That matter would have to wait; with no one free to assist Vestinus and his group, Cassius hurried over to them. The man with the head wound looked up at him. He was one of the oldest legionaries, perhaps even older than Serenus. He had sustained a black eye and a broken nose. Dark streaks of blood had dried around his mouth.
‘You sure you’re up to this? Shouldn’t you be back in the barracks?’
‘I must confess I’m a little dizzy when I’m walking around, sir, but I’ll be fine once I’m up there.’
Vestinus steadied the ladder and signalled for the first man to climb up.
Cassius looked at the bow and quiver over his shoulder.
‘How’s your aim?’
‘Not bad, sir, but these things are damned hard to draw.’
‘Well anything you can do will be a great help. Even if it serves only to distract the enemy.’
‘We intend to do a good deal more than that, sir.’
Before Cassius could reply, Vestinus pointed towards the granary. Antonius was there, waving frantically. Cassius waved back.
‘There’ll be no signal,’ he told Vestinus. ‘Just stay low and don’t shoot until the last moment.’
‘Sir.’
As Cassius ran across the square, he saw that Crispus and his men had set one of the carts flat against the gate as instructed. They were now attaching the wheels to the other one bound for the square. Cassius passed the granary and jumped up on to a firing step next to Antonius.
‘What is it?’
‘They’re on the move, sir.’
Keeping as low as he could, Cassius immediately saw a group of Palmyran warriors walking parallel to the wall about fifty yards away. Three of them were carrying a long, solid-looking ladder. Cassius dropped to the ground.
‘Stay here. I’ll be back soon.’
After the Palmyran swordsmen had divided themselves, four of the ten groups remained with Azaf in front of the fort. Three more were stationed to the north, three to the south. There were eight or nine men in each section. Teyya led the southern group.
Azaf now realised he had to do precisely what Bezda had advised against. He would attack from three sides. He would force the undermanned Romans to divide themselves. His swordsmen would swarm over the walls as they should have with the very first attack.
The men milled around, sharing out the last of their water or quietly exchanging opinions. Others prayed.
Azaf squatted close to the ground some way ahead of them. He lay his sword across an abandoned shield, examining the blade and hilt for any sign of damage. Heavy blows could knock the blade out of alignment, crack the handle or chip the metal. Though he hadn’t drunk all morning, he took just a few gulps from his gourd and dripped the rest along the blade. He then used a length of cloth to clean away what blood and dirt remained. Only when every inch of the blade shone did he stand and replace it in the scabbard. He thought of Razir, how the old warrior had taken such pride in maintaining the blade. He would enjoy avenging him.
The sun was hot now, yet Azaf felt cool and calm. He barely felt the weight of the mail shirt; the harsh metal against his skin.
These were the moments he lived for. Easy victories were no test of a warrior; now he would truly prove his worth. He would give the general his staging post and extend the reach of the Palmyran armies deep into Roman territory.
It was said that of late the Queen had taken to personally honouring her most successful commanders. General Zabbai had told Azaf about another young strategos he had escorted to the great palace in Palmyra. While he waited for the Queen, her eunuchs had presented him with several gifts: an embossed dagger studded with jewels, a luxuriant robe of finest silk and a silver ingot engraved with the insignia of Zenobia’s own house. Zabbai had described the objects with typical relish, but it was something else he mentioned that seized Azaf’s attention.
As Zabbai and the soldier were about to leave, the Queen herself had appeared. Ignoring the general, she ushered the young strategos into an anteroom. He returned moments later and would not speak of what had occurred. Later that night, however, with his tongue loosened by wine, he told Zabbai what had happened.
Without a word, Zenobia had led him to a corner and placed her hand on his head. She had then brought his face to hers and kissed him on the lips. Then she had bent his head down, slipped her tunic from her shoulder and offered him her breasts.
There had been more than a suggestion of jealousy in Zabbai’s voice when he related the soldier’s observation that the Queen had enjoyed the experience as much as he had.
Azaf had tried to consign what he had heard to the recesses of his mind and he did his best not to think of it often. In fact, he wished that the general had never told him; the tale simply fuelled the fantasies he already struggled to contain. He believed that they weakened him. Strength came from discipline and control. An excessive interest in the baser desires could, he thought, be the ruin of any warrior.
Still, he did not chastise himself this time; a man about to face battle deserved a momentary indulgence.
But now came the time to concentrate. He thought back to the fight with the Romans; when his mind had emptied and his instincts had taken over. They had always served him well and when the time came he would give himself up to them again.
Azaf clasped his hands and closed his eyes. He breathed deeply and imagined a white blankness setting over him.
It would, he knew, be a glorious victory.
XL
The first indication that the fourth attack was really under way came just as Cassius and six legionaries rejoined Antonius. It was the sound of quick-running steps, the Palmyrans closing in on the southern wall.
The seven Romans were close to the granary steps. Behind them, Kabir and half his tribesmen were hidden inside the dwelling at the end of the street. Yarak and the rest of the Syrians were similarly concealed in the dwelling opposite the inn.
Vestinus and his archers were now up on the barracks roof, lying low. To the preoccupied attackers they would be almost invisible. Crispus and his six men were gathered between the inn and the dwellings close to the northern wall.
Despite the fact that he had just downed half a jug of water, Cassius’ throat felt sore, his mouth dry. And even though he had emptied the rest of the jug over his head, the water had already been usurped by sweat and the damnable helmet felt a size smaller.
He and the other legionaries had already drawn their swords. Pila and shields would have been useful had they intended to put up serious resistance at the walls, but extraneous equipment would slow their retreat. Cassius had ordered that it be left behind the newly erected barricades.
Two of the legionaries suddenly glanced left and he moved forward to gain a better view. He saw the twin poles of a ladder above the wall, not far from the south-east corner. By the time he had scanned the entire length of the wall, five more ladders had appeared, one directly ahead.
A sword materialised, then a helmeted head. Though they never heard or saw the shot, the Romans knew it was a lead pellet that had hit the Palmyran between the eyes.
Teyya’s last expression was a combination of surprise and disbelief. He fell back.
Cassius looked left again. Five enemy warriors were now over the wall and striding towards the Romans. Several were wearing small wooden shields strapped to their forearms. More men dropped down and joined their ranks.
Antonius tilted his blade towards the square.
‘Now, sir?’
‘Wait.’
Cassius turned and saw Crispus retreating from the northern wall, his men behind him. They suddenly broke into a run.