The Sword and the Throne

by Henry Venmore-Rowland

  ‘They’re coming as quickly as they can. Most of them were still eating when you gave the order for attack.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The legionaries are ready, but most of the auxiliaries were eating or cooking. We weren’t ready, General!’

  Already I could see the swarms of men at the foot of the walls beginning to thin.

  ‘Get every auxiliary that’s ready to the walls now.’

  The next wave lumbered forward less eagerly than the first. I counted nine ladders that still stood against Placentia’s walls, but that was too few. Even when the Lusitanians had reached the more distant points for their assault, the defenders still had enough men to see off each threat.

  Pansa stood by Achilles’s shoulder. He looked up at me, his face grim.

  ‘You’ve got to call the retreat, sir. Either that or throw even more men at the walls.’

  I nodded sadly. Pansa was right. It made no sense to reinforce the failure of the first assault, so I gave the order for the auxiliaries to withdraw. Sending the legionaries in when there were so few access points to the city would have been a bloody, desperate gamble, one that I wasn’t willing to take. The mournful metallic bugle sounded the recall and the men came flocking back, glad to be out of range of Placentia’s marksmen.

  The men on the battlements cheered as the troops ran back to the safety of our lines. A few men had managed to retrieve some of the ladders. Others clutched at arrow wounds or helped to carry their injured comrades home.

  The chief engineer watched the ignominious retreat, his face a picture of resignation.

  ‘Shall I have the artillery assembled, General?’

  I didn’t answer him at first. I looked out at the carnage and chaos Placentia had inflicted on my army. ‘I want those bloody walls turned into rubble. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  * * *

  There was a dismal, dour mood in the air that night in council. Only my inner circle were there. Quintus sat at the table, his eyes staring listlessly ahead. Pansa, Publilius and Cerberus were quietly talking together. Only Totavalas was missing. It wouldn’t do to have a freedman speak in council as though he were the others’ equal. I valued his advice highly, but there was no place for him in the tent. He didn’t command any men, even if he did command my respect for his shrewd mind and his unswerving loyalty. The engineer stood alone at the end of the table, painfully aware that he was no more than a guest in this close circle of men, and he shuffled awkwardly from one foot to the other as I struggled to choose the right words.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ I said, bringing the meeting to order. ‘I had hoped that we would be celebrating within the walls of Placentia tonight. However, my over-eagerness and a logistical error have ruled out the possibility of another frontal assault.’

  I paused. My friend Agricola, the man I affectionately mocked as the glorified staff officer, would not have made the mistake I had made that day. He would have known which men were ready to fight and which were not before trying to overrun the enemy. I had never conducted a siege before. My tactical mind was suited to battles and skirmishes in the woods or open fields, using the lie of the land to help our men and hinder the enemy. What I would have given to have Julius Agricola with me that night!

  ‘How many men did we lose today, Publilius?’ I asked, already knowing the answer but wanting the number to sink in.

  ‘Three hundred and eighty-nine dead, around one hundred and fifty who will never fight again, ninety or so lightly wounded.’

  ‘Over five hundred men that we can’t use against Otho,’ Pansa observed sourly. ‘We might as well have decimated a whole legion and saved ourselves the bother.’

  ‘Pansa, when a general of Rome is man enough to admit his mistakes to his junior officers, I suggest you treat him with the respect he deserves.’

  The older man looked me full in the eyes. I could see he was tempted to make some retort, but he thought better of it. ‘Apologies, General. I didn’t think.’

  ‘It’s forgotten already, it has been a dispiriting day.’

  Quintus, still looking dead to the world, snorted at the understatement. But he said nothing. I ignored him and looked to the engineer. ‘The floor is yours, Centurion.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ The man smiled nervously, then began his report. ‘My men have been unpacking the artillery this afternoon, and the assembly shouldn’t take more than another couple of hours. We’ll be ready to commence the battery by midnight, sir. We will be focusing our fire on the stretch of wall beyond the first vertex north of the gatehouse.’

  ‘Vertex?’ Cerberus queried.

  ‘A corner of the wall, if you like, sir. Where the walls begin to turn westwards to cover the northern side of the city.’

  ‘And why not attack the gatehouse itself?’ Cerberus asked.

  ‘Because that will be the thickest point of Placentia’s wall, sir. They know the gate is vulnerable to artillery fire, so that part of the wall is reinforced with extra stone.’

  ‘You weren’t by any chance a teacher before you joined the army, Centurion?’ Publilius quipped. The centurion bristled. Judging from the lines on his face the man had been raining down death and destruction on Rome’s enemies while Publilius was still learning his letters.

  ‘Thank you, Centurion,’ I intervened. ‘One final question: is there anything you need from us to help you?’

  ‘There is one decision that isn’t mine to make, General.’

  ‘Go on,’ I said.

  ‘When we try to make a breach in the wall, it’s likely that a great many missiles will clear the walls and hit the city beyond.’

  ‘And?’ said Pansa.

  ‘And that city is full of Roman women and children,’ a new voice said. Quintus was still staring at a fixed spot on the far side of the tent, his body motionless.

  The centurion cleared his throat. ‘Exactly, sir. I can have the men aim for the base of the wall, lowering the risk of our shots flying overhead, but that will mean a lot of them hitting the ground first, and then bouncing into the walls. The impact of hitting the ground will rob them of their momentum, so they won’t do much damage.’

  ‘General,’ Pansa began, ‘we can spend at most another two days at Placentia. Otho’s army marches closer every hour we idle here, not to mention his reinforcements from the east. We can’t afford to lengthen the siege any more than is necessary if we want to defeat Otho before he is reinforced.’

  ‘But Valens and his army are coming from the west,’ Cerberus reminded him. ‘If they march straight to Cremona they could stop the legions from Pannonia from joining Otho’s column.’

  ‘That’s a big if,’ Pansa said. ‘We can’t afford to take the risk.’

  ‘I’m with the legate,’ Publilius said. ‘We offered them the chance to surrender, it’s not our fault if they refuse to take it.’

  All the while Quintus had turned to look at me. My ears were focusing on my officers, but my eyes were withstanding my friend’s penetrating stare. He didn’t need to state his opinion, it was taken for granted. Quintus just looked at me, daring me to contradict him.

  ‘You will aim for the base of the wall,’ I said, quietly but firmly. ‘These aren’t barbarians we’re fighting, but Roman citizens. We cannot forget that. We dare not. What if the gods decide that Otho should triumph? We will conduct this war with honour, or not at all.’

  There was nothing more to say on the matter. The men dismissed themselves. Quintus was the first to leave, with not even a ghost of a smile or a nod to approve my decision. The others all stood stiffly and saluted before heading back to get some sleep, with the exception of the engineer.

  ‘Would you like to oversee the assembly, General?’

  ‘Thank you, but I know you don’t need any help from me. Your men do their work well, I saw that the day we killed Alpinus. I’m going to get what sleep I can, but wake me when you’re ready to begin firing.’

  * * *

  It was still a few h
ours before dawn when the artillery was fully assembled, aimed and primed. The legionaries stood at perfect attention by their machines as I inspected them. By the flickering light of the torches I could make out the names the men had carved on to their charges. The two from my legion had been unimaginatively called Wall-breaker and Home-wrecker, but one from the Twenty-Second Legion made me stop.

  ‘Tell me,’ I asked, ‘why have you called your machine Moth?’

  The soldier smiled. ‘Cos she’ll make some bloody great holes if she has her way, General!’

  When the inspection was over, the centurion offered to let me prime and fire the opening shot, pointing at a heavy-looking metal lever on the nearest onager. The surgeon had insisted on fashioning a makeshift sling for my arm before I went to bed, but there was no way I was going to appear before my men all patched up when they had been throwing themselves against a well-defended city. My left arm was as good as ever, and I took hold of the lever with a firm grip. All I had to do was push the lever another forty degrees or so to turn the ratchet, adding the last bit of tension to the weapon.

  The centurion’s face fell as he realized his mistake. ‘I’m sorry, sir, it takes two hands to fire the onager.’

  The men were watching me now. How would it look to them if their general failed to push a simple metal lever? The muscles of my arm began to strain, I felt my face flushing red with the effort. A man moved to help me.

  ‘Stay where you are,’ I hissed. I had felt the shaft begin to move. I just had to force it down against the resistance of the ratchet, another hand’s breadth would do it. A low growl escaped my lips as I pushed with all my strength. My right arm hung limply but painfully at my side, and I saw the centurion ushering the men back to their posts in case he had to step in and help me. The lever was bent almost halfway there, and I shifted my footing so that I could add my full body weight to the pushing power of my arm until at last the ratchet clicked into place. The machine was ready to fire.

  I was still blowing hard with exhaustion as the engineer handed me a length of rope that released the firing pin.

  ‘This part should be a lot easier, sir!’

  I didn’t have the energy to come up with a smart remark, I simply yanked the rope, hard. With the pressure on the coiled sinews gone, the onager’s arm sprang into the air, thudding into the sack of straw to cushion the blow. Our eyes followed the missile’s flat trajectory into the darkness. We couldn’t see the impact, but we heard it, the rock smacking into the wall with a sharp crack.

  ‘We have the right trajectory, men,’ the centurion called to his underlings. ‘Use this catapult as the template, jump to it.’

  Soon the air was rent with the chorus of rocks smashing into the walls, but we could not tell how much damage we were doing. It would be another hour or so before the morning sun rose behind us in the east, illuminating the city with her golden glow, but nevertheless I decided to stay with the men, though my shoulder was giving me Hades.

  The light of day fell upon the imposing walls, and the engineer squinted to look for signs of damage from the bombardment. There were none. The grey stone was pockmarked with dents and scratches scattered over an area perhaps 200 paces wide, and precious few were high up. By contrast, the ground was littered with fragments of our missiles. Piles of rubble at the foot of the wall told us that the projectiles had smashed hard into the earth and shattered on hitting the wall, doing little damage that we could see. The engineer looked crestfallen.

  ‘How much ammunition do you have left?’

  The centurion looked over the carts that carried the ammunition and did a quick mental calculation, his eyes rolling skywards as he thought. ‘Enough for another day, sir.’

  ‘Will that be enough time to make a breach?’

  ‘Hard to say, General. If our shots keep hitting the ground first it might take double the time,’ he said.

  I sighed heavily. ‘Very well. I’ll be resting in my tent, Centurion. Wake me at midday and we’ll review the situation then.’

  ‘And if we make a breach before then, sir?’

  ‘Then by all means wake me. But the odds of making a practicable breach before then are…?’

  The centurion smiled tiredly. ‘I’ll see you at midday, General.’

  Totavalas was waiting for me inside my tent; so too was a plate of bread and cheese. A bronze goblet sat on the table beside my bed.

  ‘It’s a little early in the day for wine, don’t you think?’ I said, inspecting the contents of the cup.

  ‘For the rest of us, yes. For you it’s more like the end of a late night. I thought it might help you sleep.’

  ‘You’re my freedman, Totavalas, not my slave. You don’t need to bring me breakfast in bed any more. I have slaves to do that.’

  ‘You do?’ Totavalas looked exaggeratedly round the room. ‘I can’t see them.’

  ‘You know perfectly well they’re back in Mediolanum with my family.’

  ‘Precisely. Besides, what with all your military councils and siege preparations, I thought you might have forgotten about little old me. Knowing how much you love stale army bread and mouldy cheese, I thought I’d bring you some.’

  One sniff of the cheese told me he wasn’t joking. But what sort of general would I be if I dined on campaign as lavishly as Vitellius banqueted?

  ‘You know how much I value your opinion, Totavalas. But you’re not a soldier, at least not a Roman soldier. I doubt Publilius or Cerberus would mind you being at council, but Quintus and Pansa?’ I left the rest of the thought unsaid.

  ‘Ah, jealousy is a powerful thing.’

  ‘If you say so. Thank you for the breakfast, Totavalas. If you could send the surgeon to me, I’d be grateful.’

  The Hibernian nodded, and ducked out of the tent. My hand reached out for the hunk of bread, but it was rock hard, so instead I wolfed down the cheese. The taste was indescribable, so sour it was all I could do not to spit the stuff out. Hurriedly I drained the goblet, hoping the wine would wash away the foulness. There was a polite cough from beyond the tent flap.

  ‘Come in,’ I called, my mouth still swilling with wine as I tried to remove the spots of cheese stuck between my teeth.

  I must have looked a sight, but the surgeon didn’t blink.

  ‘How is the shoulder, General?’

  ‘On fire,’ I said.

  ‘I can give you something for the pain.’ He began to fumble within his bag.

  ‘Not if it will dull my wits, I need to keep my head focused on the siege. What can you do for the shoulder?’

  ‘I should put it in a sling to encourage the muscles and bones to stay where they’re meant to be.’

  ‘And how long would I need that for?’

  ‘A month? No more.’

  ‘I can’t go about in front of my men bandaged for a month!’

  ‘It’s your shoulder, General, not mine. You could always wear the sling in private, but I should warn you that without support the joint the shoulder might dislocate again.’

  ‘All right, all right. Out with your beloved bandages then.’

  Within a quarter of an hour my arm was slinged and strapped, the forearm resting on my breastplate and fist pointing towards my good shoulder, as though beginning a salute. The surgeon guided me into bed, and I was told to lie flat on my back with a pillow for my elbow to rest on. Five minutes later the doctor was gone and I was asleep.

  XII

  Galba’s face loomed at me out of the darkness. ‘I had such hopes, Severus. Even if you defeat my murderer, it won’t even begin to repay me for saving your family from bankruptcy.’

  ‘And what right have you got to think you can decide who should succeed Galba?’ Otho chimed in. He stood up on Placentia’s high walls but I could see every detail on his made-up face, the join where his wig met his scalp, even smell the perfume fairly oozing from his skin. I stood alone before the city, armed only with the Gallic sword that had once belonged to the warrior Bormo, the one that I had used to
defeat the legionary Strontius, the man who almost turned my own legions against me. They were all up there, Galba, Otho, Vindex; even kindly Verginius Rufus was there. He looked down at me, disappointment creasing his face.

  ‘So I wasn’t good enough to lead my own men to Rome, but Vitellius is? Bad form, Severus.’

  I glanced behind me. The army was in pristine order, rank after rank, but they stood still as statues.

  ‘Go on then, General,’ Pansa hooted, ‘show us how it’s done!’ From among the ranks strode Valens, unkempt and panting with exhaustion but pacing forward with purpose.

  ‘Out of the way, boy, leave this to the real men.’

  But then the whole ground seemed to shake. The brilliant blue sky turned an angry black, thunder and lightning crashing and flashing in chaotic beauty. Great rocks as big elephants began to tumble from the heavens.

  ‘Sir, sir!’ a voice called out excitedly. ‘Sir!’

  I sprang up. Too fast, my shoulder complained fearfully at the sudden movement. I looked around, the green of the grass, the red of the tent, the young aide poised in the gap that served as a doorway.

  ‘Are you all right, sir? You look as pale as a Hades shade.’

  ‘What is it, Tribune?’

  ‘It’s the walls, sir, they’re beginning to fall.’

  ‘But the centurion said he’d wake me at midday!’

  ‘It is almost midday, General,’ the aide said.

  ‘What?’ I said, astonished. ‘He said it would take hours.’

  ‘Come and have a look if you don’t believe me, sir.’

  Abandoning the sling, I hurried out of the tent, wiping the cold sweat from my face and neck as I jogged. I tried running but the impact of each footfall jarred my shoulder, and the aide ran impatiently ahead of me.

  The siege engines were still going at it hammer and tongs, launching missile after missile at the walls. The chief engineer must have got his eye in though. A section of the battlements had crashed down on to the ground in front of us, perhaps a dozen paces wide, leaving a jagged V-shaped opening in the wall.