‘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.
Vespasian gave an unnoticed salute, turned and walked steadily back along the walkway, emulating, he hoped, Poppaeus’ example of sang-froid amidst the chaos of battle all around him.
The men of the first and second cohorts stood ready. Another flash of lightning ripped from the sky, turning their highly polished iron armour momentarily golden and causing a myriad of reflections to sparkle through the ranks. Rain poured off the legionaries’ helmets and down their necks, chilling them as they waited motionless for the order to attack. Despite the unpleasant conditions their morale was high. They replied with good humour to the encouragement of their centurions as they walked up and down the files inspecting equipment, praising their courage and reminding them of previous battles and exploits in which they had all shared.
Just behind the wall a century waited, with ropes in hand, for the order to pull it down. Behind them another century, with the planks ripped from the walkway, stood ready to span the trench beyond the wall. A lone sentry stationed up on the parapet peered across the battlefield, watching for the main gates, clearly visible in the fires surrounding them, to be opened and for Poppaeus’ sortie to storm out.
Vespasian stood next to Pomponius in the front rank of the leading century. Over to his right he could just make out Paetus’ cavalry. Adrenalin pumped through his body as he mentally prepared himself to kill without hesitation or pity. He flexed the muscles in his shield arm to prevent them from stiffening and checked, yet again, that his gladius was loose in its sheath.
‘When we go through it must be quick,’ Pomponius told him for the third or fourth time. ‘But not so quick that we trip on any stakes left lying around.’
Vespasian glanced at his commander, who was thirty years his senior, and felt reassured by the look of tension on his jowly face; the waiting was evidently playing on Poppaeus’ nerves as much as on his own.
A sudden shout came from the sentry above them. ‘They’re through, sir.’
Pomponius glanced at Faustus. ‘Give the order, centurion,’ he shouted.
‘Make ready, lads,’ Faustus bellowed.
The ropes went taut.
‘On the count of three pull like you’d pull a Nubian off your mother. One, two, three!’
With a massive simultaneous heave sixty feet of wall stakes crashed to the ground as one. The men carried on pulling on the ropes, dragging most of the stakes clear from the path of the waiting legionaries. As the century with the planks rushed through the opening Pomponius gave the order to advance. The cornu blared out the deep notes of command and the cohorts broke into a slow jog, up and over the rough ground disturbed by the uprooted stakes and down across the newly laid, wooden bridge over the trench.
Before the majority of Thracians had registered the new threat away in the darkness on their flank, the first cohort had covered two hundred paces and the second had cleared the wall. Behind them the ala of auxiliary cavalry streamed past to form up on their extreme right.
Pomponius gave the orders to halt and then to form up two centuries deep to the left. Fifteen hundred men turned as one to face the enemy.
A wave of panic swept through the Thracian masses. They were already aware of the sortie at the gates; now this new threat meant that they would be fighting on two fronts, as well as having to endure the barrage of missiles from the wall. Then, from further up the hill, came the prolonged shrill cry of hundreds of female voices. A flash of lightning lit up the hillside and, for a couple of moments, the source of that cry was plainly visible. The Thracians’ women had come, bringing their children with them, to live or die with their men.
The sight breathed fire into the hearts of the warriors. They abandoned their efforts to scale the wall and with a swirling, chaotic manoeuvre turned and faced the new foe.
‘Forward!’ Pomponius cried, excitement causing his voice to rise an octave.
The rumbling cornu notes resonated over the Roman line, the standards dipped and, with a crash of pila against shields, it moved forward.
A hundred paces away, just visible as darker shadows against the lighter fire-flecked background, the Thracians let out a soul-shivering howl and stampeded towards the Romans. A new series of lightning flashes revealed them brandishing rhomphaiai, spears and javelins wildly above their heads, splashing through the pools of water and mud that caused many of their number to lose their footing and disappear beneath the tide of trampling boots surging after them.
All around him Vespasian could hear the cries of the centurions exhorting their men to hold the line, and keep the steady advance under control. The first arrows and javelins had started to fall amongst them, bringing down an unlucky few. There was no order to raise shields, there was no time, the two sides were closing far too quickly. The next order would be ‘Release pila at the charge’. When it sounded the legionaries of the front three double-centuries of the first cohort and the front three standard centuries of the second pulled their right arms back, counted three paces, hurled their heavy pila skywards and immediately drew their swords without breaking step. Over seven hundred pila rained down into the oncoming mass of howling, hate-filled warriors, cracking through bronze or iron helmets as if they were no more than eggshells, slamming men to the ground in a welter of blood, throwing others backwards with the weight of impact, long razor-sharp pilum heads protruding out behind them and skewering the man following, leaving them obscenely coupled by shafts of iron, thrashing in the mud in the last throes of life.