S. Turney - Sons of Taranis

The tower rumbled on and arrows began to lance out from the ramparts. At first they fell far short of the approaching monstrosity but as the tower approached the painted stone that marked the Romans’ estimate of arrow range, those men at the top of the ramp moved into position, the huge wicker shields raised to block as many arrows as possible.

Arrow range was confirmed as a shaft thudded into the tower and the one strike sparked a mass of activity. In a dozen places along the wall, braziers were brought up and fire arrows were launched. As yet most still fell short, one or two hitting the wicker shields, where the legionaries hurriedly pushed the points back out with boots or wrapped fists to prevent the shields igniting. Then the range closed. The tower reached the top of the ramp and was turned, trundling parallel to the wall and into position atop that huge earth mound that arced around the spring. Fire arrows were now thudding into the hides covering the tower with every heartbeat, and men at the wicker screen were falling with almost mechanical timing. At the last moment, two centuries of men hauled on new ropes attached to the back of the tower, preventing it tipping as it reached the end of the log rollers and thudded into the earth and stone base. For a moment it teetered and Atenos waited, his heart skipping a beat, for the huge edifice to simply topple over into the spring. But after a few tense heartbeats it steadied and a cheer went up. The tower was in position, flat to the top of the big mound. It was still some twenty feet below the level of Uxellodunon’s walls, but a good archer atop it might pick off the defenders on the walls.

The advance force with the wicker shields was down to about twenty men now and they were rapidly diminishing. An enterprising centurion from the Fifth sent his men across to bolster the screen, which, along with the vineae being brought up, sheltered the arriving legionaries from the worst of the arrow storm.

There was a distant rumble of thunder and Atenos looked up in time to be struck in the eye by a fat droplet of water. A horn blast from a discordant carnyx atop the oppidum’s wall announced the general attack and what had been a fairly disorganised shower of missiles suddenly bloomed into a hail of death showering down from Uxellodunon onto the Roman attackers. Even with the tower, the mound, the vineae and the wicker shields, everywhere Atenos looked men were falling to the ground, screaming.

It had begun.

Taking a deep breath, the primus pilus turned to Decumius. ‘Shall we make their acquaintance?’

* * * * *

Atenos ducked into the tower and looked up the interior stairs. The various platforms were filled with men sheltering from the incessant arrow storm and he could not see, but could clearly hear, the Cretan archers at the top bellowing imprecations in both Greek and Latin and calling on the gods of both peoples as they released their deadly missiles at the wall. They were good. Atenos had to admit that they were among the best archers he’d seen. Yet still only one arrow in four struck home, between the difficult angle of attack and the height difference, the solid parapet behind which the enemy were well protected and the continual oncoming missiles.

As he watched with satisfaction, he spotted the men he’d detailed hoisting buckets of water up from the spring and using it to douse the seemingly endless fire arrows the enemy loosed into the tower. There were so many wet, half-charred arrows jutting from the timbers and hides now that an enterprising man could fairly easily climb the outside of the tower.

There was a sudden scream that cut through the general din and a blur flashed past, quickly followed by a wet crunch as the man who had fallen from the top struck the ground outside. Though the fire was doing little to dent the Roman’s position, the arrows were. A single glance at the piles of bodies pulled back from the action or the continual line of men being carried or dragged back out of arrow range for the capsarii to treat told a horrible tale of declining numbers.

Decumius appeared next to him.

‘It’s my heartfelt advice that you send for the reserves, sir.’

Atenos shook his head. ‘Not until things are desperate.’

Decumius blinked. ‘This isn’t desperate?’

‘You were at Alesia, right?’

‘Ah. Got you, sir. When I can’t move for bodies and Hades’ horse is nibbling on my gonads. That kind of desperate.’

Atenos laughed at the wild grin on his fellow centurion’s face. He’d ordered Decumius back down the slope three times now, the first when the centurion had been hit in the shoulder with a sling bullet that had put his left arm out of action, the second time when an arrow had carved a neat furrow in his hair – his helmet long gone, misshapen from a thrown rock – and the third time when another arrow had taken a chunk out of his calf. Still the man stayed, limping, bleeding, complaining, but waving his vine staff and bellowing his men into place.

‘I’m actually wishing for the rain now,’ Decumius grunted.

‘What? Why?’

‘Dampen their bow strings. Give us a bit of respite.’

Atenos shook his head. ‘No good. They’d still have slings and rocks, and if we didn’t have our archers in commission, this whole place would be flooded with enemy warriors in the time it would take you to fart.’

Decumius snorted as he left the tower and Atenos took a deep breath, making the most of a last moment of shelter before diving back out into the rain. One of the optios was scurrying towards him as stones and bullets clattered and zinged around him, one hand holding a dented helmet down on his head.

‘What is it?’

The man thrust a hand out. In it were a pile of purple flowers. Atenos frowned. ‘Explain.’

‘Dunno what their called, primus pilus, but one of my lads who’s a farmer says they’re about as poisonous as anything he’s found. Kills goats in hours, he says, and there’s blankets of the things in the woods just down the hill. We could poison the spring and then abandon this, sir.’

Atenos raised an eyebrow. ‘Poison a free-flowing spring?’

‘Yes sir.’

‘Can you see any hole in your logic, man?’

The optio frowned in confusion. ‘Not really, sir.’

‘Then I suggest you head back down to the camps and pour a little dye into the river and see how long it sticks around.’

As the man scratched his temple in incomprehension an arrow came out of nowhere and pinned his foot to the floor with a meaty crunch. The optio looked down in surprise and the lack of a reaction suggested to Atenos that the man did truly have the brains of an ox. What was a man like that doing in a position of command? The big Gaul crouched and none-too-gently snapped the arrow just above the flesh, causing the man to whimper in pain. ‘Get to the capsarius and have that seen to.’

Gratefully, and still clutching his poisonous burden, the optio hobbled and hopped off down the slope. A shout of triumph drew his attention and he turned back to the walls as a sling bullet whipped through the air close enough to ruffle his eyelashes.

Atop the ramparts the defenders were raising what looked like small kegs. As Atenos watched, men lit the kegs, which must be filled with something incendiary, using tapers from the wall-top braziers. A lucky shot from one of the Cretan archers struck a man with a lit keg and he crumbled beneath it. There was a muffled bang behind the parapet and three men were suddenly aflame and screaming.

The scene was one bonus in a diorama of nightmare, though. Another half dozen kegs were ignited and cast from the walls, carefully aimed. Two of them hit badly and broke open upon impact, spreading out across the damp grass in a flaming mass. The others hit the slope well and bounced on, careening down the hill at the Romans. One struck the mound just below the tower, doing little but burn the turf black. Another was knocked askance and disappeared off down the hillside into the woods, and ultimately the river. The other two hit the line of men with wicker shields who helped protect the approach up the ramp. A double boom cracked the murky sky as a score of men exploded into blazing fire that ate up the wicker screens in moments and began to scorch the vineae that gave them shelter.