The Siege (43 page)

If anything, the situation at the northern barricade was even more desperate. He passed four dead men: all impaled by two or more arrows. Amongst them were Macrinus and Minicius. The signaller had been hit in the cheek and in the forehead.

Somehow forcing himself on, Cassius passed an open section of planking and looked out. Just in front of the gate was a cluster of shields. Below it, in amongst the tangle of legs, he spied a section of purple cloak.

As Cassius neared the cart closest to the wall, Avso disappeared through a freshly created hole, closely followed by Iucundus. Strabo was waving up at Kabir again, shouting at him to stop firing. He waited for the Syrian to give the order, then made for the gap. He was halfway through when Cassius grabbed his arm. The Sicilian turned, surprised.

‘Let go.’

‘Strabo, you can’t risk it again. I need you here.’

‘We won’t get this close again. We can finish this now. Let go!’

‘You will remain here. That’s an order.’

A strange look of calm resignation appeared on Strabo’s face.

‘Then I’m sorry, centurion.’

Before Cassius could respond, Strabo had hooked a leg behind his knee. Flicking Cassius’ arm off his shoulder he pushed him hard in the chest. Cassius saw a flash of blue sky, then landed flat on his back three yards away. He rolled over and pushed himself up on to his knees.

When he turned back towards the cart, Strabo was gone.

XXXVII

The last group of retreating swordsmen had just passed Azaf and Razir when they heard the Roman battle cry.

The four archers dropped their shields and sprinted out of the fort, leaving Azaf and Razir completely exposed. By the time they saw the charging legionaries, it was too late to run. They separated to give each other space to fight. Azaf pushed his cloak away from his waist and drew his sword.

The Syrians and the rest of the Romans looked on as the entire battle was suddenly distilled into a fight between five men.

Avso was there first, a few yards ahead of Iucundus. Razir stepped forward into his path and the Thracian slowed, skidding in the sand as he struck. Razir blocked his first thrust expertly.

Iucundus rounded Avso on the right. Azaf didn’t move out to meet him, instead waiting for the Roman’s attack. Iucundus feinted a wide slashing blow from right to left, then jabbed the blade forward, hoping to catch Azaf on his unprotected face.

The Palmyran dropped his shoulder and twisted out of the way. Then, with Iucundus’ weight on his front foot, he swung down towards the hilt of the Roman’s sword. The honed tip of the blade sliced across the legionary’s hand, cutting off his thumb at the knuckle.

Iucundus, eyes still locked on his foe, tried to tighten his grip, then realised why he could not. He looked down, and Azaf struck again, knocking the weapon out of his hands. Before the Roman could retreat, Azaf darted forward again and drove his blade between two plates of segmental armour, inches below Iucundus’ heart.

Just yards away, Avso and Razir traded blows. Avso knew already that he had the measure of the ageing warrior. The veteran was composed and skilful but simply by swinging faster and harder, Avso had already forced him on to the defensive.

Strabo had seen it too, and made straight for Azaf. He came to a halt just as Iucundus dropped to his knees. The legionary reached for his chest, let out a final wheezing breath, then keeled over. Azaf looked impassively down at the dead Roman, then at his blade. The top third shone red.

Enraged though he was, Strabo advanced slowly, sword high and straight.

Noting the muscled forearms of his opponent, Azaf swapped his weapon to his left hand, swiftly passing his right hand through the wrist strap. He gripped the hilt again and retreated, waiting once more for his opponent to strike first.

Avso, meanwhile, had engineered an opportunity. Razir was already tiring and a well-timed blow low on the Palmyran’s blade loosened his grip. As Razir tried to regain control of the hilt, Avso lashed out with a boot, catching the Palmyran’s hand. Eyes frozen in shock, Razir watched his sword fly from his grasp. Even as his scrabbling fingers found the dagger at his belt, Avso was on him. With a jubilant cry, the Thracian jammed the sword straight into Razir’s unprotected gut. Grabbing a handful of tunic, he drove higher, up under the ribs. Teeth bared, he twisted the blade, then slid it out. The Palmyran collapsed to the ground, spewing blood from his lips.

Though he knew Razir had fallen, Azaf didn’t take his eyes off Strabo, who continued to advance, snarling and whispering to himself.

Avso stepped over Razir and took up a position to Strabo’s left.

‘You are ours now,’ he hissed in Greek.

Azaf’s back was six yards from the northern tower.

‘Get either side of him,’ said Strabo calmly, moving to his right.

Avso stepped left, grinning wolfishly at the Palmyran.

Azaf could no longer watch them both. He had to stare down at the ground, relying on his peripheral vision to tell him where they were.

Cassius had recovered himself and was busy grappling with a legionary intent on charging out to help. Thankfully, some older men pulled him away and Cassius looked on as Strabo and Avso circled Azaf.

Glancing up at the rooftop, he saw that Idan had his sling loaded and was ready to fire. Kabir stood next to him, a restraining hand held up in front of his marksman, also transfixed by the scene below.

As Avso passed out of sight behind his right shoulder. Azaf leaped forward and swung the light sword towards Strabo’s chest. The Sicilian twisted his heavier weapon into a parry but the blades never met.

Azaf stopped swinging halfway through the arc and dropped low. As he expected, Avso had closed in on him and slashed at his neck. The Roman’s blade cut through the air a yard above Azaf’s head as the Palmyran spun round. Avso’s hands were stretched high, his body exposed.

Azaf leaped up and hacked towards Avso’s head. The point of his sword cleaved through the Roman’s helmet above his left ear, slicing across his forehead.

In what appeared to be a single movement, Azaf brought the sword back over his head into a slanting block as Strabo swung down at him. The edge of the Roman’s blade hit the flat of the lighter weapon and, though it didn’t break, the impact knocked Azaf off his feet.

He allowed himself to be thrown sideways by the blow and rolled nimbly across the sand. He sprang up instantly, knowing he had only moments before some opportunistic slinger took a shot.

Strabo wished he had his shield. He had fought without it before, often in training, occasionally in battle, but he saw that his enemy was far more comfortable with just a blade. Over his opponent’s shoulder, he saw Avso stagger backward, blinded by his own blood. Then the Palmyran charged at him.

Azaf darted right then left before launching a series of short, chopping strokes towards Strabo’s right shoulder. The Sicilian blocked solidly, narrowing his eyes as sparks flew from the blades.

Azaf’s sixth stroke was high. Strabo was still struggling to match it as the Palmyran rotated his wrists and swept downward, inside the Roman’s defences. He slashed diagonally under the base of Strabo’s mail shirt, cutting across both thighs.

Bloodied and incensed, Strabo thrust straight at his enemy’s unprotected throat. Again, Azaf made no attempt to block. He simply ducked under Strabo’s arms and pushed off his right foot, swinging his blade upward.

The tip missed the sleeve of Strabo’s mail shirt by an inch and sunk deep into the underside of his wrist, almost severing his hand. He somehow still managed to turn and face his enemy. It wasn’t until the sword slipped to the ground that he stared down at the blood gushing from the wound. Only a thin flap of skin was keeping his hand attached to his arm.

Azaf was about to strike again when he glimpsed a whirl of motion to his right. He ducked low and heard the lead shot hit the wall behind him. With the wrist strap taking the weight of his sword, he leaped behind Strabo just as the Roman fainted, catching him and locking his hands together round his chest. Thick gouts of blood splattered the sand below as he dragged him towards the gatehouse.

Cassius could watch no more. He was first through the gap, closely followed by the few legionaries at the northern barricade.

Azaf was just two yards from the northern tower. Looking over his right shoulder, he saw that a small group of swordsmen and archers had advanced, ready to cover his retreat. In amongst them was Teyya, carrying a shield. He darted forward and placed it next to the corner of the tower.

Azaf unlocked his fingers, pulled his arms clear and hurled himself towards the shield.

Kabir was shouting even as Strabo’s inert frame hit the ground.

Idan was way ahead of him, but he was simply not prepared for the Palmyran’s preternatural speed.

As the shot left the sling, he cursed, knowing he had missed.

The lead ball kicked up a puff of dust next to the shield.

Azaf had escaped.

Two legionaries passed Cassius as he neared the fallen trio. They hadn’t seen the Palmyrans and seemed intent on pursuing Azaf beyond the gate, only stopping when a volley of arrows flew towards them. Three hit the first man, who was knocked off his feet. The second man threw himself behind one of the dead horses, then scrambled back behind the northern tower.

Cassius heard Kabir cry out again. The slings whirred; shot whizzed overhead.

He looked down at the three legionaries. The fight had lasted only moments; it seemed impossible that Iucundus, Avso and Strabo had been defeated with such ease by the Palmyran leader.

None of the Romans were moving. Crispus knelt down beside Strabo. The Sicilian’s eyes were shut tight; the bottom of his tunic soaked through with blood. Crispus reached for the injured arm and lifted it up. As he did so, the flap of skin finally tore and the hand dropped into the sand. Crispus held the arm high, trying to slow the flow of blood.

‘Get your servant, sir!’ he yelled. ‘Now!’

Dragging his eyes away from the mutilated arm, Cassius ran back to the barricades. He passed Serenus, who was helping Avso.

The Thracian was spasming wildly, his boots kicking up dust. With one hand, Serenus held him down by the shoulder, with the other he scooped out the blood pooling in his eye sockets.

XXXVIII

Strabo regained consciousness while he was being carried to the aid post. As all the stretchers were occupied, they used a blanket; Cassius, Crispus and two other legionaries taking a corner each. Simo trotted along beside them, having just bandaged the stump of Strabo’s arm.

Avso was dead. The single blow from Azaf’s sword had been a fatal one, cutting through his forehead and into his brain. He had lasted only a few moments.

All the legionaries were now back behind the barricades.

Strabo’s face was ashen and wet. He gazed up at the sky, mouth hanging open as the blanket swung from side to side.

‘Still with us, guard officer?’ asked Crispus as they reached the end of the street.

‘Still with us,’ Strabo replied weakly.

‘We must take him to the barracks,’ said Simo. ‘There’s no more space in the aid post.’

‘Yes there is,’ came a voice from up ahead.

Vestinus hobbled towards them, using his pilum as a crutch. Though there were more men awaiting treatment outside the aid post, Roman and Syrian, none were as badly off as Strabo and they readily made way. Cassius recognised one as the soldier Crispus had helped at the carts. Julius was tending to his wound. The arrow was still lodged in his arm.

Manoeuvring carefully through the narrow doorway, the four men lowered Strabo down on to the free bed. Only one of the other injured men was conscious. He propped himself up on an elbow to see the new arrival. Simo squatted down next to Strabo and took hold of the mutilated arm, straightening it at the elbow.

‘Hold it up like so,’ he said to the nearest legionary. As the man complied, another clasped his hands together and whispered a prayer to Apollo, god of healing. Simo undid the chinstraps and gingerly removed Strabo’s helmet. Then he folded the heavy mail shirt back on itself, a job that required both hands. There were two neat tears in the sodden tunic, which Simo also folded back. The cuts were far deeper than any of them had expected: thick rents in the flesh, still seeping blood.

The Sicilian must have seen the shocked reaction of the other legionaries yet he showed no sign of it, instead nodding nonchalantly at his arm.

‘Can’t believe that long-haired little bitch took my hand. Did anyone grab my silver ring? Some bastard will have it otherwise.’

The legionaries exchanged relieved smiles and some nervous laughter.

‘I’ll get it,’ Cassius murmured, pushing past the others. The brilliant morning light made him feel as if his every expression would be exposed and he set his jaw as he strode away, knowing he was about to lose control of himself.

Luckily there was no one else close by. Serenus was further down the street, looking on as the men dragged the fallen legionaries towards the northern wall. Kabir was there too, watching as his own dead were carried from the buildings.

Cassius was barely through the door of the nearest dwelling when the tears came. He put a hand to his mouth and took refuge in a darkened corner. He leaned back against the wall as he sobbed. Warm tears ran down his cheeks and over his fingers.

He had cried during training, more times than he could remember, especially during the first few weeks, but only ever at night and never loud enough to be heard. Balling his left hand into a fist, he pressed it against his brow, as if he might somehow expel the feelings within.

There was a sound from outside. The tears stopped. Shame, it seemed, could vanquish even this pain.