by R. W. Peake
It finally became light enough for the scorpions to open fire. Within a matter of moments, they swept men off the parapet, the bolts sometimes passing through one man to pierce another. Not much time passed before the Moesians realized that their best hope was to keep their heads below the edge of the parapet, the sign for which Crassus had been waiting. He gave the signal for his cornicen to sound the call to begin the advance, whereupon the men assigned to push and pull the tower began straining at the ropes. Neither tower was near the size of those we had built at Avaricum but they were still very heavy, and it took a moment before the tower began to move. Meanwhile, a courier had galloped off to cross the bridge to ensure that the Legion on the other side had begun their own advance as well. Slowly, the tower began to move, rocking over the ground, despite our best efforts to smooth the path that it would travel over beforehand. The hard work began when they hit the ramp and there was a scary moment when part of it collapsed under the weight, the tower suddenly leaning over at a dangerous angle. For several moments, the tower was stuck, so two more Cohorts were dispatched to help heave it out of the rut.
This delay caused another problem; the commander of the artillery sent a runner, who came dashing up to Crassus to gasp out, “We're running low on scorpion bolts. If the tower doesn’t get to the walls immediately, we won’t have enough left to keep the Moesians’ heads down. They’ll be able to fire on our men!”
I must commend Marcus Crassus, for he did not panic, or even look all that perturbed.
Without moving his head, he snapped to Cornelius, “Get up there and find out how much longer before they get the tower moving again.”
Cornelius saluted, then jabbed his mount in the ribs, galloping off.
“This is not good,” Crassus muttered, but I was not sure if he meant this for my ears or not.
“No, it’s not. But we’ll get through it.”
I saw him swallow hard, then give a curt nod.
“Yes, we will. I just hope that it doesn’t cost too many lives.”
With the extra men, the tower began moving again, righting itself, much to the relief of our side and the dismay of the Moesians. However, when it was still about 20 paces short of the walls, we heard one last twanging sound of a scorpion bolt, followed by a long silence.
“Cerberus’ balls, we’re out of ammunition,” I heard Balbus growl.
I turned to glare at him, not thinking we needed someone to point out the obvious.
“Can we use ballistae?” Crassus asked nobody in particular.
“We can, but it would be dangerous. In fact, I think it would cause more harm than good,” Macrinus replied from where he was standing, watching his men make the final push of the tower against the wall.
“I agree,” I put in.
Crassus did not look surprised; neither did he argue.
While a scorpion can be aimed with some precision, a ballista is another matter entirely. Between the missile used and the nature of the weapon itself, placing a ballista shot is largely a matter of luck, the variance of where it can land so wide that I had seen it cause almost as much damage to our own ranks as to the enemy, just because of one misfire or errant shot. Turning our attention back to the tower, we watched it move the last few feet into place. It was not hard up against the wall; the ramp that would drop, with two large iron spikes affixed to what would be the bottom, would give the men the ability to dash the last few feet to make a running leap onto the parapet. What had been just shadowy shapes had now become distinct and visible, the gray light of dawn turning red with the promise of a bloody day. Visibility worked both ways and now that the Moesians were not forced to keep their heads down, there was enough light for them to see the men of the 8th pushing forward to take their spot. I do not know what prompted me to ask because I had assumed that, especially given its size and composition since the reorganization, the First Cohort would lead the assault, but I did anyway, probably as much out of boredom as curiosity.
“Who’s the lead Cohort?”
There was no answer and since my eyes were on the tower, I did not see what reaction Macrinus had, if any, to my question. But the silence got my attention and I turned to look his direction. My stomach lurched when I saw that he was looking in every direction but mine, and I nudged Ocelus forward to stand next to him. Staring down at Macrinus, who still refused to meet my gaze, I asked again, my tone cold this time.
“Which Cohort is leading the assault?”
“The Seventh,” he said after a moment.
“The Seventh?”
I could feel my jaw drop, my stomach tightening even more. I turned my attention to the tower, but while I could see men climbing the ladders to ascend to the top level, I could not make out individual faces. I did see that the Moesians were now trying to fire the tower, slinging jars of pitch and oil that had been set alight onto the roof and sides. Fortunately, the green hides that had been nailed to the surface of the tower did their job, so that while the flames burned for the time it took to exhaust the supply of flammable material, they did not catch to the wood.
“Why the Seventh?” I demanded, not caring about how it appeared to be questioning a Primus Pilus.
Macrinus’ face flushed, but his tone was calm as he replied, “Because Pilus Prior Palma requested the honor of leading the assault, and I saw no reason to refuse him.”
“Ah, so he paid you a bribe,” I said caustically, and he shot me an angry look.
“I assure you, Prefect, that it isn't like that.”
He seemed about to say something else, then his mouth snapped shut.
“So you say,” I sneered.
Seeing he was not going to say anything more, I wheeled Ocelus about and went trotting past Crassus, who looked stunned. I felt Scribonius’ eyes on me, and knew that he did not approve of my behavior.
I refused to meet his gaze when I reined Ocelus in, muttering as I did so, “Save your breath.”
He looked at me in mock surprise.
“Why would I say anything? I think you handled that very well. After all, you wouldn't have objected if someone came and told you how to run your Legion, even if it was because their nephew might be in danger.”
“I thought I told you to save your breath,” I grumbled, knowing that he was absolutely right, and that I owed Macrinus an apology.
Balbus did not help matters when he pointed at the top level of the tower, where several sections of men were gathered, waiting for the moment when the rope holding the ramp would be cut and it would fall.
“Isn’t that Gaius there?”
My heart stopped in my throat, following his pointing finger to see a tall, lean figure with a white strip on his shoulder, standing next to the ramp. Despite being unable to see his face, I knew the way he held himself and the shape of his body very well. It was indeed Gaius, and it looked very much like he intended to be the first onto the ramparts.
There is no way to adequately describe the feeling of helplessness as I sat watching the ramp drop, then Vettus, Gaius and their men go surging up and onto the ramp. Their roar reached our ears a moment later, just before they dropped from sight, followed shortly by the sounds of a furious fight. I clutched Ocelus’ reins tightly. Clearly feeling my tension, he started to paw the ground nervously, tossing his head and blowing. Feeling a hand on my arm, I turned my head to see Scribonius looking at me, trying to look reassuring.
“Titus, it will be all right. Gaius can handle himself. You trained him; I helped. He'll be fine.”
“He better be, because I plan on killing him,” I said, turning my attention back to the fight.
Crassus’ attention was also fixed on the action on the walls, where men had stopped climbing onto the ramp. This was not unusual; after the first surge, it is common that things stall when the enemy on the rampart stops the first men over the ramp, but the fact that it happened much of the time made it no less nerve-wracking. For several moments, the men in the tower could only stand there, calling encouragemen
t to their comrades just out of sight fighting on the ramparts. Then, I do not know if they were ordered to do so or thought of it on their own, a few men clambered up onto the ramp to begin hurling javelins in both directions down into the Moesians, who were evidently massed together as they fought our men on the rampart. Calling down to their comrades who were still in the tower, who passed them their own javelins, they continued hurling missiles at the Moesians. Whether or not it was the rain of javelins that broke the Moesians, we could not tell, but suddenly the men on the ramp leapt down into the fray, clearing the logjam in the tower.
Men resumed their progress, and Crassus, seeing this, turned to us and warned, “Get ready to move. The gate will be opening shortly.”
I tied the chin thong of my helmet, still unaccustomed to the feeling of the lack of the transverse crest since it changed the balance of the thing, my neck tickled by the feathers in the plume. I was not helped when Balbus took one look at me, then shook his head.
“You look ridiculous.”
“I didn’t choose this,” I protested.
“I don’t care who chose it, you don’t look like a Legate, or a Tribune, for that matter.”
“All I care about is that it keeps my head from getting split open.”
The rest of the Evocati had also donned their helmets and otherwise made ready before Crassus led us to a spot closer to the gate, but still out of range of any Moesian missiles. The shouting and sounds of fighting became more muffled, a sign that some of our men had made it off the wall and were now on the streets of the town next to it, fighting their way to the gate. My stomach was in knots, not because of the thought of the coming fight, either with the Moesians or with Prixus, but because I did not know what was happening with Gaius. Crassus’ chief bodyguard, along with his four men, was sitting next to the Legate, all of their backs turned as they watched the gate. I stared at Prixus’ bulk, covered in a leather cuirass of the style favored by gladiators, at least those who now worked as bodyguards. While it did not provide the same level of protection as a mail shirt, it is much lighter and gives the wearer more freedom of movement, and for a gladiator, movement is life. His forearms were covered in scars, the muscles of his arms like ropes of iron, and I knew that he was a very, very dangerous man. If Miriam had been alive, I probably would not have considered taking him on, especially with his other men around, but she was not and I thirsted for vengeance. I had never been beaten before; even with the circumstances of how it happened my pride had been hurt, meaning the idea of taking my revenge had never been far from my mind. Now that Crassus had given his tacit approval, I was determined that I would settle accounts with Prixus. It was not something I had breathed a word about to anybody, not even Scribonius, Balbus, or Diocles, though I imagine they knew me well enough to know I was thinking about it. Still, I had enough of dragging men into my disputes and I was determined to do this by myself. Suddenly, there was a screeching noise over and above the din of the fighting, tearing my attention from Prixus and back to the gate, which was opening very, very slowly.
“Get ready!”
Crassus kicked his horse, moving to the front of the group of horsemen. I was struck by how small our numbers were, particularly since we did not really know what lay beyond the gates, but we would have to make up for that lack with ferocity. Drawing the spatha, I heard the rasping sound as the others did the same, and Ocelus made a little hop, quivering with excitement or fear. It seemed to take an eternity for the gates to open; when they were about halfway, Crassus gave the order to begin heading for the entrance, starting out at a trot. Ocelus took a bounding leap and I had to rein him in so he would not go headlong up the road. Positioning myself to Crassus’ left, just off his horse’s hindquarter, Prixus was on the other side in the same spot. The rest of the men trailed behind us in a wedge, modified to be as wide as the gates would allow. I knew that he was trying to time our approach so that we would hit the entrance just as the gates opened up, and it almost worked.
We had just gone from the trot to the canter, Crassus pointing his sword at the gates, which were about three-quarters open and still slowly swinging open, crying out, “For Rome!”
With his call, he slapped his horse on the rump with the flat of his sword, and it leapt forward into the gallop. We were perhaps a hundred paces away, and Ocelus needed no urging to follow Crassus’ mount’s lead, nor did the others. Thundering up the road, the wind began roaring in my ears, almost drowning out all the other noise, my focus narrowed to just the gateway. While it would be close, I saw that we would hit the entrance at precisely the moment the gates finished opening. I do not know exactly what happened, but suddenly the gates stopped moving. While the gates were open enough to allow Crassus, Prixus, and me, unless the others pulled up to fall in directly behind us, they would not be able to make it past them. I waited for Crassus to give the order for them to do so, but instead he pulled up, his horse skidding to a halt not more than 50 paces away from the gate. All of the momentum of our charge had just been killed, in one of those happenings in battle that can turn the tide one way or the other. The other men did the same, except for some of them who had either not been paying close attention or their horses were too skittish, because they did not stop in time, and I heard the thudding sound of flesh smashing into flesh as one man’s horse slammed into another. The animals whinnied in fear and anger; the air was filled with the curses of men. I turned just in time to see a figure tumble to the ground when his horse bounced off another beast, which in reflex lashed out with its rear hooves, sending the first horse rolling over the rider, who let out a sharp scream. Our charge was in a shambles before we had even really started it, and I thought for a moment that Crassus would pull us back to regroup. Instead, the gates began reopening, finally making it the rest of the way and without waiting, Crassus urged his horse forward again. Cursing, I followed, as did Prixus, who looked over at me, giving a sneering smile.
“Let’s see if you can actually use that thing, soldier boy. You just stay behind old Prixus and he’ll keep you safe.”
I did not answer him, just stared straight ahead, my attention fixed on the entrance and what lay beyond.
Restarting, we reached a full gallop in just a few paces, Crassus leading us with his shout, “For Rome!” over and over.
My mind’s eye barely had time to take in the scene before us as we thundered up the road, the horses laboring up the sloping grade that led into the town. Finally reaching a point where we could see more than just the gateway, we were greeted by the sight of a mass of densely packed Moesians, facing a rough semicircle of our own men just two ranks deep, backs to us while they tried to push the enemy away from the gate.
“Stand clear,” Crassus began shouting over and over to the Legionaries who were facing the Moesians directly opposite the gate.
While I personally would have turned and tried to push the Moesians down the street next to the wall instead of driving deeper into the town at that point, I followed Crassus nonetheless. Giving the man opposite them a huge heave with their shields, just as if they were performing a change in relief during battle, the Legionaries scrambled out of the way when we came through just before we slammed into the front rank of Moesians. Already staggering backwards from the push they had been given, that first rank of Moesians bounced off the bulk of Crassus’ mount, as well as Ocelus and Prixus’ horse. Leaning to the side, I thrust hard at a man who had stumbled, dropping his shield in the process, yet his luck was with him that day because his fall threw my aim off. I barely had time to recover before I had to dodge a thrust from a spear, catching the point on the cavalry shield that I had fastened to my arm. Despite doing some practicing with the unfamiliar shield, it was still very awkward, but I managed to ward off the blow. I felt more than saw Balbus pushing up next to me on my left, offering me more protection, allowing me to concentrate on a man on my right who had tried to wedge himself in between Crassus’ horse and Ocelus, in an obvious attempt to get underneath C
rassus’ horse to gut him. My blade thrust down into his back before his own blade could strike up into Crassus’ mount, eliciting a high-pitched scream, with frothy blood spewing from his mouth, telling me that I had punctured one of his lungs. Twisting the blade free, I felt Ocelus taking a step forward, kicking the man in the head in the process, suddenly stopping his screams.
Men were shouting, while Crassus was wielding his blade well, clearly accustomed to fighting from horseback. Glancing over, I saw that Prixus, with one of his own men now beside him to the right, was flailing away with his blade, drawing blood with almost every stroke. We had pushed our way several feet forward from where the men of the 8th had been and since I could not afford to look behind me, I could only hope that they had kept their heads and were following behind us. Moesians were still clearly eager to fight, since they continued to press against us, and Ocelus reared several times, lashing out with hooves when men came too close or made a jab at him with a spear. From my vantage point above the fray, I could see that the Moesian line still ran more than ten men deep, but there did not seem to be anyone in clear command. There were several men who were wearing better armor than those around them, while one in particular was surrounded by warriors who seemed intent only on protecting him, and Crassus headed right for the man. The Legate cut his way through the packed mass of Moesians, with Prixus following close behind. Because the noble Moesian was slightly off to the right, when Crassus moved, he opened up a larger gap between him and me, except I was too heavily engaged to close it. Seeing this, a pair of alert Moesians jumped into the space immediately, before one of Crassus’ bodyguards could move up to fill the spot. The bodyguard was dressed similarly to Prixus, but instead of a spatha, he carried a curved Thracian sword, very similar to the weapons wielded by the Moesians. He clearly knew what he was doing with it, so I do not know if it was overconfidence or just bad luck, but he pushed his horse more deeply than was wise, pulling ahead of me and even slightly ahead of Crassus to his right. Again, the Moesians wasted no time, a man leaping into the space behind the gladiator’s horse, dagger in hand. At first, I was more amused than anything; bringing a dagger into a fight like this seemed to be worse than pointless, seeming downright suicidal, but he had something else in mind. With one deft motion, he slashed the blade across the large tendon just above the ankle of the bodyguard’s horse, eliciting an almost human shriek of pain from the animal, before immediately going crashing down with his rider, who tumbled down into the midst of the Moesians. I saw the flash of blades rising up then thrust downward, the gladiator giving one short cry of pain and despair. The horse, meanwhile, was now thrashing about, struggling to get to its feet, its blood spraying onto the paving stones of the street while Moesians thrust their spears into the poor beast.
