Ahead, by the light of the torches burning above the gate, he saw the first of the rebels fall to the arrows of the mounted archers. Some of the men guarding the gate snatched up spears and shields and stood their ground. A handful of others fled for the safety of the city, while a handful of men appeared along the wall, alerted by the thunder of hoofbeats rushing towards the gate. The more courageous of those who remained raised their shields to protect them from the arrows shooting out of the mass of horsemen. A rebel officer, with commendable presence of mind, called on them to form ranks, and before the horsemen could reach the gate they were confronted by a small wall of shields between which spears angled towards Balthus and his men, causing them to swerve aside.
Macro drew his sword and shouted over his shoulder, 'Charge!'
The men broke into a run behind him, breathing hard as their equipment chinked and their iron-shod boots pounded over the hard ground. While Balthus and his men closed round the band of soldiers defending the gate, slashing and hacking at their shields and the shafts of their spears, behind them the doors were slowly being closed as the men inside the city heaved against the heavy slabs of studded timber. Macro watched in desperation as he sprinted forward, already passing through the rearmost riders of the prince's force, steadying their horses as they raised their bows and traded shots with the archers on the battlements above the gate. Macro dodged round the back of a rearing horse, its rider grappling with the shaft of an arrow that pinned his leg to the saddle. Swerving through the other horses, Macro and the leading century of legionaries raced towards the gate. A gap opened ahead of him and Macro saw the last few defenders backing through the small space that remained behind them.
Macro gritted his teeth and ran for all he was worth, heart pounding wildly as he burst through the loose maul of horsemen and charged across the strip of open ground that separated them from the rebels. With a deep roar he hurled himself at the last three still outside the gate.They started at the sound of his war cry but stood their ground and lowered their spears, ready to thrust. Macro raised his shield and swung it across to cover his body and felt the tip of a spear glance aside as he struck the shaft of another with his sword, knocking the point away and down where it could not harm him. The third man just had time to stab his spear towards the centurion's face and Macro snatched his head down, wincing as the spear tip glanced off the side of his helmet just above the ear guard.Then he cannoned into the nearest of them, shield to shield, and flung the man back against the outer surface of one of the doors. The impetus of his charge had carried Macro past the next foe, and now he slashed his sword to the right, behind him, and caught the rebel across the back of the shoulders, on his scaled armour. The blade of the short sword did not cut through, but the savage impact of the blow drove the breath from his lungs and stunned him, long enough for one of the legionaries following Macro to batter him on the helmet, driving him on to his knees, where a final downward thrust stabbed through his neck into his heart.
The last of the defenders had dropped his spear in his desperation to slip through the narrow opening that remained. Macro pounced on the weapon and stabbed it through the gap between the edges of the doors.They jarred on the spear shaft, which started to bend so that Macro feared it would snap. He stabbed his sword into the side of the man still standing pressed against the timber, and then threw his weight against the other door.
'On me!' he bellowed over his shoulder. 'Force the gate!'
More legionaries arrived and thrust themselves against the hard wooden surface, and more men pushed into their backs, boots scrabbling for purchase as they heaved against the doors. On either side, the ladder parties had reached the wall and were raising their assault ladders towards the battlements. Macro could hear the shouts from inside the wall as the rebel officers urged their men on, desperately struggling to close the gate and deny their enemy access to the city.
'Come on!' Macro roared. 'Heave, you bastards! Put your backs into it!' All around him the tightly packed legionaries grunted with the effort of pressing against the doors with all their might. For a moment the timbers inched towards them and Macro watched in alarm as the gap narrowed so that no man could squeeze through.Then, as even more legionaries arrived, and one of the optios began to call time, the Romans checked the efforts of the defenders. The heavy doors were still, caught between the desperate scrums of the rebels and the attackers.To his side Macro saw the first of the legionaries climbing up the assault ladders. The man was caught in the dull orange pools of light cast by the torches on the wall and was picked off at once by the archers above the gate, tumbling back from the ladders, pierced with the dark shafts of arrows. But the next man was already clambering up the ladder an instant later, one-handed as he covered himself as best he could with his shield as he climbed.
Macro felt the gate he was leaning against shift a little and glancing towards the slim gap between the edges he saw that it was wider, and then widening perceptibly. His heart swelled with triumph and elation and he shouted encouragement to the men packed around him, gasping from their desperate efforts to force the gate open.
'It's giving! Keep at it, lads! Heave!'
Macro's feet were solidly braced on the worn slabs of paving as his legs strained with every fibre of his strength.
Slowly, but surely, the Romans gained ground as the heavy iron hinges groaned under the pressures being applied to the gates. The narrow gap continued to open and now Macro could see through it to the packed ranks of the rebels inside the city. The nearest of them saw him at the same time, and leaped for the gap, stabbing at Macro with a long finely wrought blade. Macro threw his head to the side as the tip shot past his cheek guard, and was then whipped back.
'Shit,' he hissed through clenched teeth. 'That was too close.'
He kept his distance from the edge of the door and threw his shoulder against the timber once again. 'Keep it going, lads! Almost there!'
The pressure on the gate was remorseless and the Romans gained ground steadily. As the gap opened up enough for a man to pass, Macro ordered some of the nearest men to guard it, but not rush through.They must hit the rebels in a solid wave, with the full weight of the following ranks behind them, not in a fine dribble of individuals who were sure to be isolated and cut down within moments of entering Palmyra.
One of the legionaries hurled a javelin through the growing gap and then the air was filled with an exchange of missiles: more javelins, arrows, sling shot and rocks. Now three men in close formation could fill the gap and the legionaries locked their shields to prevent any attempt to injure the men still heaving at the doors.The time to charge was close and Macro thrust himself away from the timber.
'Make way there! You, take my place!'
He pushed his way across to the men forming up in front of the gap and readied his sword.
'On my command…!'
Around him the legionaries braced themselves, shields up, heads down, sword hands clamped tightly round the handles. Macro drew a deep breath.
'Charge!'
He let out an animal roar and it was instantly drowned in a deafening storm of noise as the other men joined in and the legionaries surged forward into the city. As soon as the charge burst upon them the defenders abandoned the gate and without the pressure from behind the doors swung back at speed and crashed against the walls, crushing one of the rebels who had not managed to move away fast enough.The officer in charge of defending the gate had assembled perhaps fifty men ready to countercharge the moment the Romans entered and now they let out a war cry of their own and surged forward behind their lighter, round shields. A handful of defenders found themselves caught between the two opposing waves of screaming men and were trampled underfoot or crushed as they came together in a rippling crash of wood and metal and flesh.