The Siege (44 page)

Cassius waited a while but heard nothing more. His eyes dried and with relief came reflection. Of everything he’d seen, he wondered why it was the sight of the stricken Strabo that had affected him so. He had come to depend on the big Sicilian, he knew that much.

The doorway suddenly darkened. He had heard something after all.

‘I thought I saw you come in here,’ Serenus said as he stepped inside.

Still sniffing, Cassius wiped his hand across his eyes.

‘Please. Go on your way.’

Serenus turned to leave, then hesitated.

‘Are you all right, sir?’

Guilt bloomed within Cassius again. He felt inadequate. Weak. Undeserving of the veteran’s concern.

‘I apologise, Serenus. Once more I have proven my uselessness.’

‘There are a few words I might use to describe you. Young. Inexperienced. Frightened. But useless? No.’

‘Then you have a poor memory.’

‘Actually that is one of the few faculties yet to desert me.’

Serenus coughed and dabbed at his mouth, yet Cassius could feel his eyes still upon him.

‘Tell me, who was it that stood up to the Praetorian; got him to speak to us for the first time in weeks? Who discovered that spy in our midst, when none had thought such a thing possible? And who thought of a way to stop those damned cavalrymen smashing us to pieces? Not Strabo. Not Avso. And certainly not I.’

Cassius barely heard these words. He’d been struck by an unforeseen desire to tell Serenus the truth.

‘I am not a centurion. Not really. I did complete training but I actually belong with the Security Service.’

‘A Service man? What about your tunic? Your crest?’

‘In theory, I have a rank equal to centurion.’

Serenus shrugged.

‘You’re still the senior officer here.’

Cassius looked up.

‘What use is a leader who can’t lead?’

‘I think it is you that suffers from a poor memory. Don’t you remember the state of the garrison when you first arrived? Leading is not always the same as fighting. If Strabo had remembered that, Avso and Iucundus might still be alive.’

As ever, Serenus’ words carried the weight of logic and experience. Whatever the nature of his past failures, Cassius realised he was now also guilty of self-pity. The wave of emotion had passed; he had to regain his composure.

Serenus’ breathing seemed suddenly to accelerate and he put a hand to his chest. He then held out that hand, as if to deflect Cassius’ attentions, but could not stop himself staggering forward, spluttering yet again. Cassius helped him over to the nearest seat: the low window ledge.

Serenus took out his cloth. He tried to speak but no words came.

‘Rest here,’ said Cassius. ‘Take your time.’

He stood there, waiting for Serenus to recover himself, drying his eyes a second time.

After a while, the veteran pointed at the door, still unable to speak.

‘You’re sure?’

Serenus nodded resolutely and with that Cassius left him.

Three-quarters of the way down the street, he found Kabir and Yarak standing under an awning, facing one of the dwellings. Laid out on the ground in front of them were ten dead men. Their arms had been folded across their chests, their weapons and equipment laid out beside them. Yarak moved carefully between them, wafting smoke from a small clay pot over the bodies. Cassius recognised the aroma.

‘Frankincense,’ he said quietly, stopping next to Kabir.

‘To cleanse them,’ said the Syrian, staring down at the closest body, that of a youthful-looking warrior perhaps only a year or two older than Julius. ‘Yarak thought it best to do it now. While we can.’

Cassius glanced across at Kabir, at the blank desolation that now masked even his fair face, and wondered if he had given up hope of victory.

If so, the battle for Alauran was already lost. Cassius guessed there might be about a dozen legionaries still fit to fight, and with three of his five deputies dead, he was now utterly dependent on the auxiliaries. A simple glance down the street told him as much. There was not one legionary at the carts; the few on their feet were busy with the dead. The Syrians, however, still twenty strong, were spread out at the barricades, looking warily towards the gate. He saw one man duck back through a hole in the carts with a handful of lead shot recovered from the killing area.

‘My sister’s boy,’ said Kabir, nodding down at the warrior. ‘She asked me to leave him behind but I could not appear to favour my own kin.’

Kabir looked on vacantly as Yarak continued his work, sometimes chanting quietly, sometimes blowing the scented smoke over the wounds of the dead.

Cassius felt great sympathy for the Syrian but there was no time to spare. He had to somehow break this reverie.

‘Without their sacrifice we would never have been able to repel the Palmyrans. We must ensure now that they were not lost in vain.’

‘You Romans are not known for your subtlety, are you?’

Cassius said nothing.

‘You fear perhaps that I have lost the will to fight on.’

‘Not at all. But time is of the essence.’

Kabir tilted his head backward.

‘Time. Another Roman obsession. The whole world must follow your hours and weeks and months.’

‘You believe the Palmyrans will wait?’ said Cassius fractiously.

‘I believe they will wait long enough to catch their breath. Perhaps even take a moment to honour their dead.’

Cassius stepped away. There was nothing more to be gained by pressing Kabir further. The Syrian held the upper hand now and he seemed to know it.

‘I shall be at the barricades,’ Cassius said quietly. ‘Perhaps you will join me. When you are ready.’

Kabir held out a hand.

‘Wait.’

He knelt down and gently plucked some errant hair from his nephew’s face, then took a moment to tidy the boy’s tunic. His expression softened as he stood.

‘You’re right. We must act now.’

Kabir spoke a couple of words to Yarak as they walked away down the street, then turned towards Cassius.

‘Strabo?’

‘Well he’s alive.’

‘Purple Cloak, as you call him, will not make the same mistake again. They must know how few we are. If they have ladders, they will use them now.’

‘We should abandon the barricades?’

‘I think we must.’

They came to a stop by the carts.

‘Your lookouts are still in place?’ asked Kabir.

‘Yes. No movement yet.’

Cassius glanced back along the street, recalling the original reserve plan.

‘I had thought we might use the barracks as a redoubt but we haven’t the men to defend it now.’

The two of them stood there in silence for a while, taking in defences and defenders with a new eye. Before he knew it, Cassius was gazing at the double line of bodies by the northern wall. Though the Romans had been covered with blankets, the Palmyrans had been left exposed. Hundreds of flies hovered around them.

‘Do you have it, sir?’

Cassius turned to find Crispus staring expectantly at him.

‘The ring, sir. Strabo’s still asking for it.’

‘Ah. No, no,’ Cassius answered meekly, knowing he couldn’t face that particular task. In truth, it had been little more than an excuse to get away. ‘Perhaps you could—’

‘I’ll fetch it.’

Kabir pointed up at the dwellings.

‘My men should remain on the roofs where we can do most damage. Closer to the square perhaps, a central position. In range of all four walls and able to move if necessary.’

Cassius wondered where he should deploy the remaining legionaries. He could see no obvious answer. Kabir was now the best source of advice left to him.

‘What about us?’

The Syrian pointed back up the street.

‘I assume you wish to protect your standard?’

‘Of course.’

‘Unfortunately it’s rather exposed. Vulnerable to attack from three sides. Such a small force could not hope to last long.’

Cassius turned back towards the barricades.

‘With a bit of protection we might. What about reattaching the wheels and moving two of the carts to the square? Use them to make a triangle with the well at its base, the flagpole at its peak.’

‘A sound idea. But wouldn’t it offend your gods to fight so close to the temple?’

Cassius shrugged; at that moment he couldn’t have cared less. If the gods were watching over the garrison, he’d seen no sign of it. Their survival so far had been won solely through courage and ingenuity, and at considerable cost.

Kabir turned towards the square.

‘They have shown little interest in the western wall; the uneven ground and the palms make an assault awkward. Assuming they scale the walls to the north, south and east, they would not be able to see your position. Better to lead them to where we want them.’

‘What if we block the gate with a cart and make a token effort of resistance at the walls. Once they appear in numbers we shall retreat to the flag.’

Cassius knew already how to divide the men; he and Crispus would take half each.

Kabir continued: ‘With my men on top of the roofs next to the square, we will be able to attack as they approach. You draw them in and we will strike at their backs.’

Cassius nodded and they stood again in silence, each mulling over the makeshift plan.

Crispus approached, carrying the hand. The fingers remained frozen in a clawed grip, like the legs of a dead spider. Cassius had to look away.

‘Couldn’t get the ring off,’ announced the pragmatic legionary. ‘Stuck fast.’

Cassius pointed back at the square.

‘Just get it to him, would you? Then gather the men and bring them here at once.’

Though none of them said a word, Azaf could sense the reverence of his swordsmen as he walked along the rally line. It had been a long time since they had seen him fight. Now he stood before them without a mark on him, having dispatched three of the enemy and fought his way out alone.

He knew he had been reckless, arrogant even, in retreating last of all and exposing himself so. Still, the Roman attack had surprised him. It had been brave of those men to take him on. Brave but futile, and in fact he had been more concerned about the Syrian auxiliaries and their slings. He had been lucky to emerge unscathed, but the men seemed oblivious to this element of fortune. As he passed them, some bowed, others held their blades aloft. One swordsman simply clenched his fist over his heart.

‘Check your weapons,’ Azaf ordered. ‘Then divide yourselves into ten groups of equal size.’

Karzai approached, riding alone. He slowed his horse to a trot and guided it round the injured. They were mostly archers, waiting for the carts to return them to camp. Several bore horrific wounds to their heads and looked close to death. Until help arrived, they were on their own.

Ten ladders were now lined up behind the swordsmen. Once everyone was organised, Azaf planned to issue what he hoped would be his last set of instructions.

Karzai pulled back on his reins and Azaf held out a hand to stop his horse.

‘A message?’

‘Yes,
strategos
. A scout carrying word from General Zabbai. The first of his men will arrive in Anasartha tomorrow, his main force the day after that. He seems to be assuming that the fort will be within our hands by that time.’

‘And so it shall,’ replied Azaf firmly.

‘Of course.’

Karzai looked at the warriors. Those few with any water left were emptying their gourds.

‘There are a couple of barrels left. Shall I have them brought up?’

Azaf looked thoughtfully at the swordsmen for a moment.

‘No. Their thirst shall drive them on. Soon we shall have all the water we need.’

XXXIX

As the remaining legionaries shuffled into a loose line in front of him, Cassius gazed beyond them, again drawn to the bodies by the northern wall. Below the knee of one Palmyran a patch of flesh had been somehow peeled from the gleaming, blood-streaked bone.

Cassius turned away, struck by a recollection of his old life. Often, after a night of heavy drinking, images of violence and gore would appear amongst his thoughts. The visions had always distressed him and he could think of no logical explanation for them. They were products of his imagination, not based on anything he’d seen or experienced.

Now the images were real. Death, injury, pain and ruin in all their peculiar forms. Men reduced to nothing more than lifeless matter, decaying already under the pitiless glare of the desert sun. Though he felt a certain shame at his disgust, Cassius wished they could simply pile all the bodies on to a pyre and set them alight.

‘Fourteen. Sixteen including us,’ said Crispus, finishing a headcount.

‘That’s all?’ asked Cassius, doing his best to concentrate.

‘All that can fight.’

Aside from Crispus, Cassius knew the names of only two in the line before him: the surly lookout Antonius and the resilient Vestinus, who was leaning against his pilum, grimacing at even the slightest movement of his leg. It seemed incredible that so many of the prominent faces and characters he had got to know over the last few days were gone.

Vestinus’ scabbard clinked against his pilum and Cassius realised that the eyes of the men were upon him. To his right, Crispus stood still, arms crossed. The legionaries looked weary. Their tunics were stained with blood and grime, their dark skin shiny with sweat. Several hadn’t even bothered to sheathe their swords.

Cassius cleared his throat and began. The men listened in silence as he briefly outlined the plan. Their faces betrayed only resigned exhaustion and he could not tell if they approved of the scheme or not. It hardly mattered; there was no time to change it now. He could hear Kabir talking to his men not far away. On the roof above them, Yarak and Idan watched the Palmyrans.