Crispus patted the shoulders of three legionaries and pointed them in the direction of the second section. Strabo told them to stand with the others against the cart, shields up.
Bezda turned round in his saddle and beckoned more of his men forward. These riders fell expertly into line alongside the others, facing the carts manned by Crispus’ men, until no less than fourteen of the armoured horses covered the entire width of the southern barricade.
A Palmyran lance shattered a plank then embedded itself in one of the third section’s shields. Crispus rushed to the man’s aid and the two of them heaved the shield backwards, wrenching the lance from the Palmyran’s grip. The cavalryman reached forlornly for his weapon as the Romans dragged it through the cart. A weak cheer went up as Crispus prepared to turn the weapon on its former owner.
Before he could make much use of it, Bezda looked down the line and signalled another push. The most eager were those who had just joined the melee. Three of them were close to the point where the carts met. The Palmyrans tied off their reins around the saddle horns and used only their legs to control the animals, leaving both hands free to wield the lances. In a few short moments, they had succeeded in dislodging or smashing half of the reinforcing timbers that stretched across the join.
The few legionaries close by did their best, hacking at the lances whenever they could, but it was an uneven contest. Thankfully, at that moment the men of the first section arrived.
‘There,’ cried Cassius. ‘Aim high!’
The soldiers pressed forward as a group, swinging their swords and driving their pila at the Palmyrans and their horses. Now forced to defend themselves, the attackers withdrew.
‘That’s it!’ Cassius shouted. ‘Keep them back!’
Strabo suddenly appeared in front of him, cradling three short timbers, a hammer and a handful of nails. He collared two legionaries and dropped the wood and tools in front of them, then pointed at the join, barely visible through a tangle of legs and tunics.
‘Do what you can to shore it up.’
As the men set about their task, Cassius looked over his shoulder at where Kabir stood.
‘Should we use some of the Syrians?’ he asked Strabo.
Just as he spoke, yet another defender was knocked to the ground as the cart shook with repeated impacts.
The Sicilian grimaced.
‘I’d hoped we could keep them out of sight – a surprise for the infantry – but yes, we must. If we can hold on, the cavalry will tire eventually. If they turn or break up we’ll use the caltrops.’
Cassius ran over to where Kabir was standing, surrounded by his men.
‘We need some help.’
‘Our shot will be of no use against
them
,’ warned the Syrian.
‘Not for that. We need more hands to keep the carts upright and in position.’
Kabir called out a series of names and commands. Eight of his men ran over to the barricades and Strabo directed them towards the base of the carts. Avso had also arrived, three pila under his arm.
Another of the Syrians ran up and reported to Kabir, who then turned to Cassius.
‘Yarak is up on the roof. He says the northern barricade is clear for now but the rest of the cavalry are by the gate and all the infantry are massing behind them. A hundred perhaps.’
Cassius nodded, trying to absorb this new development. It was hardly unexpected but it now seemed clear that the short engagement had already reached its critical point; the Palmyrans were poised to force their way through the southern barricade.
Cassius started back towards the carts. He glanced at Minicus, still dutifully following him around. The legionary, his face tight and slick with sweat, looked terrified.
Cassius too felt suddenly hot, almost feverish. His head throbbed and his eyes stung. His stomach felt hollow yet heavy. He saw Gulo’s body, already a remnant of the battle. He remembered the revolting sound of the lance impaling itself in the man’s chest; the piteous scream of Priscus; Azaf’s sword slashing silently towards Flavian’s neck. Wracked by a febrile desire to wrench his helmet off, Cassius’ hands were halfway to his head when Strabo shouted.
‘It’s going!’
The Sicilian, along with Iucundus and the Syrian reinforcements, was now solely occupied with propping up the cart, leaving others to fight the Palmyrans. Though they had succeeded in keeping the lances from further damaging the barricades, the steady, relentless pressure of the cavalry advance was finally beginning to tell. Strabo was closest to the wall, shoulder against his shield. He turned his face away just as the second of the embedded poles splintered, then snapped.
‘Here! Over here!’ he yelled, now almost horizontal, his boots sliding on the sand.
Bezda turned in his saddle and ushered forward the riders held in reserve. They now formed up behind the front rank, the chests of their steeds pushing against the animals ahead, piling yet more force against the barricades. Even the Palmyrans lined up against the third section now looked to their left, so sure were they that a breakthrough was coming.
‘Go on!’ Cassius told Minicius. Dropping the tuba, the legionary hurried over and filled the only remaining space at the base of the cart. There was now little danger from the lances as most of the horsemen held their weapons in a defensive posture, protecting the horses’ heads as they urged them on.
Cassius tried to slow his breathing. The sound of Strabo and Avso yelling at the men receded and he felt strangely detached from the scene unfolding in front of him. Something had to be done quickly but he could not imagine what. There was no point moving men from the northern barricade; they might be required any time soon to protect their own position. The boxes of caltrops were close by but with the cavalry so closely packed, few would even reach the ground. What they needed was something, anything, to stop the Palmyrans and their mounts moving forward.
Iucundus left his position in the middle of the cart. Shield in hand, he hurried past the others, exchanged a few words with Strabo, then stood over the remaining embedded pole. He held the top of the shield, then shoved it downward, wedging it between the pole and the cart. The shield itself was of an old-fashioned design: heavy, rectangular and straight-edged, perfect for what the resourceful legionary intended. With some of the pressure on the pole now redistributed against the shield, he set himself against it. Strabo joined him. Their arms shook with the effort.
Cassius thought suddenly of a small, airless room he had spent hours in whilst training back in Ravenna; a chamber where veterans lectured the new recruits on strategy. One such man, a one-legged ex-centurion named Exuperatus, had easily been the most engaging speaker. He would often drift off the prescribed subject, preferring to regale the young officer candidates with humorous or unlikely military tales from the ancient past. Cassius now recalled one in particular.
He rushed over to where Strabo stood and bent down, close to him.
‘We’ve only moments!’ shouted the Sicilian. ‘Get ready to sound the retreat!’
Cassius shook his head.
‘Not yet.’
‘We’ve no choice! Move sections four and five back towards the barracks at once!’
‘Just listen! I have an idea!’
XXXIII
‘The Battle of Sardis!’
‘What?’ cried Strabo, licking away a rivulet of sweat above his mouth.
An impact from above shook the beleaguered planks of the cart, showering them both with dust.
‘Cyrus the Great,’ added Cassius, stumbling over his words. ‘Remember, he—’
‘Yes, yes, I know the tale. Doesn’t mean it’ll work on these!’
‘But Barates said that they—’
‘Sometimes. Usually they just ignore each other.’
‘We have to try something!’ Cassius ducked as a lance thudded against the cart next to his head. ‘Now, Strabo. That’s an order.’
The Sicilian took a breath.
‘All right. I’ll see what I can do.’
Cassius crouched down and placed his hands against the shield. Strabo waited until he had a good grip on the handle, then slid aside.
‘Hold steady, lads!’ he shouted. Loping past Kabir, he pointed back at the barricades. ‘Every hand to the carts.’
The Syrian ordered his remaining men forward, directing two of his warriors towards a long, thick piece of timber. Three others stood over Cassius and Iucundus, adding their weight.
Though the back of the cart was still wedged in place by the last pole and Iucundus’ shield, the top was creaking and bending under the weight of the Palmyran drive.
Kabir drew his dagger and began carving out a small hole just behind Cassius’ back foot. Though covered with sand, the ground was well impacted underneath and he had soon created a shallow rut. The two men lowered one end of the timber into the hole, then wedged the other into the corner of the cart. They leaned on the support to keep it in place.
‘Good! Good!’ shouted Iucundus.
Cassius could tell that the timber had made a difference to the weight against Strabo’s shield. He risked a quick look around. Avso had abandoned his pila and was now pressing his own shield against the barricade. Kabir pulled a piece of lead shot from his bag.
Azaf couldn’t keep his eyes off the red legion flag. Though he couldn’t make out the insignia, the dawn had brought a slight westerly breeze and the banner now fluttered rather more proudly than before. Azaf looked forward to the moment when it would be torn down and burned, and that moment now seemed close.
He stood alone, thirty yards from the gate, with virtually his entire force gathered before him. At the front were the remainder of the cavalry, keenly straining their necks to see how their fellows fared, eager to join the fight. Behind them were the infantry, those from the first engagement now mixed in with the experienced swordsmen. Razir was in there somewhere too, ready to lead the charge. Though they may have been tempted to exchange news of the assault and thoughts about what awaited them, the warriors stayed silent to a man, as they had been instructed. At the rear, close to Azaf, were half the archers, now on foot. They waited patiently, bows at hand, providing Azaf with mobile firepower to deploy within the walls as required. The remaining fifty archers were to the rear, along with some of the drivers and handlers, now in charge of more than a hundred riderless mounts.
Teyya, who had kept up his observations from the gatehouse, ran back towards Azaf once more, barely able to mask his excitement.
‘Sir. The cavalry are almost through. Master Bezda has asked for the rest of his horsemen. Should I pass on the order?’
‘At once. And inform Razir that my next command will be for him to advance.’
‘Yes,
strategos
.’
As Teyya sprang away, the wind dropped. Azaf’s cloak settled to the ground; the sand that had been sliding over the tops of his boots disappeared; and, in the distance, the Roman flag crumpled in on itself.
Although Bezda was content to press forward, deterring any adventurous defenders with his lance, some of the less experienced cavalrymen were running out of patience. Two of the horsemen to his right waved back those behind them and managed to retreat several yards, then drove their mounts straight into the cart. The horses turned their necks at the last moment but the impacts were almost simultaneous; powerful enough to knock the supporting timber out of place.
It fell down and to the right, striking Iucundus across the back. His howl of pain was curtailed as the air was driven from his lungs and he slammed into the ground. Two of the Syrians instantly replaced him at the shield, babbling away to each other as they desperately tried to keep the crucial chunk of metal upright. Close to Cassius’ feet, Iucundus struggled for breath, unable even to push the timber away. With both hands occupied, Cassius couldn’t help him.
Kabir sent one of his men to aid the fallen Roman. Cassius looked over his shoulder to find that the Syrian had loaded his sling but hadn’t fired.
‘Can’t you do anything?’
Though range was obviously not a problem, Kabir could see almost nothing to hit. The eye slits on the Palmyran helmets were narrower than the lead pellet in his hand.
Bezda, the rider closest to him, craftily ensured that his bare hands remained out of sight.
The two riders who had just charged, however, were not so careful. They held their lances high, still trying to smash through the planks. Their hands, sticking out from the sleeves of their mail shirts, were utterly unprotected.
Kabir had kept his sling down by his side. The lead shot was now cradled in place and his finger and thumb were secure on the release strap.
When one of the cavalrymen momentarily rested his lance against the top of the cart, the Syrian took his chance. Almost casually raising the sling to his shoulder, he whipped it round in an instant, releasing the shot before any of the attackers even realised what he was doing.
There was a sharp crack as the shot shattered the top of the Palmyran’s hand. Too shocked even to make a sound, he stared down dumbly at the torn flesh and broken bones. The lance slipped out of his hand, no longer held by functioning fingers.
Confusion struck those around him. Even Bezda paused for a moment as they all stared at the hand. One man reached out to prop him up, instantly presenting Kabir with his second target.
Having reloaded the instant the first shot was away, he fired again. This one was slightly high, ricocheting off the Palmyran’s mail just above his wrist.
Now Bezda had run out of patience. He spun round in his saddle and saw that the rest of his force were now inside the gate. There were three ranks behind him, all of his twenty-four cavalrymen.
He extended his spare arm, waved it across the width of the assembled riders, then pointed directly at the cart ahead. Those at the front now withdrew their lances and concentrated solely on forcing the cart aside, backward or over. Any gaps still remaining between the ranks of horses disappeared. The heads of the animals next to the carts were forced up as their hooves pummelled the ground.