‘Pass the signal to illuminate the enemy, and then to evacuate the forward positions.’
After a moment for the order to reach the forward troops, a handful of lights appeared in the darkness below them, thin shelled pots filled with pitch and topped with burning rags. The men holding the improvised missiles promptly threw them over the ditch’s defensive wall and into the toiling workers where they broke, their sticky contents ignited by the flaming linen to spill across soil and workers alike. Screams rose out of the darkness as several bodies writhed in incandescent agony, their clothing aflame, and Marcus watched as Scaurus put a hand over his eyes in horror. Looking down from the wall he saw dark shapes hurrying away from the ditch, and a moment later the Thracian’s prefect barked an order to his archers.
‘Archers, at one hundred paces, ready!’
With a rustle of arrows being drawn from their quivers the Thracians prepared to shoot, their bows creaking in the night’s calm. If the Sarmatae realised what was about to happen, the screams of the burning slaves hindered any attempt to order a withdrawal.
‘Archers. . shoot!’
The Thracians loosed their missiles at the lights dancing below them, hundreds of arrows arching down into the compact mass of slaves trapped under their bows. A renewed chorus of agonised screams rent the night air as dozens of men, women and children staggered and died under the storm of arrows.
‘Ready. . shoot!’
Another volley flashed down from the walls to riddle slaves and warriors alike, the sounds of their pain and distress redoubling in volume. Men were shouting from behind the mass of slaves, although whether their commands were to retreat or stand fast under the hail of iron was unclear.
‘Ready. . shoot!’
The third volley broke the slaves as completely as an infantry charge might have done, and the sounds reaching the wall became those of a desperate mob stampeding for perceived safety. The night was filled by both the desperate shouts of men as yet unhurt but in fear of their lives, and the pitiful cries of those pierced by arrows or simply trampled underfoot in the mob’s panic.
The Thracian prefect looked to Leontius, but the fort’s commander shook his head and raised his hand to order another volley.
‘Archers, at two hundred paces, ready!’ The bowmen raised their weapons to give the arrows greater range, stretching the bowstrings back to their ears in readiness to send them high into the air. ‘Shoot!’
The fourth volley whistled away, leaving a moment’s silence before the arrows rained down amid the fleeing slaves and warriors, eliciting yet more screams and further panic, and Marcus knew that Leontius would repeat his hand signal before the gesture was made.
‘At three hundred paces, ready!’ The bows were now pointed up at the stars, their wielders forcing every possible ounce of effort into their weapons to send them high into the night sky for maximum reach. ‘Shoot!’
The cries of distress were distant now, and sounded oddly tired to Marcus’s ears, as if those men struck by this final volley were so exhausted from their flight that they could muster no more energy to protest against their cruel fortune than a groan of dismay. Leontius nodded to the Thracian prefect, who turned back to his men with an unreadable expression.
‘Archers, stand down. First Spear, take them back to quarters.’
The officers watched as the Thracians filed off the walls with blank faces, their minds closed to the havoc they had inflicted on the defenceless slaves. From the ditch below them the cries of the wounded were the only sound remaining in what was otherwise a sudden silence, incongruous after the long day’s chaotic din.
Leontius congratulated Scaurus sombrely, although there was no mistaking the relief in his voice.
‘Well that ought to be the end of their work for the rest of the night. An inspired tactic, Tribune, given that the enemy archers clearly had no means of retaliating in the darkness.’
Scaurus nodded, his face drawn at the brief action’s hidden horror.
‘Thank you, Leontius. And I have a further suggestion to make. My cohort will assume responsibility for the ditch for the rest of the night. Why not give your Britons a short period of rest? They will face a renewed onslaught in the morning, I expect.’
The tribune nodded gratefully, and Marcus realised that he was missing what was painfully obvious to the young Roman. Julius glanced at him, the look in his eyes making plain that Scaurus’s purpose in taking the night watch was equally clear to the first spear.
‘Thank you, Tribune. Perhaps our first spears might organise the handover?’
Scaurus nodded blankly, turning away and staring down into the darkness, his face set as hard as stone. Marcus stepped up behind him, speaking quietly into his plea.
‘Tribune, forgive me if I speak plainly with you, but you must not do this thing. I realise you feel a responsibility for the men lying wounded down there, but. .’
Scaurus’s voice was hollow and emotionless, his interjection less interruption than simply deaf to his centurion’s plea.
‘Until you have actually ordered such a thing, Centurion, you have no idea how it tears at a man’s soul to hear innocent men, women and children cry out in fear and pain as their lives are taken for a crime that was not of their doing. I heard a child cry out for her mother, Marcus. I heard a man call in despair to his wife. .’ He took a deep breath. ‘I heard a man call out to Our Lord Mithras in the depths of his despair, but there was no answer, only another volley of our bloody arrows. I might have saved some of those people had I been more insistent with Belletor during the negotiations, but I allowed the self-interested fool to choose political expediency over simple humanity. So now I cannot simply stand up here with clean hands while innocents I condemned to slavery though my inaction lie helpless in the mud, torn and bleeding so that we might live a little longer. Julius, get the cohorts ready to relieve the Britons at the ditch. And find some fucking rope, will you?’
8
The fortification along the ditch was different to the last time Marcus had seen it, studded with arrows sunk deep into the mud wall and the ground behind it where the Thracian’s shots had landed short and failed to find targets. Julius set a party of men to collecting the undamaged missiles.
‘We’ll be needing these before the siege ends, I’d guess,’ said Julius. ‘They’ll provide a useful back-up supply to Qadir’s boys.’ He suddenly found himself off balance, having stepped into a depression in the ground, and looked down to make the unwelcome discovery of a shallow latrine pit dug to provide the Britons with some relief during their long day guarding the ditch. Grimacing in disgust he lifted his boot, the sole dark with excrement. ‘Well, doesn’t that just sum up this whole bloody campaign? We just can’t stop treading in the fucking shit! Get those bloody ropes over here!’
Marcus looked over the wall at the enemy ramp, whose tongue was now less than ten paces from the ditch’s steep western face.
‘They’ll be back in strength at first light, once their archers can see to shoot back at anyone brave enough to take potshots at them from the walls.’ Martos had stepped up alongside him, his one good eye shining in the moonlight as he spoke softly in his friend’s ear. ‘The ramp’s close enough already, I’d say. If it were me I’d flog my slaves to one last effort and make the end twice as wide as it is now, with enough space for three or four heavy planks. That way they can come at us in numbers, with their wild men up front, burning mad and with the promise of enough gold to live on for the rest of their days if they breach the wall. Ninety-nine men out of the first hundred across will die, of course, but they’ll carve a foothold out on this side by sheer weight of numbers, and all the time their archers will be showering us with arrows from either side. .’ The Votadini nobleman stopped talking, looking at Marcus knowingly. ‘What is it? What’s crossed your mind now?’