‘If they are, they don’t show it.’
‘Then I suppose we mustn’t either, sir.’
Cassius took a moment to absorb this, then nodded briskly.
‘Quite right.’
Cassius checked the belt, then picked up his helmet. Simo quickly locked the bedroom door and they left.
‘Good luck, sir,’ said the Gaul as they parted outside the barracks.
‘And to you, Simo. And to you.’
Stepping up into the southern tower, Cassius found Strabo slumped in a corner, clad once again in his mail shirt, sharpening his pilum blade with a flint. Serenus was kneeling in front of the arrow slit, keeping watch.
‘Anything?’
‘Dust trails to the south,’ said Serenus without turning round. ‘Main assault force I should imagine.’
The Sicilian pointed the flint at Cassius’ helmet.
‘Might be best to rid yourself of that crest.’
Cassius looked down at the thick red bristles. Though they had been faded slightly by the sun, the colour remained bright. As he had been told many times, the crest was not only a mark of status but the key identifier of an officer during battle. To remove it seemed unthinkable.
‘Why would I do that?’
‘No sense making a target of yourself — especially if you’re up here.’
‘Rather goes with the job, doesn’t it?’ Cassius said, ill at ease with how comfortably he now handled the pretence.
‘Were you a veteran I would agree,’ said Strabo, ‘but it makes no sense for a youngster like yourself to draw attention. You’ll have enough to deal with.’
Cassius didn’t know how to respond. Strabo’s suggestion seemed patronising in the extreme, yet he felt strangely touched by the concern. For a brief moment he toyed with the idea of telling them the truth. Luckily, Serenus spoke up, dispelling the thought.
‘Strabo’s right. Don’t take offence. You’ve hardly been wearing it anyway — I doubt the men will even notice.’
‘Well,’ said Cassius, ‘it is rather impractical. Gets caught on door frames and such like.’
He examined the helmet. The crest was mounted on an iron panel that slid between two raised sections. Gripping the bristles, he yanked the crest down, hoping to loosen the panel. It refused to budge.
‘Here.’
Strabo took the helmet, perused the arrangement for a moment, then chopped his hand down at an angle, dislodging the panel.
‘Another reason I’ve never sought promotion,’ said the Sicilian, ‘strutting round like a peacock in barracks, then inviting special attention during battle. No thanks.’
Cassius picked up the square of papyrus lying on the floor next to Serenus. Written on one side in miniature Aramaic lettering was a brief list and several numerals. Kabir had already identified this as an accurate summary of the numbers within Alauran. On the other side was a labelled map of the compound, including the newly erected barriers.
‘We’ve a good deal to thank old scarface for,’ said Strabo, now sharpening the pilum again.
‘That would have given them quite an advantage.’
‘Certainly,’ answered Serenus. ‘But I can’t help thinking they know we are few. Sadir had been here over a year. It’s inconceivable that he made no other communication to his masters. They must know four hundred men will be sufficient.’
‘Four hundred?’ snapped Strabo. ‘Caesar’s length! Who said anything about four hundred?’
‘Keep your voice down!’ warned Cassius.
‘Antonius and I go back a long way,’ Serenus explained.
‘I see,’ replied Cassius grimly. ‘Well, let’s just keep it to ourselves, shall we?’
Strabo gave up his sharpening and jabbed the pilum into the clay wall.
‘Four hundred? We should have run while we had the chance.’
‘What happened to “standing firm” and “sticking it to them”?’ said Serenus, with a sideways glance at Strabo.
The Sicilian wrenched the pilum out of the wall and pointed down at the ground where the unseen legionaries were gathered.
‘That was for their benefit.’
‘Quite a performance,’ said Serenus.
Strabo’s expression hardened.
‘Someone had to offer a bit of inspiration. Left to you two, anyone would have thought we were planning a surprise party, not a defensive action.’ Strabo pulled his dice from his pocket. With a casual flick of the wrist he cast them on to the floor close to Cassius’ feet. A one and a two. ‘We’ll be lucky to see the sun set,’ he said. Pocketing the dice and grabbing his helmet, he dropped his pilum through the opening and climbed down the ladder.
‘Back in a moment,’ Cassius told Serenus.
He found Kabir squatting on the walkway, peering out at the Palmyrans, even though they had agreed to use only the arrow slits for observation.
‘Don’t worry,’ said the Syrian. ‘It’s safe, and there’s a much better view.’
Cassius crawled over to him, then got to his knees and looked out over the wall. The horsemen remained as still as ever, though a few had dismounted and were dragging their swords across the sand.
‘Some kind of rally line, I presume,’ said Kabir. ‘They will gather there before the attack.’
‘Are those carts?’
Squinting through the haze to the south of the crest, Cassius could see the approaching column. Behind a long line of horsemen three or four abreast were some low, bulky shapes.
‘Carrying siege equipment, I expect. And food and water. They know it will not be over quickly, whatever our numbers.’
The sound of raised voices from below drew Cassius to the rear of the walkway. He looked over the edge to find a predictable scene unfolding. Strabo was standing over Avso and Flavian.
‘Apologise? What for?’ demanded the Sicilian.
‘Don’t give us that!’ snarled Avso, as he and Flavian scrambled to their feet.
‘Will it ever end?’ said Cassius tiredly.
Kabir motioned for him to go.
‘I’ll stay here.’
Cassius crawled past him and made his way down the ladder. Stepping over the legs of several legionaries as he exited the tower, he was relieved to find the trio had not yet come to blows.
Avso and Flavian also had their armour on now. The Thracian wore a well-maintained mail shirt that hung loosely from his narrow, sloping shoulders. Flavian, meanwhile, had attired himself in a poorly fitting cuirass. Several plates were missing, others had almost rusted away. His stomach stuck out below the base.
Cassius noticed how Avso held his hands high, close together at the level of his belt, as if always poised for action. The Thracian spat into the dust at Strabo’s feet.
Surprisingly, the Sicilian didn’t react. He simply glanced down at the newly moistened sand and smiled. Cassius wondered if he wished to preserve his energies for the fight that mattered. He stepped between them.
‘Gentlemen. I’d like a word. In there.’ He pointed at the northern tower.
Strabo shrugged and ducked inside. Avso and Flavian reluctantly followed. Cassius was last in; the four of them just about filled the area round the ladder.
He began: ‘All of us have made mistakes today. We either didn’t tell the truth or we didn’t recognise it when we heard it. Flavian, you were at the granary last night hunting out wine, correct?’
Flavian looked to his usual source of guidance and received an affirmative nod.
‘Yes.’
‘Did you get any?’
Flavian shook his head.
‘Thought better of it when that darkie saw me.’
Cassius turned to Avso.
‘And you told him to lie about it, fearing you might both be implicated in Barates’ death.’
‘Very good,’ answered Avso smugly, without the vaguest hint of shame or regret.
‘I remind both of you that at no time were you directly accused of anything by Strabo or myself, though I admit we had our suspicions. You should also remember that the Syrian lad has suffered a good deal worse. And he did nothing wrong. Recriminations benefit no one. Our enemies are here. This feud must be forgotten. Now.’