The Siege (15 page)

‘Twelve barrels so far. Eight are up in the gatehouse, four more by the granary. We’ll continue until all the spare vessels are full.’

‘Excellent.’

As Serenus took his first mouthful of soup, a large figure blocked the doorway. Strabo’s hands were covered in a sticky dark mixture. He ushered in a legionary from the first section, who was holding his left elbow tenderly with his right hand.

Cassius stood again.

‘What happened?’

‘We were cleaning up the barracks,’ answered the legionary shakily, ‘and one of the lads forgot about the Praetorian – got too close to his room and woke him up.’

‘Ah.’

‘Chucked a couple of pots at them,’ explained Strabo. ‘Luckily they missed, but this lad fell awkwardly.’

‘Is it broken?’ said Cassius.

‘Just a twist,’ said Strabo. ‘But we have a bigger problem. He’s at the inn, drinking already. Normally he’s not up for another four or five hours. With this much of a run at it, he could end up in a right state. Perhaps we should wake Barates. He’s the only one who might get through to him.’

‘No, leave him. He deserves a break.’ Cassius casually picked up his bowl of soup and finished it off. This was no show of arrogance; he had simply accepted that it was time to face another difficult challenge. He handed the empty bowl to Simo.

‘Soup for these two.’

‘What are you going to do?’ asked Strabo impatiently.

Cassius tightened his belt and straightened his tunic.

‘Something I should have done already. Introduce myself.’

The Praetorian was at the back of the inn, sitting on a bench that looked like it was about to give way. On the table in front of him was a jug and on the floor nearby was a small barrel. With one hand he was tapping against the handle of the jug, with the other he scratched at his neck. His eyes were barely open and his mouth was turned down in an expression of contemptuous distaste.

Cassius wasn’t sure if he’d noticed him or not. Only when he moved past the first row of tables did the man react.

‘Do you mean to clean me out of here too?’

The voice was far more refined than Cassius had expected; deep and authoritative certainly, but more distinguished than many of the officers he’d encountered. Cassius risked a few more steps forward.

‘No. I wish only to introduce myself. I am Cassius Quintius Corbulo. The new centurion. I am here on the orders of General Marcus Navio.’

The Praetorian took a swig of wine then looked Cassius up and down.

‘The war must be going badly.’

‘It’s certainly not going well.’

The Praetorian drank again. He grimaced as he swallowed, then his eyelids snapped shut and his teeth ground together. The man was clearly in a great deal of pain. After a time, he managed to open his eyes.

‘Still here?’ he growled. ‘Make yourself useful at least. Pour me some more.’

As there was no one else around, Cassius decided to play along for the moment, despite the unnerving feeling that he was being toyed with.

‘Why not?’

Pushing a couple of chairs aside, he bent down and gripped the sides of the barrel. Though small, it was almost full and difficult to lift. He dumped it awkwardly on the table.

The Praetorian moved his jug closer.

Cassius pulled out the stopper and lifted the barrel once more. As he lowered the lip, wine spilled out of the hole and seemed to go everywhere except the jug; by the time it was full, two-thirds had ended up on the table and floor.

The Praetorian shook his head.

‘I’d never make an innkeeper,’ Cassius said brightly.

Wiping a hand across his chin, the Praetorian stared once again into the middle distance.

‘I’d like to talk to you for a moment if I may,’ Cassius said. As he was about to sit down, the giant was struck by another paroxysm of pain. His eyes clamped shut again and his mouth contorted into a snarl as he pressed his hands against his stomach. Only after he had downed more wine did the tension in his body seem to ease.

Cassius’ hand was still stuck to the chair.

‘Before you take that seat, you should be aware of something.’

‘What’s that?’

The Praetorian held up the jug.

‘This makes me feel better. Talking to idiotic, cack-handed runts who paint stripes on their tunics does not.’

He belched and eyed Cassius malevolently.

Thinking it inadvisable to further antagonise the man, Cassius retreated through the tables and chairs. He was almost to the street when he heard the dull crack of boot on wood.

The Praetorian’s kick sent a chair careering into a table with sufficient momentum to knock two more chairs flying. One struck Cassius. He stumbled, then fell, landing awkwardly on his sword handle.

The giant was still guffawing when Cassius hauled himself to his feet. Dusting himself down, he carefully replaced the chairs, not daring to catch the man’s eye again but determined to maintain some semblance of composure.

‘Run along now, boy!’ yelled the Praetorian.

Cassius walked towards the northern wall, just to get away. He turned left and saw Strabo’s men up ahead, working on the breach. His hands were shaking and he knew he’d find a nasty bruise on his side later.

Less easy to quantify was how much damage the encounter had done to his confidence. It was a humiliating reverse, but he was thankful no one else had witnessed it. He would simply have to hope that the monstrous man stayed in his stupor and out of the way. Even so, as he neared Strabo’s men, Cassius was struck by the inescapable feeling that he might have to face the Praetorian again sooner rather than later.

‘Afternoon, sir,’ said one of the legionaries, largely to alert his colleagues, most of whom were doing very little. They were gathered round a large wicker basket lined with cloth, full to the brim with the mixture Cassius had seen on Strabo’s hands. Next to the basket was a barrel of water and a malodorous heap of camel dung.

‘How are you getting on?’

‘Well, it’s a big hole, sir,’ said one legionary.

‘It certainly is.’

Barates had been conservative in his description of the damage. To the left of the collapsed section, marks could be seen where the cart’s axles had swept along the wall before the impact brought part of it down. The uneven edges of the gap looked about ten feet apart. It was difficult not to visualise a band of marauding warriors simply stepping over it and into the compound.

‘I think we need more water,’ said another man, stabbing a finger into the mixture. ‘This damn sun dries it out so quick.’

‘Well get to it then!’ snapped Cassius.

‘Sir!’ came the simultaneous response and the five of them set about the task with renewed urgency. Two worked on the mixture, another set about levelling off the base while the others continued to break up the rubble.

‘That’s more like it.’

Cassius made his way along the rear of the barracks, stopping at every window to look inside. He could see that his section had done a good job of cleaning the floors and clearing the worst of the mess. When he reached the side window of the officers’ quarters, he saw that while Serenus had returned to work, Strabo was still shovelling soup into his mouth from a suspiciously full bowl.

‘Enjoying yourself, guard officer?’

Strabo continued eating, undeterred.

‘Good cook, this Gaul of yours.’

‘I see you’ve already had seconds. When you’re done I want you back out here. That wall’s not going to rebuild itself.’

Not waiting for a reply, Cassius hurried on. He passed Serenus’ men at the well, then the stables, then took his first look at the workshop. At the front of the open area were two hefty wooden tables. There was also an anvil, a vice and hanging from the walls a host of iron tools, most of which Cassius struggled to identify. He did not tarry long because ahead was a sight of more interest.

In the dark of the previous night he hadn’t noticed the four heavy carts lined up behind the granary. He estimated them to be eighteen feet long and seven wide. There was just enough space between them and the granary to squeeze through and he checked each one as he passed. The wheels looked in good condition; it would be easy to move them.

Stepping over the last of the protruding axles, Cassius noticed that someone had nailed six pieces of wood to the granary wall to form a makeshift ladder. With no plan more specific than getting a good view of the compound, he started upward. An avid climber since boyhood, he negotiated the wall with ease.

In more temperate climes, the granary would have been topped by tiles, but the lack of rainfall in the area meant that a timber frame covered by dried palm fronds sufficed. The layers of branches were, however, in desperate need of replacement and there were many gaping holes. Leaning on his side across two roof beams, Cassius looked towards the gate.

Avso and another man were there, pointing things out to each other and taking measurements. Others, including Flavian, walked to and from the marketplace, breaking up the abandoned stalls and returning to the gate with suitable pieces of wood.

Over in the south-east corner, the priest Yarak stood alone. Still wearing his opulent cloak, the Syrian was behaving rather strangely. Having already planted several spindly tree branches in the ground, he was now examining them from various angles. He would occasionally look to the sky and Cassius realised after a while that it was not the branches themselves he was interested in, but the shadows they cast. Tracing the shapes into the dirt with the fingers of one hand, Yarak clenched the other into a fist and hammered the air.

Wondering if this was the method Kabir would use to consult the opinion of his sacred spirits, Cassius offered a brief bow towards the sun.

‘Every little helps.’

Removing an annoying palm twig from beneath his backside, he climbed a little higher up the beams until he could see over the apex of the roof. Scanning back across the compound, he couldn’t help enjoying the few moments of peace as he observed the activity of others, content to be on his own.

He thought of the tall apricot tree at his father’s house in Ravenna. As a child, he would often escape there to avoid a lecture, a beating or one of his mother’s endless parties. Clambering up to the high boughs, he would spend hours watching the servants, the family and their guests, often until darkness gathered round him. More than once he had fallen asleep up there.

At some point, someone would come looking for him. Occasionally it would be one of the servants or one of his sisters but usually it would be his mother. She would stand at the base of the tree, hands on hips, calling up to him.

The precise words would vary but her speech would always centre on the same theme: life wasn’t about sitting in trees. Life was about coming down and getting involved; showing one’s face; getting things done. As with most of her advice, it had served him well. With a reluctant sigh, he clambered back down towards the ladder.

XIII

‘Any word from Kabir?’ asked Serenus, slumping down against the wall next to Barates.

‘Not yet.’

Cassius, standing opposite them in shade next to the temple, said nothing. He was determined at least to give the impression that the garrison could do without the Syrian auxiliaries.

‘By Mars, it’s stickier than a camel’s crotch today.’

Strabo rounded the corner of the temple, wiping his face with a cloth. In his other hand was a large wooden cup, which he filled with water from the barrel next to Barates. Avso was the last to arrive. Predictably, he stood as far away from the Sicilian as possible.

After several requests for a break, Cassius had eventually relented. The men had been given an hour off and most were either dozing in the barracks or eating outside the granary. The section leaders had been summoned to a brief meeting.

‘What about the gate?’ Cassius asked.

Avso’s lean features twisted into a grimace.

‘We’ve repaired what wear and tear there was and doubled up the main beams, but we can’t really reinforce it yet. Not while we still need to keep it open for the camels.’

‘What do you suggest then?’

‘As long as we get a couple of hours’ warning, we can strengthen it outside and in: cover the hinges, mount timber on the wall and across the main planks. It won’t stand up to a decent ram but it will be a lot tougher than it is now.’

‘Make sure you know how to do it and ready the materials. We’ll make sure you get plenty of time to prepare. Strabo, what about the wall?’

‘We’ve got the mixture right and the first layer is drying now.’

‘Will it be back up by nightfall?’

The Sicilian shook his head.

‘Not a chance. It must be taken a layer at a time or it won’t hold its own weight. Late tomorrow at the earliest.’

Serenus was next to report.

‘Twenty-one barrels filled. Another thirty or so still empty. Should be done sometime tomorrow.’

He raised the cup in his hand.

‘And there’s still plenty for drinking.’

‘Good,’ said Cassius. ‘I’m going to have my lot drag those carts out later. We can use them as barricades if the Palmyrans get inside.’

Barates nodded but none of the section leaders said anything. Despite the preparations, it seemed to Cassius that their months of safety within Alauran’s walls had led to a misplaced complacency they were still struggling to shake free of.

There was a wider issue. All four were capable in their own way, but they were soldiers of the line; more used to receiving orders than giving them. They could organise the men and offer advice, but ultimately it was with Cassius that decisions would rest. More than ever, he felt ill-prepared to make them.

Worse still, there was a man not thirty yards away, currently drinking himself insensible, who knew the enemy inside and out. A man who could tell him what to expect and how best to prepare for it. If he could just get him to cooperate.