Nick Brown - The Siege

‘It’s over,’ Cassius said.

‘By the gods it’s not,’ said one of the legionaries. ‘Look!’

Cassius turned and followed the line of the soldier’s outstretched arm. In the distance was a swirling tower of dust reaching high into the azure sky. At its base was an indistinct mass of riders, heading straight for Alauran.

‘It can’t be,’ cried the legionary, falling to his knees. ‘It can’t be!’

Cassius felt a flash of heat in his head. He put his hands out to steady himself.

‘No, no, no,’ he whispered.

‘Get up, you idiot,’ said the Praetorian, passing the kneeling legionary as he walked back towards the fort. ‘They’re coming from the north. That’s your relief column.’

Cassius knew instantly that he was right. Fear had robbed him of all logic.

The legionaries stared dumbly after the Praetorian for a moment, then at each other, then at the column again. Realisation became relief. They ran until they were parallel with the north-east corner of the fort. Cassius and Idan followed them.

‘Caesar be praised!’

‘I can see the standards! I can see the scarlet and gold!’

Each man took his own time to be certain, but soon they were all shouting, jumping up and down, embracing each other, and praising Jupiter, Mars, Fortuna and every other god they could think of.

A grin crept across Idan’s disfigured face.

Cassius felt curiously numb. One of the legionaries turned towards him.

‘It really is them, sir. You might allow yourself a smile.’

Cassius took off his helmet. He felt light-headed, faint. A sickly, sweet smell reached him. He looked round and saw a dead horse just yards away. Its head lay on the ground, its lips pushed up over its teeth to form an obscene grin. Flies walked across its eyes and its wounds and the piles of dung on the ground.

Cassius threw up. What came out was mainly water but he had to just stand there, bent over, hands on his knees, until there was nothing left in his stomach.

The legionary gave Cassius his half-full canteen. He was a squat, barrel-chested character with a huge purple bruise on his right cheek and a split lip.

‘Your name?’ Cassius asked when he had finished the water.

‘Domitius, sir.’

‘Thank you, Domitius.’

Cassius straightened up and looked over at Kabir. The Syrian was now kneeling in the sand, facing east. Cassius walked back towards him. Kabir suddenly clasped his hands tight over his face. Cassius squatted down next to him.

‘The signs were right, Kabir. A great victory.’

The Syrian was whispering to himself in his own language. His hands stayed over his eyes.

Cassius left him.

He found Serenus exactly where he’d last seen him before the fourth attack: sitting upon the window ledge with his feet planted on the floor. He was slumped forward, head and arms hanging between his thighs. On the ground by his feet were the old stained cloth and fresh spots of blood.

Cassius knelt down. The veteran’s eyes were shut, his mouth frozen in a placid half-smile. Cassius reached out and touched his neck. The skin was cold.

‘We wondered where he could be,’ said Domitius as he and another legionary walked in.

‘It was the illness that killed him,’ Cassius said.

‘We’ll look after him, sir,’ said the second man.

Cassius made way for them, now realising they had been members of Serenus’ section. He nodded gratefully and went outside. Glancing down, he noted that the only real damage to his helmet was the hole left by Idan’s slingshot four days previously. Pulling the mail shirt off over his head, he slung it over his shoulder and started up the street.

Around him, the dead lay at every possible angle, some on their sides, some on their backs, others with their faces pressed into the dirt. A few were still gripping their weapons. Limbs belonging to at least five different warriors stuck up out of the ruins of the collapsed dwelling.

Skirting round the rubble, he saw the Praetorian back at the inn. Standing with one foot up on a stool, the giant was carving into his sword handle with a dagger. Lying on the table next to him were his javelins and a wooden cup. He saw Cassius and waved him over.

‘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.