The Siege (6 page)

By the time they neared the closest of the palms, this preoccupation had distracted him from what Simo had already noticed. The Gaul tapped him on the shoulder and pointed towards the tree.

A large, black-feathered buzzard had just hopped out of the palm’s shadow. Claws scraping the sand, it shook its head at the strangers. Clasped in its crooked beak was something red with flies buzzing around it. With a single flick of its neck, the bird swallowed the morsel and hopped back towards the palm. Still looking on, Cassius belatedly realised what Simo had been pointing at all along.

Wrapped in faded shrouds, and arranged in an untidy line under the tree, were six bodies.

IV

Covering their noses with cloth unwrapped from their headgear, Cassius and Simo stared down at the corpses. One was no more than a pile of bleached bones, wrapped in a thin sheet that looked like it might blow away at any moment. The shrouds covering the middle four forms were a little newer. A section of cloth covering the face of one had come loose, revealing a portion of sunken, lined skin. This figure was notably smaller than the others.

‘A child perhaps,’ said Simo quietly. Unwilling to open his mouth, Cassius nodded and turned his attention to the last body. It could not have been there more than a week. Apart from the sweet odour of rot, the skin, visible where the buzzard had pecked a wide hole, had hardly decayed at all. Flies had gathered on the wound.

Cassius felt a wave of nausea, reminding him of the seasickness he had endured during the three-week crossing from Ravenna to Seleucia Pieria, the port that served Antioch. He had eventually resorted to offering daily prayers to Neptune, with no obvious effect.

He clapped his hands, driving the bird away. It hopped towards three more of its brethren, gathered together under another palm.

‘Well somebody put them here,’ he said.

‘Victims of disease perhaps?’ replied Simo, following Cassius back towards the horses. Neither of them chose to mention the obvious suspicion. Outbreaks of plague had afflicted the area for years; the disease could arrive at a settlement borne by a single individual and spread to the entire population in weeks. Cassius was fully aware of the risk; his uncle had died during one such outbreak while stationed in Cyprus.

Taking his mount by the reins, he started towards the south-eastern corner of the wall, examining the structure as he walked, knowing he might soon have to depend on it. The clay brick looked solid enough, the edges of each block visible under a thin layer of white paint. The foundations also seemed secure, with little evidence of slippage or subsidence. The top of the wall, however, was rather unconventional: there were no guard towers or battlements.

In the time it took them to traverse the southern side of Alauran, not a single sound was heard from within. It was almost midday; Cassius could not conceive how a garrisoned settlement, even one so remote and undermanned, could remain so deathly quiet.

They reached the corner. Cassius stopped and handed his reins to Simo.

‘Your knife is at hand, I see.’

‘It is, sir.’

Cassius retrieved his helmet from one of the saddlebags. If there were any troops left, first impressions would count. Having secured the strap under his chin, he took a final drink of water.

‘Eyes and ears open then.’

Simo took charge of both horses, looping the reins together as he followed Cassius round the corner.

In the middle of the eastern wall was a small but sturdy-looking gatehouse. The two towers bore the familiar hallmarks of a traditional fortress, though on a far smaller scale. Each was square, perhaps ten feet wide, extending two yards above the wall, with several arrow slits close to the roof.

The gate itself hardly deserved the name: two thick wooden doors mounted on a frame set into the wall. One door was slightly ajar.

Simo’s horse snorted. Cassius placed his hand on his sword, concerned that the noise would alert any potential enemy inside. Noting some vulgar graffiti at the bottom of the door, he leaned round it and peered inside.

Directly ahead was a street of sorts, separating two rows of ramshackle housing and leading through to a paved square. Beyond that were a well and a small temple.

Checking that Simo was right behind him, Cassius gripped the edge of the door and pushed it inward. The hinges squeaked, protesting noisily until there was enough space for the horses to pass. He took four steps forward and stopped. Though no people were in view, there were a few signs of life: a line of washing hanging from a roof, a discarded sandal, a large pail in the middle of a doorway.

Fairly sure he could hear voices coming from somewhere, Cassius swept his eyes across the compound. To the left was some kind of encampment where awnings had been strung from the houses to the southern wall. Under the awnings were assorted barrels, amphoras, blankets and several piles of clothes. There was also a well-maintained fireplace, complete with a spit and a stack of cooking pans.

To the right was a U-shaped marketplace with stalls on three sides. Many of the stalls had been cannibalised for wood. Woven baskets of various sizes and shapes littered the ground. They were all empty.

‘Keep your eyes on those houses,’ Cassius told Simo, turning to look at the inside of the eastern wall. The towers were accessed through a low doorway on each side of the gatehouse. Along the remainder of the wall a number of wooden planks had been affixed five feet from the ground to form a series of rudimentary firing platforms.

Cassius steadied himself, reminded himself of his rank and his orders and set off at a brisk pace towards the square.

‘Follow me, Simo.’

Resisting the temptation to examine every potentially treacherous window, he instead pressed on until he could see the rest of the fort. The square was about sixty feet in diameter and paved by alternating grey and white tiles, many of which needed replacing.

The building behind the well was indeed a temple, its narrow doorway framed by two spiral columns. In a larger settlement they would have been marble but these were of some lesser stone. Faded outlines and blotches of orange and red on one side suggested an abandoned attempt at decoration.

Occupying most of the space to the left of the square was the large wooden building they had seen from outside. Its sloped roof was thatched with dried palm fronds, the supporting beams visible underneath. The manner in which the entire structure had been mounted on a series of short thick timbers confirmed it was the granary: by keeping a flow of air through the building, its contents could be better preserved and protected from vermin. At the eastern end was a wide double door. At the other end, separated from the granary by a narrow alley, was a smaller building with three half-doors: undoubtedly the stables.

Equally recognisable was the barracks, situated to the right of the square. Like every other building except the granary, it bore the pale tones of clay brick. There were two doorways at the near end, a number of wide, low windows and a long water trough outside. It looked about the right size to house a century. A few tunics and sheets had been draped over the windows to dry, yet, once again, there was a bemusing lack of activity. At the far end of the barracks were the officers’ quarters: a small block fitted with a wooden door and a large, shuttered window. Some throwing javelins had been propped up against the shutters.

Cassius was ready to investigate further when Simo touched his shoulder.

‘Sir.’

Coaxing the horses round with him as he turned, the Gaul nodded back towards the gate. Only when Cassius had skirted around the flank of his mount did he see what Simo was so concerned about.

At the opposite end of the street, about a hundred feet away, was a man. He stood absolutely still and wore a long, black, sleeved tunic. Even at that distance they could see a dark complexion and wreaths of hair that hung far below his shoulders.

Cassius was unsure what to do. He was, however, throughly sick of the weighty helmet and thought it best to suggest peaceful intent, not that there was any realistic alternative. Slowly lifting it from his head, he cradled the helmet under his right arm and wiped his brow.

‘Might I suggest we retire to one of these dwellings, sir,’ Simo said shakily.

As he spoke, the black-clad figure raised an arm.

Cassius squinted into the sunlight, trying to see what the man was doing. He realised after a moment that the stranger’s arm was moving in a circle. The arm suddenly accelerated into a blur of motion. Cassius glimpsed something glinting under the sun then heard a loud crack.

‘What—’

For a moment, he thought he’d been hit; that he was about to sense an injury somewhere on his body. Then he noticed a small object lying in the sand. It was a leaden ball the width of a thumbnail. Turning the helmet over, he saw a neat hole in the iron close to the crest.

‘Slinger,’ he said, gulping as he showed the helmet to Simo.

The stranger was now motionless again, arm back by his side.

‘If we can get behind the horses,’ Cassius said quietly, ‘we might have a chance at the closest doorway. Are you ready to move?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘On three then.’ Cassius could hear what he thought was Simo’s breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. Then he realised it was his own.

‘One, two—’

Cassius spied movement to his right. He could not think why Simo would be moving forward but then saw that the figure walking past was certainly not the Gaul.

‘I really must apologise, sir, but you know how these locals can be. Back in a moment.’

The interloper must have been sixty-five if he was a day. Despite the inelegant gait produced by his bandy legs, he moved with impressive speed. His hair was snowy white, thinning on top but tied in a long tail. He wore a tatty pair of sandals and a dirty, ragged tunic. He didn’t seem to be carrying any weapons. Continuing down the street, the old man held up a hand of greeting to the black-clad warrior.

Cassius exchanged confused glances with Simo, then recalled Cotta’s last words.

‘Thank you! Barates – is it?’

The veteran stopped, turned and bowed before striding away again.

Simo let out a long breath and patted the nose of his horse.

‘Well,’ said Cassius. ‘Quite a shot. It must be, what—’

‘Thirty yards or so I should say, sir.’

‘At least.’

Cassius picked up the leaden ball and held it against the hole in his helmet. He knew the iron was vulnerable to arrows but had no idea a slingshot might penetrate at such range.

Barates was now speaking to the mysterious warrior.

Circling back round the horses, Cassius saw that the square was still empty.

‘Looks like he has things in hand. Let’s see if we can rouse anyone else.’

At the eastern end of the barracks, two stretchers had been left against the wall. Knowing that small aid posts were usually constructed for minor forts such as Alauran, Cassius aimed for the closest doorway, hoping to find a surgeon or attendant inside. He belatedly realised that two men were lying under the stretchers. One was snoring loudly, the other drooling. There were several abandoned wine jugs next to them. Both their mouths were stained red.

‘Gods, it’s hard to tell if they’re even soldiers,’ said Cassius. One of the drunkards was wearing a tunic and one sandal. The other was naked except for a sheet he had donned in the style of a toga.

Behind the aid post was a flimsy wooden structure, complete with a poorly thatched roof and a few rough-hewn tables and stools. On the other side of a short bar were several shelves lined with empty wine bottles. It was, in short, an inn.

Shaking his head, Cassius put his hands on his belt and wondered what to do next. He had half a mind to pour water over the two men but there was no telling how they might react, even if they were part of the garrison. He walked past the aid post, then the barracks, glancing inside each gloomy window as he passed. There was little to be seen except the edge of a few bunks and the odd arm or leg sticking out, and there was little to be heard but snoring.

‘At least there’s a few of them here,’ Cassius said quietly to Simo.

Hearing a noisy slurp, he turned to see the horses dipping their noses into the water trough. With more of an angle on the street, he could now see Barates deep in conversation with the warrior. The veteran seemed to be emphasising every other word with some wild gesticulation.

Cassius reflected on what he’d discovered. It now seemed unlikely that any officer remained and that discipline amongst whatever legionaries were left had completely broken down. It was therefore essential to find out as much as he could from Barates about the men and their state of mind.

Deciding it was still quiet enough to take a quick look at the temple, he left Simo with the horses and hurried across the corner of the square. He passed the well, with its four-foot clay surround, and bracket and winch for raising and lowering pails, then ducked under the low doorway of the temple. There was just enough light to see a simple stone altar opposite the door. Two figures had been crudely engraved on its surface. The legend underneath read:
to mars and hercules. from the men of the third legion
. Beneath the altar was an ancient-looking spear, a dagger with an embossed handle and a helmet that had almost rusted away. A pair of candles, standing sentry-like in front of the altar, appeared not to have been lit in a long time. Cassius also noticed that his were the only footprints in the sand that had blown in off the square.

It seemed that the legionaries of the Alauran garrison had forsaken religion along with military discipline.

Exiting the temple, he was surprised to see the horses trudging slowly away from the barracks, their reins trailing in the dust. Behind them, Simo seemed to be drinking from the water trough below one of the windows. Cassius then realised that he was in fact being held down.