The Siege (11 page)

‘And nothing eases it?’ said Cassius as they stopped next to the flagpole.

‘Nothing. I imagine I’ll be lucky to see out the year.’

As if to demonstrate the point, Serenus was struck by another coughing fit. He pulled a cloth from his belt and held it to his mouth. Cassius saw several spots of blood as he took it away. Most of the cloth was covered in older stains, faded to brown.

‘Perhaps you should retire to the barracks for the moment?’

‘No, no. Let’s have a look at this rabble first.’

Serenus moved away, straightening as he neared the men and already pointing at a legionary with his sword unsheathed.

Strabo and Barates joined Cassius as Simo brought out the century roll. Avso and Serenus were quick to their work and soon a double line of men traversed the width of the square. Cassius began reading and the legionaries answered their names. There was well-observed silence, even though he had to hesitate now and again while searching for the next name or struggling to read Petronius’ writing.

He was about halfway through when his peripheral vision picked up some turning heads. Looking up, he saw that most of the men were staring over at the barracks. Cassius turned too, and found himself gazing at an extraordinary figure.

Walking barefoot with a slow, ambling gait was an individual of such unusual size that he seemed to occupy the space of two normal men. Though he was tall, it was the horizontal dimensions of his body that were unlike any Cassius had ever seen. The huge head was hairless apart from an untidy greying band between the ears and sat atop a neck of equally unnatural breadth. Below, an enormous pair of shoulders and arms stretched the material of a light blue tunic Cassius could comfortably have used as a bed sheet. Patches of thick dark hair covered the upper arms and shoulders. A leather belt was pulled tight at the waist, showing little fat round the man’s middle. Beneath the tunic were a bulging pair of legs that somehow matched the vastness of the rest of him.

Without a single glance at the assembled legionaries to his right, the giant rounded the corner of the barracks and disappeared towards the inn.

Barates leaned towards Cassius.

‘The Praetorian.’

‘A late time to rise, even for him,’ said Strabo.

Cassius had been so busy that he had given no thought to the man Cotta had spoken of.

‘What does he do here? Will he join us?’

‘Probably not,’ said Barates.

‘Definitely not,’ added Strabo.

‘If he’s in the army, then he must fight.’

‘Perhaps you would like to go and tell him that, centurion,’ said Strabo. ‘Or you could stay here – and ensure that your head remains attached to your neck.’

‘I should explain,’ said Barates.

‘Quickly then.’ Cassius held up a hand to the legionaries. ‘One moment, men.’

‘He was exiled from Rome, serving with the Fourth, but was struck down with some disease of the gut. I’ve never seen a man in such agony. The pain causes him to cry out; his face contorts as if he’s possessed by some evil spirit. All that will ease it is wine. Lots of it. He’ll rise in the afternoon, walk the few yards to the inn, down as many jugs as he can, then retire when he’s done, ready for the next day.’

‘Why was he exiled?’

‘The last man who asked that has only just recovered.’

‘Broke his arm,’ said Strabo. ‘Praetorian didn’t even get out of his seat.’

Cassius saw that the men were drifting off into conversation.

‘Tell me the rest later. Let’s get this roll finished.’

They did so quickly. The only absentee was Flavian, now bandaged up and asleep in the barracks. Cassius was happy to leave that particular problem until the morning. With the square now shrouded in the half-light of dusk he, Strabo and Barates began the inspection.

It was reassuring to see that none of the men had allowed their personal arms to fall into serious disrepair. This was, Cassius now understood, one of the advantages of making each man purchase his own.

The legionaries wore a variation of the plain linen tunic worn by soldiers across the Empire. All reached down below the knee, none any further than the calves. About half of the men had cut the sleeves off at the shoulder. Some were decorated with dark lozenges or squares. No one was without his military belt.

Earlier in the day, Cassius had seen legionaries walking around barefoot but all had now managed to locate their boots. Tied together with leather straps, some had uppers, others were open under the laces. Cassius heard Strabo picking on certain individuals whose footwear needed attention. It seemed the guard officer was finally beginning to live up to his title.

Stopping between the second and third sections, Cassius waited for the others to catch up.

‘Armour’s not so good,’ he said as the Sicilian drew near.

There were only a few men with mail shirts. Most were well maintained but none matched the quality of Cassius’ own.

‘Some of them sold them,’ said Strabo.

‘What? To whom?’

‘Whoever. Fetches quite a price. Even out here.’

Given the wage situation, Cassius decided not to make an issue of it. The trio continued on, passing a couple of legionaries equipped with archaic cuirasses composed of large iron plates held together by leather straps. They afforded good protection to the shoulders and chest but were extremely uncomfortable and difficult to maintain.

‘Well at least they all have helmets.’

‘They do now,’ said Strabo. ‘I found a box full of spares in the barracks.’

The helmets looked almost new. They were of an older design than Cassius’, one he knew was regarded as superior, and were of bronze construction, topped by a strengthening crosspiece.

Continuing past Strabo’s section, he turned his attention to the shields. Other than the personalised designs and graffiti, they were similar to his own: an oval, made of wooden planking reinforced with iron bars and covered with leather.

The next man Cassius passed was young, not much more than twenty. He stood arrow straight, hands clasped together behind him.

‘Show me your sword, legionary.’

‘Sir.’

The soldier unsheathed his blade and held it up. Every surface was flawless and Cassius could smell the oil he had used to attain such a fine sheen. The wooden handle was engraved with swirling patterns and embossed with some glittering stone.

During a rare spare hour during training, Cassius and some of his fellow officer candidates had visited a smithy where swords were constructed. They had watched, fascinated, as an amalgam of narrow iron bars was twisted into a screw, then hammered and folded repeatedly. This formed the core of the blade, to which the two cutting edges were then welded.

Cassius gave the legionary a nod of approval and moved on to the second line: the fourth and fifth sections. Here, a couple of the older hands were also armed with pila. Based on a wooden or iron shaft up to seven feet long, these heavy javelins varied in design but all were topped by a barbed metal point. Used most effectively at short range, they could wound enemies or puncture shields, weighing them down and rendering them useless. In close-quarter melees, with ranks of men virtually on top of each other, they were ideal for penetrating shield walls or out-reaching shorter weapons.

Given the poor state of some of the soldiers he had encountered in previous weeks, Cassius was relieved to find that every member of the garrison was fairly well armed and equipped. There were a hundred little things he could have pulled individuals up on – a patch of rust here, a loose strap there – but he had at least the makings of a fighting force. Some specialist archers would have been useful, but if the Syrians could be persuaded to fight too, they might form an effective auxiliary missile unit.

He came to a stop at the end of the second line.

‘Well?’ he said.

‘They’ll do,’ answered Strabo.

‘My thoughts entirely.’

Cassius caught Barates’ eye.

‘You’d best go and ready the camels. And ask Simo to saddle my horse.’

The veteran grimaced.

‘I’m afraid camels and horses do not always mix, sir. That’s why we’re keeping them at opposite ends of the stables. And the three beasts are more biddable when they are kept together. I’d be happy to escort you out there and complete the first sentry shift myself. Julius can bring you back at your leisure.’

‘Very well,’ answered Cassius. It seemed that the remainder of his first day at Alauran would offer up yet another novel experience.

He and Strabo returned to the flagpole. Turning to face the legionaries, he saw immediately that their goodwill was fading as fast as the light. There were bored, tired expressions all round; it seemed that the modest exertions of the evening were weighing heavily on those recently unaccustomed to soldiering.

‘Well, men, a reasonable showing!’ he announced. ‘I suggest you all get a good night’s sleep because I expect every one of you back here at sunrise. Tardiness will not be tolerated and you should be prepared for a long day’s work.’

Strabo coughed loudly.

‘Food and drink,’ he whispered.

‘Ah. Yes.’

This was another point they had discussed before the muster parade. Cassius was not slow to recognise it as a potential point of contention. Having listened to the advice of his deputies, he’d decided to ease the garrison back into a more formal system.

‘I intend to reintroduce set meal times from tomorrow. Food will be rationed.’

There was predictable tutting and head-shaking but Cassius sensed a certain half-heartedness. It confirmed his suspicion that many of the men would be glad to get back to normal military routine.

‘Report to the granary after you’ve rid yourself of your gear and the guard officer will ensure that you get your share. I’ve also asked him to monitor the consumption of wine.’

‘And who will monitor his consumption?’ asked Serenus good-naturedly.

Cassius just about held back a grin as the men broke into smiles and laughter. Strabo scowled.

‘See you at sunrise. Dismissed!’

IX

A hillock of sand fifty feet high, ‘the crest’ did indeed provide an excellent view of the area surrounding Alauran, particularly the desert to the east. Scattered across its slopes were patches of thorn bush, drained of colour by the summer sun. Aside from a few grasshoppers and sandflies there was no other sign of life. An indistinct track ran west back to the fort and east as far as Anasartha, the closest settlement of any size.

Cassius and Barates were at the top, gazing out across the plain.

‘No,’ Cassius said, ‘I can’t see it.’

Barates had assured him that the buildings of Anasartha, less than twenty miles away, would be visible from the crest. The old man sat on his haunches close by, noisily chewing his way through a handful of raisins.

‘The sun is low. Perhaps in the morning.’

‘At least we’ll able to see the Palmyrans coming. One of the few advantages of a desert location, I suppose.’

‘One of the few.’

‘You’re sure Julius is able to find his way back in the dark?’

‘Easily. He and I have done this trip a hundred times. The camels could probably do it on their own.’

Cassius glanced down towards the bottom of the crest. He could just about make out the youth and the three camels sitting in a triangle around him. Close by was a ramshackle shelter housing a water barrel and a stash of timber.

Barates had been correct about the boy’s ability to control the beasts. There had been a few problems mounting, but once clear of the gates the camels had settled into a purposeful stride, though Cassius had yet to adjust to their lolloping gait. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to the return journey. In fact, he was rather enjoying the tranquillity of the crest.

‘Then if you’ll oblige me, I shall keep you company a few moments more. You were telling me about the big man.’

Barates had embarked upon an intriguing tale. The Praetorian had been attached to a cohort of the Fourth Legion as an adviser, part of a hastily organised counter-attack that had ended in disaster. He had managed to get away and had pitched up at Alauran just after Barates and the rest of the century.

‘When he first arrived you could talk to him. He would say nothing about himself, but we would discuss politics, army life and so on.’

‘And now?’

Barates expelled a long breath as he eased himself up off his haunches.

‘It’s been a downward spiral. His rotten gut and drink-addled head have left him in a permanent stupor. On the few occasions he’s not drunk, he’s in a rage. I don’t remember the last time he had a civil word for anyone, even me. He has a room to himself at the end of the barracks and the others just stay out of his way. They’ll curse him behind his back – for his snoring, or for emptying every barrel in the inn – but they know better than to say anything to his face.’

Cassius watched the last segment of the sun drop below the horizon, dragging the remaining swathes of orange and red with it.

‘Cotta suggested that you valued him as a member of the garrison. Someone who might lead the way.’

‘I believe I did say as much to the man, though it’s hard to believe now. Back then he would occasionally accompany Petronius and me on patrol or offer a word of advice. His knowledge of tactics and battle is second to none. He knows how to fight these Easterners too. It was his performance fighting the Persians that got him promoted to the Guard.’

‘At Edessa?’

Cassius looked out at the desert. The city lay a hundred miles to the north-east and its very name was enough to evoke memories of a momentous Roman defeat. Ten years earlier, before Odenathus and his Palmyran armies had finally driven the Persians back, the Emperor Valerian had met them in battle at Edessa only to be beaten and captured by their leader, Shapur. It was rumoured that Valerian had been flayed alive and his skin displayed on the walls of a temple. Cassius recalled one of his older cousins relating that particular detail with some relish, after his father had announced news of the defeat to the household.