The Siege (35 page)

Strabo arrived, pilum in hand, as another piece of timber was struck. Scrabbling fingers appeared at the edge of the plank but still the Sicilian held off. Another blow knocked one end of the plank away and now the unprotected belt and tunic of a Palmyran infantryman were visible.

‘Ha! Idiot!’

Strabo leaped forward, holding the pilum with both hands, and drove the point into the top of his victim’s thigh. An agonized shriek cut through the din. The blade had sunk at least two inches in and the Palmyran’s hands clawed desperately at the shaft as Strabo twisted it from side to side. Blood gushed on to the sand below.

‘Have some of that!’ the Sicilian thundered before wrenching the point free, leaving a ragged, gory mess behind. Hands gripped the Palmyran round the waist and he was dragged away.

‘Killing area—’ said Strabo, grinning as he shook a bloodied piece of quivering flesh from the pilum’s point ‘—good idea!’

Minicus, who had been watching alongside Cassius, bent over, dropped the tuba and spewed up what looked like the entire contents of his stomach.

‘Ha! Good lad!’ said Strabo, slapping the legionary on the back. Cassius took a deep breath and turned away, narrowly avoiding the same fate. With the southern side of the barricades holding well, he decided to check the north.

‘I’ll be back!’ he shouted. Crispus, still pressed up against his shield, nodded grimly as Cassius passed by.

Some of the Syrians, including Kabir, were gathered outside the closest dwelling.

‘Just give the word if you need us,’ he said, leaning nonchalantly against the wall.

The apparent ease with which the carts were holding worried Cassius. It occurred to him that the first wave of Palmyrans might have no intention of really breaking through the barriers; that they were meant only to occupy the Romans while others attacked elsewhere.

He found the first section where he had left them, shouting encouragement to those manning the barricades.

‘Vestinus, take another man and check every part of the perimeter the sentries cannot see. I want you up on the steps, looking for any sign of enemy movement. Then report back to me.’

A second legionary volunteered himself. The two of them dropped their shields and jogged away down the street. Minicius had by this point managed to catch up and he joined the others, his face still pale.

‘The rest of you follow me,’ Cassius said as he continued on towards Avso’s men.

‘Are those carts?’

Bezda had left the rest of the cavalrymen at the rear to join Azaf, standing just in front of the horse archers. The ram had been withdrawn and the warriors had also removed both doors; firstly to clear the way, secondly to prevent the Romans from making further use of them.

‘Possibly,’ answered Azaf. He waved Razir over and pointed towards Teyya, who was standing just outside the gate.

‘Tell him to pass this on. I want men on the other side of those barricades. Any way they can. Pick of the spoils to any man who gets through!’

Just as Cassius arrived at the northern barricade, one of the fifth section was suddenly pulled forward by a Palmyran hand on his shield. As the legionary tried to wrench himself free, two enemy spears shot towards him. The first blow deflected off his helmet, but the second caught him in the cheek. The soldier did not cry out or fall; he just stood there, blinking, as blood ran down his face.

Other legionaries hauled him away. Palmyrans appeared in the spaces they had guarded, kicking and striking at the cart with their swords and spears, trying to make a hole big enough to fit through. The fifth section closed ranks as the enemy warriors pressed up against the entire length of the creaking cart. A breakthrough seemed imminent.

Cassius pointed his sword forward.

‘First section! Help them there!’

As the men rushed forward, Avso appeared. Seeing the danger quickly, he grabbed a pilum and leaped up on to the joining timbers between the two carts. He climbed on to the upturned side of the vehicle, used one hand to steady himself, then jabbed the spear down into the thronging enemy below. His first victim was a Palmyran whose shield and shoulder were almost through a gap when the spear gouged a chunk of flesh out of his neck. He gasped and fell backward.

Avso struck again, at another warrior trying to pull one of the timbers from the side of the cart. The pilum glanced off his helmet but the Thracian’s attack had drawn the attention of all the Palmyrans close by. The legionaries drove forward with their shields once again, plugging the holes.

Avso didn’t remain atop the cart for long. Several spears had by now been trained on him and one flew past as he dropped adroitly to the ground. He checked that the legionaries were back in control before approaching Cassius.

‘No more than fifty infantry. No second rank coming in.’

‘What are they doing?’

‘Just probing perhaps. They know they’ll make a hole sooner or later. Might reinforce then.’

The injured man moved past them, assisted by another member of the fifth section.

‘Hold there,’ Avso said, examining the legionary’s face. The spear had cut across his cheek rather than into it.

‘You’ll be fine on your own. Get back here as soon as it’s dealt with.’

The injured man staggered away. Avso pushed the other legionary back towards the cart. Cassius continued on.

The fourth section were not as close to the cart as the others, preferring to stand back and lash out at any exposed flesh or protruding blade. There were no significant breaches; the tactic seemed to be working. Serenus was directing operations, a canteen in his spare hand.

‘That’s it, lads,’ he rasped. ‘Keep at it. Hold them there. We can keep this up all day!’ he added as Cassius approached.

‘We may have to!’

One of the legionaries turned away from the cart. It was Priscus, who pointed back over his shoulder, shouting something neither Serenus nor Cassius could hear. As they hurried over, the top of a Palmyran helmet appeared close to the wall.

‘They’re climbing the firing step!’

In an instant, the warrior had leaped up on to the side of the cart. His bearded yet youthful face bore not a trace of fear. His only protection was a sleeveless mail shirt, his weapon a short stabbing sword. The Palmyran hurled himself into the air, leaping clean over Priscus and Cassius. Rolling athletically in the dust, he sprung to his feet and launched himself at the Romans.

He first grabbed Priscus’ shield and wrenched it downward, then swung his sword. The blade sang as it struck the mail on Priscus’ shoulder then caught the side of his helmet, knocking him into the wall.

The Palmyran was still facing the tall legionary as Cassius closed on him, raising his sword with both hands. But as he drove it down towards the warrior’s wrist, the Palmyran turned and yanked his arm away. The blade missed, and Cassius’ clumsy swing left him off balance and vulnerable.

The Palmyran saw it and readied himself for an upward slash, straight into Cassius’ face.

But Priscus had by now recovered and he charged, shield up. Knocking the Palmyran’s blade to one side, he smashed the shield into his opponent’s chest.

Serenus and another legionary rushed past. As a second enterprising Palmyran hauled himself on to the cart, they drove their pila up at him. Neither weapon connected but the warrior lost his footing and fell back.

In forcing the first Palmyran to the ground, Priscus too lost his balance and stumbled forward. The enemy swordsman kicked out as the legionary came down on top of him, hitting the shield and knocking him to one side. As soon as the Roman hit the ground, the Palmyran was on him.

The paralysis that had struck Cassius up on the gatehouse returned. Impulses and actions seemed to require double the effort and his leaden legs moved him towards the battling duo with a ruinous lack of speed. He knew he would be too late.

As Priscus tried to rise, the Palmyran smashed his left elbow down into the Roman’s face, then plunged the sword into his gut. Priscus’ head jerked to one side and he screamed.

Then Cassius was there. The Palmyran turned to face him but couldn’t raise any defence. Cassius swept his sword diagonally downward from right to left. The tip of the blade scraped across the mail at the Palmyran’s chest, then across his arm. The warrior’s sword fell from his hand.

Leaving his sword in the dust, the Palmyran scrambled away.

‘Don’t let him up!’ someone shouted.

Cassius had taken only three steps after the swordsman when something flashed across his field of vision.

The Palmyran collapsed to the ground as if his legs had been cut away. Lying sideways, he reached downward, fingers outstretched.

Impaled in the middle of his left calf was the barbed iron shaft of a pilum. The seven-foot spear swayed from side to side.

Avso strode towards the fallen warrior and drew his sword. The Palmyran held up his good arm, his only remaining defence. Avso kicked it away, stood over him, then jabbed the sword straight into his throat. The Palmyran’s body spasmed twice, then fell back, releasing the slick, red-stained tip of the blade. Avso wiped it clean on his victim’s tunic, then looked at the pilum. Seeing that removing it would take time, he walked away.

‘Never let them up,’ he told Cassius as he passed him.

Serenus and Minicius knelt by Priscus. The legionary looked strangely calm as he drank water from the canteen Minicius held to his mouth. Serenus, meanwhile, was widening the tear in his tunic, trying to examine the injury.

Cassius couldn’t bear to look over their shoulders. He had no wish to see the wound that would probably kill the young legionary; an injury that could have been avoided had he moved a little faster, had he defended Priscus as Priscus had defended him.

Instead he sheathed his sword. Even this took two hands, so badly were his fingers shaking. He glanced over at the other legionaries and imagined what they would be thinking. Their new ‘centurion’, for all his youthful enthusiasm and grand words, had turned out to be no more than a slow-witted liability, incapable even of dispatching an injured man at his feet.

‘Here,’ said Serenus to Minicius. ‘Place your hands across the cut and push down. It will hurt him but it must be done until the flow of blood slows.’

Minicius’ face was now as pale as Priscus’ but he did as he was told.

Serenus stood up and looked at the barricades. Avso had taken charge of both sections and was now moving along the line at pace, directing the men where necessary. Serenus took his cloth from his belt and wiped his fingers.

‘Mars has favoured him. It is a deep wound but more in flank than gut.’

Priscus was gazing up at them, trying to hear what was being said.

‘He’ll survive?’

‘Probably, if the wound stays clean.’

Cassius felt a slight surge of relief.

‘I shall fetch Simo.’

Serenus shook his head.

‘I shall send someone to do that. Were you struck?’

‘No.’

‘Call out if you need me,’ Serenus said to Minicius before he and Cassius hurried back towards the carts. Two more attackers hurled themselves at one legionary’s shield, knocking him off his feet. Another man saw them off with his sword while Serenus and Cassius helped the legionary up. He returned instantly to the line, slamming his shield in place between two planks.

‘By my estimation, that gate is at least eight feet high, perhaps ten wide.’ Bezda turned towards Azaf. ‘Enough for two horses to pass easily. Especially if there is clear space beyond.’

Razir and Teyya ran back from the fort side by side, the older man’s steady lope a contrast to the youngster’s eager trot. The sun had still not fully risen, and the gloom obscured their faces until they came close.

‘Well?’ asked Azaf.

‘I think one man got over, sir, but no other breakthroughs.’

‘How many of them are there?’ asked Azaf.

‘No more than fifty I should say, sir,’ replied Teyya, slightly breathless. ‘Well armed and equipped.’

‘Any sign of a reserve?’

‘No,
strategos
, though I couldn’t see much beyond the barriers. They are carts turned on their sides, arranged in a half-circle and reinforced. The Romans guard each hole with shield and lance. We have suffered some casualties but—’

‘How many?’ asked Azaf.

‘Five injured, five dead at the last count, sir. They have prepared well.’

Bezda leaned forward, resting a hand on his mount’s neck.

‘Any sign of heavier weaponry? Horse lances, mounted crossbows?’

‘No, sir. Not that I saw.’

Azaf gestured for Razir to come closer.

‘Your counsel?’

‘With a greater number of men directed in one area, we could create a breach, I am sure of it. Perhaps use the archers to soften them up first.’

Azaf looked beyond him, towards the walls of Alauran.

‘What about ladders at the corners? Put men in behind these barriers, distract them from the main assault.’

‘
Strategos
, please,’ interjected Bezda smoothly, ‘why risk dividing your men when we have such an advantage in numbers? My cavalry will account for those carts in moments. We shall push them aside or tear them to pieces. Allow us to smash a hole, then pour your infantry in behind us.’

‘You would risk your horses in such a confined space?’

‘Any battlefield is a confined space once a charge is done. And trust me, it would not remain confined for long. They will have no answer, I am sure of it. If you are willing, you may mass your men at the gate behind us, ready to exploit any advantage.’

‘Razir?’

‘They have been unable to do us much harm. It’s a reasonable position to defend but that’s all they have. I don’t see what they could do to the cavalry.’

Azaf looked at the gate once again. There was a good deal of logic to what the others had said but he maintained his doubts about deploying the cavalry against static defences, weak though they might be. The thought of the armoured horses mixing with his infantry at close quarters did little to ease his fears. Still, Bezda seemed confident.