William Napier - The Judgement

Not one Hun arrow was fired, not one curved yatagan was drawn, not a single battle-cry was given. The shock and force of the charge flattened them like a stormwind. The iron soldiers wielded their swords in silence, and eight warriors soon lay dead. The commander, a captain called Malchus, reined in and pushed back his helmet and scanned the middle distance, sweat coursing, raven hair plastered to his brow, his vision blurred. He blinked hard. At any moment, the savages would ride down in vengeance… but no, the Hun lines hadn’t moved. So they roped up the surviving ponies, freed the shackled captives, slew the two ungovernable oxen where they roared in their yokes and then tethered the cadavers behind them, and smashed the rear axle-tree of the tower. Malchus kicked his horse back and sliced his arm down towards the ruined tower. Let the fire come down.

They rode back at a strong trot, dragging the dead beasts, leaving the flames to finish the work of destruction.

Riotous cheers went up from the battlements.

‘Roast ox tonight!’

‘Let’s hear it for the Boiler Boys!’

The south gate was safely slammed shut and bolted, and Malchus bounded up the steps to the legate’s platform, helmet couched beneath his arm.

‘Second tower out of action, sir!’

The Hun line did not stir. A gentle breeze, black banners, no movement. Stone-faced thousands. A terrifying enemy, so silent and disciplined.

But Sabinus felt good. A stir of hope. Now the enemy had seen how Romans could still fight.

They waited.

On the tower to Sabinus’ right, one of the tar barrels used to set fire to the siege-tower started burning out of control, guffing up big clouds of black, oily smoke and then, without warning, roaring into flame. Men fell back from the intense heat, shielding their eyes.

‘Damp that fucking thing down now!’ roared Tatullus, striding over. ‘Pedites, get buckets of water up here!’

It blazed furiously. The water arrived too slowly. Tatullus sent more men, including Knuckles, to bring up two massive iron-bound pails on a wooden yoke. But it got worse. Flames licked up, flourished, shook off any buckets of water thrown at them, spat them back in clouds of burning steam, and then suddenly engulfed the open-sided wooden roof, the only protection the men there had from falling arrows.

Sabinus roared further orders. And then, with his double vision still working, he saw a stir. On the plain below, the warlord with the eyes of a hawk, and the heart of a hawk, too, turned his head. If Sabinus had been any closer, he’d have seen his yellow eyes gleam. But he saw his signal well enough. His copper-banded arm stretched out, and a little band of horse-warriors began to gallop in.

‘What in the name of Light…?’

There was another surprise. Two of them dragged a little piece of field artillery. The rest broke into their lethal circling gallop and began to fire arrows onto the burning tower, through the flames. The men up there, choking on smoke and blinded by the rebellious flames, starting taking hits as well. The protective wooden roof began to sag and collapse.

A second group of warriors reined in some hundred yards off, set up their field-machine with unbelievable speed and efficiency, and started sending in hard, fist-sized rocks at the wall of the burning tower. They re-angled the beam and the next shot came curving in leanly over the wall and smacked straight into the side of the flaming tar barrel. They were trying to demolish it. Molten tar would run all over the place, the wooden boards burn, and that tower, that essential corner bastion, would be as good as finished.

The crossbow units started taking them out one by one, but every time they scored a hit, another tattooed warrior came galloping in and took his place.

Damn that warlord and his ruthless cunning. Every stumble, every weakness or misfortune, would be exploited.

Two, three more auxiliaries trying to damp out the flames were shot through. One fell forwards into the burning tar itself. He was dragged out by the legs, dead. Two more still tried to damp it. One fell back choking on foul smoke, lungs scorched. The situation was getting desperate. Even Tatullus seemed momentarily lost.

‘Fuck this,’ rumbled Knuckles, shoving his way through. ‘I’m gettin’ a headache. That barrel’s gotta go.’

He squatted down and put his shoulder to the edge of the blazing barrel, tipped it so it leaned against the low stone wall, slid his meaty hands beneath the rim and then, slowly, unbelievably, began to stand straight again. The barrel scraped up the wall. He peered blearily through the pitchy smoke to the ground below.

‘Right, which one of you bloody hooligans wants this on his head?’

He gave one final, terrific heave, and the barrel, blazing more furiously than ever, the very spars beginning to darken into charcoal from within and disintegrate, was sent over the side. No direct hit – that would have been too lucky – but it crashed to the earth with the force of an explosion, spitting burning splinters and flecks of blazing tar into the rumps of two or three terrified horses, which reared and then rolled to the ground, screaming, to extinguish their burning hides. The stench of singed horsehair filled the air. The Hun riders slipped free, staggered to their feet in a daze, looked around – and one, then two were struck through with arrows. They pitched forward and died. The third had begun to run, a fellow warrior galloping in close to scoop him up onto the back of his own sturdy little mount. But another arrow hit him square in the back and he dropped down dead. His would-be rescuer wheeled dismissively and galloped out of range again.

It was Arapovian, shooting without mercy from the battlements. He ducked as a riposte of Hun arrows clattered around him. Then the horsemen below galloped into a full retreat. The little field-machine was dragged away behind.

‘Now douse the roof, what’s left of it!’ shouted Sabinus. ‘Clean up that tower and get it back in order. Jump to it!’

Auxiliaries ran.

Knuckles shambled over to the Armenian and hit him on the back.

‘Not bad, that,’ he growled.

Arapovian turned to look at him, saying nothing. His eyes widened a little. Knuckles’s complexion was charcoal. Half an eyebrow was burned away. His shaggy fringe was noticeably shorter than before, and his hair appeared to be smouldering. The Armenian glanced down and saw worse: those giant, spade-like hands were badly blistered and seeping blood. He silently produced a little bottle from within his robes and passed it to him.

‘One mouthful,’ he said. ‘Armenian brandy. The finest.’

Knuckles grunted and obediently took the delicate little bottle, looking like a giant holding a lady’s thimble. Sipped delicately. It was good.

‘That’s it, is it?’

Arapovian took the bottle back. ‘That’s it.’ He pushed the cork in and stowed the bottle back in his robes. ‘We’re going to need more later.’

‘“We”, is it now?’

Arapovian looked back over the plains of war. Perhaps the shadow of a smile passed over his aquiline features. He cranked his injured left arm up and down, blood oozing through the bandages again, but his face betraying no hint of pain. Then he nocked another arrow to the bow and waited.

Knuckles made his way back along the battlements, until Tatullus stood in his way.

The centurion regarded him. ‘Not bad,’ he said, ‘for a deserter.’

‘Thank you kindly, Your Honour.’

‘Show me your hands.’

Knuckles showed him, with commentary. ‘I don’t need medical attention, sir, really I don’t. I got a bit of a problem with doctors, the truth be told, ever since that time back in Colonia, when I caught a nasty dose off of a certain young lady of nevertheless very obligin’ disposition, and the doctor there made me-’