The Siege (18 page)

The compound was eerily still. The animals were quiet in their stables, and with only Flavian and Avso on duty at the gatehouse, the barracks were silent.

It seemed impossible that within hours or days the walls could be overrun; that Cassius and those under his command might meet their deaths out here at the edge of the Empire, so far from Rome that it seemed as distant as the moon.

Despite another exhausting day, he had struggled to sleep and had finally given up. Thinking a walk outside might alter his state of mind, he found there was no escape from the thoughts and questions that occupied him. He wondered what his family would think, if they could see him here. Was this what his father had secretly intended for him? To face danger and emerge in triumph or meet a heroic death? And what of his mother? She had never wanted him to leave, though she could never defy the will of her husband. Cursing himself for his childish weakness, Cassius could not deny that he wanted more than anything to be with her, to embrace her, to feel safe again.

As he turned back towards the officers’ quarters, resolving to rest his body even if he could not rest his mind, he caught sight of the temple and stopped.

It had been a long time since he had prayed with conviction. As he left childhood behind, he saw it as something for others, whether they worshipped one god or many, their emperors or their ancestors. To him it seemed futile. His fate would be decided by the turn of battle; by his own actions; by others; and by luck.

On this night, though, Cassius offered a simple prayer, to any force that might listen, and he whispered it, though there was no one there to hear him.

‘Please let me see my mother again.’

XVI

Legionary Minicius had done a good job of cleaning the tuba and the early-morning sun flashed off the four-foot bronze cone as he held it aloft. Steadying the weight with both hands, he put his lips to the cone and blew. The note was uneven but powerful, and it seemed to rebound off the compound walls, echoing into every corner. Cassius, Barates and the signaller waited for the garrison to arm themselves and gather outside the granary.

Barates had returned from the crest just after dawn, leaving Antonius to take up sentry duty. He’d been surprised to see the Praetorian up early again and already lumbering towards the inn. As soon as Cassius heard this he sought out Minicius and the three of them hurried across to the granary. It surely wouldn’t take long for the Praetorian to realise he’d have to look further afield for his precious wine.

Predictably, the fourth section were first to arrive. Serenus swiftly organised them into a line to Cassius’ left.

‘Excellent work,’ said Cassius, before turning to Barates.

‘Avso and Flavian reported nothing of interest during the night. Same for you, I presume?’

‘Pleasantly uneventful. Julius was upset about something though. He sleeps in the stables more often than not but ended up in the barracks last night.’

‘Why?’ Cassius asked irritably, having managed only an hour of sleep himself. He got no answer; Barates had already hurried away to organise his own section.

Strabo, Avso, Crispus and a big group of legionaries arrived. Cassius stayed quiet, relying on his deputies to chivvy their charges along. It was satisfying to see the legionaries respond to the tuba’s summons so efficiently.

‘There he is,’ someone said.

The Praetorian was leaning against the corner of the aid post, a jug in his hand. He watched the last few soldiers exiting the barracks, some attaching their scabbards to their belts as they ran.

‘Straighten them out, guard officer,’ ordered Cassius. With a few words from the Sicilian, the men formed a solid double line, with Cassius’ first section and Serenus’ fourth at the rear. Strabo’s second, Barates’ third and Avso’s fifth formed a wider rank at the front.

‘Everyone quiet!’ ordered Cassius as he took up position next to Strabo.

The Praetorian was still observing the peculiar sight in front of the granary with a bemused frown.

Careful not to make any gesture that could be construed as aggressive, Cassius rested his hands on his belt and waited. Gradually, the heavy breaths of the harried troops died down and the only noise to be heard was from the Syrians: the low hum of conversation and odd clink of a pan or plate. The dust kicked up by the men settled back to the ground.

The Praetorian just kept on staring. Cassius felt sure the giant’s eyes were fixed on him.

‘This is bad,’ Strabo whispered.

The Praetorian dropped the jug. As it rolled away, he pushed off the wall and quickly covered the few steps to the barracks doorway.

‘That’s worse,’ added the Sicilian.

Several hushed conversations began amongst the legionaries.

‘I said quiet!’ Cassius shouted, spinning round. ‘Next man to speak will find himself on permanent latrine duty.’

Turning back, he caught Barates’ eye.

‘Well?’ he breathed.

‘He may be looking for wine.’

‘Or?’

‘Or . . . he may be getting his sword.’

Cassius felt his stomach tighten. He already knew the plan was risky but now saw just how badly he might have misjudged things. Heads turned right, and Cassius saw some of the Syrians by the dwellings, watching events unfold. Nobody said a word as they listened to the Praetorian make his way back through the barracks. His vast frame filled the entrance and he came to a halt, blinking as the sun hit him.

He was carrying a wooden stave, not unlike Flavian’s, except that one end had been carved into a neat ball, ideal for cracking heads. The implication was not lost on any of the men standing twenty yards away: he wasn’t aiming to kill anyone but those who stood in his way could expect to get hurt.

The Praetorian spun the stave neatly through the air, caught it with his other hand, then started across the square. The broad face was expressionless. His arms hung almost diagonally, forced outward by their own musculature and his immense chest. He was heading directly for the granary door, straight through the middle of Strabo’s section.

‘Draw swords,’ Cassius ordered. His own weapon got caught half way out. Looking down as he freed it, he realised that some, including Strabo and Avso, had not complied.

The feeling of the weighty blade in his hand was familiar but far from reassuring. Cassius associated it with failure and weakness. His instructors had told him that he must learn to love his sword, that it would look after him if he looked after it, but somehow it still felt unnatural. Leaving the weapon hanging loosely by his side, he leaned closer to Strabo.

‘Draw your sword, damn you.’ The venom in his voice surprised them both.

Strabo stared resolutely at the advancing Praetorian, now just ten paces away.

‘I told you. This is a mistake.’

‘Not if we stand together.’

The Sicilian ignored him and nodded a greeting to the huge figure approaching them.

‘Praetorian, listen—’

Without really thinking, Cassius stepped in front of Strabo.

‘Good morning,’ he said brightly. ‘I expect you want some wine. We’ll be happy to fetch you some.’

There was a flicker of surprise in the wide, pale eyes. The Praetorian halted and waved at a fly that had landed in the thick hair covering his shoulders. Cassius could smell a pungent mix of old sweat and wine; he struggled not to show his distaste.

‘Then I suggest you hurry.’

Cassius was once again surprised by the refined intonation.

‘Of course. I just have one small request. Then I promise you can have all the wine you want, whenever you want.’

The Praetorian looked down at the ground for a moment, then sniffed noisily.

‘Bad answer.’

He transferred the stave to the other hand and glanced down at Cassius’ sword.

‘No good to you down there.’

Cassius had never felt such abject fear. His mouth was horribly dry. Even if he could have found some words he couldn’t have got them out.

‘Sir.’

Cassius realised instantly that Barates was not addressing him.

‘Sir, there’s no need for that,’ the veteran said quietly, walking forward and holding out an appeasing hand. ‘The centurion wishes only to call on your expertise. We face attack and need your help.’

Blinking once more, the Praetorian examined the kindly old face in front of him.

‘Barates,’ he said quietly, as if they hadn’t seen each other in months.

‘That’s right, sir. How are you?’

‘Been better,’ the Praetorian said bitterly. ‘Need a drink.’

‘Would you give us a little of your time later? We need some advice. Midday perhaps. If you take a seat at the inn I can bring a barrel across.’

Though grateful for the intervention, Cassius thought Barates had made a mistake. By giving in, they had thrown away their only element of leverage. On the other hand, if the man stayed relatively amenable, they could at least open some kind of dialogue.

Barates was nodding his head rapidly, as if somehow to speed up the Praetorian’s assent. The giant cast his eyes across the assembled troops. It seemed that he was at last registering the fact that some semblance of order had been restored to the garrison.

‘I can spare a few minutes, I suppose.’ He looked at Cassius. ‘Just be quick with that wine, boy.’

The Praetorian turned and walked away.

Before he could stop himself, Cassius replied. He regretted it instantly, and knew he had made a catastrophic mistake.

‘Centurion.’

There were sharp intakes of breath from a dozen legionaries. Barates and Strabo turned to face Cassius, similarly incredulous.

The Praetorian stopped. His right shoulder tensed, and for a moment it seemed he might be about to hurl the stave. Some of the legionaries moved out of the way.

Invisible choking hands tightened their grip on Cassius’ throat.

The Praetorian looked back over his shoulder, the thick rolls of his neck resisting the turn of his head.

‘Be quick with that wine, centurion.’ He gave a lopsided grin, then continued on his way, tapping the stave on the ground.

Shoulders sagging, Cassius let out a breath and turned to face the men. Some stared at him open-mouthed, others shook their heads. Serenus dismissed his section, reminding Cassius that the entire garrison was listening.

‘Same for the rest of you!’ he added. ‘Remove your swords, then report to section leaders.’ He turned towards Strabo. ‘Thanks for the support. I’m starting to understand why you were never promoted before.’

Strabo shrugged and said nothing.

‘What kind of example does it set to the men when you ignore a direct order from me?’

‘Some orders are best ignored.’

‘Is that right?’

‘It is.’ Strabo pointed a finger at Cassius’ face. ‘And don’t imagine that what just happened proves your point. If not for Barates he would have caved your head in without a second thought. How you got away with that last little effort I’ll never know!’

Cassius could see no reason to continue the argument.

‘I shall see you at the inn. Midday. Just keep at it with the wall until then.’

Strabo left with a disgruntled sigh.

‘I do owe you my thanks,’ said Cassius, clapping Barates on the shoulder. ‘He’s at least right about that.’

‘Frankly, I’m just glad the man listened. It’s unusual to find him this reasonable. We must see what we can get out of him before he gets himself in a state again.’

‘Absolutely. Just give him one small barrel and make sure it’s well watered down.’

Looking over at the stables, Cassius was reminded of the conversation they had started earlier. Suddenly it seemed like hours ago.

‘What were you saying about Julius?’

‘Ah, yes – he heard some queer noises last night.’

‘Noises? Like what?’

‘I couldn’t really understand what he meant. Seemed to think there was a spirit or something around. They’re a superstitious lot out here. He’s always seeing things when we’re at the crest. Never amounts to anything.’

Midday couldn’t come quickly enough for Cassius. He wandered around, checking on the men, trying to look purposeful, and eventually found himself up on a firing step close to the gate, staring out at the plain.

He thought of how it might begin. At first the enemy would be little more than indistinct dots on the horizon, the merest suggestion of humanity on the move. Eventually they would clear the haze, pass the crest and descend on the fort. In the past, he had visualised the enemies of Rome as primitive barbarians; a fearsome, undisciplined mass. Despite his time in Syria, he still knew little about the Palmyrans. He wondered what the warriors would look like.

‘Don’t you trust your sentry?’

Dropping neatly to the ground, Cassius found Kabir’s intelligent eyes upon him once more.

‘Of course. Just checking.’

‘An interesting morning I hear.’

‘Nothing special.’

‘It takes a brave man to face up to that one. The legionaries call him the Bear, don’t they?’

Cassius shrugged.

‘It was a minor dispute about provisions, that’s all. He’s agreed to meet with us at noon. He’s fought out here for many years – knows the enemy well.’

‘Then perhaps I should stay away.’

‘Why?’

‘I believe he considers us to be little better than the Palmyrans.’

‘That’s ridiculous. There are Syrians in half the legions of Rome. Vespasian himself was—’

‘I am simply informing you of his attitude. He’s not one to be trifled with, as I’m sure you are aware.’

‘I want you to be there. There’s much to discuss.’

‘Very well, but don’t blame me if things turn unpleasant.’ Kabir looked up at the sky. ‘Not long to go now.’

Though the sun was yet to reach its zenith, Cassius’ impatience was growing with every moment. This latest revelation made it even more important to engage with the Praetorian before the wine took its toll.