The Siege (7 page)

As Simo tried to free himself, Cassius sprinted over to him. The owner of the large hands gripping Simo’s neck leaned further out of the window. He was a man of about thirty, with curly hair, a blunt nose and a demeanour that suggested he had just woken up.

‘Use our trough for your beasts, would you?’ he shouted at the back of Simo’s head. ‘Let’s see how you like sharing with ’em.’

‘Let go at once!’ Cassius ordered.

The man looked up, blinking.

‘And what concern is it of yours, boy?’ he snarled.

‘It is my concern because unless you are some wandering peasant, I will assume from your location that you are a legionary of Rome. With that in mind, I will give you a moment to wipe the sleep from your eyes and a chance to look at me again. Perhaps you might notice the helmet in my hand or the stripe on my tunic?’

Cassius had heard such speeches hundreds of times during training. The words came easily enough but he was less confident of predicting their effect.

After a moment’s pause, the legionary released Simo and placed his hands on the window. Grunting, he disappeared into the shadows. Simo, coughing and spitting out water, took a couple of steps backward.

‘Sorry, sir. He caught me unawares.’

‘Don’t worry. Just fetch the horses, would you.’

‘Yes, sir.’

As Simo moved away, Cassius waved at Barates and gestured towards the officers’ quarters. Barates waved back.

Turning on his heels, Cassius immediately found himself faced by the curly-haired legionary and two of his fellows, all armed with wooden staves. They had clambered out of the low window next to the officers’ quarters and now barred his way.

For once Cassius knew exactly what to do. He could not be seen to wait for Barates or show indecision. He strode along the side of the barracks, aiming for a gap between two of the legionaries.

‘Good morning,’ he said, smiling.

The soldiers frowned as he passed them, struck dumb by the cordial greeting.

Half expecting to feel a stave thump down on his head, Cassius only breathed out when he reached the door of the officers’ quarters. It was unlocked. Glancing to his right, he saw that the legionaries had been joined by two more men. All five stood in a row, silently studying him.

He opened the door and stepped inside.

V

Azaf lay flat on the ground, enjoying the momentary shade provided by some rarefied cloud. He closed his eyes and sunk his fingers into the warm sand. The only sound was the distant chatter of his men, gathered together under some hastily arranged awnings. Beyond them lay a wide dusty trail and the outskirts of Seriane.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed a moment to himself. The Palmyrans had ridden all night to make the rendezvous and the previous weeks and months had been occupied with cleaning up the remaining pockets of Roman resistance in eastern Syria. So far, it had been ridiculously easy.

The last significant battle had been with three cohorts of the Fourth Legion and the Romans apparently had little else to offer. It was now a matter of rooting them out town by town: usually nothing more than a short one-sided battle; the execution of the uncooperative, the wounded and the weak; and the dispatch of prisoners back to Palmyra. Azaf and his men were bored by their work and he was surprised that the order for the next big advance still hadn’t arrived.

It seemed like a long time since he had left the city: Tadmur in his own language, named by the Romans after the palm trees that surrounded it. Azaf was of nomadic stock and he had only visited Palmyra twice. The first time had been as a small boy, travelling with his father to receive payment from a sheikh who recruited local tribesmen to escort his caravans. He had seen his first paved street and stood open-mouthed in front of the city’s vast stone columns and arches. Whilst waiting in the courtyard of the sheik’s palace, he came across an intricate, multicoloured mosaic that took up one entire wall: a dramatic depiction of a hunting party. He had never seen such craftsmanship and splendour.

On their way out of the city, they encountered a sight that was to make an even deeper impression on the young boy. Not far from the outskirts, amidst dust and eerie quiet, was a collection of narrow, windowless buildings, some standing together, others in isolation. These, his father told him, were the tomb towers. During his fighting years, a soldier of Palmyra would put aside enough money to pay for himself to be interred alongside his brothers-in-arms. The better the record and reputation of the soldier, the higher he would be placed, with the upper levels reserved only for the greatest leaders and bravest warriors. To Azaf, it was a far nobler fate than being buried or burned to ash. He could imagine no greater end.

Years later he had returned to the capital as a man, a soldier and a leader. Along with almost half the entire Palmyran Army, he had lined up on the great colonnaded avenue to hear the Queen speak. Like thousands of his counterparts, he had longed to see her in the flesh since his boyhood years. He had heard some men say that her looks were overstated, others that they couldn’t be captured in words. That day in the square, however, he had swiftly formed his own opinion.

Zenobia had inspected every row of soldiers, her aged eunuch attendants struggling to keep up with her. She was tall, statuesque and without doubt the most exquisite woman Azaf had ever seen. She wore an ornate golden diadem that framed a face of almost supernatural beauty. Her eyes seemed huge – brown and deep – and she wore a silver silk tunic that cut a diagonal line across her chest, exposing a single perfect breast.

Azaf was a member of the Komara tribe, raised in a village on the banks of the Euphrates. Barely a month after his father had passed his sword to his thirteen-year-old son, he had been bested by the boy. Azaf’s quicksilver hands seemed to defy the limits of physiology, and he was apparently able to see his opponent’s next move before they had even decided upon on it.

War was now his vocation. He had been recruited to the army’s ranks at fifteen and had killed his first man battling the Persians. Aware of his ability, the more experienced swordsmen had tried to keep him away from the front line, anxious to impart their knowledge and harness this raw, god-given talent.

But Azaf would not be denied. He confounded his fellow warriors, showing that he had been listening and learning: calmly scouring the skirmish line like a veteran, picking on isolated individuals and pairs, dispatching them with clinical ease. He revelled in the first moments of combat, weighing his alternatives in the blink of an eye: the build of the man, the signs of injury and fatigue, the weapon in his hand. Yet he could never recall making any calculation: just acting, generally with lethal results.

He had risen swiftly through the ranks and now commanded a hundred swordsmen, mostly Komara men. He had proven himself to be an adequate tactician but both he and his superior, General Zabbai, knew that his real value lay in the example he gave his men. Azaf’s warriors, whether fighting Persians, Egyptians or Romans, had always excelled themselves, each man dedicated to emulating their leader.

Some, he knew, fought for the glory of victory, and the booty and pillage that came with it. Some fought to honour their god Malakbel, and the other deities of the Palmyran pantheon. All would be happy to see the end of Roman rule.

He never spoke of his own motivations. Though he enjoyed command and could not wait to lead his men into battle again, as time passed he became more preoccupied by thoughts of that day in the capital. He could not remember much of what the Queen had said, but he could not forget her. Occasionally Zabbai would let slip some comment and, though he would rather die than betray his true thoughts, Azaf would listen, rapt, eager for any revelatory word.

He had little interest in the vagaries of politics or trade and little understanding of the long, complex relationship between Palmyra and Rome. He knew only that her enemies were his.

Occasionally, though he cursed himself for such idle fantasy, he would imagine himself inside the palace, standing against the Roman onslaught that must eventually come: the last man alive, protecting his queen.

Sometimes, after hours of riding or sleep, he would see her. She never spoke. But she smiled. A smile that told him he was hers and that she loved him for it.

He fought for her. He fought for Zenobia.

‘Sir.’

Azaf opened his eyes and rolled over. One of his men was standing over him.

‘He’s here.’

General Zabbai looked down at the prisoners and scratched his chin. He wore a bright white tunic over a matching pair of trousers embroidered with gold. The brooch that held his light brown cloak together was topped by a spectacular emerald: plunder from a recent victory. Zabbai’s broad-featured face was surprisingly youthful considering he was approaching his fiftieth year. His expression remained impassive, despite the scene in front of him.

The Romans had been stripped of their clothes and weapons. They lay naked in the sand, bloodied and battered, ugly welts on their legs and arms. It hadn’t taken long for the violence to escalate; eventually spears had been pushed into their stomachs and groins. Both had lost a lot of blood. One man was unconscious. The other stared up at the Palmyrans, left hand covering his groin, right hand over his cheek, where broken bone pushed at the skin.

‘How long have you had them?’ Zabbai asked.

Azaf emerged from a group behind the general. His skin was much darker than Zabbai’s and, uniquely amongst the gathered soldiers, he wore no tunic, only a thin purple cloak with his black, shapeless trousers.

His entire body was knotted with muscle, and his skin seemed to have been stretched tight over his jutting ribs and shoulder blades. He moved with a solid, predatory grace. His jet-black hair reached almost to his waist and, like most of the Palmyrans, he had a heavy beard.

‘We picked them up last night, sir.’

‘Where?’

‘A mile or two east of here. Deserters most likely. They gave us word of the fort at Alauran.’

‘And?’

‘It’s as we thought. The well has been spoiled, the provisions taken. There’s little of use there.’

Zabbai smiled.

‘They were most cooperative,’ Azaf continued. ‘Eventually.’

Zabbai’s grin disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.

‘Their words were false. I’ve had word that a small garrison still occupies the fort. The granary is half full. And the well runs still, with the clearest water for miles.’

Azaf stood up and drew his sword. He no longer carried his father’s blade, though it went everywhere with him, wrapped carefully in oiled cloth.

He had found his current weapon in the hands of a dead Roman. Unusually long and narrow, the sword had viciously sharp edging and a light but solid wooden hilt. He’d been told the design was Mesopotamian but Azaf was not concerned with its origins, he was simply grateful to have acquired a weapon perfectly suited to fast, slashing attacks rather than what he considered to be the clumsy thrusts of a heavier, shorter sword. Such swords were often used with a shield; a piece of equipment he found to be more trouble than it was worth. The only drawback with such a light blade was the risk of losing grip when striking a bulkier weapon. He had solved this by attaching a leather wrist strap to the base of the hilt. Even if the handle was knocked from his grasp, he would not lose the sword. He wiped a speck of dirt from the flat of the blade.

‘Azaf,’ said Zabbai gruffly, waiting until his commander had turned to face him. ‘We need that well. You know how hot it’s been this year – the reservoirs and cisterns are running low. And we’ll be sending thousands of men and horses through this area. I’ll give you some archers and cavalry. A spy of mine will make himself known to you at Anasartha. He has a man inside the fort. Slay all you find there and secure the well and provisions. I shall return to consult with the Queen. She wants us to strike west, link up with General Zabdas’ forces and make for Antioch in overwhelming numbers.’

Azaf nodded. He kicked the conscious prisoner on to his back, then knelt down beside him.

‘Do you hear your breaths, Roman? They are your last. You must forget this world. You belong in another now.’

Azaf stood again and lowered the blade into the Roman’s mouth, resting the gleaming tip on his tongue. As the young man’s eyes widened, the Palmyran gripped the sword handle lightly with his left hand, just enough to hold it in place.

He formed a fist with his right palm, raised it high above the handle, then hammered it down.

VI

Cassius stared out at the square. The men were gathered in small groups, deep in discussion. Some wore their military belt, a few were armed, but most resembled commoners, and not particularly impressive ones at that. Every now and then, someone would point at the officers’ quarters. Cassius did a quick headcount.

‘Thirty-one. Is that all of them?’ he asked, turning away from the window.

Barates had planted himself on a low bench. Despite his wizened limbs and crooked back, the veteran seemed sharp and keen to help, his bright green eyes shining out from his leathery face.

‘A few may still be sleeping. Centurion, can I ask exactly why you’re here?’

If there had been little reason to correct the assumption of his rank before, Cassius knew it would be insane to do so now.

‘We’ll get to that,’ he said, moving towards a large wooden desk opposite the bench. ‘Where is your commanding officer?’

‘You approached from the west?’

‘Yes.’

‘And passed the palms?’

‘Ah.’ Cassius leaned back against the desk, nodding as he recalled the scene by the spring. ‘Who was he?’

‘Centurion Petronius. A veteran of the Persian campaigns. Our cohort – the Third – was divided up and sent to man these outpost forts and towns. Our century was assigned to Alauran, though we could barely muster fifty men. Our second in command, Optio Felix, had been given his own century just before we left, so Petronius was our only senior officer. He’d been struggling with an infected wound even before we arrived. He did his best to keep up his duties but eventually slipped into a fevered sleep and never awoke. That was about two months ago. Over time we lost a couple more to disease, along with a local stable lad. And Actius a week ago. Fever again. We’d intended to return the bodies to the capital when the opportunity arose but . . .’