Waiting for Julius to return, Cassius recalled what Barates had earlier told him of the boy’s background. He had lived at the fort for as long as he could remember. His mother had died in childbirth and his father had held him responsible, shunning his son and leaving him in the care of his brother, an unmarried metalworker. This man had been pressed into service as an auxiliary with the Third Legion and had left Alauran the year before. Nothing had been heard of him since and Barates had told the boy to assume his uncle was dead. With nowhere else to go, he had stayed on to tend to the camels, even when the last of the Syrian civilians had been ordered to leave by Centurion Petronius.
Julius was not his real name. It had been given to him by the soldiers. If he was to have a Roman name, they said, he may as well have the greatest name of all.
The young man reappeared out of the gloom, then took the reins of Cassius’ camel, the largest of the three. He waved Cassius forward to mount. Apparently this camel was the mother of the other two — both males, not yet fully grown. Cassius clambered up on to the saddle. Lurching forward as the camel hauled itself to his feet, he took firm hold of the reins.
The boy moved swiftly over to his own mount and sprang up into position with ease. As the camel rose, he shouted yet more indistinct commands and kicked the animal into action, heading back round the crest towards the track. Without any bidding from its rider, mother obediently followed son.
During the trip out, Cassius had felt on numerous occasions that he was about to be thrown, but had found that by gripping the front of the saddle with one hand and the reins with the other he was able to balance himself. The saddles themselves were of a design unfamiliar to him, with a wooden base that sat upon the hump, topped by a layer of padding and surprisingly fine scarlet cushions.
As the camels plodded on, Cassius felt he should try to talk to the boy, but he knew the task required more enthusiasm and patience than he currently possessed.
He looked about him. With no more light from the sun and the moon obscured by cloud, the plain was a dark, ominous sea. Cassius shuddered, imagining himself submerged within its depths. And as they left the crest behind, he thought of Barates, alone on an island in that sea, and did not envy him his night’s work.
Approaching Alauran, they heard laughter and shouting, and despite the fact that Cassius had asked Strabo to man the gatehouse for the night, he and Julius were able to dismount and lead the camels inside without a word — let alone a challenge — from the supposed sentry. Cassius thanked the boy for his help and sent him on his way.
Though he wanted nothing more than his bed, letting this pass would inevitably lead to further indiscipline. Gathering himself for another confrontation, he stepped inside the northern tower. There was enough light coming from above for him to negotiate the ladder. He emerged inside the tiny chamber to find Strabo and three others sitting on a thin rug, each in possession of a pile of stones and a small jug of wine, watching as one man prepared to throw a pair of dice. Between two of the legionaries was a clay lamp half full of oil, the floating wick producing more smoke than light.
‘Greetings, centurion,’ Strabo said cordially as the ivory cubes landed on a wooden board, showing a pair of fours.
‘Told you it was my night,’ the Sicilian said smugly, raising a toast to his compatriots as each handed over some of their stones.
‘Might I have a word?’ Cassius asked.
Showing no sign of annoyance, the Sicilian got to his feet.
‘Twenty-seven,’ he said, pointing at his pile of stones before following Cassius down the ladder and outside.
Reminding himself to be firm, Cassius was surprised to receive a sharp dig in the shoulder as he exited the gatehouse. He turned to find Strabo almost on top of him.
‘What do you mean by disturbing my game?’ the Sicilian hissed.
‘What?’
‘You heard me. I’ve done your bidding all day — kept my end of the bargain. You are trying my patience. I am not some pet of yours.’
Cassius could smell the wine on Strabo’s breath. He took two steps backwards.
‘Of course not. But you have a job to do. Tonight there’s four of you not in the barracks, tomorrow it could be ten — before you know it-’
‘Caesar’s balls! I’m not that stupid. I spent a good hour making sure each section was in its den. As far as they’re concerned, me and my men are on guard duty.’
‘And are you? You didn’t even ask for a watchword. Is there a watchword?’
Strabo shrugged.
‘We knew it was you.’
Cassius was glad to see Strabo had calmed down, but he knew the next few days would be intolerable if he allowed the Sicilian to treat him with such disdain.
‘Listen, I want you working with me, and that means doing what I ask.’
‘And what if I don’t?’ asked Strabo, eyes wide. Cassius realised he had underestimated how drunk he was. ‘What if I walk back in there and continue my game?’
‘Guard officer, I will allow you to continue your game, but you must slow down with the wine, and you must keep someone on watch at all times.’
His tone of authority left the Sicilian with little room for manoeuvre.
‘Makes no difference to me.’
‘Good. I am going to retire. Raise me if you see anything.’
Cassius thought he heard a mumbled curse as Strabo returned to the tower but he paid no heed to it. He was so desperate to get back to the officers’ quarters that he ran up the street and across the square.
X
Approaching the peak of a broad dune whipped steep by the desert wind, Azaf coaxed his horse into a turn and raised a hand. The Palmyrans had ridden through the night and he had promised rest when the day’s destination was in sight. A tangle of bushes at the base of the dune would provide a little shelter from the early morning sun. Sipping water from a gourd, he watched the men dismount.
Leading the way was Bezda, an experienced cavalry commander, accompanied by twenty-four men. Neither the riders nor their horses were clad in armour; this came behind them in several large carts. Within moments, the cavalrymen were on the ground, tying their mounts together and leaving them in the care of the cart drivers. Other servants were sent ahead to arrange the temporary cover amongst the bushes.
Next to arrive were the horse archers, a hundred strong. No less valuable than the cavalry, these riders could control their mounts using only their legs and voices, leaving their hands free for their formidable bows.
At the rear were the infantry, all clad in maroon tunics. As speed was of the essence, Azaf had chosen only good riders and Zabbai had provided horses for all the infantry too. There were ninety-six of them: Azaf’s swordsmen, many of whom had been with him since before his promotion to strategos — military commander. The Palmyran people were known for their vivid clothing and red had emerged as the preferred colour of Azaf’s swordsmen, related yet subordinate to the rare splendour of his purple cloak. In these times of victory and conquest, such opulence symbolised Palmyran superiority.
To Azaf’s bemusement, the benefits of their triumphs had not yet extended to a decent set of armour for every swordsman. He and a few others were well equipped, but despite repeated requests General Zabbai had not seen fit to provide what was needed. Azaf had let his feelings on the matter be known, but Zabbai had brushed off the complaint, blaming supply problems and mocking him for imagining that he might face determined resistance at Alauran.