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 shelter 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 melee 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.
