Macro made for the staircase leading down to the courtyard behind the gate. His legionaries were waiting for him, in close formation a short distance from the studded timbers. If the rebels succeeded in breaching the gates, the task of keeping them out would fall to the best soldiers in the citadel. Behind the legionaries were small parties of men with thick mats and staffs capped with iron hooks, ready to fight any fires caused by incendiary missiles. Up on the wall, Prince Balthus and his followers were positioned to the left of the gate while the Greek mercenaries were to the right. Cato and the pick of his men had been entrusted with guarding the towers on either side of the gate and the battlements that stretched between them. The rest of the auxiliaries were stationed along the remainder of the citadel's walls under the command of Centurion Parmenion.
Cato clasped arms with Balthus and Demetrius before they turned away and joined their men. He was still tired and his wounded arm felt stiff and sore as he flexed it and then stretched his shoulders to try to loosen them.The men had already been fed and as he walked round his command Cato was pleased to see that they were alert and determined-looking. Their kit, which had become dusty and grimy on the march from Antioch, was clean again and helmets and shield bosses were polished and gleaming in the rays of the early morning sun.
'No need to worry, lads.' Cato smiled as he passed amongst them. 'This time there's a bloody great wall between you and those gutless archers. If the moment comes, then they'll not be so cocky when they face Roman iron.'
Some of the men grumbled their assent as they recalled the showers of arrows they had endured during the skirmish in the desert. This time they had the advantage, and the rebels were going to pay dearly.
'It is up to us,' Cato continued firmly,'to see to it that the gate is held. Keep a cool head, keep your shield up and make the enemy die hard! Second Illyrian!' Cato drew his sword and thrust it into the air. 'Second Illyrian!'
His men raised their weapons and repeated his cry, the name of the cohort echoing back off the buildings inside the citadel.The chant was taken up by the rest of the cohort posted round the wall. Then a new cry rose up inside as Macro's men bellowed out the name of their legion and used the flats of their swords to beat a furious rhythm against the metal trim of their shields.
'That's the spirit.' Cato grinned to himself. The men's blood was up, and he almost felt sorry for the first of the enemy who came within reach of a Roman sword.
'They're on the move!' a voice cried out from the left tower, and the cheering quickly faded away as Cato forced himself to walk and not run to the steps leading up to the top of the tower. His men were crowded along the battlements overlooking the agora.
'Clear the way there!' he snapped at them. 'Quickly, damn you!'
They parted as he approached and Cato looked down towards the temple precinct just as a blaring of horns and the boom of drums echoed across the agora. Hundreds of men were crowded into the ram housing and had taken their places behind the wooden spars that had been slotted into place across the frame, passing under the long shaft of the ram. As the drums beat a steady pace the men heaved against the spars and the heavy structure began to rumble across the flagstones towards the citadel. Armoured men walking alongside pulled down the leather flaps while small boys ran up and down with jars of water, soaking the leather before it came in range of any fire arrows shot from the walls of the citadel. The rebels were preparing their own incendiaries, Cato noted, as his gaze turned to some activity on the edges of the streets that led from the agora. Columns of men pulling on ropes spilled out into the open. Behind them carts emerged, each one bearing a bolt-thrower or a catapult, light artillery pieces to be sure, but more than capable of shooting their missiles over the citadel's walls. Then came men carrying glowing embers in heavy iron braziers above which the air shimmered.
Last of all emerged a number of men carrying large stout shelters. With them trotted the archers, clutching spare bundles of arrows under their arms. The shelters were hurriedly set up as the artillery crews sighted their weapons and began to crank back the torsion cords. There was a shouted command to Cato's left and the first of Balthus' archers began to loose their arrows. Dark shafts darted down towards the rebels, clattering off the flagstones, occasionally thudding into the shelters that had been set up. The rebels paid them due respect and took cover as they arranged their arrows and lit the first of them, ready to shoot up at the battlements.
'Watch out!' Cato shouted. 'Incoming fire arrows!'
The auxiliaries crouched down behind the rims of their shields or ducked behind the hard cover of the stone battlements. A moment later a glittering arrow whipped over the wall, trailing a fine line of smoke, before it reached the top of its trajectory and curved down towards the palatial buildings of the royal accommodation. The arrow shattered as it struck a roof tile and the flaming fragments exploded in all directions. More arrows followed. Most struck the roof or walls, or fell harmlessly to the ground, but a handful lodged in the timber of doorways or window frames and the fire parties pounced on them immediately to beat the flames out.
'Sir?'
Cato turned and saw Centurion Aquila coming towards him, crouching low. Now that his horses were gone, Aquila and his men fought as infantry and Cato had chosen Aquila to act as his second-in-command in the defence of the gate.
'What is it?'
'Shall I give the order for our slingers to shoot back? And the bolt-throwers on the towers?'
Cato shook his head.'No sense in exposing our men just yet. Let the rebels waste their ammunition; they're not doing us any harm. We'll hold back until the ram is within range. Then the slingers can target those archers.'
'Yes, sir.' A look of disappointment flickered across Aquila's face. 'Very good.'
'Don't worry, Aquila. The men will get their chance to carve 'em up soon enough.'
'I can hardly wait,' Aquila muttered grimly as he risked a quick glimpse over the wall.'Time to pay them back for the horses.'
'The horses?' Cato wondered, and then shook his head. His cavalry commander was clearly one of those men who cared deeply for his mounts. Still, if he blamed the rebels for the mass slaughter of the previous day, so much the better.
'Centurion Aquila, when this is all over, I promise to let you have the pick of the enemy's horses.'
'Yes, sir. Thank you.' Aquila grinned.
There was a dull whack from below in the agora and a moment later a flaming bundle of rags tied tightly round a rock blazed over the battlement. The missile dropped down towards the part of the citadel being used for the hospital and crashed through the tiles and vanished from sight. Cato felt his throat tighten with anxiety for Julia's safety, but he was powerless to do anything to protect her, or even find out if she was safe, while the enemy attack was under way. He tried to push all thought of her from his mind as he took a breath and rose up to check on the progress of the battering ram.
The rebels had got it a third of the way across the agora. Prince Balthus and his archers were keeping up a steady barrage of fire arrows, which formed a sparse stubble across the leather roof of the ram housing.The arrows smouldered in the damp leather but before they could catch the boys would dart forward and hurl fresh water over the roof. The groan from the axles of the large wheels carried up to the battlements even above the din of the iron rims grinding across the flagstones. The drums continued to beat a steady rhythm to the men straining inside the housing as they pressed forward.
'Man the bolt-throwers!' Cato commanded. 'Load incendiaries!'
The crew of the ballista in the left tower jumped up on to the firing platform and began to crank the arms back. Another man held the tip of a three-foot-long heavy bolt in the flames of the brazier at the rear of the platform.The oil-soaked rags wrapped round the shaft just behind the iron head quickly caught alight and the auxiliary hurriedly carried it across to the bolt-thrower. He carefully placed the bolt in the channel as the optio in command of the artillery section took aim on the ram housing. Already the rebel archers had spotted the crew clustered round the weapon and were loosing shots up at the tower.There was a crack as an arrow shaft trembled briefly in the frame of the bolt-thrower. Smoke trailed up from the oiled rags.