The Siege (45 page)

There were a few reassuring nods from the legionaries as Cassius described how they would defend the standard with the temple at their backs. As he finished, Vestinus raised a hand.

‘Yes?’

‘Sir, there are three or four others like me in the barracks – wounded about the legs. We’d be no good on the ground, but if we could get up somewhere high—’

Crispus caught Cassius’ eye.

‘We recovered some enemy bows and quivers from the other side of the carts.’

‘The barracks roof?’ Vestinus suggested. ‘A good field of fire looking down on the square.’

‘Sounds like a good idea,’ replied Cassius. ‘Go and tell the others and I’ll send someone to help you get up there.’

Cassius made way for Vestinus as he hobbled off down the street. Looking back along the line of expectant faces, he recalled Strabo’s rousing words of the previous day.

He knew the legionaries would fight on; every man had proved himself. But he needed more than that. He needed them to believe victory was still possible.

‘Alauran is still ours. Still Rome’s. And those outside the walls still have to come in here and take it from us. Today is the fifth day since I received word from General Navio. Valens’ men could be here any time. We
must
hold on. We
can
hold on.’

All the legionaries were looking at him. A couple smiled grimly to themselves, another smacked his hand against his chest and took a deep breath.

Crispus drew his sword. Like Cassius, he spoke quietly but with unwavering resolve. ‘Caesar fights forever beside us, sir.’

‘Well, I’m not with the Third Legion,’ said Cassius with a grin. ‘But I hope he’s alongside me too. Even if it’s just for today.’

‘For Rome!’ shouted Crispus.

Cassius joined in with the others.

‘For Rome!’

‘Let’s ready ourselves then,’ Cassius said when the cries had died down, ‘and recall the words of Publius Terentius.
While there’s life, there’s hope
. I’ll see you in the square.’

There were two stops to make before overseeing the arrangement of the carts. A quick word with Kabir confirmed that there was still no sign of advance from the Palmyrans. They agreed also that half the Syrians would now move to the roof as sentries, while the rest would help Crispus and the legionaries move the carts.

Still carrying his helmet, Cassius jogged back up the street to the aid post. He found it surprisingly quiet. Apart from those occupying the beds, the other injured men had all been moved inside the barracks. There was no sign of Simo or Julius.

Strabo, lying closest to the door, was covered with a blanket. He lay still, eyes shut, his head propped up on a cushion against the wall. It seemed he had been holding up his wounded arm with his good hand but it had slipped down. The bandage was soaked through with wet, fresh blood. Cassius wondered if he was already dead.

Suddenly there was movement to his right: Simo stood up from behind one of the large wooden chests.

‘What are you doing over there?’ demanded Cassius, struggling to keep his voice down.

‘I was praying, sir,’ Simo replied, almost in a whisper.

‘Forget your damn prayers! This man needs your help.’

Simo hurried forward. Strabo stirred as the Gaul held up his arm again.

‘Temples are for prayers. This is an aid post.’

Nodding again, Simo began unwrapping the bandage. Cassius noticed his clammy cheeks and realised the Gaul had been crying. He thought for a moment what it must have been like, treating the wounded, watching men die.

Simo placed the sodden bandage to one side, leaving only one layer round the stump, still steadily issuing blood.

‘He was asking for you earlier, sir,’ Simo said, retrieving a new covering from a sack.

Cassius forced himself to look at the arm.

‘Can’t you burn it or something? That stops the bleeding, doesn’t it?’

‘I’m not sure quite how it’s done, sir. And I fear the shock of it might kill him. The flow has lessened but he has lost a huge amount of blood.’

‘Too much I think.’

Strabo’s voice was surprisingly loud. His eyes had opened a fraction and he raised his good hand, beckoning Cassius towards him.

‘That you, centurion?’

‘It is.’

Cassius knelt down opposite Simo and pushed his scabbard back so as not to catch it on the floor. The Sicilian’s eyes opened a little more, the dark pupils accentuated by his pallid skin. Cassius thought of his grandfather. In the days leading up to his death, the old man’s skin had acquired a shade so pale it seemed almost translucent. Strabo turned his head a fraction.

‘There’ll be no burning? Understand?’

‘If that’s what you wish.’

‘You know the boy was in here earlier – looking after me. He has a short memory.’

‘Perhaps he has forgiven you,’ said Simo as he re-dressed the wound. It looked agonising but Strabo showed no sign of discomfort. His face, usually so animated, was almost serene.

‘You are in pain?’ Cassius asked.

‘Not any more,’ replied Strabo with a faint smile. ‘I was cold but I feel quite warm now. And light. I dreamed I was at a beach before, just floating back and forth in the shallows.’

‘Sounds good to me.’

The Sicilian looked towards the doorway.

‘How are the men?’

‘Not bad, considering. We’ll be ready for them.’

Strabo reached out and took a firm hold of Cassius’ wrist.

‘You must remember: the wages and the funeral fund. All the men deserve a proper cremation and many have families to take care of. The papers are all in Petronius’ desk. In Antioch you will have to find the legion chief clerk. I can’t remember his name, but—’

‘I will deal will all of that, I give you my word.’

Simo finished tying off the bandage.

‘I think the flow is slowing at last,’ he said, laying the arm down carefully across the blanket.

Cassius could hear the men moving around outside.

The Sicilian continued: ‘One more thing. My back pay will just about cover what I still owe. That two hundred denarii you offered puts me in profit. I’d like to have it now, hold it in my hand. It means something to me.’

Though he hadn’t the time, Cassius couldn’t bring himself to refuse.

‘Very well.’ He got to his feet, hurried out of the aid post and ran along the barrack block. Several more of the injured could be heard through the windows: moaning, crying out or praying. Nearing the officers’ quarters, he realised he could make his second stop without going inside.

Warily approaching the window of the Praetorian’s room, Cassius put his hands on the ledge and leaned inside. The man was either dozing or asleep, his head turned towards the wall. Below the window was a half-eaten plate of food: some strips of dried pork and a few cooked lentils and beans. Surrounding the plate were at least three new jugs, all of them empty.

Shaking his head, Cassius noticed that the huge sword and shield lay next to the bed. The Praetorian had been looking at them perhaps, but whatever his reflections, they hadn’t been enough to snap him out of his habitual oblivion. Cassius knew then that he had, once and for all, to put all thoughts of the man aside. It seemed likely he would now meet his end as he had lived these last few months: drunk and dead to the world.

‘Not much to show for twenty years’ hard graft, is it?’ said Strabo when Cassius returned with the bag of coins.

‘Enough for a stake. A good run at “doubles” and you’ll be on your way again.’

Strabo forced a smile. He weighed the purse in his hand once more, then offered it to Cassius.

‘At least now I can say I ended up with more than I started. Here, put it towards the funeral fund.’

‘But it’s yours.’

‘Take it.’

‘You might need it. Who’s to say you won’t be up and about in a few days? That’ll pay for your passage home. Maybe you’ll find some nice Sicilian girl to wait on you day and night. Might be the best thing that ever happened to you.’

Cassius felt unsure about such levity but he didn’t know how else to respond.

Strabo summoned another grin.

‘I haven’t the energy for an argument. Here, take it.’

Cassius handed the purse on to Simo. Hearing the distinctive rumble of the approaching cart, he looked out and saw Crispus and the other legionaries towing the first vehicle into the square.

‘Go on,’ said Strabo, pointing at the doorway.

Cassius stood.

‘I’ll see you later.’

Despite his condition, the Sicilian’s eyes had not lost their arresting gaze.

‘You will. And remember, lad – don’t go quiet on ’em. They need to hear your voice. Chin up. Back straight.’

Every spare pair of hands was needed to turn the first of the carts over. All the able legionaries plus six of Kabir’s men readied themselves, gripping the edge of the vehicle or one of the hefty wheels. Cassius joined them just as Crispus was counting down from three. He squeezed between two Syrians and flattened his palms against the rough timber siding.

‘Two, one, lift!’

Those crouching low at the wheels gave the first boost of power and the others pushed on, shoving hard until the cart passed its tipping point, then holding on to stop it flipping on to its back. Blinking as a cloud of sand rose up to engulf them all, Cassius stepped away. The rear of the vehicle was perhaps a yard from the well, a space large enough to give them access but small enough to defend.

‘About right, wouldn’t you say, sir?’ asked Crispus, waving dust away as he approached. The others were already removing the wheels.

‘I should say so.’

Cassius heard voices behind him and turned to see Vestinus and his small group of prospective archers emerging from the barracks. Two were limping along carrying a ladder, two more held bows and quivers. Not all of them had been injured in the leg; one man had his head bandaged and looked decidedly unsteady on his feet.

‘All right, you lot,’ said Crispus. ‘Let’s fetch the other cart.’ With the legionaries and Syrians in tow, he jogged away.

Cassius’ proximity to the temple reminded him to be thankful for small mercies. To still have the irrepressible Crispus by his side at this late hour was a blessing indeed. He wondered if Serenus was still inside the dwelling; there was no sign of him elsewhere.

That matter would have to wait; with no one free to assist Vestinus and his group, Cassius hurried over to them. The man with the head wound looked up at him. He was one of the oldest legionaries, perhaps even older than Serenus. He had sustained a black eye and a broken nose. Dark streaks of blood had dried around his mouth.

‘You sure you’re up to this? Shouldn’t you be back in the barracks?’

‘I must confess I’m a little dizzy when I’m walking around, sir, but I’ll be fine once I’m up there.’

Vestinus steadied the ladder and signalled for the first man to climb up.

Cassius looked at the bow and quiver over his shoulder.

‘How’s your aim?’

‘Not bad, sir, but these things are damned hard to draw.’

‘Well anything you can do will be a great help. Even if it serves only to distract the enemy.’

‘We intend to do a good deal more than that, sir.’

Before Cassius could reply, Vestinus pointed towards the granary. Antonius was there, waving frantically. Cassius waved back.

‘There’ll be no signal,’ he told Vestinus. ‘Just stay low and don’t shoot until the last moment.’

‘Sir.’

As Cassius ran across the square, he saw that Crispus and his men had set one of the carts flat against the gate as instructed. They were now attaching the wheels to the other one bound for the square. Cassius passed the granary and jumped up on to a firing step next to Antonius.

‘What is it?’

‘They’re on the move, sir.’

Keeping as low as he could, Cassius immediately saw a group of Palmyran warriors walking parallel to the wall about fifty yards away. Three of them were carrying a long, solid-looking ladder. Cassius dropped to the ground.

‘Stay here. I’ll be back soon.’

After the Palmyran swordsmen had divided themselves, four of the ten groups remained with Azaf in front of the fort. Three more were stationed to the north, three to the south. There were eight or nine men in each section. Teyya led the southern group.

Azaf now realised he had to do precisely what Bezda had advised against. He would attack from three sides. He would force the undermanned Romans to divide themselves. His swordsmen would swarm over the walls as they should have with the very first attack.

The men milled around, sharing out the last of their water or quietly exchanging opinions. Others prayed.

Azaf squatted close to the ground some way ahead of them. He lay his sword across an abandoned shield, examining the blade and hilt for any sign of damage. Heavy blows could knock the blade out of alignment, crack the handle or chip the metal. Though he hadn’t drunk all morning, he took just a few gulps from his gourd and dripped the rest along the blade. He then used a length of cloth to clean away what blood and dirt remained. Only when every inch of the blade shone did he stand and replace it in the scabbard. He thought of Razir, how the old warrior had taken such pride in maintaining the blade. He would enjoy avenging him.

The sun was hot now, yet Azaf felt cool and calm. He barely felt the weight of the mail shirt; the harsh metal against his skin.

These were the moments he lived for. Easy victories were no test of a warrior; now he would truly prove his worth. He would give the general his staging post and extend the reach of the Palmyran armies deep into Roman territory.

It was said that of late the Queen had taken to personally honouring her most successful commanders. General Zabbai had told Azaf about another young
strategos
he had escorted to the great palace in Palmyra. While he waited for the Queen, her eunuchs had presented him with several gifts: an embossed dagger studded with jewels, a luxuriant robe of finest silk and a silver ingot engraved with the insignia of Zenobia’s own house. Zabbai had described the objects with typical relish, but it was something else he mentioned that seized Azaf’s attention.