“Very well, let us make our preparations and be ready for their next assault.”
The breastwork was a gimcrack affair when compared with the first one. The bridge over the ditch was dismantled and brought inside. They shoved the wagon sideways-on in the gap and took the wheels off before filling it with roof tiles. When they were finished, it was so heavy that nothing was going to shift it. They built up hurdles sandwiched between horizontal timbers as high as they could go and constructed a fighting platform and access ladders. They nailed as much of the rawhide as they could find on the outside. When Titus Attius jumped up and down on it, the platform gave slightly under his bulk. He looked accusingly at Lucius.
“It’s supposed to be springy, First Spear Centurion,” Lucius told him.
“You are many things Boxer but a good liar is not one of them,” he growled in reply.
That night, the enemy cleared a twenty-five feet wide swathe of the eastern slope. The sentries on the breastwork listened to them toiling through dark and rain. One of them was unnerved by the sounds.
“What are they up to now?” he kept asking his mates.
He irritated the optio. “You know they’re ripping out the tree-stumps don’t you?”
“Yes, optio.”
“Can you do fuck-all about it?”
“No, optio.”
“Well then, keep your trap shut like a good lad, eh?”
When day came, they heard saws and watched the tops of trees slew sideways as they were felled..
Senior Tribune Tertius Fuscus, in uniform with his right arm strapped across his chest staggered out onto the Via Praetoria. He was pale and a little shaky but he was on his feet. Lucius walked over and greeted him.
“Glad to see you up but should you be walking about?”
“I thought I would show the men that I’m getting better. Do you think it might help morale?” he asked suddenly feeling ridiculous.
Before Lucius could reply, an optio marched over with two legionaries, one of them holding an axe. The optio came to attention and saluted.
“These men ask permission to address Senior Tribune Tertius Fuscus, sir.,” he said in a clipped voice.
“By all means,” Tertius responded.
The two legionaries looked at each other sheepishly.
“Come on then. This was your idea, spit it out,” the optio told them shortly.
“Well, sir,” one of them said, “the lads was impressed with you taking on that big German all on your own like…”
“So we got his axe and the blacksmith polished it up…” the other one gabbled.
“And the carpenter smoothed and oiled the handle. Thought you might like it, sir, the lads thought…”
“…Sort of a souvenir, like,” his mate finished.
Tertius took the axe in his left hand and swung it gently, admiring the mirror finish on the blade and at the same time, appalled at the idea of its weight crashing into his skull.
“Thank you very much soldier and all the others who were involved. I’m very grateful and when we have finished off the rest of these Marcomanni pests, I shall show my appreciation with some decent wine.”
That night in his billet, Tertius looked across at the axe blade reflecting the light of his oil lamp. He had a sudden moment of self-awareness. The Tertius Fuscus of two years ago held an unspoken and barely concealed contempt for the common soldiers; ignorant oafs and not to be trusted. But today he had been proud to have earned their approval. Did that mean he now had different ways of judging his fellowmen or had the rough army life coarsened his sensibilities? He pondered the question while his eyes grew heavy. He slept.
Chapter 11
The wind strengthened out of the east overnight blowing away the clouds. The day was dry and bright. Bowstring weather. The annoying soldier who wanted to know what the enemy was up to found out. A trimmed, fifteen-foot log rolled down on the breastwork out of cover at the top of the hill. It bounced and deflected a little, gained speed then fell into the ditch. It was followed by another and another. The men who were launching them stayed well back. The Romans could not see them, let alone take a shot. But the Marcomanni archers took advantage of their elevation and sent scores of black arrows at the sentries or beyond them over the walls. They caused few casualties but they made the men keep their heads down. The level of frustration increased as the day went on under an irregular but persistent scatter of arrows and the thuds of yet more logs dropping into position on top of the others.
“They’re filling it in,” Titus said. “Better stand by lads, I’ll send you some reinforcements and beef up the numbers on your side of the wall.
At two in the afternoon, the Marcomanni advanced in numbers. There were no horsemen among them this time. They spread across the ground, well spaced and out of artillery range before beginning their run in. There was no sophistication to this attack. They carried ladders, knotted ropes and their weapons but no hurdles. So many bloated bodies and wreckage had been left in Boxer’s Canal after previous actions, it no longer functioned as an obstacle. Provided men were prepared to stamp over the stinking corpses of their fallen comrades, it barely hindered them.
They formed up and walked forward with the faintest hint of a swagger. They knew that many of them would die in the course of the next few hours but they had a growing confidence in their ultimate victory. The camp was not what it had been. They had torn down one corner and destroyed two gates. The Romans had been forced to demolish their own access bridges. They had burst through the defences and killed soldiers inside on their own ground. It could only be a matter of time and will.
The leisurely walk became a steady lope as the artillery pieces twanged and sent stones and bolts out of the sky onto them. Men were hit; they screamed where they lay or died but the remainder did not falter. The ballistas and scorpions no longer inspired the terror they once had. The warriors had become fatalistic. Either an iron spike pinned you to the ground or it did not. The best thing to do was to have faith and keep running.
They crossed the Canal and sprinted under the falling javelins, slingshot and arrows to the base of the walls. Ladders were heaved up, ropes snaked out and they began to climb. The Romans resisted them with all their might. Men fell into the ditch dead or injured, some to be ripped open when they landed on a hardened wooden spike. Some made it over the wall and fought man to man with their enemies on the narrow walkways. Blades and axes sliced through flesh and bone and brains. On both sides, men were consumed by battle-fury, laying about them with no regard to their own lives, shearing off hands, arms and hacking into necks. The north wall was transformed into a frenzied abattoir where each was both the slaughter-man and his victim.
A horn sounded, and a thousand men ran out of the eastern forest under a protective rain of arrows. They swarmed over the logs which had now filled the ditch to form a ramp over halfway up the front of the breastwork. A bitter fight, as bloody and merciless as that raging on the north wall, saw Marcomanni reeling backwards over the logs taking the legs from their companions behind and Romans disappearing from their defensive positions to lie dead or wounded inside their camp. Another horn sounded, repeating its minor key, an unearthly wail. The attackers on both fronts withdrew as quickly as they had come.
The conflict had lasted two hours costing three hundred Roman casualties, dead or wounded and eight hundred Marcomanni. Helmund was less worried about the losses than Quadratus; he was beginning to receive reinforcements. News of his prolonged campaign against the legion had spread along the river. Small groups of warriors, smelling victory and spoils on the wind, were joining him. Not in great numbers and not enough to replace his losses but any warrior with the desire to fight was welcome. Helmund knew more would come.
The next day, Felix took his place on the eastern breastwork with a siege spear in his hands. Some of the legionaries took that as the worst possible omen; a cripple the only extra man the legion could find. Others said it was a good sign. With Felix under arms
their luck was bound to change. It became as contentious as the interpretation of the return of Otto’s horse had been, but it kept them animated.
Day followed day. Raid followed raid. The Marcomanni seemed content to chip way at the Roman defences believing that time was their ally. Some incursions were successful, some were not. Felix in action was a revelation. He parried and thrust with his siege spear all the time keeping up a commentary as if he was chiding a badly-behaved child, not repelling a deadly enemy; “None of that now! Behave! Oh come off it!” The men fighting beside him found his voice reassuring in the middle of the mayhem. It was Felix who came up with the good idea.
“I’ve had a good idea,” he said. “Someone run over to the kitchen and bring back three jars of oil.”
Because he was an evocati, he had status beyond his rank and his order was obeyed, after the centurion assented with a nod of the head. The jars were lined up behind the parapet until the next time the enemy rushed out of the forest.
“Right lads, drop ‘em over. No need to chuck ‘em far.”
They landed on the enemy’s crude ramp and cracked apart. Viscous olive oil flowed out and spread down, coating several logs. Proud warriors in their war-panoply leaped to death or glory in front of the Roman defensive wall only to find their feet shooting out from under them. They flailed their arms trying to keep their balance only to be grabbed by a comrade, also skating perilously on oil-coated soles. The Romans hooted with laughter and shouted witty comments as they speared the helpless men or pushed them over the edge to fall into the spiked ditch on either side.
The pro-Felix party saw their belief that he brought good luck vindicated. “Good Idea Felix” was adopted as the password at the changing of the guard.
One night, there was an alarming noise of splintering wood at the base of the other breastwork. By torchlight, the sentries could see a group of the enemy holding overlapping shields above their heads. They were protecting a hidden man who was chopping into their outer wall which was the side of the wagon. If he made a big enough hole, they could drag the roof tiles out and destabilize the entire structure. Arrows and javelins had no visible effect in deterring them under their improvised defensive roof. Tribune Soranus shouted for the wagon-wheels to be brought up. The legionaries manhandled the first into position and tilted it over the parapet so that it dropped vertically onto the warriors below. The iron rim of the heavy wheel smashed through their shields and they scattered leaving the axeman dead. It had struck him on the back of his neck, breaking it.
“Good Idea Soranus” became the new password.
The ninth day came but it brought no cavalry, nor did the tenth. The legion did not lose its discipline nor did it give way to despair. The realisation that they had arrived at the end of their hopes created a calm resignation. They had three thousand four hundred fully fit men and an additional one hundred and thirty walking wounded. If the Marcomanni attacked on all fronts simultaneously, they no longer had sufficient numbers to defend their walls. The Second Lucan would not let their camp fall. They must shortly march out, burning it behind them and advance towards the enemy and their certain destruction. The sun set and a pitch-black night without sight of moon or stars followed, adding to the sense of impending doom.
Five miles away, three of Aldermar’s “ghosts” slipped off their light horses’ backs in a thicket. One stripped naked and stood with his arms outstretched.. His companions smeared the thick mixture of soot and mud they had carried with them all over his body while he rotated slowly in front of them. As his skin was coated he seemed to melt from sight until only his teeth and the whites of his eyes showed in the darkness. He tied a small leather bag around his waist, pulled on some doeskin shoes and walked away, instantly lost in the undergrowth. The other two sat on the ground holding the horses’ reins waiting patiently for his return.
Two hours later, a naked wraith peered out of the edge of the forest at the camp below. The first part of his approach was relatively easy because the bracken hid him. It had been scythed lower down but there were still the sheltering tree-stumps; he slithered between them stopping for several seconds after every move to listen. He heard nothing; no breathing, no click of a weapon against armour or shield, no sound of furtive pursuit. He climbed gingerly down into the ditch, squatted and felt carefully around him for caltrops. He did not find any and crawled towards the side of the Marcomanni log-ramp fifty paces away. He swept the ground in front of him with alternate hands as he progressed for traps and spikes. After forty paces, he touched the first body. He crept on over the dead piled three and four high. His probing fingers found the end of a log and clambered up, nearly falling once when his hand could not grip the oily wood. Eventually, he balanced at one side of the breastwork with his head only two feet below the top if the parapet. He untied the string around his waist.
“Otto. Friend. Not Kill.” He hissed. There was no response. “Otto. Friend. Not Kill.” He repeated.
“Did you hear that?” one of the sentries asked his mate.
“No, what was it?”
“Someone outside whispering.”
“Don’t be daft….”
A small leather bag on the end of a string flipped over the parapet to land at their feet.
“What the fuck…Torches!”
They threw them down. The “ghost” lay motionless on top of a dead man and neither winced nor made a sound when flying sparks burned the back of his thighs. The flames spluttered out and he was gone, back to his friends, unseen and unheard; unless he chose to be.
Everyone packed into the office was silently intent as the legate held up a thong from which a marble finger dangled by its gold mount.
“We have received a message, gentlemen, thrown over the wall half an hour ago. I shall read it to you.”
“To the Noble Legate Publius Quadratus, Greetings. I am come with twelve hundred cavalry. Leave your camp and advance on the enemy one hour after sunrise. So that you may have confidence in these words, Otto Longius sends this token and asks, do you remember how good the figs were, sir? And does Boxer remember when he wrestled Ursus?”
Prefect Aldermar.”
“Do we believe it?” asked.
A roar of “Yes!” resounded off the walls.
“Well, I certainly remember the Emperor’s figs, what’s this about wrestling, Tribune Longius?”
“Otto took on our Molossian guard dog barehanded for the fun of it. Frightened the ladies of my family witless.”
“To which I say that is just the sort of thing he would do and I expect it was a terrifying spectacle so no shame on your mother etc. Now, I understand we all want this message to be genuine but there is always the possibility it is an enemy ruse. Senior Tribune Fuscus, your opinion please.”
Tertius Fuscus had recovered from the knock on the head but still had his right arm strapped across his chest while his shoulder joint healed.
“I believe it is, sir but even if it is not, that makes no difference. Our numbers are so depleted that we shall have to march out and face the Marcomanni in open battle within the next three days in any case. May I suggest that sufficient men remain behind on watch ready to set fire to the camp if things do not go as we would wish?”
Quadratus nodded his agreement. “First Spear Centurion Attius?”
Titus Attius jumped to his feet.
“I’m with the tribune except there’s no need to leave anyone in camp because we are going to stuff ‘em. What are we going to do boys?”
“Stuff ‘em!” the officers yelled at the top of their voices. To the legate’s surprise, the refined Tertius joined in.
“In the face of such enthusiasm, I am bound to concur. Prefect Corvo, we recently mounted scorpions on mule carts to bring them in range. Can this be done again?”
“Yes sir, how many?”
“As many as you can manage. I will give you our remaining cavalry to form a protective screen but I have no doubt that they will be unable to resist joining their c
omrades once the action begins. Very well gentlemen, let us make our preparations.”
There was no further sleep for anyone; in three hours time the legion would be facing the full Marcomanni force. They would be heavily outnumbered and with many comrades missing from the ranks but the general mood was cheerful. They had taken blow after blow and now they were going to do what they did best; join battle in open country.
“You cannot hold a sword, Tertius. It would be advisable for you to remain in camp. It is possible that a well-mounted man could escape to the south if all is lost…” Quadratus suggested.
Tertius Fuscus shook his head.
“I will ride out with the men, if you will allow it sir. I cannot fight, that is true but my presence may be of some use, although I cannot think what that might be.”
The legate’s orders to Felix were precise.
“Evocati Felix, we both know you cannot take your place in the line of battle. I am giving you a crucial role here in camp. You and fifty men will be left to destroy our artillery and fire the buildings and stores. You will stand over the Porta Praetoria during the action. If it is possible, I shall send you a runner with orders to destroy the camp. If I cannot, you must use your own judgement. You will all be free to attempt an escape once the fires have been lit.”
The pale blue above him was striated with high white cloud; a mackerel sky indicating a change in the weather, as Legate Publius Quadratus in full armour stood on the rostrum to address his troops.
“Men of The Second Lucan, I can make speeches telling you we fight for the Emperor, for Rome; you have heard many such speeches and they are true. Today, I will only repeat the words of our First Spear Centurion Titus Attius. “We are going to stuff them!” Are you with me?”
“Yes!” roared out from thousands of throats.
“Then I can ask no more. Second Lucan advance!”
The Porta Praetoria swung open and the rhythmic stamping of booted feet echoed off the walls as they marched out. Once across Boxer’s stinking, three-quarters full Canal, they began to manoeuvre on a wide front. The First Cohort took a central position. The right flank was bolstered by Corvo’s units, including ten scorpions on mule-carts and the remaining cavalry. Within minutes, a solid line of legionaries four ranks deep spread from the base of the eastern hill across the farmlands to the west. Behind them five hundred men stood in reserve surrounding the legate and Titus Fuscus. The flags and eagles of the legion waved and gleamed above their heads. Titus Attius led the centre, Lucius the right flank and Soranus the left. They rolled forward without breaking step and halted two hundred yards from the Marcomanni lines. The sound of their swords beating on their shields in challenge rolled like thunder and then there was silence.
Knight of Rome Part II Page 16