‘Report, centurion,’ Poppaeus ordered brusquely, shouting to make himself heard over the combined din of battle and rain.
‘Sir! They came out of nowhere about a half-hour ago. They must have ambushed our forward patrols as we received no warning.’ He flinched slightly as a slingshot fizzed past his ear. ‘They’ve filled in the trench with brushwood and corpses in six places and managed to get to the wall. They’ve torn down a couple of sections of it with grappling irons, and set a few more on fire with oil. We’ve been too thinly stretched to be able to do much more than contain them.’
Sheet lightning flashed across the sky, illuminating for an instant the damage done to the defences.
‘Well done,’ Poppaeus shouted, realising that they had mobilised just in time. ‘Get back to it; relief is on its way.’ He called down to Pomponius, who waited below him at the foot of the steps: ‘Legate, order four of your cohorts to reinforce the two on the wall to the right of the gate; then form two up here behind the gate, ready for a sortie under my command…’
A double crack of thunder burst above them, forcing him to pause as it reverberated around the mountains, its many echoes returning with diminishing vigour until he was able to continue.
‘The final two cohorts I want stationed behind the wall, just beyond the main attack. Have them issued with planks to get over the trench, and then loosen the stakes on an area of wall wide enough for twenty men to get through. Wait until we charge out of the gates on our sortie and then pull down the wall, cross the trench and take the fuckers in the flank. I’ll have the Fifth do the same on the other flank. We’ll crush them between us.’
‘My men will do everything necessary, they will be ready,’ Pomponius yelled, yanking his horse round. ‘Tribune Vespasian, ride back to the legion; tell Primus Pilus Faustus the third and fourth cohorts are to form up in column at the gate; fifth, sixth, eighth and tenth are to join the seventh and ninth on the wall, I shall see to their deployment personally. You and Faustus are to take the first and second cohorts, and any auxiliary cavalry you can muster, and to start preparing the flank attack. Report to me when it is ready.’
Vespasian galloped through the driving rain to convey the orders to Faustus. Within moments they were issued to each cohort by a system of cornu calls and hand signals. Watching the swift deployment of the legion, Vespasian realised that he had a lot to learn about the secret world of the centurions. Away to his left, just visible through the rain and the dim night, then lit up for an instant by a searing blaze of lightning, he could see the V Macedonica deploying to their section of the wall, the urgency to reinforce it growing with every new section torn down.
Vespasian rode at the head of the first cohort, which was the regulation double strength, nearly a thousand men. Faustus puffed along on foot at his side as they quick-marched along the rear of the wall. Behind them followed the second cohort and Paetus with a full ala or wing of 480 auxiliary cavalry. Legionaries from the other cohorts swarmed up the many sets of steps onto the ramparts. A quick succession of lightning flashes seemed to slow their ascent into a series of jerky movements. Another peal of thunder snapped over their heads, forcing some to duck involuntarily, as if there was more to be feared from the imagined wrath of Jupiter than the immediate danger of the enemy’s relentless missile barrage.
Eventually the cries and screams of conflict lessened; they had reached the limit of the Thracian attack. Vespasian leapt from his horse and beckoned Faustus to follow him. They scrambled up some deserted steps to the walkway that ran behind the wall. Behind them the two cohorts halted. The sodden legionaries waited for orders, no doubt wondering what they were doing so far from the main action.
Vespasian removed his helmet and inched his head over the parapet. The sight took his breath away; it was his first view of massed battle. Thousands upon thousands of Thracian warriors were hurling themselves towards the towering Roman defences across the wood and corpses piled in the trench. They flung ladders up the wall and scaled them, with the bravado of men who consider themselves already dead and therefore have nothing to lose. Archers and slingers concentrated their fire along the parapet at the apex of each ladder, forcing the defenders to stay down until the warriors reached the top, then the covering fire would stop for fear of hitting their own men. Bitter hand-to-hand struggles ensued, generally resulting in the attackers being hurled backwards off their ladders to disappear, screaming, into their comrades twenty feet below. As they fell volleys of missiles slammed into those defenders not quick enough to duck back down, cracking open skulls, piercing eyes, throats and arms and throwing men back to fall as lifeless dolls at the feet of their comrades, whose turn it would now be to replace them in the line.
Most of the breaches in the wall had been plugged by the timely arrival of the main Roman force. Those attackers who had made it through were now either lying dead in the churned mud or fighting to the last man, in ever-decreasing pockets of defiance. Surrender was not an option, they had come here to kill and be killed.
In a few places, closer to the gates, fires still burned, fed by skins of oil hurled into their midst. Their flames lit up a large tent-like construction, pushed by hundreds of tiny figures, which was slowly moving forward towards the gates.
‘They’ve got a battering ram,’ Faustus said, joining Vespasian. ‘We’d better get a move on.’
Vespasian ducked back down. ‘This will do,’ he said to Faustus as he slipped his helmet back on. ‘The nearest fighting’s a good hundred and fifty paces away. Get ropes secured over the top of each stake and start digging around the bases to loosen them. Once that’s done get the men dismantling the walkway; they can use the planks to cross the trench.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Faustus turned to go.
‘Faustus, tell the men to keep their heads down. We don’t want the enemy to know we’re here.’
‘Of course not. We wouldn’t want to spoil their surprise, would we?’ Faustus grinned and hurried back to his men.
The legionaries of the first and second cohorts set about their work with enthusiasm, relishing the prospect of a surprise flank attack that would roll up the Thracian line. Within a quarter of an hour, ropes were in place around the tops of the stakes along a sixty-foot length of wall, and the walkway behind it lay in ruins.
Vespasian raced off to report to Pomponius, whom he found with a couple of centuries of the eighth cohort, sealing up the last breach of the defences with a human wall. Thracian missiles were taking their toll on the defenders, who were finding it hard to keep a solid testudo formation on the uneven muddy ground. The numerous Roman dead and wounded littered around the breach bore witness to the close-range accuracy of the Thracian archers and slingers, only thirty paces away.
‘The flank attack is set, sir!’ Vespasian yelled at his commanding officer.
‘About fucking time too.’ Pomponius looked relieved. ‘These bastards aren’t going to give up until they’re all dead, so let’s oblige them before they kill too many more of our lads. Report to Poppaeus at the gates and then join me on the flank.’
‘Sir!’ Vespasian saluted as he kicked his horse on.
The gates now trembled from the repeated blows of the iron-headed ram. Four cohorts stood behind them ready for the sortie. Poppaeus was pouring all his auxiliary archers up onto the walkways on either side in an effort to dislodge the warriors manning the ram and the scores of men waiting behind it, ready to burst through once it had done its work. Vespasian shoved his way past the lines of archers towards the diminutive general who, despite his size, was easily recognisable in his high plumed helmet. The archers were sending volley after volley into the massed ranks of enemy below, who had begun to waver under the onslaught. The ram, though, was covered with a tent of thick hide that completely protected the men toiling inside. It continued beating relentlessly at the gates, each resounding knell weakening the structure and making the walkway shake beneath Vespasian’s feet.
‘That bastard priest must have known they had a ram up in their fort when he came in this afternoon.’ Poppaeus spat as Vespasian approached him on the walkway. ‘The little cunt said nothing; I’ll have his tongue out when I find him. This had better be good news, tribune.’
‘Yes, sir, we’re ready on the right flank.’ Vespasian stepped back as an archer crumpled at his feet, gurgling blood, with an arrow protruding from his throat. Poppaeus kicked him off the walkway.
‘Good. Get back to your position and tell Pomponius that as soon as our archers force the bastards to withdraw far enough away we’ll open the gates and deal to them what they planned to give us. It’ll be the last thing they expect, us opening the gates when they’re trying to batter them down.’ He rubbed his hands together and then turned to exhort the archers into more rapid fire, seemingly impervious to the hail of missiles being returned. Despite all Poppaeus’ treachery Vespasian couldn’t help but respect his composure under fire. Cowering in the rear and issuing orders that would get men killed was not for him: he led from the front, as should any Roman general who expected his men to fight and die for him.
