Cassius rounded the table and coaxed them away from the other legionaries.
‘I understand your objections but allow me to explain. This man has been out here for years. He knows these Palmyrans. How they think. How they fight. If he can help us at all, we must try and talk to him.’
‘I thought you already had,’ said Strabo with a knowing look.
‘You won’t change my mind.’
‘Then I shan’t waste my breath.’ The Sicilian took a swig of wine, wiped a hand across his mouth, then wandered off to investigate a nearby game of dice.
‘What do you have planned for this evening?’ asked Serenus.
‘We’ll let them eat and rest. After muster they can turn in. Tomorrow we continue the preparations. I want everything that can be done finished by sundown.’
Serenus seemed distracted for a moment; he was staring over Cassius’ shoulder.
‘What is it?’
‘Kabir and his people. Every day they perform this ritual. As the sun rises and sets.’
The two Romans moved closer to the granary, allowing a clear view through the encampment to the Syrians, gathered once again in the south-east corner. In contrast to the earlier ceremony, all were on their feet, facing Yarak and Kabir with arms aloft.
‘They certainly put us to shame,’ continued Serenus. ‘I don’t remember the last occasion I saw anyone inside the temple.’
‘Give it time,’ said Cassius. ‘If we spy a horde of Palmyrans charging towards us, you won’t be able to get in the door.’
Even from such a distance, they could see the strain in the hands and fingers of the Syrians as they stretched skyward. And they could hear a low but insistent chant that gradually rose in pitch and volume. When it eventually reached a peak, some of the tribesmen leaped and shouted. Others beckoned to the sun as it hovered above the western wall. With a final cry, all except Yarak became quiet and still. Waiting as one for the priest to lower his hands, they finally turned and walked away in pious silence.
XV
Standing between two of the poles that supported the high awning above him, Azaf looked out at the encampment.
Buildings had been commandeered in Anasartha by the local Palmyran commander, but he wanted to keep the men well away from the city. Though the inhabitants had long since been dissuaded from mounting any organised resistance, it was common for fights to break out between local men and the occupying troops, and there was the additional complication of available women.
Azaf had no interest in such distractions. During his last trip home, a neighbouring tribal leader had offered his daughter in marriage. Azaf’s father approved of the match and the ceremony would take place when he next returned. He had not seen the girl but had been told she was fine in form and face. Now that he had pledged himself, he could not touch another woman; even his thoughts of the Queen sparked feelings of guilt.
In between the tents spread out in front of him fires crackled and the smell of roasting meat hung heavily in the air. He had ordered double rations and was happy to see the infantry, archers and cavalrymen relax for a few hours. Earlier, five garlanded goats had been sacrificed to Malakbel. Pleasingly, their entrails had been clear of unusual marks or defects: a good omen. He could hear urgent, excited conversations. The warriors knew they were close now; they would reach their objective soon.
Just before sunset, a party led by Bezda had returned from Anasartha with food and timber. Despite the drought, nearby springs and efficient Roman water management had allowed the fields around the city to yield earlier in the year; supplies of grain and fruit were plentiful. The timber had already been used to construct eight solid ladders and a rudimentary ram. These had been loaded on to the carts and were Azaf’s only concession to the notion of a traditional siege. What he knew of such techniques had been gleaned from others more familiar with Roman and Persian tactics. General Zabbai wanted a victory in hours, not days, and Azaf was determined he would get it.
It had been a frustrating few months for the general. After leading the Queen’s forces against the Fourth Legion, he had been ordered to consolidate gains in the south, ensuring that Palestine and Arabia were secure before pressing north-east towards Antioch: the great prize. What Azaf had seen of Roman resistance so far suggested a complete lack of coordination and appalling morale. On only two occasions had he met serious attempts to defend the walls of a fort or town. The tally for his swordsmen since leaving Palmyra was two hundred and fifty enemy killed, four hundred captured. He had lost thirty-four.
Yet he was wary of assuming it would be as easy this time. Any Roman soldier still at his post between Palmyra and Antioch couldn’t be entirely without courage, and the men of Alauran defended a valuable prize. Even so, he felt sure that the archers and cavalry would give him the edge over whatever force he met. If it meant sacrificing a few of them before his swordsmen carried out the main assault, so be it.
Hearing the shuffling of feet, he looked up to see a familiar face pass through the lambent glow of a torch. Razir was an ageing infantryman from Azaf’s tribe who’d been with him since the beginning. A seasoned, wily warrior, he also served as his commander’s armourer. He was holding Azaf’s sword in cloth-wrapped hands, one on the hilt, one on the blade.
‘I spent an hour on it,’ Razir said proudly, the light from the torch catching the white in his beard.
Azaf put a finger against the cold steel. As usual, Razir had done an immaculate job of sharpening the blade.
‘Excellent. And all by firelight.’
Azaf’s tent had been pitched at the edge of a copse of palms. A branch snapped.
Both men looked up. A hooded figure had materialised behind one of the trees.
‘Who’s there?’ demanded Razir, raising the sword.
Though he had posted sentries, Azaf knew it wouldn’t be difficult for a determined foe to slip into the darkened encampment.
‘Strategos Azaf?’
The Aramaic was clear but the voice seemed hesitant, as if it were not the speaker’s first language.
‘Didn’t the general tell you I’d make contact?’
Feeling the chill of the night, Azaf pulled his cloak round him.
‘Ah. Yes. Come closer. Here by the torch.’
‘I think not. And you’ll need to dismiss the old one if you wish me to tell all I know.’
Azaf could sense Razir bristling beside him. He placed a hand on his shoulder.
‘Leave us.’
Razir reluctantly withdrew.
‘I shall be close by.’
Azaf nodded and turned back to face the stranger.
‘Well? What have you to say to me?’
The spy moved round the tree and squatted down. He reached up and adjusted his hood so that it covered most of his face. Azaf could see only a thin mouth and clean-shaven jaw.
‘You’re headed for Alauran, yes?’
‘We aim to be there in two days.’
‘I’ve not heard from my man in a while but the last time I did there were fewer than fifty legionaries there. He has three standing orders. The first is to gain all possible knowledge about Roman troop numbers and deployment. The second is to remain there until I personally recall him. The third is likely to be of most interest to you.’
‘Go on.’
‘Before you begin the assault he will send you a message detailing everything inside the walls: armaments, weak points, anything of use.’
‘And how will he get this message to me?’
‘One moment.’
The spy retreated into the gloom and picked up something. Turning sideways so as to obscure his face, he placed the object on the ground. Only when he had returned to the shadows did Azaf take it and examine it by torchlight.
It was a small wooden cage and inside was a dark-feathered bird. Azaf didn’t recognise the breed. The bird pecked at one of the bars and walked round in tight circles — as much movement as the cage would allow.