The Siege (41 page)

‘Perhaps I shouldn’t have intervened. You have a right to avenge your friends. The Palmyrans have shown little interest in mercy.’

‘Is that an apology?’

‘No.’

Strabo gave a narrow smile. He sheathed his sword and tucked the cloth into his belt.

‘Well, you should know that they at least died quickly. We’ve put all the bodies against the northern wall. Our men too. Three of them. What’s that you have there?’

‘Copy of the roll. Simo has been keeping track of the injured and dead. There are six or seven more who cannot fight.’

‘About thirty of us left then. We shall have to reorganise the sections. Let’s have a look.’

Strabo sat down on the granary steps and took the sheet of papyrus and the pen. Simo had underlined the names of the dead and put a dot against those too injured to fight. Strabo dotted the name of Vestinus and another man, then found the names of Statius and Gulo and underlined them both.

The Sicilian looked up at the sky for a moment.

‘Rufus Marius Gulo. As honest as they come that one. Never once saw him cheat or shirk a task.’ Strabo spat into the dust. ‘Least he wasn’t married.’

He stood, hurried up the granary steps and removed the locking plank. Just inside the door were several small barrels of wine and two sacks of food: one full of mixed dried fruit, the other dried pork. Strabo pushed one barrel and both sacks towards the step. Cassius picked up the barrel. The Sicilian paused, his frame in shadow.

‘Centurion. I should not have put my hand upon you. That is an apology.’

‘We’ll say no more about it then.’

Dropping the sheet and pen on top of Cassius’ barrel, Strabo took one sack under each arm and jumped down to the ground. As they walked back across the square, he glanced towards the well, where Julius and Antonius were once again struggling with the big camel.

‘If we make it through this, you might consider that beast for a commendation.’

Azaf took his time with the instructions, repeating them twice to the gathered swordsmen and archers. He had considered the three-way assault strategy, but Bezda had made a reasonable point when arguing against a division of the force. Men assaulting by ladder would be vulnerable and he still maintained a huge advantage in numbers. This time he would lead the men in himself. There would be no retreat.

Four of the horses lay on the ground not far away. Beyond help, they had been killed and stripped of their valuable armour and saddles. Virtually all the cavalrymen were either injured or exhausted. Some had had to be physically removed from their armour and they were now in the carts, returning to the encampment, to a man shamed by their defeat.

Bezda had made no further attempt to speak to Azaf. He had summoned enough energy to supervise tying the remaining horses to the carts and had been the last to haul himself up into the rear vehicle. He sat there now as the cart trundled away, head bowed.

Azaf finished his orders, then selected twelve of his best men. He directed them to one side then approached one of the older archers.

‘You. Pick out four of the worst shots.’

The man hesitated.

‘Quickly.’

Reluctantly, the archer walked along the front rank of his fellows. Not daring to tarry, he swiftly identified four men who all glared at him as they exited the ranks and stood close to Azaf. He sent them off to join his twelve swordsmen, then turned to Razir.

‘Take the main group up close to the gate. Twenty-five of ours, then twenty-five archers, then the same again. All the others as a reserve on the rally line.’

Razir shouted the command.

Azaf led the twelve swordsmen and four archers to a pile of equipment Razir had assembled earlier. He turned first to his swordsmen. They were all battle-hardened: reliable and strong, ideal for their assigned task.

‘Take a lance each.’

Razir had rounded up twelve of the cavalry weapons.

‘You know what to do. Now join the first rank.’

Those swordsmen with shields dropped them before taking up the heavy lances and moving off.

‘Now, you four. Drop your bows and take a large shield.’

The archers did so uncertainly, unused to wielding such a weight.

‘When I pass that gate the four of you stand before me, two in front, one at each side, and you hold those shields high with both hands. And if a missile comes within a yard of me, you can expect to feel my blade at your back.’

XXXVI

Though few of the legionaries had time to get any food down, several cups of wine were still being drunk when the third attack came. Cassius hadn’t touched a drop; he wanted to maintain a clear head and was determined to fight his fear through will alone. A faultless job had been done of repairing the carts and three new supporting timbers had been placed where the southern barricade met the wall. The first section had been divided amongst the other four, with Avso in charge of the northern side, Strabo and Cassius still together to the south. Serenus had been struck by another painful bout of coughing. Despite his protests, Cassius had sent him to help out at the aid post. Antonius and the other lookouts were back in position. The only enemy activity was to the east.

Strabo had just taken a quick look over the wall and seen the ranks of infantry and archers. Like Cassius, he was surprised that the Palmyrans had chosen to attack through the gate again.

‘Perhaps those weren’t ladders in the carts after all,’ Cassius said, one hand on the top of his newly reclaimed shield.

Strabo finished off his wine and chucked the cup on to a barrel.

‘I’m not sure. Maybe Purple Cloak thinks those bowmen might make the difference.’

He looked around.

‘Everybody got their metal on?’

A couple of the legionaries had appropriated Palmyran cavalry helmets. Macrinus would have pulled on an entire set of armour had Avso not stepped in.

Shouts went up from beyond the gate. The Romans moved forward, keen to see the next advance. Kabir exited the dwelling and ran over to Cassius and Strabo.

‘You have seen the archers? They are barely armoured. No helmets. Some of the infantry too.’

‘Suitable prey for your boys?’ asked Strabo.

‘Certainly,’ answered Kabir. ‘We have good supplies of shot and stone. All my men are in place.’

Cassius looked speculatively at Strabo.

‘We’re thin on each side. Can we spare them all?’

‘Down here they’re just another pair of hands, up there they can do some real damage.’

Cassius could hear Avso already taunting the Palmyrans. There was little time for rumination.

‘It’s decided then. But Kabir, keep them out of sight until the enemy are well inside. One note from the tuba and you open fire.’

Kabir was all set to leave when Strabo held up a hand.

‘Syrian. Remind your men that that first volley is essential. After that you will draw the fire of the archers and they outnumber you. And tell every man this: if they catch sight of Purple Cloak—’

‘Of course,’ said Kabir.

As he departed, Cassius looked up at the dwellings. There was not one sign of the Syrians on either roof; they had done an excellent job of concealing themselves.

‘Men, keep your faces away from the carts,’ warned Strabo. ‘At this range those bolts will go through almost anything.’

The legionaries duly withdrew, though all made sure they could still see the Palmyrans.

The advance through the gate was far slower and more ordered this time, with the warriors facing the added complication of six dead horses in their way. With an instruction from Razir, the first Palmyrans turned to the south. Leading the way were half of Azaf’s lance-wielders, well spaced and a pace in front of the next line, a solid rank of red-clad swordsmen. At the shoulder of every one of them was an archer, bow ready but aimed skyward. Razir stayed close to the gate as he sent the second group towards the northern barricade.

At his next command the swordsmen made way for the archers. The bows swung down and in a moment there was a sliver of sharpened iron aiming at every gap or trace of a defender. Those who couldn’t see a section of armour or tunic simply trained their bows on a vulnerable piece of planking somewhere between knee and head height. Immense traction was required to draw the bowstrings, so the archers left them only a quarter drawn until the last moment.

‘Shields up!’ shouted Strabo.

Though it would mean they could see little of the enemy, the Romans readily complied. Cassius had left his sword undrawn. He squatted low and used both hands to steady his shield.

Strabo had earlier placed Minicius at the corner of the dwelling: within earshot but safe from the Palmyran arrows. The Sicilian turned and waved to him.

Minicius lifted the tuba.

The archers shielded Azaf well as he walked through the gate, leaving him free to examine the damaged wall to his left and the detritus of battle still on the ground. Aside from the dead horses, there were sections of armour and leather straps torn away in the crush; lances and swords, some damaged, some as good as new; and patches of blood, still moist enough to shimmer under the low sun.

Azaf had his own armour on now, a light mail shirt that he wore under his cloak against his skin. He only ever put it on at the last moment and detested the way it hung heavily on his shoulders, restricting his arms. It would, however, be foolish to enter the fort without some protection, and he hoped not to be wearing it for long. Razir had chosen to go without, a gesture of solidarity with the other swordsmen.

Azaf counted eight steps, then ordered the archers to halt. The men readjusted themselves, carefully fitting the edges of the heavy rectangular shields together, checking that the
strategos
was well protected. Azaf could see both sides of the barricade and about half of his men. They looked steady and calm. There would be no loss of control this time. No retreat.

Razir arrived.

‘All are positioned as you instructed,
strategos
.’

‘Begin.’

The echoes of Razir’s cry were still reverberating around the compound when the archers set their bows. With thumb and fingers clamped round the string, and sinewy arms trembling with the effort, each made a final adjustment of aim, then let go.

On their own, neither the timbers of the carts nor the leather-covered wooden shields would have been anything like sturdy enough to resist the power of the Palmyran bows. Together, they saved the lives of most of the Roman defenders at the barricades.

Cassius felt no impact against his own shield but saw two men down to his right. One was on his back, shield lying across him, an arrow in his knee. Incredibly, the legionary did not cry out. Another, who had been standing next to Iucundus, was also silent. He too lay on his back, tunic gathered in folds at his waist, an arrow shaft sticking up out of his forehead. Iucundus didn’t even bother to check him.

‘Now!’ yelled Strabo.

Minicius blew and the deep note sounded, clear and even this time. Cassius looked up at the dwelling roof.

The Syrians rose as one above the surround, a huddled black-clad mass, each of them with one arm already in the air. Their wrists spun and the cloud of lead whizzed away.

There were low pops and thuds as the projectiles struck the massed Palmyran troops. The sheer number of screams told the Romans that most of Kabir’s men had found unprotected targets. The next sound to reach Cassius’ ears was the familiar splintering of wood. Just a yard to his right was Strabo, peering over the top of his shield.

‘They’ve got those big cavalry lances. They’ll try to punch holes while the archers cover them!’

The Sicilian moved towards the barricade and drew his sword.

Cassius shuffled left to check on Crispus and his section. Two legionaries had been hit. The five still on their feet were warily approaching the cart, shields up. Crispus went to help one of the fallen legionaries, kneeling down in front of him and propping his shield up to protect them both. The arrow had caught the man high on his left arm and was stuck fast. He was sitting up, eyes tightly shut.

‘It’ll have to be cut out!’ Crispus shouted.

Cassius tapped the soldier on the leg.

‘Can you stand? Try and get yourself back to the aid post.’

The legionary opened his eyes. He stared blankly at the arrow shaft as he was helped to his feet. With an order from Cassius, Minicius dropped the tuba and escorted him away.

As Cassius and Crispus turned back to the barricades, two more lances smashed through. They were retracted, then thrust forward again, knocking a plank away. The timber fell at the feet of a legionary who swiftly advanced to defend the breach. As he moved, his shield dropped slightly. Before he had taken his second step, an arrow flashed through the gap and lodged itself in his face, knocking him straight on to his back.

More arrows flew through the gap. Cassius, Crispus and the other legionaries scattered. The injured man thrashed around in the dust, hands flailing. Cassius saw that the arrow had gone straight through his right eye socket. The eye itself had disappeared but the other was open, wide and alert even as the body became still. There was not a single drop of blood.

Strabo charged up and planted his shield across the top of the gap.

‘Crispus. Cover there!’ he shouted, nodding downward. Crispus was there in an instant, the top of his shield against the bottom of Strabo’s, completing the makeshift barrier.

Another arrow sliced through a plank and whistled past Cassius’ ear. He dropped down on his backside behind his shield.

‘You! Take over here!’ ordered Strabo.

Another legionary came forward and placed his shield behind Strabo’s, allowing the Sicilian to withdraw.

Cassius, still down on the ground, felt something tugging at the sleeve of his mail shirt. Macrinus was there on his hands and knees.