‘Your fat servant won’t make me any more of that milk.’
‘I daresay he’s more concerned with the wounded.’
The Praetorian shrugged.
‘What chance any of them have out here without a surgeon I don’t know. Still, I’ll admit he knows his potions well enough. And I suppose I should thank you for getting it down my throat.’
The Praetorian stopped carving for a moment.
‘I did not think I missed clarity of thought. Until it was returned to me.’
‘Forgive my curiosity, but I passed your room not long before the battle and you were sound asleep — with three empty jugs by your bed.’
‘Emptied indeed. But of water, not wine.’
The Praetorian smiled at Cassius’ reaction.
‘Yes, lad. I did listen to you.’
He looked towards the square.
‘I should have done so earlier. We might have fared a little better.’
Cassius turned round and his gaze rested instantly on the Palmyran leader.
‘I must thank you. You saved my life.’
‘Life?’ repeated the Praetorian scornfully. ‘Lucretius was the only one with something sensible to say about life. One long struggle in the dark.’
He put his knife down and picked up his wine, then began idly swinging the sword. He aimed the tip at where Azaf lay.
‘He was quicker in hand than he was in head. Only a fool ties himself to such a light blade.’
‘Do you know how that colour is made?’
‘What?’
‘That very bright purple. His cloak. I met a trader with one just like it on the boat up to Antioch. He told me about it. There are these little sea snails that can be found all along the Syrian coast. When wounded, they secrete tiny amounts of a purple liquid. He said it takes tens of thousands of them just to make the dye for one cloak like that.’
The Praetorian slurped his wine.
‘So?’
‘I told him I thought it seemed wasteful. Cruel even. He said that’s the way of the world. Suffering and death are necessary — to achieve something of note.’
Cassius glanced at the Praetorian. There was a look of faint amusement in the grey eyes.
‘Is this something of note?’ Cassius asked him, opening a hand towards the square.
The Praetorian paused for a moment, still swinging the sword. Then he shrugged.
‘It is a victory. And you are alive in a place where most have met their death. Forget your musings. Be thankful you are still on your feet.’
He put the wine down and started carving again. Cassius nodded at the tally etched on the handle.
‘Quite a number.’
‘Not really,’ replied the Praetorian, finishing the final mark. ‘This is my fifth sword.’
Cassius found Simo outside the barracks. His expression was blank, his face drained entirely of its usual colour and warmth. His hands were wet; he had tried to wash off the blood, but his hands and forearms were stained pink.
Cassius gripped his shoulder.
‘Help is on its way. The relief column.’
‘It’s true?’
‘They’ll be here soon.’
Simo clasped his hands and fell back against the doorway, eyes closed.
‘And you didn’t have to fight.’
Simo opened his eyes and let out a long breath.
‘Strabo?’ Cassius asked.
Simo shook his head solemnly.
‘He gave Julius something for you. He went peacefully, sir.’
Cassius glanced warily at the aid post. He knew he couldn’t bring himself to go inside. Ex-legionaries with a missing arm or leg were a common sight and he had held out a little hope that the Sicilian might pull through. But there had been so much blood. Too much. Strabo had known it.
Simo took Cassius’ helmet and mail shirt from him.
‘Sir, I’m afraid I need to-’
‘Yes, yes, of course, get back to your work. Simo, do you have that pot with the identity tablets?’
‘Yes, sir, I just collected the last of them.’
‘Bring it to me, would you.’
Simo headed inside the barracks, passing Julius on the way. The lad was carrying something carefully in one hand. He indicated that Cassius should open his palm and meticulously placed two small objects there. Cassius knew what they were before Julius removed his hand but when he saw Strabo’s dice, he realised why the boy had been so particular. They were upturned just as they had fallen that morning, when the Sicilian had claimed the day would bring triumph.
‘A five and a six,’ Cassius said. ‘Fortuna’s friend.’
He looked up to see Domitius and the other man carrying Serenus’ body towards the barracks. The other three legionaries hurried past them. They were carrying bunches of reeds gathered from the spring.
‘What’s all that for?’ Cassius asked.
‘Tradition, sir,’ said one man. ‘No one’s going to make the relieving troops proper grass crowns out here so we thought we’d do it ourselves. Sign of our gratitude.’
‘They’re almost here, sir,’ said another.
Simo returned with the pot. It was full, almost overflowing. The tablets were covered in grime and blood. Almost as soon as he looked at them, Cassius felt that he would cry again, so he left Simo and the others and walked away towards the officers’ quarters.
The men filled cups with wine from a barrel. As they drank and began weaving the crowns together, Domitius started up a song of victory. Even a few weak voices from the barracks joined in.
Cassius placed the pot on the window of the officers’ quarters. Then he walked over to the well and picked up a pail of water and a cloth. Returning to the window, he sat down, facing away from the men, and took each tablet from the pot in turn. He cleaned each one thoroughly, wiping every mark or stain from the dull lead, then placed them in neat lines to dry.
As he worked, the noise of the approaching column grew louder.
When his eyes picked up the names inscribed on the lead he would look away. But he could not stop himself thinking: thinking of how each tablet had found its way into his hands, taken from the lifeless necks of those who had fought so hard to win them and had worn them with such pride. He thought of where each tablet had been, carried for years, decades even, by the legionaries as they slept and marched and ate, as they lived and loved and fought.
Then he did read the names, and tears ran freely down his face. By the time he put the last tablet on the ledge, the top of his tunic was wet. He gathered water from the pail and cleaned his face, then closed his eyes for a moment and composed himself. He turned round and walked over to the legionaries.
Domitius saw him and nodded to the others. The five exhausted legionaries dragged themselves to their feet, all holding their cups of wine. Smiling, Domitius gave another full cup to Cassius.
‘Here’s to you, sir. You did us proud.’
Domitius held his cup high.
‘Centurion Corbulo.’
‘Centurion Corbulo,’ repeated the men.
Cassius raised his cup and took his first sip of wine in almost a week, savouring every bitter drop. The sound of the approaching cavalry was now thunderous. The tip of a standard appeared over the eastern wall. Glancing back at the legionaries, Cassius knew with a sudden, irresistible certainty that he could lie to them no longer.
‘There’s something I must tell you. I am not a centurion. I haven’t even been assigned to a legion. I am an officer of the Imperial Security Service.’
‘A grain man?’ said one man incredulously.
‘Out here?’ said another.
‘Yes. Syria is my first posting. I thought I would be doing. . paperwork.’ Cassius smiled and shook his head. ‘I thought I would be behind a desk.’
The legionaries stayed quiet, staring at each other in disbelief. The ground-shaking impact of hundreds of hooves had reached a crescendo. They turned to see a line of horses being skilfully guided past the collapsed dwelling, through the scattered bodies and abandoned weapons. At the head of the column was the standard-bearer: a muscular veteran with flecks of grey in his heavy beard. Mounted on the pole in his hands was a flag bearing the legend of the Sixteenth Legion.