The Siege (26 page)

‘Well?’ said Strabo.

‘Help me.’

Cassius placed both hands against the second barrel up at one corner of the stack. Pushing back and forth, he created a wobbling motion that quickly spread upward.

‘Careful!’ said Strabo, joining Kabir behind Cassius so as to avoid any falling barrels.

‘I said help me!’

‘To do what exactly?’ Strabo fired back.

Gritting his teeth in frustration, Cassius gave the barrel a powerful shove.

All three of them leaped back as the third barrel slipped sideways off the second and the two above smashed to the floor. Many of the curved planks that made up the barrels splintered, releasing thick, dark rivers of dates.

‘Happy now?’ said Strabo, surveying the mess.

Cassius held up a hand.

‘Did you hear that?’

‘Hear what?’ said Strabo dismissively.

‘Yes, I heard something,’ said Kabir.

With the Syrian’s help, Cassius moved the remaining barrels out of the way. Beyond was an identical stack, labelled as olives and meat. Cassius again reached for the second barrel up. Kabir gripped the other side and they began rocking the container. On the fourth push they successfully dislodged it and again narrowly avoided being struck from above.

The three of them were now standing in a heap of broken wood and dried food. Cassius moved closer to the next stack. He pushed his face between two barrels and shut one eye. There was space there – quite a large space. He could see a section of flooring.

Strabo looked on cynically, arms crossed.

‘You don’t seriously think—’

A flash of movement. Cassius jerked his neck back just quickly enough to avoid the thin blade that shot between the barrels. His speedy retreat caused him to lose his balance on the slippery fruit. Strabo caught him.

With a sharp scrape of metal on wood, the knife disappeared. From beyond the barrels came the sound of scrabbling hands and hurried breaths.

Strabo, staring incredulously at the spot where the blade had been, forgot to let go of Cassius. Pushing the Sicilian’s hands away, Cassius got to his feet. Kabir, who had already drawn his sword, moved right, trying to see between the barrels.

‘Who—’ said Strabo, his face pale.

‘I’ll cover outside,’ said Kabir. ‘He may have a way out.’

As the Syrian hurried away, Cassius and Strabo stood still, listening intently. Whoever was in there was moving.

Strabo waved a hand in front of Cassius, then nodded at the barrels. Cassius nodded back and the two of them planted their hands on the nearest stack. This time they simply pushed, aiming to bring the tower down on their hidden foe. Cassius had barely applied any force before Strabo’s shove toppled the barrels into the space beyond. Wood splintered, glass smashed and dust kicked up into their faces. They drew their swords and closed in.

The den was about four yards across. There were clothes, blankets, jars of food, even a half-empty barrel of water. Of the occupant himself there was no sign.

‘By Mars,’ breathed Strabo.

‘Look!’ cried Cassius, pointing at the granary floor in the far corner of the den. A section of floorboard had been removed; they could see sandy ground beneath.

‘He’s here! He’s outside!’ shouted Kabir.

Cassius and Strabo sprinted to the door and cut left.

Standing in their way were the four legionaries. Beyond them, Cassius saw Kabir slip as he darted into the narrow alley between the granary and stables.

‘Move it!’ yelled Strabo. The soldiers flung themselves out of his way, one straight into Cassius’ path. They collided. The legionary was knocked to the ground. Cassius fell on one knee, regained his balance and charged after Strabo.

The Sicilian followed Kabir down the alley. Cassius caught a glimpse of him helping the Syrian up as he himself continued on past the stables. Ignoring the nervous whinnying of the horses, Cassius slowed as he neared the corner. Edging round it, sword held high, he saw a small figure hunched over at the corner of the workshop, twenty feet away.

The man was clad in dark robes, his head covered with brown, matted hair that reached almost to his waist. He carried a satchel over his left shoulder. Suddenly he grabbed a handful of sand and threw it up.

Kabir stumbled into view, clutching at his eyes. The man made no attempt to press his attack, instead scuttling away towards the western wall, robes dragging in the dust.

Cassius dashed after him, wondering where Strabo was. He couldn’t understand where the man thought he could escape to. A stray barrel had been left against the rear wall but didn’t reach high enough for him to clamber over.

The man flicked his hand forward as he ran. The next thing Cassius saw was the wooden handle of a knife sticking out of the wall a yard above the barrel: a perfectly placed step.

Cassius’ long stride had cut the distance between them but the man was still five yards away when he leaped for the barrel. With the agility of an acrobat, he pushed off with his right foot, jammed his left on to the knife, then reached for the top of the wall. With both hands over but his impetus gone, he needed one final effort to haul himself clear.

Cassius had drawn his sword and was all set to swing it at the man’s feet when a javelin thudded into the wall just above his head. It had torn straight through the man’s robes and now pinned him.

‘Don’t move!’ shouted Strabo in Greek. ‘I have another.’

Cassius turned round. The Sicilian was advancing slowly, his arm already back in the throwing position. Cassius realised he must have grabbed the javelins from the workshop.

The man looked back despairingly, eyes full and bright. Legs scrabbling for purchase, he pulled himself upward.

Strabo got him dead centre, between the shoulder blades. The man’s grip went instantly. His arms slipped back over the wall and he dropped like a stone, bouncing off the barrel and landing on his side, the javelin still stuck in place.

Cassius moved warily round him and looked down at his face, barely visible through the thick beard and matted hair. His breathing was just audible. One hand pawed at his back, then was still. A thick, foul smell surrounded him.

Wrinkling his nose with distaste, Strabo knelt down and pushed some of the hair away. The man’s eyes were flickering open and shut in time with his gasping breaths.

‘I know this man. He worked here. One of the locals. Left months ago.’

‘So you thought.’

‘What have you to say then?’ said Strabo, tugging ruthlessly on some of the hair.

The man coughed and his breathing slowed.

By this time Kabir and several others had arrived.

‘He’s alive?’ asked the Syrian.

‘Not for long,’ said Strabo, straightening up.

‘That’s Sadir!’ said Minicius. ‘He was employed in the workshop for a time.’

The spy was now encircled and as Cassius backed away, excited chatter broke out.

Kabir approached, one eye still red.

‘How did you know?’

Watching as Strabo turned his attention to the man’s robes, Cassius took a couple of deep breaths before replying.

‘Julius had spoken of this “spirit” before. Obviously he’d heard some noises from the granary at night. And there was no sign of rats, yet there was a foul odour there – this fellow. I suppose he must have buried his waste but the stench remained. Then what you said about there being no reason for one of us to have done it – there had to be another explanation.’

‘What do you think happened?’

‘I imagine he was checking the defences under cover of night.’

‘And Barates was unfortunate enough to cross his path.’

‘Something like that, yes.’

‘I think he’s had it,’ said Minicius.

Strabo had found something.

‘Catch.’

Cassius did so and turned the thin silver disc over in his hand. It was a fairly standard denarius, apart from the youthful, unfamiliar face etched on one side. The name that circled the face, however, he had heard before.

‘Vaballathus.’

‘Zenobia’s son,’ added Kabir, looking over Cassius’ shoulder.

‘This announces him as emperor,’ Cassius said, examining both sides. Closer inspection showed the coin to be rather inferior in weight and quality.

‘I heard there were some of these around,’ said Strabo. ‘Never seen one though.’

‘The nerve of that woman,’ said Cassius indignantly.

Jangling a purse full of the coins, Strabo sauntered over.

‘Bribe money perhaps. Yours now.’

Cassius took the tatty purse.

‘Gone has he?’ asked Strabo.

Minicius, kneeling down and listening for any sound of breathing, nodded. The Sicilian planted a boot on the spy’s flank, gripped the end of the javelin and yanked it out.

Word still hadn’t spread to the men at the gate. Those present either looked on in silence or exchanged quiet comments, apparently still struggling to make sense of the sight before them. Kabir meanwhile had leaped up on to the barrel. He pulled the knife out of the clay and jumped nimbly back down.

‘Look here,’ he said, holding up the blade as Cassius walked over. ‘He didn’t even clean it properly.’

Along the edge were several blotches of blood. Cassius felt a surge of relief; they had at last found the murderer.

The Syrian’s grim smile suddenly vanished.

‘Don’t move!’ he barked, pointing at the ground.

Behind Cassius, a pair of legionaries had emptied the contents of the spy’s satchel on to the ground. Apart from a gourd and a thin blanket, the only other object was a small wooden cage. Inside, a dark-feathered bird pecked at the bars. The door that made up one side of the cage had come loose, and with a flap of its wings, the bird pushed the door open and stepped neatly on to the sand.

‘Don’t startle it,’ said Kabir. ‘Look – on its leg. A message meant for the enemy.’

As the legionaries slowly backed away, Cassius saw that there was indeed a tiny roll of papyrus attached just above the right claw. The bird scratched at the ground and stretched its wings.

Despite Kabir’s warnings, some of the other legionaries let their curiosity get the better of them.

‘You men,’ Cassius hissed. ‘Stay where you are.’

The legionaries did so but Cassius’ words had little effect on Strabo, who was already inching his way towards the bird.

‘I wouldn’t get any closer,’ advised Kabir.

Strabo, hunched over, with the javelin still in his hand, took another small step.

‘It’ll have been in that cage for months. Probably can’t fly.’

‘Strabo,’ said Cassius.

‘Relax, centurion.’

Without taking his eyes off the bird, Kabir called out to one of his men, who hurried away.

‘Strabo,’ repeated Cassius, louder this time.

The Sicilian shifted his grip to the middle of the javelin and eased it back behind his head, ready to strike.

The bird was five yards away from him, pecking at the ground, oblivious to the impending attack. It was hopping around in circles; Strabo had to constantly readjust his aim.

‘Stay still, little birdy,’ he whispered. ‘Nice and still.’

‘Leave this to me,’ said Kabir firmly, carefully removing his sling from his belt. Cassius got a good look at the weapon for the first time.

The sling resembled a thick piece of rope but on closer inspection was in fact made of braided hemp. It was half an inch wide and about two feet long. In the middle was a small leather cradle to house the projectile itself. At one end was a small loop of cord that Kabir now slipped over his little finger.

‘Who put you in charge, auxiliary?’ answered Strabo. Kabir took a piece of lead shot and placed it in the cradle, then took hold of the other end of the sling and held it delicately between thumb and forefinger.

Strabo scowled as the bird moved again.

‘Bloody thing.’

Cassius retreated as Kabir raised the sling to shoulder height.

From behind the western wall came the loud squawk of a buzzard. It was a familiar sound to the men but enough to startle the skittish bird. With a few short hops it launched itself into the air and took off towards Strabo. He had no time to adjust his aim and missed with a clumsy swing of his arm. He watching helplessly with the rest of the Romans as the bird flapped higher.

Kabir leaned back and whipped his wrist round. Firing high into the sun, the Syrian had little chance of success and he cursed as his prey flew on unharmed. Every pair of eyes in the west of the compound followed the bird as it circled above, then swooped down towards the wall. It made a rather unconvincing landing on the roof of the stables then paraded back and forth, surveying the crowd below.

‘Nobody move,’ ordered Kabir loudly, provoking a few glares from the legionaries. He, Strabo and Cassius walked gingerly towards the stables. As Kabir loaded another shot into his sling, Strabo again prepared to throw. Cassius put a hand on the javelin.

‘Just leave him to it, would you?’

Strabo reluctantly lowered the weapon. Before Kabir could even raise his hand, the buzzard squawked again and the bird hopped off the roof. It flapped skyward, then wheeled aimlessly about a hundred feet above the fort.

‘There!’ cried Teyya.

Azaf, Razir and the other Palmyrans covered their eyes and hunched forward in their saddles.

‘I see it,’ said Razir.

‘It looks the right size,’ added Teyya, his hands already on the cage.

Azaf looked down at the bird. There was no way to be certain but the timing seemed right. He had limited faith in the spy’s scheme, but it had to be worth a try.

‘Let it go.’

Teyya opened the door and tilted the cage. The bird slid out and dropped on to the saddle between his legs. The young warrior had already attached a short piece of light twine to one leg and he now tied this to a longer piece looped round his arm. Passing the cage to Razir and freeing the twine, he cupped the bird in both hands then launched it into the sky.