Transsilvanian

by Hector Miller

  Sighing with relief, the head scout carried on. “The valley became steeper and narrower as we continued, lord. The sides of the valley are dark forests, lord, with thick undergrowth. Men on horseback cannot travel within it. Maybe men on foot, lord, but it would not be easy.”

  “There is a place where the valley narrows and the river flows next to the treeline on the eastern slope, lord. There the Romans have dug a ditch with an earthen rampart at the back.”

  “How wide is the valley?” Marcus queried.

  “It is only two hundred and fifty paces wide, Roman lord.”

  Bradakos dismissed the scouts. “You have done well and will be rewarded.”

  After they left, Hostilius spoke first. “The Romans will line the wall with artillery. I have seen some of the bolts they left behind at the forts in their eagerness to leave. They look to be of the size they use in carroballistae. Bloody nasty piece of work, a carroballista. Built to be hauled about on a heavy cart and operated by a full contubernium. Can throw a bolt the size of a pilum as far as four hundred paces. I’ve used them myself in battle a couple of times. One of those bolts hit you, you burst open like a ripe plum, truth be told.”

  “Thank you, Centurion, I think we get the picture”, Marcus replied.

  “I just say it as it is, Tribune”, Hostilius said. Marcus acknowledged him with a curt nod.

  Strangely, they all shifted their gaze to me. I remained silent until Hostilius asked: “So what is the plan, Domitius?” He paused to take in my expression. “And don’t look so surprised. The god of war speaks to you, not to us!”

  I didn’t have a plan at hand, but Gordas came to the rescue. “Maybe chanting some of the spells on the scroll will work?”

  In any event, I was unable to come up with a concrete plan, although Arash planted an idea in the back of my mind.

  “Gordas, I would like to have two of the local peasant farmers brought to me.”

  “Consider it done”, he grinned and left the tent immediately, relishing the idea of terrorising the local populace.

  Bradakos concluded the meeting as we heard the sound of thousands of Carpiani striking camp. “All we can do for the time being is to watch the Carpiani assault. There is no way I can dissuade Tarbus. He will attack the fortifications no matter what. If I stand in his way, he might attack the Roxolani instead.”

  I shrugged. “You never know, he may break through and win a great victory.” Unsurprisingly, I was soon to be proved wrong.

  * * *

  The afternoon was mild and overcast. I relaxed in the saddle, relieved to be a spectator for a change.

  I was surrounded by my companions, although Gordas was absent. The Hun and his men were without a doubt scouring the countryside in an attempt to ferret a few unfortunate peasants from the holes they were hiding in. Bradakos was with his noble commanders, who were keen to watch the imminent battle in the company of their king.

  I had very little concern for the welfare of Tarbus, although I regretted the fact that he would be exposing his men to the terrible Roman artillery. I said a silent prayer to Arash for my friend, Thiaper, who would no doubt lead the attack from the front.

  We watched from an elevated position, a sparsely treed copse bordering the left side of the valley. The Romans were six hundred paces distant, their red shields lining the top of the rampart, which was fortified by a wooden palisade. It was too far away to establish whether stakes lined the ditch, but knowing the Romans’ attention to detail, I already knew the answer.

  The Roman soldiers screened the ballistae from view, but there was little doubt in my mind that the clusters of men, at regularly spaced intervals, were the contubernia crews manning these devices.

  Hostilius confirmed my suspicions. “I count twenty three ballistae, one every ten paces.”

  The Romans had chosen their position wisely. The limited frontage allowed by the narrow valley meant that the advantage, created by the greater numbers of the barbarians, was negated. The Carpiani would have to attack in packed, deep ranks. This was the perfect scenario for the ballistae to cause maximum destruction. The artillery was reasonably accurate, but ineffective against an enemy spread out across the field of battle.

  Tarbus’s barbarians were filling the narrow valley five hundred paces from the Romans, safely out of range of the ballistae.

  There would be no clear strategy, apart from overwhelming the enemy with sheer numbers. The Romans watched from the wall in stoic silence, while the barbarians shouted and screamed, gathering courage in the process.

  The Carpiani warriors were milling about, with groups of riders joining from the rear. Then, as if a dam wall burst, they charged the Romans in dense ranks.

  As one, the ballistae spat their bolts at the front ranks of the charging Carpiani. I watched as a bolt, shot almost horizontally, struck a horse at full gallop. The dart skewered the neck of the horse, imbedding in the torso of the rider. The horse was killed instantly, the force of the strike throwing it to the side and causing it to collide with the horse next to it. Both horses went down in a tangle of limbs. Most of the trailing riders managed to avoid the mess but one could not.

  Before the third rider went down, the crew manning the ballista reloaded. This time the bolt passed through the torso of a warrior and affixed the leg of a second to his horse. For a moment I turned my head away. It was no battle, it was a slaughter.

  When the Romans were within arrow range, the Carpiani released volleys at the enemy ranks lining the top of the rampart. The Romans ducked behind the palisade, quickly organizing themselves into the testudo formation with their curved shields protecting them from above. They had another surprise for the horse barbarians. From behind the legionaries, auxiliary archers released deadly volleys of arrows into the packed ranks of the lightly armoured Carpiani.

  The first of the Carpiani reached the fortifications. They jumped from their horses and charged the enemy, wielding swords and spears. When the ditch and the base of the rampart was thick with charging barbarians, I heard the faint command of the centurion bellowing at the top of his voice. “Release pila.”

  Thousands of spears struck the barbarians, effectively annihilating the first wave of the attack.

  The ballista crews knew their business and each device spat a bolt every twenty heartbeats. The middle and back ranks of the Carpiani were bunched up, allowing the ballistae to slaughter them at will. The Romans did not have it all their way, though. I saw dead legionaries slumped over the rampart where the odd arrow had penetrated minute gaps between shields.

  The second wave of attackers were through the ditch when another volley of pila broke their charge.

  At one point along the wall, the Carpiani had successfully scaled the palisade, gaining a foothold on top of the rampart. I saw the reserve force of the Romans trotting toward the breach, followed by fierce fighting. Before long, Carpiani corpses were thrown over the palisade, rolling into the ditch. The Romans had regained the rampart.

  Then, suddenly, it was over. The Carpiani turned tail, leaving the field.

  An almighty cheer erupted from the Roman lines. In that moment I did not view them as my countrymen, but as the men in league with the murderers of my father.

  Hundreds of mutilated bodies of men and horses littered the ground in front of the fortifications.

  “Hate to say it”, Hostilius said, “but I could have told them exactly what would happen.”

  Acceptance of defeat has ever been difficult for me. I turned my horse and went to find Gordas.

  Chapter 20 – Hostages

  On the positive side, I heard that my friend, Thiaper, had survived. In addition, the Hun commander managed to find four local peasants.

  They were caught in the act of stealing a pair of the Huns’ spare horses.

  “I rescued them”, Gordas stated proudly. “The warriors were about to exact punishment.”

  “What kind of punishment?” I queried.

  “They probably would have rippe
d their arms off”, he answered earnestly, “but because they stole horses, it might have been worse.”

  I found it difficult to imagine what kind of punishment could have been worse, but chose not to ask.

  I turned to face the four men, or rather two oldsters, and two boys who could not have been older than seventeen summers.

  My appearance was far from Roman hence I could see their surprise when I addressed them in Latin.

  “Are you aware that you are dead already?” I asked.

  One of the oldsters nodded, too afraid to speak in the presence of the strange barbarian lord.

  “But I have the power to let you live again”, I said.

  I took two gold coins from my purse and handed it to Gordas. “Give this as compensation to the warriors who have been wronged. I am taking these men.”

  “Come with me”, I said and walked away.

  They followed, reluctantly at first, not knowing what horrible fate I had in mind for them. That is, until Gordas fell in behind them, which served as a reminder of the alternative.

  First we spoke about the weather. Once I had enough of a grasp, I fed them well and readied the oldsters for the mission. They would leave as soon as darkness descended. The two boys would remain as hostages, their fate sealed should their fathers fail.

  I sought out the Roxolani king to share my plan. I found Bradakos sitting with his face in his hands inside his tent.

  There was only one possible explanation.

  “Tarbus?” I asked.

  He sighed. “I am past getting angry. Talking to him now fills me with despair.”

  He filled his cup from a small amphora and emptied it in one gulp. “We will break our men on these Roman walls, Eochar, until we start fighting one another. A full-scale confrontation with Tarbus is unavoidable. He came to me and blamed us for his defeat. His said that you and your Roman friends were aware of the ballistae, but chose not to warn him. Not that he would have listened to reason.”

  I put my hand on his armoured shoulder. Touching the person of a king without permission would normally mean death, but Bradakos and I were closer than brothers.

  “Come, brother. Sit. Listen to the message of Arash.”

  When I was done sharing my plan, it was nearly dark and time to act.

  Bradakos summoned his two best scouts and I explained what I required.

  Once I was certain that they understood, I made them repeat the instructions given to them.

  I added: “Go when it is dark. Use the river and the forest. Take along sufficient cold fare for seven days. Do not show yourselves until the appointed time.”

  “We are only four men, lord. We will not be noticed.”

  I turned to the oldsters. “I will reward you with Roman loot and the lives of your sons if you are successful.”

  The one oldster, now emboldened, replied: “We will not fail you, highborn lord. We hate the Romans, we do. Many seasons past, we were a tribe of brave warriors. Rome has reduced us to this.”

  I was sure that he would have said the opposite if he faced a Roman, but I nodded and left him with a departing threat. “Do not disappoint me.”

  Answering Bradakos’s summons, Gordas arrived.

  “Are the skills of the Hun warriors needed?” he queried.

  I explained all.

  “Remember Gordas, your warriors need to mark the positions so that they will be able to find it with their eyes closed.”

  Gordas smiled, and spoke in the way one would to a worried child. “These men are the best. They will find their way without markings, but if it makes you feel better, they will mark it.”

  “It will make me feel better”, I said.

  * * *

  The fourth day started out hot and humid and it stayed that way until late afternoon when a cool breeze blew in from the east.

  There had been incidents between warriors of the tribes, no doubt caused by the strife between the kings, exacerbated by the defeat of the Carpiani. Something had to be done to quell the growing tension in the barbarian camp.

  The two young horse thieves were held in a tent in the middle of the Hun camp. For obvious reasons, they did not even consider venturing outside. Gordas had posted three guards, although it was probably to ensure the safety of the boys, rather than to keep them from escaping.

  As I bent over and entered the tent, I was met with broad smiles.

  “It will be tomorrow, lord.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I received an answer typical of boys their age, who knew it all. “We can smell it in the air, lord, it is a certainty”, the younger one said. The older boy nodded his agreement.

  Walking back to my tent, I could not help but think that I would be gambling men’s lives based on the words of mere boys.

  Yet, the conditions were as described by the oldsters. I would roll the dice… and pray to Fortuna.

  Chapter 21 – The Girl

  Hostillius squinted, trying his best to peer through the thick white fog rolling over the plain from the towering peaks above us.

  “The locals believe the fog is a girl, a god-child, locked away in a mountain cave for her sins. Her brothers are the clouds. When the gods wish it, they let her out for a while. She creeps along the ground then, ashamed to show her face, and rise to where her brothers live.”

  Gordas was not to be outdone. “My people believe that when the fog descends, the evil creatures who dwell in the forest, hungry for souls, spill out onto the plains to …”

  Before my lesson in folklore could be completed, a Hun warrior materialised from the fog.

  The inability to see further than ten paces makes one prone to nervousness. All of our hands jerked to our swords at his sudden arrival, which caused the scout to grin at his attempt at stealth.

  He inclined his head to his commander. “The warriors are in place, general. What are your orders?”

  Gordas spoke softly. “Lord Eochar will go with you. It is he who will command.”

  Behind us, thousands of Roxolani warriors were waiting next to their mounts, making last minute adjustments to the tack of their horses. Some were stringing bows, others searching for the best fletched arrow. The Carpiani tribesmen were absent, their king unwilling to partake.

  “We will wait until you send for us, Eochar. Then the Roxolani will unleash the wrath of the Scythians.”

  Cai remained in camp. Vibius, Marcus and Hostilius would accompany me.

  The scout motioned for us to follow him. “Best is we do not talk from now on, lord. I will walk slowly, for the sake of your Roman friends.”

  Days before, concealed by the darkness of night, the Hun scouts had marked the exact positions of each carroballista stationed on the Roman earthen rampart. I had ordered the construction of forty-six wooden ladders, twice the number of ballistae on the wall.

  My strategy was simple. Forty paces from each ballista, in front of the ditch, thirty Huns would congregate, invisible to the Romans due to the thick fog. Each group would carry two ladders to enable them to cross the stake-filled ditch, once their arrows had eliminated the crews manning the ballistae.

  Small noises were of no concern as the vermin that normally sheltered in the woods were forever feasting on the Carpiani corpses close to the wall, from where their comrades were unable to collect them. The negative was the sickening stench of death all around.

  There was another element to my plan. The fathers of the peasant boys we held hostage would appear in the Roman camp, begging for assistance, as their home further north up the valley had been attacked by hundreds of barbarians. Any Roman commander worth his salt would at least take some men from the rampart as a precaution against an attack from the rear. It was close to impossible for an enemy force to have circled around the Roman position due to the near impenetrable forests, but history is littered with the corpses of commanders who believed that the enemy could not accomplish the impossible. Take Hannibal’s crossing of the Alps as an example.

  In any ev
ent, I would wait for a watch past sunrise for the Romans to withdraw men. If nothing had happened by then, we would attack.

  I was becoming impatient, convinced that the fog was lifting, which would mean death by a ballista bolt should we be seen. I stole a glance at Hostilius at my side, who gave a small shake of his head which meant: “The bloody peasants have let you down, what did you expect?”

  I scowled and decided to wait two hundred more heartbeats.

  Then, louder than expected, came the command from the gloom in front of us. “Second, third and fourth century, follow Centurion Petronius. Make sure each of you take three pila. Rest of you, spread out.”

  Again, the time passed excruciatingly slow as I waited for the legionaries to leave the rampart.

  I touched Gordas’s arm. The Hun grinned, passed the signal down the line and thirty Huns each took four arrows in their draw hands, their laminated recurve bows drawn to full extension.

  Gordas howled like a wolf, a signal for the other Hun bands as well as the Roxolani. The armour-piercing arrows were deadly at one hundred paces, but at forty paces they were a horror to behold. “Whack!” Thirty arrows struck as one, each with the power of a war hammer. Men screamed terribly and I could hear the dull thuds as some, staggering from the impact, fell backwards from the rampart. Again, again and again, the deadly arrows struck within less than four heartbeats. All along the length of the fortification the same scenes were playing out as men screamed and moaned. But the Romans were no fools. The ones who survived would now be hiding behind shields or crouching down behind the rampart.

  The Huns released another four-arrow volley when the earth began to vibrate with the impact of thousands of hooves. The Roxolani released their arrows virtually straight up in the air, causing an arrow-rain to descend on the Romans, falling near vertically from the sky. Four volleys of arrows afforded the Huns the time to cross the ditch. Due to the completeness of the surprise, the Romans never had a chance to release their pila before the Urugundi were upon them. I was next to Gordas, who cupped his hand, providing me with a foothold to vault over the palisade. I landed on the rampart. Simultaneously a Roman spear was thrust at my head. My gladius was in my hand as I knew it would be close quarter work, and I diverted the strike. I turned my shoulder into the shield and shoved the Roman off the rampart. Another, a centurion, crouched down low with the top edge of his shield angled backwards. I mimicked his action, crouched down and met him shield to shoulder. He tried to unbalance me using the bottom edge of his shield. The officer was brutally strong and inched me towards the edge of the rampart, his gladius held behind his shield, ready to strike at the most opportune moment.