South of the valley was the Gate of St Romanus, and south of that was Military Gate IV. These would be the crucial points from which the Hun siege-towers might be attacked and destroyed as they approached, before they could do serious damage. Aetius took his stand on Military Gate V, sending the wolf-lords below to man the Walls, telling them that they would see any missiles coming in well enough. ‘So make sure you duck.’
The engines on the broad platforms of the two gate-towers were the best he could find. Less crucial towers, especially towards the Blachernae Palace, had been left without artillery. Here at the weak point of the Lycus valley was where the fighting would be fiercest. Each gate-tower had two multiple arrow-firers, two small but powerful onagers, and a finely made transverse-mounted sling which could hurl rocks, balls or even those wretched new-fangled firepots if need be.
Half a mile off, the siege-engines were coming, drawn by captured slaves. Dispensable flesh. Hun horsemen galloped around them, flailing their long whips. Attila knew how short of manpower his enemy were and so, predictably, he was attacking on as broad a front as possible. There were as many as twenty siege-towers moving slowly and inexorably towards the walls, and half-sheltered behind them, there were rams under steep, protective wooden tortoises.
A deep, coarse voice called up from the walls below: ‘Permission to speak to the master-general!’
Aetius stepped over to the battlements and glanced down. It was that brute Knuckles. He’d managed to arm himself with a club with a great lump of lead solder stuck on the end.
‘At Viminacium, sir, the enemy had fixed up their engines without wide enough skirts to protect the wheels. They might not have learned.’
Aetius squinted into the falling afternoon sun. Yes, they had learned. He nodded down to the big Rhinelander. ‘Ready with your club, man. You’re going to need it.’
He stepped back, speaking quietly to the artillerymen. They were no fighters, but they were quick and deft with their machines. The engines rolled nearer. They waited, a kind of silent screaming in their ears. A young lad wiped his upper lip. Sweat glistened there again almost immediately. Behind them, the city was eerily still, the streets and forums deserted, everyone indoors, crouching, huddled, praying. Even the emperor himself, God’s anointed, was crouched and praying, too.
On the wall in front of Aetius stood a bowl of water, calm as a millpond. The machines rumbled nearer. The horizon was dark with horsemen. The sun shone steadily, indifferently, upon all. This curious battle between these tiny creatures on the surface of the earth. And then a flash of sunlight on the bowl. Aetius glanced down, not breathing. It flashed again. Not on the bowl. Glancing off the water, as it rippled in response to some mysterious subterranean disturbance.
The artillerymen were suddenly terrified, hands shaking, mouths open, staring around wildly.
‘Oh, no, not again,’ muttered one of them, his voice low and desperate. ‘Not another quake. It will destroy us.’
But the general was eerily calm. He summoned Tatullus.
‘You see any animals panicking, Centurion? Any horses stampeding out there?’
Tatullus’ hard eyes scanned the plain below. ‘No, sir.’
‘As I thought. Relax, men. Look to your machines. Centurion, spread the word. It’s no second quake. On the other hand, don’t relax too much. It means the Huns are mining under the walls.’
Tatullus started.
‘No time for theatricals, Centurion,’ said Aetius dryly. ‘Get running now. Bowls of water all along the battlements. We need to know where the bastards are tunnelling in. These’ll tell us every time they knock out a pit prop and there’s another rockfall.’
He called a runner over. ‘To the northern Walls. Bring back half the Isaurian auxiliaries with their leader. Zeno. At all speed!’
The runner ran.
To another messager he gave orders for the heaviest weights that could be found dragged up onto the walls at intervals. Marble column drums, if possible.
One of the siege-engines was very close to them now, and another just south of the valley was approaching the moat.
‘This one,’ said Aetius, indicating the nearest. ‘Concentrate all your fire on the top. Imagine it’s the head and slice it off. Take aim.’ He glanced down the other side. The wolf-lords were ready with their bows.
The second tower nearby was behaving strangely. The entire front section seemed to be collapsing. Aetius realised that it was indeed collapsing – to crash right across the moat and form an instant drawbridge. It landed with a mighty smack and a billowing of dust. The men inside immediately abandoned the exposed remainder of the dummy tower, and from behind them a tortoise approached with a bronze ram-head shining evilly under it. Aetius leaned out over the walls. The improvised drawbridge was aligned directly to the Gate of St Romanus. So the enemy were battering, mining and scaling the walls simultaneously. It was going to be an eventful day.
‘Where are those damned mountain bandits?’
He sent word to the citizen militia to thicken up numbers within the Romanus towers. That ram had to be destroyed. If not, it would quickly take out the lower and the middle wall, then a siege-engine could roll in behind it right up to the Inner Wall, and they would be truly in cloaca maxima.
Zeno appeared. Tarasicodissa Rousoumbladeotes. He saluted smartly this time.
‘Not much happening your end?’
‘Sir. You said about mining activity. I reckon we’re getting most of it, under the Blachernae Wall.’
Aetius nodded. The ground was softest to the north, near the Horn. But how did Attila know? Ah, he knew everything.
The din of battle and the clamour of frightened men arose behind them. Aetius raised his voice. ‘You know about mining?’
‘Some.’
He coughed angrily on a lungful of dust. ‘There’s a transverse passageway running from the palace cellars out beyond the walls. The Guard will show you. From there you’ll have to countermine for yourself, left or right, depending on where you reckon they’re coming in. Got it?’
‘Sir.’
‘I don’t think the Huns know much about mining, but you never know. And we’re still not sure who their auxiliaries are these days.’ A massive punch from an onager missile struck nearby. First strike. Zeno flinched. Aetius didn’t. Dust clouded the air around them, but Aetius yelled through it, ‘Like whatever bastards are operating their onagers right now. And I don’t have to tell you what would happen if they made just one good tunnel into the city.’
Zeno nodded. ‘There’d be a hundred Huns inside within a minute.’
‘And a hundred every following minute, too. It would bring us down as surely as the biggest missile strike. So it matters. Get to it. Find the tunnel, kill everyone inside, and then bring it down behind you. Go!’
Already the first small bands of tattooed horsemen were galloping in below, yowling, turning and threading their way among the giant protective siege-towers and loosing off little, lethal arrow-storms for good measure.
It was time to fight back.
Aetius shouted to the wolf-lords and they let their arrows fly. It was a loose volley but one arrowhead struck home perfectly, a Hun warrior flying forwards over the head of his crumpling horse and rolling into the dust. One of the wolf-lords, tall Valamir, immediately strung another arrow and took aim, meaning to take out the warrior for good while he was briefly a stationary target. But before he could let fly, a second warrior galloped up and the fallen horseman vaulted to his feet, seized the back of his saddle, pulled himself up and they galloped clear. All in a single, faultless movement, almost quicker than the eye could see. Valamir slowly released his bowstring again, saving his arrow. He and the master-general exchanged glances. Christ, those horsemen moved fast.