Fire and Sword

by Harry Sidebottom

  CHAPTER 30

  Aquileia, Eighteen Days after the Ides of May, AD238

  ‘Men of Aquileia, soldiers of Rome, do not be afraid.’

  Menophilus stood on a ballista. In the eerie half-light of the false dawn, he looked down on the upturned faces. The militiamen and soldiers of the 1st Cohort were packed together on the gatehouse. More stretched off into the gloom along both wallwalks: two thousand five hundred armed men, bound together by adversity, hardened by suffering.

  ‘Time after time we have flung them back from the walls. This is the last throw of Maximinus. Hurl them back again, and victory is ours.’

  A low murmur of victory, victory rose from the massed ranks.

  ‘All their secrets are revealed, their sly plans laid bare. Last night, putting the freedom of Rome above his own life, the patriot Marius Perpetuus escaped from the camp of the tyrant, and came over to the cause of liberty.’

  Menophilus reached down, and helped Perpetuus climb up to stand beside him.

  Perpetuus, Perpetuus.

  The man who had been appointed Consul by Maximinus waved; a mixture of pride and perhaps embarrassment at his tardy crossing of the lines.

  ‘The news is all good for us, dire for our oppressors. The soldiers of Maximinus are starving. They are eating strange roots and herbs, noxious things the beasts of the field leave untouched. They are reduced to boiling the leather of their boots and equipment to stave off the pangs of hunger. Their tents burned with their siege towers, they lie on the bare earth, cold and exposed to the elements. Disease stalks through their encampments. Lacking wood for pyres and the energy to dig, they pollute the river with their dead.’

  A pre-battle exhortation should not shy from exaggeration. Although much of what Menophilus said was true. Everyone had seen the bodies carried down by the Natiso.

  ‘No wonder that hundreds of soldiers, driven by desperation, desert the standards. On those poor souls Maximinus has unleashed Persian and Parthian horsemen. The Thracian reveals his true nature, and orders citizens of Rome hunted down and massacred by cruel eastern barbarians.’

  Drag him, burn him.

  ‘No one is safe from the savage. You all know Barbius.’

  Menophilus gestured to the Aquileian magistrate.

  ‘No one has shown greater courage in defence of the town. No one has suffered more. Barbius’ younger son fell like a hero, fighting against overwhelming odds at the Aesontius. Now Barbius’ elder son, his only remaining son, has been murdered by the tyrant. Young Barbius leaves a wife and children here in Aquileia. Maximinus has made widows and orphans of your fellow townsfolk. There will be no safety – not for the highest or the lowest – not until the tyrant is dead.’

  In the east the sky was lightening. True dawn was approaching.

  ‘Those Romans who are forced to grovel before Maximinus do not want to fight. They will not fight. With daylight you will see who comes against you. The legions will not fight. Instead the tyrant herds to destruction before your walls a motley pack of barbarians. Sarmatian nomads so unaccustomed to walking that off their horses they can barely waddle a few steps. Germans whose huge, unprotected bodies offer easy targets for your missiles. Barbarians whose ferocity turns to abject panic at the first setback. These are the savages lashed forward to their deaths. And have we not prepared the warmest of welcomes?’

  Burn them, burn them.

  ‘Men of Aquileia, this is our final trial. Do not fear to be taken in the flank or the rear. We know that the enemy will not press the attack elsewhere. It is here on the northern wall that the fate of Aquileia will be decided.’

  A few last words, and it would be time.

  ‘Our courage will not fail us. The god Belenus will fight by our side. Now go to your posts. Light the torches. The watchword is Victory!’

  The cheers rippled along the battlements.

  A band of pink had appeared along the eastern horizon. Below it, misted with distance, the mountains looked like clouds. Above the sky was clear, turning from grey to a porcelain blue. Spring was moving to summer, and it would be a beautiful day.

  In the gathering light, Menophilus could see the enemy array. Thirty-five wooden screens, some two hundred paces from the wall, sheltered the ballistae. It was a greater number than had been deployed so far against any one wall. Further out, beyond the range of the artillery of the defenders, stood two solid blocks of men. To the right, between the aqueduct and the river, would be the Sarmatians. Directly ahead, down the road, were the Germans. Behind them, indistinct at this hour, must be the archers who would support the barbarians, and the 2nd Legion which was intended to make the final assault.

  Surely the gods would not let it come to that. No matter how polluted Menophilus was himself, the morality of the conflict was clear. One side fought for freedom and their homes, the other for tyranny. There had to be justice in the world, or there was no order in the cosmos.

  No sign yet of the imperial standard. Menophilus walked the battlements.

  ‘Coin for a shave?’

  Menophilus pulled a coin from the wallet on his belt, tossed it over.

  ‘May the gods hold their hands over you, general.’

  ‘And over you.’

  The man to whom he spoke was one of the levy. War was a hard teacher. After over a month of tough service on the walls, they were no longer a frightened mob of civilians. Now they talked and fought as soldiers. Most had acquired good weapons, leather or linen armour.

  Little of which was true of the reserve waiting in the Forum. Menophilus wondered if he should have organized some form of reliefs, where they too would have served their turn on the battlements. Yet that might have taken the edge of those in the front line. There were so many decisions to make in a siege. Not all of them could be correct.

  ‘A coin for boot leather?’

  Menophilus threw another. ‘Remember, a year’s military pay to every man who fights today.’

  It had been an easy promise to make. Either they would all be dead, and it would not need to be honoured, or Pupienus and Balbinus would owe them their thrones, and should be happy to pay.

  There was no breeze, and smoke from the torches hung over the battlements. As Menophilus walked back to the fighting top on the main gate, he reflected on the gratitude of Emperors. It was not an encouraging subject.

  A long drawn-out wail of a distant trumpet.

  ‘They are moving, sir.’

  As he looked, the sun showed over the distant mountains. It struck glints of light off helmet and blade in the dark masses creeping forward.

  The besiegers had grubbed up the range markers. Yet they must be almost within four hundred paces, extreme range of the eight ballistae on the wall. The enemy artillery were not shooting. Were they short of ammunition? At least there was plenty within the town.

  ‘Ballistae, shoot.’

  Menophilus followed the bolt from the nearest engine. It fell between two clumps of Germans, harmless but in range.

  ‘Shoot at will!’ Menophilus shouted.

  Pockets of disciplined activity amid the motionless waiting men on the wall. The click, click of ratchets.

  The enemy artillery were goaded into life. Screens were hauled aside. Menophilus focused on one ballista; saw it jump with the recoil as it shot. He just managed to pick up its bolt in flight, watched it fly over the crenulations, vanish into the town.

  With a terrible hiss, an unseen bolt whipped past his head. Instinctively he ducked. The men around grinned, not unsympathetically.

  Menophilus straightened up. ‘Took me by surprise,’ he muttered.

  The men laughed.

  A sudden crash along the battlements. Screams as a shower of jagged splinters of stone sliced men down. Blood on the walkway.

  A stone-thrower. None had been used before. The besiegers must have improvised the machine.

  Another shatter of slivers of rock, in a different place. Hades, they had more than one of the infernal things.

&nbs
p; Menophilus leant out beyond the crenulations. One over there, another there. In all five of them. Not big machines designed to bring down a wall, but smaller pieces intended to strip away the battlements, kill and maim their defenders.

  Hercules’ hairy arse, another hard decision. No, there was nothing for it. They had to endure.

  ‘Ignore the ballistae. We will burn them later. Keep shooting at the assault parties. Only they can threaten the wall.’

  The Germans had passed their artillery. Less than two hundred paces.

  ‘Archers, slingers, loose!’

  A cloud of missiles darkened the sky, fell down into the oncoming ranks. Small figures twisted and spun to the ground.

  ‘Incoming.’

  Menophilus raised his shield above his head, peered out between its rim and the parapet. Through the arches of the aqueduct, he watched the Sarmatians lumbering towards the wall. They were bulky with scales and plate and mail, like exotic armoured animals you might see in the arena.

  Less encumbered, the Germans were pulling ahead. They were big men – as big as wrestlers – with long fair hair and very pale faces. There was no order among them, except the close-packed groups who bore the long siege ladders on their shoulders.

  ‘Shoot at the ladder-bearers.’

  An auxiliary reeled back. Menophilus caught him before he toppled off the inner wall. There was an arrow in his throat. Menophilus lowered him to the wallwalk, cradled his head.

  The soldier tried to speak. Blood pumped around the shaft of the arrow.

  ‘The end is to the beginning, as the beginning is to the end. Nothing to fear.’

  Blood welled from the soldier’s mouth. He started to choke.

  ‘Nothing to fear.’

  A spasm wracked the man. A final twitch, and he lay still.

  He is hit!

  Men were shouting.

  The general is down!

  Menophilus struggled to understand.

  Menophilus is dead!

  By all the gods, no.

  We are lost!

  How many armies had been lost to such a false rumour. Menophilus scrabbled to his feet, ran to the ballista.

  ‘Cease shooting.’

  Again he clambered onto the machine.

  Men were moving back from the parapet, some making for the stairs.

  ‘Stop! Back to the wall.’

  Faces gazed up in doubt.

  ‘I am alive.’ Face and arms and chest wet with blood; if he could be recognized at all, it would not be reassuring.

  Desperately he fumbled one-handed with the strap of his helmet. The thing would not untie. He dropped his shield, used two hands, flung the helmet away.

  An arrow whisked close by his head.

  ‘See, it is me, Menophilus. I am alive. I am unhurt. Back to your places.’

  Menophilus! Menophilus!

  ‘Back to the wall. This will decide the war.’

  As the soldiers rushed back to the battlements, Menophilus jumped down. He felt the muscle in his calf twang. It had not troubled him at all on the night the siege towers were burned. How the gods toy with mankind.

  Menophilus hobbled to the wall, leant against the parapet, fought to master himself. Nothing external affects the inner man. Nothing. He started to laugh, high and slightly unhinged.

  ‘Ladders!’ The shout broke out along the defences.

  The first ladder bounced against the crenulations.

  ‘Light the naptha,’ Menophilus yelled. ‘One amphora to each escalade.’

  The men with the long poles came crabwise, crouching below the line of the parapet, exaggeratedly careful with their deadly cargo.

  Menophilus watched as a crew pushed a pole out beyond the wall over the nearest ladder. Slowly they turned the shaft, the amphora at its end tipped, and the flaming mixture poured down onto the ascending men.

  The Germans screamed. Their clothes were burning and shrinking, clinging to them, their flesh roasting. One after another they fell from the ladder. The naptha rained down on those at the foot of the ladder, splashed those who stood nearby. Ineffectually, the barbarians beat at themselves, rolled on the ground, blundered into each other. Nothing could put out the flames.

  Another pole was run out above the next ladder along. A tall German with shoulder-length fair hair and golden arm rings – some tribal leader – was halfway up. Menophilus saw his face clearly. He was very young. The youth spotted the amphora, and, without hesitation, threw himself to the ground. Menophilus watched him land heavily, doubted he would get up.

  Self-preservation can overcome pain. The German youth was on his feet, running, bellowing something in his savage tongue to those around him. All but the slow turned and fled before the naptha cascaded down.

  Menophilus! Victory! Victory!

  Chanting did not stay the hands of the defenders. They plied their bows, hurled javelins, rocks, anything that came to hand. The defenceless backs of the barbarians made good targets. They were struck down by the dozens. Bodies lay with arrows sticking out, like wax effigies pricked with pins.

  Menophilus’ eyes followed the young barbarian. He led a charmed life. Missiles rained around him, tribesmen fell on either hand. Nothing touched the youth. Once, when an older warrior stumbled, he actually stopped, doubled back, and supported the other man to safety.

  There was a spark of the divine Logos in every man, even in barbarians. But there was nothing Menophilus could do to stop the slaughter. Menophilus! Menophilus! A terrible, unstoppable killing, in his name.

  Menophilus did not see it coming. He fell backwards. His head cracked on the stone. The arrow was embedded between his left shoulder and nipple. The dark blood was pooling up through his armour.

  In the moment of victory. The gods were cruel.

  A soldier was bending over him, saying something.

  The pain in his head was worse than his chest.

  The soldier was holding his hand.

  The darkness was descending.

  CHAPTER 31

  Aquileia, Eighteen Days after the Ides of May, AD238

  ‘A creaking bow, a yawning wolf, a croaking raven …’

  Dernhelm let the old man keep talking.

  ‘The tide on the ebb, new ice, a coiled snake, a bride’s pillow talk.’

  Enough was enough. ‘Calgacus, I know the words of the Allfather. I know the things not to trust. You have repeated them to me all my life.’

  ‘Just keep your mouth shut in the tent of Flavius Vopiscus.’ The old Caledonian’s face assumed a look more peevish than usual. ‘Say nothing and watch.’

  ‘That is one thing that I have learnt among the Romans,’ Dernhelm said. ‘I am old enough to realize this summons will not bring me any joy.’

  ‘You have sixteen winters, you know fuck all.’

  ‘I never asked to come here.’

  Calgacus stopped sorting through their weapons. ‘Your father had no choice. Maximinus demanded one of his sons as a hostage. You are the youngest.’

  Most nights Dernhelm dreamed of the day the Centurion had ridden up to the hall of his father. When he awoke he wanted to cry. The sons of Isangrim, war-leader of the Angles, did not cry; not after they had been sent away for fostering, not after they had stood in the shieldwall, and killed their man in battle.

  ‘Your father is not to blame. He loves you.’

  Not enough to send one of his other sons to the Romans.

  ‘One day we will go back,’ Calgacus said.

  Dernhelm wanted nothing more. But his return to Angeln would not be easy. There was the resentment in his heart. How could his father have sent him away? It was easy for Calgacus to prattle on about the hard choices a King must make. Calgacus was a slave. He would never have to make any decisions. And then there were Dernhelm’s three remaining half-brothers. They had no desire to see him again. The succession to any throne was divisive.

  But, to set against all that, it was his home. He knew every inch of Hedinsey, its fields and meadows, the
streams and woods. His friends were there, his mother. And, above all, there was Kadlin. A wild girl, she had not tried to conceal what they did. Most had turned a blind eye, as it had been understood that she would become Dernhelm’s wife. It was too painful to think that he might never see her again.

  ‘Here.’ Calgacus handed him the heavy gold and garnet brooch, the sign of the House of Himling. ‘Wear that. You might be filthy, and stink of burning, but you are an Atheling of the Angles. I will not have you going before these southerners dressed like a serf.’

  They walked through the bedraggled camp. The soldiers were too disheartened to pay any attention to the tall, young barbarian decked in gold, and the shorter, ill-favoured servant who walked by his side.

  ‘Halt.’ The guards were from the 2nd Legion.

  ‘I am Dernhelm, son of Isangrim of the Angles.’ Now he spoke in correct, but accented Latin. ‘Flavius Vopiscus has asked to see me.’

  Calgacus shot him a look.

  ‘You are expected. The ugly one stays outside.’

  Calgacus scowled. ‘I swore an oath to his father not to leave his side.’

  ‘I could not care if you offered a hecatomb to every one of the gods of the underworld, sacrificed a small boy, and drank his blood to sanctify your oath; you stay outside. My orders are to admit just the youth. Anyway, an ugly bastard like you would upset the officers.’

  ‘I do not think he has taken to you.’ Dernhelm reverted to the language of Germania.

  ‘Insensitive cunt.’

  The guard glowered.

  ‘He might know that word,’ Dernhelm said.

  ‘Remember—’

  ‘A sword with a hairline, a playful bear, the sons of Kings; I remember them all.’

  ‘Little prick.’ Concern was written all over Calgacus’ face.

  The guard did not disarm Dernhelm. The whole encounter typified the mixture of contempt and deference with which a barbarian hostage was treated.