessed.

He looked about him. With no more light from the sun and the moon obscured by cloud, the plain was a dark, ominous sea. Cassius shuddered, imagining himself submerged within its depths. And as they left the crest behind, he thought of Barates, alone on an island in that sea, and did not envy him his night’s work.

Approaching Alauran, they heard laughter and shouting, and despite the fact that Cassius had asked Strabo to man the gatehouse for the night, he and Julius were able to dismount and lead the camels inside without a word – let alone a challenge – from the supposed sentry. Cassius thanked the boy for his help and sent him on his way.

Though he wanted nothing more than his bed, letting this pass would inevitably lead to further indiscipline. Gathering himself for another confrontation, he stepped inside the northern tower. There was enough light coming from above for him to negotiate the ladder. He emerged inside the tiny chamber to find Strabo and three others sitting on a thin rug, each in possession of a pile of stones and a small jug of wine, watching as one man prepared to throw a pair of dice. Between two of the legionaries was a clay lamp half full of oil, the floating wick producing more smoke than light.

‘Greetings, centurion,’ Strabo said cordially as the ivory cubes landed on a wooden board, showing a pair of fours.

‘Told you it was my night,’ the Sicilian said smugly, raising a toast to his compatriots as each handed over some of their stones.

‘Might I have a word?’ Cassius asked.

Showing no sign of annoyance, the Sicilian got to his feet.

‘Twenty-seven,’ he said, pointing at his pile of stones before following Cassius down the ladder and outside.

Reminding himself to be firm, Cassius was surprised to receive a sharp dig in the shoulder as he exited the gatehouse. He turned to find Strabo almost on top of him.

‘What do you mean by disturbing my game?’ the Sicilian hissed.

‘What?’

‘You heard me. I’ve done your bidding all day – kept my end of the bargain. You are trying my patience. I am not some pet of yours.’

Cassius could smell the wine on Strabo’s breath. He took two steps backwards.

‘Of course not. But you have a job to do. Tonight there’s four of you not in the barracks, tomorrow it could be ten – before you know it—’

‘Caesar’s balls! I’m not that stupid. I spent a good hour making sure each section was in its den. As far as they’re concerned, me and my men are on guard duty.’

‘And are you? You didn’t even ask for a watchword.
Is
there a watchword?’

Strabo shrugged.

‘We knew it was you.’

Cassius was glad to see Strabo had calmed down, but he knew the next few days would be intolerable if he allowed the Sicilian to treat him with such disdain.

‘Listen, I want you working with me, and that means doing what I ask.’

‘And what if I don’t?’ asked Strabo, eyes wide. Cassius realised he had underestimated how drunk he was. ‘What if I walk back in there and continue my game?’

‘Guard officer, I will allow you to continue your game, but you must slow down with the wine, and you must keep someone on watch at all times.’

His tone of authority left the Sicilian with little room for manoeuvre.

‘Makes no difference to me.’

‘Good. I am going to retire. Raise me if you see anything.’

Cassius thought he heard a mumbled curse as Strabo returned to the tower but he paid no heed to it. He was so desperate to get back to the officers’ quarters that he ran up the street and across the square.

X

Approaching the peak of a broad dune whipped steep by the desert wind, Azaf coaxed his horse into a turn and raised a hand. The Palmyrans had ridden through the night and he had promised rest when the day’s destination was in sight. A tangle of bushes at the base of the dune would provide a little shelter from the early morning sun. Sipping water from a gourd, he watched the men dismount.

Leading the way was Bezda, an experienced cavalry commander, accompanied by twenty-four men. Neither the riders nor their horses were clad in armour; this came behind them in several large carts. Within moments, the cavalrymen were on the ground, tying their mounts together and leaving them in the care of the cart drivers. Other servants were sent ahead to arrange the temporary cover amongst the bushes.

Next to arrive were the horse archers, a hundred strong. No less valuable than the cavalry, these riders could control their mounts using only their legs and voices, leaving their hands free for their formidable bows.

At the rear were the infantry, all clad in maroon tunics. As speed was of the essence, Azaf had chosen only good riders and Zabbai had provided horses for all the infantry too. There were ninety-six of them: Azaf’s swordsmen, many of whom had been with him since before his promotion to
strategos
– military commander. The Palmyran people were known for their vivid clothing and red had emerged as the preferred colour of Azaf’s swordsmen, related yet subordinate to the rare splendour of his purple cloak. In these times of victory and conquest, such opulence symbolised Palmyran superiority.

To Azaf’s bemusement, the benefits of their triumphs had not yet extended to a decent set of armour for every swordsman. He and a few others were well equipped, but despite repeated requests General Zabbai had not seen fit to provide what was needed. Azaf had let his feelings on the matter be known, but Zabbai had brushed off the complaint, blaming supply problems and mocking him for imagining that he might face determined resistance at Alauran.

One of the warriors, a youth named Teyya, broke away from the mass of men. He ran past the archers and the cavalry, sensibly keeping well clear of the horses. He hurried up the slope, then knelt down in front of his leader.

‘What is it?’ Azaf asked.

‘If I may,
strategos
. Something that might interest you. A trick of the gods, a creature like none of us have ever seen.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘It’s best if I show you, sir. Will you come and see?’

Azaf was already tiring of the young man’s exuberance but he couldn’t deny he was intrigued.

‘Very well.’

Teyya half ran, half leaped back down the slope. He dodged through the cavalrymen and accosted an archer who had just dismounted. After a discussion, the man reached into one of his saddlebags. Out came a small sack, which he held carefully in both hands while following Teyya back towards the dune. By the time they reached it, another ten men had joined them.

Azaf pressed his horse down the slope and met them at the bottom. The archer dropped to his knees and lowered the sack to the ground. The men gathered round.

‘Wait,’ said one. ‘It might startle the horse.’

Teyya and the archer looked up at Azaf, then at each other.

‘Here,’ said the
strategos
, sliding off his saddle and handing his reins to the man who had spoken up. The warrior led the horse away.

‘Hurry up then,’ said Azaf, pushing his cloak back over his shoulder. ‘I don’t have all day.’

The archer delicately untied the twine around the mouth of the sack. A section of cotton bulged as the creature inside moved.

‘Don’t get too close.’

The crowd, which had now trebled in size, quietened down. The archer gripped the bottom of the sack and flipped it over. For a moment nothing appeared. Then a snake dropped on to the sand.

It was a young, yard-long viper banded by dark and pale brown. A common enough sight to all present, except that halfway along its length, the body divided in two.

Both parts ended in an identical broad head, topped by two black eyes. The tongue of one flicked back and forth, the other remained still. The necks were kept separate by a short stick tied just behind each head. A white dot had been painted on the neck of one, two dots on the other.

‘An abomination,’ said one man, eyes wide with disgust. ‘The familiar of an evil spirit. It should be killed at once.’

He began to unsheathe his sword. Others held him back.

‘Observe,’ said the archer, relishing the attention. He took two more sticks from his belt. Each ended in a Y-shape. He handed one to Teyya.

‘Have no fear,’ he said to those facing the snake. ‘They are not spitters.’

Simultaneously, he and Teyya clamped the heads down on to the ground. Then the archer removed the stick separating the heads. He put it to one side and took a small leather bag from his belt. Out came the body of a baby rat, which he dropped a couple of feet in front of the snake. The archer then took hold of both clamping sticks and looked round at the fascinated faces.

‘Better keep clear for this bit,’ he said, slyly whipping the sticks away before anyone could move.

Both heads launched themselves clumsily towards their prey. One sunk its fangs into the rat’s body, dragging it away from the other. Recovering from a misplaced lunge, the second head was instantly snapping at the other’s neck, causing it to drop the rat and turn on its competitor.

Before they could do any serious damage to each other, the archer trod on the tail and slid the sticks up each neck, bringing them swiftly back under control.