The Siege (48 page)

Cassius, along with everyone else in the square, believed he had missed.

Azaf, sitting in the dust and leaning back on his hands, stared dumbly at his sword, still stuck fast in the middle of the Roman’s shield.

The defenders watched as the thin horizontal tear across the Palmyran’s throat turned red. The blade’s tip had sliced an inch out of his neck, enough to release a rivulet of blood that swiftly became a thick stream, cascading down through the rings of his mail shirt.

With his face registering no more than a stunned frown, Azaf’s arms buckled and he slid backwards on to his cloak.

Cassius later learned from Simo that, at the moment their leader fell, there were still thirty-one Palmyrans left alive in the square and just ten defenders. It did not matter.

The Praetorian took only a moment to savour his victory.

‘Amateur,’ he said quietly, throwing his shield aside. He reached over his shoulder and plucked one of the javelins from the bag, then drew his arm back and flung it at the nearest Palmyran, skewering him an inch above his belt.

Before the man hit the ground, the Praetorian was aiming a second javelin at another warrior who had time only to turn and take a step before the projectile punctured his back, emerging between two ribs as he toppled to the ground.

The remaining Palmyrans fled.

One of the legionaries gave a cry and they set off after them, leaping over the bodies that littered the way. The Praetorian followed at a light jog. Two more Syrians appeared from the barracks and gave chase too. Cassius was the last man out of the square.

As he lay there alone, his head resting against the soft cloak, Azaf wondered why he now seemed to have a mouth in his throat and why he was coughing up so much water that it was wetting his neck and chest.

He stared up at the sky, so blue and pure, until a subsuming fog edged across his vision and a perfect silence settled in his ears.

He saw for a moment the desert beneath him, the rolling dunes of his homeland, and there, in the distance, the towers. Where he wanted to rest forever.

And then he thought of her. Always her.

XLII

Cassius caught up with the others just outside the gatehouse. The fleeing Palmyrans had dropped every piece of weaponry and equipment and were now sprinting for the crest.

The Praetorian slowed, then stopped. The legionaries halted too, watching as he reached over his shoulder for another javelin. Cassius couldn’t believe he was going to try; even the slowest Palmyrans were at least fifty yards away. The Praetorian weighed the missile in his hand for a moment, took four quick steps, then launched it. The weapon was in the air for so long that Cassius had time to glance round at the legionaries as they followed its flight.

The javelin thudded into the ground a yard behind the trailing warrior. The Praetorian swore and smacked his hand against his thigh. The legionaries cheered the attempt, then bawled insults at the retreating enemy.

Kabir and Idan had stopped a little further out. They reloaded their slings quickly and now threw yet more shot at the enemy. Firing at a low angle, they both hit men in the back. The warriors collided with each other and fell, then scrambled to their feet and went on. Idan left his sling by his side but Kabir kept at it, frantically whipping away shot after shot.

Cassius sheathed his sword and walked over to him.

‘Kabir.’

The Syrian leader fired again but hit nothing; he was shooting wildly and the Palmyrans were almost out of range.

‘Kabir.’

Cassius put a hand on the Syrian’s shoulder. He spun round, wild-eyed, breathing hard.

‘It’s over,’ Cassius said.

‘By the gods it’s not,’ said one of the legionaries. ‘Look!’

Cassius turned and followed the line of the soldier’s outstretched arm. In the distance was a swirling tower of dust reaching high into the azure sky. At its base was an indistinct mass of riders, heading straight for Alauran.

‘It can’t be,’ cried the legionary, falling to his knees. ‘It can’t be!’

Cassius felt a flash of heat in his head. He put his hands out to steady himself.

‘No, no, no,’ he whispered.

‘Get up, you idiot,’ said the Praetorian, passing the kneeling legionary as he walked back towards the fort. ‘They’re coming from the north. That’s your relief column.’

Cassius knew instantly that he was right. Fear had robbed him of all logic.

The legionaries stared dumbly after the Praetorian for a moment, then at each other, then at the column again. Realisation became relief. They ran until they were parallel with the north-east corner of the fort. Cassius and Idan followed them.

‘Caesar be praised!’

‘I can see the standards! I can see the scarlet and gold!’

Each man took his own time to be certain, but soon they were all shouting, jumping up and down, embracing each other, and praising Jupiter, Mars, Fortuna and every other god they could think of.

A grin crept across Idan’s disfigured face.

Cassius felt curiously numb. One of the legionaries turned towards him.

‘It really is them, sir. You might allow yourself a smile.’

Cassius took off his helmet. He felt light-headed, faint. A sickly, sweet smell reached him. He looked round and saw a dead horse just yards away. Its head lay on the ground, its lips pushed up over its teeth to form an obscene grin. Flies walked across its eyes and its wounds and the piles of dung on the ground.

Cassius threw up. What came out was mainly water but he had to just stand there, bent over, hands on his knees, until there was nothing left in his stomach.

The legionary gave Cassius his half-full canteen. He was a squat, barrel-chested character with a huge purple bruise on his right cheek and a split lip.

‘Your name?’ Cassius asked when he had finished the water.

‘Domitius, sir.’

‘Thank you, Domitius.’

Cassius straightened up and looked over at Kabir. The Syrian was now kneeling in the sand, facing east. Cassius walked back towards him. Kabir suddenly clasped his hands tight over his face. Cassius squatted down next to him.

‘The signs were right, Kabir. A great victory.’

The Syrian was whispering to himself in his own language. His hands stayed over his eyes.

Cassius left him.

He found Serenus exactly where he’d last seen him before the fourth attack: sitting upon the window ledge with his feet planted on the floor. He was slumped forward, head and arms hanging between his thighs. On the ground by his feet were the old stained cloth and fresh spots of blood.

Cassius knelt down. The veteran’s eyes were shut, his mouth frozen in a placid half-smile. Cassius reached out and touched his neck. The skin was cold.

‘We wondered where he could be,’ said Domitius as he and another legionary walked in.

‘It was the illness that killed him,’ Cassius said.

‘We’ll look after him, sir,’ said the second man.

Cassius made way for them, now realising they had been members of Serenus’ section. He nodded gratefully and went outside. Glancing down, he noted that the only real damage to his helmet was the hole left by Idan’s slingshot four days previously. Pulling the mail shirt off over his head, he slung it over his shoulder and started up the street.

Around him, the dead lay at every possible angle, some on their sides, some on their backs, others with their faces pressed into the dirt. A few were still gripping their weapons. Limbs belonging to at least five different warriors stuck up out of the ruins of the collapsed dwelling.

Skirting round the rubble, he saw the Praetorian back at the inn. Standing with one foot up on a stool, the giant was carving into his sword handle with a dagger. Lying on the table next to him were his javelins and a wooden cup. He saw Cassius and waved him over.

‘Your fat servant won’t make me any more of that milk.’

‘I daresay he’s more concerned with the wounded.’

The Praetorian shrugged.

‘What chance any of them have out here without a surgeon I don’t know. Still, I’ll admit he knows his potions well enough. And I suppose I should thank you for getting it down my throat.’

The Praetorian stopped carving for a moment.

‘I did not think I missed clarity of thought. Until it was returned to me.’

‘Forgive my curiosity, but I passed your room not long before the battle and you were sound asleep – with three empty jugs by your bed.’

‘Emptied indeed. But of water, not wine.’

The Praetorian smiled at Cassius’ reaction.

‘Yes, lad. I did listen to you.’

He looked towards the square.

‘I should have done so earlier. We might have fared a little better.’

Cassius turned round and his gaze rested instantly on the Palmyran leader.

‘I must thank you. You saved my life.’

‘Life?’ repeated the Praetorian scornfully. ‘Lucretius was the only one with something sensible to say about life.
One long struggle in the dark
.’

He put his knife down and picked up his wine, then began idly swinging the sword. He aimed the tip at where Azaf lay.

‘He was quicker in hand than he was in head. Only a fool ties himself to such a light blade.’

‘Do you know how that colour is made?’

‘What?’

‘That very bright purple. His cloak. I met a trader with one just like it on the boat up to Antioch. He told me about it. There are these little sea snails that can be found all along the Syrian coast. When wounded, they secrete tiny amounts of a purple liquid. He said it takes tens of thousands of them just to make the dye for one cloak like that.’

The Praetorian slurped his wine.

‘So?’

‘I told him I thought it seemed wasteful. Cruel even. He said that’s the way of the world. Suffering and death are necessary – to achieve something of note.’

Cassius glanced at the Praetorian. There was a look of faint amusement in the grey eyes.

‘Is this something of note?’ Cassius asked him, opening a hand towards the square.

The Praetorian paused for a moment, still swinging the sword. Then he shrugged.

‘It is a victory. And you are alive in a place where most have met their death. Forget your musings. Be thankful you are still on your feet.’

He put the wine down and started carving again. Cassius nodded at the tally etched on the handle.

‘Quite a number.’

‘Not really,’ replied the Praetorian, finishing the final mark. ‘This is my fifth sword.’

Cassius found Simo outside the barracks. His expression was blank, his face drained entirely of its usual colour and warmth. His hands were wet; he had tried to wash off the blood, but his hands and forearms were stained pink.

Cassius gripped his shoulder.

‘Help is on its way. The relief column.’

‘It’s true?’

‘They’ll be here soon.’

Simo clasped his hands and fell back against the doorway, eyes closed.

‘And you didn’t have to fight.’

Simo opened his eyes and let out a long breath.

‘Strabo?’ Cassius asked.

Simo shook his head solemnly.

‘He gave Julius something for you. He went peacefully, sir.’

Cassius glanced warily at the aid post. He knew he couldn’t bring himself to go inside. Ex-legionaries with a missing arm or leg were a common sight and he had held out a little hope that the Sicilian might pull through. But there had been so much blood. Too much. Strabo had known it.

Simo took Cassius’ helmet and mail shirt from him.

‘Sir, I’m afraid I need to—’

‘Yes, yes, of course, get back to your work. Simo, do you have that pot with the identity tablets?’

‘Yes, sir, I just collected the last of them.’

‘Bring it to me, would you.’

Simo headed inside the barracks, passing Julius on the way. The lad was carrying something carefully in one hand. He indicated that Cassius should open his palm and meticulously placed two small objects there. Cassius knew what they were before Julius removed his hand but when he saw Strabo’s dice, he realised why the boy had been so particular. They were upturned just as they had fallen that morning, when the Sicilian had claimed the day would bring triumph.

‘A five and a six,’ Cassius said. ‘Fortuna’s friend.’

He looked up to see Domitius and the other man carrying Serenus’ body towards the barracks. The other three legionaries hurried past them. They were carrying bunches of reeds gathered from the spring.

‘What’s all that for?’ Cassius asked.

‘Tradition, sir,’ said one man. ‘No one’s going to make the relieving troops proper grass crowns out here so we thought we’d do it ourselves. Sign of our gratitude.’

‘They’re almost here, sir,’ said another.

Simo returned with the pot. It was full, almost overflowing. The tablets were covered in grime and blood. Almost as soon as he looked at them, Cassius felt that he would cry again, so he left Simo and the others and walked away towards the officers’ quarters.

The men filled cups with wine from a barrel. As they drank and began weaving the crowns together, Domitius started up a song of victory. Even a few weak voices from the barracks joined in.

Cassius placed the pot on the window of the officers’ quarters. Then he walked over to the well and picked up a pail of water and a cloth. Returning to the window, he sat down, facing away from the men, and took each tablet from the pot in turn. He cleaned each one thoroughly, wiping every mark or stain from the dull lead, then placed them in neat lines to dry.

As he worked, the noise of the approaching column grew louder.

When his eyes picked up the names inscribed on the lead he would look away. But he could not stop himself thinking: thinking of how each tablet had found its way into his hands, taken from the lifeless necks of those who had fought so hard to win them and had worn them with such pride. He thought of where each tablet had been, carried for years, decades even, by the legionaries as they slept and marched and ate, as they lived and loved and fought.