Here was the gang of Hun horsemen driving forward the ram-tortoise. Their leader was a snake-haired, wild-eyed young fellow on a white gelding. He encouraged the captives with song, and a whip. Those dragging the ram against the fortress that had once been their greatest protection were, once again, the enslaved and expendable captives of Viminacium town, panting at the drive poles, bloody under the flail.
Arapovian stepped near. ‘You need to take that out.’
‘I know it.’ Sabinus eyed him. ‘You fit, man?’
‘I breathe.’
‘Still draw a bow?’
‘Never better. Pain concentrates the mind wonderfully. ’
Sabinus grimaced.
‘I take their leader?’
Sabinus shook his head. ‘Wait. Bring ’em in close. We will have them at the gates. They’ve got no chance there.’
And for the enslaved captives, alas, it would be another bad day.
But the tortoise was changing tack again, pulled round from the inside. Away from the massively baulked west gate. The cunning swine. Sabinus was momentarily nonplussed.
‘Crossbow unit III only,’ he roared. ‘Pick off what you can. Whichever way they go, keep at ’em.’
He had few men, but plenty of arrows. Storehouses full of ’em.
‘And pedites, I want to see you sweat!’
Poor buggers looked exhausted already. But they’d look a whole lot worse if that ram came though the gates, followed by ten thousand tattooed horsemen.
The tortoise shifted slowly and clumsily to the right, towards the trajectory of one of the Hun’s own onagers, smacking boulders into the south-west tower. Idiot barbarians. They’d smash their own ram at this rate.
But no. As Arapovian had cautioned, they weren’t fools.
The tortoise straightened up again and the ram was aimed dead centre at the bottom of the fortress wall, only twenty yards or so from where the onager was hitting. They were indeed damnably confident in the accuracy of their own artillery, and they knew about rams and stone walls.
During the Persian wars against that hard nut Shapur, the Eastern Army had quickly discovered, to their surprise, that the walls of fortresses on the Euphrates, like Nisibis, held well against rams. Built of no more than cheap bricks of mud and straw, baked hard in the Mesopotamian sun, they gave off clouds of red dust, but they absorbed the shock. Whereas beautifully laid walls of finely dressed stone shivered and shattered: far more expensive, a lot better looking – and vulnerable.
Like the walls of Viminacium. Finest dressed Illyrian limestone facing a rubble hardcore. As soon as the facing was gone, the core would collapse, leaking out of the ruptured stonework like grey gore. But how did they know? That scarred and tattooed leader. He knew too damn much.
So they were concentrating their attack on the corner. Not bad strategy. The onager missiles were coming into the south-west tower at a steady rate, fifty or sixty pounds of missile every minute or two, from maybe four hundred yards. As the ram came closer, Sabinus could see how well built it was. Even the brutish great lump of ram’s-head was protected by a projecting roof. A common mistake to forget that feature. The Goths always used to get it wrong. Bring a ram up to the enemies’ walls, all beautifully shaped and slung, beneath a steep, sloping roof – and with the ram’s head sticking out the front. It comes in close, ready for the first swing, and your men roll a big rock over the wall. It smashes down onto the protruding ram’s-head, the head drops down, the rest of the beam flips up, probably kills a couple of the team with it, slams upwards into its own protecting roof, often half demolishes it. Or snaps its own ropes, or gets tangled coming down again – all sorts of trouble. But not this time. The ram was perfectly protected. They were already swinging her back on good long suspension ropes, all very expert. Sabinus could almost have cursed the grandstand view he had from this damn west gate-tower.
A sharp thud, distant trembling, cries from down below. The stones held for now. But not for long. He sent what pedites he could spare. The wall needed baulking up behind – rubble, sandbags, anything. They were running out of materials, so he told them to take sledgehammers to the nearest barrack blocks and use what materials they could get from the ruins. He reckoned his men would sleep well enough under the open stars after this was over.
Soon, another thud. A lot of dust. The stones were going.
An onager missile sliced over the top of the south-west tower. There was a terrible crash and unearthly screams. Not one of the crossbowmen so much as glanced to the left. With the ram still hitting and that concentrated onager assault, that whole corner of the fort was going to go soon. And then they would be in.
Time to reply.
If only he had a squad of superventores – special forces, ‘over-comers’ – but they were all with the field army nowadays. Or a few cohorts of Aetius’ superb, reformed Palatine Legion from the West. The frontier legions were expected to look after themselves. And so they would.
But it was looking bad. The arrow-machines on the south-west tower had both been smashed by that onager strike. The planking sagged. Most of the men had been smashed, too. It was carnage up there. He looked away. The north-west tower was charcoal. What fire-arrows the archers could get in were too few, and the tortoise well protected with iron plates.
Below galloped the commander of the ram, flailing his whip, oblivious of stray arrows. Still ordering his captives to draw back the ram and slam into the walls again, even as they were under attack.
Sabinus would have to send men down.
Tatullus read his mind. ‘The bear with the club will be no good. You need fast movers.’
Sabinus nodded.
‘I will go,’ said a voice behind. ‘I have experience.’
It was the Armenian again.
‘You have?’
Arapovian did not deign to repeat himself.
Malchus was desperate to volunteer, too. It seemed mad to send his best cavalry officer, but Sabinus had seen the man’s joyful ruthlessness in a fight. He loved fighting, that one. The more men he slew, the more of his own blood he shed, the more he loved it. He was a pure, grinning predator.
One more.
Tatullus stepped forward.
Sabinus nodded. ‘Coronas and medals for all of you, whether you come back or not.’ He glared at them. ‘But you better fucking had. I’m short of men.’
Small gangs of Hun horsemen were darting in towards the walls in lethal forays, letting off light, unpredictable little showers of arrows over the exposed battlements, covering fire for the ram. The three defenders bowed their heads low and ran. They didn’t need to speak. It was obvious what they had to do, and that was keep low, move fast, and do as much damage as they could. The last thing Arapovian did was unsling his beloved eastern bow and shove it into Knuckles’ bandaged hands. Then they were in close behind the low battlements, just above the tortoise, the narrow wall shivering beneath their hobnailed boots at the shocks of the ram, yells from below, and rising clouds of powdery dust. Another titanic thud as an onager bowled another long-range rock into the tower to their left, and another spray of feathered arrows clattered around them. They’d been spotted. There was the briefest pause in the iron-tipped shower, a single breath, and then they were up and rolling over the battlements and gone. The distant Hun horsemen were already galloping towards them. They would have to move at blinding speed.
‘Crossbow units, hit the horsemen!’ roared Sabinus. ‘Forget the ram! Take out any horsemen coming!’
The finely trained crossbowmen, bows already primed, knelt swiftly at their niches and let fly. The bolts cut through the air and hit the approaching horsemen hard. Several tumbled. The others pulled up in dismay. One or two trained their arrows on the battlements but it was useless. They were already learning. No one shot that well, not from that distance. They began backing off. Another volley of bolts ploughed into them. A rider’s head lolled, half severed, and his horse fled.
‘Keep at it,’ said Sabinus. ‘Don’t let ’em get close.’
Malchus, Tatullus and Arapovian had dropped down onto the ridge of the tortoise on their hands and feet, knives between their teeth. The Hun commander spotted them immediately and came galloping round, flailing his
