‘I do not like the sound of that.’
* * * * *
Critognatos peered out over the wall, watching the siege towers as they moved forward a couple of feet under the heaving muscle of hundreds of legionaries who used the vineae to shelter from attacks as they worked, their long ropes wound round huge stakes at the top of the ramp as a pulley system so that as they descended the ramp under the shelters, so the towers ascended in the open. Damn the Romans and their ingenuity.
Cavarinos clambered up to the top of the wall, carefully spooning some of the mutton and juicy broth from his wooden bowl and then, replacing the spoon, dipping some of the luxuriant bread into the liquid, watching it drip and then allowing the Roman army to come into focus behind it.
‘It is time, brother,’ he said, muffled through a mouthful.
Critognatos looked back at him. ‘About time. I have been restless.’
* * * * *
Fronto leaned out from the cover of the vinea, looking up at the defences as he rubbed his aching knee. ‘We’re there, lads. Come the dawn, we’ll be up those towers and onto the walls.’
Carbo looked back at him, his pink face streaked with sweat and rain that glistened in the torch light. ‘Any word from command as to who gets the chance at the corona muralis?’
Fronto smiled at his top centurion. The mural crown was one of the most sought-after military decorations, granted to the first soldier to raise a Roman standard above the enemy’s walls. Carbo, along with the senior centurion of every other legion present, would be twitching to lead the first assault in an attempt to win the coveted crown.
‘The general has not committed himself yet, Carbo. But I suspect he will grant the honour to one of the newer legions or one of the newer legates. We are his solid veterans and he will be looking to boost the morale of the newer men, after the past month of hardship. Be prepared to play a supporting role tomorrow, I’d say.’
Something nearby made a groaning noise.
‘What was that?’ the commander of the Tenth frowned.
‘Don’t know, sir. Sounded like an old building settling.’
The two men looked about in confusion. The soldiers who were carrying the last few baskets back from the walls, as well as the heavy stakes they had used to tamp down the ramp’s surface, had paused, their faces equally concerned.
Another deep rumble echoed around them and their attention was drawn to the ramp’s centre where, turning, they watched in horror as the nearer of the siege towers sank into the ground up to the top of its wheels.
‘What in shitting Juno’s name…?’
Suddenly Pomponius, the senior engineer of the legion, was pushing his way back along the line of legionaries under the shelters, shouting.
‘What is it?’ Fronto barked.
Pomponius spotted the two officers. ‘Run, sirs!’
Around them the soldiers had begun to move, heeding the shouts of the engineer, rushing back down the slope. There was a low groan and a thud beneath their feet and the twin wooden legs supporting the vinea above them sank a few feet into the ramp, tilting the whole structure dangerously.
‘Oh, shit.’
He and Carbo began to run with the others as all around them more groans arose, vinea struts sinking, the timber-and-hide tunnels tilting and coming slightly askew. The whole ramp appeared to be sinking, and Fronto almost lost his footing as a ripple or wave shuddered across the gravelled surface, which dropped perceptibly.
‘What have they done?’ Fronto shouted breathlessly as he caught up with Pomponius, the ground bucking under his feet.
‘Undermining, the clever bastards, sir.’
As he ran, Fronto risked looking back and was dismayed to see that the top end of the ramp had sunk perhaps ten feet, leaving a wet scar of mud where it had previously butted up against Avaricon’s ramparts. There was no hope now of the towers reaching the top of the walls. The ramp would have to be rebuilt, rising at least as high again, if that were even possible with its foundations crippled as they must now be.
‘They’ve tunnelled underneath while we worked, supporting the mine with wooden struts,’ the engineer added, unable to refrain from an explanation. ‘And as soon as we were almost there, they’ll have stuffed their mine with straw, wattle and kindling and set fire to it.’
‘Will the ramp be salvageable?’
Pomponius’ expression suggested that he doubted it, but he made a non-committal gesture.
‘That’s the least of our damned problems,’ snapped Carbo, suddenly sliding to a halt and arresting the other two men’s momentum with an extended hand as he turned and pointed. Fronto and Pomponius heard the discordant honking and booing of the carnyxes just as they saw the gates to either side of the ramp swing open, warriors pouring from them. Other figures appeared atop the walls, dancing flames of torches all along the line.
‘They’re attacking!’ Pomponius said in disbelief.
‘No. that would be suicide. They’re after the vineae and the towers,’ Carbo replied, and Fronto blinked. If the Bituriges gained control of the ramp for even quarter of an hour they would be able to utterly destroy the towers and shelters. Added to the sinking of the ramp, that would set back the Roman assault by weeks and, with the level of hunger the army was suffering, would effectively put an end to the siege.
‘Stop running!’ he shouted.
* * * * *
Cavarinos smiled down at the chaos on the ramp. The two forces that were spilling from the gates were already clambering up the steeply-sloping sides of the ramp, having a great deal of difficulty negotiating the precipitous escarpment, but managing slowly.
Some of the more alert Romans who had been near the top of the ramp and who had apparently realised what was happening had begun to hack at the ropes that held the two siege towers tethered in position, while others had run back to try and heave the wedges out from behind the wheels, allowing them to roll the intact tower back down the slope and out of danger. The other tower had sunk enough that it would not move without a lot of help, but they were doing their best there too, anyway.
‘Archers and torches,’ Cavarinos shouted above the jubilant din on the wall, ‘aim for the shelters. Burn them. Flask bearers, you know what to do.’
The air was still filled with a damp mizzle, and the Roman vineae would be difficult to ignite, soaked as they were, but rain would not save them tonight. All the Bituriges had to do was get a single fire started and it would eventually spread on its own, down the line of shelters and all the way to the bottom.
As the archers dipped the tips of their arrows into the flaring, sizzling torches, waiting until they burst into golden life and then loosing them at the hide-coated roofs, other men flung spitting torches over the parapet and down onto the shelters. At two places on the walls, twin groups of a half dozen men, chosen for their accuracy with a throw, hurled pottery flasks, which smashed upon impact with the timber structures, spreading oil, which immediately caught with the fiery missiles, blossoming into an orange inferno and racing across the first few vineae.
Cavarinos smiled in satisfaction and waved a hand in signal.
Behind him, two more groups of men rose to the rampart top. The first were carrying baskets of splintered kindling, armfuls of broken timber and other combustible materials — a line of men stringing out behind them down to the town from whence they came. The second group hauled a huge cauldron suspended from two stout oak staves, taking care not to spill the spitting, steaming contents. The first group reached the parapet and cast down their kindling, scurrying away to go and fetch more. As the second timber-carrying party arrived and followed suit, the cauldron bearers turned, struggling with the horrible weight, and strained with gritted teeth, lifting it to the parapet and, at the nod from Cavarinos, tipping it over the side.