aim, even at full gallop, and fire flat shots straight through the narrow niches of the towers. There were distant screams. Christ, they were good. Sabinus had heard that a Hun warrior loosed his arrow only in the moment all four hooves of his horse were off the ground, to fly smooth and straight. Absurd, of course. But now he saw them in action…
Another soldier, an artilleryman, fell forwards over the wall. A Hun horseman immediately rode in and lassoed him, and dragged him away across the plain, yowling, the body swerving and flayed in the dust. Hector before the walls of Troy. Sabinus saw even the brute Knuckles cross himself at the sight, and prayed the soldier was dead already. He gave the order for the artillery to cease firing.
The iron sleet did not cease, and those who sent it into the air and over the walls did not cease moving. They made an impossible target. It was an appalling revelation. Two vast, galloping circles, well spaced, gracefully avoiding the twin obstacles of the ruined, still-smouldering siege-towers. The Roman crossbow units crouched below in the guard towers, protected better at their narrow niches, did their professional best, but too few of their bolts struck anything but whirling dust. And there was a limit to how many bolts they had in store. Sabinus gave them the ceasefire, too, and pondered. No, you don’t take a Roman fort with cavalry. But you clear its walls and neuter its defenders with arrow-fire this intense.
Then the next stage of the battle became clear. The galloping horde below the walls had them immobilised, unlike previously with the towers. They stopped firing and galloped three or four hundred yards off again, out of effective range. They could be back in a flash once they’d reloaded their quivers from the wagons. If any of the defenders stood, tried to fire back, he would be stuck with a dozen arrows. With only five hundred good men to lose, that was bad maths. Meanwhile, there was still another machine to come. And it was coming now.
They had a ram.
Sabinus thanked the stars the west gate was well bagged up. He ordered the pedites to bag up the south gate too, in case they switched direction. The east gate they must keep free for their own cavalry.
As the pedites ran across to the gate, a detachment of horsemen came galloping in fast by the wall, and another slew of arrows went up and came down almost vertically. How did they know? The very ground of the fortress was studded with feathered barbarian arrows. So too were several pedites, struck down or screaming. Too many. Sabinus winced. The poor runners dragged bags and lumber into the shadow of the south gate as best they could, but still the arrows fell. Finally he gave the order for them to run for cover again. Of the twenty who had gone out, eight came back. He ground his teeth in anger.
The horsemen turned and wheeled away as one, like a flock of starlings, before they could take any damage. They vanished into the last of the morning mist, shot through with eastern sunlight.
8
The legate took a quick tour of the north wall. Out there on the river, not far from the shore, lay the stolen ships manned by Hun archers. He kept low. His north wall was secure. No need to man it. They couldn’t get out that way, and flee downriver to Ratiaria. Nor could the Huns get in. He’d done the right thing to neglect it. The battle would take place at the south and west walls, and out on the flat plain. They didn’t like water. And, he reflected, they wouldn’t like mountain warfare, either.
Now here came the ram – an altogether more threatening proposition than the tall, unwieldy towers. It was a low-slung beam shaped from a single fir, with a brutish bronze head, and sheltered under what looked, from this distance, like an expertly shaped and crafted iron-plated tortoise. Already, Sabinus could see that this time the big wheels were entirely sheltered. Then he could see that they weren’t wheels at all this time, but solid rollers made from single trunks of fir. Unbreakable.
No one came in support. He guessed that the Hun way was to force a breach in the gate, and then the cavalry, having waited safely out of range until then, would come zigzagging in like lightning.
The great engine turned and the monstrous ram under its armoured shelter began to trundle towards them. The west gate was strong but not that strong, even with its double oak bars. Bagged up though it was, it needed more. Sabinus looked around in desperation.
‘Every auxiliary off the walls. Stack up the west gate as much as you can, low-angled. Find column drums, barrels of sand, anything. I want that gate rock-solid. Move it!’
Without the auxiliaries, the legionaries ranged around the walls looked sparse indeed.
Tatullus grimaced. ‘We can’t afford to lose any more.’
On the tower roofs, one scorched and blackened but the other still intact for now, the artillery units worked tirelessly. Fat hanks of twisted skein were cranked back on mighty torsion springs. Barrels of tar burned low – carefully supervised. The long bow-arms of the arrow-firing machines were taut in readiness. An iron-tipped bolt from one of those sleek machines could go through armour plate, if it struck at a right-angle.
Then, to Sabinus’ surprise, came the distant, dull clunk as the two Hun onagers kicked back and spewed forth their titanic loads again. The long, low hum of their missiles. And twin thunks into the dust. Activity out there, as they ranged again, shooting as their own men advanced. They must be damnably confident of their accuracy.
‘Skilled?’ he muttered. ‘Or stupid?’
Arapovian nearby interrupted. ‘The Huns have never been stupid. Ask King Chorsabian.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘Quite,’ said Arapovian, tight-lipped. ‘He had a kingdom once, in the Zagros Mountains. And then the Huns came.’
Yet Sabinus had hope now. The ratio of his men to the enemy was ridiculous, but what did that matter? Rome had always been outnumbered by her enemies, and never dismayed by it. They were winning so far. No barbarian had ever taken a legionary fortress, and he was damned if his was going to be the first.
As for their siegecraft, it was there, but wanting. Tatullus suggested they had formed an alliance with a bunch of Alan mercenaries, some wandering Iranian or Sarmatian people. Or perhaps renegade Vandals, a motley crowd of deserters. There had even been talk of the Huns forming a dark confederacy with King Genseric and his people in North Africa, who had learned so quickly the arts of both sailing and siegecraft from their own enemies.
Perhaps. Well, let ’em come. The VII Legion was ready for the next wave, all five hundred of them – perhaps down to four eighty or four sixty now. The army of an entire people was besieging the fort – an entire nomad empire. And fate, or the gods, or whoever, had appointed the VIIth to fight them off on its own.
He called for another glass of wine, well-watered.
Tatullus drank nothing.
The great shorn trunk of fir with its crude but doubtless brutally effective bronze head – no more than a lump of dully shining metal – reminded Sabinus of Knuckles’ club. No elaborate carving of real rams’ heads for this army on the move.
He ordered a first volley. The Roman arrows clattered uselessly off the iron plates of the tortoise – what else, at this angle? – and Sabinus raised a thick forearm to hold fire again. The ram came on.
The Hun onagers thunked again. This time the south-west tower took a huge hit near the base. The entire west wall shivered at the shock. Hell.
‘Decurion! Gimme damage and bag it up!’
The second onager wasn’t far off target, either, now.
Time to reply.
He ordered a couple of the sling-machines to lob a few missiles in a high trajectory and drop them on the waiting Hun cavalry quarter of a mile off, just to keep them on their toes. The slingballs flew up and over in rainbow arcs, and the horsemen watched them coming and skittered aside. Some of the slingballs were painted pale blue so they wouldn’t be so easily seen against the sky as they came, but the keen-eyed steppe warriors still followed them all. The slingballs fell to earth. He told the men to fire again.
What would a heavy cavalry charge do to those light, unarmoured horsemen, though? An iron wedge punching into them at full gallop? Seeing what it did to the drivers behind the siege-towers…
