Scaurus nodded his agreement.
‘Which goes without saying they do. And once they’re behind the ditch they’ll have free run of the walls, and built from stone or not, that means they’ll have the gates smashed in soon enough after that. For all Leontius’s bravado, I’d say that the defence of this place won’t last long thereafter, not with the sheer mass of men they can bring to the fight. We’ll make them pay, but we won’t stop them.’
Late in the afternoon another bolt thrower’s torsion bar failed, with equally dire results for the crew who lost two men badly injured to the flailing bowstring. Leontius pondered taking a replacement part from the sole remaining weapon on the eastern wall, but decided against the idea after a moment of thought.
‘Better to keep some means of lighting up the bridge on your side of the defence, eh Tribune? It surely can’t be long now before your friend Balodi arrives on the scene?’
As darkness fell he shook his head at a request from his first spear to withdraw the Britons from the defences and pull them back into the fort.
‘The blighters are within a dozen feet of the rampart, close enough that a good stout wooden plank might just be enough to get them across and over the wall. You can withdraw half the cohort at a time, but I want five centuries on duty and ready to fight them off if they try to jump the gap without finishing the ramp.’
The slaves laboured on into the night by the light of torches carried by the warriors whose sticks and whips continued to goad them on through their obvious exhaustion. Scaurus accompanied the fort’s officers back up onto the walls after they had taken a quiet dinner, throughout which he had brooded on their situation with the look of a man wrestling with a personal dilemma. The torches illuminating the ramp had clearly edged perceptibly closer in the hour or so that they had been at their meal, and Julius’s prediction looked likely to be fulfilled sooner rather than later. With a decisive nod he turned to Leontius, pointing down at the activity below them.
‘Purta has made an error in continuing to drive the ramp’s construction after dark. I think that the time has come to put a stop to this activity, at least for the time being?’
Scaurus explained his idea, and Leontius’s approval was as enthusiastic as ever, though tempered by the unavoidable impact on the slaves labouring below them. Once all sources of light that might betray their new tactic had been removed from the fort’s walls, the Thracian archers were marched up onto the fighting platform one century at a time, until the side of the fort which faced the attackers was thronged with men, standing as instructed in perfect silence. Leontius muttered an instruction to his runner, chopping his hand forcefully down into an open palm.
‘Pass the signal to illuminate the enemy, and then to evacuate the forward positions.’
After a moment for the order to reach the forward troops, a handful of lights appeared in the darkness below them, thin shelled pots filled with pitch and topped with burning rags. The men holding the improvised missiles promptly threw them over the ditch’s defensive wall and into the toiling workers where they broke, their sticky contents ignited by the flaming linen to spill across soil and workers alike. Screams rose out of the darkness as several bodies writhed in incandescent agony, their clothing aflame, and Marcus watched as Scaurus put a hand over his eyes in horror. Looking down from the wall he saw dark shapes hurrying away from the ditch, and a moment later the Thracian’s prefect barked an order to his archers.
‘Archers, at one hundred paces, ready!’
With a rustle of arrows being drawn from their quivers the Thracians prepared to shoot, their bows creaking in the night’s calm. If the Sarmatae realised what was about to happen, the screams of the burning slaves hindered any attempt to order a withdrawal.
‘Archers . . . shoot!’
The Thracians loosed their missiles at the lights dancing below them, hundreds of arrows arching down into the compact mass of slaves trapped under their bows. A renewed chorus of agonised screams rent the night air as dozens of men, women and children staggered and died under the storm of arrows.
‘Ready . . . shoot!’
Another volley flashed down from the walls to riddle slaves and warriors alike, the sounds of their pain and distress redoubling in volume. Men were shouting from behind the mass of slaves, although whether their commands were to retreat or stand fast under the hail of iron was unclear.
‘Ready . . . shoot!’
The third volley broke the slaves as completely as an infantry charge might have done, and the sounds reaching the wall became those of a desperate mob stampeding for perceived safety. The night was filled by both the desperate shouts of men as yet unhurt but in fear of their lives, and the pitiful cries of those pierced by arrows or simply trampled underfoot in the mob’s panic.
The Thracian prefect looked to Leontius, but the fort’s commander shook his head and raised his hand to order another volley.
‘Archers, at two hundred paces, ready!’ The bowmen raised their weapons to give the arrows greater range, stretching the bowstrings back to their ears in readiness to send them high into the air. ‘Shoot!’
The fourth volley whistled away, leaving a moment’s silence before the arrows rained down amid the fleeing slaves and warriors, eliciting yet more screams and further panic, and Marcus knew that Leontius would repeat his hand signal before the gesture was made.
‘At three hundred paces, ready!’ The bows were now pointed up at the stars, their wielders forcing every possible ounce of effort into their weapons to send them high into the night sky for maximum reach. ‘Shoot!’
The cries of distress were distant now, and sounded oddly tired to Marcus’s ears, as if those men struck by this final volley were so exhausted from their flight that they could muster no more energy to protest against their cruel fortune than a groan of dismay. Leontius nodded to the Thracian prefect, who turned back to his men with an unreadable expression.
‘Archers, stand down. First Spear, take them back to quarters.’
The officers watched as the Thracians filed off the walls with blank faces, their minds closed to the havoc they had inflicted on the defenceless slaves. From the ditch below them the cries of the wounded were the only sound remaining in what was otherwise a sudden silence, incongruous after the long day’s chaotic din.
Leontius congratulated Scaurus sombrely, although there was no mistaking the relief in his voice.
‘Well that ought to be the end of their work for the rest of the night. An inspired tactic, Tribune, given that the enemy archers clearly had no means of retaliating in the darkness.’
Scaurus nodded, his face drawn at the brief action’s hidden horror.
‘Thank you, Leontius. And I have a further suggestion to make. My cohort will assume responsibility for the ditch for the rest of the night. Why not give your Britons a short period of rest? They will face a renewed onslaught in the morning, I expect.’
The tribune nodded gratefully, and Marcus realised that he was missing what was painfully obvious to the young Roman. Julius glanced at him, the look in his eyes making plain that Scaurus’s purpose in taking the night watch was equally clear to the first spear.
‘Thank you, Tribune. Perhaps our first spears might organise the handover?’
Scaurus nodded blankly, turning away and staring down into the darkness, his face set as hard as stone. Marcus stepped up behind him, speaking quietly into his plea.
‘Tribune, forgive me if I speak plainly with you, but you must not do this thing. I realise you feel a responsibility for the men lying wounded down there, but . . .’
Scaurus’s voice was hollow and emotionless, his interjection less interruption than simply deaf to his centurion’s plea.
‘Until you have actually ordered such a thing, Centurion, you have no idea how it tears at a man’s soul to hear innocent men, women and children cry out in fear and pain as their lives are taken for a crime that was not of their doing. I heard a child cry out for her mother, Marcus. I hea
rd a man call in despair to his wife . . .’ He took a deep breath. ‘I heard a man call out to Our Lord Mithras in the depths of his despair, but there was no answer, only another volley of our bloody arrows. I might have saved some of those people had I been more insistent with Belletor during the negotiations, but I allowed the self-interested fool to choose political expediency over simple humanity. So now I cannot simply stand up here with clean hands while innocents I condemned to slavery though my inaction lie helpless in the mud, torn and bleeding so that we might live a little longer. Julius, get the cohorts ready to relieve the Britons at the ditch. And find some fucking rope, will you?’
8
The fortification along the ditch was different to the last time Marcus had seen it, studded with arrows sunk deep into the mud wall and the ground behind it where the Thracian’s shots had landed short and failed to find targets. Julius set a party of men to collecting the undamaged missiles.
‘We’ll be needing these before the siege ends, I’d guess,’ said Julius. ‘They’ll provide a useful back-up supply to Qadir’s boys.’ He suddenly found himself off balance, having stepped into a depression in the ground, and looked down to make the unwelcome discovery of a shallow latrine pit dug to provide the Britons with some relief during their long day guarding the ditch. Grimacing in disgust he lifted his boot, the sole dark with excrement. ‘Well, doesn’t that just sum up this whole bloody campaign? We just can’t stop treading in the fucking shit! Get those bloody ropes over here!’
Marcus looked over the wall at the enemy ramp, whose tongue was now less than ten paces from the ditch’s steep western face.
‘They’ll be back in strength at first light, once their archers can see to shoot back at anyone brave enough to take potshots at them from the walls.’ Martos had stepped up alongside him, his one good eye shining in the moonlight as he spoke softly in his friend’s ear. ‘The ramp’s close enough already, I’d say. If it were me I’d flog my slaves to one last effort and make the end twice as wide as it is now, with enough space for three or four heavy planks. That way they can come at us in numbers, with their wild men up front, burning mad and with the promise of enough gold to live on for the rest of their days if they breach the wall. Ninety-nine men out of the first hundred across will die, of course, but they’ll carve a foothold out on this side by sheer weight of numbers, and all the time their archers will be showering us with arrows from either side . . .’ The Votadini nobleman stopped talking, looking at Marcus knowingly. ‘What is it? What’s crossed your mind now?’
‘Something you just said. Wait here, and gather a score of your men ready for a fight, if you’re ready for a little excitement.’
The Votadini prince tapped his eyepatch as he turned away to his men.
‘I was born ready, Centurion.’
Marcus walked across to Julius, pulling a face at the revolting smell emanating from his friend’s dirty boot. The first spear turned to meet him, his face hardening at the Roman’s expression.
‘And you can fuck right off too. I’ve already had Dubnus enquiring whether I’m looking for a job as a legion bathhouse cleaner.’
Marcus shook his head with a smile, and quickly laid out his idea. He’d not finished explaining the potential to undo the Sarmatae plans when Julius nodded vigorously.
‘It works for me. You, Soldier Lumpyface, or whatever your name is, go and find the tribune and ask him to come and join us here. And we haven’t got all fucking night, so move!’
The man in question scurried away with a muttered comment to his mates that the first spear’s smell had finally caught up with his nickname, which Julius half heard and completely ignored mainly because he was sending other soldiers along the line to gather the cohorts’ officers. Scaurus appeared out of the darkness a moment later, his gloomy expression momentarily lightened when he caught wind of Julius’s distinctive new odour.
‘My word, First Spear, but that really is a most aromatic perfume you’re using these days. At least it’ll make finding you in the dark easy enough.’
His subordinate smiled thinly, and laid out Marcus’s proposal.
‘But we’ll need some gear out of the fort, and quickly too, before the chance is gone. If I send a man in to ask for what we’ll need he’ll just get told to piss off by the duty centurion on the grounds it all sounds like too much trouble, whereas you, Tribune . . .’
‘Whereas I’m somewhat less likely to find myself holding the dirty end of the vine stick? Very well . . .’ He turned away for the fort, shooting a parting comment over his shoulder. ‘And that said, perhaps you could use your vine stick to scrape off some of the offensive material that’s clinging to your boots?’
He was back within a few minutes, accompanied by two soldiers carrying the materials required. In his absence the centurions had watched as Martos and a dozen of his men roped down the ditch’s steep western slope to the bottom of the trench, still strewn with ash and the remains of the burned bodies left there from the previous night’s conflagration. They had climbed swiftly up the ramp’s steep sides until they stood atop the earthwork, squatting low to avoid revealing their presence to any enemy scouts left to watch the deserted battlefield. The Tungrians manhandled the first of the heavy wooden planks that Scaurus had fetched from the fort across the gap, watching anxiously as the Votadini pulled it into place against the ramp’s brow. Martos walked carefully down the bridge’s gentle slope until he was standing three feet from the turf wall, experimentally testing the plank with his weight as he came across. He called out to Julius in a soft voice, holding up a single finger.
‘One man at a time, I suggest, and definitely none of those monsters in your Tenth Century!’
Julius moved to step onto the bridge, but the tribune put a hand on his shoulder.
‘Not you. I need you here to take command if anything happens to me over there.’
The first spear frowned in disapproval, gesturing Marcus to join them.
‘I’m not allowed across, so you’re going to have to take responsibility for keeping the tribune here alive. Have Martos set up a perimeter. If any of those bodies are still breathing then I want them killed, quickly and quietly, be they Sarmatae, slave or even Roman.’ He turned a challenging look on his superior. ‘I assume you can live with that, Tribune?’
Scaurus nodded slowly, turning back to the plank bridge, and behind his back Julius shot a meaningful glance at Marcus, muttering in his brother officer’s ear.
‘The first sign of any move by the enemy and I want him back across that plank and behind the wall, you hear me? I won’t go down in this cohort’s history as the man who allowed his tribune to get himself killed just because the man felt a bit guilty about some dead slaves.’
He signalled for the soldiers he had picked to carry out their orders, and the nimblest of them went across the bridge quickly and quietly, carrying the end of another plank to double the width of the crossing. Marcus stepped out onto the impromptu bridge, pacing tentatively forward as the plank beneath his feet sagged gently under his weight, but reached the far side of the gap safely enough. The ground before him was dark in the absence of any moonlight, and he was forced to call for the barbarian prince in a loud whisper.
‘Martos!’
A darkly amused voice in his ear made him jump.
‘There’s no need for you to shout, Centurion. It seems I see better with one eye than you do with two?’
Resisting the urge to make an acerbic reply, Marcus pointed out into the darkness.
‘We need to guard the soldiers while they do as much damage to the ramp as they can before the Sarmatae realise what we’re doing. Have your men spread out and form a perimeter thirty paces around us. Anyone they find still alive as they move forward is to be killed, without any noise. And Martos, if I fall out here, your only priority is to get the tribune back across the bridge, you understand?’
The prince nodded and gathered his men about him. With his whispered orders given, he gestured
them forward with a finger ostentatiously held across his lips. Turning back to the plank bridge, Marcus saw Scaurus kneeling next to a prostrate body, and paced back to his side with his gladius drawn. Behind him the Tungrian working party were labouring frantically at the ramp sides with their borrowed spades, shovelling the soil and small rocks that had been deposited during the previous day down into the ditch to either side while leaving a slim finger of ground connected to their bridging point as they toiled to lower the earthwork round it as quickly as they could.
‘This poor man never had a chance.’
Marcus followed the tribune’s pointing hand to an arrow buried deeply in the slave’s chest, a wound from which the only possible outcome was a slow and painful death. The dying man gazed up at him in wonder, his lips moving as he muttered something in a language neither man spoke. Raising his dagger, Scaurus slid the weapon’s point into the man’s chest between his ribs, thrusting it cleanly through his heart and killing him instantly. He withdrew the blade, holding it up to look at the blood’s black stain on the blade.
‘I swear I’ll help as many of these poor souls to find peace as I can in whatever time we have. I suggest you do the same?’
Marcus turned away and stared out into the night again, still detecting no sign that their desperate venture had been discovered. He paced forward looking for Martos, crouching low to avoid silhouetting himself against any light from the fort, and was still searching the darkness before him for any sign of his friend when a hand gripped his ankle. Spinning round, he cocked his wrist to put the spatha’s pale blade through whoever it was that had touched him when a harsh whisper stayed his hand, the words haltingly slow as the man on the ground before him fought for every breath.
‘Help me . . .’
The prostrate Roman’s eyes snapped wide with the pain as he rolled onto his back. The smell of his perforated intestines was strong in the night air, and Marcus looked down at him with pity, knowing that without the mercy of a sword stroke he could live for days in agony. The man croaked out a single word, his voice raw with pain.
05 - The Wolf's Gold Page 31