Cassius, along with everyone else in the square, believed he had missed.
Azaf, sitting in the dust and leaning back on his hands, stared dumbly at his sword, still stuck fast in the middle of the Roman’s shield.
The defenders watched as the thin horizontal tear across the Palmyran’s throat turned red. The blade’s tip had sliced an inch out of his neck, enough to release a rivulet of blood that swiftly became a thick stream, cascading down through the rings of his mail shirt.
With his face registering no more than a stunned frown, Azaf’s arms buckled and he slid backwards on to his cloak.
Cassius later learned from Simo that, at the moment their leader fell, there were still thirty-one Palmyrans left alive in the square and just ten defenders. It did not matter.
The Praetorian took only a moment to savour his victory.
‘Amateur,’ he said quietly, throwing his shield aside. He reached over his shoulder and plucked one of the javelins from the bag, then drew his arm back and flung it at the nearest Palmyran, skewering him an inch above his belt.
Before the man hit the ground, the Praetorian was aiming a second javelin at another warrior who had time only to turn and take a step before the projectile punctured his back, emerging between two ribs as he toppled to the ground.
The remaining Palmyrans fled.
One of the legionaries gave a cry and they set off after them, leaping over the bodies that littered the way. The Praetorian followed at a light jog. Two more Syrians appeared from the barracks and gave chase too. Cassius was the last man out of the square.
As he lay there alone, his head resting against the soft cloak, Azaf wondered why he now seemed to have a mouth in his throat and why he was coughing up so much water that it was wetting his neck and chest.
He stared up at the sky, so blue and pure, until a subsuming fog edged across his vision and a perfect silence settled in his ears.
He saw for a moment the desert beneath him, the rolling dunes of his homeland, and there, in the distance, the towers. Where he wanted to rest forever.
And then he thought of her. Always her.
XLII
Cassius caught up with the others just outside the gatehouse. The fleeing Palmyrans had dropped every piece of weaponry and equipment and were now sprinting for the crest.
The Praetorian slowed, then stopped. The legionaries halted too, watching as he reached over his shoulder for another javelin. Cassius couldn’t believe he was going to try; even the slowest Palmyrans were at least fifty yards away. The Praetorian weighed the missile in his hand for a moment, took four quick steps, then launched it. The weapon was in the air for so long that Cassius had time to glance round at the legionaries as they followed its flight.
The javelin thudded into the ground a yard behind the trailing warrior. The Praetorian swore and smacked his hand against his thigh. The legionaries cheered the attempt, then bawled insults at the retreating enemy.
Kabir and Idan had stopped a little further out. They reloaded their slings quickly and now threw yet more shot at the enemy. Firing at a low angle, they both hit men in the back. The warriors collided with each other and fell, then scrambled to their feet and went on. Idan left his sling by his side but Kabir kept at it, frantically whipping away shot after shot.
Cassius sheathed his sword and walked over to him.
‘Kabir.’
The Syrian leader fired again but hit nothing; he was shooting wildly and the Palmyrans were almost out of range.
‘Kabir.’
Cassius put a hand on the Syrian’s shoulder. He spun round, wild-eyed, breathing hard.
‘It’s over,’ Cassius said.
‘By the gods it’s not,’ said one of the legionaries. ‘Look!’
Cassius turned and followed the line of the soldier’s outstretched arm. In the distance was a swirling tower of dust reaching high into the azure sky. At its base was an indistinct mass of riders, heading straight for Alauran.
‘It can’t be,’ cried the legionary, falling to his knees. ‘It can’t be!’
Cassius felt a flash of heat in his head. He put his hands out to steady himself.
‘No, no, no,’ he whispered.
‘Get up, you idiot,’ said the Praetorian, passing the kneeling legionary as he walked back towards the fort. ‘They’re coming from the north. That’s your relief column.’
Cassius knew instantly that he was right. Fear had robbed him of all logic.
The legionaries stared dumbly after the Praetorian for a moment, then at each other, then at the column again. Realisation became relief. They ran until they were parallel with the north-east corner of the fort. Cassius and Idan followed them.
‘Caesar be praised!’
‘I can see the standards! I can see the scarlet and gold!’
Each man took his own time to be certain, but soon they were all shouting, jumping up and down, embracing each other, and praising Jupiter, Mars, Fortuna and every other god they could think of.
A grin crept across Idan’s disfigured face.
Cassius felt curiously numb. One of the legionaries turned towards him.
‘It really is them, sir. You might allow yourself a smile.’
Cassius took off his helmet. He felt light-headed, faint. A sickly, sweet smell reached him. He looked round and saw a dead horse just yards away. Its head lay on the ground, its lips pushed up over its teeth to form an obscene grin. Flies walked across its eyes and its wounds and the piles of dung on the ground.
Cassius threw up. What came out was mainly water but he had to just stand there, bent over, hands on his knees, until there was nothing left in his stomach.
The legionary gave Cassius his half-full canteen. He was a squat, barrel-chested character with a huge purple bruise on his right cheek and a split lip.
‘Your name?’ Cassius asked when he had finished the water.
‘Domitius, sir.’
‘Thank you, Domitius.’
Cassius straightened up and looked over at Kabir. The Syrian was now kneeling in the sand, facing east. Cassius walked back towards him. Kabir suddenly clasped his hands tight over his face. Cassius squatted down next to him.
‘The signs were right, Kabir. A great victory.’
The Syrian was whispering to himself in his own language. His hands stayed over his eyes.
Cassius left him.
He found Serenus exactly where he’d last seen him before the fourth attack: sitting upon the window ledge with his feet planted on the floor. He was slumped forward, head and arms hanging between his thighs. On the ground by his feet were the old stained cloth and fresh spots of blood.
Cassius knelt down. The veteran’s eyes were shut, his mouth frozen in a placid half-smile. Cassius reached out and touched his neck. The skin was cold.
‘We wondered where he could be,’ said Domitius as he and another legionary walked in.
‘It was the illness that killed him,’ Cassius said.
‘We’ll look after him, sir,’ said the second man.
Cassius made way for them, now realising they had been members of Serenus’ section. He nodded gratefully and went outside. Glancing down, he noted that the only real damage to his helmet was the hole left by Idan’s slingshot four days previously. Pulling the mail shirt off over his head, he slung it over his shoulder and started up the street.
Around him, the dead lay at every possible angle, some on their sides, some on their backs, others with their faces pressed into the dirt. A few were still gripping their weapons. Limbs belonging to at least five different warriors stuck up out of the ruins of the collapsed dwelling.
Skirting round the rubble, he saw the Praetorian back at the inn. Standing with one foot up on a stool, the giant was carving into his sword handle with a dagger. Lying on the table next to him were his javelins and a wooden cup. He saw Cassius and waved him over.