Macro had not been idle either. He had ordered some men to pile small rocks on the wall to supplement the few remaining javelins and another group to pile heavier rocks and earth against the rear of the village gates to absorb the impact of the ram. These were standard counter-measures but if the Germans managed to fully co-ordinate their attack then the thin line of Romans manning the village wall would inevitably be overrun, as Macro patiently explained to his young optio while the latter bound the gash on Macro’s forearm.
‘What then?’ Cato asked.
‘What do you think?’ Macro smiled thinly as he stamped his feet. ‘They’ll be all over us, we won’t have a chance. We’ll be cut to pieces.’
‘Keep still please, sir. Will they take prisoners?’
‘Best not even think about that,’ Macro said gently. ‘Believe me, you’d be better off dead.’
‘Really?’
‘Really.’
‘The tribune said Vespasian would send help as soon as he realised something was up. If we can hold out until then . . .’
‘Big if,’ Macro replied. ‘But we might. Just make sure you do your bit.’
‘I will.’ Cato tore off the excess from the rough dressing and tied the ends firmly. ‘There you go, sir. How’s it feel?’
‘Not bad.’ Macro flexed his arm, and winced as a shaft of pain stabbed up to his shoulder. ‘It’ll do. No worse than I’ve already had.’
‘You’ve been injured before then, sir?’
‘All part of the deal when you join the army. You’ll soon get used to it.’
‘If we survive.’
‘We might yet.’ Macro tried to sound reassuring and then, seeing the gloomy expression on the youngster’s face, he punched him on the shoulder. ‘Chin up lad! We’re not dead yet. Not by a long way. But if we do go, well then, there’s not a lot we can do about it, so we might as well not worry, eh? Now then, let’s see what those bastards are up to.’
A quick inspection of the German lines in the gathering gloom of the snowflake-speckled dusk revealed no significant changes and the dull thuds of axe blows on wood continued unceasingly. Satisfied that the village was safe for the moment, Macro turned back towards Cato.
‘Just going to have a word with the rest of the lads. Keep them cheerful. While I’m about it, I want you to take a couple of men and see if you can find something to eat and drink. I’m hungry. Might as well have something while we wait for Herman to stir.’
A quick search through the nearest German huts produced a good haul of dried meat, fresh bread and several jars of the local brew.
‘Go easy on that stuff,’ Macro warned, speaking from bitter experience. ‘Make sure no-one gets a skinful or they’ll be up on charges when we get back to base.’
Cato looked over the centurion’s shoulder. ‘Sir! The tribune . . .’
Vitellius and a bodyguard of four burly men emerged from the darkened street and mounted the ramp to the gate. Macro stiffened and was about to call the century to attention but Vitellius shook his head.
‘Let the men rest, centurion. They’ve earned it.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you.’
‘How goes it?’
‘Well, as you can see,’ Macro swept an arm out to indicate the ring of Germans surrounding the village, ‘we’re not going to be able to hold that lot off with seventy men, sir. They’ve been making faggots and assault ladders ever since the last attack. And over there, they’ve nearly finished a battering ram. Once they bring that up . . .’
‘I see.’ Vitellius scratched his chin, as if in deep contemplation. ‘You’ll just have to hold them back, as long as you can.’
‘Yes sir . . . How’s the rest of the cohort?’
‘Our position’s not too bad. We control the wall and all able-bodied villagers are being kept under guard. Quadratus’s century got the worst of it. That bitch – the chief’s wife – opened an outflow grill. Twenty of them got behind Quadratus’s men before she was discovered. Just picking us off while the men were keeping the Germans outside the village away from the wall. Lost almost half the century before we flushed them out.’
‘You can rely on Quadratus, sir,’ Macro smiled.
‘Not any more, took a German pike in the guts. Went clean through him.’
‘No.’
‘Afraid so, centurion. And the Germans managed to take down his optio as well. That’s the reason why I’m here. Can you spare someone to take over Quadratus’s men?’
Five paces away Cato’s ears burned and his blood went ice cold in anxious anticipation. He summoned up all his will power not to look at Macro and instead gazed resolutely over the wall at the Germans gathered around the fires, their faces glowing red. Adopting what he hoped was the nonchalant pose of a veteran, Cato continued listening with a pounding heart.
‘Hmm.’ Macro pondered, looking around, and Cato could almost sense the weight of his gaze as it rested momentarily on his back before passing on.
‘What about your optio?’ Vitellius asked. ‘Is he a good man?’
‘Hardly a man, sir. Just a new boy. Can’t afford to let him out of my sight. He means well but he’s nowhere near ready for what you need.’
‘Pity.’
The crushing weight of rejection wrapped itself round Cato’s heart. He clamped his teeth tightly and fought back tears of humiliation.
‘You have anyone else?’
‘Yes, sir. The standard bearer’s a good man. Take him.’
‘All right then,’ Vitellius nodded. ‘You know the score, centurion. Hold the gate at all costs. If we can get through the night Vespasian is bound to send help in the morning. I’m counting on you. Carry on.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Macro brought his hand to his chest in salute and then watched as the tribune and his bodyguard picked their way over to where the century’s standard drooped above the wall.
‘Wanker!’ he cursed softly. ‘I’m counting on you’ – as if Macro didn’t know his duty.
He cast a quick glance round to ensure the indiscretion had not been overheard. The stiff pose of the boy gazing fixedly over the walls was distinctly unnatural.
‘Cato!’
‘Sir?’ The voice sounded aggrieved.
‘Any sign of movement?’
‘No.’
‘Well, keep your eyes peeled.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The tribune and his small squad walked back to the gate along the wall, the standard bearer in tow. Vitellius nodded curtly at Macro as he and his men passed.
‘Take care, sir,’ said the standard bearer.
‘You too,’ Macro smiled. ‘We’ll look after the standard while you’re gone, Porcius.’
For a moment the standard bearer paused and looked longingly at the Sixth’s standard, then with as little show of reluctance as he could muster he thrust the wooden shaft at Macro. ‘Here.’
Then they were gone, disappearing into the cold darkness between the dingy German huts, leaving Macro holding the standard with its weighted banner hanging down from the horizontal cross-piece. For a moment Macro felt a strange twinge of excitement as the familiar awkwardness of the standard brought back the memories of his own year served as a standard bearer. He turned the shaft fondly and smiled at the reawakened sensibilities of a far younger man, tantalisingly visceral, then he was aware of Cato again.
‘Boy!’ he called out softly. ‘Come here.’
Cato dutifully came to attention in front of his superior, face hardened with suppressed emotions.
‘Relax, son. You’ve got a new duty. I want you to look after this.’
‘Sir?’
‘You heard what the tribune said?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And I trust that’s all you heard. Now we’ve lost Porcius I need a good man to take charge of the standard for a while. Are you up to it?’
It was more of an order than a question, however gently said, and Cato felt elated as the bitter shame of a moment before was washed away. Withou
t waiting to reply, he downed his shield and took a firm grasp on the standard with his left hand.
‘It’s a big responsibility,’ Macro said. ‘You know that.’
‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I’ll guard it with my life.’
‘You’d better. If Porcius finds so much as a scratch on it when he takes it back, he’ll have your balls hanging from the tip the next time we go into action. Got that?’
Cato nodded solemnly.
‘Stick close to me and, whatever happens, you hold on to that standard and you keep it high. Up where the men can see it at all times. Understand? . . . Now then, what’s up?’
A sudden flow of movement through the men on the wall had caught his eye. All the legionaries were on their feet, shields and swords at the ready. Cato lifted the standard and followed Macro up to the palisade. Beyond the walls, the Germans had risen from their fires and were now moving in a black mass towards the gate. Irregular shapes in the crowd showed where men struggled with the faggots. Some carried torches that lit the faces of the nearest men in a flickering yellow-orange glare.
‘Now, remember, lads,’ Macro called out as he drew his sword, ‘if they get in here then the whole cohort is finished. So give it your all.’
A loud shout rippled along the approaching German horde and quickly grew into a roaring cheer of anger and arrogance. Some of the legionaries shouted back their defiance.
‘Steady!’ Macro called out above the din. ‘They’re just wasting their breath! And we’ve got nothing to prove!’
Beside him, Cato stood rooted to the ground, transfixed by the approaching menace. For some reason, this mass advancing with fierce determination seemed far more threatening in the darkness. His imagination was busy amplifying every noise and every shape. Unlike that afternoon’s mad charge through the village, the imminence of desperate conflict gave men space to consider their own courage, their own willingness to fight, and to vividly imagine the worst consequences of what might befall them. Cato shuddered and instantly cursed himself, quickly glancing round at the others on the wall.
‘You afraid, lad?’ Macro asked quietly.
‘Yes, a bit.’
Macro smiled. ‘Of course you are. So are the rest of us. But we’re here now and there’s nothing we can do about it.’
‘I know that, sir. But it doesn’t make it any easier.’
‘Just keep a tight hold on the standard.’
The Germans held a steady pace until they were close to the wall. Then a war horn cried out from somewhere in the night and from all round the village came more horns, and wild warrior roars crashed like a wave against the thin Roman line manning the flimsy palisade. In front of the gate, the dark forms swarmed up to the ditch and hurled the faggots into the deep shadows while others rained down a shower of arrows, spears and rocks on the defenders. With a shield raised over his head, Macro looked up to see that the pile of faggots was filling the ditch in two positions, one on either side of the gate. In a little while the ditch would be filled to a width that would allow the Germans to throw a stream of ladder-bearing men directly up against the wall. Worse still, heaving its way through the horde came the battering ram – the biggest threat to their position. As long as the legionaries kept their heads, scaling ladders could be dislodged and pushed back, but a ram would inevitably break through the rough-hewn village gate. Then Macro and his men would have no defences to shelter behind and the Germans would overwhelm them by sheer weight of numbers. With reckless bravery, the Germans had quickly filled the ditch and, rather than making a direct assault, Macro was surprised to see them ramping the faggots up against the wall. Those Germans that fell were simply tossed on to the growing pile.
All at once the enemy horde parted in front of the gate and the battering ram, a stout pine trunk with branch stumps for handles, was carried up to the gate by a score of burly men. As the ram crashed against the gate timbers, the impact was felt by all those on the wall above. Macro peered down behind the gate as the second blow thudded home and he saw the crossbar nearly leap from its brace, only just held in place by the frantic efforts of the men he had left on guard. Several pegs were already starting from their sockets.
‘This isn’t good,’ Macro muttered and turned back to look over the wall. Even as the defenders hurled stones down each casualty was instantly replaced and the rhythm maintained. ‘This isn’t good at all.’
‘Isn’t there something we can do, sir?’ asked Cato.
‘Oh yes! If we had Greek fire, we’d fry ’em up nicely.’
Cato dimly recalled what little he had read of the experimental weapon and found it hard to believe that the element burned with a national accent. But from the gleam of longing in Macro’s eyes it would appear that the Greek variety was something quite special.
‘Would German fire do, sir?’
‘What?’
‘German fire, sir.’
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘Well, sir, it’s just that there were some large ovens still alight in one of the huts over there. Must be a bakery of some kind. No bread though. I suppose they must have been preparing the ovens.’
Macro stared at him for a moment. ‘And you didn’t think to inform me?’
‘No, sir. You just ordered me to find provisions.’
‘Right then, we need fire now, so see to it.’ Macro replied, trying hard to hide his exasperation. ‘Find the men who went looking for food with you and order them to bring coals up to the walls on their shields. Then get back here.’
Once Cato had gone Macro examined the inside of the gate from ground level. The pounding was already opening gaps in the heavy wooden beams through which he could glimpse the Germans beyond. Each new blow dislodged a shower of dust and debris from the wall above and Macro had to blink several times to clear his eyes. Hurrying back up to the wall, he detailed several men to use pitchforks to take straw from nearby huts and pile it on the walkway above the gate. It was not until the first detail returned, shields piled high with red glowing embers, that Cato realised what the centurion’s intentions were.
‘Get those on the straw!’
The sweating legionaries tipped the embers into the straw and, despite the slight dampness, smoke and small flames flickered into life. As the fire caught and sizzled, Macro pitched more straw on top and smoke began to billow causing the nearest legionaries to break into fits of coughing.
‘Right then! Over the wall with it!’ Macro shouted. ‘Use whatever you’ve got, but get it over the wall!’
The Romans dived in with pitchforks, the few remaining javelins and even short swords and the blazing bundles of straw, sparks crackling high into night, blazed down on to the hapless Germans with the battering ram. Shouts and screams of terror sounded from below and the pounding at the gate ceased. At the foot of the wall Macro could see the ram lying abandoned, almost covered in the burning straw. The heat hit his face a stinging blow and Macro stepped back. No-one would be using that battering ram for quite a while, even if it failed to burn completely.
‘Hah! Look at them run!’ Cato beamed. ‘They’ll not be trying that again tonight.’
‘Maybe.’ Macro nodded. ‘Maybe. But two can play that game. Look there!’
Cato turned to follow the direction the centurion was indicating. The ramps built by the attackers were finished and, as he watched, torches arced up from the German lines and fell in an explosion of sparks in among the faggots. Within moments the ramps were ablaze and bright orange flames licked up the village walls driving the legionaries back. One hapless soldier, fully illuminated by the flickering glare, was hit by several arrows and pitched forward into the blaze with a scream of terror that abruptly ceased. Cato shuddered, but before he could spare the poor man any more thought a small flame suddenly licked through a gap in the walkway.
‘Oh no,’ he muttered, then turned towards Macro. ‘Sir! Look there!’
Macro looked down just in time to see another, larger, tongue of flame hu
ngrily flicker through the walkway. The gate was on fire. Some of the straw must have landed too near the wall. ‘That’s just fucking great! So much for German fire.’ He glared at Cato.
‘We could try to put it out.’
‘Shut up! It’s too late for that.’ The centurion’s mind raced. All three fires on the wall had a firm hold and were burning ever more fiercely even as he watched. There was nothing they could do to put them out now. And if they stayed on the wall they would be burned as well as providing nicely lit targets for the German archers. There was nothing for it. They must give ground until the fire died and they could move back up to defend the wall. But, with the gate already a smouldering ruin and two more openings burning through the wall, in a matter of an hour’s time the Sixth century’s defence of this side of the village would collapse like a cheap tenement block. And that would be long before dawn and any hope of relief from Vespasian.
‘Stand back!’ He roared out so that all his men would hear him above the raging crack and roar of the flames. ‘Off the wall!’
He waited until the last man had descended the gate ramps and then he took a final look towards the palisade, where sharpened stakes of wood hissed and steamed in the withering heat. Beyond the wall, the front ranks of the Germans were illuminated brilliantly and their triumphant faces wavered and shimmered through the heat-distorted air. Then he ran down to his men and formed the main body up in the street inside the gate, with two smaller sections fronting the stretches of wall ignited by the Germans.
‘What do we do now, sir?’ Cato asked.
‘We have to wait – and pray that the fire lasts.’
Chapter Ten
The fire not only lasted, it raged, sending swirling streams of sparks high up into the night sky where they mingled and melted the falling snowflakes. Most of the sparks slowly glowered into nothingness, but some fell back to earth – landing on the angled thatch roofs of the village. Even as Macro was cursing himself for deciding to burn the ram, and thereby the gate he was intending to save from the ram, Cato drew his attention to the nearest huts. Smoke curled up from the roofs, and here and there an orange twinkle gleamed, then rippled into flames. Macro glanced round anxiously and saw that the huts as far back as fifty paces from the wall were catching fire. Unless they moved they would soon be trapped right in the centre of the blazing inferno to come. A sudden crashing sound drew his gaze to the front, where the entire gateway was collapsing into the roaring flames.
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