by Ian Ross
As he spoke, he caught sight of Castus glowering at him from the walkway. Many of the kneeling men turned, then scrambled to their feet and shuffled aside. Iacob moved between them, Ephraim and the other attending priests rushing to aid him.
‘The evil ones have raised a strong tower against Nisibis,’ the bishop cried as he approached Castus, pointing at the Persian siege engine. ‘But the Lord will strike it down, as he struck down the tower that the Babylonians raised against heaven! We put our trust in the power of God alone to deliver us…’
‘That might take a while,’ Castus broke in. ‘I’d rather put my trust in the power of Roman artillery.’
Iacob grinned sourly back at him. ‘As the farmer winnows wheat, so God winnows cities,’ he said. ‘Your impiety may destroy us yet.’
Castus stepped aside for the old priest and his attendants to pass. He watched as they clambered slowly down the steps from the ramparts. They would return to the walls south of the Edessa Gate, he guessed, and make a circuit of the defences. Behind them, the troops and militiamen were already returning to their positions.
‘He respects you, you know,’ Sabinus said.
‘Who? The bishop?’ Castus laughed. It seemed incredible. ‘You’ve talked to him then?’
‘A little,’ Sabinus replied, glancing away. ‘We supposedly share the same faith, after all, so I thought it might be… beneficial. He’s a fanatic, certainly, but many in the city revere him. You shouldn’t regard him as your enemy.’
‘He acts as if I’m his,’ Castus said. Being lectured by his son did not appeal to him. Nor did the notion of the bishop’s respect. Allowing Christian rituals on an embattled rampart was bad enough, without having to indulge any finer feelings.
‘You know, it might be better,’ Sabinus suggested, ‘if you took a position a little further back from the defences. You could see everything quite well from the roof of the curator’s house, maybe…’
Castus turned sharply. None of the other officers were close enough to overhear them. ‘Trying to tell me what to do?’ he snapped.
‘Trying to keep you safe, Father,’ Sabinus replied at once. ‘We can’t afford to lose you! Who would take your place if you were injured or killed up here?’
Castus scrubbed at his brow. A dark pressure loomed in his mind. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, wincing. ‘I slept badly. I shouldn’t have spoken so harshly. But I have to stay here – I have to remain close to the action. It’s only here I can do any good.’
Sabinus shrugged, frowning. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘But I promised Marcellina I would try and keep you out of the worst danger.’
‘You did? When?’
‘Before we left Antioch. Although we’ve been corresponding for some time. Since before she came out here to the east – I should have told you, but she wanted to keep it between us. I’ve never told her anything you wouldn’t want her to know,’ he said hurriedly, ‘but I’ve tried to reassure her…’
Stunned, Castus stared at his son. He had known nothing of this. With slow comprehension he remembered the suspicions he had held about Sabinus, about the messages he was sending so scrupulously. All the while, his son had been writing to Marcellina. He grinned in amazed happiness, clapping Sabinus on the shoulders.
‘You’re not angry?’ his son said, frowning more deeply.
‘No, no I’m not. But listen.’ He drew Sabinus closer, slipping an arm around his shoulders. ‘I’ve made a lot of promises to Marcellina too. And I’ve broken every one of them. Not intentionally, you understand. Sometimes we’re not masters of our own fate. Right now, we just have to do what we can, as well as we can. I’ll not hang back from the fight. But I’m grateful to you.’
Sabinus nodded, his frown easing.
A shout came from along the rampart – ‘They’re moving!’ – and at once both men stepped to the parapet, staring out between the merlons over the western plain.
Dust billowed from the Persian lines, and as Castus watched he saw the top of the great siege tower shudder and the whole structure begin, almost imperceptibly, to edge forward. Down below it the elephants were heaving at the towing cables, men moving up on either side to roll the mantlets ahead of them. The columns of troops behind the tower were forming too, as the trumpets cried and the drums thundered.
Castus glanced to the left, and picked out a figure on a black horse. Zamasp, directing the assault. Further back, a high mound was surrounded by flags and covered with a white awning. Shapur would be there, enthroned amid his guards to watch the assault as it drove forward towards the walls. There were more elephants too, bearing draped canopies; the women of the royal harem would also observe the attack. Castus tasted the sourness in his mouth, and spat.
‘Archers!’ somebody cried from along the rampart. ‘Cover yourselves!’
From the line of mantlets at the far end of the causeway, Castus saw a volley of arrows launched upwards towards the walls. He dropped at once, Sabinus kneeling beside him, two soldiers covering them both with their shields. Two heartbeats later the black storm of iron-tipped shafts struck home, clinking on the rampart, arcing down onto the walkways, hitting anyone who remained standing. Screams from along the wall; a militiaman toppled backwards off the rampart with an arrow through his shoulder. A legionary yelled in agony, a shaft pinning his thigh. Castus straightened up, raising his head above the parapet only to see a second massed volley arcing upwards.
‘Down, keep down!’ Sabinus hissed. A pair of arrows banged into the shield above his head.
The Persians were shooting in constant relays, hundreds of archers sheltering behind the mantlets loosing arrows blindly at the wall. And all along the inner and outer ramparts the defenders were returning shots, archers and slingers pelting missiles out into the dust cloud, ballistae shooting and then reloading as fast as the crews could work. But none could raise their heads against the incoming storm, none could aim or check where their missiles fell. All the while the rain of arrows kept coming, spent shafts rattling across the rampart walks, every shield and every covering bristling with them. Every few moments there was a cry of pain as one of the arrows found its mark in human flesh.
And all the while the great siege tower was edging closer.
*
‘Range!’ came the shout from the wall.
‘Loose!’
The crew stepped back from the catapult as the artillery chief hauled on the cable, tripping the release. With a mighty heave the throwing arm swung upwards, lifting the sling and its forty-pound stone missile. The sling whirled, the missile flew free and the arm slammed into the padded support with a crash that raised dust from the masonry platform.
Castus gazed upwards, tracking the stone as it curved into the noon sky. The glare blinded him, and he blinked; when he looked again the missile was gone. The sun was directly overhead now, the heat punishing, and with the siege tower in range all of the big onager catapults were directing their shot in its direction. But with the archery storm unrelenting, it was hard to judge the aim of the artillery with any accuracy. Still the arrows were taking their toll; every now and again one would drop almost vertically from the sky. The space behind the wall was covered in bodies, the dead laid out in their scores, the injured suffering in the heat.
‘Dominus!’ a soldier cried, running up the steps to join Castus. ‘Message from Tribune Egnatius – the ladder attack against the south wall near the Singara Gate’s been thrown back.’
The attack had been a feint, as Castus had expected. No news from the other sections of the defences.
Further away, two more onagers loosed almost simultaneously, the hard double crack sending a tremor through the ground. It was impossible to imagine that the enemy tower would stand up to such a battering, but it had already shrugged off several direct hits. The flexible covering of padded hides that clad its upper reaches, and the iron plates covering its base, had proven invulnerable so far.
‘Two more strikes,’ Oribasius said with a worried frown. ‘D
idn’t even mark the thing. And soon it’ll be too close to the wall for the catapults to hit it…’
Castus nodded grimly. In only a few hours the huge siege tower had moved forward to the far end of the causeway. It loomed over the fortifications now, the archers stationed on the top platform and in the upper storeys shooting down directly at the ramparts of the outer wall. The elephants had been unshackled and led away – two had been injured by catapult stones – and instead the tower appeared to be grinding forward by its own momentum.
‘There are men beneath it,’ Oribasius said, ‘pushing against the axles and the chassis. Slower than hauling, but they’re moving the thing sure enough. It looks like most of them are Roman prisoners.’
Castus heard the pained catch in his voice. If the Persians were using captured Roman soldiers to move their tower, then the prisoners must have been taken at Singara. Men of Oribasius’s own legion.
A brief flicker of shadow crossed the walkway as another missile arced overhead. A breathless hush as it flew, then a burst of sudden cheering.
‘Yes!’ Oribasius cried, leaping up, oblivious to the arrow storm.
The stone had smashed into the topmost storey of the tower, bursting through the protective covering of hides. Castus heard the crack of timbers, and saw the whole structure shake with the impact, the iron plates rattling and clanging. Wails and groans went up from the besiegers as the tower ground to a halt. Then, after a pause, it lurched forward once more.
‘Again!’ Oribasius cried, punching the bricks of the rampart. ‘We’re hitting them now! Again!’ An arrow struck the wall beside him, its tip raising sparks, and he jerked his head down.
Castus heard a second thud from the artillery behind the wall. A blazing projectile passed overhead, a wicker basket stuffed with pitch, tow and naphtha and set alight. Keeping a shield raised above him, Castus glanced over the parapet to track it as it flew. The flaming missile plunged towards the tower, hitting it just below the breach where the stone had struck. Spats of flame showered down the rawhide covering.
But already he could see half-naked men swarming around the topmost storey of the tower, rigging a temporary cover of wicker and hides to cover the gap. Water was pouring down the structure too; there must be siphons inside, Castus realised, to pump the water up to the top. The fires were quenched, the damage repaired, and still the tower groaned forward.
Slaves shuffled along the rampart walkway, moving at a crouch as they dragged baskets of arrows and slingshot. Others carried sacks of bread and amphorae of wine and water, distributing the food to the defenders. Past noon now, and the sun was dropping to the west, glaring in the eyes of the men on the walls.
All along the rampart the ballistae snapped, sending iron darts tipped with burning tow to pelt the advancing tower. Some of the missiles struck, jabbing into the hides or bouncing off the metal plating. But the streams of water soon extinguished the flames. The whole tower bristled with arrows, but none had penetrated the coverings. Castus felt a plunging sense of impending failure. Shapur’s Bastard appeared unstoppable, and impervious to all attack.
Now the great structure was halfway across the causeway that spanned the moat, and Castus could hear the creaking of the timbers, the wail of ropes, and the cries and groans of the men beneath it as they heaved. The crack of whips too; the Persians were driving their prisoners with the lash. When he narrowed his eyes against the glare, Castus could see the trail of bodies that the tower left in its wake. He dropped his gaze, and saw the tangle of dead and injured men on the ramparts of the outer wall, lying amid the litter of arrow shafts. How many had already lost their lives? How many would die in pain of their wounds?
Another stone whirled across the wall: once more the hush, then the burst of exultation. This time the missile had crashed through the platform at the top of the tower, pummelling the Persian archers that sheltered within it. Smashed bodies cascaded downwards with the debris. But the tower only paused before moving forward again.
‘Ladders!’ a voice shouted from the outer rampart. ‘They’re bringing up ladders!’
With a sharp curse, Castus glanced down at the causeway and saw columns of men streaming along either side of the tower, carrying long scaling ladders between them. Whips cracked, and the tower vibrated as the men beneath it redoubled their efforts. On the outer ramparts, the surviving Roman defenders were gathering to repel the assault, as the arrows continued to spit from the sky.
‘We’ve got to pull them back,’ Castus said, crouching beside Oribasius. ‘There’s not enough men left down there to drive off a ladder attack, and we need them to reinforce the inner wall.’
Oribasius nodded, white-faced. He looked quite sick. But he yelled the order, and a moment later the trumpets sounded. Raising his head, Castus saw the men rushing down the steps from the outer ramparts and spilling back across the open space between the walls, most of them running southward towards the Edessa Gate.
With the outer wall undefended, the Persian attackers swarmed across it, each ladder sending a tide of men over the ramparts. But the arrow storm had slackened now, and with a vast roar the troops up on the higher rampart of the inner wall leaped to the battlements and began pelting missiles down at the attackers. Armenian archers gathered handfuls of enemy arrows from the ground and began shooting them back in rapid succession. Militiamen heaved chunks of rubble over the brink as the slingers craned across the parapet to whirl their shot down at the horde below.
Trapped in the killing ground between the walls, the Persians were dying in their scores. Castus could see them clearly now: bearded men in conical caps and headscarves, tribal warriors from the eastern fringes of the Sassanid empire, sent by their ruler into the first wave of the assault. Torrents of boiling water and sprays of blistering hot oil spewed from the ramparts, the defenders screaming abuse as the men below them fell back, or tried to shelter at the base of the inner wall.
But the siege tower had reached the top of the causeway now, heaved right up against the base of the outer wall. At the first blow of the ram a great cheer rose from the besieging horde, answered by a groan from the defenders. A second blow came, and then a third. The noise was a percussion through the earth, a punch that stirred the dust from the rampart walks and seemed almost to shake the bricks in their mortar.
Castus felt the noise in his chest. He could hear the rhythmic cries of the men working the ram, the heavy creak of the cables as it swung. With every blow, the outer wall appeared to shiver. Undermined from the far side, it could not stand for long. How many hours had passed? Already the sun was low, the sky to the west beginning to glow like beaten gold.
With a grinding crack, a huge fissure ran up the inner face of the wall. The rhythm of the ram did not slacken. Most of the attacking troops had been driven from the space between the walls now, and the defenders on the high rampart could only stare, aghast, as the mighty siege engine pummelled at their outer fortifications. Another crashing blow, and the wall appeared to ripple and smoke. Another, and dust exploded from the cracks. Then a sudden roar, and in a vast plume of gritty brown debris the wall collapsed inward.
The attackers came surging through the breach at once, yelling in the choking fog. Many of them carried portable hide screens, and they erected them in an arc around the gap in the wall. There were labourers with them too, men stripped to their loincloths carrying pickaxes, hammers and crowbars, and before the dust had cleared they were attacking the mound of debris, levering out the foundation stones of the wall and smashing wildly at the lumps of fallen brickwork and mortared rubble.
Archers had packed every storey of the tower; more of them gathered around its base, protected by the screens, and the storm of arrows doubled its fury. Men were dying all along the rampart. Persians were dying too, down among the rubble heaps and around the broken foundations of the outer wall. In the lowering light the scene had a hazy nightmarish quality.
Castus crouched beneath the parapet, sucking water from a flask. He ri
nsed his mouth and spat. Behind him he could hear the artillery crews frantically repositioning their catapults, heaving them off the masonry platforms and dragging them backwards, trying to get enough distance for a short-trajectory arcing shot over the wall that might hit the tower. A blazing pitch-coated basket tumbled from the rampart, scattering fire over the Persians labouring in the rubble below.
‘Can they widen the breach enough to force the tower through?’ Sabinus asked, dropping to crouch beside Castus. He had a cut across his brow; dried blood had crusted on his cheek.
‘Eventually they will,’ Castus told him. ‘They’ve got enough men down there to flatten the whole city, given time. But soon it’ll be dark…’
The siege tower stood only fifty feet from the inner wall, and already there were torches moving in the deep shadow beneath it. Arrows and slingshot filled the air between the tower and the battlements. The noise of the labourers was a constant percussive ringing of hammers and picks breaking rubble, and they were working in a maddened frenzy. But the tower was immobile, standing before the breach that it had made, unable to advance.
‘Could we...?’ Sabinus asked.
Castus could almost hear his thought. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. He chewed at his cheek, considering. The risk was great, but the danger of allowing the tower to advance further was greater. Only a dozen more paces, and it would be close enough to drop a boarding bridge across onto the ramparts. He had to do something; he had spent the entire day in a state of enforced passivity, and his nerves were at breaking point.
‘Pass the order to Oribasius,’ he said. ‘He’s to ready a hundred of his best men – we can’t spare any more. You know what to tell him.’
Sabinus saluted and ran for the steps.
A roar from outside the walls, and Castus hauled himself up, ducking quickly to avoid an arrow. Unbelievably, the tower was in motion again. Its massive wheels turned slowly, grinding the rubble beneath them as it heaved across the mound of flattened debris. Castus noticed that the Persians had dismounted the ram, and evacuated the upper storeys to lighten the tower. Still it groaned and shuddered, the sound of the whips cracking from the darkness beneath it. The labourers were breaking down the wall foundations directly ahead of it, even as it crept forward.