Fire and Sword

by Harry Sidebottom

  When regular soldiers had chivvied the armed citizens to their allotted station, the ground was littered with the fallen. Some moved gingerly, holding heads and limbs, some lay stretched in the dust.

  A great wailing rose from the audience. Servants ran out to tend the wounded and remove any who were dead.

  Pupienus looked away from the debacle, studied the line of poplars. He would make his speech when calm had returned.

  The lamentations rang in his ears. He did not blame those who grieved. Had not the Heliades, changed into the poplars on which he gazed, shed bitter tears for their dead brother Phaethon? Had not Phaethon’s father, the immortal Helios, clad himself in sordid mourning, abandoned his duty, and given himself up to grief, having sent his son to his death? And what of a man who had encompassed the death of his own father? Only iron self-control could prevent him weeping, even if he wore the purple. Such is the fate the gods have spun for poor mortal men, that we should live in misery.

  CHAPTER 26

  Aquileia, The Nones of May, AD238

  It was another foul night. Statius, the local magistrate, had said he could not remember such weather, not at this time of year, not since his childhood. Every evening the thunderheads built out in the Gulf of Tergeste. Nightfall came early as the storm swept inland to Aquileia. The heavens opened, and the gutters and streets sluiced with water.

  Menophilus left his dripping cloak at the door. The warehouse was lit only by the flashes of lightning. Lamps or torches were too much of a risk. The ranks of amphorae looked deceptively innocuous, but the smell betrayed them: a compound of pitch and oil mixed with sulphur and bitumen.

  ‘You did well,’ Menophilus said to the Trierarch.

  The previous night the commander of the small galley had run the blockade. Although the besiegers had no ships, the Natiso was no more than fifty paces wide. Even keeping to the centre of the channel, a vessel was in javelin-cast of both banks. Most likely it would not have made it but for the darkness of the wild night. As it was, the ship had almost reached the south wall of the town before the alarm was raised.

  ‘Fifty jars of naptha. No matter how well sealed, the stench seeps out. One fire arrow, one broken pot, and it would have been the end of us,’ the Trierarch said.

  ‘Your men did their duty. They will be rewarded.’

  ‘I am sure they would appreciate a few coins for a drink, as they are not going home.’

  With the enemy alerted, it would be near suicidal for the galley to attempt to leave. It was moored close under the southern wall. The sixty men of the crew – oarsmen, sailors, and marines – had been armed, and stationed as a reserve in the Basilica that opened onto the Forum.

  A flicker of lightning illuminated the rows of amphorae. They looked smooth, and ominously delicate.

  ‘Tomorrow, we will move twenty each to the northern and western walls. We must find somewhere safe to store them. The rest can remain here.’

  With the arrival of the main body of the imperial field army, the besiegers had surrounded the town. Two large camps faced the exposed northern and western walls, two smaller ones where the Natiso flowed around Aquileia to the east and south. The encampments had been protected by ditch and rampart, but no field works connected the fortifications one to another. Evidently circumvallation had not been thought necessary. Maximinus would know how few regular troops were in the town.

  Responding to these dispositions, Crispinus had shifted the three hundred and forty men of the Ravenna fleet under his direct command to the western defences. Apart from the crew of the blockade runner, the rest of the garrison remained as before: two thousand militia on each wall, another two thousand in the porticos of the Forum, the five hundred auxiliaries of the 1st Cohort on the north wall. The fighting men were supported by twenty-four pieces of torsion artillery, two thirds of them concentrated on the northern and western walls, behind which stood the dozen cranes for dropping boulders on the heads of attackers.

  The night after the assault there had been a sharp action. The besiegers had managed to recover the rams, but at a heavy cost in casualties. In the seventeen days since, there had been no further attempt on the walls. The reasons for the respite stood in front of the northern camp. Day by day the defenders had watched the construction of the three enormous siege towers. Progress had been slow. On arrival, with wanton destructiveness, Maximinus’ men had torched all the buildings in the vicinity which Menophilus had not had demolished before the siege. The troops’ lack of foresight had made labour for themselves. Timber for the towers had had to be hauled from far away.

  The delay had been welcome. Aquileia was well stocked with munitions and food, and thanks to the river, wells in the town, and the nightly downpours, would never run short of water. Treachery was unlikely, given the inhabitants could expect no quarter. Menophilus had used the time to train the militia, although he still had doubts about their ability to stand close to the steel if the defences were breached. The gods willing, it would not come to that. The walls were sound. The river made a barrier on two sides, there was no cover on the approaches to the other two sides. The water table was too high to permit undermining. It was the siege towers that posed the greatest threat. Somehow they must be destroyed.

  It was late. Intempesta, the dead of night, when it was ill-omened to be abroad. It made no odds. Sleep shunned Menophilus. No point in taking off his armour, only to struggle back into it after lying awake for an hour or two.

  ‘Make sure the guards are watchful.’

  Collecting his cloak, he walked back to the door, the Trierarch at his heels.

  The storm had not eased. Standing under the lintel, he held out his hand. In the lightning, he watched the rain beating on his palm, running up his forearm. The life of man was but a moment, his body no more than water, his soul vapours and dreams.

  ‘Earth is in love with the showers from above, and the all-holy heaven itself is in love.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Euripides.’

  ‘A great consolation is culture.’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  Between the roar of the thunder, came the sound of someone running down the street.

  ‘No one brings good tidings on a night like this,’ the Trierarch said.

  One moment vivid in the lightning, the next plunged in darkness, the messenger seemed to advance in bounds towards them.

  ‘Sir, the enemy are across the river. They are at the east wall, breaking through the port.’

  Menophilus stepped out into the downpour, pushed back the hood of his cloak, listened. Nothing to be heard but the thunder, the rain, and the rushing water. Rain streaming down his face, into his eyes, down his neck. His thoughts were splintered, crowding him in no order. Could this be true, not some false alarm? The east, the harbour – the only soldiers on the wall there were the crews of four ballistae, apart from them there were just the civilians under Servilianus. How in Hades had Maximinus’ troops got across the river? If they were through the docks it was all over.

  The messenger and the Trierarch were waiting for orders.

  Menophilus could not let this ill-fortune unman him. He had to think clearly, take control. The reserve in the Forum, get the crew to the galley, send it upriver – no, there was no time for that – get them all to the walls. There was nothing else for it – stake everything on a desperate rush in the dark. One last throw of the dice.

  ‘Follow me.’

  He ran north up the main street, his boots splashing through the puddles. One block, two. The blank walls searing white at the crack of the lightning, then disappearing in the gloom. His heart was knocking in his chest, his laboured breathing drowned out the din of the storm. Three blocks, four.

  The rain-lashed Forum was empty.

  Shoving open the doors, Menophilus burst into the Basilica.

  Two drowsy sentries stumbled to attention.

  ‘Sound the alarm. Get the men formed up in the square.’

  ‘Sir, it is a tempest o
ut there.’

  ‘Do it now.’

  ‘We will do what is ordered—’

  ‘Now!’

  Menophilus shrugged off his cloak; being soaked was the least of his problems. He doubled up, hands on knees, dragging air into his lungs.

  Troops clattered and banged out into the Forum.

  No time to waste. Menophilus straightened up, pushed his sodden hair out of his face. Play the role Fate had assigned. Act like a man. He squared his shoulders, and marched outside.

  The crew of the warship were drawn up to one side. The militia stood in an amorphous mass out in the middle. Menophilus looked down from the steps at their white, scared faces.

  ‘Soldiers, the tyrant’s men are down on the quayside. We will go and support Servilianus’ defence. Are you ready for war?’

  Ready! The men of the warship shouted the traditional response.

  Ready! The armed civilians sounded anything but prepared to hazard their lives.

  ‘Trierarch, your men will go in the vanguard.’

  ‘Quick march.’ The officer led his men from the Forum, and out of sight.

  The militiamen stood as if rooted into the wet paving slabs. Menophilus knew if he did not put some heart into them, they would be too frightened to obey. No time for a long speech. He had to summon the right words. If only he was not so tired, so shaken and afraid himself.

  Above veins of lightning pulsed in the dark of the sky.

  ‘Citizens of Rome …’

  A bad start. Rome was far away, men there were safely abed. In this terrible, storm-wracked night, patriotism and honour were no more than words.

  ‘Men of Aquileia, the enemy are at the gates. If we let them pass through, we will die; every one of us. If we let them enter, your wives and children will be raped and enslaved, your aged parents butchered. Only you can save your loved ones. Let us be men.’

  As his words were torn away by the wind, he could not judge their effect.

  ‘Stand against those who serve the tyrant, and they will run. They have nothing to fight for, you have everything. You fight for your families, your homes, the tombs of your forefathers, the temples of your gods. Do not let them down. Do not let your companions down.’

  Like an actor, he needed some rousing line to finish the play.

  ‘The great god Belenus watches over Aquileia. He saved your ancestors from the Marcomannic hordes. Now he promises you victory. His sacred birds have not left the temple. The oracles are good. The shining one himself will stand beside you on the walls. Gather your courage. Prove yourselves worthy. Let us be men!’

  Belenus, Belenus. The chant rose up, weak at first, growing stronger. It was now or never.

  ‘Let us go. With me.’

  Menophilus drew his sword, and jumped down from the steps.

  The men of Aquileia followed him out of the Forum, and down the rain-swept street. Less a military unit, more of an armed mob. They were filled with a fragile resolve. Menophilus prayed it might hold long enough.

  It was no distance to the docks. Beyond the roofs of the warehouses, the battlements were very distinct in the lightning; every stone, the mortar between, clearer than daylight. There were men on the wallwalk, but no fighting.

  ‘Stay here. Do not move. Call on your god.’

  Menophilus ran between two warehouses, took the steps up to the wall two at a time.

  ‘Where is the attack?’

  The militiaman, too shocked to reply, pointed out into the night.

  Menophilus leant out over the machicolations. There was the river. Rough pontoons built of big, round wine barrels bridged the Natiso in three places. Troops milled at the foot of the wall. Four or five ladders reared up against the battlements. As he watched, one was sent crashing sideways and down. Rocks and missiles rained down on those below. His spirits lifted. The wall was not breached.

  Some movement below, an eddy in the dim shapes down by the river off to his right, caught his eye. His vain hopes were dashed. Troops were funnelling towards a tiny postern gate. They must have broken down the brickwork. The soldiers pushed and shoved, getting in each other’s way. Yet one at a time, they were squeezing their way inside.

  Menophilus ran back down the steps.

  Belenus, bringer of light, hold your hands over your worshippers.

  The chant was thin, insubstantial against the howling rainstorm. There were fewer men than there had been. Fools. Slinking off to cower at home would not save them.

  ‘The walls are secure. Only a handful are entering by one door. Drive them out, and we are safe. Drive them out, and Aquileia is safe. Do not desert me. Do not desert your families. Follow me.’

  Menophilus had taken no more than two or three paces when a muscle in his left calf snapped. The pain white-hot, he hobbled to a halt, bent over. Militiamen jostled into his back, nearly knocking him to the ground. How could the gods be so cruel? Not now. Safety almost in his grasp.

  He took a step, his leg almost gave under him. The agony made him gasp. He grabbed someone’s shoulder. All resolution was draining out of the man’s face.

  Something so trivial; a heartless joke of a malevolent deity.

  Without him, these civilians would not fight.

  The body was nothing. A corpse a man dragged around. Nothing that was external was of any consequence. Pain was to be despised. Pain could not touch the inner man, not deflect his purpose.

  ‘With me.’

  He hobbled forward. Pain was nothing. It had no consequence.

  The alley was for men on foot, not goods, so narrow that two men would find it hard to pass through at once. As Menophilus limped around the corner, the last defender elbowed him aside, and fled into the town.

  A cheer from the attackers.

  Menophilus set himself in the opening.

  Seeing this unexpected resistance, the advancing wedge of armoured men halted. A young officer was forcing his way to the front.

  Menophilus spoke over his shoulder to the militiamen. ‘You at the back, get up on the roofs on either side. Throw the tiles down on their heads.’

  There was no chance to see if his command was obeyed. The officer had reached the first rank. He was tall, wore chased armour. There was something familiar about him. The tribune began to harangue his men.

  ‘Legionaries of the 4th Flavia Felix, where is your courage? A lame soldier, and a few civilians stand between you and victory.’

  Menophilus knew him now: young Barbius, the son of the Aquileian magistrate, Maximinus’ failed envoy.

  ‘Barbius, do not do this. Your father has lost one son, do not make him grieve for another.’

  The tribune stared, as if unable to believe the evidence of his senses. ‘You, the coward who abandoned my brother.’

  ‘Barbius, you know Maximinus has promised the town to the soldiers. What will happen to your family; your father, your mother, your own wife and children? Do you want to be responsible for their deaths?’

  ‘I will protect them.’

  ‘How? Your father fights on the north wall, your wife and children wait at home with your mother. Which will you try and save?’

  ‘I have no choice,’ Barbius said.

  ‘Leave the tyrant. Join us. Fight for liberty and your family. It is your duty.’

  ‘A man like you – an oath-breaker, a murderer – and you tell me about liberty and duty.’

  ‘Barbius, you serve in the army, you know what the soldiers do when they sack a town. No one man can stop them.’

  The first tile caught a legionary behind Barbius. It shattered on his helmet, but he went down like a felled ox. Then the air was filled with missiles. The men on the roofs were like daemons, flickering in and out of sight, hurling everything that came to hand. Trapped in the alley, the soldiers hefted their shields, cowered beneath them, but men were falling, battered down, sharp shards scything through their flesh. A legionary shoved Barbius aside, rushed at Menophilus. The legionary went down under a hail of tiles and bricks.
<
br />   Panic seized the legionaries. Huddled under reverberating shields, they blundered over their own fallen, back towards the postern.

  ‘Stop,’ Menophilus shouted at the rooftops.

  If they heard, the men up on the eaves paid no attention.

  ‘They are Romans, like you. For the love of the gods, stop.’

  Missiles crashed down. Barbius was at the rear of the stampede.

  ‘Do not kill them. Not him.’

  CHAPTER 27

  Aquileia, Two Days after the Ides of May, AD238

  Ten days after the failed attempt on the docks, and at long last the siege towers were ready. In the bright sunshine Maximinus walked to inspect the third, and final City Taker. From a base twenty feet across, the structure gently tapered to a height of almost fifty feet. The rear was open, but the interior was gloomy.

  ‘Wait here.’

  The senior commanders of the imperial entourage did as they were told.

  ‘Javolenus and Apsines with me.’

  Clambering inside Maximinus was struck by the smell; a compound of freshly cut, unseasoned timber, damp clay and leather, the sharp tang of vinegar, and the underlying sourness of human sweat. When his eyes adjusted, he took in the square frame, and the three axles that would turn the six solid wheels. These were all cut from hardwood; oak and ash. Obtaining them had constituted the principal delay. Between the preparations of the defenders and the thoughtless destruction of his own soldiery no buildings had remained in the vicinity from which to scavenge construction materials. Mature trees had had to be felled miles away. As almost all the baggage animals had been slaughtered for food, it had been necessary to manhandle the massive baulks of timber on rollers the entire distance. The backbreaking labour had been unpopular with the men.

  Maximinus ran his hand over the smooth surface of the ram, which for now was lashed down in the middle of the space. It had been well worth a couple of hundred casualties to recover the three rams from the wreckage of their shelters at the base of the town walls. He squinted out to where its metal head projected, already relishing the awesome destructive power it would unleash. Under his hand, the ram felt almost alive.