They waited.
On the tower to Sabinus’ right, one of the tar barrels used to set fire to the siege-tower started burning out of control, guffing up big clouds of black, oily smoke and then, without warning, roaring into flame. Men fell back from the intense heat, shielding their eyes.
‘Damp that fucking thing down now!’ roared Tatullus, striding over. ‘Pedites, get buckets of water up here!’
It blazed furiously. The water arrived too slowly. Tatullus sent more men, including Knuckles, to bring up two massive iron-bound pails on a wooden yoke. But it got worse. Flames licked up, flourished, shook off any buckets of water thrown at them, spat them back in clouds of burning steam, and then suddenly engulfed the open-sided wooden roof, the only protection the men there had from falling arrows.
Sabinus roared further orders. And then, with his double vision still working, he saw a stir. On the plain below, the warlord with the eyes of a hawk, and the heart of a hawk, too, turned his head. If Sabinus had been any closer, he’d have seen his yellow eyes gleam. But he saw his signal well enough. His copper-banded arm stretched out, and a little band of horse-warriors began to gallop in.
‘What in the name of Light…?’
There was another surprise. Two of them dragged a little piece of field artillery. The rest broke into their lethal circling gallop and began to fire arrows onto the burning tower, through the flames. The men up there, choking on smoke and blinded by the rebellious flames, starting taking hits as well. The protective wooden roof began to sag and collapse.
A second group of warriors reined in some hundred yards off, set up their field-machine with unbelievable speed and efficiency, and started sending in hard, fist-sized rocks at the wall of the burning tower. They re-angled the beam and the next shot came curving in leanly over the wall and smacked straight into the side of the flaming tar barrel. They were trying to demolish it. Molten tar would run all over the place, the wooden boards burn, and that tower, that essential corner bastion, would be as good as finished.
The crossbow units started taking them out one by one, but every time they scored a hit, another tattooed warrior came galloping in and took his place.
Damn that warlord and his ruthless cunning. Every stumble, every weakness or misfortune, would be exploited.
Two, three more auxiliaries trying to damp out the flames were shot through. One fell forwards into the burning tar itself. He was dragged out by the legs, dead. Two more still tried to damp it. One fell back choking on foul smoke, lungs scorched. The situation was getting desperate. Even Tatullus seemed momentarily lost.
‘Fuck this,’ rumbled Knuckles, shoving his way through. ‘I’m gettin’ a headache. That barrel’s gotta go.’
He squatted down and put his shoulder to the edge of the blazing barrel, tipped it so it leaned against the low stone wall, slid his meaty hands beneath the rim and then, slowly, unbelievably, began to stand straight again. The barrel scraped up the wall. He peered blearily through the pitchy smoke to the ground below.
‘Right, which one of you bloody hooligans wants this on his head?’
He gave one final, terrific heave, and the barrel, blazing more furiously than ever, the very spars beginning to darken into charcoal from within and disintegrate, was sent over the side. No direct hit – that would have been too lucky – but it crashed to the earth with the force of an explosion, spitting burning splinters and flecks of blazing tar into the rumps of two or three terrified horses, which reared and then rolled to the ground, screaming, to extinguish their burning hides. The stench of singed horsehair filled the air. The Hun riders slipped free, staggered to their feet in a daze, looked around – and one, then two were struck through with arrows. They pitched forward and died. The third had begun to run, a fellow warrior galloping in close to scoop him up onto the back of his own sturdy little mount. But another arrow hit him square in the back and he dropped down dead. His would-be rescuer wheeled dismissively and galloped out of range again.
It was Arapovian, shooting without mercy from the battlements. He ducked as a riposte of Hun arrows clattered around him. Then the horsemen below galloped into a full retreat. The little field-machine was dragged away behind.
‘Now douse the roof, what’s left of it!’ shouted Sabinus. ‘Clean up that tower and get it back in order. Jump to it!’
Auxiliaries ran.
Knuckles shambled over to the Armenian and hit him on the back.
‘Not bad, that,’ he growled.
Arapovian turned to look at him, saying nothing. His eyes widened a little. Knuckles’s complexion was charcoal. Half an eyebrow was burned away. His shaggy fringe was noticeably shorter than before, and his hair appeared to be smouldering. The Armenian glanced down and saw worse: those giant, spade-like hands were badly blistered and seeping blood. He silently produced a little bottle from within his robes and passed it to him.
‘One mouthful,’ he said. ‘Armenian brandy. The finest.’
Knuckles grunted and obediently took the delicate little bottle, looking like a giant holding a lady’s thimble. Sipped delicately. It was good.
‘That’s it, is it?’
Arapovian took the bottle back. ‘That’s it.’ He pushed the cork in and stowed the bottle back in his robes. ‘We’re going to need more later.’
‘“We”, is it now?’
Arapovian looked back over the plains of war. Perhaps the shadow of a smile passed over his aquiline features. He cranked his injured left arm up and down, blood oozing through the bandages again, but his face betraying no hint of pain. Then he nocked another arrow to the bow and waited.
Knuckles made his way back along the battlements, until Tatullus stood in his way.
The centurion regarded him. ‘Not bad,’ he said, ‘for a deserter.’
‘Thank you kindly, Your Honour.’
‘Show me your hands.’
Knuckles showed him, with commentary. ‘I don’t need medical attention, sir, really I don’t. I got a bit of a problem with doctors, the truth be told, ever since that time back in Colonia, when I caught a nasty dose off of a certain young lady of nevertheless very obligin’ disposition, and the doctor there made me-’
‘To the hospital,’ said Tatullus. ‘That’s an order.’
Looking anxious for the first time that day, Knuckles made his slow and reluctant way down to the hospital.
He needn’t have worried. The legionary doctor, a young and apparently diffident fellow from Thessaly, knew his stuff. He larded Knuckles’ hands with goose fat infused with garlic to prevent the blisters becoming putrid. Stung like hell at first, but then, he had to admit, felt not so bad. Less like his palms were about to split open to the bone at any moment. Altogether very different from that unfortunate experience back in Colonia.
There was little time for self-congratulation.
Sabinus called Tatullus over and they watched as the Hun lines began to move forward again. The front ranks broke out into two huge loops, revolving circles of galloping archers spiralling in closer.
‘Very pretty,’ muttered Tatullus.
Light cavalry? Arrows? Sabinus was puzzled. ‘What are they up to? You don’t take a Roman fort with horsemen. ’
The Huns came wheeling in, and then as one body loosed a volley of arrows. They flew in high arcs, none of them aimed for anything in particular, just the fort in general. But there were thousands of them, darkening the sky like strange birds. The air was filled with iron sleet.
‘Take cover!’
They came arcing down onto the wooden roofs of the towers, the exposed battlements, the scrambling men. Cries rang out. An unlucky crossbowman rolled down the narrow stone steps.
‘Medics!’
‘Another volley coming in!’
Some dashed for the towers, others huddled tight in against the low wall, shields pulled over heads and shoulders. Safe enough, for now, but rendered useless: pinned down, unable to return fire or lob so much as a rock. The artillery were as good as spayed, too. The south-west unit tried to fire heavy bolts into the whirlwind of horse-warriors, but were immediately picked off over the low battlements. Hun archers were able to take careful
