‘Huh?’ The Praetorian’s bushy eyebrows formed a V as he frowned, apparently unable to comprehend the notion of abstinence.
‘He said it will negate its effects. Your pain will return immediately.’
The Praetorian leaned back against the bar and stared at the floor.
‘He has plenty of ingredients,’ Cassius continued. ‘There’s no reason why he can’t suppress the pain indefinitely, perhaps even cure you.’
The Praetorian looked up. Cassius examined his face for traces of suspicion but he saw only contemplation, then what might even have been hope. Encouraged, he moved closer, took his canteen from his belt and held it out.
‘Here. He said that water would help. As much as you can drink.’
The Praetorian took the canteen, removed the plug and drank. Though the water from Alauran’s well was the sweetest Cassius had come across in Syria, the Praetorian winced like a child forced to ingest a particularly unpleasant tonic. He tilted his head back and blew out his cheeks.
‘Now it’s my head buzzing!’ The great hand that slammed down on to the bar split a plank in two and sent his cup flying. ‘Mars knows why I’ve been cursed so!’
Despite his youth, Cassius knew a little about the effects of heavy and repeated drinking.
‘You crave the wine to dull the pain — a common enough pattern. But it will pass. Your condition, however-’
Scowling, the Praetorian perused the tender underside of his hand. Cassius began to wonder if he was alive to his machinations. He decided to fill the silence.
‘My man has helped many. Some say his powers have been bestowed from above. If you return to your quarters, I’ll have him bring you more of the preparation. Perhaps even a meal.’
The Praetorian gave the canteen back, then rubbed his chin.
‘Food. Don’t remember the last time I ate.’
Cassius gestured to his left.
‘Please. I’ll send him along presently.’
The Praetorian finally began to move but halted after just two strides, looking longingly back at the bar.
‘Surely a cup or two wouldn’t-’
‘He said not even a mouthful.’
The Praetorian tutted, sniffed loudly, then continued on his way.
The aid post was now reserved for those most in need, and Priscus had been joined by four more badly wounded legionaries. Cassius picked his way between their weapons and armour, then grabbed a mail shirt and passed it back to a man with only minor wounds.
‘Remove this gear.’
He stepped carefully over two of the beds and stood over Simo, who was treating Vestinus. The legionary lay on his back with one hand clamped over his eyes. Simo was pouring water from a bowl over the wound in his thigh, cleaning away the sand and dirt. Cassius tried not to look at the section of shiny white bone below the torn flesh.
‘Simo. I need more of that preparation.’
Simo did not look up, replying as he reached for a bandage.
‘I’m afraid I haven’t the time, sir. There are many others to treat.’
Cassius shook his head and wondered how many more times people supposedly under his command were going to disobey him.
‘Simo. Over here for a moment if you please.’
Cassius walked to the back of the aid post, in amongst the chests and piles of sheets. Simo lay the bandage over the wound, put a soothing hand upon Vestinus’ arm, then joined him.
‘I need it as soon as possible,’ Cassius said, trying to remain composed. ‘The Praetorian seems to think it helped. If he continues to feel better, I may be able to persuade him to fight.’
Simo offered a faint appeasing smile then gestured towards the injured soldiers.
‘Sir, these men require attention immediately. That preparation is probably useless.’
Cassius slammed his right fist into his left palm.
‘Just do it, Simo!’ he shouted. ‘Remind yourself of who is servant and who is master. I decide how your time is spent.’
Simo looked down at the floor.
‘Yes, sir,’ he whispered.
‘There’s no need to spend hours on it,’ Cassius said, lowering his voice. ‘As long as there’s plenty of it and it looks and tastes roughly the same. Give him some food as well. And do nothing to arouse his anger.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘Best get back to it then.’
Simo retreated with a bow.
Cassius saw a small clay pot next to one of the oil lamps. Inside were some of the lead identity tablets worn round the neck of every Roman soldier. One had belonged to Gemellus, another to Barates. Cassius still didn’t have one because he hadn’t been officially assigned to a legion. Next to the pot was the reed pen and Simo’s amended copy of the century roll. Cassius took both with him.
He met Strabo coming up the street. The Sicilian was cleaning the tip of his sword with a cloth. He kept his eyes on his work as he approached, his face expressionless.
‘Any change?’ Cassius asked as they passed each other. They would have to communicate sooner or later and he saw no reason to delay.
Strabo stopped.
‘No. Still gathered where they were. I was just going to fetch a little food for the men.’
‘I’ll give you a hand.’
Strabo shrugged and they set off towards the granary. Away to the right, Antonius had managed to tie the female camel to the well surround, and he and Julius were now towing the other two towards the stables.
Cassius thought it best to try and clear the air while he and Strabo were alone.
‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have intervened. You have a right to avenge your friends. The Palmyrans have shown little interest in mercy.’
‘Is that an apology?’
‘No.’
Strabo gave a narrow smile. He sheathed his sword and tucked the cloth into his belt.
‘Well, you should know that they at least died quickly. We’ve put all the bodies against the northern wall. Our men too. Three of them. What’s that you have there?’
‘Copy of the roll. Simo has been keeping track of the injured and dead. There are six or seven more who cannot fight.’
‘About thirty of us left then. We shall have to reorganise the sections. Let’s have a look.’
Strabo sat down on the granary steps and took the sheet of papyrus and the pen. Simo had underlined the names of the dead and put a dot against those too injured to fight. Strabo dotted the name of Vestinus and another man, then found the names of Statius and Gulo and underlined them both.
The Sicilian looked up at the sky for a moment.
‘Rufus Marius Gulo. As honest as they come that one. Never once saw him cheat or shirk a task.’ Strabo spat into the dust. ‘Least he wasn’t married.’
He stood, hurried up the granary steps and removed the locking plank. Just inside the door were several small barrels of wine and two sacks of food: one full of mixed dried fruit, the other dried pork. Strabo pushed one barrel and both sacks towards the step. Cassius picked up the barrel. The Sicilian paused, his frame in shadow.
‘Centurion. I should not have put my hand upon you. That is an apology.’
‘We’ll say no more about it then.’
Dropping the sheet and pen on top of Cassius’ barrel, Strabo took one sack under each arm and jumped down to the ground. As they walked back across the square, he glanced towards the well, where Julius and Antonius were once again struggling with the big camel.
‘If we make it through this, you might consider that beast for a commendation.’
Azaf took his time with the instructions, repeating them twice to the gathered swordsmen and archers. He had considered the three-way assault strategy, but Bezda had made a reasonable point when arguing against a division of the force. Men assaulting by ladder would be vulnerable and he still maintained a huge advantage in numbers. This time he would lead the men in himself. There would be no retreat.
Four of the horses lay on the ground not far away. Beyond help, they had been killed and stripped of their valuable armour and saddles. Virtually all the cavalrymen were either injured or exhausted. Some had had to be physically removed from their armour and they were now in the carts, returning to the encampment, to a man shamed by their defeat.