by Ian Ross
‘Now we wait,’ he said quietly, sinking down to squat on his haunches with his back against a tree. Rogatianus sent two of his men up the slope as lookouts, and the remaining soldiers wrapped their cloaks around their shoulders and sat clasping their spears.
Time passed slowly, the pines creaking and groaning as the wind gusting down the ravine caught their upper branches. Castus tried to keep his body relaxed, his mind idle, as he watched the slopes on both sides of the valley for the flash of movement. Now and again he saw one of Attalus’s men clambering through the trees in the distance, but they would be invisible to the enemy down in their blockhouse. Of the Brisigavi he saw nothing. Two birds wheeled and spun in the air above the valley. Hawks, Castus guessed. He watched them for a moment, then looked back at the trees.
‘Dominus,’ Rogatianus said. The African centurion’s face looked more than usually taut. ‘It’s been nearly an hour. Attalus and his men must be in position by now – can we wait any longer?’
‘You’re right,’ Castus said, pulling himself to his feet. ‘Form the men up on the road. Marching column, but have them keep their shields and weapons in their hands. At my signal, we change to battle formation. Silence, though…’
Rogatianus saluted and gave the word. With no undue noise or confusion the men scrambled down the slope to the road and into a tight column. Castus took his place at the front, and gave the signal to advance. The area of open ground before the bridge was too wide to cover at a run – the men would be exhausted by the time they reached the enemy. Their only hope, Castus thought, was to march over to the bridge, giving no signs of hostile intent. With luck, the men on watch in the burgus would not realise they were under attack until it was too late for them to do anything but defend their position.
Boots crunching on the gritty stone of the road, the legionaries marched down the incline and out into the open ground between the trees and the river. Castus had a sudden recollection of the meeting with the Burgundii, back in the Agri Decumates the previous winter. A troubling thought, and he tried to wipe it from his mind.
‘Keep watching that tower,’ he said over his shoulder to Rogatianus. There was still no sign of the Brisigavi up there. What were they doing?
Up ahead he could see two men running across the bridge and up to the door of the stone-walled burgus. A moment later the door opened and a file of men emerged, spilling across the road, some of them pulling on helmets. From behind him Castus heard Rogatianus calling to his men to keep steady, close ranks. He flicked a glance up the slope; from down here in the valley the watchtower was clearly visible against the sky. Nothing was waving from the top of it.
The noise of the marching men seemed unnaturally loud, the regular crunch of boot-studs on stone filling the valley. Castus was on the bridge now, his men close behind him. He could see the line of men on the road ahead beginning to edge closer together, raising their shields. A couple shuffled back towards the door of their fortification. One of them, the leader, stepped forward and yelled out a challenge. No chance of continuing the deception now.
‘In the name of the emperor Constantine Augustus,’ Castus shouted back in his parade-ground voice, ‘I demand that you lay down your arms and surrender!’ He was still marching as he shouted.
‘Balls!’ somebody called back. Another of the men threw a spear, but his aim was poor.
‘Dominus! The tower – I can see a man waving…’
‘That’s it – after me!’
Castus dropped into a run, getting his shield up and drawing his sword from behind it. The burgarii were retreating back to their fortification now, but Castus could hear the thunder of his own men right behind him. A javelin arced over his head, then two more; the first missed, but two of the enemy were cropped down before they could reach cover. By now the legionaries were up off the bridge and onto the stretch of cobbles below the wall of the burgus; Castus felt his hobnails grate and slip on the worn stone, and staggered as he ran. An arrow zipped past his face, and he heard a cry of pain from behind him. When he looked up, he saw archers on the wall above.
‘Shields up!’ he yelled, his throat hoarse. More arrows snicked off the stones of the road, or thudded into the raised shield boards.
Then they were beneath the cover of the wall, the charging men slamming together into a tight testudo formation, raising shields to protect them from the defenders’ missiles. Rogatianus was calling for axes and picks: the door was closed and heavily barred from inside.
Castus took three steps back from the wall. His heart was punching in his chest, his lungs heaving. The men with the tools were gathered at the door now, hacking at the solid oak planks with their axes.
‘You!’ he cried, seizing one of the soldiers by the arm. He was a young man named Salvianus, one of the Christians that Macer disliked so much. ‘Hold your shield level against the wall…’
For a moment the soldier appeared baffled, his mouth opening and closing. He was terrified, Castus realised. Modestus stepped up behind him and clouted the back of his helmet. ‘You heard the tribune! Shield against the wall!’
The archers inside the burgus were gathered to one side, shooting down at the party hacking at the door. Here the crest of the wall was clear. The young soldier was still paralysed, but two other men shoved him aside and crouched against the stones with their shields held level above them. Castus ran, crying out for Modestus to follow him; a moment of stark fear as he realised the danger of his action, then he leaped, got one foot on a shield and threw himself upwards at the wall’s crest.
He had expected some kind of parapet or platform on the far side, but as he rolled across the crest of the wall he saw a sloping roof of worn tiles beneath him. No time to think: he swung his legs over and crashed down onto the tiles, sword in hand. The roof creaked beneath him, but the beams held and he was sliding downwards, kicking tiles loose, and then dropping from the eaves into the confined courtyard in a cascade of shattered clay.
Armed men all around him. Bodies turning in surprise from the barred door. Already he could hear others coming across the wall after him, Modestus’s whooping yell. Castus scrambled to his feet, screaming wordless rage, and rammed the blade of his sword at the nearest man’s face.
The defenders fell away from him, panicked. Castus held his ground, his features locked in fury behind the nasal bar of his helmet; only one man stepped forward, the leader, punching at him with a spear. Castus slashed the weapon aside, took one long stride inside the man’s reach, and killed him with a raking backhand slash across his neck.
Modestus was with him now, two more soldiers dropping down from the roof and more still up on the wall crest.
Castus drew himself up straight, snarling, then flicked the spatter of blood from his sword. But the fight had gone out of the remaining defenders; they were throwing down their weapons, backing away into the far corner of the yard.
With the door unbarred the troops outside quickly occupied the burgus, securing the prisoners. Castus shoved his way through them. Up in the trees above the road he could see the Brisigavi warriors descending the slope from the watchtower. One of them was holding a pair of severed heads in his fist, gripping them by their hair.
‘Good hunting!’ their leader called. ‘Killing Romans, heh!’
Before Castus could react, he heard the shouts and saw men pointing from the doorway. In the distance was a single fugitive, sprinting away along the road down the valley. He must have slipped over the wall somehow, Castus realised.
‘Don’t worry about him,’ he said. ‘Attalus’s men will catch him.’
‘Tribune!’ Attalus called out.
Castus jerked his head around. The black-stubbled centurion was climbing up the slope out of the stream bed; his men forded the water behind him. For a moment Castus could only look from the centurion to the fugitive and back… then his teeth seized and his neck swelled.
‘You in trouble here?’ Attalus said.
‘No, you are,’ Castus said, h
olding back his rage. He flung out his arm, pointing at the running man. ‘I ordered you to seal the road!’
Attalus braced himself against his knee, gulping breath. His expression flickered between shame and defiant denial. He could only shake his head and look away.
Castus stared at the dwindling figure of the runner, feeling the plummeting sensation of failure. He noticed Rogatianus gesturing to one of his men.
‘Slops,’ Rogatianus said.
The soldier who stepped forward was small and dark, with deep-set eyes and a long jaw. His arms were sinewy, and his hands were enormous. With no appearance of haste he scanned the road at his feet, then snatched up a single round pebble. He took a leather sling from his belt, loaded it with the pebble, then raised his head and peered at the distant running figure.
The soldier was named Valerius Felix, Castus remembered. The one who claimed to come from Rome. But the man seemed not to be doing anything, just staring along the road, his head raised. Around him was silence, everyone waiting.
Felix drew a long breath, leaned back, and whipped the sling up in an arc. Two sharp whirls, then he flung out his arm and snapped the stone free. The tiny missile sped upwards, dwindling into the sky until it was lost from view.
Castus was conscious that he was holding his breath. Everybody else seemed to be doing the same. Only Felix appeared indifferent. Castus looked down and saw the figure of the man still running. Then the fugitive seemed to stagger slightly, pitching forward. His legs folded beneath him and he dropped motionless onto the road.
A hoarse cheer rose from the gathered soldiers. Felix shrugged, spat, then walked back to join his comrades.
Stooping, Castus wiped his sword on the tunic of a fallen man, then slid it back into his scabbard. Over by the wall, he saw the young recruit, Salvianus, doubled over and vomiting. One of the defenders lay dying nearby, a javelin stuck through his gut.
Castus blinked, and saw, as if for the first time, the corpses sprawled on the cobbles and around the scarred door of the burgus. He drew a deep breath and felt it catch in his throat. Only then did he notice that his hands were shaking.
Chapter VI
Seen from above, the town of Segusio was shaped like a clenched fist, with the knuckles facing the road that dropped down from the mountain passes.
The rear walls stood on the bluffs above the rushing river that Constantine’s army had been following down the ravine for the last three days. To the south-west, at the angle of the walls, there was a citadel of solid masonry built onto bedrock; the road from the ravine dropped down a last steep incline to pass directly beneath its buttresses, before angling to the left under a weathered triumphal arch and descending to the western gate. All around, the mountains climbed from the narrow valley into the bright morning sun.
Castus surveyed the town from his vantage point on the craggy heights that rose steeply to the west. The walls were massive, taller than any he had known, with round towers every hundred paces. There were two gates that he could see, and probably another near the river to the east. Each one was a huge archway flanked by drum towers, fortified with triple-storey galleries above. The rows of arched windows suggested a serious array of defensive artillery in each gatehouse.
Squinting into the low sun, Castus ran his gaze along the tops of the walls, estimating the number of the defenders.
‘That’s one tough walnut,’ Vitalis said.
Castus sucked his cheek and said nothing.
‘You don’t think so?’
On the western flank, where the walls ran down from the citadel to the river, there were fewer towers. There looked to be a jumble of ruins outside the walls down there, on the narrow strip of level ground before the crags. Castus knew that the town had been fortified back in Diocletian’s day; he guessed that the builders had demolished any houses that remained outside the perimeter. There was some kind of necropolis down there too, and the remains of a temple, although it was hard to make out.
‘It looks strong,’ Castus said quietly. ‘I don’t think they’ve got too many men on those big walls, though.’
They were standing at the margin of a gathering of officers. Evander and the other senior commanders were peering at the fortifications, discussing the approaches in hushed and confidential tones. Beyond them, the imperial draco standard streamed its purple and gold tail away to the east in the wind from the mountains. The emperor himself stood alone at the summit of the crag, hands clasped behind his back. He appeared dangerously exposed, as if deliberately presenting himself to the defenders of the town below. But at that elevation he was well out of range of bow or ballista, and to the sentries on the walls he would appear only a tiny figure standing in the sunlight.
‘Distinguished men!’ Evander said, turning to Castus and the other tribunes. ‘Below us you see Segusio,’ the commander went on, gesturing. ‘Strong walls, and a strategic position. We have no siege engines, no artillery at all, and blockading the place would give the enemy time to bring more troops from the east of Italy to oppose us on the plains. They have already refused our demand to surrender.’
He paused for a moment, scanning their faces. ‘Our intention is to assault directly from the east, where the walls are lowest. The emperor, however,’ Evander said, glancing with a respectful nod towards the figure standing a few paces away at the cliff edge, ‘would hear the views of all his officers.’
Another pause, weightier this time. Castus had the impression that Evander’s own views on the matter were quite clear. Constantine continued to gaze down at the walls.
‘Dominus,’ said Florius Baudio, stepping forward and saluting. ‘The eastern walls look weaker, but there’s a deep concealed ditch in front of them; I sent two men to scout around the perimeter earlier today.’
Baudio was one of Protectores assigned to the army staff, an older man with a very square head who had served ten years as centurion of Legion II Italica Divitensium. He had a grown son serving as optio in the same legion. Castus nodded to himself; Baudio knew his business.
‘We could storm the east gate,’ one of the other tribunes said. ‘Use a ram, or incendiaries. It’s not as heavily fortified as the others, by the look of it.’
Some of the other officers were grunting their agreement. Castus sucked his teeth and glanced away.
‘Aurelius Castus,’ Evander said. ‘You don’t agree?’
Castus took a moment to reply. He cleared his throat.
‘Dominus, if we attack through the eastern defences we’ll have to fight our way uphill through the whole town, with the citadel in front of us.’
‘Good point,’ Vitalis mumbled.
‘And can you suggest an alternative course?’
‘Dominus,’ Castus said, and drew a long breath. ‘You could send a party of men with ladders down into those ruins below the western wall, under cover of darkness. Then make a feint attack against the citadel or the gate, and send in the ladder parties while the defenders are distracted. They get over the wall, and take the gate and the citadel from the rear.’
Evander stared at Castus, narrow-eyed. Then he looked back at the town. ‘We’d need some very high ladders,’ he said quietly, as if to himself. ‘Could it be done?’
Castus remained silent.
‘It will be done,’ another voice said.
Everyone turned, then dropped their gazes in deference. The emperor had paced back from the edge of the cliff. For a moment he stood and regarded the gathering of officers, his heavy-boned face without expression. Then he nodded once, decisively, and walked away. The cordon of his guards parted before him.
*
‘Can’t say I’ve ever seen a scaling ladder this big,’ Macer said. Stripped to the waist in the hot sun, he was overseeing the construction work in the sloping field outside the legion encampment. His men had already felled several tall pines; now they were working with adze and saw to cut and shape the timber into lengths.
‘We’re having to make them in sections,’ Macer w
ent on. ‘We’ll need to carry them down and assemble them when we’re near the walls.’
‘Will they hold?’ Castus asked him.
The drillmaster narrowed his mouth to a slot. ‘Should do,’ he said.
Castus nodded. The grass was muddied with bootprints and scattered with bright yellow wood shavings. Smells of fresh-cut pine filled the early-evening air, and the noise of the adzes echoed off the mountain slopes. The men looked stronger and fitter than ever before after their hike over the mountains, and they were throwing themselves into the work with fierce energy.
Motioning to the drillmaster, Castus led him over to a stack of felled logs, out of hearing of the men labouring on the ladders.
‘You got something you want to say to me, tribune?’ Macer asked. He stood with fists on hips, his tanned torso corded with muscle, grey hair bristling on his chest. Already he looked affronted, defiant. He knew what Castus was about to say.
‘Salvianus. The recruit in Attalus’s century.’
‘What about him?’ Macer’s eyes were coldly hostile.
‘You’ve ordered him to join one of the assault parties on the ladders tomorrow morning. Why?’
Macer screwed his mouth shut, his neck muscles tensing. ‘You know as well as I do, tribune,’ he said, after a moment. ‘I heard what happened during that skirmish up the valley. He froze; he didn’t follow orders. He was a coward. Men like that have to prove themselves.’
‘You think he will?’ Castus was speaking quietly, but the two men had edged closer. Macer’s face was dark red with contained fury.
‘I think he needs to be a soldier,’ the drillmaster said, with savage emphasis. ‘You know how it is, dominus. You stand in the line and you support your brothers, and if you fill your boots with piss and your breeches with shit, you know you’ve done your duty. That’s the only way to break through fear. Otherwise it spreads, and your whole legion’s rotted through with it.’ He was spitting flecks of saliva as he spoke.
Castus leaned forward, his teeth clenched tight. ‘Pull him back out of the assault party,’ he said slowly. ‘If he freezes halfway up a ladder, or decides he wants to run, then he’s putting all the other men at risk. I can’t allow that. You’ll get another chance to weigh his balls for him, don’t you worry.’
