Cassius noticed how Avso held his hands high, close together at the level of his belt, as if always poised for action. The Thracian spat into the dust at Strabo’s feet.
Surprisingly, the Sicilian didn’t react. He simply glanced down at the newly moistened sand and smiled. Cassius wondered if he wished to preserve his energies for the fight that mattered. He stepped between them.
‘Gentlemen. I’d like a word. In there.’ He pointed at the northern tower.
Strabo shrugged and ducked inside. Avso and Flavian reluctantly followed. Cassius was last in; the four of them just about filled the area round the ladder.
He began: ‘All of us have made mistakes today. We either didn’t tell the truth or we didn’t recognise it when we heard it. Flavian, you were at the granary last night hunting out wine, correct?’
Flavian looked to his usual source of guidance and received an affirmative nod.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you get any?’
Flavian shook his head.
‘Thought better of it when that darkie saw me.’
Cassius turned to Avso.
‘And you told him to lie about it, fearing you might both be implicated in Barates’ death.’
‘Very good,’ answered Avso smugly, without the vaguest hint of shame or regret.
‘I remind both of you that at no time were you directly accused of anything by Strabo or myself, though I admit we had our suspicions. You should also remember that the Syrian lad has suffered a good deal worse. And he did
nothing
wrong. Recriminations benefit no one. Our enemies are here. This feud must be forgotten. Now.’
Strabo had already made up his mind. No sooner had Cassius finished than he offered his hand to Avso. Cassius looked down at Strabo’s broad, calloused fingers, hoping desperately that Avso would reciprocate. He knew the Sicilian would not make the offer twice.
The Thracian’s drawn features were so hard to read that Cassius had no idea what he was about to do until he finally extended his hand. As usual, Flavian followed his example.
The first rank of infantry were now approaching Alauran on horseback, the rest of the force behind them in a snaking line. The leading riders coaxed their horses behind the scouts and arranged themselves into a neat line of twenty. Those behind repeated the procedure until four new lines had been formed. Shuffling hooves kicked up clouds of dust that shifted lazily south with the wind, obscuring the rest of the column.
‘About a hundred,’ observed Kabir as Cassius sat down beside him. ‘These look like swordsmen.’
They turned their attention north. More Palmyrans were fanning out beyond the limits of the initial rally line. They differed from the others in one notable respect.
‘Archers,’ said Kabir.
Arranging themselves in a double line, staggered to provide each man with a wide field of fire, around fifty of the horse archers eventually appeared on the northern flank. As their mounts settled down, the dust began to clear, revealing an identical deployment to the south. Behind this group, at least ten carts could be seen bringing up the rear.
From the middle of the rally line a hand and a cry went up, directing the archers to spread themselves more thinly.
‘Purple Cloak is definitely the leader,’ said Kabir.
Strabo arrived. Kneeling like Cassius and Kabir, he looked out at the Palmyrans and whistled. Avso and Flavian appeared next. Flavian was carrying a bundle of throwing javelins.
‘Three hundred at least,’ said Strabo.
‘Two hundred and twenty fighting men. The rest are drivers and porters,’ announced Kabir. ‘Is that what you make it?’ he asked Cassius.
Cassius didn’t answer; he was too busy staring at the carts.
‘What do you think that is?’ he asked, pointing towards a group of men tying ropes to something inside one of the vehicles. Others climbed up to manhandle the mysterious object. Following instructions from a gesticulating driver, those on the ground heaved on their ropes. Suddenly several thick, pointed stakes appeared. The men eased them down to the ground. Next out were two large wheels and more timber.
‘Ram,’ observed Cassius needlessly.
‘Hardly deserves the name,’ said Strabo.
‘Enough to account for our gate,’ countered Avso. ‘A big one would get stuck in the sand anyhow. They know what they’re doing.’
The five pair of eyes were then drawn to a colourful figure walking rapidly in front of the rally line. He carried no sword or shield. Trailing in the wind behind him was a wide cloak of deep red.
Karzai wasn’t actually Palmyran; he hailed originally from the coast close to the city of Laodicea. Azaf knew little of his history other than his previous occupation as some kind of merchant. Having presented himself to the Palmyran victors after a skirmish with Roman troops at a river crossing, he had proven singularly useful.
As well as speaking passable Hebrew and Phoenician, he was fluent in Latin and Greek and all the numerous dialects of Aramaic used in both Syrian provinces. He also seemed to have a contact in every settlement they passed through and was always able to lay his hands on food and water for a reasonable price. By way of reward, he took his pick of whatever the Palmyrans plundered along the way.
Azaf had little time for the man, finding his manner pompous, his creed vulgar. But, as he continued to provide solutions for problems Azaf would otherwise have to solve himself, he saw little reason to get rid of him.
‘
Strategos
.’ Karzai enunciated the word carefully as he bowed. His long hair was greying in places but he maintained the vigour and good looks of a younger man. The ostentatious collection of rings on both of his fingers always amused Azaf. They would make it impossible for him to hold a blade properly. As usual, the man was surrounded by a haze of perfume.
‘I want you to speak with them.’
Karzai’s thin smile disappeared as he cast an eye at the walls of Alauran.
Although most of the Palmyrans could speak some Greek, Azaf himself knew little and discouraged the men from using anything other than Aramaic. By employing Karzai, it was not necessary for him or any of his men to demean themselves by speaking either Greek or the hated Latin.
‘What would you like me to say?’
‘The usual.’
Karzai turned hesitantly towards the gate.
Azaf continued: ‘Advance until you are halfway between here and the wall. They should be able to hear you.’
‘Sir, I’m happy to please as always, but what if—’
‘We’ll cover you.’
Azaf gave orders to the archers on either side of him, then settled back into his saddle and gestured calmly towards the gatehouse.
Karzai took a moment to compose himself, then set off.
‘Well, well. Look at this pretty flower.’
Flavian gave a grunt of amusement at Avso’s mocking words.
Cassius was no longer looking at the man walking slowly towards the fort; he was watching the horse archers. Every last one of them had retrieved an arrow from their quivers and now held them in place against the string. Another shout. As one, the archers coaxed their horses forward using only their legs.
‘Ah, you never know,’ said Strabo. ‘Perhaps they’re just after a cup of water.’
Nobody laughed. Kabir tapped Cassius on the shoulder.
‘They might offer terms. But you should not consider them, whatever they say.’
‘I don’t intend to.’
‘As auxiliaries my men and I might be spared, but you Romans can expect little mercy. If allowed to live, you might be forced to fight in their ranks or spend your remaining years in chains.’
‘You needn’t concern yourself. Roman garrisons are not in the habit of handing forts over to upstart rebels.’
Kabir looked back at him cynically.
‘Forgive me, centurion, but that is a rather naive view. You must be aware that some within your legions have chosen to fight alongside the Palmyrans.’
‘Those are rumours, spread by our enemies.’
Cassius felt his face reddening. He was simply repeating what he had heard from other officers in Antioch. For all he knew, Kabir was right.
‘Ah,’ said the Syrian, amused by his reply.
Cassius decided to end the conversation.
‘My orders are clear. We will defend Alauran to the last man.’
Kabir offered a conciliatory nod.
Crispus’ head and shoulders appeared from the northern tower.
‘Excuse me, sir, but the men are asking what’s going on. Should we form up?’
‘Tell the men to stand to. They’ll get their orders.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cassius looked around.
‘Where’s Serenus?’
‘Down there,’ said Avso, aiming a thumb at the southern tower. ‘Coughing his guts up again.’
The enemy messenger stopped seventy yards out, flanked on either side by the archers. The odd horse edged forward or sideways but for the most part the line remained impressively intact. Another order and each archer raised his bow above his mount’s head.
‘Keep low,’ warned Kabir. ‘This is short range for them.’
A clear, authoritative voice rolled towards the fort in faultless Greek.
‘Whoever lies behind those walls, be he Syrian or Roman, should listen now and listen well. We, the forces of General Zabbai of Palmyra, claim this territory and settlement in the name of our unconquered Lord Imperator Vaballathus and Her Regal Highness Queen Septimia Zenobia. Your choice is simple: surrender or die.’
XXVI
‘May I?’
Strabo, pressed close to the wall with his head bowed, stared expectantly across the walkway. Cassius realised he would do little for his own authority by letting the Sicilian speak for the garrison, but he feared he might make a mess of it. For all his supposed oratorical skill, he couldn’t even conjure a suitably belligerent reply.
‘Please.’
Strabo sat back against the rear wall and cupped his hands round his mouth.
‘We make our own choice!’ he bellowed. ‘We choose to fight! Then it is you who shall decide whether to surrender or die!’
The men roared, adding their own insults and beating their sword pommels against their shields.
Cassius heard a shout close by. He looked up and saw Flavian on his feet, a javelin in his hand, jeering at the Palmyrans. Before Cassius could act, something slammed into his helmet and a fiery pain exploded against his left ear.
‘Down!’ yelled Kabir, dragging him backward.
Still dazed, Cassius put a hand to his helmet, feeling at first only smooth metal, then a small, thumb-sized indentation. The arrow lay next to him, its point blunted. It had hit the surround before striking him, carving an inch-deep furrow in the clay.
Kabir shouted into his ear: ‘Stay low!’
Cassius looked up. Flavian was slumped forward, arms over the wall. The two arrows sticking out of his chest had gone clean through the plate armour. The javelin was still in his hand, an agonised snarl fixed on his face.
Avso went to help him.
‘Avso, no!’ yelled Strabo.
Arrows flashed through the air. The flat trajectory and power of the bows made them impossible to avoid, even if seen in flight. Cassius stared at Strabo’s back, unable to drag himself out of a numbing paralysis. Kabir appeared suddenly to his right, shouting at Avso.
‘Down! Down!’
But Avso was up on his feet, struggling to shift Flavian. An arrow pinged harmlessly off the Thracian’s chest with a metallic whine. Strabo scrambled over, grabbed at his belt and hauled him down. With the two of them finally back below the wall, the hail of arrows ceased.
Flavian managed to raise himself up off the wall but then his body jolted once more: a third arrow had hit him in the stomach. Arms flailing, his weight shifted forward and he toppled over the edge. There was a sickening thump as he hit the ground.
The silence that followed was broken by a distant shout from the Palmyran lines.
‘Stay below the wall! Stay out of sight!’ cried Strabo, checking his helmet was still intact.
Cassius could also make out Crispus’ voice, ordering legionaries away from the walls.
‘The tower,’ said Kabir, heading left on his hands and knees. Cassius saw Avso spring up and get a quick glimpse over the wall before scrambling away towards the other ladder. Cursing bitterly, Strabo went after him. Staying as low as he could, Cassius followed Kabir to the ladder and down into the tower.
‘You’ll keep watch?’
The Syrian nodded and planted himself in front of the arrow slit. Cassius continued downward, pushing his sword out to stop it catching on the rungs. Once outside, he saw Avso coming the other way.
The Thracian pushed his way through the legionaries to the gate and grabbed one of the reinforcing planks. Though most of the wood had been removed, the gate could not be unlatched without detaching the three hefty timbers left in place. Before he could draw his dagger and get to work on the nails, Strabo was on him.
‘No, you don’t. You’ll just get yourself killed.’
‘Stay out of this!’ spat Avso. ‘I can get to him! Someone lend me a shield.’
Flavian was screaming now.
Cassius looked on uncertainly. He felt the eyes of some of the younger men upon him. They were waiting for his instructions.
The more experienced legionaries, however, were of one mind and those close by came quickly to Strabo’s aid. Eyes bulging, muscles straining, Avso continued to struggle, landing several kicks as he shrieked curses at his compatriots. Strabo eventually managed to get an arm round his neck and wedge himself back against the gate. Other men locked Avso’s arms at his side.
Serenus appeared. His eyes were watering and there were droplets of blood on his chin. He held up his hands as he approached Avso.
‘You know we can’t open the gate! You know that.’
For a moment, it seemed the Thracian was about to give in. Then he kicked Strabo in the shin and managed to get a hand free. Before anyone could stop him, he had wrenched his dagger out and jabbed it back over his shoulder. Strabo grabbed his wrist, halting the blade an inch from his face.