The Siege by Nick Brown Page A

staves. They had clambered out of the low window next to the officers’ quarters and now barred his way.
    For once Cassius knew exactly what to do. He could not be seen to wait for Barates or show indecision. He strode along the side of the barracks, aiming for a gap between two of the legionaries.
    ‘Good morning,’ he said, smiling.
    The soldiers frowned as he passed them, struck dumb by the cordial greeting.
    Half expecting to feel a stave thump down on his head, Cassius only breathed out when he reached the door of the officers’ quarters. It was unlocked. Glancing to his right, he saw that the legionaries had been joined by two more men. All five stood in a row, silently studying him.
    He opened the door and stepped inside.

V
    Azaf lay flat on the ground, enjoying the momentary shade provided by some rarefied cloud. He closed his eyes and sunk his fingers into the warm sand. The only sound was the distant chatter of his men, gathered together under some hastily arranged awnings. Beyond them lay a wide dusty trail and the outskirts of Seriane.
    He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed a moment to himself. The Palmyrans had ridden all night to make the rendezvous and the previous weeks and months had been occupied with cleaning up the remaining pockets of Roman resistance in eastern Syria. So far, it had been ridiculously easy.
    The last significant battle had been with three cohorts of the Fourth Legion and the Romans apparently had little else to offer. It was now a matter of rooting them out town by town: usually nothing more than a short one-sided battle; the execution of the uncooperative, the wounded and the weak; and the dispatch of prisoners back to Palmyra. Azaf and his men were bored by their work and he was surprised that the order for the next big advance still hadn’t arrived.
    It seemed like a long time since he had left the city: Tadmur in his own language, named by the Romans after the palm trees that surrounded it. Azaf was of nomadic stock and he had only visited Palmyra twice. The first time had been as a small boy, travelling with his father to receive payment from a sheikh who recruited local tribesmen to escort his caravans. He had seen his first paved street and stood open-mouthed in front of the city’s vast stone columns and arches. Whilst waiting in the courtyard of the sheik’s palace, he came across an intricate, multicoloured mosaic that took up one entire wall: a dramatic depiction of a hunting party. He had never seen such craftsmanship and splendour.
    On their way out of the city, they encountered a sight that was to make an even deeper impression on the young boy. Not far from the outskirts, amidst dust and eerie quiet, was a collection of narrow, windowless buildings, some standing together, others in isolation. These, his father told him, were the tomb towers. During his fighting years, a soldier of Palmyra would put aside enough money to pay for himself to be interred alongside his brothers-in-arms. The better the record and reputation of the soldier, the higher he would be placed, with the upper levels reserved only for the greatest leaders and bravest warriors. To Azaf, it was a far nobler fate than being buried or burned to ash. He could imagine no greater end.
    Years later he had returned to the capital as a man, a soldier and a leader. Along with almost half the entire Palmyran Army, he had lined up on the great colonnaded avenue to hear the Queen speak. Like thousands of his counterparts, he had longed to see her in the flesh since his boyhood years. He had heard some men say that her looks were overstated, others that they couldn’t be captured in words. That day in the square, however, he had swiftly formed his own opinion.
    Zenobia had inspected every row of soldiers, her aged eunuch attendants struggling to keep up with her. She was tall, statuesque and without doubt the most exquisite woman Azaf had ever seen. She wore an ornate golden diadem that framed a