‘Keep it alive and it shall serve you well. We use them to deliver messages. The strings in their throats are cut so they cannot sing and betray their masters. This one is the mate of another. They will fly hundreds of miles to be joined again. I’m sure you can guess where the other is.’
‘Ingenious,’ said Azaf begrudgingly.
‘The message will be attached to its leg. Tether this bird and release it into the air. My man will send the other. You may have to wait a while but it will come.’
‘Who is he?’
‘You don’t need to know. He has worked for me for many years, sometimes with our enemies, sometimes within our own ranks.’
The spy pointed down at the cage with a single bony finger.
‘Water and grain every day. And keep it out of the sun.’
Azaf shrugged and looked down at the bird, still completing its circuitous route.
When he glanced back at the palm, the spy had vanished.
Cassius, barefoot and wearing only his tunic, stood in the middle of the square and looked up at the moon.
He thought again of the Almagest and Ptolemy’s theories about the motion of astral bodies. He could never quite make sense of those particular concepts and, whether it was full or halved or quartered, the moon had always seemed to him no more than a distant sentineclass="underline" ever present, ever watching.
He wondered what it saw to the east, where the enemies of Rome gathered and plotted. Somewhere beyond the weak walls of Alauran were the faceless men who might launch the assault, intent on acquiring the fort for their queen, battling any who tried to stop them. Not for the first time, he felt utterly bemused by the destructive forces that caused men to fight to the death for something as mundane as a clean supply of water.
The compound was eerily still. The animals were quiet in their stables, and with only Flavian and Avso on duty at the gatehouse, the barracks were silent.
It seemed impossible that within hours or days the walls could be overrun; that Cassius and those under his command might meet their deaths out here at the edge of the Empire, so far from Rome that it seemed as distant as the moon.
Despite another exhausting day, he had struggled to sleep and had finally given up. Thinking a walk outside might alter his state of mind, he found there was no escape from the thoughts and questions that occupied him. He wondered what his family would think, if they could see him here. Was this what his father had secretly intended for him? To face danger and emerge in triumph or meet a heroic death? And what of his mother? She had never wanted him to leave, though she could never defy the will of her husband. Cursing himself for his childish weakness, Cassius could not deny that he wanted more than anything to be with her, to embrace her, to feel safe again.
As he turned back towards the officers’ quarters, resolving to rest his body even if he could not rest his mind, he caught sight of the temple and stopped.
It had been a long time since he had prayed with conviction. As he left childhood behind, he saw it as something for others, whether they worshipped one god or many, their emperors or their ancestors. To him it seemed futile. His fate would be decided by the turn of battle; by his own actions; by others; and by luck.
On this night, though, Cassius offered a simple prayer, to any force that might listen, and he whispered it, though there was no one there to hear him.
‘Please let me see my mother again.’
XVI
Legionary Minicius had done a good job of cleaning the tuba and the early-morning sun flashed off the four-foot bronze cone as he held it aloft. Steadying the weight with both hands, he put his lips to the cone and blew. The note was uneven but powerful, and it seemed to rebound off the compound walls, echoing into every corner. Cassius, Barates and the signaller waited for the garrison to arm themselves and gather outside the granary.
Barates had returned from the crest just after dawn, leaving Antonius to take up sentry duty. He’d been surprised to see the Praetorian up early again and already lumbering towards the inn. As soon as Cassius heard this he sought out Minicius and the three of them hurried across to the granary. It surely wouldn’t take long for the Praetorian to realise he’d have to look further afield for his precious wine.
Predictably, the fourth section were first to arrive. Serenus swiftly organised them into a line to Cassius’ left.
‘Excellent work,’ said Cassius, before turning to Barates.
‘Avso and Flavian reported nothing of interest during the night. Same for you, I presume?’
‘Pleasantly uneventful. Julius was upset about something though. He sleeps in the stables more often than not but ended up in the barracks last night.’
‘Why?’ Cassius asked irritably, having managed only an hour of sleep himself. He got no answer; Barates had already hurried away to organise his own section.
Strabo, Avso, Crispus and a big group of legionaries arrived. Cassius stayed quiet, relying on his deputies to chivvy their charges along. It was satisfying to see the legionaries respond to the tuba’s summons so efficiently.
‘There he is,’ someone said.
The Praetorian was leaning against the corner of the aid post, a jug in his hand. He watched the last few soldiers exiting the barracks, some attaching their scabbards to their belts as they ran.
‘Straighten them out, guard officer,’ ordered Cassius. With a few words from the Sicilian, the men formed a solid double line, with Cassius’ first section and Serenus’ fourth at the rear. Strabo’s second, Barates’ third and Avso’s fifth formed a wider rank at the front.
‘Everyone quiet!’ ordered Cassius as he took up position next to Strabo.
The Praetorian was still observing the peculiar sight in front of the granary with a bemused frown.
Careful not to make any gesture that could be construed as aggressive, Cassius rested his hands on his belt and waited. Gradually, the heavy breaths of the harried troops died down and the only noise to be heard was from the Syrians: the low hum of conversation and odd clink of a pan or plate. The dust kicked up by the men settled back to the ground.
The Praetorian just kept on staring. Cassius felt sure the giant’s eyes were fixed on him.
‘This is bad,’ Strabo whispered.
The Praetorian dropped the jug. As it rolled away, he pushed off the wall and quickly covered the few steps to the barracks doorway.
‘That’s worse,’ added the Sicilian.
Several hushed conversations began amongst the legionaries.
‘I said quiet!’ Cassius shouted, spinning round. ‘Next man to speak will find himself on permanent latrine duty.’
Turning back, he caught Barates’ eye.
‘Well?’ he breathed.
‘He may be looking for wine.’
‘Or?’
‘Or. . he may be getting his sword.’
Cassius felt his stomach tighten. He already knew the plan was risky but now saw just how badly he might have misjudged things. Heads turned right, and Cassius saw some of the Syrians by the dwellings, watching events unfold. Nobody said a word as they listened to the Praetorian make his way back through the barracks. His vast frame filled the entrance and he came to a halt, blinking as the sun hit him.
He was carrying a wooden stave, not unlike Flavian’s, except that one end had been carved into a neat ball, ideal for cracking heads. The implication was not lost on any of the men standing twenty yards away: he wasn’t aiming to kill anyone but those who stood in his way could expect to get hurt.
The Praetorian spun the stave neatly through the air, caught it with his other hand, then started across the square. The broad face was expressionless. His arms hung almost diagonally, forced outward by their own musculature and his immense chest. He was heading directly for the granary door, straight through the middle of Strabo’s section.