Strabo had already made up his mind. No sooner had Cassius finished than he offered his hand to Avso. Cassius looked down at Strabo’s broad, calloused fingers, hoping desperately that Avso would reciprocate. He knew the Sicilian would not make the offer twice.
The Thracian’s drawn features were so hard to read that Cassius had no idea what he was about to do until he finally extended his hand. As usual, Flavian followed his example.
The first rank of infantry were now approaching Alauran on horseback, the rest of the force behind them in a snaking line. The leading riders coaxed their horses behind the scouts and arranged themselves into a neat line of twenty. Those behind repeated the procedure until four new lines had been formed. Shuffling hooves kicked up clouds of dust that shifted lazily south with the wind, obscuring the rest of the column.
‘About a hundred,’ observed Kabir as Cassius sat down beside him. ‘These look like swordsmen.’
They turned their attention north. More Palmyrans were fanning out beyond the limits of the initial rally line. They differed from the others in one notable respect.
‘Archers,’ said Kabir.
Arranging themselves in a double line, staggered to provide each man with a wide field of fire, around fifty of the horse archers eventually appeared on the northern flank. As their mounts settled down, the dust began to clear, revealing an identical deployment to the south. Behind this group, at least ten carts could be seen bringing up the rear.
From the middle of the rally line a hand and a cry went up, directing the archers to spread themselves more thinly.
‘Purple Cloak is definitely the leader,’ said Kabir.
Strabo arrived. Kneeling like Cassius and Kabir, he looked out at the Palmyrans and whistled. Avso and Flavian appeared next. Flavian was carrying a bundle of throwing javelins.
‘Three hundred at least,’ said Strabo.
‘Two hundred and twenty fighting men. The rest are drivers and porters,’ announced Kabir. ‘Is that what you make it?’ he asked Cassius.
Cassius didn’t answer; he was too busy staring at the carts.
‘What do you think that is?’ he asked, pointing towards a group of men tying ropes to something inside one of the vehicles. Others climbed up to manhandle the mysterious object. Following instructions from a gesticulating driver, those on the ground heaved on their ropes. Suddenly several thick, pointed stakes appeared. The men eased them down to the ground. Next out were two large wheels and more timber.
‘Ram,’ observed Cassius needlessly.
‘Hardly deserves the name,’ said Strabo.
‘Enough to account for our gate,’ countered Avso. ‘A big one would get stuck in the sand anyhow. They know what they’re doing.’
The five pair of eyes were then drawn to a colourful figure walking rapidly in front of the rally line. He carried no sword or shield. Trailing in the wind behind him was a wide cloak of deep red.
Karzai wasn’t actually Palmyran; he hailed originally from the coast close to the city of Laodicea. Azaf knew little of his history other than his previous occupation as some kind of merchant. Having presented himself to the Palmyran victors after a skirmish with Roman troops at a river crossing, he had proven singularly useful.
As well as speaking passable Hebrew and Phoenician, he was fluent in Latin and Greek and all the numerous dialects of Aramaic used in both Syrian provinces. He also seemed to have a contact in every settlement they passed through and was always able to lay his hands on food and water for a reasonable price. By way of reward, he took his pick of whatever the Palmyrans plundered along the way.
Azaf had little time for the man, finding his manner pompous, his creed vulgar. But, as he continued to provide solutions for problems Azaf would otherwise have to solve himself, he saw little reason to get rid of him.
‘Strategos.’ Karzai enunciated the word carefully as he bowed. His long hair was greying in places but he maintained the vigour and good looks of a younger man. The ostentatious collection of rings on both of his fingers always amused Azaf. They would make it impossible for him to hold a blade properly. As usual, the man was surrounded by a haze of perfume.
‘I want you to speak with them.’
Karzai’s thin smile disappeared as he cast an eye at the walls of Alauran.
Although most of the Palmyrans could speak some Greek, Azaf himself knew little and discouraged the men from using anything other than Aramaic. By employing Karzai, it was not necessary for him or any of his men to demean themselves by speaking either Greek or the hated Latin.
‘What would you like me to say?’
‘The usual.’
Karzai turned hesitantly towards the gate.
Azaf continued: ‘Advance until you are halfway between here and the wall. They should be able to hear you.’
‘Sir, I’m happy to please as always, but what if-’
‘We’ll cover you.’
Azaf gave orders to the archers on either side of him, then settled back into his saddle and gestured calmly towards the gatehouse.
Karzai took a moment to compose himself, then set off.
‘Well, well. Look at this pretty flower.’
Flavian gave a grunt of amusement at Avso’s mocking words.
Cassius was no longer looking at the man walking slowly towards the fort; he was watching the horse archers. Every last one of them had retrieved an arrow from their quivers and now held them in place against the string. Another shout. As one, the archers coaxed their horses forward using only their legs.
‘Ah, you never know,’ said Strabo. ‘Perhaps they’re just after a cup of water.’
Nobody laughed. Kabir tapped Cassius on the shoulder.
‘They might offer terms. But you should not consider them, whatever they say.’
‘I don’t intend to.’
‘As auxiliaries my men and I might be spared, but you Romans can expect little mercy. If allowed to live, you might be forced to fight in their ranks or spend your remaining years in chains.’
‘You needn’t concern yourself. Roman garrisons are not in the habit of handing forts over to upstart rebels.’
Kabir looked back at him cynically.
‘Forgive me, centurion, but that is a rather naive view. You must be aware that some within your legions have chosen to fight alongside the Palmyrans.’
‘Those are rumours, spread by our enemies.’
Cassius felt his face reddening. He was simply repeating what he had heard from other officers in Antioch. For all he knew, Kabir was right.
‘Ah,’ said the Syrian, amused by his reply.
Cassius decided to end the conversation.
‘My orders are clear. We will defend Alauran to the last man.’
Kabir offered a conciliatory nod.
Crispus’ head and shoulders appeared from the northern tower.
‘Excuse me, sir, but the men are asking what’s going on. Should we form up?’
‘Tell the men to stand to. They’ll get their orders.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Cassius looked around.
‘Where’s Serenus?’
‘Down there,’ said Avso, aiming a thumb at the southern tower. ‘Coughing his guts up again.’
The enemy messenger stopped seventy yards out, flanked on either side by the archers. The odd horse edged forward or sideways but for the most part the line remained impressively intact. Another order and each archer raised his bow above his mount’s head.
‘Keep low,’ warned Kabir. ‘This is short range for them.’
A clear, authoritative voice rolled towards the fort in faultless Greek.
‘Whoever lies behind those walls, be he Syrian or Roman, should listen now and listen well. We, the forces of General Zabbai of Palmyra, claim this territory and settlement in the name of our unconquered Lord Imperator Vaballathus and Her Regal Highness Queen Septimia Zenobia. Your choice is simple: surrender or die.’
XXVI
‘May I?’