Sword of Rome (41 page)

‘I thought so,’ the general grunted. ‘The south wall and the gate. He
may use those auxiliaries for an attack on the west side, but most likely it will be a feint. We’ll keep a cohort of Praetorians in the angle of the two walls, ready to support whichever is under the most pressure. I was wrong.’ His voice was almost affronted. ‘He
is
a fool. Unless he has a trick up his sleeve, this throwing his men at stone walls is an affront to military science. He should have allowed an hour or two to flay us with his
onagri
and
scorpiones
. At the very least, it would have kept our heads down. You are happy with your dispositions?’

Valerius nodded. He had checked them a dozen times. Men and weapons where they were needed, the legionaries crouched behind the walls for the moment for protection. No point in taking unnecessary casualties. Reserves in position where they could easily reach the places they were needed. Water to hand for extinguishing fires and slaking thirst. Cauldrons of hot oil bubbling on the braziers and glowing irons ready to be slapped on a wound to stop the blood flow. This wall would be defended by the men of the First Adiutrix and he felt an unlikely confidence in the face of the great odds as he noted Juva’s reliable presence a little way to his left. The general saw his look and placed a hand on the younger man’s arm. ‘This is where it will be won or lost, Valerius. Win it for me.’

As the general walked away, Valerius dismissed the surge of foolish pride he had felt at the words. He was aware of the Vitellian auxiliaries deploying in front of the west wall just out of range of the
onagri
and
scorpiones
, but he forced himself to concentrate on what was happening to his front. Feint or not, he had to rely on the commander of the western defences to do his job. For the moment, he ignored the great mass of soldiers and studied what was going on around them. The first thing he noticed was the men struggling with what looked from this distance like wooden carts, but he knew were the legion’s mobile light artillery. Oddly, the sight pleased him. It would take time to deploy the machines and, for the moment at least, the defenders wouldn’t be plagued by the giant arrows and rocks. He faced upwards of ten cohorts, which meant they could deploy a dozen
onagri
and ten times as many
scorpiones
. He frowned. No, many more than that. Caecina wouldn’t leave the Rapax’s artillery lying idle while Primigenia and
Macedonica were doing the dying. The ‘Shield-splitters’ and their ‘Wild Ass’ counterparts, so named for the enormous kick they gave when they were triggered, were nothing like as lethal against a fortified city as they were against a packed mass of men. Still, it was daunting for any man to raise his head when he knew it could be taken off by a ten-pound boulder. Satisfied they were in no danger for the moment, he searched among the baggage carts for the sight he feared, but there was still no sign of the big siege
ballistae
that the Vitellians were undoubtedly constructing.

Well, he would show them what they were missing.

‘Ranging shot,’ he called down to the messenger stationed at the base of the wall. ‘Five hundred paces beyond the gate on a direct line.’

The big machines were notoriously inaccurate and he had no great hope of causing any damage, but it would give the enemy something to think about. The problem with the
ballistae
was the exact opposite of that with their smaller cousins. It was all very well firing them at a mile-long wall when you had every chance of hitting the city behind it, but hurling rocks blind and inside the machine’s most effective range was like throwing pebbles over your shoulder into a fishpond and hoping to catch your supper. The theory was confirmed when a few moments later a resounding thud seemed to shake the wall and he instinctively ducked as something split the air above him with a powerful whooshing surge. He searched for the missile and thought he saw a black dot curving far above the assembled legions below him and arcing into the baggage carts packed around the newly built camp. The impact was invisible, but he could imagine the damage and consternation the huge rock would have caused if it hit anything and he consoled himself with the thought that, if nothing else, he would make it difficult for Caecina’s legionaries to sleep that night. If Placentia survived that long.

For they were coming.

A wall of bright iron, proud banners and triple-layered shields of ash and oak. Valerius’s mind assessed the threat without conscious effort. Ten cohorts made up the attack. A front rank of four, each containing six centuries of eighty men, five hundred to a cohort, more or less, so a total of around two thousand men. Behind the front rank came
two further ranks of three cohorts, an additional three thousand battle-hardened legionaries. The centuries marched in open order, with a six-foot gap between every man, a formation designed to minimize casualties from Placentia’s death machines. They were close enough now for him to see the hundreds of scaling ladders carried by the men in the front ranks. Part of him hoped the ladders would be too short, which had happened in attacks before, but he guessed Caecina’s engineers would have done their calculations properly. The legionaries would have practised this manoeuvre often, but never against walls of this scale and never without the diversionary support of the artillery. Valerius knew from experience that once they were in the shadow of the walls and safe from the defenders’
ballista
bolts and missiles the centuries would close their gaps to a single space and adapt to a denser formation of eight ranks of ten. It made them a more compact target, but it allowed the century to form
testudo
, the near impenetrable carapace of shields that would protect those within from spears and arrows. From the shelter of the
testudo
they would raise the siege ladders and begin the long perilous climb to meet their enemies. It was all about numbers. Caecina’s soldiers would not attack along the entire wall. They would choose the most vulnerable points around the gate and between the towers to concentrate their efforts. Three or four ladders converging on the same limited space. If they could get enough men to the top of the ladder to overwhelm the defenders Placentia would fall and the slaughter of innocents would begin.

But Valerius had other ideas.

By now, Caecina’s leading cohorts were entering the killing ground Spurinna’s engineers had marked, four hundred paces out among the dirt mounds that were all that was left of Placentia’s suburbs. The defenders saw it and howled insults and defiance at their attackers.

‘Enough,’ Valerius roared and the centurions reinforced the order with their gnarled vine sticks. The one-handed Roman stared at his enemy, counting their steps and allowing as many as he dared to enter the marked space. He raised his left hand. ‘Now,’ he said, allowing the hand to drop.

Ropes that had been tensed to breaking point thrummed with
released energy and the distinctive chopping sound of the
onagri
and
scorpiones
echoed all along the wall. ‘That’ll teach the bastards,’ he heard Serpentius mutter.

In the centre of the leading cohort a centurion, recognizable by the scarlet horsehair crest on his helmet, his armour glinting with the
phalerae
of a dozen campaigns, was whipped backwards by an invisible hand, smashing into the ranks behind and causing momentary chaos. Valerius didn’t see what had caused the casualties, but armour counted for nothing against five-foot bolts and heavy boulders. The centurion had either been gutted or smashed to bloody pulp and the men of the Macedonica had lost a leader and a comrade. All along the line, shields were shattered and gaps appeared in the ranks as the heavy missiles smashed home. Men were left bleeding and broken as their tent mates marched reluctantly over their bodies.

‘Close up! Close the ranks!’ Valerius heard the first shouts of the centurions, decurions and
optiones
as they struggled to maintain the cohesion of the formations. A discernible growl went up from the legionaries as they came on, leaving a scattering of still figures in their wake like jetsam discarded by a ship. He felt an involuntary flare of triumph as he watched his enemy fall, but he understood that he could not let passion control him. His artillery salvos would hurt them, but would not stop them. The machines were slow to load and their commanders might get five shots away before the angles of fire meant more would be useless. A few dozen casualties, possibly a hundred. Just a pinprick, but Valerius was satisfied.

Something whirred past his helmet.

‘Keep your head down, idiot, unless you want a hole in it.’

Valerius ignored Serpentius’s admonition and concentrated on the battle unfolding before him. From the gaps between the attacking formations, and on their flanks, swarms of auxiliary archers and slingers ran forward to close on the walls. When they were within range, he ordered the bowmen scattered among the defenders to engage them. But the archers were a sideshow; the
gustatio
before the meat. It would soon be time for the main course.

‘It won’t be long now.’ Valerius drew his
gladius
free from its scabbard for the first time.

Serpentius heard the doubt in his voice. ‘Would you rather be somewhere else?’

‘It doesn’t feel right to be killing Romans.’

The Spaniard’s only reply was to spit in the direction of the attackers and Valerius knew he was thinking of his burning village and the long years fighting for his very survival in the arena. Serpentius called Gaius Valerius Verrens friend, but he had as much reason to hate Romans as any man alive and today he would get his chance to cleanse that stain on his honour with blood.

‘Ready.’ Valerius had seen the attacking formations first tighten and then break up into individual components as each century homed in on its target area of the walls. When they reached a line of white pegs hammered into the earth, he shouted the command. ‘Fire.’

From the cleared area where they had waited within the walls, an entire wing of green-cloaked auxiliary archers from Syria loosed their bows, sending a shower of arrows soaring into the air in a great hissing swarm. Before the first volley had reached the top of its arc, a second followed, and then a third. Fifteen hundred arrows in the space of twenty seconds. The sky above the attackers turned black. Valerius had
seen barbarian assaults decimated by the arrow storm, but he watched with a feeling close to pride as the legionaries’
scuta
came up in a single movement and the arrows rattled harmlessly against the big shields. A few more casualties as the shafts found gaps and weak spots. It would slow them – the archers would fire until they were out of arrows – but it could never stop them.

This was war. Move and counter-move. Caesar’s Tower on a larger stage, with human pieces.

A gigantic crack seemed to sunder the air and Valerius flinched as something stung his cheek. He put his hand up and it came away bloody. When he looked to his left three men were down, writhing among the shattered remains of their
onager
, which had been struck by a missile identical to the boulders they had been firing at the enemy. One tried to stand, his face a mess of blood, but before anyone could go to his aid he staggered blindly off the edge of the parapet and fell thirty feet to smash on the cobbles below. The others, a tangled mess of entrails and shattered bone, went still.

‘Clear this mess away,’ Serpentius ordered, and a section of replacements carried the dead men off before taking their place. The Spaniard reached up and tugged something from Valerius’s face. He held up an oak splinter the length of his finger. ‘A few inches higher and it would have had your eye out.’

Valerius met his gaze. ‘That’s why I have two.’

By now an increasing number of missiles were striking the walls and causing casualties among the defenders, but Valerius knew that this would soon cease, as their attackers became fearful of hitting their own men. For the two legionary formations had reached the wall and pools of brightly coloured shields formed as the individual centuries went into
testudo
to protect the ladder crews.

The first ladder rose by the gate above which Valerius stood, quickly followed by another and then another. With the battle joy rising inside him, he stood up to his full height. He knew he looked nothing like a Roman officer with his beard, his wild hair and his badly patched Batavian chain mail. But he was a warrior. A warrior invested with the confidence of the gods. A warrior to follow. To victory.

‘First Adiutrix,’ he roared. ‘Ready!’

Officers repeated the cry all along the wall and a host of wide-eyed glaring faces anticipated the next order, twitching with the eagerness of starved hunting dogs. A few of the marine legionaries, driven half-mad by the waiting, would have risen, but checked at Valerius’s snarl. ‘Wait, you sons of sea spawn. You’ll have your chance. Wait!’

They waited until the ladders appeared on the wall. They waited until the wooden uprights began to vibrate beneath the feet of the men climbing them. And still he made them wait. Arrows lashed the air above the parapet and turned it into a place of death. ‘Wait!’

A first red and yellow shield appeared, raised high to protect the owner’s head from arrows and spears that had never appeared. The legionary was puzzled by the lack of opposition. He had expected to be dead by now. Valerius’s ears reverberated with the roars of the attackers, the shrieks of the dying, the deadly
zupp
of passing arrows and the clatter of iron spears breaking impotently against the walls.

‘Now!’ He roared the order above the cacophony.

Juva rose to tower over the twin boar emblem of the leading legionary’s
scutum
, a double-headed woodman’s axe held like a toy in his great paws. ‘Give a sailor an axe and watch the blood and teeth fly,’ an old friend had once told Valerius. Now he watched as the big Nubian brought the curved head down and in three terrible blows chopped the shield to splinters, leaving the incredulous owner holding little more than the boss and a few scraps of wood. But the men of the Fifteenth did not lack courage. With a scream of defiance, the man attempted to take the final step that would put him on the parapet. It was too easy. Valerius leaned out and stabbed down, forcing his
gladius
into the gaping mouth until blood vomited past the blade and the point scraped on backbone. The dying legionary went rigid and his fingers lost their grip on the ladder so that he fell backwards, taking the man below with him to his death. In the same instant, a second big sailor hurled a boulder that crushed a third attacker’s chest and splintered the rungs so that the whole construction fell apart, sending the remaining men into the ditch to be impaled on the iron-tipped hedgehogs, where their tent mates used them as human stepping stones. A similar combination
of pitiless assaults saw off a second ladder. Meanwhile, powerful hands, long educated to push and haul on ships, expertly hooked the V-shaped ends of two specially prepared poles against the top rungs of the outermost of the four ladders. Desperate fingers scrabbled to free them, but the marine legionaries heaved until the ladders slowly swayed upright. With a terrible inevitability, they pitched slowly backward with the combined wail of a dozen doomed men heralding their entry to the Otherworld. A marine capered on the parapet, screaming insults at the seething mass of men below until an arrow took him in the eye and the caper turned into an elegant pirouette that sent him over the edge.