The Siege (32 page)

Cassius quickly placed the lamp on the ground and took charge of the torch. Serenus wiped his chin and put his other hand against his chest.

‘Here.’

Cassius helped Serenus sit down on a nearby barrel.

‘We must—’

‘Don’t talk. Wait here a moment.’

Cassius jogged round to the side window of the officers’ quarters. Simo wasn’t there. He reached through the window and down to the floor; to where he knew the Gaul kept his canteen. As his fingers found it, the fire flickered: a large figure had entered the room.

‘Ah, Simo—’

It was in fact Strabo, torch in one hand, pilum in the other.

‘What’s going on?’ the Sicilian demanded.

‘Fire arrows were shot over the northern wall. Serenus is ailing.’

‘I’ll come round.’

Taking the canteen with him, Cassius called over to the nearest man at the wall and passed him the torch. It turned out to be a young legionary named Priscus. Cassius had noticed him around because, though tall and well built, Priscus was quite possibly the meekest soldier he had come across. He assumed this was at least partly due to the lurid maroon birth mark that covered half his face. The youngster bit nervously at his lip while he listened.

‘Here. I want you to check the entire perimeter. Report back—’

‘Leave that to me,’ said Strabo as he arrived.

‘Very well. Anything to the east?’

‘Nothing new.’

‘Come on,’ Strabo said to Priscus.

The two of them receded into the darkness towards the temple. Cassius blinked as his eyes readjusted. He hurried back round the barracks to Serenus and passed him the canteen. The veteran drank heartily, then let out a long breath.

‘Better?’

‘Yes.’

Serenus looked down at his armour and wiped away the rest of the bloody spittle.

‘That was as bad as I’ve had it. My chest burns so.’

‘Should you talk?’

‘Probably not. But the worst has passed.’

Cassius listened for any sign of another attack but all was quiet. He tried not to think of the Palmyran warriors skulking just yards away.

‘Rest easy. I’ll wait here with you a while. Strabo’s checking the walls.’

‘The Sicilian has done well,’ said Serenus, matching Cassius’ hushed tones. ‘The men like him. Always have.’ He grinned. ‘We must have seemed like a bunch of brigands to you on that first day.’

‘Given the circumstances, I wasn’t entirely surprised. You have known Strabo a long time?’

‘Before coming here, only by his face. Our cohort was completely reorganised before we left Raphanea – the legion’s headquarters. What I’d give to be behind those walls now – solid stone two yards thick.’

Serenus drank some more and leaned back against the uneven clay wall. The compound was quiet again. It seemed the brief attack was over.

‘And Centurion Petronius?’ asked Cassius, ‘you knew him well?’

‘Quite well. I had hoped we would have been able to get his body back to Antioch by now. His wife deserves that much.’

‘He was married?’

‘Yes. Many of the men here have wives. Syrian girls mostly. I too.’

Cassius was surprised. Though he knew many of the legionaries had been stationed in the East for years, decades even, he somehow imagined that if they had wives, they would be back home.

‘It’s been so long since I’ve seen her I can hardly recall her face,’ continued Serenus. ‘It’s a pretty one. I know that.’

‘She lives in Antioch?’

‘No. A village on the river about ten miles upstream. We were married three years ago, though it’s more than two since we parted. I bought a small farmhouse close to her family’s lands. There are a few goats, some figs, endless olive trees. Her father runs a small press and the oil fetches a good price in the city. She has her brothers to help her and makes enough to get by. At least she did. I hope all is well with her.’

‘Her name?’

‘Eskari. Has a nice ring to it, does it not?’

Serenus looked down at the ground, clearly preoccupied by thoughts of his past life.

‘I’ll go and find Strabo,’ Cassius said. ‘You wait here until you feel ready to move.’

‘Very well.’

Lamp in hand, Cassius marched quickly past the barracks and turned right past the inn.

‘Which idiot’s trying to start a fire?’

The Praetorian was sitting in complete darkness. Once again, the slurred pronunciation and combative delivery couldn’t entirely disguise his urbane intonation.

Cassius stopped. It was impossible to see anything inside the inn, so he simply stared at where he knew the Praetorian’s usual seat to be.

‘Our enemies fired them. They have surrounded us.’

There was a grunt, then the sound of wine being slurped down. The Praetorian fumbled with his words but managed to finish the sentence.

‘—what all the noise was about.’

For a moment, Cassius thought about talking to him. He could have told him about Barates, perhaps shown him the body; appealed to him again, persuaded him to fight. Then he recalled what Serenus had told him about not wasting time on the man and he resolved to waste no more. Grateful that he was at least happy to continue his drinking and cause no further disruption, Cassius went on his way.

The hours of night wore on and still the Palmyrans didn’t attack. Finding Strabo back at the gatehouse with nothing new to report, Cassius completed another tour of the perimeter with identical results. Serenus was up on his feet and checking his own section, as was Avso. Kabir had placed men on the roof of every dwelling.

Cassius had completely lost track of time, so decided to fetch his hourglass. It was another seldom used item but he was fairly sure Simo would have packed it. On the way to the officers’ quarters, he asked four legionaries how many hours they thought had passed since sundown. The answers varied greatly but averaged out at three.

He found Simo building up the fire.

‘My hourglass is in the chest, isn’t it? Do you have the key?’

Simo took the key from the purse on his belt and passed it to Cassius.

‘Sir, might I ask you for something. A small favour.’

‘You may.’

Simo pointed over at the desk. In one corner was a folded sheet of papyrus.

‘I’ve written a letter, sir. For my family. In case . . . well, in case.’

‘I see.’

‘I wondered where I should put it – so that it might be found. I’ve included my father’s address.’

Cassius didn’t have the heart to tell Simo just how incredibly unlikely it was that such a letter might find its way back to Antioch.

‘Perhaps with the century roll and Petronius’ papers. That might be the best place.’

Simo nodded gratefully.

‘Have you thought of doing the same, sir?’

‘No, not at all,’ Cassius replied honestly. ‘I haven’t the time.’

‘Then perhaps you would like to leave a few thoughts with me, sir. I could pass them on if—’

‘If I were to die.’

Simo bowed his head.

‘I prefer to try not to think of such things, Simo. I don’t believe it helps.’

‘I understand, sir, of course.’

The chest was under Simo’s bed. Cassius put his oil lamp to one side, hauled the chest out, unlocked it and flung the lid open. To his annoyance, the hourglass had tipped on to its side and had sand in both ends. He had just locked the chest shut again when Simo cried out.

‘What is it?’

The Gaul was at the door, pointing outside.

‘Arrows! There!’

‘Take this,’ Cassius said, throwing the hourglass to Simo.

He darted out of the doorway, still balancing the oil lamp in one hand. The sky was lit by a dozen sizzling orange streams. Bolts landed in the compound across the length of the southern wall as Cassius ran across the square.

‘Hold your positions!’ he yelled, repeating the order over his shoulder. One arrow had hit the northern side of the granary roof, lodging itself in the palm branches; it would surely take only moments for the flames to spread.

Scrambling past the granary steps, Cassius almost collided with two legionaries. One was holding a torch, the other a pail of water. Both were staring dumbly up at the southern side of the roof where two more arrows were alight.

Cassius put his lamp down.

‘What are you doing? We must act now!’

Without allowing himself a second thought, Cassius reached for the makeshift ladder he had climbed two days ago. He planted a boot on the bottom rung and started upward.

‘Sir, what—’

Cursing the darkness, Cassius climbed steadily, trying to ignore all thoughts of his exposed position and the Palmyran archers. He stopped only when his helmet clanked against the roof edge. Reaching up, he felt his way through the dry palm and found a sloping beam.

Pain pulsed through his fingers. Assuming he had spiked his hand on some sharp twig, he raised his head over the edge only to see flames licking round his wrist. He instinctively let go and would have fallen had his left hand not found purchase lower down the beam.

There were shouts from all around. Cassius couldn’t decide if he was hearing Latin or Aramaic. He was trying to remember what he’d intended to do once he got up there.

Suddenly a hand gripped his leg.

‘Here, sir! Here!’

Cassius reached down. He expected to feel the strap of the pail but it was a wooden pole being passed up to him.

‘Take it, sir.’

His fingers closed round the pole.

‘What— What am I supposed to—’

‘Tear the branches down, sir! It’s a sand rake!’

Cassius dropped his grip to the middle of the rake, wedged his chin over the roof edge and reached as high as he could. He pulled the rake down, dislodging most of the fiery branches. As they slid towards him, he twisted his arm round and swept them off the front of the granary. The first of the fires was out.

The second arrow had landed closer to the top of the roof. The area aflame was no more than a yard across but much harder to reach. Resting the rake along the closest sloping beam, Cassius clambered up until both knees were on the roof edge. His armour made every action doubly taxing, but with one hand braced on the beam he was able to extend the rake high enough to reach the burning branches. Flaming leaves dropped down into the granary.

‘Inside! Somebody get inside!’

As he continued to flick the branches off the roof, Cassius checked to his left, surprised but relieved to find no more arrows had landed on the granary.

‘Get back down here!’

Not sure if the shout was meant for him, Cassius was reaching for the last of the flaming palm fronds when something hit his right shoulder.

The force of the impact knocked him forward on to the beam. He came down squarely on his chest, somehow maintaining his grip on the rake. Aware of light and voices below, he lay there for a moment. He felt no pain in his shoulder and hoped the mail had done its job. Looking up, he saw that only a couple of palm fronds were still alight. He knocked them down into the granary, hoping someone was there to extinguish them.

‘Come back down!’

It was definitely Strabo; he sounded close by.

So much of the palm had now been raked away or incinerated that Cassius could see the other side of the roof. The fire there was out. He slid back down the beam and dropped the rake to the ground.

Fighting the urge to hurry, he took care to get down safely and dropped the final few feet, finding himself amongst a crowd of legionaries and Syrians. Like the Romans, Kabir’s men were facing the southern wall, all holding their slings. Cassius looked along the granary roof, then at the dwellings: there was no sign of fire.

‘A job well done,’ said Strabo, looming out of the dark, torch held high. ‘That took some balls.’

‘What about inside, there were—’

‘Crispus dealt with it. The other side of the roof too.’

Cassius turned round.

‘Check my shoulder, would you? I think I was hit.’

Strabo held the torch above the armour. ‘You were. Lucky you’ve such a fine piece of mail. A couple of dented rings but that’s all. Made a right target of yourself up there. We chucked a couple of javelins and heard a cry or too. I think they’ve backed off again.’

‘Good.’

Cassius realised now how out of breath he was. He turned his hands over and examined his fingers. In places, the skin bore the purple shine of a slight burn but there was no real damage.

‘Next time send one of the men up,’ advised Strabo. ‘You must learn to – what’s the word?’

‘Delegate?’

‘That’s the one.’

A group of Syrians separated and Crispus appeared, a rake still in his hand.

‘Sir, Avso reports that the Palmyrans have moved back. No torches closer than their original position.’

‘Another feint,’ said Strabo thoughtfully.

‘Well done, sir,’ said Crispus.

‘Well done yourself. Why would they try and burn this down? They must know it’s the granary.’

‘I think those were strays, or there was an error in communication,’ answered Crispus, wiping grime from his face. ‘After those first few hit, the rest were aimed at the dwellings.’

Cassius turned to Strabo.

‘Anyone hurt?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘We should get the men back to their positions then.’

‘I’ll do it quietly,’ said the Sicilian, ‘in case those beyond the wall speak Latin.’

The crowd began to break up, leaving Cassius to catch his breath. He checked his belt: both dagger and sword were still in place. The mail shirt, however, had ridden up. Pulling it down, he noticed a glow behind him.

There on the ground, almost under the granary, was his oil lamp. It was still burning bright.

XXIX

The last few grains of sand dropped on to the golden mound below. Cassius flipped the hourglass over.