With not even the slightest acknowledgement, Azaf continued on, past the archers, towards the infantry. Razir hurried over to meet him.
‘Withdraw all ranks to the rally line,’ Azaf said calmly. ‘Allow them to rest and have water brought up. I’ll address them soon.’
XXXV
Strabo and Avso stood in silence, helmets under their arms, solemnly staring down at Statius. Someone had wrapped a sack round his throat to cover the terrible wound. Iucundus was there too; he had removed his armour and held both hands against his ribs, grimacing with every breath. Cassius and Serenus were close by, supervising the other legionaries as they worked manically to cover the gap with fresh planks of wood.
‘Where was he from?’ asked Strabo.
Avso said nothing. The Sicilian turned towards him. ‘Avso. Where was he from?’
‘Thrace. Some village in the mountains. I don’t remember the name.’
The mention of Avso and Statius’ homeland reminded Cassius that they were not members of the Third Legion. Avso had now lost all his fellow soldiers from the Fourth: Flavian, Gemellus and now Statius.
Strabo looked over at Cassius.
‘How many more injured?’
‘I’m not sure. They’ve all been taken to the aid post. I’ll check the roll.’
Avso stepped over Statius’ body and stalked towards the open space that had once housed the market. Ahead of him were the Palmyran prisoners. Their weapons and helmets had been removed and they lay on the ground, guarded by three legionaries. There were nine of the cavalrymen in all, though only four were conscious.
Cassius was in little doubt about Avso’s intentions and started after him. Strabo put a hand on his arm.
‘Leave it,’ he said quietly.
‘Those prisoners are my responsibility.’
‘You should not interfere,’ said Strabo, his voice steely as he tightened his grip.
‘Let go of me,’ said Cassius, outraged that the Sicilian should go so far.
The legionaries close by looked on.
‘Let go, Strabo.’
The Sicilian bent his head towards him.
‘You will not intervene?’
Avso ordered the others to strip the prisoners of armour and equipment. The Thracian drew his sword and held it over the first Palmyran as the legionaries pulled at his belt.
Cassius wrenched his arm away.
‘I shall do as I damn well please.’
‘Centurion.’
Despite the cordial expression on his face, Serenus now blocked Cassius’ way. ‘Perhaps you would accompany me to the aid post, to check on the wounded. I’ve posted a lookout at the eastern wall. It seems matters are in hand here.’
‘You too wish to dictate to me? Perhaps I can remind you both of the relevant regulations: prisoners are to be disarmed, then—’
‘By Mars,’ said Strabo.
Serenus concluded Cassius’ sentence: ‘Prisoners are to be disarmed, then restrained or guarded unless doing so compromises the completion of a military action.’
‘Exactly,’ said Cassius.
‘The action is the defence of this fort,’ Serenus said patiently. ‘We cannot spare men to guard prisoners.’
Strabo wasn’t interested in arguing any further. He drew his sword, pushed past Cassius and made for the marketplace, with Iucundus not far behind. Cassius watched the first Palmyran wriggling in the dust as the Romans held him down. Avso jammed a boot into the warrior’s stomach.
‘Come,’ said Serenus, tipping his pilum towards the street. ‘If you see no transgression, no offence need be reported.’
‘That is not the issue,’ said Cassius grimly, turning back towards the barricades. He had no wish to see another death.
‘Come,’ repeated Serenus. ‘We have much more work ahead of us. The enemy have not retreated far. They may strike again soon.’
There was no cry from the Palmyran but Cassius could see from Serenus’ face that the cavalryman had been killed. Another could be heard pleading quietly for his life. With no real alternative left open to him, Cassius walked away up the street. Serenus followed him past a small group of Syrians attending to minor injuries.
‘Would you slow down a little?’ asked Serenus, his voice hoarse.
Cassius did so. Nearing the square, they saw wounded legionaries gathered outside the aid post.
‘I know you have not seen such things before but I have, many a time,’ said Serenus. ‘There is seldom much room for clemency once blood is spilt.’
Cassius thought then of Flavian and the manner of his death. He wondered why he had not thought of it sooner. The legionary had been the first casualty of the battle; his death the most cruel.
‘So it would seem.’
Over the past few months, Cassius had spent many hours trying to imagine what real combat was like. He knew now that such endeavours had been in vain. He could have spent a lifetime training for battle, heard endless stories of war; nothing could have prepared him for its savage realities.
‘You value life,’ said Serenus. ‘It does you credit.’ The veteran stopped by one of the dwellings and leaned against the wall to catch his breath. ‘But if your conscience troubles you, consider this; Avso and Strabo have lost brothers here today. They have made up their minds. Neither you nor I can stop them.’
Leaving Serenus to rest, Cassius hurried on towards the aid post. Close to the western wall, Julius and Antonius were struggling to get the big female camel under control. The two smaller animals were tied up to the well.
‘There you are!’
Cassius had given no thought to the Praetorian and was therefore surprised to see the giant shuffling towards him. He was barefoot, buckling his belt as he walked, and for once there was no cup of wine in his hand. Cassius still found himself amazed by the physical dimensions of the man, this time noticing the plate-sized hands and enormous fingers, easily double the width of his own.
‘That stuff,’ said the Praetorian, blinking into the morning light.
‘Sorry?’
Though they were just yards from the aid post, the Praetorian seemed not to have noticed the injured men. Cassius wondered if he even understood that Alauran had been attacked.
‘That milky stuff you left in my room. I think it did me some good.’
‘Oh.’
‘My guts feel better. Is there any more?’
Though his eyes were still bloodshot and his delivery stilted, the huge man seemed as sober as Cassius had seen him.
‘I’ll try to get you some.’
The Praetorian rubbed his hands together.
‘Good.’
‘It may be difficult. There are injured men.’ Cassius gestured towards the aid post but the grey eyes rested on him and him only. ‘Others are dead. We must prepare for another attack.’
The Praetorian nodded vacantly and Cassius realised that this new-found lucidity applied only when the man was focused on his own welfare. The wall of intoxication and self-interest he had created around himself would not be easily breached. The Praetorian turned, staggering slightly as he made for the inn.
‘Just get me some more of that mixture.’
‘I’ll try.’
‘Good lad,’ he mumbled, walking away.
The legionaries outside the aid post had observed the encounter. One, holding a folded tunic against a wound on his knee, nodded towards the inn as Cassius approached.
‘The Bear’s up early, sir. Perhaps he will fight with us now.’
‘I doubt it,’ said Cassius as the men moved aside to let him through. ‘He’s more interested in his next cup of wine.’
The soldier shook his head. The disappointment amongst the assembled legionaries was palpable. Though Cassius had earlier resolved to abandon all thoughts of winning the Praetorian round, the reaction of the soldiers reminded him of how such a man might embolden them, not to mention the effect his presence might have on the enemy. Everything about his behaviour suggested he would do nothing to assist the defence, but Cassius was not quite ready to give up on him yet.
With a swift about-turn he rounded the corner and found the Praetorian bent over the bar, grunting as he foraged for another barrel. A cup sat on the bar next to him.
‘Excuse me.’
Still empty-handed, the Praetorian pushed himself up and turned round. He blinked a couple of times, then picked at his nose.
‘Ah. You have it?’
‘No, not yet. I just thought I should tell you something. My servant is an expert in these matters. He said that wine will counteract the effects of the preparation.’
‘Huh?’ The Praetorian’s bushy eyebrows formed a V as he frowned, apparently unable to comprehend the notion of abstinence.
‘He said it will negate its effects. Your pain will return immediately.’
The Praetorian leaned back against the bar and stared at the floor.
‘He has plenty of ingredients,’ Cassius continued. ‘There’s no reason why he can’t suppress the pain indefinitely, perhaps even cure you.’
The Praetorian looked up. Cassius examined his face for traces of suspicion but he saw only contemplation, then what might even have been hope. Encouraged, he moved closer, took his canteen from his belt and held it out.
‘Here. He said that water would help. As much as you can drink.’
The Praetorian took the canteen, removed the plug and drank. Though the water from Alauran’s well was the sweetest Cassius had come across in Syria, the Praetorian winced like a child forced to ingest a particularly unpleasant tonic. He tilted his head back and blew out his cheeks.
‘Now it’s my head buzzing!’ The great hand that slammed down on to the bar split a plank in two and sent his cup flying. ‘Mars knows why I’ve been cursed so!’
Despite his youth, Cassius knew a little about the effects of heavy and repeated drinking.
‘You crave the wine to dull the pain – a common enough pattern. But it will pass. Your condition, however—’
Scowling, the Praetorian perused the tender underside of his hand. Cassius began to wonder if he was alive to his machinations. He decided to fill the silence.
‘My man has helped many. Some say his powers have been bestowed from above. If you return to your quarters, I’ll have him bring you more of the preparation. Perhaps even a meal.’
The Praetorian gave the canteen back, then rubbed his chin.
‘Food. Don’t remember the last time I ate.’
Cassius gestured to his left.
‘Please. I’ll send him along presently.’
The Praetorian finally began to move but halted after just two strides, looking longingly back at the bar.
‘Surely a cup or two wouldn’t—’
‘He said not even a mouthful.’
The Praetorian tutted, sniffed loudly, then continued on his way.
The aid post was now reserved for those most in need, and Priscus had been joined by four more badly wounded legionaries. Cassius picked his way between their weapons and armour, then grabbed a mail shirt and passed it back to a man with only minor wounds.
‘Remove this gear.’
He stepped carefully over two of the beds and stood over Simo, who was treating Vestinus. The legionary lay on his back with one hand clamped over his eyes. Simo was pouring water from a bowl over the wound in his thigh, cleaning away the sand and dirt. Cassius tried not to look at the section of shiny white bone below the torn flesh.
‘Simo. I need more of that preparation.’
Simo did not look up, replying as he reached for a bandage.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t the time, sir. There are many others to treat.’
Cassius shook his head and wondered how many more times people supposedly under his command were going to disobey him.
‘Simo. Over here for a moment if you please.’
Cassius walked to the back of the aid post, in amongst the chests and piles of sheets. Simo lay the bandage over the wound, put a soothing hand upon Vestinus’ arm, then joined him.
‘I need it as soon as possible,’ Cassius said, trying to remain composed. ‘The Praetorian seems to think it helped. If he continues to feel better, I may be able to persuade him to fight.’
Simo offered a faint appeasing smile then gestured towards the injured soldiers.
‘Sir, these men require attention immediately. That preparation is probably useless.’
Cassius slammed his right fist into his left palm.
‘Just do it, Simo!’ he shouted. ‘Remind yourself of who is servant and who is master. I decide how your time is spent.’
Simo looked down at the floor.
‘Yes, sir,’ he whispered.
‘There’s no need to spend hours on it,’ Cassius said, lowering his voice. ‘As long as there’s plenty of it and it looks and tastes roughly the same. Give him some food as well. And do nothing to arouse his anger.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘Best get back to it then.’
Simo retreated with a bow.
Cassius saw a small clay pot next to one of the oil lamps. Inside were some of the lead identity tablets worn round the neck of every Roman soldier. One had belonged to Gemellus, another to Barates. Cassius still didn’t have one because he hadn’t been officially assigned to a legion. Next to the pot was the reed pen and Simo’s amended copy of the century roll. Cassius took both with him.
He met Strabo coming up the street. The Sicilian was cleaning the tip of his sword with a cloth. He kept his eyes on his work as he approached, his face expressionless.
‘Any change?’ Cassius asked as they passed each other. They would have to communicate sooner or later and he saw no reason to delay.
Strabo stopped.
‘No. Still gathered where they were. I was just going to fetch a little food for the men.’
‘I’ll give you a hand.’
Strabo shrugged and they set off towards the granary. Away to the right, Antonius had managed to tie the female camel to the well surround, and he and Julius were now towing the other two towards the stables.
Cassius thought it best to try and clear the air while he and Strabo were alone.