“All right,” Fergus murmured at last, lowering his head and laying a hand on Aledus’s shoulder, “keep an eye on them but under no circumstances is anyone allowed to go to that prisoner’s aid. I don’t want any unnecessary casualties. And don’t worry about the enemy, once the engineers and artillery men have finished constructing their artillery we are going to pound them to pieces. They don’t know it yet,” Fergus said in a vengeful voice, “but hell is coming for them.”
The Roman officers stood clustered together under the oak tree. It was noon. The young aristocratic tribune in command of the fifteen hundred strong battlegroup was impatiently tapping his fingers against his thigh, as he listened to his senior engineering officer.
“My men should have our war machines and catapults ready by dawn tomorrow, Sir,” the engineer was saying. “It does take some time. These are rather heavy and complicated machines, Sir, so we only carry the metal and other crucial parts with us. It would take an army to move them otherwise. So instead, once we are in position we use local materials to reconstruct the machines and disassemble them when we no longer need them. It’s just on this occasion my men have had to forage far and wide. But like I said, we should be ready by dawn tomorrow, Sir.”
“Good,” the tribune snapped turning to look at his two senior centurions. “All right here is the plan. At dawn, tomorrow we are going to pummel them with everything we have got. I want the artillery barrage to last all morning. Then once we have set them alight and torn down their walls, the 2nd cohort will launch a direct assault across the river and storm their front gates. This should draw most of the defenders towards the river side of the fort. Meanwhile the 6th cohort, all five hundred men, will cross the river further downstream and once the signal is given, the 6th will hit the Dacian’s in the flank and use their assault ladders to gain access to the fort. Caught between our two forces we shall annihilate them.”
“You want my men to storm the fort across the river,” Rufus, the senior centurion of the 2nd cohort snapped looking distinctly unhappy as he poked his vine stick into the earth. Standing at Lucullus’s side, Fergus glanced quickly at his cohort’s commander, hiding his delight that the man had voiced his own concerns. Rufus looked like he was old enough to be the tribune’s father. “That river is a torrent Sir,” Rufus growled, “we don’t even know how deep it is or whether we will be able to cross it in full armour and carrying a shield. Once my men are out in the open they are going to come under a barrage of arrows and that is before they must cross the river and fight their way into the fort. I am sorry Sir, but that sounds like a shit idea. I am not about to sacrifice my men in such a way.”
The officers tensed as the O group went very quiet. Across from Fergus, the tribune sighed and placed his hands on his hips.
“There will be no massacre Rufus,” the young aristocrat said in a surprisingly calm voice, “and your men will assault those main gates. I will have our Syrian archers line up behind you, so that they can cover your men during the assault and you will also have artillery support. Casualties are to be expected but there can’t be more than a few hundred Dacian’s inside that fort and we do not have the time to sit here and starve them out. So, is that clear?”
“Sir, I have an idea,” Fergus said, boldly raising his hand. At his side, Lucullus turned to glare at him in surprise.
Without waiting for permission to speak, Fergus continued. “Tonight, when it is dark I could take a few men out into the river to see if it is passable, Sir. And I have also been thinking about that bridge. What if we could get a squad to repair it during the night? We would need several long sturdy planks and a single support in the middle of the river. It could be done in one night. The river is not that wide. If it works, we could use the bridge to cross the river and attack those gates.”
The twenty or so officers gathered under the oak tree did not at first reply as all eyes turned to stare at Fergus. At Fergus’s side, Lucullus at last cleared his throat. “It is worth a try, Sir,” Lucullus said turning towards the tribune. “What do we have to lose?”
Around the circle several of the other officers were nodding. The young tribune was gazing at Fergus. Then slowly he too nodded.
“All right make it happen,” the tribune growled.
As the O group broke up and the officers headed back to their units, Lucullus turned to give Fergus a wry look.
“That was a brave thing,” the centurion said, “volunteering for that mission. So, take a squad and see that it is done properly.”
***
The water was freezing cold as Fergus stealthily crept out into the river followed by Aledus and Vittius. It was night and above them the moon had vanished behind the dark clouds, plunging the rushing, noisy river into complete darkness. Anxiously Fergus cast a hasty glance in the direction of Berzobis but there was no sign of any movement or activity from within the fort. Steadying his breathing, Fergus paused, as for a moment he allowed his body to get used to the ice-cold water that was rushing past his knees. The noise from the torrent would hopefully be enough to hide their presence from the Dacian sentries on their ramparts, no more than twenty yards away in the gloom. As he started out again into the middle of the raging torrent he swayed and cursed softly as his boots hit a rock, but he managed to steady himself just in time. The river however did not get much deeper and the strong current had only risen to just below his groin when he finally reached the gap in the bridge. Standing in the middle of the river, Fergus shifted his weight around until he had found a position where he could brace himself against the strong current. Then silently he turned and waited for Aledus and Vittius to join him underneath the bridge. His two comrades were carrying two long, sturdy wooden-logs balanced on their shoulders and weighed down by heavy sandbags at one end. Grimacing and puffing from the exertion they struggling to maintain their footing in the gushing current.
“Brace yourself, find a spot where you can stand,” Fergus whispered, as he reached out to take some of the load.
In the darkness, the only reply was a muffled curse.
Looking up Fergus suddenly noticed that the moon had re-appeared from behind the clouds, casting a faint light onto the river. Anxiously he twisted round to stare at the enemy ramparts. If the Dacian’s discovered them now their only hope would be to throw themselves into the river and let the current wash them downstream. That however was a dangerous option considering the amount of armour they were wearing. But as the seconds ticked by and the river water rushed past him, nothing happened and all remained as it should.
Suddenly above them on the Roman side of the bridge a face appeared over the edge of the gap. The man was lying flat out on his belly and was peering down at them, as they stood shivering in the water. It was Catinius and he was grinning. Silently Fergus raised his hand and beckoned to his friend. Abruptly Catinius’s face vanished and a moment later the first of the long, crude wooden-planks began to unsteadily scrape across the gap in the bridge. Reaching up with both his hands, Fergus caught hold of the plank and guided it onto the Dacian side of the broken bridge. Then another plank appeared and once more Fergus twisted his body in the freezing water and helped guide the plank onto the opposite section of the bridge. Once the final plank had been shoved into position, Fergus felt a body slowly slithering across the repaired bridge above him. Gesturing silently at Aledus and Vittius, he grasped hold of the log supports and pushing the sand bag loaded end into the water, the three of them strained, cursing softly, as they struggled to wedge the wooden posts into the soft river bed and fix the other ends to the planks above their heads. At last they managed it and, panting from the exertion they swayed in the current, as they peered triumphantly at the supports. Above their heads the noise of a hammer striking an iron nail was muffled by a piece of cloth. Fergus paused as the soft hammering continued. They had wrapped a piece of cloth around the hammer to deaden the noise but standing in the open river, exposed as he was, the noise still sounded horribly loud. At last Catinius’s f
ace appeared over the side of the narrow footbridge.
“It’s done,” he hissed in triumph, “let’s get the fuck out of here.”
Raising his fist in fierce delight, Fergus gave the supports a final check and then silently gestured for his two comrades to head back to the shore. They had done it. They had managed to repair the bridge right under the noses of the enemy. As he gratefully waded out of the river and onto the bank and hastily joined the squad as they clambered back up to their own positions Fergus punched Aledus’s shoulder in triumph and was rewarded with a broad grin.
“A tale to tell the grandchildren, Fergus,” Aledus whispered happily as they slithered back behind the protection of the earthen embankment.
***
“Release,” the officer bellowed.
Seconds later with a whirring noise, the battery of three onagers, heavy catapults, kicked backwards like mules and their projectiles went arching away in the direction of the Dacian fort. Fergus lay pressed up against the earthen rampart staring at the artillery men who were standing around their machines. It was dawn and he and the five hundred or so men from the 2nd cohort crouched or knelt along the entire length of the ramparts ready and waiting for the signal to commence their assault. In the Dacian fort the onager’s clay balls, filled with flammable material vanished from view with a loud explosive crash. It was however impossible to see what damage they had done. Then another whirling and twanging noise filled the air, as the battlegroups battery of twelve ballistae and carroballistae opened up, sending a hail of rocks, stones and heavy arrows hurtling towards Berzobis. In the Dacian fort the yells and cries of the defenders plainly carried across the river.
“Reload,” the artillery officer roared, “Tighten, release!”
And once more a barrage of clay balls went hurtling through the air and across the river, crashing into the fort and spreading their incendiary contents, which immediately burst into flames. The thump, crack and twang of the bolt throwers and rock hurlers followed. Just behind the line of crouching heavy infantry, the crews of the six scorpions, giant crossbows standing on tripods, swivelled their sniper weapons and sent a barrage of heavy bolts and arrows straight into the nearest Dacian watch tower. The aim of the scorpions was deadly accurate and as Fergus stared at the Dacian fort, one of the heavy bolts caught an unlucky sentry full on in the chest, sending him flying backwards, and over the side of the tall watchtower where he disappeared behind the enemy ramparts.
“Give them hell! Go on. Burn them. Burn them!” a few of the legionaries crouching in the line shouted, shaking their fists in harsh satisfaction.
On and on the artillery barrage went as the ballistae and their wagon mounted counterparts filled the air with missiles and kept up a furious bombardment of the Dacian positions. Across the river, the first columns of billowing black smoke were soon rising into the sky and despite the constant whirring, crack and twang of the Roman artillery and the shouts of the artillerymen, the noise of crackling flames could be heard coming from the fort. Fergus stared at the display in awe. He had never seen such a concentration of artillery. The crews of the scorpions were methodically clearing the watchtowers and ramparts of any Dacian who was foolish enough to show himself and their bolts and heavy arrows were already stuck into the Dacian walls like a pin cushion. An hour passed and then another and still the relentless Roman bombardment continued. Inside the fort the pillars of black smoke grew bigger and flames could be seen leaping skywards. The shrieks and screams of wounded men was plainly audible but despite the carnage that was being inflicted on the enemy, the Dacian walls still stood. As Fergus gazed at the chaos, one of the tall Roman style watchtowers caught fire and became a blazing inferno. Moments later two bodies fell to the ground outside the fort. One of the Dacian’s was on fire and as he hit the ground, the man rolled about writhing until one of the Scorpion’s impaled him to the ground.
From his position along the escarpment, Fergus could do nothing but stare in awe at the growing chaos across the river and as he gazed at the smoke pouring from the fort he was glad that he was not there having to take this ferocious pounding. Then suddenly to his surprise the main gates into the fort swung open. Fergus’s mouth dropped in shock as a small tight group of Dacian’s came storming out, trying to cover themselves with their shields as if they were practising a Roman testudo formation. The Dacian’s were heading straight for the repaired bridge, contemptuous of the barrage of flying stones, bolts and incendiary projectiles.
“Oh no,” Fergus groaned as he suddenly sensed the Dacian’s purpose. “Oh no!”
As the small valiant party reached the river’s edge, the tight, shield formation burst apart and a man flung himself onto the bridge, smashing a clay amphora filled with liquid onto the planking. A moment later another man clutching a burning torch, hurled it on the planking and with a whoosh the liquid caught fire and the bridge began to burn. In anguish Fergus ran a hand through his hair, as he stared at the growing fire that was engulfing the bridge he and his comrades had just repaired. But there was nothing he could do about it. Catching sight of the Dacian party outside their gates, the scorpion crews swivelled their huge cross bows in their direction and sent a volley of heavy bolts flying towards the enemy. The Dacian’s didn’t stand a chance. Two of them were killed instantly as the heavy yard long bolts impaled them, whilst a third man’s shield was torn from his grasp. As the survivors turned and raced back towards the gates of their fort, one of the onagers landed a direct hit, the clay ball exploding and bursting into flames on impact and setting another of the raiders on fire. Then with a defiant crash the Dacian gates slammed shut. Fergus groaned as he stared at the fire that was engulfing the bridge and from the corner of his eye he saw Aledus stand up and raise his finger at the Dacian’s, in a crude gesture as a stream of obscenities escaped from his mouth.
“Fergus, prepare the men, we are going in,” Lucullus snapped at him in an urgent voice as the centurion, half bent over, came hurrying down the line. “We go when you hear the trumpet signal. Forget the bridge, we go straight across the river and up to those gates and ramparts. Good luck to you.”
Before Fergus could reply, Lucullus was already hurrying away down the line. With a sigh, Fergus turned to look down the line, his chest heaving with sudden adrenaline and fear. It was time.
“Get ready boys,” Fergus cried out in a loud voice, “we go in when you hear the trumpet. Keep your shields up and keep your footing in the river. The water will come up to your waist, no higher. Listen to your officers and NCO’s and kill anyone who is not one of us. You have trained for this. No one beats us. Now let’s finish this.”
Along the line, crouching behind the embankment, no one answered him and all eyes remained on the burning, smoking hell across the river.
“Archers, prepare,” the officer in command of the hundred Syrian auxiliary archers yelled and like a well-oiled machine, his men positioned just behind the legionaries and clad in their auxiliary chain mail armour and conical helmets, knelt on one knee, strung an arrow and raised their powerful composite bows, pointing them high up at the sky.
In his chest, Fergus felt his heart thumping away as he reached up to grasp hold of Galena’s amulet. Hastily he raised it to his lips and kissed the cold, hard iron. Then just as he released the amulet in the distance he heard the unmistakable noise of a trumpet. Taking a deep breath, he fumbled for his whistle, stuck it in his mouth and blew. Then with a harsh cry he rose and started to clamber up the embankment. Along the entire escarpment, the five hundred Roman legionaries rose as one and with a huge roar they surged forwards over their embankment and went charging down towards the river bank. Fergus was one of the first into the water, splashing into the torrent and once more he gasped at the ice coldness. From the Dacian ramparts, there was no immediate response. Then the air above him was suddenly filled with arrows as the Syrian archers hammered the fort. Around Fergus the heavily armed legionaries were surging into the river and frantically wading and strug
gling towards the opposite shore. The men were holding their shields up above their heads and clutching their spears in the other.
As Fergus reached the opposite shore an arrow thudded into the shield of a man beside him and then another struck a legionary in the arm. Gasping for breath, his chest heaving from the exertion, Fergus clambered up onto the river bank and raised his shield, trying to protect himself as best as he could. Fumbling for his whistle he blew it once more. Then over his head another volley of Syrian arrows went whirling and whining into the Dacian ramparts.
“Move, move,” he roared at his troops as if they needed any further encouragement. Then lifting his shield up in front of him Fergus charged towards the enemy gates and as he did he felt the whine of a Dacian arrow as it narrowly missed him. The Dacian gates and walls were still largely intact and as Fergus made it to the relative safety of the wooden palisade he crouched, raising his shield above his head. Hastily he snatched a glance at the river. The torrent was still filled with legionaries struggling to get across and on the steep land in between the Dacian walls and the river, others were racing towards the cover that the walls provided. Fergus blinked as he caught sight of Lucullus’s red plumed helmet and the company’s standard amongst them.
“Get those hooks up against the walls,” Lucullus roared, as the old man came charging towards the enemy walls, where a growing number of legionaries were taking shelter. Crouching beside the palisade they had raised their shields above their heads. “Pull that wall down, pull it down.”
In response, a party of legionaries, clutching long poles which ended in iron hooks, came storming up to the wooden walls and as they did, a volley of Dacian arrows hammered into their shields and the ground around them. Fergus, his chest still heaving, stared at the soldiers as they raised their long poles, grappled hold of the top of the enemy palisade with their iron hooks and began to pull. Straining and grunting the legionaries tugged and tugged but the wooden wall would not budge.
The Dacian War (Book 6 of the Veteran of Rome Series) Page 20
