The Siege by Nick Brown Page B

face of almost supernatural beauty. Her eyes seemed huge – brown and deep – and she wore a silver silk tunic that cut a diagonal line across her chest, exposing a single perfect breast.
    Azaf was a member of the Komara tribe, raised in a village on the banks of the Euphrates. Barely a month after his father had passed his sword to his thirteen-year-old son, he had been bested by the boy. Azaf’s quicksilver hands seemed to defy the limits of physiology, and he was apparently able to see his opponent’s next move before they had even decided upon on it.
    War was now his vocation. He had been recruited to the army’s ranks at fifteen and had killed his first man battling the Persians. Aware of his ability, the more experienced swordsmen had tried to keep him away from the front line, anxious to impart their knowledge and harness this raw, god-given talent.
    But Azaf would not be denied. He confounded his fellow warriors, showing that he had been listening and learning: calmly scouring the skirmish line like a veteran, picking on isolated individuals and pairs, dispatching them with clinical ease. He revelled in the first moments of combat, weighing his alternatives in the blink of an eye: the build of the man, the signs of injury and fatigue, the weapon in his hand. Yet he could never recall making any calculation: just acting, generally with lethal results.
    He had risen swiftly through the ranks and now commanded a hundred swordsmen, mostly Komara men. He had proven himself to be an adequate tactician but both he and his superior, General Zabbai, knew that his real value lay in the example he gave his men. Azaf’s warriors, whether fighting Persians, Egyptians or Romans, had always excelled themselves, each man dedicated to emulating their leader.
    Some, he knew, fought for the glory of victory, and the booty and pillage that came with it. Some fought to honour their god Malakbel, and the other deities of the Palmyran pantheon. All would be happy to see the end of Roman rule.
    He never spoke of his own motivations. Though he enjoyed command and could not wait to lead his men into battle again, as time passed he became more preoccupied by thoughts of that day in the capital. He could not remember much of what the Queen had said, but he could not forget her. Occasionally Zabbai would let slip some comment and, though he would rather die than betray his true thoughts, Azaf would listen, rapt, eager for any revelatory word.
    He had little interest in the vagaries of politics or trade and little understanding of the long, complex relationship between Palmyra and Rome. He knew only that her enemies were his.
    Occasionally, though he cursed himself for such idle fantasy, he would imagine himself inside the palace, standing against the Roman onslaught that must eventually come: the last man alive, protecting his queen.
    Sometimes, after hours of riding or sleep, he would see her. She never spoke. But she smiled. A smile that told him he was hers and that she loved him for it.
    He fought for her. He fought for Zenobia.
    ‘Sir.’
    Azaf opened his eyes and rolled over. One of his men was standing over him.
    ‘He’s here.’
    General Zabbai looked down at the prisoners and scratched his chin. He wore a bright white tunic over a matching pair of trousers embroidered with gold. The brooch that held his light brown cloak together was topped by a spectacular emerald: plunder from a recent victory. Zabbai’s broad-featured face was surprisingly youthful considering he was approaching his fiftieth year. His expression remained impassive, despite the scene in front of him.
    The Romans had been stripped of their clothes and weapons. They lay naked in the sand, bloodied and battered, ugly welts on their legs and arms. It hadn’t taken long for the violence to escalate; eventually spears had been pushed into their stomachs and groins. Both had lost a lot of blood. One man was unconscious. The other stared up at the Palmyrans, left