Turning back he heard the first calls from the walls of Faleria, men were throwing their slings at the attacking bowmen and other men were rushing to the ditches to fill in the last few feet of their defensive trenches. The clatter of stones on wood and the thrum of archers going about their killing routines began and Marcus grinned. A great cheer came from the walls as two men fell under a hail of arrows and stones, their bodies jerking as they were hit simultaneously from all sides, their small cries of pain were instantly drowned by the crescendo of noise from, firstly, the walls and then cries of ‘For Rome’ from the deep phalanxes of men standing waiting to attack the city.
****
At last the defensive ditches were filled. It had taken nearly an hour and the Roman’s had lost a number of men as they risked their lives under the hail of stones and arrows to fill them and lay as many planks or logs across the detritus inside for the soldiers to clamber across as they could.
Men ran forwards, shields raised above heads, hands holding long ladders for the attack on the walls as another hail of stones clattered onto the broad Roman wood. Marcus remained just out of slingshot and arrow range and watched the men as they danced over the ditches and slammed the ladders against the walls, moving like ants up the ladders, quickly and in single file, as they had been trained to do. Nine ladders lurched with men, each precariously balanced against the parapet and each one filled with shouting men, the Roman lines standing watching, urging them on as their blood started to heat at the chance to run into the city and begin the killing.
Something nagged in Marcus’s mind. The number of defenders at the wall had seemed light, Rufus agreeing with his thoughts that morning, and for each man that fell it seemed no new defender sprang to his post. He stared intently at the walls, his eyes searching the attack and his mind considering the lengthy discussions with his officers and the interpretation of Mella’s scouting message. Why were the walls not as heavily manned as the Romans expected? He glanced behind at his marching camp, seeing Potitus standing at the gates watching the action in front of him, his steely gaze watching dispassionately, as was his way.
Looking back at the city, on the right wall men were falling into the crowd of attackers below, the ladders gaining no purchase as the defenders shot arrows into the melee below and dropped large boulders onto the heads of the climbing men. Marcus frowned. This was going to be a bloody battle, he thought, his mind running along the actions at the wall and looking for any advantage he could glean. But inside he had a nervous feeling. He gripped the wooden Eagle on the cord around his neck anxiously. On the left a Roman gained the walkway, a sudden cheer going up from the front rank as he hacked his sword into three Falerians whose helmeted heads appeared to block his path. Within seconds the man’s dead body was ejected over the wall, the lifeless form crushing two men at the base of the ladder he had climbed up only minutes before. His death had bought time for his comrades though and two more were already on the parapet, the men on the ladder to the left of this also suddenly gaining ground as the defenders rushed to support the breach beside them.
“Attack” called Marcus, his sword swinging to the left and calling forward Narcius and his first century of Eagles.
As he ran forwards he was passed by the fitter legionaries, their eyes fixed on the ladder and the brighter men also watching the walls for arrows and stones. Narcius eased past his commander and screamed at the soldiers at the ladder to climb or be killed by his own sword, his angry voice causing a skirmish amongst those holding back from the climb as they forced themselves upwards. Grabbing the first rung Marcus hauled himself up, his shield slung across his left shoulder and his sword gripped tightly in his right hand. He felt the elation of battle overtake him as he pumped his legs to climb the short ladder, his eyes darting left and right as he came to the top of the climb and leapt over the low parapet to land in a pile of thick blood, the floor already slippery from the death that preceded him.
“Here” called the voice of Narcius as he stepped into a lunge and pushed his sword through the chest of a thin, grey haired, Falerian, his bow slung over his shoulders and his long blade hanging uselessly in his hands as his attempt to swing the blade in the small space on the walkway failed him.
Marcus looked behind him, they had the wall along the parapet, the Romans scurrying into the city like a nest of ant’s intent on destroying anything in their path. He glanced into the orderly streets below him, empty of life, doors open and roads silent. As Narcius and his men sliced through the small knot of defenders Marcus turned and looked out across the open fields below the walls, the Roman phalanxes cheering the men who had gained access to the city, and behind them the marching camp. He grinned as he saw a flash of movement in the trees and waved to Potitus, his reply the wave of the red cloak they had agreed as the signal.
“Centurion” shouted Marcus as Narcius stood watching the men dart into the city as they had planned, groups of eight men heading into houses intent on searching for hidden soldiers.
“Sir” came the reply as Narcius stepped forwards. “It looks like you were right” he said with a grin, a speck of blood dripping from the side of his face. “These men were nothing but the suicide squad to draw us in. The attack was too easy.”
Narcius nodded and returned to calling orders to the men around him.
Marcus turned, his heart calming in his chest after the energy of the climb. He had been unsure whether he was correct, but the dead defenders at the walls were not the choice troops of Faleria that he would have expected. Their old faces, thin arms and cheap armour showing that they were probably the old and sick as he had expected. The report from Mella had said a thousand men were marching towards their rear and Marcus had thought that this number would be more than half the people who lived in this city. The rest were mostly women, children and old men and must have fled when their scouts had warned of the approach of the Roman army.
The sudden clash of swords in the city pulled his attention below him. The last of the walls’ defenders were throwing their swords to the floor and kneeling, begging for mercy as the attackers stood over them and looked up to the walls for orders.
“Keep them as prisoners” Marcus said as he waved to Rufus, standing below with his front three phalanxes of Romans. Rufus waved his sword back and turned to the men around him.
“Form up and move” he called as the Centurions saluted and began to re-organise the men, turning their long spears as the Triarii split and moved aside to create a gap in the middle of the Roman army.
Marcus watched the movement, drilled into the men over the past few hours as he had agreed the plan with Rufus in case his fears were correct. He glanced nervously into the city behind him, still silent, almost eerie in the late afternoon sun and sighed deeply. Narcius moved next to Marcus and saw his action and smiled. “Let’s hope they attack as you planned” he said as he looked out over the scene below. Rufus’s central phalanx had turned and started to march back towards the Roman camp, their spears standing tall as they moved quickly. The two flanking phalanxes were turning more slowly, waiting for the centre to give them space before they fell in behind. Narcius knew that his job was to flush the city and make sure no hidden force remained within its walls. His Eagles were ideally suited to this work, their shorter swords better suited to warfare in tight conditions and high-walled streets.
“There” he said pointing quickly to the tree line directly behind the marching camp as he leant forwards and squinted, his eyes narrow as he leant out over the wall.
“I see it” replied Marcus, his voice cold as he watched Potitus turn and move along the walkway of the fort towards its rear. He held his breath as he watched the trees, his mouth saying words that nobody could hear as he willed the Falerians to appear from the tree line and attack the fort.
****
“Now my lord, they are at the walls. Strike, take the victory and kill these Romans” spat the voice of Mintraxthus’ adviser with his thick beard and greedy eyes.
Mintraxthus held his breath. His city had been taken, the Romans easily scaling the walls as he had expected. He cursed his judgement for sending more than half his forces to attack the Romans at Veii only weeks before this force had been seen approaching the city. Yes he’d had the throat of his augur opened and his blood spilt on the altars across the city, the man had not seen this future and was clearly not beloved of the gods, but was this simply bad luck or was this Camillus truly as blessed as many men said? He clenched his teeth and breathed out slowly, his eyes darting across the scene playing out in front of him. One of the Roman scouts had gotten away from his men a day earlier, but they didn’t think he had returned to the camp as his observers had seen no-one enter the camp from the trees.
He felt the hot breath of Vixurtus beside him, the adviser trying hard to hold his anger, or was it fear, as he continued to look into the plain before his city. The plan was simple, to strike a quick blow at the Roman Camp at the very moment they thought they had beaten Faleria and take all their goods before following the rest of the population to the larger city of Capena. He’d sent all but his three hundred best warriors on the road to their ally, and these men were standing silently in the trees along the roadside behind him. But something was nagging in his gut as the lord of Faleria watched the cursed Romans climb their ladders into his city. Wait. He shifted, lowering his neck as he narrowed his eyes and strained his vision into the distance. There, a flash of blue. He glanced to Vixurtus, his greedy grin showing that he, too, had seen the man climb into the city. Yes, this Camillus was not as gifted as they said, he had fallen for the trick, this would be an easy win for him and his chosen men.
“Start the count” he whispered as the man next to him let out a breath as he said “one, two” and continued. Turning to the officer behind him Mintraxthus raised a hand and pointed towards the camp. “On the order, be prepared and may the gods bless your sword arm and your men’s bravery” he said as he nodded urgently to the eager face of the soldier. As the man left Mintraxthus heard his adviser reach “eleven” and he stared at the Roman camp. He could just make out the gates of the city from his location and he willed them to open, his heart starting to beat faster in his chest as the tension grew. “Fifteen.”
The noise of the Roman advance hit his ears before the dust cloud appeared from the flat land between his city and the Roman camp. Both men glanced at the source of the noise and saw the cloud kicked up by the marching men and grinned, the adviser licking his lips as he turned to his Lord.
“Now my Lord, they march into the city?” asked Vixurtus.
“Now” came the reply.
****
Potitus walked to the rear wall, keeping his head low as he searched the trees behind the fort. The dark forest held only one navigable track upon which an army could march quickly, the smaller tracks through the trees were too narrow with dense undergrowth. The scouts and officers had combed the woods for vantage points, and all had agreed that the only way to attack the camp would be by a direct attack from the main road through the woods. Marcus had spent some time with Rufus and Narcius placing soldiers in small groups in front of the camp and returning to the trees to check the view any attackers would have of the Roman marching columns. Satisfied, he had laid his plans before the officers and all had unanimously agreed. It was risky, but further scouts had seen the Falerian troops marching slowly through the forest towards their rear. Potitus looked back over his shoulder, the men were moving, their preordained marching patterns kicking up the cloud of dust that Marcus said would be needed to fool the Falerians into thinking the march was into the city and not away from it. He grinned. Marcus was clever. At every step he had a plan and a counter movement, and each was discussed and drilled into the officers so that they could not fail but to follow the orders given. The front column of troops were reaching the gates of the city whilst the men in the rear were now turned and facing back towards the camp, their iron-topped spears clearly visible in the sunlight. Was it too early? He whipped his head back to the trees as he heard a sudden clattering noise and the drum of hoof beats as the leaders of the enemy appeared. The first Falerians burst from the trees, teeth clenched and heads low as they ran at the Roman camp, its low palisades seemingly undefended and its gates wide open. Potitus grinned, his eyes moving to the ten feet wide hole in the trees from where the bleached stone and dirt of the road gaped, as he watched he heard the deep-throated screams of men as they charged from the forest and raced the two hundred paces towards the camp.
“To arms, close the gates” called Potitus from the walls, waving his arms theatrically as if he had been caught off guard as he looked along the walls of the camp and nodded to the fifty men sitting waiting, all eyes fixed on his.
The noise of archers standing and driving their arrows into the sky filled the air as the Roman defenders rose from their positions on the walls and, without picking targets, lofted their deadly missiles into the air. The arrows hung in the sky as the attackers instantly split apart and raised their shields.
A scream turned his head to the right as a heavily muscled Falerian crashed into one of the pits that Marcus had had the men dig in the dead of night, the sharp stake fixed into the bottom slicing through the man’s shin and up out of his knee as his lower body crumpled into the trap. Potitus involuntarily winced as he watched the man, half in the pit and half out, scream as his fellow soldiers simply parted and left him in their wake as he thrashed around like some trapped burrowing animal. Arrows thumped into the ground around the thrashing man as others fell to their lethal tips and more Falerians crunched to the floor into the death pits dug by the Romans. Potitus smiled, maybe that first man was lucky, he thought as he watched him attempting to drag his mangled leg from the hole. A sudden sound turned his attention back to the battle.
Marcus had been clear on timings and as expected Rufus and his men were now only one hundred and fifty paces from the camps front walls, their double time march covering the ground so rapidly that the first Falerians to reach the outer walls saw them and were suddenly caught in two minds, some continued to run for the rear gates, thoughts of glory and plunder swaying their better judgement, others stopped and turned their heads looking urgently for their leaders to tell them what to do. The bulk of the Falerian force had cleared the road from the forest, their leaders, easily noticeable by their deeply coloured garments and high quality armour, were thirty paces from the trees, their horses stamping the ground in their desire to charge into the noise of battle ahead of them. As they stared over the heads of the running men their smiles turned to fear as men began to turn and look towards them, some even starting to run back towards the trees.
“Now” muttered Potitus as he stared away to his left and then to the right. “Come on Virginius” he whispered as the archer to his left glanced to him nervously at his commanders words. Noting the reaction Potitus stood taller and smiled at the man “We’ll have them trapped like lambs at the slaughterhouse” he said jovially as the archers laughed, continuing to nock their shafts into their strings and fire into the mass of half standing, half running men below them. His voice betrayed no nerves, but he knew the moment that Virginius should have acted was past – it may be too late for the decisive action to play into the Romans hands he thought. He gritted his teeth and let out a slow breath as his knuckles whitened from his angry balled fists. He knew Marcus would be seething that Virginius had missed the key moment of the battle plan – again!
“Hurrah” came a shout along the walls as the flash of movement from the right tree line dragged his attention back to the dust covered scene in front of him. ‘Lose any of my scorpions Virginius, and you will be paying for them yourself’ thought Potitus as he watched fifty horses bursting from the trees, each horse carrying two men, one holding the precious three legged devices, the other steering the mount with the arrows held firmly across his lap in front of him. The scorpion holders leapt from the horses and flicked the legs open, planting the machine
s heavily into the ground, some pressing hard to get the machines fixed in position as their fellows hammered small stakes into the ground and tied the horses reins to them before running forwards and slicing the ropes from bundles of thick shafted arrows, each one four feet long and three inches thick. Within a few minutes the new arrivals had set up the weapons as the Falerians reached the camps rear gate. Twenty men stood shoulder to shoulder in the gateway, the Eagle motif on their shields as they grinned at the first men to arrive. Spears clunked onto the Roman shields as the Falerians, arriving in threes and fours and launched their weapons from ten yards, none doing any damage to the Roman defenders standing two men deep across the narrow doorway. Arrows rained into the front line of the Falerians, men falling as they screamed and launched themselves into the shield wall of the defenders.
Potitus leant over the parapet, his eyes expertly scanning the scene below the walls. The leading men of the Falerian attack started to bunch at the gates, the Eagles struggling to hold the weight of men back as the press of bodies grew behind them. He cursed, if Virginius had been on time the scorpions would have caused confusion and thinned down the attacking men. A sudden pang of fear hit him as he looked behind and out across towards the city, Rufus’s heavily armoured men were at least two minutes away, maybe three. He looked at the Falerian leaders, their horses dancing in circles as the scorpions cleaved gaping holes in the men around them, the thudding sounds of their launch followed swiftly by deep red spray and guttural screams as men fell to the relentless hail of death. Falerians raced into the trees, others ran to their leaders and were pleading for instructions, the scene was one of terror and mayhem, and Potitus smiled, but he knew the men at the gates were unaware of any of the actions behind them and would soon overwhelm the soldiers bravely holding the gates. There was nothing for it, he had to commit more men to the gates and with a flourish of his own sword he called to the closest archers to follow him down the steep steps to the gate.
The Fall of Veii- Part 2 Page 5
