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.
If anything, the situation at the northern barricade was even more desperate. He passed four dead men: all impaled by two or more arrows. Amongst them were Macrinus and Minicius. The signaller had been hit in the cheek and in the forehead.
Somehow forcing himself on, Cassius passed an open section of planking and looked out. Just in front of the gate was a cluster of shields. Below it, in amongst the tangle of legs, he spied a section of purple cloak.
As Cassius neared the cart closest to the wall, Avso disappeared through a freshly created hole, closely followed by Iucundus. Strabo was waving up at Kabir again, shouting at him to stop firing. He waited for the Syrian to give the order, then made for the gap. He was halfway through when Cassius grabbed his arm. The Sicilian turned, surprised.
‘Let go.’
‘Strabo, you can’t risk it again. I need you here.’
‘We won’t get this close again. We can finish this now. Let go!’
‘You will remain here. That’s an order.’
A strange look of calm resignation appeared on Strabo’s face.
‘Then I’m sorry, centurion.’
Before Cassius could respond, Strabo had hooked a leg behind his knee. Flicking Cassius’ arm off his shoulder he pushed him hard in the chest. Cassius saw a flash of blue sky, then landed flat on his back three yards away. He rolled over and pushed himself up on to his knees.
When he turned back towards the cart, Strabo was gone.
XXXVII
The last group of retreating swordsmen had just passed Azaf and Razir when they heard the Roman battle cry.
The four archers dropped their shields and sprinted out of the fort, leaving Azaf and Razir completely exposed. By the time they saw the charging legionaries, it was too late to run. They separated to give each other space to fight. Azaf pushed his cloak away from his waist and drew his sword.
The Syrians and the rest of the Romans looked on as the entire battle was suddenly distilled into a fight between five men.
Avso was there first, a few yards ahead of Iucundus. Razir stepped forward into his path and the Thracian slowed, skidding in the sand as he struck. Razir blocked his first thrust expertly.
Iucundus rounded Avso on the right. Azaf didn’t move out to meet him, instead waiting for the Roman’s attack. Iucundus feinted a wide slashing blow from right to left, then jabbed the blade forward, hoping to catch Azaf on his unprotected face.
The Palmyran dropped his shoulder and twisted out of the way. Then, with Iucundus’ weight on his front foot, he swung down towards the hilt of the Roman’s sword. The honed tip of the blade sliced across the legionary’s hand, cutting off his thumb at the knuckle.
Iucundus, eyes still locked on his foe, tried to tighten his grip, then realised why he could not. He looked down, and Azaf struck again, knocking the weapon out of his hands. Before the Roman could retreat, Azaf darted forward again and drove his blade between two plates of segmental armour, inches below Iucundus’ heart.
Just yards away, Avso and Razir traded blows. Avso knew already that he had the measure of the ageing warrior. The veteran was composed and skilful but simply by swinging faster and harder, Avso had already forced him on to the defensive.
Strabo had seen it too, and made straight for Azaf. He came to a halt just as Iucundus dropped to his knees. The legionary reached for his chest, let out a final wheezing breath, then keeled over. Azaf looked impassively down at the dead Roman, then at his blade. The top third shone red.
Enraged though he was, Strabo advanced slowly, sword high and straight.
Noting the muscled forearms of his opponent, Azaf swapped his weapon to his left hand, swiftly passing his right hand through the wrist strap. He gripped the hilt again and retreated, waiting once more for his opponent to strike first.
Avso, meanwhile, had engineered an opportunity. Razir was already tiring and a well-timed blow low on the Palmyran’s blade loosened his grip. As Razir tried to regain control of the hilt, Avso lashed out with a boot, catching the Palmyran’s hand. Eyes frozen in shock, Razir watched his sword fly from his grasp. Even as his scrabbling fingers found the dagger at his belt, Avso was on him. With a jubilant cry, the Thracian jammed the sword straight into Razir’s unprotected gut. Grabbing a handful of tunic, he drove higher, up under the ribs. Teeth bared, he twisted the blade, then slid it out. The Palmyran collapsed to the ground, spewing blood from his lips.
Though he knew Razir had fallen, Azaf didn’t take his eyes off Strabo, who continued to advance, snarling and whispering to himself.
Avso stepped over Razir and took up a position to Strabo’s left.
‘You are ours now,’ he hissed in Greek.
Azaf’s back was six yards from the northern tower.
‘Get either side of him,’ said Strabo calmly, moving to his right.
Avso stepped left, grinning wolfishly at the Palmyran.
Azaf could no longer watch them both. He had to stare down at the ground, relying on his peripheral vision to tell him where they were.
With every step they took, his chances of escape faded. He had to attack now.
Cassius had recovered himself and was busy grappling with a legionary intent on charging out to help. Thankfully, some older men pulled him away and Cassius looked on as Strabo and Avso circled Azaf.
Glancing up at the rooftop, he saw that Idan had his sling loaded and was ready to fire. Kabir stood next to him, a restraining hand held up in front of his marksman, also transfixed by the scene below.
As Avso passed out of sight behind his right shoulder. Azaf leaped forward and swung the light sword towards Strabo’s chest. The Sicilian twisted his heavier weapon into a parry but the blades never met.
Azaf stopped swinging halfway through the arc and dropped low. As he expected, Avso had closed in on him and slashed at his neck. The Roman’s blade cut through the air a yard above Azaf’s head as the Palmyran spun round. Avso’s hands were stretched high, his body exposed.
Azaf leaped up and hacked towards Avso’s head. The point of his sword cleaved through the Roman’s helmet above his left ear, slicing across his forehead.
In what appeared to be a single movement, Azaf brought the sword back over his head into a slanting block as Strabo swung down at him. The edge of the Roman’s blade hit the flat of the lighter weapon and, though it didn’t break, the impact knocked Azaf off his feet.