The Siege (21 page)

There had been no further trouble with the Praetorian. Crispus had called in with the news that he was snoring away and that they had placed a full water jug in front of his door to warn them if he stirred.

Simo had just returned from the aid post. He had found a recipe in the book to deal with ailments of the gut. Though he couldn’t lay his hands on all the ingredients, he was working on the preparation and hoped it would at least approximate the effects of Dioscorides’ concoction.

Arriving at the gatehouse, Cassius could see no sign of Avso or Flavian.

‘Avso?’

His voice was seemingly magnified by the quiet.

‘Up here.’

Wishing he’d brought a lamp along, Cassius entered the right-hand tower. Feeling his way with outstretched hands, he located the ladder and hoisted himself upward. He was soon at the top, gazing at the moon and myriad stars. In the middle of the walkway was the unmistakable bulk of Flavian. He was kneeling down, staring out at the desert. Avso was almost hidden behind him.

‘Over here.’

Cassius crawled past Flavian and took up position next to Avso, wiping dust from his hands. He looked to the east. Directly in front of the fort, about a hundred yards away, was a dot of light bobbing up and down, seemingly suspended in mid-air.

‘Ah, Antonius. I was hoping to see him.’

‘Look towards the horizon,’ Avso said impatiently. ‘Just to the south.’

Close to where the black plain met the grey sky was a smudge of orange. At that distance it was too large to be a single light.

‘What do you make of it?’ Cassius asked.

‘What do
you
make of it?’ retorted Avso coldly.

‘A caravan perhaps. Or a column.’

‘Obviously. The question is: are they headed our way?’

‘Can’t see yet,’ added Flavian.

‘Perhaps Antonius can tell us,’ said Cassius, now able to make out the lolloping movements of the camel. He stood up.

‘Are we not following military routine then?’ asked Avso.

‘What’s that?’

‘The watchword. What if that’s the Palmyrans out there? They’re known for trying a trick or two.’

‘Ah. Of course. Go ahead.’

With an exaggerated sigh, Avso sat up higher on his knees. The three of them looked down, listening to the scuffing steps of the camel as it neared the gate.

‘Who’s there?’ Avso shouted.

‘Antonius,’ came the tired reply. ‘Tide of the Tiber.’

‘Approach.’

Berating himself for his stupidity, Cassius realised that not only did he not know or recognise Antonius’ voice, he had no idea what the man looked like.

Avso and Flavian got to their feet and hurried towards the right-hand tower. Cassius took the left and descended the ladder as swiftly as he dared. By the time he reached the gate, one side of the door was already ajar and the others were outside. As he passed under the gatehouse, Flavian pulled the other door open.

Avso had disappeared into the darkness but soon re-emerged, holding the camel by its reins. He stopped and took Antonius’ lamp as he dismounted. In a moment, four faces were illuminated by its pale, yellow glow.

Now that he saw him, Cassius realised he did know Antonius. He was about thirty years old, with a chubby face that didn’t seem to match his muscular physique.

‘Well, what did you see?’

‘Nothing good. I first saw the lights about three hours ago. Barates agrees that it’s a column of some size. If it’s the Palmyrans pushing on from Anasartha, that’s the direction they’ll come from.’

‘Are they still moving?’

‘We don’t think so. Probably made camp for the night. If Barates thinks they’re approaching, he’ll light the signal fire.’

‘Anything else?’

‘No.’

‘No, sir,’ said Cassius.

‘Sorry. Sir.’

‘Stable the camel, fetch yourself some food, then get your head down. I need you out there again at midnight.’

‘Why me again, sir?’

‘I hear you have excellent eyes. Count yourself lucky you haven’t been digging all day.’

‘Don’t forget this stinking thing,’ said Avso, throwing Antonius the reins. As the sentry led the camel towards the gate, Cassius looked east. Down at ground level, the lights were obscured by the crest. A light breeze pushed his tunic against his skin and sent a chill down his back.

‘Well?’ said Avso. ‘What now?’

Though he couldn’t see it, Cassius could picture the long, sneering face and he purposefully took his time replying.

‘You two can return to the gatehouse. Wake me if the signal fire is lit.’

‘That’s all?’

‘For the moment,’ said Cassius, turning round. ‘Yes.’

‘You mean to place our fate in the hands of a single man? A decrepit old fool who should have retired before you were born?’

‘You’re forgetting our able sentries,’ said Cassius calmly, walking between the two of them towards the gate. ‘Who will remain on duty until dawn.’

Flavian grunted and kicked the ground. Avso spoke up just as Cassius reached the gate.

‘Centurion. Shouldn’t we man the walls? They might attack under cover of dark.’

Cassius stopped; Avso’s use of his title suggested genuine concern.

‘There’s no point in causing alarm without good reason. Nor do I wish to deny the men a night’s sleep when there’s no guarantee of any more. We can be ready quickly should the need arise. Still, perhaps some additional eyes wouldn’t go amiss. Give it a couple of hours then raise two of your section to man the gatehouse. You two can patrol the perimeter. Don’t stray too far. And don’t forget Antonius – wake him if he forgets his shift.’

Avso and Flavian, the latter still grumbling, made their way back towards the gate.

Cassius found Strabo and Serenus in the first room of the barrack block, along with most of the men. The legionaries had crowded into every corner to observe a game of dice. There was still a little wine left, plenty of laughter and banter, but no suggestion of excess.

Serenus followed him outside as soon as his face appeared at the doorway. Strabo arrived a few moments later. There was no mistaking the apprehension in their faces as he related the news.

‘Keep it to yourselves for now. We’ll see how things look in the morning. And try to keep the evening’s entertainment to a minimum, would you? We need them well rested.’

Strabo nodded vacantly, his earlier anger and habitual sarcasm replaced by a reflective calm. He returned to the barracks without a word.

‘How are you feeling now?’ Cassius asked Serenus.

‘Better. Well, I was until I heard that.’

‘It may turn out to be nothing.’

‘Perhaps. Caravans have been sighted before.’

‘Quite.’

‘Try to get some sleep yourself,’ said Serenus.

‘I will. By the way, I have a question for you. Tell me about Barates. How is it that one so committed never made it to optio or centurion?’

‘Joined up late. I believe he was almost forty. His wife and children were killed – a fire in Rome as I recall. Like a good many others, he sought refuge in army life. Never set foot in the capital again. Goodnight, centurion.’

‘Goodnight.’

With that, Serenus returned inside. Cassius cast a last gaze around the compound then hurried back to the officers’ quarters. Shutting the door behind him, he found Simo in the bedroom, for once attending to his own belongings. He had located another small chest and was neatly folding his few items of clothing and placing them inside.

‘Another long day, sir,’ said Simo as Cassius headed for his bed.

‘Aren’t they all.’ Cassius removed his sword belt and his main belt, then lowered both to the floor.

‘There are lights on the horizon, Simo.’

The Gaul stopped what he was doing and turned round.

‘The enemy?’

‘We’re not sure.’

Simo returned to his work while he absorbed this news. Cassius lumped down on the bed, then shifted back so he could lean against the wall. He spied a few sheets of papyrus on top of Simo’s bed.

‘What’s that you have there?’

‘Just some poetry, sir.’

‘Really? Who?’

‘Vergilius, sir.’

‘Ah,’ said Cassius after a long yawn. ‘The pastorals?’

‘That’s right, sir.’

‘Read me something. I should like to hear of flowers and green things amidst all this heat and dust.’

‘I could not, sir,’ Simo said, reddening and again busying himself with his clothes. ‘Not with an orator such as yourself for an audience.’

‘Hah, I’m fit only for barking orders these days, Simo. I doubt I could manage a verse without stumbling over my words.’

Simo was still looking down, intent on his folding.

‘Well, I shan’t force you. Another time perhaps.’

Simo nodded gratefully.

‘Do you think it is the Palmyrans out there, sir?’

Cassius shrugged.

‘It’s impossible to say.’

‘Then we may be spared yet.’

‘We may, Simo. We may.’

XIX

That night, Cassius was assailed by a series of vivid, disquieting dreams.

Endless waves of spectral figures descending on the fort. Glittering blades. Torn flesh. The chaos and carnage of battle.

Disorientated and struck by a sudden thirst, he awoke lying on his side, staring at the wall. Grimacing at the bitter taste in his mouth, he rolled over to find he could see across the bedroom. The dark of night had gone. Just as he was about to fall back into sleep, he spied a familiar figure in the doorway.

‘Sir, you better come quickly,’ said Simo.

‘What is it?’

‘Something terrible has happened.’

Cassius got up and pulled his tunic on over his head. He was still buckling his belt as he walked past Simo to the main door.

In the half-light of dawn, a small knot of men had gathered next to the granary. Strabo stood in the middle of the square, his hand pressed against his forehead.

‘Well?’ demanded Cassius as he neared him.

Strabo simply pointed towards the men. Some of the legionaries saw Cassius coming and moved out of his way. He caught sight of something on the ground; it looked like a pile of sheets or empty sacks. It was the glassy-eyed shock on the faces of the legionaries that he registered next, but when he looked down at the shape again, all was suddenly clear.

Someone had placed a blanket over a body. A small, curled-up body with a patch of wet red sand next to it. Cassius peered over the blanket and saw the face.

It was Barates. His throat had been cut.

Fighting a surge of nausea, Cassius swallowed, trying not to gag as he turned away. He belatedly realised that Strabo had just told him something.

‘Say that again.’

‘Crispus found him. Just now. His throat’s been slashed, probably—’

‘Yes. Yes, I see that.’

Cassius looked at the others, all still staring at the body. He bent down and pulled the blanket over Barates’ head.

‘Crispus, stay here. You others, back to the barracks.’

Not realising that he had spoken so softly that no one had heard him, Cassius was surprised to find no one had moved.

‘Go on then!’ he barked.

‘Go! Move!’ added Strabo, shoving several legionaries back across the square. Reluctantly, they edged away.

Cassius gazed down at the mass of footprints in the strip of sand between the tiled square and the granary wall.

‘There’s nothing to be found there,’ observed Strabo. ‘Not now anyway.’ He circled the body and knelt down beside the head. Lifting the blanket, he examined the wound.

‘It was just a few moments ago you say?’ asked Cassius.

‘Yes,’ answered Crispus. ‘I had just woken and been to the latrine. I took a look out of the door and saw . . . this.’

‘There was no one else in sight?’

‘Not a man, sir. I fetched the guard officer at once.’

‘The blood has dried,’ said Strabo. ‘He’s been dead several hours.’

Cassius looked over at the gatehouse.

‘He intended to return from the crest around midnight. Avso or one of the sentries must have seen him. Fetch them, Crispus. Quickly.’

The legionary hurried away.

As Strabo checked the rest of the body, Cassius got down on his knees and peered under the granary. There was no sign of an abandoned weapon or any other clue.

‘He’s not injured anywhere else,’ said Strabo as they both stood. ‘It was certainly a knife. A precise cut.’

‘Who though?’ It seemed inconceivable that the kindly veteran had even a single enemy within the camp.

‘I cannot imagine. The man deserved better,’ Strabo said bitterly. ‘This is an ignoble death.’

Cassius now found that shock was turning to confusion, aware already that there would be little time for grief. This inexplicable act of violence was the last thing he’d expected. As if the threat hanging over the garrison and the added complication of the Praetorian were not enough, this new horror seemed almost unreal.

The Syrians had realised something was going on; Yarak and another man now stood at the corner of the granary, watching. Strabo was all set to move them off when they abruptly left of their own accord.

Attention then switched to the four figures walking up the street, Crispus and Avso in the lead. Behind them were the legionaries Avso had selected to man the gatehouse.

‘What are their names?’ Cassius asked Strabo.

‘Statius and Gemellus. Originally from the Fourth Legion like Avso and Flavian. Decent enough lads though.’

The grim expression fixed on Avso’s lean face barely changed as he and the others stopped and gazed down at the body.

‘What do you make of that?’ asked Strabo levelly.

Avso said nothing. Crispus spoke up.

‘Gemellus and Statius talked to Barates two or three hours after midnight.’