‘A sound idea. But wouldn’t it offend your gods to fight so close to the temple?’
Cassius shrugged; at that moment he couldn’t have cared less. If the gods were watching over the garrison, he’d seen no sign of it. Their survival so far had been won solely through courage and ingenuity, and at considerable cost.
Kabir turned towards the square.
‘They have shown little interest in the western wall; the uneven ground and the palms make an assault awkward. Assuming they scale the walls to the north, south and east, they would not be able to see your position. Better to lead them to where we want them.’
‘What if we block the gate with a cart and make a token effort of resistance at the walls. Once they appear in numbers we shall retreat to the flag.’
Cassius knew already how to divide the men; he and Crispus would take half each.
Kabir continued: ‘With my men on top of the roofs next to the square, we will be able to attack as they approach. You draw them in and we will strike at their backs.’
Cassius nodded and they stood again in silence, each mulling over the makeshift plan.
Crispus approached, carrying the hand. The fingers remained frozen in a clawed grip, like the legs of a dead spider. Cassius had to look away.
‘Couldn’t get the ring off,’ announced the pragmatic legionary. ‘Stuck fast.’
Cassius pointed back at the square.
‘Just get it to him, would you? Then gather the men and bring them here at once.’
Though none of them said a word, Azaf could sense the reverence of his swordsmen as he walked along the rally line. It had been a long time since they had seen him fight. Now he stood before them without a mark on him, having dispatched three of the enemy and fought his way out alone.
He knew he had been reckless, arrogant even, in retreating last of all and exposing himself so. Still, the Roman attack had surprised him. It had been brave of those men to take him on. Brave but futile, and in fact he had been more concerned about the Syrian auxiliaries and their slings. He had been lucky to emerge unscathed, but the men seemed oblivious to this element of fortune. As he passed them, some bowed, others held their blades aloft. One swordsman simply clenched his fist over his heart.
‘Check your weapons,’ Azaf ordered. ‘Then divide yourselves into ten groups of equal size.’
Karzai approached, riding alone. He slowed his horse to a trot and guided it round the injured. They were mostly archers, waiting for the carts to return them to camp. Several bore horrific wounds to their heads and looked close to death. Until help arrived, they were on their own.
Ten ladders were now lined up behind the swordsmen. Once everyone was organised, Azaf planned to issue what he hoped would be his last set of instructions.
Karzai pulled back on his reins and Azaf held out a hand to stop his horse.
‘A message?’
‘Yes, strategos. A scout carrying word from General Zabbai. The first of his men will arrive in Anasartha tomorrow, his main force the day after that. He seems to be assuming that the fort will be within our hands by that time.’
‘And so it shall,’ replied Azaf firmly.
‘Of course.’
Karzai looked at the warriors. Those few with any water left were emptying their gourds.
‘There are a couple of barrels left. Shall I have them brought up?’
Azaf looked thoughtfully at the swordsmen for a moment.
‘No. Their thirst shall drive them on. Soon we shall have all the water we need.’
XXXIX
As the remaining legionaries shuffled into a loose line in front of him, Cassius gazed beyond them, again drawn to the bodies by the northern wall. Below the knee of one Palmyran a patch of flesh had been somehow peeled from the gleaming, blood-streaked bone.
Cassius turned away, struck by a recollection of his old life. Often, after a night of heavy drinking, images of violence and gore would appear amongst his thoughts. The visions had always distressed him and he could think of no logical explanation for them. They were products of his imagination, not based on anything he’d seen or experienced.
Now the images were real. Death, injury, pain and ruin in all their peculiar forms. Men reduced to nothing more than lifeless matter, decaying already under the pitiless glare of the desert sun. Though he felt a certain shame at his disgust, Cassius wished they could simply pile all the bodies on to a pyre and set them alight.
‘Fourteen. Sixteen including us,’ said Crispus, finishing a headcount.
‘That’s all?’ asked Cassius, doing his best to concentrate.
‘All that can fight.’
Aside from Crispus, Cassius knew the names of only two in the line before him: the surly lookout Antonius and the resilient Vestinus, who was leaning against his pilum, grimacing at even the slightest movement of his leg. It seemed incredible that so many of the prominent faces and characters he had got to know over the last few days were gone.
Vestinus’ scabbard clinked against his pilum and Cassius realised that the eyes of the men were upon him. To his right, Crispus stood still, arms crossed. The legionaries looked weary. Their tunics were stained with blood and grime, their dark skin shiny with sweat. Several hadn’t even bothered to sheathe their swords.
Cassius cleared his throat and began. The men listened in silence as he briefly outlined the plan. Their faces betrayed only resigned exhaustion and he could not tell if they approved of the scheme or not. It hardly mattered; there was no time to change it now. He could hear Kabir talking to his men not far away. On the roof above them, Yarak and Idan watched the Palmyrans.
There were a few reassuring nods from the legionaries as Cassius described how they would defend the standard with the temple at their backs. As he finished, Vestinus raised a hand.
‘Yes?’
‘Sir, there are three or four others like me in the barracks — wounded about the legs. We’d be no good on the ground, but if we could get up somewhere high-’
Crispus caught Cassius’ eye.
‘We recovered some enemy bows and quivers from the other side of the carts.’
‘The barracks roof?’ Vestinus suggested. ‘A good field of fire looking down on the square.’
‘Sounds like a good idea,’ replied Cassius. ‘Go and tell the others and I’ll send someone to help you get up there.’
Cassius made way for Vestinus as he hobbled off down the street. Looking back along the line of expectant faces, he recalled Strabo’s rousing words of the previous day.
He knew the legionaries would fight on; every man had proved himself. But he needed more than that. He needed them to believe victory was still possible.
‘Alauran is still ours. Still Rome’s. And those outside the walls still have to come in here and take it from us. Today is the fifth day since I received word from General Navio. Valens’ men could be here any time. We must hold on. We can hold on.’
All the legionaries were looking at him. A couple smiled grimly to themselves, another smacked his hand against his chest and took a deep breath.
Crispus drew his sword. Like Cassius, he spoke quietly but with unwavering resolve. ‘Caesar fights forever beside us, sir.’
‘Well, I’m not with the Third Legion,’ said Cassius with a grin. ‘But I hope he’s alongside me too. Even if it’s just for today.’
‘For Rome!’ shouted Crispus.
Cassius joined in with the others.
‘For Rome!’
‘Let’s ready ourselves then,’ Cassius said when the cries had died down, ‘and recall the words of Publius Terentius. While there’s life, there’s hope. I’ll see you in the square.’
There were two stops to make before overseeing the arrangement of the carts. A quick word with Kabir confirmed that there was still no sign of advance from the Palmyrans. They agreed also that half the Syrians would now move to the roof as sentries, while the rest would help Crispus and the legionaries move the carts.