The Siege (2 page)

‘And you,’ Cassius said, speaking over his left shoulder, ‘can do the same.’

Cassius was taller than most legionaries but this man had a good three inches on him. He was bulky too, with thickly muscled forearms criss-crossed by scars.

Cassius waited, trying to look unperturbed.

The soldier didn’t move.

‘Alternatively, I can take your name. And you can prepare yourself for a lengthy discussion with your commanding officer upon our return to Antioch.’

The legionary tapped the javelin lightly against his shoulder, then finally backed away.

Cassius let out a breath. After a moment’s thought, he struck on a solution and turned towards Ammianus.

‘What if I pay for the dates?’

Ammianus looked surprised, then his face broke into a grin. Cassius imagined he was thinking of future drinking sessions, of boasting about the time a centurion bought him his lunch.

‘Fine by me, sir.’

Cassius reached into the small leather bag tied to his belt and pulled out a couple of bronze sesterces.

‘That should cover it,’ he said, handing the coins over. The stall owner looked satisfied; he’d been paid well over the odds. As he hurried back to his stall, a couple of the legionaries groaned with disappointment.

‘Caesar himself wrote about the importance of feeding an army,’ Cassius announced loudly. ‘And it is my responsibility to ensure that the most important individuals in our group are well nourished.’ Then, before Ammianus could react, he snatched the palm leaf from his hand, walked back to his horse and held the dates under its muzzle. The animal noisily devoured the fruit.

Cassius stared back at the dumbstruck Ammianus and smiled genially.

The tall legionary was first to react, chuckling at the sour look on the Thracian’s face. Some of the other soldiers joined in, adding a few quips at Ammianus’ expense. Then the Syrians began laughing too, and in moments the air of tension had been dispelled.

Cassius wouldn’t have sided with the Syrian had Ammianus been more popular, but the man had brought it on himself. Still scowling, the Thracian stalked back along the alleyway. A couple of the locals shouted at his back. Cassius hurried over to them.

‘That’s enough,’ he said, quiet but firm. ‘Please move along. We shall be leaving soon.’

The crowd broke up. Cassius found himself gazing at a shapely young girl carrying a clay amphora. She had the same smooth brown skin and flashing white teeth he’d noticed all over Syria. His stare lasted a moment too long and he realised some of the locals and legionaries were watching him.

‘Hurry up there!’ he shouted to no one in particular, feeling his face redden. Returning to his horse, he climbed up on to the saddle, cursing quietly and reminding himself to keep control of his baser instincts. It was just such interest in the female form that had landed him in his present predicament.

‘A moment of weakness’ was how he’d described it to his father. Up to that point, the old man had tolerated his drinking and dalliances, happy at least that his only son’s studies seemed to be progressing. Cassius had been working towards a career as an orator in his native Ravenna, hoping eventually to graduate to the forums of the capital.

However, when he had been discovered enjoying one of his aunt’s handmaidens (by his aunt, at her villa, during her fiftieth birthday party), his father’s patience had finally run out. Cassius’ protestations that the serving girl had ‘enjoyed it too’ did not help and over the next week he had been dismayed to find that his persuasive powers were not as far advanced as he thought. Corbulo senior was an ex-army man and he had decided that Cassius could only be deterred from a wasteful life of excess by ‘discipline, discipline and more discipline’.

Cassius cursed again and rubbed his fingers against his warm, aching brow. He still found it almost impossible to believe that such a small indiscretion had led to this. Here he was, stuck in this pit of a town; in a province facing imminent annexation; deprived of cultured company and all the finer things in life; and surrounded by barbarians, thugs and idiots.

Worse still, according to his father’s terms, he had five years left in the army.

Two weeks earlier, Cassius had stood in the office of General Marcus Galenus Navio, the commander charged with the defence of Syria.

‘So – a grain man, eh?’ the general said, examining the sheet of papyrus as he sat behind his desk.

Cassius didn’t reply. He was beginning to tire of the nickname used for agents of the Imperial Security Service. An independent wing of the military, the Service had been established during the time of the Emperor Domitian. Originally concerned with the supply and distribution of grain to the legions, its officers were spread far and wide across the Empire. Dealing so closely with the provincial populace, they were uniquely well placed to report back to Rome on all manner of issues. Over time they had become the ‘eyes and ears’ of the emperor and his general staff. The original name had stuck.

The Service maintained a headquarters in Rome known informally as ‘The Foreigners’ Camp’. Most legions were assigned several officers and, though their duties sometimes still included the procurement of supplies, Service men could find themselves acting as emissaries, tax collectors, investigators or spies.

Cassius had heard of his first posting via a missive from the Service chief, Spurius Sestius Pulcher: the same letter now in Navio’s hand.

‘You’re a little young,’ the general continued. ‘Usually a man has to prove himself a lying, scheming, underhand devil before being recruited to the Camp.’

Cassius stifled a grimace. He knew that the Service suffered from what could at best be described as a mixed reputation. Several friends had advised him against accepting the post. Some suggested that the Service was riddled with corruption, others that it was an impossible job – with loyalties divided between headquarters, local governors and the military hierarchy.

‘It is a rather unusual arrangement, sir, I know. My father was able to secure me a position commensurate with my level of education.’

Cassius chose not to add that only weeks of pressure from his mother had persuaded his father to call in a few favours and keep his son from front-line service.

The general grinned. Cassius noticed the thick, lined pouches of skin beneath his eyes. Though broad-shouldered and upright, Navio was quite overweight and this extra bulk sat unnaturally on the frame of what had once been an exceptionally fit man. Above his forehead was an island of grey fluff abandoned by the rest of his receding hair.

‘Well, unless your education extends to the dark arts of diplomacy, espionage and assassination you may find it a post more suited to a career criminal than a scholar.’

As Navio continued reading, Cassius looked around. Considering the general was responsible for the defence of Rome’s third city, his office was surprisingly modest. Well lit by a large window behind the desk, the only other items of furniture were four unused lamp stands, a neglected brazier and a holed rug. There was nothing for visitors to sit on. Cassius wondered if the general had problems with his eyes. He was taking a long time to read a short letter.

‘As you can see, sir, Chief Pulcher requests that I be directed to the senior Service officer in the province.’

At last Navio put the letter to one side.

‘Yes, well, unfortunately that arrogant bastard Abascantius doesn’t deign to trouble me with news of his activities, let alone request my permission for them.’

The general took some almonds from a small bowl on his desk and washed them down with a mouthful of wine.

‘I have no idea where he is. He disappeared into the desert two months ago without even telling me why. Not for the first time I might add. Luckily, there is no shortage of work for young, upstanding officers such as yourself.’

Despite the heat of late afternoon, Cassius felt a chill run down his spine. The prospect of five years with the Service seemed dreadful enough, but surely nothing could be more dangerous than a field posting with the legions.

‘You understand the situation here?’ asked the general.

‘I do, sir. We face revolt.’

‘I suppose you could call it that. The truth is, the Palmyrans have held the upper hand here for years. And you’ll find as many folk on the streets of Antioch would as soon raise Zenobia’s banner as Claudius’. But the Queen has gone too far, and seems intent on nothing less than annexation.’

‘We can assume that she knows of the problems in Gaul then. Not to mention the campaign against the Goths.’

‘Indeed. And that she’d be well advised to secure her position while the Emperor is preoccupied.’

Navio stood, ran a hand over his paunch and sauntered over to a large, tatty map mounted on the wall. It was marked here and there with charcoal and ink.

‘Come. Show me the partition boundary.’

It took Cassius a moment to find the right line, denoting the partition between Syria Coele and Syria Phoenice.

‘That’s it. Phoenice went first. That’s the Palmyrans’ home ground. Several cohorts were lost so I withdrew the rest to key settlements further north. A few were taken but I suspect the Queen was waiting for Arabia, Palestine and Egypt to fall before committing significant forces. Now they have; so we’re getting her full attention. Apamea and several smaller towns have gone in the last few weeks. All that stands between them and us is what’s left of the Third Legion.’

The general made circles with his finger in an area to the south-east of the capital.

‘Scattered amongst the towns here are a number of small garrisons. Just a few engineers and clerks now. Wounded, too. I need them rounded up and brought back here. It might be only weeks before the city is besieged.’

Despite such a prospect, Cassius had felt rather reassured by his few days in Antioch. The thought of venturing beyond its walls horrified him.

The general was already back at his desk. He filled a bronze pen with ink from a pot, then began to write on a papyrus sheet.

‘I’ll list the towns here. Get around them as quick as you can. I’ll assign a scout to help you find your way. My clerk will help you with any questions.’

‘Sir, you do understand that – officially – I’m not actually a centurion. I haven’t even been assigned to a legion yet.’

The general continued writing as he spoke.

‘What was the name?’

‘Corbulo, sir.’

‘Corbulo, you have an officer’s tunic and an officer’s helmet and you completed full officer training, did you not?’

Cassius nodded. He could easily recall every accursed test and drill he had undergone at Ravenna’s military academy. Though he had excelled in the cerebral disciplines and somehow survived the endless marches and swims, he had rated poorly with sword in hand and had been repeatedly described as ‘lacking natural leadership ability’. The academy’s senior centurion had seemed quite relieved when the letter from the Service arrived.

‘I did, sir, but it was felt I would be more suited to intelligence work than the legions. I really would prefer—’

‘And you did take an oath? To Rome, the Army and the Emperor?’

‘I did sir, and of course I am happy to serve but—’

The general finished the orders. He rolled the sheet up roughly and handed it to Cassius.

‘Dismissed.’

‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I just have one final question.’

The general was on his way back to his chair. He turned round and fixed Cassius with an impatient stare.

‘Sir, how should I present myself to the troops? In terms of rank, I mean.’

‘They will assume you are a centurion, and I can see no practical reason whatsoever to disabuse them of that view.’

Cassius could not forget that phrase, nor could he shake off a mild sense of shame every time he donned his officer’s helmet, complete with its bright red horsehair crest. The helmet was made of iron, with a protruding nose guard and three hanging sections that protected the ears and neck. He was still not used to the weight, and though his headache was beginning to ease, he cursed quietly as he tightened the straps around his chin. He hated the damn thing but it seemed sensible to keep up appearances for the benefit of the locals. He could take it off once the column was clear of Nessara.

It was the last town on the general’s list. Fifty miles from the capital. If they were lucky they might do it in three days. Cassius was desperate to get moving. He had gleaned enough from the soldiers and locals to know that Palmyrans approaching from the east might overrun the area at any time.

Once back in Antioch, he intended to find this Abascantius, take up the post he had been promised and hopefully avoid any more field assignments. But as he had discovered of late, looking too far into the future was a dangerous indulgence. His priority was to get the column out of the town and on the move.

It was almost midday when they left. Cassius took the lead with the mounted legionaries behind him, riding two abreast. Next came the carts bearing supplies and the wounded. Bringing up the rear were those soldiers on foot and the local auxiliaries.

Apart from the now abandoned Roman compound, Nessara was little more than a cluster of low, mud-brick houses. Despite the ravages of war and the enervating climate of high summer, life continued apace. Small groups of children darted here and there, stopping only to gaze at the column as it passed. Traders – some with stalls, others with no more than a woven basket – offered all manner of food; from olives, dates, oranges and lemons to chicken, goat and lamb, available alive or dead. One man stood over a selection of military equipment polished to a high sheen: some Roman, some local, even a huge axe from some northern land.

Approaching the edge of town, the column passed a group of women hanging washing on lines strung between dwellings. Several stopped what they were doing and more than one pair of eyes were drawn to the unusual figure leading the way.