‘Yes, sir.’
Cassius had taken a quick look inside the barracks before the muster parade and had not been impressed. The latrine in particular needed attention; the three deep pits at the end of the barracks were giving off a terrible stench.
Barates turned towards Cassius as they set off for the Syrian encampment.
‘Centurion, I thought you wanted to know a little of their background before meeting Kabir.’
‘Yes, you can tell me as we walk.’
‘It may take a little longer than that. I wouldn’t want to you to go in there unprepared. We can’t afford to lose them.’
Cassius stopped.
‘Very well. Let’s shelter here a while. I can keep an eye on the men.’
The place he had in mind was a shady spot in front of the dwellings. They each sat down on a barrel and Barates began.
‘From what I’ve been able to gather, they are nomads, originally from the mountains of the north. Many of their people traded along the spice roads, travelling with caravans to the Orient and back. But since the rise of Palmyra, Zenobia has banned all but her own from profiting from such trade. They had to seek other means to pay their way — as you’ve seen, they can be effective auxiliaries.’
‘And Kabir?’
‘Their tribal leader. He speaks good Latin and knows something of the ways of the world. The others always look to him. Win him over and you’ve won them all.’
‘How do you suggest I do that?’
‘The money should help. How much do you have there?’
‘Two hundred denarii.’
‘A good start. But it is the promise of what they are owed that will keep them here.’
‘What is their custom? Shall I give it to him openly?’
‘Under no circumstances — he would consider it an insult. He’ll probably speak to you privately. Perhaps then.’
‘His character?’
‘Don’t be deceived by his fair face and cordial manner. He’ll be observing you, testing you, seeing if you have what it takes to organise the defence.’
Cassius was not looking forward to the meeting, but had been too occupied to give it much thought. Now he felt utterly out of his depth again, as if the encouraging events of the previous hours had never happened.
‘Just remember that they are devout,’ Barates continued. ‘Not like some of ours — visiting the temple just before a battle or offering a prayer when fever strikes. To them, the sun is sacred and all nature’s parts are a gift. You should make no complaint about the heat or how much you hate the desert. This is their home.’
‘I shall not mention religion or nature at all.’
‘You should know also that they do not approve of gambling, debauchery or drinking for the purposes of inebriation.’
Cassius shook his head.
‘I can tell this is going to be fun.’
The encampment started halfway along the row of houses and was enclosed by the southern and eastern walls. The Syrians had erected a series of awnings that cast angular shadows across the ground. There were in fact two separate cooking areas, and closer to the houses lay neat rows of blankets divided by small piles of possessions. Washing hung from windows and several pieces of furniture had been moved outside.
Cassius was about to ask where the inhabitants of this silent, orderly camp were, when he caught sight of two figures standing in the corner. Then the rest of the Syrians came into view.
They were all wearing black tunics and were kneeling on the ground, backs straight, arms folded, facing the standing figures. Of these two, one was completely bald. Over his tunic he wore a long, flowing cape tied together at his neck. It too was black but decorated with a vivid collage of orange and red streaks.
‘The grand-looking one is Yarak. A kind of priest. That’s Kabir next to him.’
Yarak brought his hands together in a position of prayer. Kabir was about to follow when his gaze fell upon the two observers. He whispered something to the priest, who nodded, then started his prayers. Kabir rounded his men and gestured for one of them to follow.
‘How do they greet each other?’ asked Cassius.
‘A bow would be courteous.’
As the Syrian came closer, Cassius understood what Barates had meant about his appearance. To Roman eyes, long hair would always seem somewhat less than masculine, but it was Kabir’s green, almost feline eyes that most struck Cassius as effeminate. He was barefoot and wore the same simple tunic as his men. In his right ear was a heavy metal ring that stretched the lobe unnaturally.
The three of them bowed simultaneously. Kabir examined Cassius for a moment. If he was surprised by his youth, he didn’t show it.
‘Greetings, Roman. I am Kabir Abka Mabeer.’
‘Good morning. Cassius Quintius Corbulo.’
‘Please.’
Kabir gestured towards the dwellings and gave a series of instructions to his subordinate. Barates seemed to have an idea where they were going and led Cassius through a doorway.
Ducking inside, Cassius found himself in a cool, murky room. Close to the window, several straw mattresses had been covered in cushions and expensive cloth. Next to the far wall was a table topped with all manner of objects, including several oil lamps, a religious figurine and some ornate jewellery. Despite the gloom, Cassius could see that the room had been kept immaculately clean.
‘I expect you’d like to sit,’ said Kabir, lowering himself on to the cushions and pointing at two stools. As Cassius and Barates did so, the other Syrian arrived with a small bowl. He was tall and almost freakishly lean, though this was not his most unusual feature. That was the curious white scar that began above his left eyebrow and ended just to the right of his upper lip. Whatever blade had inflicted the blow had made a complete mess of his nose. Only a tangled mass of bone, scar tissue and exposed flesh remained. Even with the minimal effort he was expending, the Syrian’s breath came in disconcerting rasps.
Inside the bowl were dried olives. As his tribesman exited, Kabir leaned forward and took several.
‘I should apologise for the. . incident yesterday. No harm was meant.’
‘Luckily none was caused,’ countered Cassius.
‘I assure you luck had nothing to do with it. If he had wanted to strike your head, he would have.’
Cassius did his best to look unperturbed. The man returned with a jug and three cups. He knelt down and carefully filled each one.
‘It was a simple case of over-exuberance and a certain resentment towards Rome. Isn’t that right, Idan?’
The man looked up at the mention of his name but obviously didn’t understand Latin. He passed each of them a cup and left with a bow.
‘Serving you is part of his punishment,’ Kabir explained.
‘That helmet was new. The shot went straight through.’
‘As I said, apologies. Most would probably have bounced off, but Idan is our best. I have never seen him beaten for power or accuracy.’
‘I can well believe it.’
Kabir popped one of the olives into his mouth.
‘Barates tells me Alauran is to be relieved.’
‘Hopefully in four or five days. General Valens’ men.’
‘I do not know the name.’
‘A commander of considerable repute.’
‘And there is some information regarding the Palmyrans?’
‘We believe they may be advancing into this area.’
‘It is only the favour of the Glorious Fire that has kept them at distance this long. I have often wondered over the last few weeks what it is that delays them so. Had they built on their earlier successes, they might have been at the gates of Antioch already.’
Cassius thought it impolitic to mention the Persian campaigns in Arabia, Palestine and Egypt.
‘I must say, your Latin is excellent.’
‘Thank you. My father believed a good understanding of language was essential for trade. I have found it to be similarly useful in times of war. How is your Greek?’