The Siege (3 page)

As if his youth and lean physique were not enough to set him apart, Cassius’ other features did little to help him blend in. His family was from the far north of Italy and, like his mother and three sisters, he had light brown hair and a fair complexion. Thankfully, he had also inherited his mother’s good looks and his distinctive appearance had never done him any harm in his relations with women, not to mention drawing attention from quite a few men. The effect was doubled when he found himself amongst the darker peoples of the East.

One of the younger women bent over a basket and, before he could help himself, Cassius was leering at the swell of her surprisingly large breasts. The girl caught his eye as she stood up. Hand on hip, she gave a provocative smile.

This was soon replaced by a frown as an older woman, presumably her mother, slapped the girl hard across the back of her head. Pulling her daughter’s robes together to cover her cleavage, she pushed her away through the laundry before shooting Cassius a venomous glare.

The scout assigned to assist Cassius was a man named Cotta, who was waiting for the column at the edge of town by a run-down farmhouse. He stepped out of the shade provided by a wall, rounded his horse and nodded a greeting.

‘Morning. Or should I say afternoon?’

Cassius was about to apologise but reminded himself that Roman officers did not offer excuses to scouts.

Cotta had a thin covering of greying hair and a heavily lined face that carried a certain air of nobility. He wore the white robes of a local, with only a traditional brooch to identify him as Roman.

‘Shall we?’ Cassius said, pointing towards the road ahead. It was marked by a darker shade of sand and the occasional line of stones. The lands beyond were dotted with hardy shrubs and trees. In the distance were the undulating hills that signalled a return to safer territory.

‘I thought you might prefer to wait,’ said Cotta.

‘For what?’

‘The messenger.’

‘What messenger?’

Cotta pointed towards the hills. Cassius and the legionaries peered into the haze. About a mile down the road, a speeding rider had just emerged from behind a small copse of trees.

‘And if my aged eyes serve,’ said Cotta, ‘he carries a spear with a feather attached.’

‘Meaning what?’

Cotta seemed surprised by Cassius’ ignorance.

‘The feather instructs all who the carrier meets to clear the way or lend assistance. It means he bears urgent and important news – a military emergency.’

Cassius narrowed his eyes. Though slumped forward in his saddle, the messenger was holding a spear aloft.

Cotta was right. The feather was there.

II

Two of the legionaries helped the messenger to the ground. The man looked utterly exhausted. His skin was red, his lips cracked, his tunic soaked through with sweat. He could hardly walk and the soldiers half dragged, half carried him over to the farmhouse wall as the rest of the men crowded round.

Cassius, still on his horse, looked on as Cotta administered some water. The messenger drank greedily, coughing it up at first, then emptied half the canteen. Squinting, he pointed over Cotta’s shoulder.

‘Centurion Corbulo?’

‘Yes,’ answered Cassius evenly. He removed his helmet, dismounted and walked over.

The messenger reached into his tunic and pulled out a sodden piece of cloth. He attempted to undo it but his fingers were still too numb from gripping the reins. Cotta took over and unwrapped a roll of papyrus sealed with maroon wax.

‘It carries the general’s mark,’ he said, offering Cassius the letter.

As Ammianus attended to the messenger’s equally shattered horse, Cassius took the letter and walked round to the other side of the farmhouse. The seal was indeed the general’s, the letters M, G and N quite clear. Cassius felt his stomach turn over as he scratched away the seal. Opening up the page, he recognised the same even hand that had given him his first ever set of operational orders. Now he had his second.

‘Well?’ asked Cotta, now standing close by.

Cassius wiped away the thick beads of sweat running down his face, no longer entirely as a result of the heat. He took a deep breath and tried to compose himself.

‘A change of plan. How far to Alauran from here?’

‘A day and a night perhaps.’

‘And the route?’

The scout pointed to the south-east.

See the three hills there, on the other side of the plain?’

Cassius shaded his eyes once again.

‘There’s a pass through the first two. Get to the other side and bear directly east into the desert. Alauran is within clear view – there are palms by the western wall. It may have been overrun by now. Surely we’re not going there?’

‘You’re not.’

As Cassius walked back towards the column, he briefly considered throwing the orders away, concocting some scheme to avoid this new mission, but the thought died, stillborn. After six months of training, instructions from above carried an undeniable, irresistible weight. Orders were given, orders were obeyed. Cassius gave a grim, unnoticed half-smile. There had always been a certain inevitability about this moment; what he feared most had come to pass.

Approaching the soldiers, he was met by a line of expectant faces.

‘You. Cinna, isn’t it?’

‘Sir.’

‘You know my attendant? The fat Gaul? He’s close to the back of the column. Tell him to come up with as much of my gear as we can carry on two horses. Assist him if he needs help.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Cinna coaxed his mount out of the line and set off at a trot. Cassius ignored the exchange of cynical glances between the other legionaries. Young centurions were rare. Young centurions with their own manservant were almost unheard of.

Cassius hurried back towards Cotta and met him by the shaded wall.

‘So, what do you know of the place?’

‘I was there about four months ago. I delivered orders for their senior officer to report any sightings of the Palmyrans and prepare the defence. I assumed they had been withdrawn by now.’

‘Apparently not.’

‘From what I recall the fort was in a pretty poor state. There was a centurion still there but I didn’t see him. He was very ill. Close to death I think.’

Cassius shook his head and cursed his father.

‘And the men?’

‘Unit of the Third Legion. Disorganised lot. No one else taking charge.’

‘How many? A century’s worth?’

‘Oh no, certainly not.’

‘Wonderful. Anything else?’

‘They ate well. There’s a granary full of grain, dried meat and fish. And plenty of wine. A little too much of which was being consumed by the men, actually. I left the orders with an old veteran. Name began with a B. He knew the place inside out. Kept going on about some man he referred to as the Praetorian.’

‘A member of the Praetorian Guard? Out here?’

‘That was my reaction. I never saw him but the old fellow seemed sure they would be safe as long as this Praetorian was around.’

‘Sounds to me like the figment of a deranged imagination.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Cotta, fiddling with his brooch. ‘He was old certainly, but not deranged. I got more sense out of him than anyone else there. I saw a few legionaries but they could barely string a sentence together.’

Cotta mimed tipping a cup towards his mouth.

Cassius wafted away a fly. Clusters of them had begun to gather round the stationary horses.

‘So. Apart from drunks, insane old men and fictitious Guardsmen, is there anyone else I should know about?’

‘I believe there were a few locals left: traders, those too sick to travel, a couple of whores . . .’

As Cotta’s voice trailed off, Cassius turned and saw Simo and Cinna approaching. Simo’s horse was laden with gear. Cinna had two leather saddlebags perched on his lap.

‘Simo, we’re to be on our own for a while. You’ll need to use my mount too.’ Cassius nodded at his horse, pacing slowly in the shade.

Cotta held up a hand.

‘A word of advice. Travelling alone you’ll make for an easy target. Apart from the Palmyrans, some of the locals might be tempted now we’re pulling out. Keep an eye out for bandits. You should make it across the plain before dark.’

Cotta lowered his voice.

‘Are you sure you don’t want to take some of the legionaries with you?’

‘No. They are the only front-line troops in the column. Besides, they are still recovering from their last engagement.’

‘And you are fresh and eager to face action?’ asked Cotta with a wry smile.

Cassius knew there was no point trying to hide his concerns from such an experienced campaigner. He made no attempt at bravado, in fact he made no reply at all. His oratorical skills had so deserted him that he was unable even to summon a witty riposte.

‘Your name’s Corbulo, isn’t it?’ Cotta continued.

‘That’s right.’

‘Gnaes Domitius Corbulo. The general who restored order in Armenia for Nero. Any relation?’

‘Distantly I believe.’

‘And he led the Third Legion. A good omen. You’ll do well with these men.’

‘I wish I shared your confidence. Come, there are some points of command to settle.’

The messenger had been taken to the rear of the column. Ammianus and the legionaries were back on their horses and arranged in a loose semicircle. Cotta took the reins of his own mount and followed Cassius towards them.

‘I have to leave,’ Cassius announced. ‘Cotta here is in charge of all matters relating to the journey back to Antioch. He knows the territory well and is to be regarded as commander in this respect.’

The legionaries all nodded their assent. Cassius knew there were no soldiers of senior rank in the column but somebody had to take charge. He caught the eye of the tall legionary with the injured arm. He now had a whole bundle of the throwing javelins slung across his back.

‘Your name?’

‘Licinius.’

‘Well, Licinius, I have a job for you. If there is an attack, you are to take over and coordinate the defence of the column. Assuming all goes well, report to the first senior officer you come across. Understood?’

Unlike many of the soldiers Cassius had encountered, Licinius seemed to respond well to being given responsibility; he sat higher in his saddle and seemed happy to take charge.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And do whatever you can to keep everyone moving in the hours of daylight.’

Cassius moved towards Cotta, now also in the saddle.

‘When you’re ready then.’

‘May Fortuna watch over you,’ replied Cotta gravely as his mount moved off.

Cassius backed away from the column towards the farmhouse, looking on as the legionaries and auxiliaries followed in turn.

‘Centurion!’ Cotta shouted over his shoulder. ‘The old man! His name was Barates.’

Cassius only just heard him over the sound of the horses.

‘Barates?’

‘That’s it!’

They exchanged a final wave. Cassius, now back in the shade, was struck by the number of men who took the time to salute or shout a goodbye.

Simo had led the horses round to the other side of the farmhouse, away from the dust kicked up by the column. He had readied his own mount and was now shifting full canteens of water on to his master’s saddle. He was a big man, broad-shouldered and solid, and carrying a quarter more weight than he needed. He had an open, youthful face made older by a hefty double chin. His thick, black hair was now wet and matted to his forehead. Cassius watched him work for a moment. All things considered, Simo had adjusted to his new life rather well.

Though he had been tended to since birth, Cassius had decided against maintaining an attendant whilst in the army, mainly because he couldn’t afford it. But he was not one to turn down a convenient opportunity, and during his brief stay in Antioch a rare piece of good fortune had come his way.

He had visited a friend of his father, a wealthy, aged merchant named Trimalchio. Fearing the city would fall, Trimalchio was taking his family back to Rome and clearing up his affairs in the province, not expecting to return. He and his wife remembered Cassius as a young boy and, sympathetic to his predicament, they had treated him kindly. He had dined with them twice and those few hours had given him valued respite from the tense wait for orders.

On the day of the family’s departure, Trimalchio had presented him with Simo. He was of Gaulish descent, a sixth-generation slave highly regarded by his master. No money changed hands but Cassius had been told he could make use of Simo for as long as he was required. Only then would he join the rest of the staff in Rome.