by Ian Ross
The two men stood glaring at each other. A fly buzzed between them, and Castus swatted it away. Then Macer inhaled, nostrils flaring, and stepped back.
‘Call the centurions together,’ Castus told him.
The drillmaster strode away, and Castus walked to the edge of the field and turned to stare down at the city. He heard the trumpet behind him, summoning the centurions. His shoulder and neck muscles felt tight and hard as boiled leather, and he breathed deeply and tried to relax.
In the last of the sun the towers of Segusio were glowing a pale golden grey. Castus looked at the walls, the height to the crenellated summit. All his life he had been afraid of heights; it was the only fear he could never truly conquer. He thought now of climbing those ladders, the effort of forcing himself upwards, the drop below him getting greater and greater…
Castus knew all about fear. He had seen it working in men all his life, and he knew how destructive it could be. The old Greeks, he had heard, believed that dread and panic were the sons of Mars, god of the battlefield. Phobus was one of the brothers’ names, Castus remembered. But he knew that Macer was right: once fear gripped a man it could pass in the breath, in the motion of the air. It was contagious, and it broke soldiers, cancelled their will and their spirit and turned them into helpless slaves.
He raised his hand and touched the gold torque he wore at his neck. It was awarded for courage, for valour. The opposite of fear, supposedly. But, no, Castus thought: courage was what lay beyond fear. Why did some men possess it – Macer, Brinno, himself – and others did not? Salvianus was a Christian, he remembered. But Castus did not think that his religion made a difference. Their priests were with the emperor; the god of the Christians must surely approve of this campaign. Perhaps, he thought, some men were just not made for war.
Castus flexed his shoulders again, and grunted as the knot of muscle at the top of his spine loosened a little. Turning, he marched back up the field to the camp gate, where Macer and the centurions were waiting for him. All saluted as he approached.
Briefly, he told them what he needed them to do. It would not be easy: the advance around the walls in darkness, passing close to the citadel, then assembling the ladders and getting them ready. And that was before they started the actual assault.
‘At first light,’ he told them, loud enough for all to hear, ‘half the army will make a feint towards the eastern walls. That should draw some of the defenders down there. At sunrise, men of the Twenty-Second and First Flavia Legions will begin an attack on the western gate, using incendiaries. Once the fires are started, the Second Britannica go in with the ladders.’
He paused, and checked each man, making sure they were following him.
‘We’ll be taking the right half of the wall,’ he said, ‘nearest the gate. We’ll have archers with us to pick the defenders off the walls, and the Bucinobantes to support us once we get a toehold. The Divitenses will be attacking the wall to our left.’
Smiles went round the group, and a few good-natured groans. Legion II Italica Divitensium was another of the newer formations, and shared a numeral with Castus’s command. There was a strong rivalry between them.
‘We begin the assault on my order,’ Castus went on. ‘Six ladders: Blaesus, Rogatianus and Attalus go in first and the other three follow. Pick your leading men carefully.’
Attalus was standing at the back of the group with his arms folded across his chest. Castus had already reprimanded him for his failure during the skirmish in the valley. He could have taken the man’s rank from him, but this was not the time for it. Macer had stood up for him: Attalus was a good soldier, and a good leader, the drillmaster had said; his men trusted him. Castus caught the implication. And they don’t trust you.
After the centurions had been dismissed, Macer remained behind.
‘Is it true,’ he asked in a low voice, ‘that you suggested this plan to the emperor yourself?’
Castus frowned and shook his head. ‘You don’t think the men can do it?’ he asked.
‘Oh, yes. They’ll do it,’ Macer told him. ‘But for many of them, it’ll be the last thing they ever do.’ He sucked air through his teeth, and said, almost beneath his breath, ‘A good soldier knows when to keep his mouth shut…’
*
The night was windy, the sky full of scudding clouds. The wind roared down from the mountain ravines, tugging at the bodies of the soldiers as they scrambled in the darkness with their ladder poles, shields and equipment. But the noise of the wind covered the sound of their movements, and as they crept up over the ridge beneath the citadel there were no cries of warning, no flight of wind-whipped arrows from the ramparts above them.
Crouched in the dry scrub behind a lump of broken brick wall, Castus sensed the darkness around him beginning to fade. There was no moon, but he could make out the grey shapes of the cloaked men beside him in the deeper grey of the bushes and ruined walls. Behind him, the craggy mass of rocks and trees that rose to the west of the town was taking form out of the night. Castus wore a infantryman’s hauberk of bronze scale; it was heavier than his gilded cuirass, and stank badly of old sweat soaked into the lining, but did not constrict his chest so much. He took off his helmet and placed it on the wall, listening carefully.
‘I believe,’ whispered Diogenes from the shadows beside him, ‘that the white object over there is the heroon of Cottius.’
‘The what?’
‘The heroon. A kind of monument, a cenotaph. Cottius was king of these mountains, and Segusio was his capital. That old arch there below the citadel wall was built by the deified Augustus in his honour. Three hundred years ago, or maybe more…’
Castus sniffed, and rubbed his knee. He had grazed it on a chunk of masonry on the way here. Probably a bit of some other heroon, he thought.
‘I found a book in Lugdunum, in fact,’ Diogenes said. ‘Pacatius’s Guide to the Cottian Alps…’
‘Quiet!’ Castus hissed, then raised his head above the mossy crest of the broken wall. He could hear it clearly now: the shouts of men, away to the east. The feint attack on the far side of the town had begun. Trumpets echoed off the mountains, startling flocks of birds into flight along the river valley.
Still they waited. When Castus looked up he saw the eastern sky lit by the colours of dawn, the battlements showing stark black against it. From this angle, from below, the wall looked all the more impressive. Once again Castus wondered whether the ladders would be long enough to reach the top. At Massilia, he remembered, the attackers had badly underestimated the height of the walls… He had been inside the city then, watching the failed assault, but the memory of that scene was vivid in his mind now: the ladders smashed by rocks from above, the men lying broken and twisted in the ditch below the wall.
His body was running with cold sweat, and he suppressed a shudder. Phobus, he thought. Panic dread, killer of courage. The thought came to him that if he died today his son would never know him. His mouth tasted sour and his breath was short. He drew his sword part way from the scabbard and slammed it back again.
Beneath the wall the ground was still in predawn shadow. Castus could see nobody moving up on the ramparts. Just as well, he thought – very soon any sentries up there would have a clear view of the men gathering in the ruins below them. Dawn sun was illuminating the great bluffs that rose directly to the west; perhaps they had a little more time yet. When he glanced to his left Castus saw the men in the dry scrub around the ruins assembling the ladders, wedging the lengths of timber together, tapping in the rungs and lashing them tightly.
‘Tribune!’ somebody called in a harsh whisper, and Castus turned to his right. For a moment it looked like a section of the hillside had detached itself and was rolling down the slope towards the gatehouse; he blinked, craned his neck, and saw the mass of men running, carrying huge bundles of sticks and dry brushwood over their heads. The first cries came from the gatehouse now, but there were archers moving towards the gates too, and a volley of arrows
rattled off the stones around the high windows.
Crouching, Castus raised his hand and made a fanning gesture, trying to keep his men silent, keep them concealed while they still had time. He could see defenders moving along the top of the wall, helmeted heads appearing between the crenellations, but they were running along the parapets towards the gate.
Shouts from the gatehouse: a block of soldiers was advancing down the road, shields locked and held above them in one huge testudo formation. The noise of their boots stamping on the cobbles was amplified by the covering of shields; it sounds like a vast rattling torrent coming down the hill. As the horns wailed from the ranks of Constantine’s army, a sharp snap came from the gatehouse, then another; the formation buckled as the twin ballista bolts slammed into it. But the advancing men held, doubling their pace. Inside their fortress of shields they carried bales of pitch-soaked straw, and more of the heavy combustible fascines.
Arrows spat down from the gate towers, but the archers on the ground were far greater in number and returned six shots to every one from the defenders. The tramping block of soldiers divided as it reached the gates, the fascines passed forward hand to hand and then flung to join the head-high mass heaped against the gates. Then the shields rose again and rattled back into formation, the testudo retreating up the slope. A stone from a catapult crashed into it, raising screams from inside.
Castus watched it all, trying to breathe slowly, trying to calm his racing pulse. Any moment now, he thought. Any moment… He heard somebody moving behind him: Eumolpius was there, handing him a leather flask of watered wine. Castus drank deeply, then passed the flask to Diogenes. He pulled his helmet on and tied the laces securely beneath his chin.
Burning torches appeared in the morning grey, the flames rushing in the hands of running men. Two more men carried a fire-pot between them, grey smoke streaming in the wind. The men in the towers were yelling now, archers leaning from the embrasures to try and pick off the runners before they could ignite the heaped tinder against the gate.
One man fell, then another. But the torches were still coming, arcing through the greyness as the men flung them. The fire-pot went swinging after them, smashing against the stone of the gate arch and spewing burning embers onto the packed dry brushwood of the fascines.
Grey smoke boiled up from the arch, and a moment later Castus saw the first bright tongues of fire licking against the scarred old wood of the gate itself. Within three heartbeats the whole heaped mass of wood, pitch and straw had ignited and fire was seething from the archway.
‘Go!’ he said, and slapped the shoulder of the man in front of him. The messenger jogged forward, his back bent, and Castus heard him pass the word to the first of the ladder parties. All along the strip of ground to his left he saw men rise and begin to advance, hefting the heavy ladders between them. Archers were moving up too, arrows nocked, ready to shoot at any figures appearing along the rampart. Beyond them, the men of the Divitenses were already approaching the wall, racing their rivals of the Britannica.
Fanned by the wind from the mountains, the fire at the gate was burning more fiercely, the smoke rising to shroud the arcades above the arch. Trails of grey and black enveloped the towers, darkening the dawn sky. Castus felt the coiled tension in his body; he wanted to run forward, to charge onto the open ground beneath the walls where, even now, his men were wrestling their ladders upwards. But he needed to stay back, watch what was happening and order in the reserves when they were needed.
Beside him an archer stood up, took aim, and released. When he looked up, Castus saw the shapes of men along the parapets. Where did they come from?
The wind sent the smoke from the burning gate eddying along the line of the wall, and snatched streams of sparks from the fire. Up the slope, the soldiers of the other legions had formed into a shield wall, archers and slingers positioned just behind them. But the artillery in the gate towers made no response, the men up there too busy trying to douse the flames beneath them. Water splashed down from the embrasures, but it turned to steam almost immediately.
Now the first of the ladders was swinging upwards against the wall. Men below heaved on long poles, guiding the ladder head up against the masonry; Castus heard the crack as it fell into position. He exhaled: the length was right. Already the knot of men on the ground were scrambling onto the rungs, hauling themselves upwards with bent heads, shields strapped to their backs. It was all about speed now: they needed to reach the crest of the wall before the defenders could muster to drive them back. The more men on the ladder, the heavier it became and the harder it was to dislodge.
Two ladders were up, then three. Yellow and red shields rose in streams, like bright-coloured beetles scaling the shadowed cliff of the wall. To the left, the men of the Divitenses were already climbing towards the bright glow of the parapet. More archers were loosing shots, running forward from cover to aim up at the crenellations.
A gasping cry, and Castus shifted his gaze just in time to see a heavy stone plummet down from the top of the wall. It hit one of the ladders, caught a climbing man of Blaesus’s century and knocked him down, but his comrades kept on pushing upwards. The next three assault parties were already running forwards.
Castus was on his feet now – no point in remaining concealed – the blood pumping hot and fierce in his head as he yelled to his centurions. Blaesus’s men were almost at the top of the wall when there was a loud crack, then a scream: the damaged ladder snapped beneath the weight of their armoured bodies, and the climbers fell with a sickening crash of breaking timber.
Further along the wall, another ladder went down. Now Castus could see the ballistae mounted in the wall towers, angled down to shoot along the line of the wall. A heavy bolt spat from the tower nearest to him, narrowly missing Rogatianus and his men. There were too many defenders, suddenly. They knew we were coming…
The fire in the gate had spread, driven upwards by the wind, and now the gatehouse itself was burning, flames curling from the embrasures and dancing away on the breeze over the town. Castus could see four of his ladders in place against the wall, but as he watched, one of them toppled sideways, pushed by the men on the parapet above. The climbers leaped clear as the ladder fell, but the screams of injured men lying in the murky shadow at the base of the wall were getting louder.
‘Forward, everyone forward,’ Castus shouted. They needed numbers now, or the assault would be driven back. Rogatianus was almost at the top of his ladder, a column of men packing the rungs below him, but the defenders above were pelting spears and stones down, and Rogatianus could only cling on with his shield held over his head. The billowing smoke from the gatehouse was fogging the air, and everything stank of burning.
Castus was on his feet and running forward into the gulf of blue shadow at the base of the wall. Over to his left he could see the men of the Divitenses lit up by the sun as they battled their way across the ramparts. Unless Castus’s men could also gain a foothold on the wall, their comrades from the other legion would be cut off. A thrown javelin darted towards him, and Castus dodged it; a spent arrow rebounded off the wall and flickered against his helmet. As he ran, he swung his shield around to carry it on his back.
‘Britannica!’ he roared. ‘Britannica – with me!’
He leaped over a fallen body, and then he was in among the confused mass of men at the base of the wall. A figure reeled towards him – it was Macer. The drillmaster was bleeding from a head wound, one eye masked with blood.
‘Tribune! There are too many of the bastards up there – we’ve got to pull back!’
‘No!’ Castus yelled. He grabbed Macer by the arm and shoved him towards the wall. He would not turn back now; he would not admit defeat.
Snatching up a fallen ladder he started wrestling it back upright; others sprang to help him, lifting the heavy timbers between them and swinging the ladder up and across to fall, jarring, against the wall. Castus felt the rage powering him. He knew he was endangering the lives of his
men, risking everything to prove himself as their leader, but there was no time for thought now. Sweat greased his palms as he grabbed the rungs and began to haul himself up. The wall towered black above him, threaded with smoke, and he felt the weight of his body pressing down on every rung. The ladder felt so flimsy, and there were other men behind him. Violent tremors ran through the wood as the men scrambled upwards, and Castus could hear the top of the ladder rattling against the stone of the wall.
Up, then further up. He concentrated only on the rungs in front of him, only on lifting his arms to grip and pull, his legs to push. The ladder was creaking beneath him, bending the further he climbed. Something struck his helmet and he felt the impact ringing in his skull. Another missile fell; he ducked his head towards the rungs and the stone crashed against the shield on his back. When he paused for a moment he felt the man beneath him grasping for his ankle.
Head down, hunched beneath the rim of his shield, he pulled on upwards. The stones of the wall were almost within reach now. Castus glanced down quickly, and the drop beneath him veered away. His head reeled and he could not breathe. The strength was leaking from his arms, his legs would give and he would fall…
Motion from the corner of his eye; he turned his head and saw something dark shunted onto the crest of the wall above the next ladder. A black iron pail: it tipped, and a torrent of burning charcoal, cinders and steaming ash cascaded down onto Rogatianus and his men. Screams, and the stink of burning flesh, then the sound of men falling, dying. Castus blinked as the plume of hot ash washed past him. When he looked again, Rogatianus was still clinging to the top of the ladder but most of his men were gone.
‘Tribune!’ a voice cried from beneath him. Castus looked down: it was Felix, the slinger, just below him on the ladder. The man raised one enormous hand, pressed his palm against the heel of Castus’s boot and pushed his foot up onto the next rung. Castus tried to gasp his thanks but his throat was hot and dry, and felt packed with cinders.
