“We are a diversion. There is no glory in this…”
“Unless you do as ordered, there will be no glory for anyone. Are we fighting to destroy Romans or only to gain reputation? When the gates have been torn down and their camp is a graveyard, there will be glory enough for all.”
After some grumbling, they agreed.
“Eat, rest, we move out as soon as darkness falls,” Hulderic told them.
Just when all seemed to be settled, a delegation of archers objected.
“Our bows aren’t as powerful as theirs, we don’t have the range…”
“That doesn’t matter. You’ll be close up hidden in the bracken. They will be outlined against the sky but you will be invisible. Make sure you keep behind a tree-stump and loose only when you have clear shot.”
The sun declined towards the west. The women and children began to filter back into the lines. Cooking fires were lit. Men sat beside them honing blades in the flickering light as their shadows lengthened and deepened in the dying daylight. Most would carry only their weapons but others were to transport equipment for all to use.
As was his custom, Helmund stood for a long time looking at the Roman camp and mentally reviewing his campaign. Today had been a good day. Tomorrow would be better. He had his pickets out to the south and in the forest covering the trails. He had a guard-post at either end of the bridge. He had an army that out-numbered his enemies. The faintest sense of coming triumph entered his consciousness. He pushed it down. To anticipate victory was aggravating to the gods. They punished such arrogance.
The first stars glimmered between the broken cloud cover. He called up his men and moved out to the east uphill into the gloom of the forest, followed by Hulderic with his party.
Chapter 7
The sentries were edgy. They started at the sound of every night-bird. They peered into the blackness so hard that strange colours and shapes appeared to their eyes. They threw flaming torches down into the ditches to flare brightly for a minute but none revealed an enemy creeping closer. With nerves strained to breaking point, they patrolled their few yards of walkway throughout an endless night. Tension is exhausting. In the half-hour before dawn they were worn-out and bone-weary. A sentry leaned over the parapet topping the new length of wall to look directly down into the ditch. An arrow struck him in the face below his right eye. He cried out, staggered back and tumbled down onto the Via Praetoria with a clash and clatter of weapons and armour. With shouts of, “Alarm! Alarm!” others ran up but already the first knotted ropes had snaked out of the gloomy pit below and looped around the posts. As more soldiers rushed to respond, other arrows flew. Some missed and glided harmlessly onwards, others hit helmets, limbs, shields causing men to fall, hindering their comrades. Heads and muscular arms appeared over the parapet. Within seconds, half a dozen warriors crouched on the walkway, spears and shields at the ready. There followed a series of dull thuds as crude ladders were flung against the wall and the half dozen quickly became twenty. The arrows still came over; not in volleys but seeking out individual targets and the legionaries still fell.
Horns sounded, whistles shrilled and the rattle and roar of hundreds of men hurrying out of their billets and running to their positions filled the camp with noise. More torches were lit to reveal the situation. Exactly as before, the enemy were flooding over the wall and the sentries fighting to prevent them moving out of the narrow point of entry they had established. Titus Attius had been expecting something but he had not believed they would be so stupid as to attack again at the same place. He noticed that this time, they seemed to be concentrating on fighting their way towards the Porta Praetoria, using their rear men to defend against the Romans coming at them from the eastern side.
Titus shouted for Corvo and gave him the same instructions as previously; to cut down the interlopers but avoid hitting his own men. He then sent a century up to defend the gate and another one behind the Germans to hold them in position while Corvo’s men annihilated them. But some enemy archers had infiltrated and were now shooting back. The Romans lost two slingers and an archer. Titus quickly ordered up three more centuries to use their shields to protect his own missile troops.
At that moment, five of the men on guard over the Porta Principalis Dexter, the eastern gate, fell to arrows streaking at them out of the darkness. Scores of Marcomanni erupted out of the bracken and sprinted at the gate. They looked grotesquely misshapen until they flung down their burdens of dry brushwood at the base of the gate and ran back. Some were hit by Roman javelins but it was almost impossible to see the scurrying figures below. The enemy archers had no such problem. The defenders were silhouetted against the sky and many fell to long black arrows. There was a brief lull until more warriors ran forward and threw leather bags of raw turpentine on the brushwood and over the planks of the gate. The sharp, sweet smell of concentrated pine filled the soldiers’ nostrils. A fire-arrow flared from the hillside. After a fractional silence, the turpentine exploded into blue-white flames. The kindling caught, red and yellow as the gate was engulfed in a cloak of fire. The heat and fumes drove the Roman sentries back along the walls on either side where yet more fell victim to the invisible archers.
A horn sounded from the forest. The warriors attacking the new wall flung themselves back over it and vanished. Within a few minutes all was calm. Only the dead and wounded were left to prove they had ever been there.
Quadratus, Fuscus and Attius looked at the eastern gate. Plumes of smoke were already spiralling upwards through the inside of planks. Legionaries had been detailed to crawl as near as they could, keeping their heads below the parapet to tip buckets of water down over the gateposts and the walls either side. There was no hope of saving the gate itself.
“Lesson learned,” said Attius. “Next year I’ll have that bracken mowed down.”
Quadratus smiled. “So you think that we shall be here next year?”
“’Course we will, sir,” Attius replied and then after a moment of reflection added, “At least, Rome will be. . .”
“What is to be done, First Spear Centurion?” asked Tertius Fuscus.
“Kill ’em when they come through the gate. Old fashioned infantry tactics. A front and two wings five ranks deep with no space between them. We form up in an open box, they advance into it and then it’s down to steel and the men behind it. Their bows aren’t as powerful as ours so we’ll have two ranks of men on the walkway overlapping their shields protecting a couple of hundred lads with javelins they can throw at an angle. Not a lot of room to work in so the First Cohort should do. Better get ready, if you’ll excuse me…”
Hulderic arrived back in the Marcomanni lines. His force had been diminished by seventy dead or too badly wounded to move. But he had no intention of taking time to recuperate. He shouted for the horns to call general assembly in the few minutes before the sun broke over the forested ridge. Already the stars were blinking out as morning crept over the land. He had the final part of Helmund’s plan to execute and little time.
“Helmund is hard-pressed. He wants us to arm and advance on the Romans. We will not attack but when they see all of us on the move, they will pull soldiers back to man the wall and gate facing us. Every man they order to defend against our supposed assault is one less facing Helmund and our noble warriors.”
Not even the most awkward of the leaders could find fault with this proposal. They hurried to arm and march out grouped in family and clan blocks of between forty and five hundred men. There were many mail shirts, helmets and broad-bladed spears among them to glitter in the first rays of the sun as they moved steadily up the slope.
The guard commander over the Porta Praetoria took one look at the distant host, said “Oh fuck it!” under his breath and shouted for his optio. “Find the legate and report the enemy are coming at us in full force,” he ordered and turned to his men. “Busy day lads, stand firm. They’ll reinforce us long before that mob arrive.”
Quadratus heard the news the breath
less optio gave him with his usual imperturbable air.
“Tertius, to the Porta Praetoria with the second and third cohorts if you will. Boxer, every artillery piece you can deploy against a frontal assault under Senior Tribune Fuscus’ orders. Tribune Soranus, how are you?”
“Hand’s still not good, sir,” Soranus answered.
“Never will be again, sad to say. Are you mobile and can you write?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well, find a wax-tablet and stylus then stay by me as my adjutant for today. Bring a dozen reliable men with you to act as runners. First job, get the fourth and fifth cohorts standing-by at the gates not yet under threat.” He walked over to Attius. “Look for me at the Praetorium if you need me, Titus. Jupiter and Mars with you this day.”
“And with you, sir,” he replied as the first plank of the burning gate fell inwards.
Nothing could be seen through the gap. The last flames were leaping off the brushwood and super-heated air was shimmering above the gate.
“Get ready for the entertainment to begin boys, not long now and you’ve all got front row seats like senators!” Titus roared.
The men grinned; they had heard something similar a score of times before but somehow it was still reassuring. They tightened their grips on their shields and swords, not enough room for javelins, and squinted towards the fire under the rims of their helmets. Another plank fell and another; the whole gate sagged slightly as the frame into which the hinges were secured charred and weakened. A shower of arrows came over the wall. It did no damage but heralded an extraordinary event.
The gate exploded in a flying mass of burnt wood, sparks and flames as a giant warrior smashed through it in one leap. He crashed to the ground, rolled and came to his feet at a run. He carried a huge axe which he raised above his head, his singed beard and braids smoking and crackling. He ran a few more paces and leaped again, hurtling into the front rank. His speed and weight flattened the legionary who took his full force, as well as the man behind him. The third rank man received an axe blow which split his helmet and killed him instantly, spattering the men around him with blood and brains. The berserker died under half a dozen sword thrusts but others were jumping the remains of the fire and laying about them with axes and longswords. The Roman ranks reeled but held firm.
Helmund however, was not going to play according to Titus’ rules. As the Marcomanni burst through in greater numbers, they turned sharp left and hacked and chopped at the end of the Roman line battering their way between it and the wall. The few legionaries taking the brunt of their ferocity could not hold out against twenty, thirty axes and spears on such a narrow front. The Germans were bigger, heavier and stronger and by concentrating their force on this one point, their physical advantage was unstoppable. Titus’ right flank was being chewed up. The enemy were now through the gap they had made and beginning to attack his rear ranks while over two thirds of his men were standing at the ready but taking no part.
Orders were shouted above the thundering war-cries of the Germans and the screams of falling Romans. The rear rank peeled off the left flank and front, formed up to double over to support the weakening right flank and contain the enemy. Helmund had been waiting for this. Another wave of warriors came in but this time, they turned right and repeated the process on the other Roman flank with the same result. The men on the walkway were unable to loose their javelins as the action was too tight to the base of the walls and the risk of hitting their comrades too great.
Cavalrymen were not equipped to fight in the infantry ranks. Their designated task was to protect the stable buildings and horses; they hardly expected to be involved but small groups of the enemy were now rampaging around the interior of the camp. They had no plan; they simply hacked at anyone that came within reach of their weapons. Otto’s men were better armed for this kind of fight than the legionaries and more used to actions which were confused by opponents coming at them from all sides. They fought as they rode, close together, defending with their oval shields and thrusting with their lances or slashing with the long horseman’s sword each of them carried. They beat on their shields shouting insults and defiance, eager to avenge their comrades whose severed heads had been so shamefully abused. Their defiance brought more opponents to them and soon they were backed up against their stable walls with a harvest of bleeding or dead enemies at their feet. Their eagerness for the fight had inadvertently given Titus a small respite because they had engaged most of the warriors who had burst through the gap on his right flank, although more were making their way between it and the wall.
Titus Attius was an old hand at his trade of warfare. He saw that the Marcomanni could not be contained with his present force and it was time to act decisively. He sent his optio to the legate.
“First Spear Centurion Attius sends his compliments, sir, and requests that you order one cohort to his right flank and another to his left,” the blood-splattered optio asked, after saluting Quadratus.
“Noted, optio. Soranus, send runners to the fourth and fifth. They are to report to First Spear Centurion Attius instantly.”
The optio ran back to the fight and Soranus’ men raced across the camp to call up the reinforcements so urgently needed.
The leading centurions of both cohorts stood to attention in front of Titus Attius awaiting his commands.
“Fifth, behind the rear rank on my right flank, fourth on my left. I’m falling back five paces to straighten the line. You are to fill in to form my new flanks once the first cohort has completed the manoeuvre. Got it?”
There was no possibility of even Titus’ voice being heard above the raging battle. He nodded to the bugler standing next to him.
“You know what to do,” he said.
The brass horn resonated clear above the clamour and clash. The legionaries and their officers understood the meaning of the repeated musical phrase. They stood by for the second call. As the last note was sounded, the first cohort marched five paces backwards to the timing of their centurions’ whistle blasts. The mauled remnants of the flanks folded back like doors swinging. The front the Romans were presenting to the Marcomanni was now one straight line little short of twice its original length. The fourth and fifth cohorts rounded the ends and formed more powerful replacement wings. They now began to take advantage of their greater numbers and advanced one step at a time, squeezing the enemy back to the ruined gate.
Quadratus sent runners around the camp ordering every man not engaged on the northern walls to assist in eliminating all of the enemy who had broken past the ranks of Titus’ men.
Horns blared again but they blew the strange wailing cadences of the Marcomanni musicians sounding the retreat. The warriors backed through the smouldering wreckage of the gate and fled uphill towards the forest. But Helmund had left a sting in the tail. Fifty of his archers remained behind, well hidden and each supplied with a flask of water and bread. They would stay until sunset, shooting whenever a target presented itself. Only if the Romans came out in force were they to make their escape. The recall had carried on the breeze to the Marcomanni lined up out of artillery range of the Ports Praetoria. As a man, they turned on their heels and made their way back to their own lines.
When the soldiers were directly in line with the gap where their gate had been relaxed and lowered their shields, a flurry of arrows flew in at them, wounding three. Two wagons with sacks of barley leaned against the wheels were pushed up to block it and hinder any repetition of the assault. While the legionaries piled up the dead and carried the wounded to the infirmary, the senior officers stood in a small knot on the parade ground looking at the result of the carnage and contemplating what to do next.
Felix hobbled up to them with a tray of wine cups and two flasks. When everyone had been served with neat wine he put his tray down and came to attention as best as he could.
“First Spear Centurion Attius, I ask you to request the Noble Legate Publius Quadratus to allow me to take the soldier’s oat
h and enrol in The Second Lucan Legion.,” he said.
They looked at him in surprise. Tertius and Soranus were having difficulty in not laughing at the crippled ex-soldier. He was aware of their suppressed sniggers but continued to look directly at Attius.
“Former Decanus Felix, as we both know, anyone with an honourable discharge from his legion may request to serve again as an evocati, a returned veteran, but you are not fit to march and therefore I can’t do what you want.”
“I know that, sir but I can lean against the parapet and use a siege spear or throw down a javelin as well as anyone. So far they’ve pulled down part of our wall and burnt one of our gates. How many of us have been killed or wounded? A thousand.…”
“Not so many as that….”
“But not far off. Soon enough you’re going to need every man who is willing to fight, never mind his age or fitness. I’d rather take my chance as a soldier, sir.”
“Aquilifer!” Quadratus shouted. A tall man with a leopard skin draped over his armour trotted over holding the staff bearing the gilded bronze eagle of his office. “Take the oath, Felix. You will be designated evocati and soldier-servant to Tribune Lucius Longius. If called upon, you will fight under his direct command.”
Felix repeated the words with the eagle held over his head.
“Draw your kit and an identity disc, soldier. Dismissed. Officers’ conference in one hour, include the senior centurions of each cohort, Titus” Quadratus ordered.
Helmund re-entered his lines to the men’s shouts of triumph and the women’s ululating songs of praise. They had seen the smoke rising into the sky as the gate blazed and heard the clamour of the battle. That not all of their warriors had returned was a matter of brief regret. If they had died well with their faces to the enemy, they had fulfilled their destiny. It was not the dying but the manner of it that was important. A few optimists began to dig out the roasting pits expecting another night of feasting but Helmund stopped them.
Knight of Rome Part II Page 10