The Siege (47 page)

Next to them, just visible beneath a pile of straw, was the top of a distinctive head. A shattering blow had punched a fist-sized hole in the side of Yarak’s skull.

A heavy hand landed on Cassius’ shoulder and he spun round. It was Antonius.

‘Centurion, we can hear them coming up the street!’

‘You three!’ Cassius shouted. ‘With me!’

The two legionaries had managed to pull the Syrian men clear. They joined the third, who had finished his murderous work, and duly followed.

To his surprise, Cassius found nine legionaries already gathered in the middle of the street. Only Crispus and another man were missing. All now looked towards the gate.

The Palmyrans had spread out across the full width of the street. Purple Cloak was in the centre, a pace ahead of the others. He marched on, cloak billowing behind him, sword still undrawn.

Some of the legionaries backed away.

‘The barricades?’ asked one.

For once, Cassius knew precisely what to do. Much of the rubble from the house had fallen into the street, narrowing its width to four or five yards.

‘Men with shields – form a wall!’

The men were all set to sprint back to the barricades. They looked at him doubtfully.

‘Hurry there! All of you!’

He grabbed Antonius and placed him at the edge of the rubble. The legionary seemed so surprised that he barely resisted. Cassius took hold of another man but the soldier shrugged him off.

‘I know the drill, sir.’

‘Come on! You seven with shields – complete the line. Form the wall!’

The standard command was enough to galvanise the men into action. Without a second order they planted their feet and began interlocking their shields.

‘The rest of you with pila – over the shoulders of the front rank.’

The other men got into position and readied their spears.

Crispus lurched out of the southern dwelling. The slight legionary looked utterly exhausted. He could barely hold up his shield and the point of his sword was trailing in the dust, leaving a red line on the ground.

‘House cleared, sir,’ he said between breaths. When he caught sight of the forty Palmyrans he’d been so concerned about earlier, he gazed despairingly up at the sky.

Next to emerge from the now silent house were Kabir and Idan. If anything, they were in worse condition. Kabir had lost his jerkin and his throat was covered in purple welts. Idan’s hands and arms were covered in blood and there was a nasty rent in his earlobe where a ring had been torn away.

Without looking at Cassius, Kabir led Idan to a position at the corner of the collapsed dwelling, guarding against an enemy advance across the rubble. The Syrian didn’t seem to notice his tribesmen lying just yards away. His eyes were blank and distant. He and Idan sheathed their swords and took their slings from their belts. Kabir had lost his bag of shot. Idan handed his leader a stone, then took one for himself.

Azaf had expected heavy losses amongst the first wave but he couldn’t understand how the Romans were still fighting. It incensed him to see they were still able to organise themselves and that yet more of his men had been sacrificed just to take this accursed fort and its precious well.

The standard was within reach now; he had no intention of letting it slip from his grasp again.

At last he drew his sword. Raising the blade high, he charged straight for the middle of the shield wall.

Cassius was vaguely aware of hearing something behind him but he didn’t turn round. Instead, he watched as the Palmyrans struck.

Each defender skidded back a yard or more but the wall held. The front rank made no attempt to strike back at the enemy warriors, so intent were they on keeping their shields together. The second rank moved up, jabbing into the enemy wherever they could.

Feeling something tug on his mail shirt, Cassius turned to find Julius at his side. Cassius pushed him away but the boy persisted, dodging his arm and dropping a bundle of javelins at his feet. Julius pointed towards the Palmyrans.

Cassius switched his sword to his left hand and slid one of the javelins out.

Just as he lifted it, Simo appeared. He was unarmed and unprotected, his tunic covered in blood.

‘You will fight?’

Wiping his sweat-sodden hair from his forehead, the big Gaul bent down and picked up a stray Palmyran sword. He mouthed prayers to himself.

Cassius nodded back with a grim smile.

Julius, however, was another matter.

‘Back inside,’ Cassius said, pointing the way. ‘They may spare you. This is not your fight.’

Thankfully the lad did as he was told, following the two injured Syrians as they too sought refuge in the barracks.

Backing away until he was ten yards from the shield wall, Cassius flung the javelin low over the heads of the legionaries into the Palmyrans.

Like all those in the front rank, Azaf was in danger of being crushed by his own men. He waved them forward nonetheless, sure that their weight would soon force the Romans back.

He heard the whir of a sling close by, then the impact and a howl of pain.

Raising his arms above the crush, Azaf held his sword with the blade facing down and slid it across the closest shield, aiming to find purchase between two edges. At the first attempt, the tip of the blade simply bounced off but with the second he managed to force it inside. Driving the blade further, he levered the hilt, prying the two shields apart.

As Simo handed him another javelin, Cassius watched Kabir and Idan. Relentless and implacable, the Syrians stood side by side, plucking stone after stone from Idan’s bag, whipping shot into the enemy flank.

Cassius took careful aim and threw the second javelin. This one landed close to the rear of the Palmyrans. He didn’t see it hit but heard a scream. Gesturing for Simo to stay back, he took up another javelin.

Suddenly the shield wall broke. Two men in the middle were knocked aside and the Palmyrans flooded through, hacking at everything in their path. So many were through in such a short time that Kabir, Idan, Crispus and the rest of the second rank had no choice but to retreat. Cassius caught a glimpse of Antonius, his face mauled, being crushed into the dust as the Palmyrans trampled over him.

Kabir and Idan put their slings behind their belts and drew their swords. They lined up beside Cassius, closely followed by the remaining legionaries.

Crispus, his reserves of energy finally depleted, had not been able to keep pace with them. The others looked on helplessly as the Palmyran leader swung low at the Roman’s legs, slashing across the back of his knees. As Crispus fell, two more swordsmen drove their blades under his helmet and into his neck. His whole body shuddered, then was still.

Four Palmyrans walked casually out from behind the inn and joined the others. With a glance at the rooftop, Cassius concluded that Vestinus and the rest of his archers were dead. One man’s head hung over the side of the barracks roof. Blood ran down the pale wall.

There was no one else left. Just Simo, Kabir and Idan to his left, the five legionaries to his right.

The Palmyrans numbered at least thirty and, judging by the fiery intent in the eyes of their leader, they didn’t intend to tarry any longer than necessary.

Cassius’ head was pounding. He gripped his sword tight.

At least the torment would be over soon. He could do nothing more. Alauran was lost.

A line from Euripides, words he had thought of many times, returned to him then.

XLI

Azaf thought he had killed at least one of the senior legionaries and was therefore surprised to see the young man bearing a centurion’s stripe. The Roman was tall and slender, almost boyish, with the pale face and delicate features of a scholar, not a warrior.

Next to him were the treacherous Syrians. Azaf considered whom to kill first. The auxiliaries were both injured but they looked able and strong. He aimed his sword to the right and several of his men broke away to cut them off. With a similar motion to the left, he sent others to occupy the remaining legionaries and isolate their leader.

He reminded himself to relish the moment of victory.

The young officer would die first.

Cassius bent his elbows and held his sword straight as he had been taught, giving him the best chance of getting something in the way when the Palmyran struck. He tried to shut out all thoughts of what he’d seen of the warrior before. Then he said a prayer, though it was not to the gods.

He was so focused on his opponent’s slow, almost tortuous advance that he only noticed something had caught the Palmyran’s attention when the man actually stopped, his gaze no longer on his prey.

Cassius sensed a presence behind him. Then he was wrenched five feet backwards and almost off his feet. The same hand that had grabbed a handful of his mail shirt steadied him, then let go.

The Praetorian lumbered past, sniffing contemptuously as he neared the enemy. He wore no helmet and no armour, only the light blue tunic that stuck to his sweat-soaked back. In his right hand was his sword, in the left his shield. Slung over one shoulder was a long pouch with several javelins poking out of the top. He had also put his boots on.

With the eyes of every man present upon him, the Praetorian came to a halt five yards in front of Azaf and the rest of the Palmyran line. Settling into a fighting crouch, he raised the great shield, then swivelled his sword, cutting eights into the air. The Palmyrans stared at the three white scorpions upon the Praetorian’s shield. Cassius wondered if the symbol meant anything to them.

He could not imagine what had transpired in the last hours to make the man willing and able to fight, but it seemed that his prayer had been answered.

When Azaf saw the Roman giant, he almost took a step backwards. The man was enormous, yet he wielded his weapon with practised ease. Noting the huge dimensions of his foe’s sword, Azaf secured the leather strap round his wrist.

Here at last was an opponent worthy of his skills. Provided he could avoid being hit, Azaf knew he could beat him. It would make the victory all the sweeter.

Quiet settled over the watching warriors. Those close by could have attacked either man but all were transfixed by the sight of the disparate pair circling each other. Cassius knew instantly that a tacit agreement had been made: no one on either side would interfere until the duel reached its conclusion.

A dead glaze covered the eyes of the Palmyran but the Praetorian matched it with a cold, unblinking resolve. Occasionally he would look away, as if suggesting his enemy did not occupy his full attention, daring him to strike first.

In fact, it was the Roman who took the initiative, closing the space between them as Azaf feinted and weaved. The Praetorian kept his sword out wide, pushing his shield towards the Palmyran, forcing him to retreat.

Azaf took only three steps back before launching his first attack. Knowing he could avoid the sweeps of the bulky blade, he simply darted to the right of the shield, grabbed the edge with his spare hand and pulled himself forward.

It was a completely unconventional move, instantly opening up the Praetorian’s defences. Azaf was about to swing for the Roman’s head, but such was the man’s strength that he simply pivoted neatly round, wresting the shield from Azaf’s grip.

The Palmyran withdrew and the circling continued. While Azaf stayed on his toes, his movements fluid and swift, the Roman shuffled sideways, letting his shield do the work. Azaf was breathing evenly but the Praetorian was already puffing, every inch of his skin glistening with sweat.

Azaf feinted left then ducked low, disappearing from the Praetorian’s view behind his shield. The Palmyran dropped to his knees and aimed a one-handed slash at the Roman’s knees. Any other opponent would have been caught but so great was the Praetorian’s reach that the blade met only air.

Azaf reappeared to his right, hair and cloak whipping through the air as he swung for the Roman’s neck. The Praetorian knocked the blade aside with the edge of his shield. Azaf struck out again, two-handed this time, and again the Roman simply angled his shield, deflecting the blow with ease.

The Palmyran didn’t stop. Leaping forward again, he launched a series of scything sweeps, disguising every blow expertly, forcing the Roman on to the defensive. Chips of leather and wood were hewn from the shield’s edge as the Praetorian was pushed back by the flurry of blows.

Cassius and the legionaries retreated, still watching.

The giant seemed to be slowing. Azaf attacked again. He chopped downward, trying to catch an elbow; then swept high at the unprotected head; then thrust towards the sword hand.

The Praetorian seemed to stumble backwards.

Reading it as a feint, Azaf hesitated.

There was a curious pause, then the Roman opened his stance, lowering the shield and raising his sword arm.

Azaf saw the opening in a flash. He moved before the Praetorian even had his arm back, hacking two-handed towards his chest.

Still the Praetorian’s blade didn’t move.

His shield arm, however, shot up: not as a defensive block, but a powerful thrust driven towards the sword. Such was the force of the impact that the blade sliced clean through the cover and lodged itself in the wood.

Before Azaf could free it, the Praetorian dragged the shield down. Azaf’s wrist, still circled by the leather strap, went with it and he was hauled helplessly on to his knees. Even as the great arm swung down towards him, Azaf somehow shook his wrist free.

With the first and last swing of his blade, the Praetorian swept the sword down upon the Palmyran’s neck, just as Azaf flung himself backwards.