Knight of Rome Part II

by Malcolm Davies

  The bridge over the ditch proved an irresistible attraction. The attacking force merged into a wedge with its narrow point heading straight for it. As they crowded together, the Roman artillery began to punish them. The basket-tubes spun at their apex dropping stones that broke collarbones, arms, feet or killed with a head-strike. The scorpions bowled men over, sometimes two at once. The uphill run was taking its toll on tired legs and they slowed making things even easier for the artillerists. Eventually, the survivors were so close to the walls that neither the ballistas nor the scorpions could depress their sights low enough to fire down on them. But now sling bullets buzzed around their ears like angry hornets and arrows tore through shields and armour.

  But on they ran, or jogged now, fighting for breath, over the bridge, less than forty paces from their goal. Some had tried to leap the ditch and were clutched ankle-deep by the clinging mud of the bank where they floundered; soft targets. The javelins now fell on them like October rain. Not one of them lived to touch either the wall or the gate. The slow and the laggards looked into the abattoir the ground at the foot of the Roman walls had become and turned their backs to the jeers of their own people. They may as well have died under the arrows and javelins, for their lives were now over. Their places in the assembly of warriors were lost. They were forever shamed.

  Titus Attius bellowed for a ceasefire and turned to Quadratus for further orders.

  “It would seem that our enemies have enjoyed themselves enough for one day. Send some men out and carry the bodies to the far side of the ditch. Do not fling them about and put them down neatly. Retrieve every missile that is re-usable. Someone fetch me Decurion Otto Longius.”

  An hour later, six-hundred bodies lay on their backs along the far side of the ditch. Their arms were by their sides and their legs straight with the ankles together. Hundreds of others were scattered across the slope further down where they had died. The Porta Praetoria opened again and two figures rode out. Quadratus’ armour had been polished and his red cloak fell from his shoulders and spread evenly over his horse’s rump. Beside him rode Otto in his parade armour mounted on Djinn. He carried the legate’s personal flag. The gate closed behind them and they walked as far as the end of the bridge over the ditch where they halted. Otto thrust the end of the flagpole firmly into the ground. There they waited. After five minutes during which they neither moved nor spoke, two horsemen cantered towards them from the enemy camp. Behind them others followed on foot but stayed a respectful two-hundred paces back. Helmund and Hulderic pulled up their horses on the far side of the bridge. The two pairs of mounted men looked at each other for a moment then Quadratus spoke.

  “Decurion, tell them that they have until sunset to collect their dead. Our men will not hinder them provided they do not attempt to attack us,.”

  Otto began to translate the legate’s words into his German dialect but Hulderic interrupted him. “Why do you waste words? You know I speak your language.” Otto carried on as if he had heard nothing.

  “I also speak your tongue,” Helmund said when Otto had finished.

  Quadratus nodded his head and began to turn his horse around. This seemed to irritate Hulderic. He felt as if he and Helmund had been summoned, in some manner given an order and were now being dismissed.

  “Is that all you have to say?” Hulderic asked.

  “The noble Legate Publius Quadratus has nothing to say to you, man. He knows you to be a liar and a bearer of false tokens,” Otto replied, according to the instructions he had been given and pulled the flagpole out of the turf.

  They trotted back into their camp as the two Marcomanni made their way back to their own lines.

  A large troop of the Marcomanni including some women, all unarmed and carrying green branches as a sign of peace, removed the bodies. The soldiers on the parapet watched keenly for any sign of treachery but remained silent.

  “I’m surprised the legate made that offer to the enemy; to let them retrieve the bodies of their dead,” Soranus said as some of the officers sat enjoying a flask of wine.

  “Why?” Titus asked.

  “I would have thought they should be left there as a warning to the rest of them.”

  “Well, maybe, but after three days the stench wafting up to our lads on the walkway would be unbearable. This way, they get carted off and we don’t have to dig any burial pits. But it’s political as well. Tribune Fuscus can explain all that to you. He’s noble you see, and understands these things; me, I’m just common. I don’t know nothing about politics,” Titus said.

  Tertius Fuscus raised one eyebrow. “But First Spear Centurion Attius, your rank automatically makes eligible to become a member of the Equestrian Order. You are no longer entitled to call yourself a commoner.”

  “Only if I show sufficient wealth and formally request to be enrolled,” Titus shot back.

  “And there you have it, Soranus. He doesn’t want to let us all know the staggering amount of money he has accumulated over the years.”

  “Not as much as you imagine.”

  “Titus, you have no idea how much money I can imagine!”

  They laughed and clinked wine cups.

  “Give us the benefit of your noble insight, if you please,” Titus requested.

  “Very well,” Tertius began. “The potential Equestrian, First Spear Centurion Titus Attius, is correct when he says our legate has arranged hygienic disposal of the enemy corpses with minimal effort on our part but he has done far more. The Marcomanni mutilated the bodies of our scouts and made a game of their remains. We, the civilized Romans, allow the removal of the enemy dead with dignity, demonstrating our innate superiority. As previously arranged with Quadratus, Otto tells Hulderic that he is a liar, something he cannot deny, while at the same time we keep our word and respect the truce we have proposed. Finally, Otto, obviously a German by birth, appears beside the legate riding that magnificent horse of his and wearing his parade armour; living proof of the advantages of allying oneself to Rome. We end up with the moral upper hand. They have played with our minds for days by doing nothing and letting us fret, now our legate has turned the tables on them. It’s all part of warfare and not the least important part.”

  “See?” said Titus. “All that out of a little chat with the Marcomanni chiefs, marvellous stuff, politics. I wonder exactly how many men they lost today?”

  “All of them,” remarked Otto who had just walked in. He sat down and reached for a wine cup.

  “I don’t think so,” Soranus corrected him. “We estimated one thousand four hundred bodies but around two thousand charged at us.”

  “Yes,” Otto replied. “Those warriors who ran away will have to leave their army now. They challenged us and then were too weak to see it through. They’re disgraced and they won’t fight us again.”

  “Have you told the legate this?” Titus asked.

  “Yes, he was pleased to learn it.”

  “This the victory you promised us is it, Helmund? Hundreds of our young men fallen and nothing to show for it. Where is this great difference under your leadership?” one of the chieftains raged at Helmund, spittle flying out of his snarling mouth and hanging in his beard.

  “I told you clearly that the only way to defeat the Romans is by being as disciplined as they are. I do not remember ordering an attack.

  “Our warriors had to respond to the insult the Romans offered us. Honour demanded it!” another aggrieved clan loudly complained.

  “What insult?” Helmund asked mildly. He was sitting on a bench leaning against the fort wall enjoying what was left of the afternoon’s warmth.

  “They cut down the great Neidhard, champion of many battles, with their arrow machine. They did it to challenge the valour of our army!”

  “No, they killed Neidhard because he was taunting them. I told him it was unwise but he would not listen and now he is dead.”

  “They killed him in a cowardly way, using a sly trick.”

  Helmund sighed and looked at
the angry faces half-surrounding him.

  “Neidhard was a great warrior but he was conceited. He loved acclaim and battle-fame above all. The Romans saw that even though he was so far away and they used his desire for praise to bring him down. They knew he could not resist picking up the arrows and brandishing them and that is how they killed him. They used his weakness against him, we must discover theirs and use it against them.”

  “Neidhard was a better man than you!” a middle-aged, burly warrior growled and pushed forward.

  “Neidhard was a fool who died for nothing and cost me two thousand men,” Helmund replied with a hard edge to his voice.

  “You say he was a fool. I say you are a coward. If you and our whole army had charged today we would have smashed those Romans beneath our axes and spears. But you, you did nothing; you let better men face our enemy while you stood and watched. You are a coward and unfit to lead.”

  Helmund stood up and drew his sword. Men pulled back and made a space between him and his challenger. He stood with his feet the width of his shoulders apart, knees flexed, and waited. The enraged warrior levelled his spear and flew at him. Helmund half-turned to his left and bent his body like a bullfighter. The tip of the spear blade clanked against the chainmail links of his armour and passed by without doing any damage. Helmund pivoted to his right and extended his sword arm. The spearman could not stop his forward momentum. He ran onto the blade which tore through the base of his Adam’s apple. He fell, writhing, and died; coughing and hacking blood from his mouth and gashed throat. Helmund raised his sword above his head.

  “Let this man’s war-band take his body and leave now. I will not enter into the blood-feud with them over this so they must be gone. Anyone else who disputes my right to command, let them also return to their homes. I want nothing of hotheads who refuse to listen to reason.”

  By the next morning, the Marcomanni army was smaller by over four thousand.

  “Light more fires and spread the people out,” Helmund ordered.

  But two of the wagons had been taken by the disenchanted clansmen who had left. The Romans could not see exactly how diminished the Marcomanni were but guessed their number had shrunk considerably.

  “Quarrelling among themselves and deserting; they never learn,” Titus remarked complacently.

  Helmund looked up at the sky. Sheets of high cloud were drifting in out of the west.

  “It will have to be tomorrow,” Hulderic told him quietly. “If we lose as many men in the next day or so, we’ll be so weak the Romans can attack us and pin us against the riverbank”.

  “I know,” Helmund responded. “It looks like it will be overcast tonight and the moon is waning. Call the leaders in.”

  It was a very dark night but not a silent one. The men on the walkways heard thuds and sounds like the squealing of wheels but no-one could make sense of what was going on. The first glimmers of daylight showed them.

  Baulks of timber had been thrown down to reinforce the bridge over the ditch and standing on it was what looked like a shed. It was forty feet long and ten wide, its peaked roof and sides were covered in rawhides, skin-side out, dark with the water that had been flung over them to prevent fire-arrows having any effect. Ranged on either side were fifty, eight feet square log shields, far to heavy for a man to carry in battle, they were propped up on posts leaning back at a slight angle.

  “Well I’ll be buggered, it’s a ram!” Titus exclaimed.

  Inside the shed-like structure, a thirty-foot pointed, pine trunk was suspended on crossbeams. The roof was solid timber for protection against stones being hurled down on it. The side panels were of woven beech hurdles under the hides to lessen the weight; they were not as strong as the roof but they would stop most arrows and sling bullets. Six low wheels were bolted to the interior of the chassis on either side.

  Behind each propped shield, crouched ten men and there were eighty manning the ram under the shelter of the roof. They were too close for the ballistas to play on them and solid enough to withstand a volley of arrows. A mass of warriors was gathering down the hill well beyond the range of the Roman artillery. They were waiting only for the light to improve and a signal to begin the assault.

  Horns sounded and whistles shrilled inside the camp as the legionaries ran to their positions. The officers’ hearts sank although they all retained an impassive expression. If they lost the Porta Praetoria, they were in severe trouble and they knew it.

  Titus saluted the legate, “Preparing to repel sir, all we can do.”

  “Sir, if I may,” Tertius broke in. “I have a better idea. I need five centuries, all our archers and slingers and all the scorpions, if they can be deployed in time; looks like we have five minutes or less.”

  “Proceed, Tribune Fuscus,” Quadratus told him.

  “Right Titus, on me. Cestus! Boxer! I want every available scorpion placed on the parade ground ten feet back from the Ports Praetoria, lined up and aimed dead level. Get them as tight together you can. Corvo! Where is Corvo? Oh, there you are, all your men behind the artillery ready to loose on command. Titus, strong ropes and a century with siege spears, no shields. Other men standing by. You lot,” he pointed at a group of twenty soldiers, “drop your shields and javelins and stand ready to fling the gates open on my signal then close them again.”

  But the ram did not trundle towards the gate. It stood menacing and silent while frantic activity went on only thirty or so paces away behind the camp walls. The defenders had longer than they thought. Helmund was going to attempt to advance in well-spread ranks the full width of the front, leaving a space of four paces between each. Initially, they would march and run only when in range of the Roman missiles. It took a great amount of shouting and pulling men back into place and until he was satisfied, he would not give the signal for the ram to engage.

  It was a well-thought out strategy. The ram would smash the gate, the warriors heaving it would be supported by the others rushing in from behind their fixed protective shields. This elite would fight in the entrance to the camp until the bulk of the army joined them when the Romans would be overwhelmed by superior numbers. For it to work, everyone must be in his place and ready to take his part. The Marcomanni were not used to forming straight lines and keeping the correct distance between them and the next man. Helmund had explained that he could not prevent missiles being fired at them but if they were widely spaced, casualties would be less and each man had some chance of stepping out of the way of an incoming bolt or stone. In theory, they had agreed but now every warrior wanted to be in the front and centre, the place of glory. The minutes were ticking by.

  “They seem to be organising in formation rather than rushing up in a body,” Quadratus shouted down to Tertius on the Via Praetoria below him.

  “Thank you sir. Please shout “Now”, when the front of their ram-housing is one-foot from the gate,” Tertius called back.

  “One-foot away call, “Now”. Understood,” the legate confirmed.

  “Right, explain,” Titus demanded.

  “You put the idea in my head,” “Tertius told him. “You mentioned the Trojan Horse so we are going to reverse it. When they are ready to pound our gates, we fling them open and pour scorpion bolts and arrows the length of their ram killing everyone under the roof. The men with siege spears go in to finish them off and protect the open end while the rest of us throw ropes over the beams and drag it inside. Our spearmen retreat with it. We bang the gates shut and we’re done.”

  “Gods, what a risky manoeuvre,” Titus said.

  “We have nothing to lose. If they force their way inside, we shall all be wading in blood in any case.”

  Titus said nothing in reply but roared out to the centurions and optios of the various groups. He issued a series of precise orders to them and watched them run back to their men and repeat what they had to do. He did not even shout at them for running instead of, “walking at a brisk pace to avoid panicking the men”. His own heart was racing but he stood
calmly holding his vine-staff in both hands behind his back and rocking on his heels, the model of the imperturbable First Spear Centurion.

  Helmund finally got the bulk of his force moving. After only three paces their lines were already bowed and bent but he could expect no better. He signalled to his herald who blew repeated, long horn-blasts. It had taken two hundred men to position the ram overnight. The eighty men under its roof were fresh and the biggest and strongest in the army. They heard the call to engage and put their massive shoulders to the side supports and heaved. Nothing happened. During the time it had rested outside the camp, the wheels had sunk slightly into the ground. They pushed again and this time there was a tremor, a minute forward movement and a falling back. The third time the wheels began to turn, slowly at first and faster as the warriors found and stamped out a rhythm. Sling bullets began to hit the sides and bounce off. A few arrows penetrated a little but did no damage. It grew darker inside as they gate came nearer and cut off the light. The warriors began to chant in unison as they rolled towards fame. The adrenalin rush of coming battle flowed through their veins.

  Up on the walkway, Quadratus yelled, “Now”.

  The darkness changed to a widening band of brightness as the two leaves of the gate folded back in front of them. In the growing rectangle they saw scorpion crews and archers just feet away. They began to loose their arrows as soon as they had a target. At point blank range, the scorpion bolts transfixed two or three men with one strike. There was nowhere to hide from the arrow-storm in that enclosed hell. Within seconds, Helmund’s shock troops were sprawled, dead or dying, in a what had become a charnel house. A whistle blew, the artillery pieces were dragged out of the way and the archers fell back. The eighty proud warriors who had been destroyed were replaced by an equal number of legionaries who ran in with eight-foot broad-bladed spears. They thrust at the Marcomanni, irrespective of whether they were completely dead or not and formed a hedge of spear points at the open rear of the ram housing. A second whistle, ropes were flung over any convenient beam or projection. Three-hundred legionaries and officers jostled for a place on them, grabbed and hauled. The legionaries within retreated with it and, once it was fully inside the walls of the camp, the gates were slammed-to. The whole operation had taken less than three minutes. A great shout of triumph echoed off the walls of the camp.