'Get some water on that!' shouted the optio and then turned his attention back to the weapon. As soon as he was satisfied with the laying he straightened up and reached for the release lever.
'Stand clear!'
The crew stepped away and an instant later the arms snapped forward and smacked against the padded restraints. The flaming bolt shot out of the weapon in an almost flat trajectory, lancing across the agora. It struck the leather covers of the ram housing, burst through and disappeared inside.The crewmen punched their fists into the air, but the optio turned on them angrily.
'What in Hades are you doing? You're not paid by the day. Reload the weapon, and you, put that fucking fire out!'
Cato had watched the fall of the shot and nodded with satisfaction. 'Keep it up, Optio. Fast as you can shoot. Won't take the rebels long to move the ram so close to the wall that we can't depress the bolt-throwers enough.'
'Yes, sir,' the optio replied. 'We'll do the best we can.'
Just then, the man who had been standing at the front of the platform extinguishing the burning arrow with his canteen let out an explosive gasp. He dropped the canteen and staggered backwards, arms scrabbling for the shaft sticking out of his back, just below the shoulder blade.
'Watch it!' Cato shouted. 'Stop him!'
But it was too late. The auxiliary's calves struck the rim of the battlement and he tumbled backwards, arms flailing, then was gone. His scream was mercifully short, but they all heard the heavy thud as he landed at the foot of the tower. The optio gritted his teeth, strode to the front of the bolt-thrower, plucked the burning arrow out and threw it back towards the enemy before striding back to the rear of the weapon and snarling at his men, 'Next cunt who lets that happen to him is on a charge. Remember, keep your bloody heads down!'
There was a distant crack and Cato turned to see that the other bolt-thrower was also targeting the ram. As the rebels slowly angled in towards the gate several more shots struck the housing, passing straight through the leather and tearing into the packed ranks of the men inside, or lodging in the stout timbers of the framework, burning there until one of the rebel water-carriers managed to extinguish it. Behind the ram housing a wake of blood smears and the bodies of dead and injured told of the destruction being wrought by the citadel's bolt-throwers.
The one-sided barrage from the towers could not last for ever, and just as the ram housing reached the point at which the auxiliary crews could not depress their weapons any further, one of the enemy bolt-throwers mounted in the carts down in the agora scored a lucky hit. The heavy iron tip of the bolt smashed into the throwing arm of the weapon on the left tower. With a splintering crack the torsion arm snapped and under the immense strain of the thick cord of the bowstring the arm slashed round in an arc, crushing the head of the nearest man and shattering the arm of the next as splinters exploded in all directions, showering the soldiers closest to the weapon. Three more men were injured, one of them screaming in agony as he raised a hand to pluck a long sliver of wood from his eye.
'Get the wounded away!' Cato yelled. 'Down to the hospital. Optio!'
'Yes, sir?' The optio was wincing as he removed a large splinter from his forearm.
'Pull the weapon back and get that throwing arm repaired.'
'Repaired, sir?' The optio glanced at the bolt-thrower. The splintered stump of the throwing arm protruded a short distance from the torsion coils. 'It's fucked.'
'I don't care. Get it out of sight of the enemy and get it fixed. We'll need it.'
The optio stiffened up and nodded. 'Yes, sir. Right, lads! You heard the prefect. Let's get to it.'
Cato stepped away as the surviving members of the crew clambered round the broken weapon and heaved it away from the battlements. Around him some of the auxiliaries were helping the wounded men over to the stairs and down into the courtyard. Cato raised his shield and went forward again to check on the progress of the ram. The rebels had managed to heave it close enough to the wall to take it out of the line of fire of the citadel's bolt-throwers, and yet not so close as to be vulnerable to falling rocks or flammables. All the time the archers and the bolt-throwers down in the agora kept up a steady barrage of missiles aimed at the battlements, while catapults continued to lob the occasional blazing bundle in a high arc over the wall to crash down on the buildings and people inside the citadel.
Even though the ram was safe from the defenders for the moment, the rebels would have to run it up to the gate soon and there it would be directly exposed to the men immediately above. Prince Artaxes had anticipated the danger and already many of the archers and bolt-throwers were being repositioned to cover the ram. Cato ran down the stairs to the wide walkway directly above the gate. He leaned over and called down into the courtyard.
'Get the heated oil up here! Now!'
Cato turned to the men with pitchforks standing beside the braziers a short distance from the bound bundles of kindling and rags soaked in pitch, then gave the order to stoke the flames up and be ready to set fire to the faggots. While some of his men thrust their pitchforks into the bundles and heaved them over towards the battlement, others used bellows to heat the braziers to a brilliant golden glow and sent sparks whirling into the air.
'Light 'em up!' Cato shouted, and an optio grabbed a torch, held it in the fire until it was well alight and then ran across to the faggots and touched it to each one until the flames caught and smoke swirled round the battlements as the kindling crackled. 'Over the wall!'
At the prefect's order the men with the pitchforks heaved them up and over and shook them out to dislodge their blazing burdens. One by one the bundles roared down from the battlements. Below, the water boys glanced up in terror and turned to run for their lives as the faggots crashed on to the roof of the ram housing and burst apart, showering the surrounding area with burning debris.
'Keep them coming!' Cato ordered.
As the faggots tumbled down from the gate tower most hit the ram housing, but some missed and burst on the flagstones of the agora. Cato glanced down just as one knocked a water boy to the ground. He rolled to one side, covered in flaming material. A shrill scream pierced the air, and went on and on as the boy writhed on the ground. His comrades who had run from the bombardment were now beaten back towards the ram housing by soldiers with whips. They darted round the leather-covered structure dashing water on to the flames and fleeing whenever they saw a burning faggot plummeting towards them, only to be forced back by the whips. And through it all the men, invisible beneath the roof of the housing, strained as they heaved the ram on towards the gate.
The last of the faggots went over the wall and Cato ran to see what had become of the heated oil. The carriers were still struggling up the last flight of stairs to the top of the gate tower: four men gripping two long wooden staves that passed through iron rings on each side of the cauldron.
'Hurry it up! Move yourselves!'
As they reached the platform, a tremor ran through the tower as the first blow of the ram thudded into the gate.
'Cato!' Macro's voice called up, and Cato leaned over the wall,
'Sir?'
'Get that oil on to the ram, and the rocks, whatever you can!'
'Yes, sir.'
Cato turned to the auxiliaries in the tower and drew a breath as he pointed to the pile of odd-sized chunks of masonry piled behind the battlements. 'Get the rocks over the wall.'