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. .’
Barates stared forlornly at the floor.
‘I take it then that discipline has rather broken down?’
‘Some wanted to desert when Petronius died. All I’ve been able to do is keep them here. Will you take command now, sir?’
Cassius took his time to reply; when he did so he almost whispered it.
‘I suppose I shall have to.’
Barates gave a slight smile.
‘And what about the locals?’ Cassius asked. ‘That slinger-’
‘He’s part of Kabir’s group. They are about thirty strong; auxiliaries originally attached to the Second Cohort. Some, as you have seen, are a little hot-headed. I believe Kabir took the rest of them out on a march this morning — he likes to keep them busy. They’ve made their own encampment in the south-east corner. Probably be back before sundown.’
‘They don’t use the dwellings?’
Barates shook his head.
‘Those haven’t been occupied in months. Most of the locals were sent away soon after we arrived. Petronius told them we would leave with the provisions and poison the well — a ruse to deter attack. So far it seems to have worked.’
‘And what contact has there been with command?’
‘None. We heard some news from a scout but that was-’
‘Yes, I know, weeks ago. Cotta. It was he that gave me your name. You have no idea of the wider progress of the war then?’
Barates shook his head.
‘In days past we might have picked up word from tradesmen and travellers, but since the spring we’ve seen little of either. The odd caravan on the horizon. Nothing more.’
Barates clasped his fingers together.
‘What is the situation, sir?’
Cassius knew no one within the fort would believe the war was going well, but a full and frank explanation of their circumstances might easily lead to desertion or mutiny. It was unlikely he would survive the latter.
‘Reinforcements are on their way. Lead elements of General Valens’ cavalry should be here within a few days. I have been ordered to organise the garrison and secure the fort against possible attack. The well and the granary represent a significant prize for our enemies.’
‘Indeed,’ said Barates, leaning back against the wall, tapping his thumbs together, ‘but that has been the case for many months. The last we heard, the Palmyrans had struck south towards Egypt. Are we under immediate threat?’