hand covering his groin, right hand over his cheek, where broken bone pushed at the skin.
‘How long have you had them?’ Zabbai asked.
Azaf emerged from a group behind the general. His skin was much darker than Zabbai’s and, uniquely amongst the gathered soldiers, he wore no tunic, only a thin purple cloak with his black, shapeless trousers.
His entire body was knotted with muscle, and his skin seemed to have been stretched tight over his jutting ribs and shoulder blades. He moved with a solid, predatory grace. His jet-black hair reached almost to his waist and, like most of the Palmyrans, he had a heavy beard.
‘We picked them up last night, sir.’
‘Where?’
‘A mile or two east of here. Deserters most likely. They gave us word of the fort at Alauran.’
‘And?’
‘It’s as we thought. The well has been spoiled, the provisions taken. There’s little of use there.’
Zabbai smiled.
‘They were most cooperative,’ Azaf continued. ‘Eventually.’
Zabbai’s grin disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.
‘Their words were false. I’ve had word that a small garrison still occupies the fort. The granary is half full. And the well runs still, with the clearest water for miles.’
Azaf stood up and drew his sword. He no longer carried his father’s blade, though it went everywhere with him, wrapped carefully in oiled cloth.
He had found his current weapon in the hands of a dead Roman. Unusually long and narrow, the sword had viciously sharp edging and a light but solid wooden hilt. He’d been told the design was Mesopotamian but Azaf was not concerned with its origins, he was simply grateful to have acquired a weapon perfectly suited to fast, slashing attacks rather than what he considered to be the clumsy thrusts of a heavier, shorter sword. Such swords were often used with a shield; a piece of equipment he found to be more trouble than it was worth. The only drawback with such a light blade was the risk of losing grip when striking a bulkier weapon. He had solved this by attaching a leather wrist strap to the base of the hilt. Even if the handle was knocked from his grasp, he would not lose the sword. He wiped a speck of dirt from the flat of the blade.
‘Azaf,’ said Zabbai gruffly, waiting until his commander had turned to face him. ‘We need that well. You know how hot it’s been this year – the reservoirs and cisterns are running low. And we’ll be sending thousands of men and horses through this area. I’ll give you some archers and cavalry. A spy of mine will make himself known to you at Anasartha. He has a man inside the fort. Slay all you find there and secure the well and provisions. I shall return to consult with the Queen. She wants us to strike west, link up with General Zabdas’ forces and make for Antioch in overwhelming numbers.’
Azaf nodded. He kicked the conscious prisoner on to his back, then knelt down beside him.
‘Do you hear your breaths, Roman? They are your last. You must forget this world. You belong in another now.’
Azaf stood again and lowered the blade into the Roman’s mouth, resting the gleaming tip on his tongue. As the young man’s eyes widened, the Palmyran gripped the sword handle lightly with his left hand, just enough to hold it in place.
He formed a fist with his right palm, raised it high above the handle, then hammered it down.
VI
Cassius stared out at the square. The men were gathered in small groups, deep in discussion. Some wore their military belt, a few were armed, but most resembled commoners, and not particularly impressive ones at that. Every now and then, someone would point at the officers’ quarters. Cassius did a quick headcount.
‘Thirty-one. Is that all of them?’ he asked, turning away from the window.
Barates had planted himself on a low bench. Despite his wizened limbs and crooked back, the veteran seemed sharp and keen to help, his bright green eyes shining out from his leathery face.
‘A few may still be
‘How long have you had them?’ Zabbai asked.
Azaf emerged from a group behind the general. His skin was much darker than Zabbai’s and, uniquely amongst the gathered soldiers, he wore no tunic, only a thin purple cloak with his black, shapeless trousers.
His entire body was knotted with muscle, and his skin seemed to have been stretched tight over his jutting ribs and shoulder blades. He moved with a solid, predatory grace. His jet-black hair reached almost to his waist and, like most of the Palmyrans, he had a heavy beard.
‘We picked them up last night, sir.’
‘Where?’
‘A mile or two east of here. Deserters most likely. They gave us word of the fort at Alauran.’
‘And?’
‘It’s as we thought. The well has been spoiled, the provisions taken. There’s little of use there.’
Zabbai smiled.
‘They were most cooperative,’ Azaf continued. ‘Eventually.’
Zabbai’s grin disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.
‘Their words were false. I’ve had word that a small garrison still occupies the fort. The granary is half full. And the well runs still, with the clearest water for miles.’
Azaf stood up and drew his sword. He no longer carried his father’s blade, though it went everywhere with him, wrapped carefully in oiled cloth.
He had found his current weapon in the hands of a dead Roman. Unusually long and narrow, the sword had viciously sharp edging and a light but solid wooden hilt. He’d been told the design was Mesopotamian but Azaf was not concerned with its origins, he was simply grateful to have acquired a weapon perfectly suited to fast, slashing attacks rather than what he considered to be the clumsy thrusts of a heavier, shorter sword. Such swords were often used with a shield; a piece of equipment he found to be more trouble than it was worth. The only drawback with such a light blade was the risk of losing grip when striking a bulkier weapon. He had solved this by attaching a leather wrist strap to the base of the hilt. Even if the handle was knocked from his grasp, he would not lose the sword. He wiped a speck of dirt from the flat of the blade.
‘Azaf,’ said Zabbai gruffly, waiting until his commander had turned to face him. ‘We need that well. You know how hot it’s been this year – the reservoirs and cisterns are running low. And we’ll be sending thousands of men and horses through this area. I’ll give you some archers and cavalry. A spy of mine will make himself known to you at Anasartha. He has a man inside the fort. Slay all you find there and secure the well and provisions. I shall return to consult with the Queen. She wants us to strike west, link up with General Zabdas’ forces and make for Antioch in overwhelming numbers.’
Azaf nodded. He kicked the conscious prisoner on to his back, then knelt down beside him.
‘Do you hear your breaths, Roman? They are your last. You must forget this world. You belong in another now.’
Azaf stood again and lowered the blade into the Roman’s mouth, resting the gleaming tip on his tongue. As the young man’s eyes widened, the Palmyran gripped the sword handle lightly with his left hand, just enough to hold it in place.
He formed a fist with his right palm, raised it high above the handle, then hammered it down.
VI
Cassius stared out at the square. The men were gathered in small groups, deep in discussion. Some wore their military belt, a few were armed, but most resembled commoners, and not particularly impressive ones at that. Every now and then, someone would point at the officers’ quarters. Cassius did a quick headcount.
‘Thirty-one. Is that all of them?’ he asked, turning away from the window.
Barates had planted himself on a low bench. Despite his wizened limbs and crooked back, the veteran seemed sharp and keen to help, his bright green eyes shining out from his leathery face.
‘A few may still be
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