The enemy concealed behind the fixed wooden shields below the Roman walls did not know what to do. They had been told to remain in place ready to charge to the attack when they heard the gates splinter and the victorious war-cry of their comrades manning the ram. There had been no sound of smashing timber and the roar they had heard was not their own men. One of them looked round the side of the logs and fell back with a star-shaped, bloody hole in his forehead where a sling bullet had smashed his skull. They looked back towards their own lines and saw a sight of total confusion. Some were running forward, others retreating. The chieftains were shouting and waving their arms about. Gradually, order was restored and the army retired. This left them in an impossible position. If they ran back, they would be brought down like hares by the archers but if they stayed, the legion might sally out in force and annihilate them. The logs they crouched behind gave them their only security and none of them was inclined to leave it.
“A good beginning to our day’s work, gentlemen, but we are not yet finished. We have to do something about those men hiding at the foot of our walls,” Quadratus said.
“The First Cohort marches through the Porta Praetoria, sir and wipes them out. Simple and effective,” Attius suggested.
“I have no doubt that they could not resist you more than a few minutes, First Spear Centurion Attius but, so far, we have not lost a single Roman life although, sadly two of our scouts have been killed. Let me rephrase so no disrespect is shown to our auxiliary cavalry as none is intended. We have lost no-one in battle. I would like to maintain that happy state. It will depress the enemy’s spirits to think that so many of them have fallen while we remain unharmed. Boxer, you have studied the books the Emperor sent you; Cestus, you have been at this game a long time. Come up with something between you,” the legate responded.
They looked at each other with a resigned expression and wandered about staring at their artillery pieces, muttering together and occasionally scratching triangles and arcs in the dirt with a stick. Then they both stood with their backs to the gate and paced the length of the parade ground to the far end, twice. The artillerymen were ordered to drag a ballista to the cross they had marked on the ground just inside the Porta Decumana opposite the Porta Praetoria. Cestus had ammunition brought up while Lucius returned to the legate and saluted. He pointed to Cestus in the distance.
“We believe we have the range to lob a missile over the gate from there sir. I’ll need the entire front wall cleared just in case of error. Oh, and Corvo’s century standing by and the loan of a whistle….”
“Here,” said Titus, “take this one.”
Lucius stood alone on the walkway over the gate. He had removed the scarf he used to stop his armour chafing his neck and tied it to an arrow-shaft. This was his signalling flag. He raised it horizontally in both hands and brought it down sharply. Cestus fired. The twenty- pound stone with which it was loaded left the slide and hurtled up into the air to crash into the parapet three feet from Lucius. The whole wall vibrated with the shock and a burst of splinters flew off, one spiking Lucius in the forearm. He grunted at the pain but ignored it for the moment. He flapped his flag in one hand indicating that they must adjust for height. He waited patiently, picking at his splinter while the ballista was being tautened and reloaded. This time the missile screamed over his head and thudded into the turf two paces short and three to the left of one of the log refuges. Lucius signalled, Cestus fired and missed again, and the next time and the next. The sixth shot hit the top edge of a log shield shattering it. The shocked men who had been hiding behind it, extricated themselves and ran for their lives, leaving behind them one dead and two injured comrades. Cestus and his crew had their line now and every other shot hit its target. When nine had been toppled over or smashed into firewood, the Germans ran out of all of them, damaged or not. Lucius blew his whistle. Corvo and his men jogged up onto the walkway and began to cut down the fleeing figures. Of the original five hundred warriors, one hundred and twenty reached safety.
Chapter 5
It was not yet noon. The Romans had completed their clean-up operation. The enemy bodies had been moved to the other side of the ditch but this time they were left in an ignominious heap of tangled and bloody torsos and limbs. The undamaged log squares they had attempted to use for the protection of their advance force were dragged into the camp so that nothing of any use was left. The soldiers were grinning. They admired Tertius even more now, in spite of him remaining a cold and remote figure. They loved a clever trick that deceived an enemy above everything and the business of stealing the Marcomanni battering-ram was the best they had ever heard of, let alone witnessed.
Around the table in the officers’ mess, faces were jubilant at the midday meal. Quadratus was cautiously pleased.
“This Helmund is a formidable opponent. From his strategy so far, it is clear to me that he is attempting to use our own methods against us. However, he lacks both the technology and the disciplined troops to match his ambition. We must not fail to remain wary of him.”
A legionary was admitted with news from the centurion commanding the guard on the north walkway. Quadratus read the wax tablet.
“It would appear that a considerable number of the enemy are passing back over the Rhine. Good news, but we do not know the precise number,” he said.
Attius looked at him with an unvoiced question. The legate read his thoughts and smiled.
“Yes, Titus, I am considering engaging them on the riverbank. Let us prepare and stand by to attack tomorrow if they have lost enough men today and overnight. I am unwilling to commit to battle without cavalry support on our flanks if we are outnumbered by three to one. Below that, we should be able to handle them.”
“But we have our secret weapon, sir,” Titus replied, “the genius of Senior Tribune Tertius Fuscus. I salute you.” He raised his wine cup to Tertius. The others followed suit.
Tertius smiled modestly. “Hardly genius; a simple application of logic. We could not destroy their ram. Their ram could not be allowed to destroy our gate. Therefore temporarily remove the gate and the ram cannot destroy it. Let us not forget the contribution of our artillery officers, practical mathematics to the rescue!”
“Indeed not,” said Quadratus, “how is the arm today, Boxer?”
“Fine, sir” Lucius lied. It was throbbing under the linen bandage he wore on his forearm. The splinter had gone in too deep for it to be removed with forceps alone so the medical officer had cut with a scalpel while his orderly pulled at the exposed end. They had poured salt and vinegar into the wound to disinfect it. The nagging pain had kept him awake most of the night. “I’ve had an idea about protecting our flanks sir, if we go for them tomorrow…”
“Come on then, Boxer, what have you thought up now?” Titus asked.
“Well, Principal Decurion Longius has thirty cavalry. Suppose we divide our archers and slingers into two groups and mount eight scorpions on carts. We can have sixty missile troops, four scorpions and their crews on each wing of the legion. If the archers are pressed back by the enemy, the cavalry can protect the artillery.”
“Well worth considering, Tribune Longius. No doubt First Spear Centurion Attius will give it more thought,” Quadratus told him.
“It will be difficult to get the men into formation fast enough,” Tertius commented. “We have only that one bridge over Boxer’s Canal.” As his ditch was now universally called by the men.
“But we’ve got lots of those log efforts they tried to hide behind. We could fasten them together in pairs. Should be alright and we’d get nearly a score of crossing points….” Titus told him.
Quadratus slightly raised his voice. “You are all speaking as if a general engagement is certain. Please remember, I will not make my decision until I have a clearer picture of the enemy’s strength.”
Helmund was not facing furious opposition this time. No-one hurled abuse at him or challenged him. They avoided making eye-contact and said nothing. It was
as if he had become unclean, a pariah, to many of the chieftain. He retreated into the fortress and sat alone brooding. He knew as well as Quadratus did that this was becoming a numbers game. It always was when fighting the Romans. In the open, their superior arms and tactics made them favourites even if the odds were four to one against them. He knew they had no cavalry but if his army shrank much below ten thousand, they would come for him and with only one Rhine crossing at his back, his people would be massacred.
The attack for which he had so carefully prepared for days had ended not in failure but in humiliation. In a few minutes, all the work building his devices and the ideas behind them had been blown away like a dandelion clock on the softest breeze. He was coming to the painful conclusion that the Romans were too good at what they did for he and his men to best them playing to the same rules. Late in the afternoon, Hulderic entered with a platter of cold meat and bread. He left the door open behind him. In the shaft of light that streamed in, Helmund saw a stream of warriors, some with their womenfolk, crossing the bridge back they way they had come. Their heads hung low, their shoulders were slumped and they carried their weapons despondently. They were defeated; yet again.
“How many?” he asked Hulderic who squatted down beside him.
“Three, four thousand, more by morning. This time tomorrow you will no longer have an army and you will never raise another one.”
“Bring me some ale then leave me. I need to think,” Helmund said.
He ate and drank He stood up and stretched then walked out into the golden, afternoon light. He stood in an open space, drew his sword and holding it over his head, he addressed his people.
“No more of this. No more behaving like they do with their deceit and machines and twisted, southern minds. We are Marcomanni. If we are challenged, we rise up and face whoever dares oppose us. If we see an enemy in front of us, we rush on him and bring him low. Tonight I go to attack the Roman camp. Dawn will bring them spears and axes. I shall spill Roman blood or I die where I stand but I shall die like a warrior and songs will be sung about my ending in the ale-halls. Who is with me?”
Many had looked up while he spoke only to turn back to their packing or stare down at their feet when he was finished. But some got to their feet and went to him, only a few at first. As the group around Helmund swelled, others glanced hesitantly at their companions and walked over to the growing war-band. Close to a thousand warriors still had faith in him. Helmund surveyed them with grim satisfaction. They were enough. If they succeeded, waverers would follow.
“Eat, rest; we go at sunset,” he told them and stepped over to the wagons with Hulderic to pick up the equipment they would need.
In the long gloaming as the sun sank over the abandoned farmsteads to the west, Helmund left his camp followed by his volunteers. Their shadows danced long in front of them as they made their way eastwards towards the forest edge.
No matter how forcibly Quadratus warned against complacency, the legionaries and the inexperienced among the junior officers believed they had already won. The men were thinking about what they were sure would be the decisive battle to come the next day. The sentries still looked out over the dark land but their minds were elsewhere and they stopped for quick, illicit talks with their comrades. Nothing was lax, no-one left their post but the legion had lost its sense of being in danger. The huge mass of Marcomanni that had appeared so threatening at first had been thrashed on the two occasions they had dared to attack. Tomorrow, would bring an end to them.
Twenty of Helmund’s men crawled through the bracken from tree-stump to tree-stump down the steep incline towards the north-east corner of the camp. When the sentries on the walkway approached, they froze. When the soldiers turned their backs to patrol in the other direction, they advanced. Once at the bottom of the hill, one of the warriors cupped his hands and made the churring sound of a nightjar. At that signal, another forty men who had been waiting half-way up, began their cautious descent with others breaking out of the skirts of the forest behind them.
The sentry reached the end of his beat at the corner of the northern wall and turned. A loop of rope flipped up over one of the hundreds of wooden posts that together formed the walls. Where it caught was in the deeper shadow cast by the floor of the ballista tower ten feet above. A silent, naked man, his face and body blackened with charcoal-dust, swarmed up the knotted rope and crouched against the parapet. A second man flowed like ink over the wall and squatted beside him. The legionary on guard reached the far end of his designated length of walkway, turned and began to walk towards them. He was looking out into the distance and never saw the man who rose up like a dark wraith at his feet until crushing fingers grabbed his throat. He was unable to make a sound, staring into the white eyes of his killer as life faded from him and other hands gently lowered him to the wooden walkway. The nightjar called again. More ropes were thrown, more men scrambled up them, grabbing at spears and axes and shields passed from below. There were over a dozen of them now. The guard on the eastern wall saw movement and came nearer, unable to believe his eyes He fell dead to a thrown axe that smashed into his face. He dropped his shield which slid down the earth slope below the walkway onto the parade ground but it did not make enough noise to alert anyone. Twenty of the enemy were within the walls when the alarm sounded. They prepared to defend their comrades still climbing in. A grapnel attached to a stout cable was hooked over the parapet. Unseen hands hauled on it from below. The sound of digging was heard as mattocks cut into the earth at the base of the wall. As long as their fellows already inside could defend this corner of the rampart, they could work without having spears and stones thrown down on them.
The sun rose over the eastern, ridge suffusing the camp in a steely, grey light. The invaders were now clearly visible. Whistles and horns sounded, legionaries tumbled out of their barracks or ran up onto the walkways and rushed to the threatened corner. Viewed from the parade ground, two groups of men were locked in fatal struggles on both the east and north walls. The Romans still had the advantage of their superior arms but they were fighting man to man on a narrow platform. The Marcomanni spears held them at bay out of the reach of their short swords and as more men poured in over the corner of the walls, they were forced back.
Titus Attius took in the situation in one rapid glance. It was essential that the Germans did not fight their way to the gates. If they did, it was possible they could unlock them from the inside with catastrophic results. He called the nearest thirty men to him and ran closer to the base of the wall.
“Javelins, loose,” he roared.
The heavy javelins smashed through the flimsy shields the warriors carried and several fell. Then things took a turn for the worse, as far as Titus and his men were concerned. The invaders noticed the chests of stones. One at first, and then a few more, began to shower them on the legionaries below. They clanged off helmets and dazed the men who lifted their shields high to protect their heads. This left their legs and feet exposed and very soon they were forced to withdraw out of range.
With a groan, the first post of the wall was wrenched out of position. It canted outwards at an angle like a half-pulled loose tooth. Axes played on the bindings holding it to its neighbours and it fell free into the external ditch with a shower of earth as its part of the rampart was destabilised and collapsed. The grapnel was transferred to the next and it fell with less effort, and another and another. There were now two hundred Marcomanni in the camp. They began to leap off the walkways and fight on the parade ground and Via Praetoria, inching towards the gate.
The Roman defence was faltering. Their strength lay in their ordered and mutually supportive ranks when facing an enemy but this battle was a disorganised melee. A century would try to form up and act together only to find that a warrior had hurled himself on them from behind. Some legionaries were forced to turn to deal with this threat, exposing their backs to others coming in from the front. One quarter of the camp interior was soon full of frantic men
thrusting with spears and swords. Axes hooked over shield-rims to drag them aside exposing legionaries to spears, others split helmets and heads, lopped hands and arms. Screams, curses and war-cries blended together into a discordant pandemonium. The stink of sweat, blood and spilt bowels hung like an invisible miasma over the struggling combatants.
Titus stood back, panting. His sword and vine-staff were both dripping with blood. An axe stroke had carved away half his left-hand shoulder protection. The steel and leather hung against his chest, swinging as he moved. As he surveyed the battle, he recognised the pattern underlying the apparent chaos. Quadratus came over and stood beside him.
“What next, Titus?” he asked in a casual tone.
“I see our way through this now, sir. When we regain control of that corner, we can pinch this mob off and deal with them. Double pronged attack on the walkways and containment down here,” he turned away and yelled for Corvo. The centurion doubled over to him and saluted.
“Are your men engaging the enemy?” Titus asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Withdraw them at once and get them to me with their slings and bows. Send one of them to bring me Boxer.”
Lucius arrived red-faced and blood smeared.
“What are you doing?”
“Trying to organise our left to keep them back from the Porta Praetoria.”
“Let Cestus take over and….”
“No more Cestus sir, spear,” Lucius said blankly.
“Very well, leave it to me. Find Otto. Half his men on the east wall half on the north. Drive those bastards back and hold that corner.”
Knight of Rome Part II Page 7
