by Nick Brown
Cassius guided his mount past them and trotted away towards the next bridge.
Kallikres caught up with him quickly. ‘We must hurry; we mustn’t get cut off.’
Two hundred yards ahead, more running figures had appeared, converging on the crossing.
‘Yah!’ Cassius kicked his horse. As they galloped along the street, a pair of skiffs drifted past on the canal, the men inside standing up to see what was going on. Youths in twos and threes appeared from the alleys and side streets to their left, faces wracked with anger and fear.
Cassius looked back over his shoulder. The other six were spread out, with Indavara at the rear, the head of his horse jerking around as he struggled to control it.
‘Bloody idiot.’
‘Crispian!’
Cassius only just stopped in time to avoid Kallikres, who had abruptly halted. He thumped down on the horse’s neck but stayed in the saddle. The sergeant was staring at the bridge, now just fifty yards away. Some of the Syrians were running across it, away from the centre, others were moving in the opposite direction. A group of about twenty had just turned on to the street beside the canal. Several of them were wielding weapons.
‘Gods.’
More men ran out from the closest side street, one already shouting at Cassius.
He unbuckled his helmet and pulled it off, wishing he could remove the red tunic too.
‘There,’ said Kallikres, pointing at a nearby alley.
Cassius waved at the others to follow them but by the time he arrived there, Kallikres was already turning back. Yet more protesters had appeared. Cassius could now see no way out other than a charge, but that risked knocking someone down and further inflaming the crowd. Kallikres was barely maintaining control of his pale grey horse, which was snorting as it backed away from the closest men.
Cassius twisted around. The four legionaries were directly behind him, also struggling with their mounts. He urged his horse backwards and soon found himself next to the low wall that ran alongide the canal.
One man darted forward and tried to grab his reins. The horse lurched away and cracked its knee on the wall. Cassius wrenched the reins back the other way but the protesters had advanced again. He was determined to stay in the saddle but now realised they were trapped; the Syrians had surrounded them.
‘Men, dismount.’
Though two of them were shouting at the cityfolk, the legionaries obeyed.
Still holding his helmet in one hand, Cassius kept his horse side on to the crowd. Using the animal as a barrier, he dropped to the ground, let go of the reins and ran the few yards back to the legionaries. They were holding on to their mounts, desperately eyeing the crowd.
‘Take your shields and let the horses go,’ instructed Cassius.
Kallikres was last to the ground. As soon as he was off the horse, men grabbed the mounts and pulled them all out of the way. Tellingly, no one tried to steal them: once they had been hauled clear, the crowd converged again.
‘Get back, you lot,’ yelled one of the soldiers, already reaching for his sword.
Cassius smacked his arm. ‘Do not draw. Shields up, all of you.’
As the legionaries gripped the handles with both hands, Cassius forced his way behind them and looked back along the street.
Indavara and Simo had been cut off and were now watching helplessly. Though no more than thirty feet away, they could do nothing; the crowd was at least a hundred strong.
Cassius could think of only one man who might be able to help. ‘Diadromes! Find Diadromes!’
‘What?’ Indavara’s impaired hearing left him confused but Simo passed on the message. Just as the pair turned their horses around, Cassius felt a hand on his arm.
‘Sir, what do we do?’ implored the youngest of the legionaries, his face red and clammy beneath his helmet.
They had been pushed so far back that Cassius’s calves were scraping the wall. He thought about chucking his helmet in the canal but the crowd knew who he was by now. He squeezed past the soldiers and joined Kallikres, who was pleading with the nearest man in Aramaic.
The noise made it hard to think. The crowd were shouting and jeering; some at the soldiers, some at him, some at each other. He could hear Latin and Greek and Aramaic. They were a mix; fierce-looking working men, fearful boys, even a few women towards the back. He saw spears and swords, farm tools and home-made blades.
At the front of the press was a wild-eyed man wielding a pitchfork, yelling something in Aramaic. His tunic was blotched with wine stains.
Cassius held up his free hand, and was somehow surprised when no one reacted.
‘Death to the soldiers of Rome!’ shouted someone.
‘What are you doing?’ Cassius yelled. ‘We have done nothing wrong.’
A sturdy fellow holding a bulbous wooden club pushed his way forward. ‘You. You will pay for this.’
‘For what?’
‘There are dozens of them,’ cried another. ‘Dozens dead upon the steps of the forum. Nemetorius and Pomponianus care nothing for the people.’
‘Take the city,’ shouted someone at the back. ‘We will take Berytus for ourselves.’
‘Sir, get behind us,’ said the closest legionary.
Cassius belatedly realised that Kallikres had also withdrawn to the wall and he was two paces ahead of the others. But surely if he retreated – hid behind the legionaries’ shields – there was only one way this would end.
‘What happened?’ he asked the man with the club, trying to keep his voice calm. ‘We know nothing of this.’
Some of those close by quietened down to hear the conversation.
‘The centurion,’ answered the Syrian. ‘He ordered the charge. There are women and children bleeding on the ground.’
‘Just listen, please! I am not even part of the garrison here. This has nothing to do—’
Something flashed towards him. Pain exploded across his chest and he fell on to his backside. As he struggled for breath he saw half a brick lying between his legs. Then he could see only the legionaries’ boots as they shuffled across in front of him.
‘Back!’ shrieked one of the soldiers. ‘Back or we will draw.’
Cassius felt the pain dissipating. He touched his chest; it ached but nothing more – the armour had protected him again. Kallikres got both hands under his arms and helped him to his feet.
One of the legionaries drove his shield at two of the closest men, forcing them back. But the man with the pitchfork lunged at him, the prongs scraping across the top of the shield. The legionary cried out and fell, the shield coming down on top of him. Though they were not battling an enemy army and there were only three of them, the soldiers followed their training and re-formed the line. Cassius looked down and saw blood oozing from two small holes at the base of the soldier’s neck; the fork prongs had just cleared the top of his mail shirt. He and Kallikres propped the legionary against the wall. The sergeant reached inside his tunic and pulled out a handkerchief which he held against the wounds.
Cassius spied his helmet lying on the ground close by. He put it on without buckling it then straightened up behind the three soldiers.
‘Enough!’ he bellowed. ‘Whatever has occurred elsewhere today we are not to blame. Harming us does your cause no good.’
‘And when does the army ever do us any good?’ yelled a woman he couldn’t see.
The men with long weapons were jabbing them against the legionaries’ shields. One of the soldiers reached for his sword hilt.
‘Do not draw!’ repeated Cassius, clapping a hand on his shoulder.
‘Robbers – that’s a better name for you bastards in red,’ spat the man with the club. ‘You’re supposed to protect us but all you do is steal and rape and kill. You’re a worse enemy to us than the Persians or the Palmyrans! The lot of you would be better under the ground.’
More men with weapons had arrived at the front. Cassius blinked stinging sweat out of his eyes as blades glinted amid the sea of
faces and raging eyes.
He still had the satchel over his shoulder and as it knocked against his side, he remembered the spearhead. He pulled it out and raised it high. ‘Please listen.’
The crowd quietened, but only because they were looking at the spearhead.
‘Do him! Do them all!’
Something bounced off Cassius’s helmet but he continued. ‘I am here in Berytus on the orders of Marshal Marcellinus himself. I promise I will pass on your grievances.’
The man with the pitchfork was still jabbing his weapon into the shields. ‘If someone doesn’t shut that fancy bastard up I’m going to stick him.’
The legionary farthest to the left lowered his shield. By the time Cassius realised his intention, he already had his sword in his hand.
‘No!’ Cassius smashed the spearhead down into the blade, knocking it out of his hands. An opportunistic lad made a grab for it but Cassius was quicker and threw the sword over his shoulder into the canal. He knew that if the soldiers attacked, all six of them would be dead in moments.
To his utter amazement, the legionary shoved him. ‘What in Hades was that?’
Cassius’s reaction was instinctive. He smacked the man back-handed across the face. The soldier stared at him, open mouthed.
Cassius jumped up on the wall, took his sword belt off his shoulder and dropped it to the ground. Again, a gesture had more effect than words.
‘There need be no more bloodshed,’ he shouted. ‘In the name of the Emperor, I ask you to lay down your weapons as I have mine. We are all Romans here, let us not see more suffering and death this day.’
‘You will suffer!’ shouted someone.
‘It is the will of the gods that we be united under the Emperor, not divided. Please let us go.’ Cassius could hear the legionary gurgling below him. ‘This man needs help.’
‘Look!’
‘Look there!’
The crowd turned towards the avenue, where people were still running for the bridge. One man was alone, wandering along beside the wall. In his hands was the limp, battered body of a young boy. Blood was dripping from a gory head wound. The man fell to his knees and screamed at the sky.
Indavara breathed a little easier. Avoiding those fleeing the centre had been difficult and dangerous but now they had a clear run ahead. Simo seemed to know the way to Diadromes’s residence so Indavara was simply following him, having finally brought his horse back under control.
Once across another empty street, they emerged into a square where more of the cityfolk had gathered. The Syrians looked up when they heard the hooves clattering on the flagstones but Indavara and Simo were already past them.
On they galloped, briefly nearing the canal for a moment before veering away to the north again. Indavara was concentrating on riding but those glimpses he caught of the city were completely unfamiliar – he had no idea where they were.
Now they passed under a gleaming white arch and emerged on to a porticoed avenue. Simo halted and looked around.
‘Where to?’
‘I’m not sure,’ replied the attendant. ‘It’s near the statue of Marcus Aurelius. We’re close but …’
Indavara spotted an old woman sweeping dust away from her door, apparently oblivious to the turmoil elsewhere.
‘Hello!’ he said in Greek.
The old woman looked up.
‘The statue of Marcus Aurelius – where is it?’
She pointed her brush along the avenue. ‘That way – second left then up the hill.’
Having made the turn they soon came to a fountain, where a squad of legionaries was being addressed by a senior man. When he spied the horses, the officer marched towards them. ‘You two – come here. I’m requisitioning those mounts.’
‘No you’re not.’ Indavara rode on past Simo. ‘Come on!’
As one of the legionaries made a grab for him, Indavara guided his horse out of the way. He found the street ahead blocked by a heavily laden cart. The only escape route was to the right. He pressed his mount on and ducked under a low arch as they entered a small sanctuary, scattering dozens of birds. Indavara followed a narrow path under some trees, scraping his back and showering himself with berries.
Fearing he would fall if he looked back he called out. ‘Simo?’
‘I’m with you. Keep going!’
At the far end of the sanctuary was a steep set of steps leading downward. Indavara tried to slow the horse. Too late.
The animal careered down the steps, hooves sliding on the smooth stone, but somehow staying upright. Indavara clung on until the horse finally stopped, foam streaking from its mouth.
‘Good lad. Good lad.’
Simo negotiated the steps far more steadily. Once at the bottom, he pointed to a nearby street leading upward.
‘That’s the hill. We’re almost there.’
Cassius knew instantly that any chance of extricating himself and the others from the wrath of the mob had gone. While the Syrians watched the stricken man lower the dead boy to the ground, he looked across the canal.
It wasn’t that wide: no more than thirty feet, and they might get across before the pursuers caught up on foot. Better still, there were dwellings on the other side where they might buy themselves some time. He looked at the three legionaries and jutted his jaw at the water, then caught Kallikres’ eye. The sergeant got the message and helped the soldier to his feet.
Cassius stuffed the spearhead into his satchel and jumped down off the wall. As he recovered then sheathed his sword and picked up the spare shield, some of the Syrians were already turning.
Hearing the legionaries hit the water one after the other, Cassius raised the shield. Something heavy hit the middle of it and bounced off. He heard a fourth splash, then a fifth. With his peripheral vision picking up shapes closing in from the left and right, he spun around and leapt clean over the wall, hoping no one was directly below.
Water bubbled up his nose. The impact almost tore the shield from his grasp but he held on. The big slab of buoyant wood counteracted the rest of the weight and immediately pulled him back to the surface. Cassius came up under it, still using it for protection as he kicked out with his legs and swam backwards with one arm. His helmet had ended up a few feet away and was already sinking.
The mob were shouting louder than ever.
Something else thudded into the shield. Cassius spat out half a mouthful of foul-tasting water and glanced behind him. Two of the soldiers were swimming hard for the other side. The third legionary was helping Kallikres; they had a hand each and were pulling the injured man along.
Not for the first time in his life, Cassius was grateful for the countless hours his father had spent teaching him to swim. He still had his boots on and was weighed down with sword, satchel and armour but was already halfway across the canal. Forty feet away, an old man in a rowing boat had put down his oars and was watching him.
Cassius spied a rush of movement to his right – the mob was running for the bridge. The first of them would be there in moments.
Still keeping the shield up as best he could, he turned. The first pair of soldiers were approaching a set of steps that led up out of the water between two dwellings.
Cassius had just altered course to follow them when something struck his head. He dipped under, swallowed more water. For a moment he felt as if the weight of all his gear would keep him there but he still had hold of the shield. He came back up spluttering, and saw a knot of wood floating right in front of him. Kicking hard to stay afloat he touched his head where the pain was; there was only a little blood on his fingers.
‘Come on, sir!’ The quickest legionary had dragged himself up on to the steps and was helping the second man out.
The mail shirt suddenly seemed double the weight and Cassius thanked Jupiter that he’d thought to grab the shield. With no more missiles coming his way, he was now using it as a float pushed out in front of him.
As he caught up with Kallikres and the other two, he gla
nced again at the bridge. Dozens of the protesters were already across and bolting down the other side, weapons bobbing in the air.
‘Legionary, find us somewhere to go.’
The standing soldier wiped his soaking hair from his face and ran.
Cassius pulled himself over some weed-covered rope attached to an iron ring and got his feet on the steps. He let go of the shield and stood there panting, half out of the water, waiting for the injured man to be pulled clear.
‘Sir, they’re coming!’ shouted someone.
‘Inside! Anywhere.’
Cassius was last up the steps. The soldiers and Kallikres ran forward along an alley between two houses then funnelled through a narrow doorway into the dwelling on the right. The first of the protesters leaped over a low wall and charged straight towards Cassius as he threw himself through the doorway.
Sword clanking against the wall, he found himself in a cramped, dark kitchen. Crouching in a corner was a woman with two children cowering behind her. She was yelling something in Aramaic.
‘Sir, here!’
Cassius followed the others up a set of stairs which turned ninety degrees halfway up. The soldiers piled straight through into the largest of two rooms. Cassius missed the last step and cracked his left knee on the floor. With no time even to curse, he reached the doorway and snatched a backwards glance.
The man previously armed with the pitchfork was first into view. He had replaced his larger weapon with a dagger and as he scrambled up the steps, Cassius took the opportunity to dispense some non-lethal force. He rushed forward and swung a kick at him. His boot struck the Syrian’s chin with a bony crack, sending him flying backwards. He landed on the man coming up behind him and the pair of them tumbled downward.
As Cassius ran into the room, the injured man was being lowered to the floor. There was no door, only a curtain, which the legionaries had torn clean off as they came through. The room’s only contents were a bed, a set of drawers and four small cages.
Cassius pointed at the doorway. ‘Block it. Kallikres, help me here.’
He and the sergeant grabbed the bed. They waited for the soldiers to heave the drawers into place then dumped the bed on top. Cassius moved to the rear of the room and looked out of the window. Several armed men were staring up at him and yelling. Others were flying past straight into the alley and he could hear what sounded like dozens of boots pounding up the stairs.
