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.