‘Flavian!’ Avso shouted. ‘Can you take hold?’
‘I’ll try,’ came the weak reply.
Avso was already on his knees and he now straightened up to get his own look over the wall. In trying to see where his friend was he tarried too long. Cassius heard the loud twang of bowstrings. Some of the archers kept up with their flat, low shots; others sacrificed power for accuracy and fired in a shallow arc, trying to drop their bolts over the walkway wall.
Avso’s luck held. One arrow stuck itself into the clay inches from his nose, another bounced off the top of his helmet. Statius was quick to react, pressing his body against the forward wall.
Gemellus, however, was stuck behind the others. Before he could get to safety, arrows thudded into the rear wall either side of him. Suddenly his head snapped backwards; a yard-long shaft had embedded itself in his throat. The legionary’s chin sank forward and came to rest on the arrow. A ribbon of crimson blood seeped from the wound and down over his tunic. His eyelids fluttered and then were still. Cassius turned away, swallowing the bitterness in his throat.
Statius reached for Gemellus, but withdrew instantly as more arrows hit the rear wall. Avso stayed where he was, facing forward, hands still gripping the rope.
The volley ended as swiftly as it had begun. The advancing Palmyrans could be heard now, their boots shuffling through the sand just yards away.
Flavian cried out again.
‘Avso, please!’
‘Take the rope! Take hold of it!’
Avso tried to pull the rope in but there was no weight on the other end.
‘I can’t. I’m all broken up. I can’t move!’
Cassius risked another quick look. The raiding party was now so close that they had disappeared from view. Statius grabbed Gemellus under the arms and laid his body down. Now Avso saw what had happened behind him. Spitting curses, he slammed his fist against the wall. Then he leaned back, staring first at Gemellus, then forlornly down at the rope still in his hands.
‘Flavian. We — I can’t get down there. Just — don’t let them take you.’
The Thracian closed his eyes as he spoke again.
‘Can you reach your dagger?’
‘I can’t move.’
Flavian said nothing more. All they heard were his moans as the Palmyrans finally reached him. It was both surreal and maddening to hear their enemies talking to each other just yards away, yet be unable to stop them.
But Avso was not quite ready to give up on his friend yet. He reached for the bunch of javelins and pulled one out from under the binding. He was up on his feet in a flash, arm already back as he looked for a target. He hesitated.
Cassius took another momentary glimpse and saw why. Even as they retreated, the Palmyrans remained in tight formation. Two men were dragging Flavian away while the other six tracked slowly backwards in two lines of three, shields still raised.
The hands of at least half the archers flew up. A bank of dark flecks flashed towards the gatehouse.
Cassius ducked.
A third of the missiles were directly on target, and would surely have done for Avso had he not flung himself to his left, landing on his side, arms outstretched. As the volley ended, he kicked out with a guttural growl, leaving a substantial hole in the wall.
Cassius looked down at him. Avso rubbed a hand across his forehead, breathing heavily.
‘There’s no more you can do.’
The Thracian left the javelin on the floor and crawled away. He and Statius dragged Gemellus’ body towards the ladder.
‘Enough!’ said Azaf.
Razir shouted the order.
As the archers lowered their bows, the raiding party passed through their lines. The two men with Flavian each had hold of a wrist, hauling him face down across the sand. Part of the arrow in his stomach had snapped off but the remainder caught on the ground, firing further agony with every step. Dropping him close to the rally line, the warriors moved away as Azaf dismounted. He looked down at the Roman, at the two remaining arrow shafts moving up and down with each breath.
Flavian’s eyes were open. He squinted up at Azaf, whimpering as he fought the pain.
‘If this one’s anything to go by, we should have little trouble,’ observed Razir. ‘Look at the state of his armour.’
Azaf glanced at Karzai, who approached warily, perturbed by the gruesome sight before him.
‘Do you wish me to speak with him, strategos?’
Azaf nodded.
Karzai knelt down close to Flavian. Preferring not to look directly at him, he spoke softly in Latin.
‘Roman. How many men are behind those walls? How well equipped are they? I advise you to tell all you know. These people are not known for their acts of mercy.’
A gurgling sound came from Flavian’s throat. He gulped twice, then spat at Karzai. The bloody spittle landed in the sand just a few inches from his mouth.
Karzai shook his head and stood.
Azaf came closer, tapping his fingers against his chest.
‘Shall I finish him, sir?’ Razir asked.
Azaf stopped, his feet close to Flavian’s flank. He reached out a hand and ran a finger up the flight of the nearest arrow. Both lines of feathers were still perfectly straight and soft to the touch. Gripping the end of the shaft, he wrenched it to the side, eliciting a gasping breath from Flavian. The Roman tried to reach for the arrow but was unable to move his arms properly. They shuddered with the effort, then became still. His eyes stayed open: wet, bright and defiant.
‘No,’ said Azaf. ‘I think we can find another use for him.’
He pointed at Karzai.
‘You. Tell them to surrender or I’ll show them what fate each of them can expect.’
Karzai walked back towards the gatehouse, then stopped between two ranks of archers.
‘Give yourselves up now and this man can live. All of you can live. Put down your weapons and you can leave this place as free men! This is your final chance. I say it again: surrender or die!’
Cassius reckoned most of the legionaries heard the second ultimatum but there was barely a whisper. They had already given their answer and the capture of Flavian changed nothing. There was no possibility of bargaining or surrender; the fate of one man was nothing when weighed against the fate of the garrison and the fort. Belief in the primacy of the fighting unit over all other considerations had been drilled into every last soldier present. Though they numbered barely half a century, Cassius knew then that the legionaries of Alauran had not forgotten who they were.
Karzai retreated, followed swiftly by the archers. Those to the north raised their bows as the horsemen in the southern ranks turned their mounts away, walking them slowly back towards the rally line. Once they got there, they turned and raised their weapons, covering their compatriots to the north as they withdrew.
‘Sir.’
Crispus poked his head up above the ladder. ‘Sections two to five are in place, sir. Section one in reserve. Sentries posted at the other three walls. Guard officer would like to know what’s going on, sir.’
Cassius realised he was the only person with a good view of the Palmyrans. He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to be. Still, nothing crucial had changed yet.
‘Stay there. You can tell the others when the advance begins.’
Cassius was sweating; his undershirt was already soaked through. The temperature was far lower inside the gatehouse and now the moisture was cooling against his skin. He looked back through the slit. There was a moment of panic when he saw only a cloud of dust and the ghostly, indistinct shapes of retreating horses. Thankfully, what little breeze there was cleared the dust and he saw that the bowmen once again flanked the main force.
‘Archers have withdrawn. All now gathered at original rally line.’
Crispus repeated this to someone outside the gatehouse and told them to pass on the message.