‘Doubles?’ queried Cassius.
‘By Mars. A soldier that doesn’t play dice.’
Cassius shrugged. His family had always taken a dim view of gambling. Dice in particular was seen as a game for the lower ranks of society.
‘Two players. For every round both roll three dice. Highest total wins. Simple. Except the loser can “double” — challenge. As long as he has the money. The winner has to accept. So they both double their stake. When the money’s in, they roll again, and so on. It’s high risk, usually doesn’t last long. You need balls — big, hairy balls — to make much out of it.’
Cassius nodded.
‘We were staying in the same inn as a bunch from the Fourth Cohort. I’d cleaned out all our boys, one of theirs had done the same. Name of Glaucus, ratty-looking type, not unlike our Thracian friend over there. Someone decided we should play this big game. The place was packed: officers, men, locals. I started well and it just got better. This Glaucus kept losing, then doubling, then losing again. I had thousands piled up. But this fool wouldn’t let it go.’
Strabo shook his head ruefully.
‘Then I rolled an eight. He got ten.’
‘So he had won?’ asked Cassius.
‘Unless I doubled.’
‘You did it?’
‘Three thousand two hundred denarii. I had two thousand with me, the rest in Antioch, which the legion clerk stumped up. I rolled a fourteen. Great score. Glaucus made ten or eleven, I think. I’d done it. But then he doubled. Nobody could believe it. He’d lost everything, but all his mates chipped in. They said he’d never lost a long game before. So I had to accept, even though it would mean every coin I had in the world if I lost. I made nine. The lucky son of a bitch hit sixteen. I can still see it now — two fives and a six.’
‘You lost over six thousand denarii?’ said Cassius, eyes wide. It was a huge sum, enough to buy a decent house in Rome.
‘Only if I dropped out. I wanted to double again. My mates wanted to help me out — for a share of the winnings, of course. They’d never seen me lose. But Petronius and the other centurions put a stop to it. I never forgave him for that.’
‘So you had to pay?’
‘I’d been in the army ten years. A decade of hard slog all gone in one night.’
Avso leaned forward, closer to the fire.
‘That’s not quite where the story ends, though, is it, guard officer?’
Strabo didn’t react.
‘The way I heard it you refused to pay up because the game had been stopped. You head-butted this Glaucus and it turned into a brawl — Third Cohort versus the Fourth. The inn was virtually destroyed and two hundred sober Sarmatian auxiliaries had to be ordered in to break it up. You only got out of it by bribing half the officers in Tarsus with a stash of looted emeralds.’
‘Shouldn’t believe everything you hear, Thracian,’ said Strabo with a grin. ‘Though I believe there was a small scrap after the game — probably down to a spilt drink or something.’
Avso nodded knowingly. Cassius smiled.
‘Still,’ Strabo continued, ‘Fortuna has been pretty kind ever since. I paid what was owed and my luck has held.’
He looked around the room, then out of the doorway.
‘Well, until now I suppose.’
With that, an uncomfortable silence settled over them.
After a time, Kabir appeared at the door.
‘Is something wrong?’ Cassius asked him.
‘Not at all. May I?’
The Syrian pointed at the fire.
‘Please,’ said Cassius.
Kabir squatted between two of the chairs and warmed his hands.
‘How are your men?’ asked Cassius.
‘Anxious. It has been a long time since we last fought. I have placed half of them inside the dwellings to take what rest they can. They will exchange places with the others before long.’
‘Perhaps we should do the same?’ suggested Cassius.
‘We have less than forty men out there as it is,’ said Strabo. ‘Do you really think half that number can cover all those yards of wall?’
‘I can move my men out alongside them if you wish,’ offered Kabir. ‘The Palmyran tactics are clear. Twice they have made attack seem likely, then halted. By harrying us through the hours of darkness, they mean to weaken our bodies and minds.’
‘Obviously,’ answered Strabo impatiently, ‘but what of their bodies and minds? They were standing out there for hours in the heat, now the cold; they’re worse off than us.’
‘You think all those men remain there still? I doubt there’s more than a hundred at the wall. The others will be sleeping back at their camp.’
‘Even if that’s true, we don’t have the luxury of men to spare,’ countered the Sicilian.
Avso spoke up: ‘But if this is a long night, tomorrow is sure to be the longest of days. A few hours’ rest could make a big difference.’
Cassius turned back to Kabir.
‘You don’t think they will attack before morning?’
‘I don’t.’
‘Strabo?’
‘We cannot know. This Purple Cloak is a sly one. Do not assume we can read his intentions.’
‘Avso?’
‘I think they’ll attack at first light. Ideal for the cavalry.’
‘Then we shall divide the men into two shifts. Take every other man off the wall and send them to the barracks for three hours. Then we’ll swap them. Kabir, you will redeploy your men?’
‘I’ll do it now.’
The Syrian left. Cassius and Avso stood up. Strabo stayed on his stool and shrugged.
‘Fine, just ignore me then.’
‘You’ll benefit too,’ said Cassius. ‘What’s good enough for the men is good enough for us. Serenus and I shall take three hours of sleep first. Then you two can take a turn.’
With half the legionaries in the barracks, Cassius was on his way back to the officers’ quarters when he heard raised voices.
‘What do you think this is, man — a drill? Look at me, you dozy bastard!’
Cassius ran over to the north-west corner. Avso, his gaunt features lit by torchlight, turned as he approached. Strabo was there too, facing a legionary pressed up against the wall. His knee shot up and the soldier doubled over.
‘What’s going on here?’
‘Asleep at his post,’ explained the Sicilian, staring contemptuously at the cloaked figure. Cassius moved his lamp lower. The man twisted his head and narrowed his eyes against the light. Spotting the dark blotch of the birthmark, Cassius realised it was Priscus.
‘What have you to say for yourself then?’ he asked.
Priscus tried to reply but he was still winded.
Strabo spun his pilum over in his hand and swung the solid wooden handle against Priscus’ right knee. There was a sharp crack and the young legionary collapsed to the ground with a cry. His cloak fell from his shoulders and he lay there moaning, reaching for his knee.
‘Bloody useless!’ said Avso, before landing a light but deft kick to Priscus’ mouth. The legionary rolled on to his back. Blood seeped from a gash in his lip.
Had they continued, Cassius would have intervened, perhaps pointing out that they needed every man fit for battle, but he saw that Strabo and Avso were satisfied with the effect of their actions. Priscus looked desperately up at him, expecting help. Cassius knew he couldn’t give it.
‘Get up then!’ he said. ‘You’ve another three hours to go. Then you can sleep.’
Priscus slowly raised himself. At his full height he was actually taller than Strabo, yet he backed away until he was touching the wall again. Still wary of some final blow, he sheepishly reached down for his cloak and hung it over his shoulders.
Strabo again spun the pilum in his hand and leaned closer, the edged point of the spear an inch from Priscus’ chin.
‘I’ll be checking on you every hour. And those eyes better be wide open or you’ll be getting this end next time. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ stammered Priscus.
Avso moved away.
‘And wrap that cloak round you properly,’ added Strabo. ‘It’s like winter out here tonight.’