Some of those close by quietened down to hear the conversation.
‘The centurion,’ answered the Syrian. ‘He ordered the charge. There are women and children bleeding on the ground.’
‘Just listen, please! I am not even part of the garrison here. This has nothing to do-’
Something flashed towards him. Pain exploded across his chest and he fell on to his backside. As he struggled for breath he saw half a brick lying between his legs. Then he could see only the legionaries’ boots as they shuffled across in front of him.
‘Back!’ shrieked one of the soldiers. ‘Back or we will draw.’
Cassius felt the pain dissipating. He touched his chest; it ached but nothing more – the armour had protected him again. Kallikres got both hands under his arms and helped him to his feet.
One of the legionaries drove his shield at two of the closest men, forcing them back. But the man with the pitchfork lunged at him, the prongs scraping across the top of the shield. The legionary cried out and fell, the shield coming down on top of him. Though they were not battling an enemy army and there were only three of them, the soldiers followed their training and re-formed the line. Cassius looked down and saw blood oozing from two small holes at the base of the soldier’s neck; the fork prongs had just cleared the top of his mail shirt. He and Kallikres propped the legionary against the wall. The sergeant reached inside his tunic and pulled out a handkerchief which he held against the wounds.
Cassius spied his helmet lying on the ground close by. He put it on without buckling it then straightened up behind the three soldiers.
‘Enough!’ he bellowed. ‘Whatever has occurred elsewhere today we are not to blame. Harming us does your cause no good.’
‘And when does the army ever do us any good?’ yelled a woman he couldn’t see.
The men with long weapons were jabbing them against the legionaries’ shields. One of the soldiers reached for his sword hilt.
‘Do not draw!’ repeated Cassius, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
‘Robbers – that’s a better name for you bastards in red,’ spat the man with the club. ‘You’re supposed to protect us but all you do is steal and rape and kill. You’re a worse enemy to us than the Persians or the Palmyrans! The lot of you would be better under the ground.’
More men with weapons had arrived at the front. Cassius blinked stinging sweat out of his eyes as blades glinted amid the sea of faces and raging eyes.
He still had the satchel over his shoulder and as it knocked against his side, he remembered the spearhead. He pulled it out and raised it high. ‘Please listen.’
The crowd quietened, but only because they were looking at the spearhead.
‘Do him! Do them all!’
Something bounced off Cassius’s helmet but he continued. ‘I am here in Berytus on the orders of Marshal Marcellinus himself. I promise I will pass on your grievances.’
The man with the pitchfork was still jabbing his weapon into the shields. ‘If someone doesn’t shut that fancy bastard up I’m going to stick him.’
The legionary farthest to the left lowered his shield. By the time Cassius realised his intention, he already had his sword in his hand.
‘No!’ Cassius smashed the spearhead down into the blade, knocking it out of his hands. An opportunistic lad made a grab for it but Cassius was quicker and threw the sword over his shoulder into the canal. He knew that if the soldiers attacked, all six of them would be dead in moments.
To his utter amazement, the legionary shoved him. ‘What in Hades was that?’
Cassius’s reaction was instinctive. He smacked the man back-handed across the face. The soldier stared at him, open mouthed.
Cassius jumped up on the wall, took his sword belt off his shoulder and dropped it to the ground. Again, a gesture had more effect than words.
‘There need be no more bloodshed,’ he shouted. ‘In the name of the Emperor, I ask you to lay down your weapons as I have mine. We are all Romans here, let us not see more suffering and death this day.’
‘You will suffer!’ shouted someone.
‘It is the will of the gods that we be united under the Emperor, not divided. Please let us go.’ Cassius could hear the legionary gurgling below him. ‘This man needs help.’
‘Look!’
‘Look there!’
The crowd turned towards the avenue, where people were still running for the bridge. One man was alone, wandering along beside the wall. In his hands was the limp, battered body of a young boy. Blood was dripping from a gory head wound. The man fell to his knees and screamed at the sky.
Indavara breathed a little easier. Avoiding those fleeing the centre had been difficult and dangerous but now they had a clear run ahead. Simo seemed to know the way to Diadromes’s residence so Indavara was simply following him, having finally brought his horse back under control.
Once across another empty street, they emerged into a square where more of the cityfolk had gathered. The Syrians looked up when they heard the hooves clattering on the flagstones but Indavara and Simo were already past them.
On they galloped, briefly nearing the canal for a moment before veering away to the north again. Indavara was concentrating on riding but those glimpses he caught of the city were completely unfamiliar – he had no idea where they were.
Now they passed under a gleaming white arch and emerged on to a porticoed avenue. Simo halted and looked around.
‘Where to?’
‘I’m not sure,’ replied the attendant. ‘It’s near the statue of Marcus Aurelius. We’re close but …’
Indavara spotted an old woman sweeping dust away from her door, apparently oblivious to the turmoil elsewhere.
‘Hello!’ he said in Greek.
The old woman looked up.
‘The statue of Marcus Aurelius – where is it?’
She pointed her brush along the avenue. ‘That way – second left then up the hill.’
Having made the turn they soon came to a fountain, where a squad of legionaries was being addressed by a senior man. When he spied the horses, the officer marched towards them. ‘You two – come here. I’m requisitioning those mounts.’
‘No you’re not.’ Indavara rode on past Simo. ‘Come on!’
As one of the legionaries made a grab for him, Indavara guided his horse out of the way. He found the street ahead blocked by a heavily laden cart. The only escape route was to the right. He pressed his mount on and ducked under a low arch as they entered a small sanctuary, scattering dozens of birds. Indavara followed a narrow path under some trees, scraping his back and showering himself with berries.
Fearing he would fall if he looked back he called out. ‘Simo?’
‘I’m with you. Keep going!’
At the far end of the sanctuary was a steep set of steps leading downward. Indavara tried to slow the horse. Too late.
The animal careered down the steps, hooves sliding on the smooth stone, but somehow staying upright. Indavara clung on until the horse finally stopped, foam streaking from its mouth.
‘Good lad. Good lad.’
Simo negotiated the steps far more steadily. Once at the bottom, he pointed to a nearby street leading upward.
‘That’s the hill. We’re almost there.’
Cassius knew instantly that any chance of extricating himself and the others from the wrath of the mob had gone. While the Syrians watched the stricken man lower the dead boy to the ground, he looked across the canal.
It wasn’t that wide: no more than thirty feet, and they might get across before the pursuers caught up on foot. Better still, there were dwellings on the other side where they might buy themselves some time. He looked at the three legionaries and jutted his jaw at the water, then caught Kallikres’ eye. The sergeant got the message and helped the soldier to his feet.
Cassius stuffed the spearhead into his satchel and jumped down off the wall. As he recovered then sheathed his sword and picked up the spare shield, some of the Syrians were already turning.