The man looked back despairingly, eyes full and bright. Legs scrabbling for purchase, he pulled himself upward.
Strabo got him dead centre, between the shoulder blades. The man’s grip went instantly. His arms slipped back over the wall and he dropped like a stone, bouncing off the barrel and landing on his side, the javelin still stuck in place.
Cassius moved warily round him and looked down at his face, barely visible through the thick beard and matted hair. His breathing was just audible. One hand pawed at his back, then was still. A thick, foul smell surrounded him.
Wrinkling his nose with distaste, Strabo knelt down and pushed some of the hair away. The man’s eyes were flickering open and shut in time with his gasping breaths.
‘I know this man. He worked here. One of the locals. Left months ago.’
‘So you thought.’
‘What have you to say then?’ said Strabo, tugging ruthlessly on some of the hair.
The man coughed and his breathing slowed.
By this time Kabir and several others had arrived.
‘He’s alive?’ asked the Syrian.
‘Not for long,’ said Strabo, straightening up.
‘That’s Sadir!’ said Minicius. ‘He was employed in the workshop for a time.’
The spy was now encircled and as Cassius backed away, excited chatter broke out.
Kabir approached, one eye still red.
‘How did you know?’
Watching as Strabo turned his attention to the man’s robes, Cassius took a couple of deep breaths before replying.
‘Julius had spoken of this “spirit” before. Obviously he’d heard some noises from the granary at night. And there was no sign of rats, yet there was a foul odour there — this fellow. I suppose he must have buried his waste but the stench remained. Then what you said about there being no reason for one of us to have done it — there had to be another explanation.’
‘What do you think happened?’
‘I imagine he was checking the defences under cover of night.’
‘And Barates was unfortunate enough to cross his path.’
‘Something like that, yes.’
‘I think he’s had it,’ said Minicius.
Strabo had found something.
‘Catch.’
Cassius did so and turned the thin silver disc over in his hand. It was a fairly standard denarius, apart from the youthful, unfamiliar face etched on one side. The name that circled the face, however, he had heard before.
‘Vaballathus.’
‘Zenobia’s son,’ added Kabir, looking over Cassius’ shoulder.
‘This announces him as emperor,’ Cassius said, examining both sides. Closer inspection showed the coin to be rather inferior in weight and quality.
‘I heard there were some of these around,’ said Strabo. ‘Never seen one though.’
‘The nerve of that woman,’ said Cassius indignantly.
Jangling a purse full of the coins, Strabo sauntered over.
‘Bribe money perhaps. Yours now.’
Cassius took the tatty purse.
‘Gone has he?’ asked Strabo.
Minicius, kneeling down and listening for any sound of breathing, nodded. The Sicilian planted a boot on the spy’s flank, gripped the end of the javelin and yanked it out.
Word still hadn’t spread to the men at the gate. Those present either looked on in silence or exchanged quiet comments, apparently still struggling to make sense of the sight before them. Kabir meanwhile had leaped up on to the barrel. He pulled the knife out of the clay and jumped nimbly back down.
‘Look here,’ he said, holding up the blade as Cassius walked over. ‘He didn’t even clean it properly.’
Along the edge were several blotches of blood. Cassius felt a surge of relief; they had at last found the murderer.
The Syrian’s grim smile suddenly vanished.
‘Don’t move!’ he barked, pointing at the ground.
Behind Cassius, a pair of legionaries had emptied the contents of the spy’s satchel on to the ground. Apart from a gourd and a thin blanket, the only other object was a small wooden cage. Inside, a dark-feathered bird pecked at the bars. The door that made up one side of the cage had come loose, and with a flap of its wings, the bird pushed the door open and stepped neatly on to the sand.
‘Don’t startle it,’ said Kabir. ‘Look — on its leg. A message meant for the enemy.’
As the legionaries slowly backed away, Cassius saw that there was indeed a tiny roll of papyrus attached just above the right claw. The bird scratched at the ground and stretched its wings.
Despite Kabir’s warnings, some of the other legionaries let their curiosity get the better of them.
‘You men,’ Cassius hissed. ‘Stay where you are.’
The legionaries did so but Cassius’ words had little effect on Strabo, who was already inching his way towards the bird.
‘I wouldn’t get any closer,’ advised Kabir.
Strabo, hunched over, with the javelin still in his hand, took another small step.
‘It’ll have been in that cage for months. Probably can’t fly.’
‘Strabo,’ said Cassius.
‘Relax, centurion.’
Without taking his eyes off the bird, Kabir called out to one of his men, who hurried away.
‘Strabo,’ repeated Cassius, louder this time.
The Sicilian shifted his grip to the middle of the javelin and eased it back behind his head, ready to strike.
The bird was five yards away from him, pecking at the ground, oblivious to the impending attack. It was hopping around in circles; Strabo had to constantly readjust his aim.
‘Stay still, little birdy,’ he whispered. ‘Nice and still.’
‘Leave this to me,’ said Kabir firmly, carefully removing his sling from his belt. Cassius got a good look at the weapon for the first time.
The sling resembled a thick piece of rope but on closer inspection was in fact made of braided hemp. It was half an inch wide and about two feet long. In the middle was a small leather cradle to house the projectile itself. At one end was a small loop of cord that Kabir now slipped over his little finger.
‘Who put you in charge, auxiliary?’ answered Strabo. Kabir took a piece of lead shot and placed it in the cradle, then took hold of the other end of the sling and held it delicately between thumb and forefinger.
Strabo scowled as the bird moved again.
‘Bloody thing.’
Cassius retreated as Kabir raised the sling to shoulder height.
From behind the western wall came the loud squawk of a buzzard. It was a familiar sound to the men but enough to startle the skittish bird. With a few short hops it launched itself into the air and took off towards Strabo. He had no time to adjust his aim and missed with a clumsy swing of his arm. He watching helplessly with the rest of the Romans as the bird flapped higher.
Kabir leaned back and whipped his wrist round. Firing high into the sun, the Syrian had little chance of success and he cursed as his prey flew on unharmed. Every pair of eyes in the west of the compound followed the bird as it circled above, then swooped down towards the wall. It made a rather unconvincing landing on the roof of the stables then paraded back and forth, surveying the crowd below.
‘Nobody move,’ ordered Kabir loudly, provoking a few glares from the legionaries. He, Strabo and Cassius walked gingerly towards the stables. As Kabir loaded another shot into his sling, Strabo again prepared to throw. Cassius put a hand on the javelin.
‘Just leave him to it, would you?’
Strabo reluctantly lowered the weapon. Before Kabir could even raise his hand, the buzzard squawked again and the bird hopped off the roof. It flapped skyward, then wheeled aimlessly about a hundred feet above the fort.
‘There!’ cried Teyya.
Azaf, Razir and the other Palmyrans covered their eyes and hunched forward in their saddles.
‘I see it,’ said Razir.
‘It looks the right size,’ added Teyya, his hands already on the cage.
Azaf looked down at the bird. There was no way to be certain but the timing seemed right. He had limited faith in the spy’s scheme, but it had to be worth a try.