Nick Brown: The Siege

The scout assigned to assist Cassius was a man named Cotta, who was waiting for the column at the edge of town by a run-down farmhouse. He stepped out of the shade provided by a wall, rounded his horse and nodded a greeting.

‘Morning. Or should I say afternoon?’

Cassius was about to apologise but reminded himself that Roman officers did not offer excuses to scouts.

Cotta had a thin covering of greying hair and a heavily lined face that carried a certain air of nobility. He wore the white robes of a local, with only a traditional brooch to identify him as Roman.

‘Shall we?’ Cassius said, pointing towards the road ahead. It was marked by a darker shade of sand and the occasional line of stones. The lands beyond were dotted with hardy shrubs and trees. In the distance were the undulating hills that signalled a return to safer territory.

‘I thought you might prefer to wait,’ said Cotta.

‘For what?’

‘The messenger.’

‘What messenger?’

Cotta pointed towards the hills. Cassius and the legionaries peered into the haze. About a mile down the road, a speeding rider had just emerged from behind a small copse of trees.

‘And if my aged eyes serve,’ said Cotta, ‘he carries a spear with a feather attached.’

‘Meaning what?’

Cotta seemed surprised by Cassius’ ignorance.

‘The feather instructs all who the carrier meets to clear the way or lend assistance. It means he bears urgent and important news — a military emergency.’

Cassius narrowed his eyes. Though slumped forward in his saddle, the messenger was holding a spear aloft.

Cotta was right. The feather was there.

Two of the legionaries helped the messenger to the ground. The man looked utterly exhausted. His skin was red, his lips cracked, his tunic soaked through with sweat. He could hardly walk and the soldiers half dragged, half carried him over to the farmhouse wall as the rest of the men crowded round.

Cassius, still on his horse, looked on as Cotta administered some water. The messenger drank greedily, coughing it up at first, then emptied half the canteen. Squinting, he pointed over Cotta’s shoulder.

‘Centurion Corbulo?’

‘Yes,’ answered Cassius evenly. He removed his helmet, dismounted and walked over.

The messenger reached into his tunic and pulled out a sodden piece of cloth. He attempted to undo it but his fingers were still too numb from gripping the reins. Cotta took over and unwrapped a roll of papyrus sealed with maroon wax.

‘It carries the general’s mark,’ he said, offering Cassius the letter.

As Ammianus attended to the messenger’s equally shattered horse, Cassius took the letter and walked round to the other side of the farmhouse. The seal was indeed the general’s, the letters M, G and N quite clear. Cassius felt his stomach turn over as he scratched away the seal. Opening up the page, he recognised the same even hand that had given him his first ever set of operational orders. Now he had his second.

Corbulo ,

Zenobia’s advance has gathered pace. She has ordered her forces to take control of the settlements close to your position. The easternmost of these is a fort named Alauran. It should still be occupied by men of the Third Legion. There is a large stock of provisions there and, more importantly, a deep, reliable well.

General Valens and the Sixteenth Legion are on their way south to meet this new advance. His men will need that food and water.

I do not know the size of this Palmyran force but I have already dispatched a message to Valens, requesting that he send a unit of cavalry immediately to Alauran. They should be there four or five days after this letter reaches you.

There are no other officers in the area. Get yourself there, Corbulo. If there’s anyone of rank, give them this letter and any assistance you can. If not, take charge of whatever forces remain. You are, after all, employed to safeguard imperial security; this is a perfect opportunity to do so. Prepare for an attack and hold Alauran until reinforcements arrive.

May the gods favour you ,

General Marcus Galenus Navio

‘Well?’ asked Cotta, now standing close by.

Cassius wiped away the thick beads of sweat running down his face, no longer entirely as a result of the heat. He took a deep breath and tried to compose himself.

‘A change of plan. How far to Alauran from here?’

‘A day and a night perhaps.’

‘And the route?’

The scout pointed to the south-east.

See the three hills there, on the other side of the plain?’

Cassius shaded his eyes once again.

‘There’s a pass through the first two. Get to the other side and bear directly east into the desert. Alauran is within clear view — there are palms by the western wall. It may have been overrun by now. Surely we’re not going there?’

‘You’re not.’

As Cassius walked back towards the column, he briefly considered throwing the orders away, concocting some scheme to avoid this new mission, but the thought died, stillborn. After six months of training, instructions from above carried an undeniable, irresistible weight. Orders were given, orders were obeyed. Cassius gave a grim, unnoticed half-smile. There had always been a certain inevitability about this moment; what he feared most had come to pass.

Approaching the soldiers, he was met by a line of expectant faces.

‘You. Cinna, isn’t it?’

‘Sir.’

‘You know my attendant? The fat Gaul? He’s close to the back of the column. Tell him to come up with as much of my gear as we can carry on two horses. Assist him if he needs help.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Cinna coaxed his mount out of the line and set off at a trot. Cassius ignored the exchange of cynical glances between the other legionaries. Young centurions were rare. Young centurions with their own manservant were almost unheard of.

Cassius hurried back towards Cotta and met him by the shaded wall.

‘So, what do you know of the place?’

‘I was there about four months ago. I delivered orders for their senior officer to report any sightings of the Palmyrans and prepare the defence. I assumed they had been withdrawn by now.’

‘Apparently not.’

‘From what I recall the fort was in a pretty poor state. There was a centurion still there but I didn’t see him. He was very ill. Close to death I think.’

Cassius shook his head and cursed his father.

‘And the men?’

‘Unit of the Third Legion. Disorganised lot. No one else taking charge.’

‘How many? A century’s worth?’

‘Oh no, certainly not.’

‘Wonderful. Anything else?’

‘They ate well. There’s a granary full of grain, dried meat and fish. And plenty of wine. A little too much of which was being consumed by the men, actually. I left the orders with an old veteran. Name began with a B. He knew the place inside out. Kept going on about some man he referred to as the Praetorian.’

‘A member of the Praetorian Guard? Out here?’

‘That was my reaction. I never saw him but the old fellow seemed sure they would be safe as long as this Praetorian was around.’

‘Sounds to me like the figment of a deranged imagination.’

‘I don’t know,’ said Cotta, fiddling with his brooch. ‘He was old certainly, but not deranged. I got more sense out of him than anyone else there. I saw a few legionaries but they could barely string a sentence together.’

Cotta mimed tipping a cup towards his mouth.

Cassius wafted away a fly. Clusters of them had begun to gather round the stationary horses.

‘So. Apart from drunks, insane old men and fictitious Guardsmen, is there anyone else I should know about?’