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 walclass="underline" 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.