The Bane of Gods: A Novel of Germania and Rome (Hraban Chronicles Book 5)

by Alaric Longward

  I climbed to my feet, cursing. Arrows struck the sand before my feet, and then Wandal smashed his shield on the horse’s head, a Guard grabbed its neck, and it finally fell. I grasped Gaius as the horse crashed and stood over him, shield up.

  A Praetorian next to us was holding a shaft in his throat, and then I tripped on his spear.

  I saw Gaius trying to get up, Wandal jumping for him, another Guard was screaming a warning, and then, Woden’s luck left us as terribly many arrows came down. One was dangling from the pteruges of Gaius. Another struck his helmet, and then one sunk into his shoulder. Wandal got to him, held his shield high, another Germani was crawling to them, wounded in the thigh as he covered Gaius’s legs, and I reached them as even more arrows fell. My shield shook with hits, Wandal roared with rage and pain, as he had been hit as well.

  Gaius screamed.

  He wailed, and hollered, and I saw he had an arrow in his chest as well as his shoulder, and blood was seeping from both wounds in spurts.

  We grasped him and dragged him back in dust and mud, an inglorious sight. The cohorts were coming back, shields high, Praetorians were rushing to us, and all the lords were rushing for safety. Soon, a weak testudo was built around us, and we kept going back. I caught a glimpse of the well-lit walls, where Armenians jeered and shot down at us, and I saw the man staring down, the man who had been with Phraates.

  Vonones.

  With him stood a noble old man, whom I thought would be the real Abaddon.

  Later, in the camp, a surgeon went to work on Gaius, while the Guards, all of us, many wounded, sat and stood around him, waiting. Wandal was poking at a hole in his side, but it was shallow.

  “I told you to get to the King of Armenia,” I said, tired to bone.

  He looked embarrassed. “I gave Gaius my oath. He was there, the only one on a horse. I had to … I know—”

  I shook my head, and we went quiet.

  By morning, we learned Gaius was likely to survive.

  Publius came to us, and sat down, exhausted. “He wants us to take the city. And teach them a lesson. You should go along, and find this Vonones. Gaius wants to speak to him. He says, though weakly, that he won’t rest before all the traitors are purged from his camp, and Vonones will tell us who betrayed him in Nabataea. The wounds have made him quite suspicious and vengeful.” Publius leaned closer. “He has promised the legion legati a bounty for Vonones, so you had better collect.”

  I nodded, and he bowed.

  I would find the man. He was the only one who knew who was working against Gaius.

  CHAPTER 22

  The onagers kicked and ballistae sang as stones sailed across the pale morning sky. The dreadful sound of the missiles plummeting through the air blocked, at least for a few moments, the jingle of armor. At first, many of the stones had missed the walls, but several corrections later, the crews of the Roman siege weapons, dozens of them, got the range right, and the enemy was no longer safe. The city was awakening to the horrors of war, and Wandal and I were about to join the battle, while most of our Germani stayed behind to guard Gaius like they would their own child.

  We had not seen Gaius, but he would survive, provided there was no infection to his wound. His armor had, apparently, saved his life, as had Wandal’s quick reactions, and the shafts had missed vital parts, but we all knew we had failed.

  Gaius should have died. He sat in the middle of a storm of arrows, and survived.

  Wandal and I were advancing with the first cohort of Legio VI Ferrata. We had passed the siege-weapons that were partially guarded by wooden walls. We stepped on some shafts that proved the enemy had shot some arrows back. The legion shields were thick around and over us as we marched forward. Sweat was pouring down all of our faces as we stepped with the elite cohort filled with determined men to avenge the perfidy of the foe. A ladder was bumping into my leg, and pila rattled on shields, and soon, droves of arrows would start falling on our testudo. We walked slowly, keeping the formation tight, but not tight enough, for some errant shafts made their way through to torment us. Men would die. They would die on this march for the walls, below them, while climbing and in the towers, then on the walls, and after the walls and the gate were taken, women and children would die as well, and perhaps soon, the King of Armenia could start rebuilding his shattered kingdom. He had survived the deceitful trap the night before.

  “Alive,” Wandal said. “We need him alive. Is he a suicidal type, I wonder, eh?”

  “If possible,” I agreed.

  He stood next to me, grinning, his thick blond hair matted with sweat and plastered on his back and face. “I—”

  A rock tumbled to a halt next to the cohort, and the men were cursing the Roman artillerymen profusely.

  The onagers had been shooting for an hour already, meaning some of the gear would be spent, and soon, they would stop. The wall showed holes in places, part of it had crumbled in a spot, and a red smear along the top announced there had been some casualties amongst the rebels.

  The first spear, the primus pilus of Legio VI Ferrata, was amongst the century, one of the dozens marching onwards to the walls and the gates. “Guard your balls, boys,” he called, over and over. “You’ll need them later!” We did. Everyone did, instinctively. One kept a spear shaft or shield over the belly and the balls every time one walked to battle. We kept pace with one of the hastily built towers that looked unkind and ugly, with pelts and shields covering holes where there had not been enough time to add wood, and they were rumbling for the walls right next to us. We glimpsed our tower through the gaps in the shields. It was high as a tree, and every man in the formation feared the moment we would scale the ladders set inside it. I pitied the men pulling and pushing them, for while they had men with shields covering them, many would fall.

  The ladders we were carrying were a backup. Some cohorts, most, in fact, would rely on nothing but such ladders, but we would use the tower, if it made it to the walls.

  “You think it is high enough?” Wandal asked dubiously. “Doesn’t seem like it is high enough.”

  “Of course, it is not,” snarled a legionnaire next to him. “They never are. Either they are too tall, or too short. I was once caught looking down at ten spears, six feet below me. I pissed myself, I tell you that, and on the shits below, of course. Goes without saying there will be trouble. One friend of mine, may he rest in peace, once had to use a ladder to climb up from a stump of a shitty engine like this, and they threw a nest of angry bees in his face while he was pulling himself up. He’d never stop talking about it. Well, he did. Died two years past of a fever.” He was smiling fondly, and probably thought of the coin he had made after all the terror had been over with. “No slaves, they say, but we may loot,” he muttered, confirming my guess.

  “Soon,” I said, and as if the enemy had heard, the sounds of arrows splitting the air filled our ears. They were striking mud, wood, hide, and humans and screams and groans became the norm. An eerie rattle echoed inside the testudo, and we stepped ever forward. Shafts snapped on the shields, a legionnaire fell nearby, and still chanting, the men carried the wounded with us. Arms, faces, shadows, flickering arrows, and the rumbling of the tower were part of our nervous world for some moments.

  The wall was very near.

  The arrows were like a hail of snow, making men hiss with pain, as several found their shields had betrayed them and their arms bled. Wandal was praying, I was cursing, and then the tower rumbled past, and slowly, ever so slowly, stopped near the wall. I squinted up. Despite the negative legionnaire, it seemed like a perfect height. The platform on top would fall to the walls, and the defenders made a desperate effort to stop us. The tower was struck by stones, arrows, torches, and at the bottom, two of the men who had been hauling it under the cover of shields, screamed and fell.

  The enemy ran out of rocks. Some small fires were burning on bits of hide in the tower, but it held.

  The testudo shuddered with anticipation.

  They
all looked at the primus pilus, who turned his head to the tower, then the men. “Break off, and up the tower! Fast now! Shields up and don’t trip, boys!” screamed the man, and he was echoed by a burly centurion of the first cohort. Around us, shields up, men turned to swarm to the tower.

  The sudden light of Sunna made us blink, the chaos of men pushing and jostling, spears clashing and armor jingling as men turned to climb the tower confused us for a moment, but we joined in. Arrows fell amongst us, men shrieked, and we dodged some brave legionnaires rushing forward for the wall, ladders with them.

  I stumbled over the dead by the tower, and saw a centurion bleeding in the sand, grinning at us bravely, as he held a shaft jutting from his leg. Men fell as we pushed for the tower, one with a shaft in his foot, another with arrow in his neck, and stones were hurled down as well, causing grisly carnage amongst the men.

  Wandal and I reached the relative safety of the tower, where men were climbing inside the humid, stinky structure, up to levels where archers fired through holes at the walls. Before I pushed in, I saw the other tower, beyond the gate, crash to a stop next to the wall as well. Onagers were quiet, the sound of horses neighing filled my ears as auxilia rode past, whooping wildly, waiting for the gates to open. All along the wall Roman testudos, having left behind trails of wounded and dead, were breaking up to plant ladders.

  Thousands of defenders littered the walls. They meant to keep us out, chanting above us. Though many would be facing a diversionary attack by auxilia and the king’s men on the other side of the city, we would face thousands.

  “Mars,” prayed Wandal. “Woden, Donor, give us strength. Make their knees weak with piss-sodden fear.”

  I squinted and looked at the gate through a hole in the tower’s side. There, on top of the gate on a platform, a flag with a wild horse was prominent, and I knew the Parthian, as well as Abaddon, would be commanding the defense.

  And that is where we would go. Over the wall filled with men intent on dying well.

  I would oblige them.

  The locals were tough looking soldiers, and the Parthians, their tunics red and white, natural horsemen, well-armed, many armored, would fight like insulted spirits, but this would be war on foot, and none excelled in that as the Romans did.

  I dived up to the ladders with Wandal, and avoided bumping my head on his arse.

  “Reminds me of the Roman fort, Castra Luppia,” he muttered. “Try not to let me down this time.”

  “You beat me for it, remember,” I said, for he had. For a time, he had been an enemy for my greed and stupidity. I had wanted Catualda, to find out the truth of my family, while Wandal had fought alone. He had nearly died for my mistake.

  I begged he would never again contemplate on slaying me as he later had.

  We climbed up the pressing ladders and stairs. The primus pilus was near the top, grinning at his men, and winking down at us. “Almost full here, but let the two Guards up! They are big enough to take a few arrows for us!”

  Men grinned and we climbed precariously, pushing past men who gave us way. The tower shook and creaked with hits of stones, and I begged it would hold. I heard men panting, the Armenians were shouting, scared, harsh challenges, their officers promising Elysium for the champions, Hades for the defeated. Their gods, our gods, all were watching.

  We pushed up the last rungs, and the top was filled with heavily breathing, excited men. There was just enough room for Wandal and I. The centurion, shield up, his transverse helmet with white horsehair swaying, lorica hamata glinting, bravest amongst his men, screamed. “Lower the ramp! Or we will be late and mocked for it!”

  “Lower it!” echoed a centurion of the first cohort.

  They roared, two men released ropes, the heavy ramp crashed down on the wall. The Romans, shields up, loped forward, the hobnailed caligae thrumming on wood. Many men were pushing at us from behind. An optio was cursing us from the ladder. “Go, you timid milk-drinkers!” he roared just over our shoulders. The men before us heaved forward; we moved with them, and I saw some lobbing pila in the tight place, rather ineffectually. A legionnaire crashed down before us, howling with an arrow shaft in his face. An archer shot at the wall, gurgled, and clawed at his throat, as he toppled out of the tower and fell below. We stumbled forward, and then saw the hundreds of dark, angry eyes staring at us, a dozen men shoving, stabbing, howling, and brawling on the wall and the ramp before us.

  It stopped us for a moment.

  But only until an arrow tore the life out of the optio behind us.

  “Don’t tarry,” I muttered and rushed forward. Wandal came after, cursing. I saw the centurion of the first cohort on the wall, stabbing and slashing about, being hemmed in by the enemy. His brow was bleeding, and his men were next to him, howling, and stabbing in the press. The primus pilus was nowhere to be seen. I topped the wall, jumped to the press and looked around, bewildered, shield out, Wandal at my back. Before us a legionnaire fell under the strikes of an ax and I snarled as I pushed forward over the dying man. I spotted an armored Armenian nobleman standing under his flag of golden disks and silver bells, further down the wall, and that man was howling orders, his sword pointed at us.

  I stepped to the hole left by the dead legionnaire.

  I went to war.

  I rammed my shield at an ax man, and he stumbled off the wall. I stepped forward, and Wandal killed a man trying to grasp my helmet, his spear stabbing. Men pushed at my shield, and I pushed back, and there we stayed, getting crushed between friend and foe.

  I turned to the centurion, who was near, and panted some words at him. “We have to get to the gate!”

  The man laughed, pulled an Armenian to his sword, having lost his shield. “I damned well know! First we have to gut that general—”

  The Armenians, being exhorted by that very nobleman, pushed into us with desperate anger, stabbing with spears. A lithe youth caught the centurion in the throat, and the man fell in the press. Then two more Romans died, and three fell on the ramp, as some archers fired a volley of arrows. The Romans faltered, pushed back to the wall grimly, and I, struggling in the press, Armenians now both to the front and side, felt the familiar rage bubbling.

  Woden called me, whispered to me of weeping mothers, of the fear in the eyes of my enemies, of their pain, and perhaps of my glorious death.

  I snarled and barked at the enemy, and went to attack.

  I sawed Nightbright into the press on a man’s face, then throat, and stamped on him as he died at my feet. The Armenians, yelling victoriously, howling with the coming glory, pushed on past me, but none went over me or Wandal. A spitting, bearded face was lurking over my shield’s rim, and I cannot remember what I called him, but he fell on his back, throat slashed. I stepped forward.

  “Hraban! We must go back! They are behind—"

  “Wandal!”

  “What?” he yelled, stabbing at a young man just at my feet, and then pushing a man off the wall.

  “Use spear, not tongue, and make me room!” I called. “We aren’t going back.”

  He did. A man tried to rip my shield off, parried my sword, but then he suddenly looked terrified, as then a tip of a hasta stabbed over my shoulder.

  The man’s eye turned red, and I pushed him back.

  I stepped over him, and Wandal followed, his hasta claiming life to my left, then another before me, while kicking at an enemy clinging to his foot. I rammed my shield on a large warrior, toppling him back. To my surprise, there were some brave embattled Romans appearing from ladders before us, surprising the defending Armenians, but there were still dozens before us, unchallenged, though few tried to get past and behind us.

  There, the Romans would be slowly killing the ones who had made it.

  “Step on them, over them,” Wandal panted. “Go!”

  Shield before me, I went forward with Wandal. Woden loved me then. I was a man with a bloody quest, and I did it honor. I felt the exhilarating power of his savagery filling me with speed, power, an
ger, and bitter hatred. I heard his call—kill, and die if you must, echoing with each thrust. Wandal was stabbing around me, some Romans now supporting him, many more coming after, and I roared and went forward, stabbing savagely from under my shield. One Armenian I impaled in the side, another lost his nose and lips as Nightbright visited his flesh. I kicked a man down, stomped on his face, and trampled over him to stab at a fat warrior, who cried for mercy, which he didn’t receive. I banged my shield into him, and heaved him back and he took down four of the enemy. Wandal and I rushed into the smitten group, spear and sword stabbing, the Germani wolves at loose in the midst of the Armenian lambs. Romans were now all over, before and behind, in ones or twos. Behind us, the last trapped enemy fell under Roman swords. I looked at the nobleman, not too far now, whose men had pushed some Romans back down the ladders to their deaths.

  “Hraban! Hraban of Woden, you goat-loving boy-soldier! I’ll feed you to my god, you shit-eating boy-kisser!” I called in Germani, danced over a corpse and rushed on. Weapons came at me, all seemed slow, the warriors confused and exposed, and while Wandal’s spear and shield were there to keep me alive, I was a thing made for clearing the walls of the enemy that day.

  Armenians were falling away, wounded, missing fingers, some dead, as I loped towards the nobleman. His men looked scared.

  Between us and the gate, ladders had brought more and more Romans to the walls as well. I saw a centurion, quite near the gate, howling in victory, before being pushed off of the wall, trailing blood.