The Sword and the Throne

by Henry Venmore-Rowland

  The Thracian auxiliaries were waiting for us when our column finally arrived at the foot of Mount Vocetius. Tough, hardy men who had been born in the mountains, but while the Helvetii had settled down to farm the valleys and the pastures, these men were warriors to the core. Their prefect was a young man from the south of Italia, small and olive-skinned while his men were tall and pale. But though he was young, he had laid out his defences well. His cohort had dug earthworks for the artillery to shelter behind, ditches and a palisade that stretched up the hillside to protect a little spring that would have to serve the needs of the legion, the auxiliaries and all the pack animals we had brought from Vindonissa.

  ‘At long last, a competent officer in this blasted province!’ I exclaimed, clasping the man on the shoulder. The officer’s cheeks turned red, despite the cold. It was praise, but it wasn’t high praise. Then I noticed what he was blushing at. Pansa, still astride his horse, was in earshot and judging from his bulging eyeballs wasn’t best pleased to be criticized in front of a junior officer, even if indirectly. But what of it? Pansa knew he had disappointed me, and if he didn’t like being shown up in front of a young officer without any noble blood in him, he was just going to have to put up with it.

  It was dusk by now but the vanguard, with no prompting, took up their positions by the palisade. I thought of Alpinus up in his rocky fortress. To be besieged by an entire Roman legion, not once but twice. Except now we had artillery.

  ‘It’s going to be a bastard to take,’ Torquatus commented.

  ‘You’re sure he can’t walk away this time?’ I asked. ‘There aren’t any secret passages out of the fort?’

  The Helvetian shook his head. ‘None. There’s only one way into that place, and one way out. Through gates almost as thick as a man.’

  ‘Then we will have to batter them into submission.’

  ‘Shall I send a messenger with terms, General?’ Pansa asked.

  ‘No. No terms. Alpinus knows our demands, and those foolish enough to join him deserve what is coming to them.’

  It was another four hours before the whole legion and the carts carrying the disassembled artillery arrived. The bolt-firing scorpions had been left back in the barracks; they were meant for the open battlefield where they could tear bloody great holes into massed ranks. Instead we had two catapults, huge monsters that took our pack horses the best part of two days to drag westwards towards the mountain. The engineers should have taken perhaps two hours to assemble the machines from pieces to battle readiness, but had hardly practised over the years. But when they were ready, the catapults looked impressive, and when they began to fire they would be lethal. It would be almost dawn before they were finally assembled, and I had the auxiliaries and eight of our ten cohorts steal a few hours’ sleep while the engineers toiled away. After all, it wasn’t as though launching the catapults required the same energy as a legionary did to charge up a mountain and storm a fort. After giving the Thracians their orders I even caught a couple of hours’ sleep myself, though missing Salonina’s company in bed.

  With no Totavalas or slave to dress me, I took some time putting on my clothes and my armour. My fingers fumbled in the dark as I searched blindly for the clasp of my military cloak. By the time I was ready the sun had just cleared the horizon, and the men were waiting. This wasn’t a day for speeches; we had a job to do and if the gods were willing we would do it well. It was snowing gently, but not enough to disrupt my plans. Pansa was waiting with Torquatus, and both men threw me a smart salute.

  ‘General,’ Pansa began, ‘are you aware that the Thracian cohort left the camp last night?’

  ‘Yes, Legate. I ordered them to.’

  ‘Why, sir?’

  ‘Are you questioning my orders, Legate?’

  Pansa apologized hurriedly. ‘Not at all, General. Where have they gone?’

  ‘You’ll soon see. But now I think it’s time to begin the bombardment.’

  A legionary brought Achilles to me. The man knelt down to form a makeshift mounting block. Once in the saddle I clicked my tongue loudly and the stallion began to trot. The engineers were waiting for us. The fort has high up on a shelf that had been carved into the mountain by the locals perhaps centuries ago, protected on either side by great spurs of rock. A solid wall had been built across the gap between them, and no rear wall was necessary; the cliff face behind was sheer and impossible to reach without scaling the spurs, that is if you hadn’t been picked off by a slinger or bowman as soon as your head came into view. No, a full frontal assault was the only way my heavy infantry could hope to breach that place, and the ground in front would be a killing zone.

  The chief engineer, with deep grey bags under his eyes, stood proudly by his machines.

  ‘Permission to report, General?’

  ‘Granted.’

  ‘As you’re aware, sir, we haven’t the means to break down that wall with just the two onagers, but if we’re lucky we might batter down the gate within a day or two. If we don’t run out of ammunition that is…’

  ‘But shouldn’t you have unlimbered the catapults further up the hill on our side, rather than down here on the valley floor?’ Pansa asked.

  ‘Normally we would, sir. But if we’re trying to thin their numbers we need our missiles to arc high into the air and drop down into the fort. From a flatter trajectory and further away the target size would be massively reduced. If the shot was high enough to pass over the gate it would continue right into the cliff behind and not hurt a fly. Down here we can launch the shots into the sky above them and let them fall into the fort itself.’

  ‘And you’re ready to begin?’

  ‘We’re waiting for the word, General.’

  ‘Fire away then.’ The engineer nodded, then barked out a string of orders. Like a pack of hounds when the huntsman calls, his men sprang into action. Some began to wind and winch the ropes, their tension giving the onager its power. Others fetched the ammunition, clay balls filled with some noxious substance from the East, designed to burst into flames on impact. The slings were readied, the axles checked, the chief engineer had one last look to make sure the aim was right. Then he was handed a heavy-looking hammer. Taking careful aim, he knocked out the firing pin of the first catapult.

  Suddenly the machine sprang into life. The ropes unravelled faster than the eye could see and the missile was flung high into the air. The onager’s arm smashed into a sack of chaff secured to the axle, meant to soften the blow of the savage donkey kick which gave the machine its name. All eyes were fixed on the clay ball as it arced high into the sky until it was little more than a dark drop in a sea of blue. We saw the explosion before we heard it, a burst of flame and smoke no more than twenty paces short of the wall. Then came the noise, a burning and spitting sound like I’d never heard before.

  The engineer mumbled something about the wind, but no one really heard him, and if they had they wouldn’t have said anything anyway. It was testament to the man’s skill that he had come so close with his first attempt. That attempt was the marker, and two men were already winching the second onager for the next shot, but with an added half-turn for extra power. The next missile went soaring upwards, and the man who had not slept as he prepared his machines through the night smiled in anticipation. This time there was no spurt of flame, but we heard the explosion and the screams from the fort. At once the legionaries cheered, 5,000 men cheering themselves hoarse that first blood had been spilled.

  ‘Congratulations, man! An excellent shot,’ I complimented the officer.

  ‘Thank you, sir. Come on, lads, we have the range now. Let’s give it to ’em!’

  It took a good few minutes to reload each onager, and to begin with the men cheered every hit. Hits were a rare occurrence though, and we soon began to run out of ammunition. But suddenly a flash of orange came darting across the sky that was certainly no clay ball. The Thracians were in position.

  ‘Now we’ve softened them up, it’s time to advance. If you would,
Pansa?’

  Pansa gave the signal to the trumpeter, who blew some piercing staccato notes into the chilly air. The first cohort took hold of the scaling ladders. One of the men held Achilles by the bridle as I dismounted.

  ‘Look after him with your life, understand me?’

  ‘Yes, General.’

  The first cohort, twice the size of the other nine and thick with veterans, would lead the assault. Pansa and I walked to join the second cohort. We would march with them up the slope. The men had to see that their commander would face death with them, and each man grinned on observing that his trouser-clad general would be joining the assault. We stood, Pansa and I, a good ten paces ahead of the men.

  ‘Nervous?’ I asked.

  ‘With respect, sir, I’ve been a legate longer than you’ve been in the army.’

  I saw the man was blowing a steady stream of misty breath as he prepared himself for the battle ahead. ‘I was joking, Pansa.’

  ‘Personally, I don’t think the battlefield is a place for jokes, sir.’ His brown eyes bored into mine. Gone was the over-confident, dismissive legate. This was a general about to lead his men into battle, not someone who could make light of death.

  ‘You’re right, Legate. I meant no offence.’ He briefly smiled his acceptance before murmuring a quick prayer. Whether it was to Mithras, a family god, it didn’t matter. It is comforting to believe there might be a god or goddess up there who’s watching out for us, but I didn’t join him in his prayers.

  When he had finished, I said quietly: ‘They’re your men, Pansa. It’s your order to give.’

  ‘Rapax! For the glory of Rome,’ he cried.

  ‘For the glory of Rome,’ they echoed. I drew my sword and kissed the pommel for luck. Just as the engineer fired another volley, we began to march.

  The fortress mocked us from its height, the grey crags looming above, waiting. We tramped forward at a steady pace, not wanting to slip on the precarious slope or wear ourselves out before the assault began. I could just make out the men on the walls; perhaps a hundred bowmen, maybe more. I counted the seconds in my head. It had been five minutes since the dart of orange in the sky. The archers waited, watching as we marched into range. The slope grew steeper, and I could hear puffs of exertion from the men behind as they climbed in their heavy armour. Pansa and I were more fortunate, our armour being lighter and more decorative, though once in the thick of battle I know which armour I would rather wear.

  Six minutes, seven, the archers were drawing back their bow-strings ready for their first volley. A missile from the valley below smashed on to the parapet, knocking a couple off their perch and wounding several more. There would be no more explosions after that, for fear that we would be hit by our own catapults. The remaining archers loosed their arrows, a small cloud of them sailing into the air.

  ‘Testudo!’ Pansa called, and the two of us crouched down as the men behind rushed to protect us with their shields. The men ahead had dropped their ladders so that they could use both hands. The shafts whistled and thudded into the tortoise formation, and some cries of pain behind proved that a few had found their mark. With grim determination, the men lowered their shields and marched on. Eight minutes. The snow-covered grass gave way to scree, and there were yelps of surprise when a man lost his footing and came tumbling down. We heard the thwang of bowstrings being released, and the men instinctively formed a shell of shields. But to protect Pansa and me the legionaries immediately behind us had to leave a gap between the tops of their shields and the roof of the testudo behind them, leaving themselves exposed. As an arrowhead punched through the shield, stopping within a hand’s breadth of my face, there was a sickening squelch as my defender was pierced through the neck. His blood, warm enough to make you retch, spattered my cheek and shoulder. Pansa’s man too was down, and the two of us automatically threaded our left arms into the now vacant arm-straps and joined the men in the front rank. There would be no gap in the formation for the next volley.

  By now I had lost count of time, but we were close enough to make out the faces of those behind the parapet, and to see the elaborate carvings on the gates. The artillery fire had stopped now that the first cohort were less than forty paces from the walls. But then we heard the clattering of steel and fearsome war cries from inside the fort. The archers turned to fire their next tranche of arrows at an unseen enemy inside the fort, and the assault party took advantage of the Helvetii’s distraction. They rushed to lean the ladders against the wall. Within moments there were three of them up, no, four or five. More went up with every second. The archers were already reloading, and they were soon joined by warriors armed with swords and shields of their own. The men were climbing now, one had almost reached the top before a few men on the wall grabbed the top of the ladder and gave it a mighty heave so that it fell back on to the men beneath, the climber lost in the mass of men. Again the archers turned to fire inwards as the swordsmen dealt with the ladders.

  Suddenly, the mighty gates creaked, a chink of light escaping between the two doors. Most of the first cohort were too busy either climbing the ladders or at the bottom holding them in place to stop the tribesmen from pushing them to the ground again.

  ‘Second cohort, to the gate!’ I cried. We sprinted forward, streaming past the men of the first cohort, and put our shoulders to those heavy doors. Dropping my shield, I used my free hand to push against the frosty wood. My arm slipped on the smooth surface, a couple of savage splinters driving into my forearm, but slowly the doors began to yield. The gap was soon big enough for a man to slip through, but out of nowhere a sword appeared, scything down on to the head of our foremost man. The dented helmet saved his life, but the impact sent him crumpling to the floor. The next man rammed his shield high into the gap and with his gladius stabbed beneath it, straight into the legs of his enemy. The air was rent with bellowing and wailing. I could even make out the cries of women and children.

  With an almighty heave the doors gave way, and we poured into the gap. The scene was pure carnage. The Thracians were in among the enemy, not in the semblance of a battle formation but each man fighting as an individual. Up above and to the sides you could see the ropes they had used to clamber down the mountain and into the fort. Backed into a corner were dozens of women and children, screaming in fear, their husbands and fathers too busy fending us off to defend their families.

  A desperate group charged straight for us; the tallest of them, seeing my silver armour and plumed helmet, launched himself at me. Raising my shield horizontally I jabbed the man in the stomach. He bent double, vomiting, so I took a quick step forward and hacked down, only for my sword to be blocked by a young boy with a spear. There was a terror and a rage in those blue eyes, but the lad had overreached himself so I struck him hard on the temple with my elbow. The boy collapsed, senseless. The older man dropped his sword at once and looked to the boy, plainly his son.

  Before I could decide whether to leave them or not, I was knocked over by something heavy. Dazed, I saw it was the body of an archer, flung from the walls by one of my men. The tribesman saw me trapped beneath the corpse, and picked up the sword again. There wasn’t even time to think. Desperately I tried to roll the body off me, but the man froze, sword high above his head. I watched a trickle of blood run from his mouth, then I saw the spear point that jutted out of his bruised belly. He fell to his knees, dribbling and gurgling, then the spear twisted savagely and was yanked out. The tribesman collapsed. Behind him, clutching a bloody spear, was one of my men, a giant of a man. Seeing my general’s uniform, he instinctively saluted, even with all the carnage around us.

  ‘Never mind the salute, get this damn corpse off me!’ I shouted.

  The soldier called to a friend to watch his back, and only then did he bend down to help roll the dead weight off me. I grasped his arm and levered myself up.

  ‘Are you all right, General?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m alive, that’s the important thing. I reckon you’ve just earn
ed yourself a promotion, legionary.’

  The man grinned.

  We were interrupted by a distant blast, one long calling note across the morning air. I’d recognize that sound anywhere.

  ‘It’s the legions. Quintus has brought the army.’ Others heard me and took up the cry: the army from Mogontiacum was here. Any fight left in the tribesmen evaporated immediately. They flung down their arms, their spirit broken. Pansa found me, a small gash on his cheek showing that he had had a close call too.

  ‘Still alive, Legate?’ I asked.

  ‘Still alive, sir. Though some bugger came close to taking my eye out. I took his guts out instead.’

  ‘Well done. Now to find that bastard Alpinus.’

  Thankfully he was alive, one of perhaps a hundred survivors, not counting the women and children. He stood there, proud and unbending. A centurion was busy tying his hands, and I gestured him to bring the traitor to me in the centre of the fort.

  He looked at me, his gaunt face a picture of loathing.

  ‘Just kill me quickly,’ he said.

  ‘Kill you?’ I said, loud enough for all the men to hear. ‘It’s the emperor who will decide your fate, but first you have a debt to repay.’

  ‘What debt?’ he asked, his brow furrowed.

  ‘You severed the hands of men who had never done you any harm. Now we’re going to return the favour.’ The men chuckled appreciatively. Justice had to be done.

  The centurion punched Alpinus hard in the stomach, then forced him to his knees. There were any number of volunteers to do the job. The officer chose one of them, the brother of one of the wounded men I found out later, and he stepped forward, tossing his sword from one hand to the other, a grim smile on his face.

  I’ll say one thing for Alpinus, bastard that he was: he took his punishment well. Unprompted, he held out his arms. Down came the blade, out gushed the blood, and the men roared their approval. The centurion dragged Alpinus towards some fragment of a clay ball that still burned brightly. The stumps were forced into the flame to cauterize the wounds. The stench of burning flesh and the blood-curdling scream were enough to make my stomach turn, but then I knew something of the pain.