‘Four men down, sir. We need help.’
Strabo knelt down next to them.
‘Are the carts holding? Is there a large breach?’
‘More than one!’ answered Macrinus. ‘We can’t get close to the lances!’
A caltrop landed in the sand between them, thrown by some enterprising Palmyran. Unperturbed, Strabo looked up at the dwelling roof. Only one Syrian was visible above the surround. Strabo grabbed Cassius by the shoulder.
‘See how it looks from up there. Tell them to keep firing. They must take out the archers.’
‘Shall I send some of them down?’
‘Not yet. Just tell Kabir – the archers!’
Cassius scrambled away, holding his shield to his right as he made for the dwellings. The wounded man had gone but Minicius had returned. Cassius handed him his shield.
‘There. With Strabo.’
Minicius reluctantly took it. Before he could move, an arrow thudded into the side of the house. The signaller retreated.
‘Get low. Go!’
As Minicius crabbed away, Cassius took a quick count of the defenders. There were only nine legionaries still on their feet behind the southern barricade.
Inside the house he found his way barred by a Syrian descending the ladder. The man was using only his right hand to climb down; a Palmyran arrow was sticking out of his left shoulder. As the Syrian’s foot reached the ground, his eyes rolled up and he stumbled backwards. Cassius just managed to catch him. The warrior was still conscious but unable to keep himself upright.
‘Here. Let me help.’
Serenus appeared at the doorway. Cassius lowered the Syrian to the ground and the veteran took charge. Cassius started up the ladder.
The Palmyran archers were far from craven but they were used to operating hundreds of feet from the front line, safe in the knowledge that their horses could move them swiftly away from danger if need be. Few had ever fought on foot. None had ever experienced such an assault.
Caught completely unawares by the first Syrian volley, almost twenty of their number had been downed by the lead shot. Without the protection of a helmet, any kind of blow above the eyeline could inflict a serious or fatal injury.
Azaf knew the archers lacked the grit of his swordsmen.
He had shouted orders directly at them, instructing them to train their bows on the Syrians. Confident there was little danger from the barricades, he now looked out between two shields.
There were still at least fifteen active archers on both sides. And with only the two roofs to cover, they were able to keep the Syrians pinned down. Despite their speed, it took the slingers several moments to raise themselves, then complete the throwing action before release. The Palmyrans had already taken out several men on each roof before they could get their shots away.
Azaf moved close to the men at the northern barricade. They could now use their lances to tear the barricades apart plank by plank. Behind them, his swordsmen waited patiently for their chance.
Cassius crawled up into blinding sunlight to find the Syrians flattened against the roof. Five or six across, they were almost on top of each other in places, some lying on their chests, others on their backs. To his right, two men lay against the surround. One was dead. His legs had been folded back towards him to make space. The second stared up into the sky, still holding his sling, a Palmyran arrow lodged deep in his thigh.
Cassius stayed on the ladder for a moment, trying to spot Kabir. He caught sight of the scarred face of Idan, who reached across another man and tapped his leader on the shoulder.
Pushing two sets of feet out of the way, Cassius crawled on his belly towards the front of the roof. Twice his belt and sword got caught up with those he passed, but he freed himself swiftly and was soon alongside Kabir.
While down on the ground, he had imagined he would get a good view of the killing area from the roof but he now realised that was impossible. Not one of the Syrians seemed willing to raise themselves above the level of the surround.
‘You must keep firing!’ he shouted.
‘We cannot,’ answered Kabir resolutely, his face just inches away from Cassius’. ‘Any man that stands will be struck at once.’
Cassius had no doubt that Kabir’s fears were well founded, but there was simply no other option.
‘You are auxiliaries and part of this garrison. My men are sacrificing themselves. So must yours!’
Kabir looked away. His hair fell across his face.
Cassius heard a rasping voice to his right. He turned towards Idan. The tribesman looked past Cassius at Kabir; he seemed to be asking a question. Kabir stared down at the roof for a moment, then nodded.
‘We’ll try something.’
Kabir put his sling down, turned to the left and cupped his mouth with both hands. He shouted out a single word.
Yarak
.
Despite the noise of the battle below, they clearly heard the priest’s bellowed reply. Kabir gave an order and all those around Cassius readied their slings: loading them, checking each strap, keeping their arms clear of each other as they prepared to rise. Two men scrambled forward on either side of Cassius. Kabir slid backward.
‘Come. Unless you wish to join the front rank.’
Kabir, Cassius and Idan took up the space vacated by the two others, their feet just in front of the ladder. Kabir loaded his sling and placed the release strap carefully between his thumb and forefinger. He got to his knees and hunched low. His men all copied him until Cassius was the only one still lying down.
The Syrian shouted a series of short words.
Cassius realised he was counting.
Azaf was still looking up at the southern dwelling when the Syrians rose. Their heads and chests appeared only in the moment before they ducked instantly down without even raising their slings.
All the skittish archers on both sides of the barricades were fooled by the feint and loosed their arrows. Eight found their targets, hitting Syrians on both roofs before they could drop below the surround.
Azaf screamed at the archers to reload. Acting on well-honed instinct, most already had their hands to their quivers as soon as the strings had snapped tight. Some even managed to lower their bows and place the indented base of the next arrow up against the string. Only two had managed to raise their bows by the time the Syrians stood again to take their turn.
Not one Palmyran archer got a shot away before them.
Kabir’s men surged forward, ignoring the fallen warriors. The air came alive again as a fresh hail of lead fizzed down towards the archers.
Of the five Syrians who had made up the front rank at the southern dwelling, three were dead, killed instantly by shots to the head. The two still alive were trying to crawl to safety between the legs of their comrades. Cassius scrambled towards one as the others reloaded and sent down the second volley.
The collective composure of Kabir’s men had gone. They screamed down at the Palmyrans, whooping when a shot hit home, desperate to avenge their own and destroy their enemy before they could strike back at them.
Holding the injured man by the wrist, Cassius hauled him clear. As the warrior twisted on to his side, his bag of shot emptied itself across the roof. He had been hit in the middle of the chest, two inches below the base of his neck.
Cassius sat up beside him and pushed the man’s hands away from the arrow. He looked at his back and saw the iron tip sticking out between the Syrian’s shoulders. Stuck to the end of it was a scrap of black cloth.
More than half the archers were now down. Many had been hit in the eyes or nose, others had had their cheeks caved in. Of those still alive, several lay or knelt amongst their fellow warriors, hands against their wounds, praying to Malakbel for salvation.
The Syrian fire was so quick and accurate that the eighteen still standing on the roofs were now able to attack without fear. Any Palmyran who raised his bow was subjected to a withering barrage of shot.
By the time the Syrians unleashed their fifth and sixth volleys, fewer than a quarter of the Palmyrans were still able to fire their weapons. At this point, morale collapsed.
One man, not far from the gate, found himself completely surrounded by dead or mortally wounded fellow archers. Yelling curses, he pushed his way back through the swordsmen.
Azaf saw only a glimpse of him. Before he could take action, three more were past him and through the gate. When he saw that some had even abandoned their bows, he realised that the archers would take no further meaningful part in the battle. Like Bezda’s cavalry, they had proven themselves to be powerful yet brittle. When broken, they became a liability.
He made no attempt to stop the last of the stragglers, even ordering Razir to let those from the northern barricade out. With a final look of disgust at the men still running towards the rally line, he ordered his shield-bearers to his right, faintly surprised that they were still following orders.
He called out to Teyya, who, like the others, was now torn between attacking the carts and defending himself against the slingers. The youth scuttled over to him.
‘Tell my swordsmen in the reserve that they are to kill any archer who retreats beyond their position. Run!’
‘Leave him,’ said Kabir, turning towards Cassius as he reloaded. ‘It is a fatal wound.’
The warrior had lost a huge amount of blood, yet somehow he held on. Cassius had been able to do no more than steady him during the most violent spasms; offer feeble assurances in a language the dying man didn’t understand. The Syrian’s head lolled to one side as Cassius laid him down. Blood frothed between his lips.
Kabir dragged the other wounded man several yards across the roof and dumped him close to the ladder. An arrow had gouged a coin-sized hole in the side of the warrior’s neck. He had a hand over it but blood was flowing freely through his fingers.
As Kabir rushed back to the surround, Serenus heaved himself up the ladder with a wheeze.
‘What’s happening?’ he said.
‘I’ll check,’ answered Cassius. ‘Help this fellow down, would you?’
Cassius got to his feet and moved warily towards the Syrians. Staying well away from the twisting arms and spinning slings, he looked down at the killing area. The only archers still inside the compound were on the ground, their faces contorted by pain. None of them were firing.
Though the lance-wielders had done a good job of pulling the carts to pieces, they and the swordsmen were now far more concerned with the lead shot raining down upon them. Those with shields raised them high and tried not to trip over the injured archers.
Cassius looked across at Yarak and the other Syrians. They had lost men too, more perhaps; he could see several prone forms lying behind those firing. The priest had placed his sling in his belt and was standing with one leg up on the surround. Screaming exhortations, he pointed down at the Palmyrans then raised a clenched fist towards the sun.
Though he had told himself there could not be another withdrawal, Azaf knew with a sudden certainty that he had no choice. His men had been close to breaching the barricades on both sides, but with the slingers in such a commanding position, continuing the fight on the defenders’ terms would be suicidal. His hatred for the hired Syrians who dared to fight alongside the Romans would be put to one side for the moment. They would pay later for their poor choice of allies.
There would, however, be no chance for revenge if he allowed stubbornness to cloud his judgement. With every passing moment, the losses amongst his own swordsmen mounted. Concerned with defending themselves, they would be unable to inflict serious losses on the Romans.
The attack hadn’t been a complete failure. Many of the archers had made kills and he knew now that the legionaries were so few that they could do no more than cower behind the barricades. Including the slingers, he doubted they could muster thirty fighting men. He still had treble that number, assuming he withdrew his warriors swiftly.
Azaf called out to Razir and waited patiently for him to reappear. There would be no panic or signal of defeat. His swordsmen would retreat around him. He would be the last to leave the compound.
He would still have that flag.
Sidestepping more injured Syrians, Cassius hurried back through the dwelling doorway. Having seen the mass of Palmyrans from above, it was doubly shocking to see the handful of legionaries at the southern barricade. Both carts were riven with holes, but Strabo had made sure there was a shield or two up against the biggest gaps.
The Sicilian was standing next to Crispus, bawling at the Syrians.
‘Keep firing! Kill as many as you can!’
The character of the noise coming from the Palmyrans changed.
‘They’re retreating again,’ said Iucundus with a half-smile.
Strabo was still yelling at the Syrians, though not one of them showed any sign of stopping. The legionaries lowered their shields to see what was going on.
Still under fire, the swordsmen backed away as speedily as they could. There were many more dead and injured men this time. The Palmyrans aided those who could stand but many were left on the ground. Some of those blinded or struck in the head pawed at their comrades, begging for help.
The Syrians were merciless. They fired again and again at the maimed warriors until they became still.
‘There he is!’ shouted Strabo.
He grabbed his shield and pilum and sprang away towards the northern barricade, Iucundus not far behind. Cassius was still staring after him when Serenus arrived. The veteran looked out at the retreating Palmyrans.
‘Purple Cloak.’
He turned towards Cassius.
‘Strabo means to kill him. You mustn’t let him leave the line again.’
Cassius wasn’t sure if Serenus had judged Strabo’s intentions correctly but he knew he had to find out. Leaping over an injured man, he set off after him.