Sabinus bellowed to his artillery, ‘Concentrate on the towers!’
To the north, report came of the drifting boats on the slow-moving tributary laying down a deadly rain of arrows. Anchoring themselves there with supreme confidence for the long stay. So Sabinus gave the order to clear the north walls and abandon them. The water would save them there.
From the eastern gate, the Porta Praetoria, leading down the Via Lederatea to Ratiaria, only the empty road. No dust-cloud. Shadows of buzzards in the morning sky. No help coming.
The two men on the west gate-tower, the legate and his primus pilus, regarded the approaching towers steadily. Then, ‘You see what I see?’ said Tatullus softly.
‘I do,’ said Sabinus, and he gave a faint smile. ‘Amateurs.’
Though the massive towers looked impressive enough, the Huns, or their enslaved builders and carpenters, perhaps deliberately, had failed to give them a low enough skirt. The four big wooden wheels on which each tower rolled forward were hopelessly exposed.
‘Let’s get ’em in close first,’ said the legate. ‘False shooting to start.’
He quit the west gate-tower and made for the south-west. ‘Unit III, get your slingshots down! Decurion, lower the trajectory. I want flat slings hitting the head of the tower. Slingshots on the level. I want the towers under bombardment at two hundred yards. What angle’s that?’
‘Around twelve degrees from the horizontal, sir.’
‘Then give the order.’
‘I could do you five degrees, sir, hit ’em at only a hundred yards, but harder still.’
Sabinus shook his head. ‘Too damn near. Give it ten degrees, then.’
The machines were ratcheted.
‘And never mind the whole tower, just take out the head. We’ll fire up the rest.’
He ordered the same for the north-west tower, giving the unit there a rapid inspection. They had two big crossbow machines and two iron-frame slings. He gave calm words of advice to the young unit commander, then returned to take his stand in the western gate-tower. Face on to the enemy.
At two hundred yards the first slingshots and bolts were loosed against the towers. There was a satisfyingly curt brutality to the flight. Long-distance shots might look impressive as they arced up high and fell over half a mile away, but most of the impulsive power was lost by then, and the missile travelled so slowly - as much as ten seconds from shot to landfall - that there was ample time for the enemy to see it coming and dodge it. But under Sabinus’ orders there was the low, vibrating twang of horsehair rope, the snap of torsion springs, the smack of sling-beam, and only a second or two later the weighty lead and stone slingshots flew out almost horizontal from the machines and thumped violently into the flanks of the approaching towers. The well-trained artillerymen bent down and adjusted the ratchets a fraction more. The nerve-shredding creak of torsion springs, further shots. Satisfyingly loud claps of impact, the cracking report as balls and bolts hit their target. Not much damage to the great towers yet, though, until a lucky strike passed straight through one of the narrow slits in the tower and a scream from within suggested a direct hit.
The towers weren’t going to be brought down, nor even knocked headless. Already the great wickerwork drawbridges were being lowered, like dark and hungry jaws opening upon the battlements of the fort.
Sabinus waited a little longer, judging the moment, hands clenched on the wall. Then, finally, ‘Now! Lower units, hit the wheels!’
With instant discipline, the artillery units on the first level of the towers set up a punishing crossfire, hitting the wheels of the siege-engines at the widest angle they could. Medium-weight slingballs and heavy iron-tipped ballista bolts cut across each other’s trajectories from the corner towers before slamming in low. Almost immediately one good shot chipped off the edge of a front wheel.
Tatullus nodded and murmured, ‘It’s deliberate, a bad build. Cunning. But pity the poor sods when their Hun masters realise it.’
Sabinus said nothing. There would be too many dead to pity by today’s end.
He ordered a single eight-man unit of his heavy cavalry to stand ready inside the south gate with all but one of the braces drawn back ready. Tatullus glanced at him.
More careful adjustments to the arc. The pounding was relentless. Within the towers the slave-driven captives moaned, sweating and heaving at the drive-posts. And there came a deeper moaning too. A bellowing . . .
‘Amateurs!’ said Sabinus again, smacking a fist into his palm. ‘Listen to that!’
He was right. Against all the rules, the Huns had roped up oxen inside the siege-towers to provide the drive power. It might have seemed a good idea in the cool, rational calm before the battle started, but battles didn’t stay that way. And roped-up oxen could start causing no end of trouble to their own side once the missiles started piling in, men started screaming, noxious tar-fires started burning out of control . . .
Sabinus gave the order at once. ‘Fire and tar, get some flames around them! That’ll soon have the brutes breaking free.’
The tower coming in on the right stubbornly refused to burn, but curls of smoke soon told a different story from the other. And as soon as they smelled the smoke, sure enough, the oxen within began to bellow and panic and heave themselves sideways in their yokes. Terrible studded flails fell across the creatures’ bony backs, but the maddened pair, one already feeling the heat of the flames on its tawny flank, only wrenched away the harder, their fear of fire far greater than any whip. Both of them giving a simultaneous lurch in chance harmony was enough to break one of the yoke straps so that they staggered awkwardly and one tripped to its knees where it could no longer move. The entire tower was wrenched round to one side, the captives inside heaving desperately at the drive poles, naked and blinded with their own sweat, their backs beribboned by the long whips wielded by the small team of Hun warriors walking their horses close behind them in the shelter of the tower. But to no avail. The unbalanced tower, one wheel-rim already chipped and dragging down in the earth, was pulled further out of kilter by the miscreant oxen and suddenly the unprotected flank of the great tower and the two huge, uncurtained wooden wheels were exposed to direct Roman attack.
‘OK!’ roared Sabinus, the infectious note of victory in his voice. ‘Artillery units: both towers - take ’em out and fire ’em up! I want the wheels in splinters and the towers in cinders! Go!’
Pedites communicated the order to the corner towers. A further flurry of resolute activity and soon all eight machines on the bastions were venting their missiles in low, short flights against the unprotected wheels. A sling-ball or a bolt was hitting the nearest every five seconds in a ruthless rhythm. Splinters flew from the rim, one of the centreboards split, the axle-boss itself gave off a fine spray of sparks as an iron-tipped bolt clanged off it.
‘Bull’s-eye!’ yelled the artillerymen, guffawing.
‘Waste of time!’ roared Sabinus. ‘Split the boards!’
In came more shots. In the shelter of the faltering tower, the Hun horsemen in their fury had just whipped one captive to death, hanging still shackled from the drive pole shiny with his own blood.
But still more ruthlessness was called for. If they were going to beat off this horde, no quarter could be given. Not for a second.
Sabinus brought a crossbow squadron up close. Pedites dragged up more chests of bolts behind.
‘There’s a gang of ’em behind, driving it forward. Draw a line on the back of the tower. Any glimpse of one of those naked bastards and you take him out. But not until you see him. I want a dead shot off every bolt you fire.’
The crossbowmen crouched at the battlements, squat bows of chestnut and ash cranked back and tight with explosive power. One Hun pony stepped back from the shelter of the siege-tower a little too far and promptly lost the use of a rear leg. It fell back and tilted, the rider rolled in the dust. Three more bolts from the battlements hit him instantly. The other Hun horsemen now crammed together for sh
elter in the lea of the creaking and damaged tower.
All the while Sabinus kept one eye long-range on the Hunnish cavalry. They were approaching again, slow and orderly but still a long way off. For some reason that stone-faced warlord - he could pick him out clearly enough still amid the dust-clouds of twenty thousand tramping hooves - was letting the towers do what they could alone. Maybe he had no great faith in them. Not yet. He was prepared to let them be destroyed, so that he could watch from a distance, and learn.
The towers might be done for, but the battle was far from won. Those ten thousand horsemen with their murderous rain of arrows would come soon enough.
Finally a slingshot, or possibly a lucky double shot striking simultaneously, hit the already splintered wheel and one of the central planks was knocked out completely, hanging free. The entire tower seemed to hesitate for a moment, gave a slow, creaking lurch, the axletree craning and trembling. Then the damaged wheel collapsed abruptly into its constituent planks, shattered back to the boss, and the clumsy structure shuddered, leaned at a precipitous angle, and came to uncertain rest on the corner where the wheel had been. Within, one of the tormented oxen was almost strangled in its yoke as it was lifted off the ground by the counterpull. It roared and kicked out, and the rest of the broad leather yoke straps finally tore asunder. The terrified beast managed to squeeze itself round in its narrow stall and erupted, bellowing, out of the back of the tower into the mêlée of livid and bewildered Hun horsemen. The ox charged through them, oblivious of a last few whiplashes, and stumbled away. The men milled back and broke, and immediately a further ruthless volley of crossbow bolts from the battlements drove into them. At least half were hit. The tattered remainder turned and fled back to their own ranks in disgrace. Slow flames licked up the side of the broken tower, and, up above, the light wickerwork drawbridge roared. Within, the shackled captives were too exhausted to scream.
‘Now the other one!’ roared Sabinus, banging his fists victoriously on the wall. ‘No slacking. Get those ballistas loaded up afresh. Pedites, keep running. I want to see you sweat blood!’
He gave it a short while, then halted the artillery again with a downward slice of his hand. ‘Crossbowmen, stay trained. Anyone comes down from the tower, take ’em. Guards, open the gate! Cavalry’ - he grinned and swung his big, meaty arm forward through the air - ‘it’s all yours.’
The last brace was drawn, the heavy twin gates swung back easily on their huge greased hinges and the eight heavy cavalrymen drove their big mounts forward furiously, from stationary into canter and then flat gallop in the blink of an eye.
The rear pair of lancers split off and disappeared behind the back of the burning siege-tower. Now they really would be clibanarii, ‘boiler boys’, their long mailcoats and solid bronze helms as hot as ovens. But they did their stuff, hacking and levering at the shackles in the gloom, gagging on the dense smoke, fighting off the clawing and blinded captives even as they worked so hard for their release.
At last the wretched, beaten, slave-driven creatures staggered free and stumbled, still half blinded, back towards the open gate.
All the while Sabinus kept up his double vision. At any moment that stone-faced warlord might release a company of his lethal archers to gallop across the plain and descend on the little pack of heavy cavalry. But he still stayed his hand. In fact, the Hun lines seemed to have halted altogether, still a good half a mile off, maybe more. Not necessarily good news, in the long term. They were watching. Learning.
The second tower to their right, barely scathed yet, lightly smouldering, was still rolling forwards when the Hun horsemen behind it suddenly realised what was happening. Eight of them, armed with flails and lassos, bows still across their backs, heard the approaching thunder and looked around to see six, then eight, iron-mailed, bronze-helmeted lancers at full gallop almost upon them, long ashen lances couched low. It was the first time these Hun warriors had ever encountered anything like a Roman heavy cavalry charge, and they were powerless. They pulled their mounts round, heeled them into a rearing gallop, spurted forward - and the iron wave slammed into their flank. The light Hun ponies were punched sideways and thrown clear of the ground, their hooves scrabbling in the air, before crashing back winded and half broken. Riders were flung free, one in a spectacular arc through the dusty air, back concave, until he fell to earth again and was immediately despatched by single thrust of a long cavalry sword.
Not one Hun arrow was fired, not one curved yatagan was drawn, not a single battle-cry was given. The shock and force of the charge flattened them like a stormwind. The iron soldiers wielded their swords in silence, and eight warriors soon lay dead. The commander, a captain called Malchus, reined in and pushed back his helmet and scanned the middle distance, sweat coursing, raven hair plastered to his brow, his vision blurred. He blinked hard. At any moment, the savages would ride down in vengeance . . . but no, the Hun lines hadn’t moved. So they roped up the surviving ponies, freed the shackled captives, slew the two ungovernable oxen where they roared in their yokes and then tethered the cadavers behind them, and smashed the rear axle-tree of the tower. Malchus kicked his horse back and sliced his arm down towards the ruined tower. Let the fire come down.
They rode back at a strong trot, dragging the dead beasts, leaving the flames to finish the work of destruction.
Riotous cheers went up from the battlements.
‘Roast ox tonight!’
‘Let’s hear it for the Boiler Boys!’
The south gate was safely slammed shut and bolted, and Malchus bounded up the steps to the legate’s platform, helmet couched beneath his arm.
‘Second tower out of action, sir!’
The Hun line did not stir. A gentle breeze, black banners, no movement. Stone-faced thousands. A terrifying enemy, so silent and disciplined.
But Sabinus felt good. A stir of hope. Now the enemy had seen how Romans could still fight.
They waited.
On the tower to Sabinus’ right, one of the tar barrels used to set fire to the siege-tower started burning out of control, guffing up big clouds of black, oily smoke and then, without warning, roaring into flame. Men fell back from the intense heat, shielding their eyes.
‘Damp that fucking thing down now!’ roared Tatullus, striding over. ‘Pedites, get buckets of water up here!’
It blazed furiously. The water arrived too slowly. Tatullus sent more men, including Knuckles, to bring up two massive iron-bound pails on a wooden yoke. But it got worse. Flames licked up, flourished, shook off any buckets of water thrown at them, spat them back in clouds of burning steam, and then suddenly engulfed the open-sided wooden roof, the only protection the men there had from falling arrows.
Sabinus roared further orders. And then, with his double vision still working, he saw a stir. On the plain below, the warlord with the eyes of a hawk, and the heart of a hawk, too, turned his head. If Sabinus had been any closer, he’d have seen his yellow eyes gleam. But he saw his signal well enough. His copper-banded arm stretched out, and a little band of horse-warriors began to gallop in.
‘What in the name of Light . . . ?’
There was another surprise. Two of them dragged a little piece of field artillery. The rest broke into their lethal circling gallop and began to fire arrows onto the burning tower, through the flames. The men up there, choking on smoke and blinded by the rebellious flames, starting taking hits as well. The protective wooden roof began to sag and collapse.
A second group of warriors reined in some hundred yards off, set up their field-machine with unbelievable speed and efficiency, and started sending in hard, fist-sized rocks at the wall of the burning tower. They re-angled the beam and the next shot came curving in leanly over the wall and smacked straight into the side of the flaming tar barrel. They were trying to demolish it. Molten tar would run all over the place, the wooden boards burn, and that tower, that essential corner bastion, would be as good as finished.
The crossbow units started taking
them out one by one, but every time they scored a hit, another tattooed warrior came galloping in and took his place.
Damn that warlord and his ruthless cunning. Every stumble, every weakness or misfortune, would be exploited.
Two, three more auxiliaries trying to damp out the flames were shot through. One fell forwards into the burning tar itself. He was dragged out by the legs, dead. Two more still tried to damp it. One fell back choking on foul smoke, lungs scorched. The situation was getting desperate. Even Tatullus seemed momentarily lost.
‘Fuck this,’ rumbled Knuckles, shoving his way through. ‘I’m gettin’ a headache. That barrel’s gotta go.’
He squatted down and put his shoulder to the edge of the blazing barrel, tipped it so it leaned against the low stone wall, slid his meaty hands beneath the rim and then, slowly, unbelievably, began to stand straight again. The barrel scraped up the wall. He peered blearily through the pitchy smoke to the ground below.
‘Right, which one of you bloody hooligans wants this on his head?’
Attila: The Judgement Page 8