Nick Brown - The Siege

He could not imagine what had transpired in the last hours to make the man willing and able to fight, but it seemed that his prayer had been answered.

When Azaf saw the Roman giant, he almost took a step backwards. The man was enormous, yet he wielded his weapon with practised ease. Noting the huge dimensions of his foe’s sword, Azaf secured the leather strap round his wrist.

Here at last was an opponent worthy of his skills. Provided he could avoid being hit, Azaf knew he could beat him. It would make the victory all the sweeter.

Quiet settled over the watching warriors. Those close by could have attacked either man but all were transfixed by the sight of the disparate pair circling each other. Cassius knew instantly that a tacit agreement had been made: no one on either side would interfere until the duel reached its conclusion.

A dead glaze covered the eyes of the Palmyran but the Praetorian matched it with a cold, unblinking resolve. Occasionally he would look away, as if suggesting his enemy did not occupy his full attention, daring him to strike first.

In fact, it was the Roman who took the initiative, closing the space between them as Azaf feinted and weaved. The Praetorian kept his sword out wide, pushing his shield towards the Palmyran, forcing him to retreat.

Azaf took only three steps back before launching his first attack. Knowing he could avoid the sweeps of the bulky blade, he simply darted to the right of the shield, grabbed the edge with his spare hand and pulled himself forward.

It was a completely unconventional move, instantly opening up the Praetorian’s defences. Azaf was about to swing for the Roman’s head, but such was the man’s strength that he simply pivoted neatly round, wresting the shield from Azaf’s grip.

The Palmyran withdrew and the circling continued. While Azaf stayed on his toes, his movements fluid and swift, the Roman shuffled sideways, letting his shield do the work. Azaf was breathing evenly but the Praetorian was already puffing, every inch of his skin glistening with sweat.

Azaf feinted left then ducked low, disappearing from the Praetorian’s view behind his shield. The Palmyran dropped to his knees and aimed a one-handed slash at the Roman’s knees. Any other opponent would have been caught but so great was the Praetorian’s reach that the blade met only air.

Azaf reappeared to his right, hair and cloak whipping through the air as he swung for the Roman’s neck. The Praetorian knocked the blade aside with the edge of his shield. Azaf struck out again, two-handed this time, and again the Roman simply angled his shield, deflecting the blow with ease.

The Palmyran didn’t stop. Leaping forward again, he launched a series of scything sweeps, disguising every blow expertly, forcing the Roman on to the defensive. Chips of leather and wood were hewn from the shield’s edge as the Praetorian was pushed back by the flurry of blows.

Cassius and the legionaries retreated, still watching.

The giant seemed to be slowing. Azaf attacked again. He chopped downward, trying to catch an elbow; then swept high at the unprotected head; then thrust towards the sword hand.

The Praetorian seemed to stumble backwards.

Reading it as a feint, Azaf hesitated.

There was a curious pause, then the Roman opened his stance, lowering the shield and raising his sword arm.

Azaf saw the opening in a flash. He moved before the Praetorian even had his arm back, hacking two-handed towards his chest.

Still the Praetorian’s blade didn’t move.

His shield arm, however, shot up: not as a defensive block, but a powerful thrust driven towards the sword. Such was the force of the impact that the blade sliced clean through the cover and lodged itself in the wood.

Before Azaf could free it, the Praetorian dragged the shield down. Azaf’s wrist, still circled by the leather strap, went with it and he was hauled helplessly on to his knees. Even as the great arm swung down towards him, Azaf somehow shook his wrist free.

With the first and last swing of his blade, the Praetorian swept the sword down upon the Palmyran’s neck, just as Azaf flung himself backwards.

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.

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.