Someone’s stomach filled the satisfied silence with a long, low rumble.
* * * * *
Fabius and Furius stood pressed in the ranks of the Tenth’s leading century. Just as every other legate of the four veteran legions, Fronto had immediately grabbed Atenos and Carbo and begun separating out those who were at less than total fitness, largely due to hunger, exhaustion and the illness endemic of the wet Gallic spring. Atenos then weeded out those he didn’t think capable of a swift climb or who were too noisy to move subtly into position. The result was near seven hundred men, all fit and strong, despite current conditions, and the other legions had put forth roughly similar numbers.
Every man present had had the prospect of the coveted mural crown dangled before him as extra incentive to end the siege in short order, and each man of each legion currently huddled in the shelter of the vineae lines was hungry not only for food, but for success — desperate to be the first man to raise the sign of Rome above the wall. The signifers stood a good chance, of course, for they would already be carrying the standards of the legions and would be easily spotted by the officers. However, in these situations it was rare for the standard bearers to live long enough to do so, and often the vexillum or standard was raised by the first man to have bloodied his blade enough to clear a space.
The two tribunes were effectively the highest ranking officers here. None of the legates were present. Fronto had argued, of course, but since his old knee had started to play up again on damp days despite his high level of fitness, there was a distinct possibility that his knee would give way as he climbed the ladder, imperilling everyone. And none of the other legions’ tribunes or legates would stoop low enough to join the ordinary soldiers in such an action. Not so: the pair from the Tenth.
Furius elbowed aside a man he considered to be standing too close. The entire press was tight, of course, keeping ready and out of sight of the Gauls on the walls above. Narrowing his eyes at the man, Furius noted the naked hunger in the man’s expression.
‘Keep your grubby hands off the standard. That corona’s mine.’
Fabius rolled his eyes. ‘The important thing is for Avaricon to fall,’ he reminded his friend.
‘Absolutely. And for me to be waving the flag above it when it happens.’ He pointed a warning finger at the legionary, who managed to look back at him both deferentially and defiantly at the same time, in an award-winning expression.
‘Leave the standard to me or spend a year digging shit-pits. Got me?’
‘Ignore him, soldier,’ put in Fabius with a grin, but Furius continued to wag his finger threateningly.
Somewhere back in the camp, a single cornu blared out a long, protracted ‘booooo’, which was quickly taken up by several other musicians.
‘That’s it,’ Fabius said loudly, as the siege ladders were passed over his shoulder to the men at the front, a couple of ranks ahead of the tribunes. Being at the front was the most dangerous place to be, while being too far back pretty much put you out of the running for the corona, and Furius, who had narrowly missed winning that very decoration at Jerusalem under Pompey a decade earlier, had positioned himself carefully, unwilling to pass up the same chance twice.
Moments later, the ladders were rising up against the wall and falling into place, the foot-long iron spikes protruding from the bottom jammed into the ground to prevent slippage. Even before the wooden tip had clattered against the stone of the wall the first legionary had his foot on the bottom rung, sword still sheathed so that he had a free hand to climb while the other held his shield up to protect him from falling missiles. As the men began to climb, the engineers at the very front, even ahead of the ladders, ran forward with their hammers and ringed iron pitons.
The shout of alarm went up on the wall top at the sight of the first ladder arriving and the defenders were immediately struggling to push the ladder out, shouting for their comrades to aid them on the walls and to bring the forked sticks to push away the offending siege equipment.
The left-hand of the two ladders among the Tenth began to push away from the wall, rising to the perpendicular, causing shouts of panic from the legionaries halfway up it. The engineers were busy hammering the pitons into the visible ends of the logs that formed the framework of Gaulish city walls. As two of them helped pull that swaying ladder back against the wall, other men fed thick ropes through the iron ring-pitons driven into the wall, then looped the ropes around the ladders and pulled them tight, tying them off and effectively holding the ladders against the walls, no matter how hard the defenders pushed. It was a satisfying technique put forward by Mamurra — the siege master — using the Gauls’ walls to anchor the ladders that would scale them.
And then in the press of men, Fabius found himself at the ladder and stepped aside as best he could in the press to allow Furius up first. The second tribune nodded his thanks and slammed his foot on the rung, ripping his sword free as he climbed since he, like his fellow tribune, carried no shield as a standard part of his uniform.
The two men swept up the ladder as fast as they could. A scream echoed from above and a flailing body fell past, his shield following on, to crash down to the ramp, where he thrashed and twitched. The tribunes paid him scant attention, concentrating on climbing up towards the cacophony of battle above. Fabius glanced up past his friend and spotted the Second century’s standard bearer two men above them.
The ladder shook wildly as the defenders renewed their attempts to push it away from the wall, and for a panicky moment Fabius lost his grip, quickly recovering it. The man above them was less fortunate, slipping and disappearing past them with a cry that ended in a thud and silence.
The standard bearer reached the top and Fabius was surprised to see the man disappear over the parapet suddenly with a squawk, pulled there by the defenders, presumably.
And then the world exploded into frantic action.
Furius was up and clambering over the top, Fabius right behind him. The ladder to their left was still in trouble, the men clambering up it meeting stiff resistance at the top and failing to make headway onto the wall. At the top of this ladder an arc of dead men — both Gaul and Roman — surrounded a killing zone, in which blades clashed and shields crashed. More and more of the Bituriges were arriving from the city below, joining the fight, though more Romans reached the ladder top every moment, evening the numbers as they grew. Fabius saw the standard bearer take a horrible blow to the face from a broad-bladed sword, slicing deep, horizontally through nose, cheeks and eyes and leaving a trench in the dying man’s head.
The standard fell, and Furius was straight at it. Fabius leapt after him, parrying a blow that should have taken Furius’ head off as he ran with single-minded purpose. The warrior lunged at him again and Fabius was forced to sidestep to deflect the blow, almost toppling back over the wall until the next legionary over the parapet pushed him back away. Three more clashes of blades and Fabius saw his opening, dipping low and driving his blade in just above the man’s hip, through his gut and up to pierce his heart.
He looked up to see Furius in trouble, turning aside blow after blow, mostly through blind luck, as he worked to free the standard from its dead bearer’s fingers. Leaping forward, Fabius slammed his sword into the attacker’s side, giving his friend a moment’s respite. The Gauls seemed to be pulling back under the onslaught, the wall top clearing and a space opening around them.