by Nick Brown
As soon as the cart disappeared, Simo hurried into the building. Cassius led both horses over to a trough by the stable. He was sweating heavily. He looked down at the moist cotton under his arms. He hated sweating.
Once the horses had had their fill, he took a drink from his canteen and went to fetch Simo. Behind the door was an empty storeroom. The old woman was kneeling over the girl, Simo beside her. The girl was indeed pretty, though no more than thirteen or fourteen; and Cassius realised that she was in fact the old woman’s granddaughter. Her face was marked around her mouth, her nose bloodied. She was whimpering; and when she caught sight of Cassius, she pulled her knees up under her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs.
‘Come, Simo,’ said Cassius.
‘She needs help, sir,’ said the Gaul.
‘Her grandmother can help her.’
‘Just a few moments more, sir.’
‘No. Not one moment more.’
Simo spoke a few more words of Aramaic, then stood. Cassius was almost outside when the old woman scuttled after him, threw herself at his feet again and grabbed his tunic. Simo put a hand to her shoulder and spoke to her but the old woman wouldn’t move, instead twisting the material in her hands, staring up at Cassius as she pleaded.
‘Simo, just tell her we can do no more for the girl, we must—’
‘She’s not talking about the girl, sir. She asks you to recover the grain. Those bags are all they have. Months of work. She doesn’t know how they will survive. They—’
Cassius couldn’t believe Simo was bothering to translate the old crone’s every word.
‘Get her off me, damn you!’
Simo grabbed both the old woman’s shoulders but her grip was surprisingly strong. Cassius tried to drag his legs free but she still wouldn’t budge. Only when he gripped both her hands and wrenched them away could he finally move.
‘By the gods!’
Cassius’s kick almost knocked the door off its hinges. It bounced back and narrowly missed him as he stalked outside.
‘Get on your horse, Simo. We are leaving.’
Cassius strode over to his mount and leapt up on to the saddle. After a couple of steps it veered left, earning itself a vicious kick.
‘Why I must be dragged down into the shit like this I will never know!’ Cassius hissed between clenched teeth.
Simo was hurrying towards his own steed, the old woman not far behind.
Cassius caught sight of the young girl. She was on her feet, holding on to the door to keep herself up. Cassius hadn’t noticed before, but mounted above the entrance were three stone carvings; religious icons placed there to protect the home and the people within.
‘Your gods have failed you,’ he muttered bitterly.
He yanked the reins and kicked down hard, sending his horse charging round the stable and up the slope.
IV
They passed the boundary line in the middle of the afternoon. Later, as the sky darkened around them, Cassius had long realised they wouldn’t reach Palmyra. The road remained eerily quiet and – apart from a few merchants heading west – the only other traveller they’d encountered was an imperial courier. He had charged round a bend, his galloping steed kicking up swathes of dust, only stopping because of Cassius’s frantic waving. Pausing for a few breathy words, the courier advised them to seek shelter at an occupied way-station on the road about ten miles west of Palmyra.
Now, as they urged their weary mounts up a hill, Cassius hoped that the smudge of yellow light ahead was coming from that very building. He looked back at Simo. The Gaul’s horse had earlier turned a hoof on a stone and was now limping up the slope, Simo dragging it along by the reins. Cassius sat up straight, tightened his grip and concentrated on keeping his steed away from the road-edge.
The final moments of the journey were interminable, and when they finally dismounted, he let out a mighty breath.
‘Thank Jupiter that’s done.’
The way-station was built of smooth limestone blocks. On each side of a solid-looking wooden door were shuttered windows. Hanging from a hook was a lantern that cast a faint yellow glow.
Cassius flicked his reins over the saddle and approached the door, cursing with every painful step. He knocked and waited. A small hatch slid open and a square of young, narrow face stared out at them.
‘Who’s there?’
Simo held up the spear-head as his master spoke.
‘Cassius Quintius Corbulo, Governor’s Office. I’m to meet with Prefect Venator of the Fourth Legion tomorrow and require lodgings for the night.’
Beckoning fingers appeared so Simo brought the spear-head closer. Peering at the badge, the man made a neutral sound then withdrew. Two bolts were drawn and the door opened.
The legionary standing before them was a skinny individual whose belt hung loosely around his waist. One of his boot laces trailed along the ground as he walked past them into the middle of the road. He looked east, then west.
‘Sorry, sir. Can’t be too careful out here. Legionary Gerardus, First Century, Fifth Cohort, Fourth Legion.’
‘You here alone, soldier?’
‘No, sir, Durio’s inside but he’s laid up with bad guts. We’re here for another two days before a new shift arrives. Let’s get the horses seen to, shall we? Stable’s round the back.’
Gerardus took the reins of Cassius’s mount.
‘Would you like to go inside, sir?’
Cassius was momentarily taken aback by such friendliness and efficiency.
‘Certainly.’
‘Please bolt the doors, sir.’
Gerardus led the horse around the side of the way-station, closely followed by Simo.
‘What’s going on?’ asked a weak voice as Cassius went inside and locked the door behind him. He walked over to the man lying under a blanket next to the hearth. Despite the wide chimney, the well-stacked fire was giving out a lot of smoke.
‘Legionary Durio, I presume?’
With a panicky look at Cassius’s tunic, Durio pushed the blanket away.
Cassius held up a hand. ‘Stay where you are, man. I can see by your colour you’re not up to much.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Cassius looked around and realised the night’s accommodation would be basic. There was not one piece of furniture and the earthen floor was covered only by a thin layer of reeds. In one corner was a collection of rusting cooking pans and some firewood. Leaning against the wall behind the door were two spears. The legionaries had laid out the rest of their equipment on a cloak: a saw, a pickaxe, some goat-skin bags for water. They had at least kept the place tidy. Cassius glanced down at an iron pan next to the fire.
‘Any food going?’
It seemed an age since he and Simo had sat by the side of the road to down a hasty late lunch.
‘Actually yes, sir. We cooked up some barley and beans for dinner. Plenty left.’
‘Sounds delightful.’
With the horses dealt with, and an area in the back room cleared for the travellers to sleep in, Gerardus and Simo joined Cassius and Durio by the fire. As there were no chairs, the Gaul brought in Cassius’s saddle for him to sit on. Despite a few spices added by Simo from his portable supply, the lukewarm stew remained stubbornly tasteless.
‘How was it, sir?’ asked Gerardus as Cassius put down his empty bowl.
‘The best that can be said of it is that it filled a hole. I suggest you stick to soldiering, and plan on finding a good wife to take care of matters related to the kitchen.’
Gerardus chuckled good-naturedly. He did seem determined to ingratiate himself. Cassius guessed this wasn’t just sycophancy. With his fellow sentry incapacitated, the soldier was glad to have some company. He had already regaled the visitors with more details about the attacks on army units. Though no one knew for sure, it was generally assumed that Palmyran irregulars were responsible. In one incident, legionaries had been able to fight off the raiders without loss; in three others, men had bee
n wounded and killed. Cassius was grateful that Gerardus had soon moved on to a different and rather more momentous topic: the siege of Palmyra.
‘So you were both there?’ he prompted.
‘From the first day to the last, sir. The legion was called down from Zeugma many months ago. Three cohorts went west to join up with the Emperor. We arrived just as the main force approached the city. What a sight, sir!’
Cassius nodded, passing his empty mug to Simo, who instantly refilled it from a jug. Behind the way-station was a cistern that provided a good supply of water.
‘Five legions, sir, imagine it. They’d lost thousands at Immae and Emesa, hundreds more from harassing attacks on this very road, but what a sight! More scarlet and gold than I’ve ever seen in one place; and ranks and ranks of Persian archers; auxiliaries from every province you can think of; and, most fearsome of all – Palestinian club-men. Big brutes every one, their weapons studded with all manner of bolts and spikes.’
‘And this tale of the mouthy Palmyran defender? It’s true?’
‘I saw it myself, sir. A man called out from the city walls, insulting the Emperor. One of the archers asked if he would like the man silenced. The Emperor said he would. A few legionaries provided the Persian with cover and he advanced to within three hundred feet or so. The Palmyran had kept up with his insults but then he was silenced for ever – the archer fired an arrow straight into his mouth! What a noise came up from our lines. I knew then the city would be ours, sir.’
Cassius had the feeling Gerardus had already told the tale a number of times. Durio turned over and started snoring.
‘And what of Zenobia? You saw the queen?’
Gerardus tutted. ‘Not a trace. They say she was taken by our cavalry during the night, while riding for Persian territory. Apparently she hoped to persuade their king to come to her aid. When the city folk heard she’d gone, the fight went out of them. A few days later it was all over. I did hear something though – from a cook friend of mine – he knows a scout who’s a cousin of one of the cavalrymen. He got a look at her.’ Gerardus shrugged. ‘Nothing special, he reckoned.’
‘How disappointing,’ said Cassius. ‘One would expect a woman who had caused that much trouble to possess at least one redeeming feature. I take it things have settled down now?’
‘I suppose so, sir, yes. There was a great exodus from the city but once they realised only Zenobia and her cronies would be harshly punished, many decided to stay. We’ve even seen a few return.’
‘And apart from these raids, the city is peaceful?’
‘For the most part, sir. The prefect has begun sending men back to Zeugma. The Third Cohort left last week, to get things in order before the rest of the legion returns.’
‘And what of the fabled treasures of Palmyra? I’ll wager you and the rest were eager to get your hands on some booty.’
‘No such luck,’ said Durio, suddenly awake, propping himself up against the wall. ‘A few gold coins were handed out to the officers. Nothing more.’
Cassius decided to dig a little deeper.
‘One would be entitled to expect something a bit more exotic, what with all those Palmyran victories in foreign lands?’
‘All went west with the Emperor,’ said Gerardus.
‘I can’t imagine the Governor was overly impressed,’ replied Cassius. ‘Surely the province deserved a share.’
‘You’d know more about that than us, sir,’ observed Durio. His comment seemed to remind Gerardus of the status of their guest. The legionaries stayed quiet. An officer from the governor’s staff might easily be with the Security Service, and soldiers knew better than to say too much to a ‘grain man’.
Cassius elected not to push his luck, especially as it seemed unlikely he’d get anything else useful out of them.
‘I’ll check the road again,’ said Gerardus, heading for the door.
‘And I shall retire for the night,’ Cassius announced. ‘Simo, prepare the water, would you?’
Wrapping his hand in a cloth, Simo removed a large kettle from a spit over the fire and took it to the back room.
‘Tell me, Durio,’ Cassius said as he stood up, ‘ever heard of an inn called The Goat’s Leg?’
The legionary beamed. ‘Of course, sir.’
‘It’s in a little village, isn’t it?’
‘That’s right, sir. Galanea – just south of Palmyra.’
‘Quiet little hostelry then, I imagine?’
Durio chortled. ‘Not quite, sir. Roughest bar this side of Antioch.’
‘Ah.’
‘No place for a gentleman like yourself, sir.’
‘Wonderful.’
As Durio settled back down below his blanket, Cassius followed Simo next door.
‘I shall enjoy this,’ he said, undoing his sword belt and lowering it to the floor. Next off were his boots, then his main belt and finally his tunic. He stood well away from the blankets that would serve as beds, and watched Simo as he wetted a cloth.
‘I feel utterly filthy.’
‘I can imagine, sir,’ replied Simo as he ran the cloth across his master’s chest. ‘Perhaps we might find a bath for you tomorrow.’
‘I live in hope. Nasty business this morning.’
It was the first time Cassius had mentioned the incident with the three legionaries. Simo – now attending to his master’s shoulders – took his time to reply.
‘Evil, sir. Simply evil.’
‘That kind of thing is to be expected at a time like this. Even so, not the sort of treatment likely to win over the locals.’
‘I cannot imagine what possesses people to commit such acts, sir.’
‘Well, it’s in your nature to think the best of people, Simo, but the army does not always attract the most wholesome of characters, and not everyone shares your preoccupation with the well-being of others. I’ve spoken to you about it before, and yet you will persist with trying to help every poor unfortunate we encounter. I’ll remind you again: charity is for Jews and Orientals.’
‘Might I speak freely for a moment, sir?’
‘As long as you hurry up. I’m getting cold.’
‘Sir, you went to help those women without a second thought. Are our attitudes really so different?’
‘Do you know what I should have done, Simo? I should have kept on riding. I am on imperial business. We might easily have fared a good deal worse with those three thugs. And who would have benefited then?’
‘You did the right thing, sir, I’m sure of it.’
‘Well, I’m happy to know you approve, Simo, but think on this. Another hour and we would have missed the whole thing. And who’s to say they didn’t find another poor girl somewhere else?’
Simo put the wet cloth aside and picked up a new one.
‘You don’t think your words might have brought them to their senses, sir?’
‘Your naivety is endearing, Simo. Listen here: life is hard. I think we’ve both seen enough to know that. The world is too big and too cruel for the actions of well-meaning men to make much difference.’
‘Perhaps their superiors could get those men back on the straight and narrow, sir? I suppose that’s not possible now.’
‘You mean because I gave my word I wouldn’t report them?’
Simo didn’t see his master grinning. He was down on his knees, vigorously rubbing away at the dirt caked on Cassius’s legs.
‘You know I’m not one to give an oath lightly but circumstances have changed, Simo. I am now in the employ of the Imperial Security Service and am therefore expected by all and sundry to be a lying, underhand scoundrel. I wouldn’t want to disappoint anyone.’
V
It was quite astonishing to ride through a largely barren wasteland for more than a week, then look down upon the lush, dark green carpet of palm trees that surrounded Palmyra.
From Cassius’s position high on a ridge, he could easily make out the Damascus Gate, where travellers arriving from the south or west ente
red the city. Down low to his left were more of the tomb towers that dominated the approach and where he and Simo had encountered a legionary patrol. The men had assured him that the path over the ridge was the quickest route to the village of Galanea.
From the Damascus Gate, a grand colonnaded avenue cut a crooked line eastward, embellished by vast arches and tetrapyla. Halfway along the avenue, on the northern side, was a high, imposing building book-ended by domed towers, which Cassius assumed to be Zenobia’s palace. Further east was an even larger edifice, one he recognised from a sketch in one of his neighbour’s books. The massive Temple of Bel honoured a Babylonian god long worshipped by the Palmyrans. It was easily the largest structure in the city. Though surrounded by a vast courtyard, its angular bulk dwarfed dwellings whose size decreased according to their proximity to the main avenue. Beyond the temple was a mile-wide lake where the subterranean waters that sustained the city broke the surface.
‘Impressive,’ Cassius said, though Simo was too far behind to hear him. He turned to the south. ‘Almost as impressive as that.’
The encampment of the Fourth Legion was huge. Though Cassius knew precisely how such a settlement was created, how it was organised, and how swiftly it could be dismantled, he had never seen a legion-sized camp in the field. At moments such as this, he felt proud to be Roman.
The northern perimeter of the camp was perhaps a mile from the city: a deep ditch reinforced by a rampart wall. There was a narrow entrance on each side of the square, and a two-hundred-foot space between the wall and the first lines of tents. This space – a defensive buffer that kept everything valuable out of range of burning missiles – was empty apart from a few horses grazing on what little grass was left. The centre of the camp was remarkably uniform: rows of large, pale tents divided by wide avenues. Beyond the eastern perimeter, a cavalry unit drilled their mounts.
As if eager to share the view, Cassius’s horse nosed him in the shoulder. He pushed it away and looked south beyond the encampment. A wide track marked by darker soil led from the Roman camp to the village. People could be seen travelling in both directions.