by Ben Kane
‘That’s the attitude,’ said Philippos, delivering him another mighty buffet. ‘And you, a sixth-ranker and all now. You have a reasonable chance of blooding your sarissa soon.’
Demetrios’ nerves jangled, but he smiled. ‘You’re mad.’
Philippos’ laugh shook the air again. ‘Says the pup who took on two veteran phalangists.’
Demetrios snorted with amusement. He caught Philippos’ eye, and the big man chortled louder. That set Demetrios off. The two of them laughed and laughed until their bellies hurt, and tears ran down their cheeks.
‘What’s so funny?’ Simonides was watching from below.
Demetrios tried to speak, and couldn’t. He pointed at Philippos, who boomed his great laugh again.
‘Fools,’ said Simonides, but he too was grinning.
Even when their laughter came to an end, the good mood remained. It had infected the other sentries; where there had been a grim silence, they were now talking and joking. In the courtyard, where the enemy couldn’t be seen, men were drinking, wrestling and oiling their weapons. The rich smell of cooking mutton rose from the fires.
This is home, thought Demetrios, loving the palpable air of comradeship. He remembered the hardship on Pella’s streets, and the misery of the rowing benches. Both lives were worlds safer than where he stood, but he wouldn’t have gone back to either for every coin in Philip’s treasury.
It took Flamininus’ crews a full day to assemble their catapults and bolt throwers. Another two days passed while the artillery did its best to reduce Atrax’s mighty walls, which were the height of five men and as thick as two lying head to toe. The enemy barrage was a complete failure, because the catapults weren’t powerful enough to damage the defences. One sentry had been slain, but as Simonides said, that was because the fool had spent his time watching the artillery. In the end, a stone had taken his head clean off.
The Macedonian catapults atop the walls had fared better, smashing three of their Roman counterparts. A night attack ordered by the fortress’s commander was even more successful; a dozen artillery pieces were burned with the loss of just a few soldiers. The move was premature, however. The enemy weapons were heavily guarded thereafter, and over the following days, Demetrios and his comrades watched in dismay as dozens of large tree trunks were hauled by mules from the forests nearby. Hundreds of legionaries toiled from sunrise to nightfall, constructing artillery larger than any Macedonian had ever seen. The ammunition they would use, stones each half the size of a horse, promised to do what the earlier used ones had not.
The pair of great catapults – the fact that Flamininus had only ordered two constructed was disquieting, to say the least – were completed almost at the same time, late in the afternoon of the sixth day since the Romans’ arrival. Cheering broke out among the nearest legionaries, while on the walls, a despondent air fell. Antileon, who’d spent days complaining that waiting was worse than what was to come, was uncharacteristically silent. Demetrios asked Zeus to destroy the machines with lightning bolts, but of course he did nothing of the sort. Kimon fell into a black mood.
‘Barbarian bastards,’ he ranted. ‘Roman whoresons.’
‘Calling them names won’t do any good,’ said Simonides, appearing at the top of the nearest ladder.
Kimon muttered a final insult, and fell silent.
Simonides peered at the catapults, which were being loaded. ‘The order’s been given: one man in every four is to remain on the battlements. The rest are to go down to the courtyard.’ He caught Kimon’s questioning look. ‘We’ll suffer fewer casualties up here that way.’
It was a sensible decision, thought Demetrios, who could remember the deadliness of the catapults at Abydos in vivid, bloody detail.
Simonides paced along the walkway, counting and ordering men down. Soon the only ones remaining from the file were Antileon, who was on Demetrios’ left, Empedokles standing on his right, and Simonides further on from him. They were manning half the width of the top of the front wall; four phalangists from another file occupied the other half.
Without warning, one of the enemy catapults loosed. Demetrios was taken off guard; he had been expecting more ceremony. He watched the boulder scythe through the air with horrified fascination. It landed short, smacking into the ground fifty paces before the walls and expending the last of its energy bouncing into the defensive ditch. Once, Demetrios would have jeered at the failure, but now he knew it for a test shot. His stomach churned as the second catapult loosed. Its effort also landed short, but not by as much. The stone had enough power to strike the base of the walls and send chunks of brick flying.
A slight delay ensued as the artillery officers ordered adjustments made to the great weapons. The second volley was better: one stone squarely hit the defences, destroying a section of battlements between Demetrios and Empedokles, while the other landed in the courtyard, killing several sheep. Demetrios’ heart banged an unhappy pattern off his ribs. Remaining where he was felt like asking the enemy to use him as target practice. He had to remain, however. The command had been given; Antileon was here, and Simonides, and the whoreson Empedokles. They were in this together.
Third time around, both stones hit the wall, although not near the four comrades. Splinters of rock flew high; slabs broke off and slid down into the ditch. To Demetrios’ surprise and relief, the barrage ended just like that. He had presumed the fortress would have been pounded until it was too dark to shoot, but as Simonides explained later, delaying further use of the catapults was a deliberate ploy by Flamininus.
‘The clever dog wants us to lie in our blankets, worrying about the morrow. Fear leaches a man’s courage,’ declared Simonides. He glanced at the expectant faces. ‘Which is why we have two sheep roasting on that fire, and some good wine. We’ll pour a libation to Ares, and then we will fill our bellies, and drink a few cups each – no more, mind. The Paean will lift our hearts, and in the morning, we will take whatever those bastards throw at us.’
Despite Simonides’ speech, it was hard to feel enthusiastic about the Roman catapults, and after, the legionaries. Feeling guilty, Demetrios glanced sidelong at his comrades. Philippos looked entirely unconcerned, but that was Philippos. Andriskos was such a good soldier it was impossible to imagine he’d do anything but play his part. Empedokles was chewing his fingernails, while Zotikos was grumbling to another veteran. Kimon and Antileon looked scared, as did most of the rest, but they were nodding their heads at Simonides.
Hold your nerve, Demetrios told himself. Hold your nerve.
Simonides raised his cup high. ‘Mighty Ares, guide our spears tomorrow. Let us die like men.’ He poured, and the wine sizzled as it hit the fire.
Like that, they were on their feet, making their own libations and asking their own requests of the war god. Demetrios replenished each man’s cup from the amphora they had been issued with, and they drank deep. Death seemed certain, but Simonides had made it seem as if Ares was smiling down on them.
A man couldn’t ask for more than that, thought Demetrios.
CHAPTER XLVI
Outside Atrax
It had seemed no one witnessed Felix’s and Antonius’ confrontation with their old centurion in Phaloria – apart from the youth who had stuck Matho with his spear, that was. The chances of him telling a Roman were tiny, but the brothers had hunted for him through the town nonetheless. When they found the youth, his body had been mutilated – they had identified him by his long brown hair. Felix was glad not to have murdered the boy, but he would have done so. Ridding themselves of the malevolent centurion was worth a man’s life, and more.
Matho’s death did not lay their fear completely to rest. The clash had taken place in the midst of a battle, but that didn’t mean no one had seen. In the days following the sack of Phaloria, Felix and Antonius had listened with pricked ears to every conversation. When Pullo interrogated them about what they’d done during the taking of the town, as was his wont after a fight, the brothers had been
sick with nerves.
It all seemed in the distant past now, thought Felix, enjoying the warmth of the rising sun on his face. Pullo hadn’t pried. Matho was gone; their secret was safe. If he could win Pullo’s favour again, a promotion might be possible. Fresh dangers faced the brothers today, but at least it was from the Macedonians. In the Roman lines, morale was high. Not everyone had seen the catapults’ ranging shots the day before, but word had spread how they had, with just three attempts each, caused noticeable damage to the fortress wall. Men said that the great weapons would pulverise the fortifications. After that, the defenders would give up hope. A slaughter would follow the attack, as at Phaloria.
Felix suspected the fight might not be quite so easy, but he still had a good feeling in his gut as he stood with Antonius and their comrades, watching the artillery crews prepare their machines. Dozens of helmets marked the Macedonians’ positions on the rampart; they were watching, he was sure.
‘The poor bastards must know they’re about to die.’
‘What would you do if we were in there, and I told you to stand on the walkway?’ asked Pullo quietly.
‘I’d obey, sir,’ replied Felix, understanding. ‘They’re following orders, like we are.’
‘Aye.’
‘Rather them than us, I’ll tell you that for nothing,’ Felix muttered when Pullo had moved out of earshot.
Whoosh. The first catapult released. Its stone shot skywards, hung for the blink of an eye at the top of its arc, then hurtled down to strike the top of the wall with terrible force. Wails rose. A section of battlement cracked away, and fell into the ditch, taking several defenders with it. The stone from the second catapult landed a short distance away, causing more damage and casualties.
The barrage became continuous. Every fifteen to twenty heartbeats without fail, the catapults released, always aiming at the same part of the wall. Their purpose was simple: to create a hole large enough for the infantry to enter Atrax. Felix watched, mesmerised. During the war against Hannibal, sieges had been rare; he’d never seen an enemy position pounded in such dramatic, brutal fashion.
Their wait wasn’t long. Perhaps two hours later, the catapults’ barrage had yielded a decent-sized breach. A great mound of stones and bricks sloped down to the ditch, a rough-and-ready ‘ladder’ for the attackers to climb. Flamininus was watching; soon after, the artillerymen stood down. The allied troops were sent in first. Screaming fierce war cries, the Epirotes led the charge, scrambling up the heaped rubble. A desultory shower of arrows from bowmen situated on either side of the breach killed or injured perhaps a dozen, and then the foremost warriors were in the gap. There they hesitated a moment, before climbing down into the fortress and vanishing from sight. Their comrades followed by the hundred, until the fallen stones were black with soldiers.
Around Felix, men were jostling, and joking that they wouldn’t be needed to win the battle. He began to feel the same certainty. Demoralised, surrounded by overwhelming numbers of the enemy, the defenders would crumble before the courageous Epirotes.
He was taken aback, therefore, when confused shouting broke out among the visible warriors. The attack had just started; a decisive outcome for either side seemed improbable. That was unless, thought Felix with a sickening feeling, the Epirotes were losing.
The shouts soon became cries of fear. Men in the breach pointed, and began to make their way back down towards the outer ditch. Their comrades who were still climbing also stopped, and did the same.
There was a dreadful predictability about what followed. Within fifty heartbeats, the Epirotes’ retreat changed from a trickle to a flood. Mad with terror, warriors came flying back through the breach which they had entered with such confidence. Wounded men, or those who fell, were trampled underfoot; no one helped them to their feet.
The tide soon dried up. A last pitiful figure reached the top of the breach from the inside, and was shot by an archer on the rampart above. It was impossible to judge how many warriors had fallen, or been left behind, thought Felix grimly, but it was a sizeable number. Now it was time to see if the Illyrian and Dardanian tribesmen could do any better.
The second attack was doomed to fail before it even began. Everyone had seen the Epirotes running for their lives. Lacking Roman discipline, the Illyrians and Dardani advanced to the breach with clear reluctance. They clambered slowly up the piled stone and brick and, reaching the hole in the wall, came to a dead halt. Their chieftains shouted, and tried to drive them on, but many would not obey, which meant the few warriors who did pass through the gap were vulnerable.
Again the sounds of combat rose from inside the fortress. They didn’t last long. Moments later, half a dozen tribesmen came straggling back through the breach. The rest of their fellows, who had already descended to the level of the ditch, took one look and ran for the Roman lines.
That was short and sweet, thought Felix sourly. The allied tribesmen had fought well in previous battles; their failure did not bode well.
Flamininus’ purpose did not waver. The trumpets blared, ordering the hastati forward.
‘Those Macedonians are tough fuckers – you’d have to be blind not to see that from what’s happened,’ said Pullo, his face grim. ‘I don’t have a good feeling about the hastati, and if they fail, we are next. You’re to stick together inside. Listen for my orders. Do exactly as I say – d’you hear, fools?’
The principes rumbled unhappy agreement at him.
‘Pullo’s worried,’ whispered Felix to Antonius.
‘Of course he is,’ retorted his brother. ‘I’m fucking terrified.’ He glanced at Felix. ‘I will do my bit – but I don’t fucking want to.’
‘I will too,’ said Felix, his voice suddenly thick. ‘Because you’re here, and Fabius, and Mattheus. Livius and Pullo too.’
CHAPTER XLVII
Demetrios’ heart was still pounding. He was standing with his comrades in the courtyard of the fortress. They remained in close formation – the enemy warriors sent in second by Flamininus had pulled back moments before, and according to the phalangists’ officers, a third attack was imminent. Nonetheless, an air of grim satisfaction hung over Atrax. Casualties had been light during the first two assaults – less than a score slain, and barely half as many again injured. No one in Demetrios’ file or the one to either side had suffered as much as a scratch.
In contrast, the ground in front of the phalanx was layered with corpses and wounded men. In places, their enemies were piled waist high. Flies settled on staring eyes. Bloodied hands yet clutched shields and spears. Mouths gaped, as if trying to call to a comrade. A man’s arm pointed straight up at the blue sky. The mound of stones leading up to the breach bore a similar gruesome covering, and from both areas came the cries of those who had not yet departed for the underworld. Demetrios eyed the peltasts and archers scrambling down from the walkways with ready blades and thought, they’ll be on their way before long.
Although he hadn’t had to use his sarissa, the initial clashes had been utterly terrifying. At last he had seen the storm of bronze unfold. The enemy’s appearance at the breach had made his stomach churn; as they had descended to the courtyard under a hail of arrows and sling bullets from the men on the walkways, Demetrios had wanted to be anywhere else but in Atrax. Shamed by his fear, he had gritted his teeth and stood fast.
The fighting remained a blur of jagged memories. A ragged javelin volley from the enemy. How their war cries had changed to screams as they charged the sarissae. The madness of a few warriors who had squeezed into the narrow space between the bunched spear shafts of every file. How the man with the shortest length of his sarissa extending beyond the shields – the fifth phalangist in each file – had stopped the warrior in his tracks. Demetrios could still hear Dion grunting as he thrust his blade forward, could yet see the rictus of agony on the face of the man he had skewered.
The second time had been easier, but still terrifying. Demetrios tried not to think about the attacks to come.
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Trumpets sounded beyond the wall, and a tremor of anticipation rippled through the phalangists.
‘Here they come again,’ said Simonides, echoing the call that was rolling along the phalanx’s front. ‘It’ll be legionaries this time – a far tougher prospect – but we’ll throw them back. Check there are no loose stones beneath your feet. Slip at the wrong moment, see, and you’ll hand the enemy a golden opportunity.’
This was something Demetrios had been taught, but had clean forgotten. Mortified to find several stones large enough to unbalance him, he gently moved them to one side – but not as far over as his equivalent, the sixth man in the next file. He looked up to find Philippos twisted around, looking at him.
‘Ready?’ asked the huge phalangist, who stood third in line after Simonides and Andriskos.
‘Aye.’ Demetrios was grateful his voice remained steady.
‘Keep your aspis in Dion’s back. Stand firm, and you’ll be all right.’ Philippos’ wink was encouraging.
Empedokles, fourth in the file and with only Dion between him and Demetrios, turned. His eyes were like a snake’s: cold and dead. ‘Scared, dusty foot? You should be.’
Demetrios, his stomach roiling, could think of no quick reply.
‘We’re all in this together, as well you fucking know,’ snarled Dion. ‘Save your grudges for another time, “Trembler”.’
Demetrios knew better than to kick a wasps’ nest, but nervous, furious with Empedokles, he couldn’t help but join in. ‘“Trembler”,’ he repeated.
Empedokles could do no more than mouth a curse in reply, for Roman legionaries – by their helmets and armour, hastati – had appeared in the breach. At once the front five phalangists in each file lowered their sarissae until they were parallel with the ground; the men in ranks six to eight dropped theirs, creating a partial ‘roof’ of shafts overhead. This, Demetrios knew from experience, would work like the raised sarissae in the eight ranks behind, and break up the enemy javelin volleys.
