‘The sun will grow hotter,’ said the cavalryman, ‘and my men have been in their saddles almost an hour. If you do intend to employ us, it will have to be soon.’
Azaf nodded curtly.
‘Teyya, listen carefully.’
‘How are we doing?’ Cassius asked Strabo as he arrived back at the southern barricade.
‘Well, we’ve killed three of them,’ said Strabo, without looking away from the cart. ‘How are the others faring?’
‘Not bad. Two of ours injured. Avso got at least two of theirs.’
‘Only two hundred and fifteen of them to go then,’ said Strabo, drawing grins from Gulo and Iucundus. ‘I just took a look over the wall. Purple Cloak is out there getting an eyeful. I reckon he’s just testing our numbers.’
Cassius moved back behind the legionaries and examined the scene in front of him. The fighting had now settled into a pattern. Men on both sides were keeping their shields between themselves and the enemy at all times. With the additional complication of the carts and the criss-crossing lattice of supporting timbers, accurate thrusts of lance or sword were few and far between. The initial fire of the Palmyran charge had died, while the legionaries were emboldened by the success of their defences. The Romans were now content to stand back and wait for the attackers to take the risks.
To Cassius’ left, Crispus was helping a man hobble away from the line with a nasty gash above his knee. Kabir sent over a pair of his warriors to escort the legionary to the aid post, freeing up Crispus, who eagerly recovered his sword and shield.
‘Can’t say I like it though,’ noted Strabo. ‘Makes me anxious about what’s coming next.’
The watching Syrians separated and Vestinus appeared. Sweat was pouring from his face and neck; the top of his tunic was sodden.
‘No sign of the enemy except out front, sir. All three sentries said the same thing.’
Cassius then realised that the noise had lessened. He and Strabo scanned the line and saw that fewer Palmyran shields and weapons were now visible. Sections of dusty earth came into view beyond the barricades. They heard the shuffling of dozens of pairs of boots.
‘They’re falling back,’ said Strabo.
The Romans moved up and saw that the Sicilian was right. There would, however, be no easy shots at the retreating warriors. The Palmyrans withdrew expertly, slowly backing towards the gate with shields up. Not one of the infantrymen rushed or turned. Cassius saw an injured man being dragged away.
Gulo and Iucundus grabbed javelins and readied themselves for a shot.
Strabo held up a hand.
‘Save them for a clear strike.’
The legionaries and the auxiliaries pressed up against the carts as the last of the Palmyrans reached the gate. The manoeuvre had been carried out with admirable speed and efficiency.
‘Any century would be proud of that,’ observed Iucundus.
‘Wild tribesmen they are not,’ added Strabo.
From the northern side of the barricades a victorious shout went up. Many other voices followed, including some close to Cassius’ position. They were soon silenced.
‘Quiet!’ shouted Strabo. ‘Save your breath!’
The Sicilian then spoke in a whisper. ‘You’re sure to need it.’
XXXII
Though he knew the lull in the fighting wouldn’t last long, Cassius was determined to check on Priscus. On the way to the aid post he passed the injured man returning to the northern barricade. The soldier held a wet cloth against his cheek and stared blankly at the ground as he walked.
Cassius found Simo and Julius attending to the legionary from Crispus’ section, Julius carefully elevating the leg while Simo wrapped a bandage round the knee. Though there was now enough light to see by, Simo kept several lamps burning. One sat on a wooden chest, casting a golden glow over Priscus, who lay on a bed to the right.
Cassius squeezed past Simo and looked down at him. The legionary had been covered with a cloak and his arms were wrapped round his chest but he was shivering. Cassius couldn’t tell if he was conscious or not.
‘Can’t you do anything else?’
‘I’ve dressed the wound, sir,’ answered Simo.
‘He’s cold.’
‘It’s not practical to build a fire in here, sir.’
Cassius took a blanket from a nearby bed and laid it on top of the cloak. He tucked the edges under where he could, covered Priscus’ shoulders and drew the material up under his chin.
‘Do your best for him.’
‘Of course, sir.’
The other injured legionary looked up at him brightly.
‘Be back out there before you know it, sir.’
‘Very good,’ Cassius answered stiffly. He hurried out of the aid post and wondered how the legionary’s attitude towards him might have differed had he seen precisely how Priscus had been wounded.
Instead of marching back along the street, he crossed to the middle of the square. Though he couldn’t see the gate itself, it was obvious from the behaviour of the men that the next attack was not yet imminent. Vestinus’ report had partly eased his concerns but he was still desperate to see the Palmyran lines again for himself.
Though it took only moments to climb up to the position he and Strabo had used the previous day, Cassius felt hot and weary as he crawled across the roof. He slumped against the surround and kept his head low.
The deep, vibrant orange of the sun coloured a thin ceiling of cloud and all the lands to the east. Cassius imagined the Palmyrans might think themselves blessed by some portent of victory and he was grateful the more credulous of the legionaries wouldn’t see it. He wondered too how Kabir, Yarak and the other Syrians might view this particular manifestation of their Glorious Fire.
The sun was so low and bright that he could hardly make out anything except the returning enemy infantry, slowly realigning themselves between the ranks of archers. The intense glare made him turn to the south. Standing on a firing step just left of the granary was the sentry assigned to the southern wall. His opposite number stood by his horse a hundred yards out. The Palmyran suddenly looked east.
Cassius covered his eyes and saw what had drawn the sentry’s attention: a double line of cavalry cantering towards the gatehouse. With the bottom of their mail coats obscured by the dust the horses seemed almost to be floating across the plain.
Though he knew he should already be moving, Cassius was momentarily transfixed. They neared the gate, the riders holding their lances vertically, their mounts taking short, high steps. It reminded him of the cavalry he’d seen during training, when the animals were forced across specially furrowed fields to develop the distinctive gait that enabled them to generate great speed over a short distance. The heads of the horses jerked this way and that as they sensed contact with the enemy.
Only when the first pair had passed out of view behind the gatehouse tower did Cassius finally crawl back across the roof and climb down.
The leading riders were already entering the fort as he sprinted down the street towards the barricades. The second, third, fourth and fifth sections readied themselves as the Palmyrans fanned out from the gate. He could hear the animals snorting heavily under the thick layers of mail.
Though the overturned carts were seven feet high, Cassius now saw to his dismay that, atop the large cavalry horses, some of the Palmyrans could see clean over the sides; they would be able to bring their weapons to bear on the defenders.
Focused wholly on the enemy, Cassius lost his footing and slipped. He slid harmlessly on to his side, unnoticed by the legionaries of the first section standing just yards away. Hauling himself to his feet, he looked up as a large rider loomed, reining his horse in before it reached the barricades. The cavalryman carried no shield, only an iron lance longer and thicker than a pilum. He looked inhuman, like the product of some terrible nightmare, with only two dots of eyes visible beneath the smiling metal face mask.
Bezda yanked on the reins, pulling his horse towards the southern barricade. He took a moment to appraise the defences in front of him: the reinforced carts, the Romans with their weapons and shields blocking every space. He decided they had done well with limited resources. But not well enough to stop his cavalry.
Cassius pressed on to the cart wall and watched the rest of the horses follow their leader towards the southern barricade. There were at least a dozen of the mounted warriors now beyond the gatehouse. They had advanced into the compound as adeptly as the infantry had retreated from it and were yet to make contact with a single Roman blade.
Cassius thought of Strabo’s earlier comment.
‘Wild tribesmen they are not,’ he breathed as he ran past the apex of the carts to find the Sicilian standing well to the rear, watching the advance. In front of him was Iucundus, javelin in hand.
Cassius drew his sword.
Iucundus took two steps forward, expelled a powerful breath and launched the javelin low over the cart wall, striking a cavalryman full in the chest. The javelin simply bounced off the chest plate and dropped to the ground between two horses. The Palmyran paused for a moment, checked his armour, then forced his mount on again.
Bezda held out his lance and swept it across the length of the cart closest to the wall. He waved five men forward and continued the advance, only halting when the horses were two or three feet short of the timbers.
‘What about the caltrops?’ Cassius asked.
‘Not yet,’ said Strabo, moving to his right. ‘We must draw more of them in first. Gulo, stay back for the moment! And you others!’
Keeping the lance in one hand, its point lowered towards the ground, Bezda now urged his horse forward until its nose was inches from where the cart met the wall. The other riders filed in alongside him, mail coats scraping against one another, until they covered every yard of the cart’s length.
‘I’d hoped for some hothead,’ said Strabo, ‘but this one’s no fool.’
The Sicilian took a deep breath.
‘Let’s get stuck in then, second section!’ he shouted, dodging past the other legionaries and raising his pilum. He thrust the spear through a gap towards Bezda’s horse. There were shaped holes in the armoured coat for its mouth, eyes and ears. Strabo caught the animal halfway down its muzzle.
The horse seemed momentarily stunned but recovered swiftly as Bezda kicked down hard on its flanks. It shuffled forward and its armoured chest knocked the entire right side of the cart backward. One of the poles embedded in the wall snapped.
Bezda dropped his lance on to the side of the cart and jabbed down towards Strabo.
The Sicilian saw it coming and easily ducked out of the way, leaving Gulo to retaliate. The wily legionary knew better than to try to shatter the thick iron shaft so he instead grabbed it, hoping to pull it out of Bezda’s hand or, better still, pull him off his horse. He was so intent on doing so that he didn’t realise the other Palmyrans were now level with their leader.
A second cavalryman drove his lance towards Gulo. He struck with unerring accuracy, avoiding the Roman’s segmental armour and catching him just below the armpit. Cassius heard a horrifying crunch as the sharpened iron head tore into Gulo’s ribs. The Palmyran backed up, pulling the lance with him. Gulo fell limply to the ground.
Strabo cast his pilum aside, held the legionary by his armour’s shoulder straps and dragged him away from the cart. As soon as he stopped, a thick puddle of blood spread out under Gulo’s body. His eyes were shut tight, his face still. Strabo knelt close to him and put an ear to his mouth. After a moment, he shook his head.
All along the cart, the cavalry horses inched their way forward. Every lance was now pointing down at the Romans, daring them to attack. Led by Iucundus, three of the second section sheathed their swords and dodged under the lances. Crouching low, they held their shields against the timbers, trying to hold the cart in place.
Strabo left Gulo where he lay. Stepping casually between two of the lances, he grabbed the bundle of javelins and backed up, not taking his eyes off the enemy. There were five of the projectiles left.
He grabbed the first, aimed it at the Palmyran who had killed Gulo, and let fly. Though the range was no more than five yards, the Sicilian’s fury got the better of him and the javelin flashed over the cavalryman’s shoulder, disappearing somewhere over the gatehouse.
Cassius moved aside as Strabo reached for a second weapon and brought his arm back again. He took a breath this time and his shot was the better for it, hitting the Palmyran two inches above his eyes. The impact knocked him off balance and he slid sideways off his saddle. The Romans could all see the dent in the metal plate as he grabbed at the mail of the adjacent horse, then righted himself. The cavalryman shook his head, then raised his lance once more.
‘Leave that whore-son for me!’ snarled Strabo before dropping the rest of the javelins and recovering his pilum.
As the Sicilian charged back into the fray, Cassius forced himself to ignore the body of the dead legionary and called over to Minicius, who was standing with Crispus’ men.
‘Get ready.’
Minicius raised the tuba.
‘Short tones. We need the first section here.’
Minicius wiped some dust from the mouthpiece, then lifted the instrument high with both hands. His cheeks and his eyes widened as he blew. The notes were high-pitched and wavering, but loud enough to cut through the sound of the skirmish.
Just as he finished, the Palmyrans surged forward again. Two of the legionaries leaning up against the barriers were knocked to the ground as the cart jolted backward, splintering several of the joining timbers that connected it to the other vehicle. Strabo cast an anxious look at Cassius before jabbing his pilum back towards Bezda.
‘Crispus!’ Cassius shouted, moving to his left. ‘Men with shields over here!’