Marching With Caesar-Final Campaign, page 27
“I don’t think he’s allowing it,” Masala replied. “I think that he’s being forced to because of some information that these men have about him that would ruin him if it were to be known.”
I still did not believe that this could be the cause, and I said as much.
“What you’re saying is that there’s something these men supposedly know about Marcus Primus that would be more dangerous than participating in a plot, willingly or unwillingly, that puts him in direct conflict with Augustus. I don’t see there being anything more dangerous than that. If I were Primus, I would have called their bluff, given the high probability that I was going to end up having my head part company with the rest of my body if this supposed challenge fails.”
“You’re not Marcus Primus,” Masala commented. “You’ve seen him. He’s clever, but he’s not smart, and there is a difference. Add to that how for all his bluster he’s truly a cowardly little bugger, and I would say that it’s a lot easier than you think to intimidate him into being in front of all this,” Masala finished, waving his hand around to indicate the army on the march.
There was no missing the bitterness in his voice as he spoke this last, telling me whether he was a truly willing participant in Primus’ affair with him.
“How do you know this? And more importantly, can you prove it?”
Masala’s face reddened when I asked this.
“I’d rather not say how I know, but trust me, Prefect, I know that at the very least, that letter he showed you is a forgery,” he insisted. Then his face fell, and he finished reluctantly. “But no, I can’t prove it.”
“Then I don’t have to tell you to keep your mouth shut,” I told him firmly. “Or your life won’t be worth a chain mail rivet.”
“You don’t think I know that?” he asked quietly, looking at me directly for the first time.
By the time we had finished our conversation, we were back in camp, and I had a number of things to worry about other than whether or not Masala was involved in a plot to overthrow Augustus.
“How long is this going to take?” was Primus’ first question, his petulance clearly on display while he sat in his curule chair, listening to my report.
“To build the plutei, and put the artillery into position, at least a day. A lot depends on what the Thracians have in the way of their own artillery. If they have just archers or slingers, then it will take less time. But if they have their own ballistae, then perhaps two days.”
“Then how long before that wall comes down?”
I looked over to Flavianus, whose scowl deepened, not liking to be put on the spot.
“Praetor, there is really no way of telling that,” he explained. “We have enough of the heavy ammunition to last for a two day bombardment, no more. But.” He put up a warning hand. “It must be kept in mind that we haven’t yet seen the city. We may need some for Serdica. In fact, I would be willing to wager that we will.”
Given what I had learned about Marcus Primus, I watched his face with curiosity, wondering if he was one of those men compelled to take a challenge like this and put money on it. However, the Praetor seemed to be only interested in the first part, and was clearly not pleased.
“That’s not an answer,” he snapped. “Will it take a day? A week? A month?”
Now Flavianus looked trapped, not wanting to commit to a precise estimate with a man like Primus, knowing as I did that if those rocks managed to stay in place above the gate that Primus would most likely hold him responsible for the failure.
“Praetor, in my professional judgment, I can’t give you a precise time when that fortress gate will come down.”
“That’s not good enough.” Primus actually stomped one foot before looking over at me. “Prefect, you’re the one who decided that this fortress had to be taken, so you should be able to tell me when it will fall.”
Knowing that he would not be satisfied without a definite answer, I decided that it was better that his wrath should fall on me.
“Three days, four at the most.”
Even now, he was not satisfied.
“Which is it? Three or four?”
“That’s the best I can offer, Praetor.”
Take it or not, you little prick, I thought. Seeing that I was not going to budge, he threw up his hands.
“Then get to work,” he said, and I was happy to do so.
Our first challenge came with the construction of the plutei, because there were no trees standing in the vicinity that were of a sufficient size, or the wood that was available was too soft and would undoubtedly shatter if it were struck by enemy artillery. To remedy that, our only choice was to break down several wagons, using the wood from them to construct the barricades. This could pose a serious problem; if those timbers were damaged, then we would be short several wagons when we were ready to continue to Serdica.
By the end of the first day, the plutei had been constructed. It was in sections, convex in shape, with the supports angled slightly so if an enemy missile struck the timbers nailed to them, it would not strike square. These sections were loaded on wagons, but by the time everything was ready, it was already too late to head to the fortress and we had to wait until the next morning. That night, sitting at my small desk in my tent, I missed Scribonius a great deal. I realized how much I had come to depend on him for his advice, and I was reminded of something I had heard from men who had lost a major limb, how for some time afterward they would still think it was there. They would only remember when they tried to take a step on a non-existent leg, or reached for something with an arm that was not there. That was how I felt that night, worrying about the far side of the fortress, and how I did not know what the ground was like on the side facing Serdica. I knew that the fortress would be clearly visible from the walls of the city, meaning they would know when the siege began. If there was a more direct road, or even a path suitable for men and horses, the Thracians could easily reinforce the fortress, and perhaps more importantly, resupply them with ammunition. I was not worried about food, knowing that the siege would not be protracted enough for their larder to run so low that it would cause them real trouble. Sitting there, sipping from my cup of wine, I brooded over how to find out what I needed to know. Diocles had been off visiting a friend elsewhere in camp. When he returned, I was still sitting there, in an extremely bad mood.
“Where have you been?”
Because I had long since stopped questioning Diocles about his whereabouts, he had every right to look surprised. Freezing in the doorway, he surveyed the situation, instantly understanding that my anger was not at him, but that if he were not careful, I would lash out at him, at least verbally.
“I was visiting Pericles.” He named one of the younger clerks of the Praetorium he had befriended and, despite my irritation, I was reminded that he had done so at my behest.
“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” I said.
It was a half-hearted apology, because I was still angry and wanted to take it out on someone. Fortunately for both of us, what I had done to Scribonius was still fresh enough in my mind that I refrained. More out of desperation than in any real hope of finding a solution, I told Diocles my problem. He sat listening carefully, then in a pose reminiscent of my friend, frowned as he thought.
“Essentially, you have to figure out a way to get around that fortress, but the road is within range of artillery, and perhaps archers?”
“Yes, that’s about it,” I agreed.
“What about creating some sort of diversion to draw their attention away from what you want to do?” he suggested.
“I’ve thought of that, but nothing comes to mind.”
“Wait.” He suddenly smiled, looking very pleased. “I think I know what you can do.”
I indicated that he should go ahead and tell me his idea, yet I did not have a great deal of confidence.
“Nothing,” he said simply. “You don’t need a diversion.”
I stared at him, feeling the anger threatening to return, but I was willing to give my little Greek the benefit of the doubt.
“Maybe you should explain yourself,” I told him, my tone more than enough warning for him to hurry on.
“You’re putting the artillery in place tomorrow, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And starting the bombardment the moment everything is in place?”
“Of course.” I made no attempt to hide my impatience now.
“Isn’t that going to keep them so busy that they won’t have time to worry about a scouting party?”
I considered the idea, and I could see that while it was sound, it needed some additional bolstering.
“Not by themselves, but if we take the scorpions, that should do the trick.”
It would require some alteration to the original plan, since we had not intended to drag the scorpions up the hill along with the ballistae. I complimented Diocles on his idea, feeling enough comfort that I was able to go to sleep.
We placed the plutei first. It was then we learned that while the Thracians did have artillery, it was not in sufficient strength and numbers to stop us. It did make the men move carefully, but only after a couple of them got careless, stepping out from behind the plutei when they were pushing it up the hill into position, and one man was killed, another having an arm torn off at the shoulder before they learned their lesson. The plutei suffered a number of direct hits, creating a thunderous crash when they were struck. Nonetheless, the timbers held, the barricade working as designed, sending the missiles caroming upward because of the angle. Their archers were another matter; the only thing we could be thankful for was that there did not seem to be more than a hundred of them on the ramparts. Firing their arrows at an extreme angle into the sky, they were able to arch their missiles over the plutei¸ striking more men and forcing me to send in a Century to form a makeshift testudo in an attempt to shield the working party. I sat on Ocelus, out of range, of course, watching the men work. Beside me were Libo and Lucullus, along with a cavalry detachment one hundred strong. They were waiting, as was I, for everything to be put in place with the ballistae and scorpions. Then the bombardment would begin, whereupon they would go at the gallop north on the road leading to Serdica. Their orders were simple: they were to thoroughly scout the northern face of the fortress and, most importantly, determine what kind of support could be offered from the city. I had been hesitant to send two relatively inexperienced men, yet I could not spare Flavianus from his duties, and neither could I go myself in case the Thracians made a sortie. To accomplish their mission, Flavianus and I had given them very specific instruction on what to look for, each of them carrying a wax tablet on which they were to sketch the ground, making notes of anything we needed to know about. Although I did not believe that the wall would come down that first day, I still brought the army, minus two Cohorts left to guard the camp, the Tenth of the 13th that had suffered so badly, and a Cohort of the 8th though I do not remember which one. Those men were down on the valley floor at the base of the finger of land that adjoined the slope the fortress sat on, just around the side of it, keeping them out of sight. They were sitting, waiting for the word to move up, meaning that the dice were out, with the betting on when the wall would come down going strong. Once the plutei were in place, the real work of dragging the ballistae into position began. Four men could carry the parts and assemble a scorpion, but a ballistae, especially one capable of throwing a ten-pound ball, was another matter. Naturally, our heaviest pieces, created from the ruins of the Greek merchant’s house, were exceptionally bulky. Now that we knew they had archers, we also had to devise a way to protect the men at work, both when they were emplacing the artillery and once it was ready to fire. The hope was that the scorpions would scour the ramparts to drive off the archers. First, however, we had to get the weapons set up. Deciding to change the plan, I ordered the scorpions to be put into place first, and to protect those weapons we had to create some fascines. Fortunately, we had a good number of large wicker baskets that a Legion carries with them, both for this purpose and to use to gather crops or forage on the march, and these were broken out. These baskets are much larger than the ones the men carry with them, and are kept on wagons. Putting the men to work, we soon had a few dozen of these filled, then dragged up the hill, all while under fire from the archers once the men got into range. Two men carried one wicker basket between them and, after some discussion with the Primi Pili, it was decided that four pairs of men would be surrounded by a half-Century in testudo, and this was how they marched up the hill. It was slow going; by the time each group had performed its job, several men had one or even more arrows protruding from their shields, leading to the inevitable complaining because the cost to repair it would come out of their pay.
The sun moved inexorably across the sky as we prepared the position, and I began to worry that we would run out of daylight before we could send out our scouting party. Potentially, this could be a devastating blow to our plans; the assault on the fortress was no longer a secret, and if there was support coming from Serdica, they could do so before we knew that it was even a possibility. I was particularly worried that the Serdi would send more archers, since at that moment they were more of a nuisance than a real threat. However, if their numbers substantially increased, we would have to march to the breach in testudo, and the two weaknesses of that formation are to cavalry and artillery. Even though the Thracian heavy artillery was not enough to puncture the protection of the plutei, it was more than enough to create massive carnage in a testudo. That meant that mantlets would have to be created; it also meant there would be no way that Marcus Primus would be happy. These were my thoughts while eating a light lunch, more out of boredom than hunger, still watching the men at work moving the fascines into spots on either side of the plutei. We had a dozen scorpions, and would need every one of them to pin the Thracians back from the rampart. Finally, after midday, the position was ready, and I ordered the scorpions into place. Again, under the protection of a testudo, the crew of each scorpion was moved into position, then once behind the protection of the fascines¸ began assembling their weapons. The enemy archers seemed to understand what was taking place and what it meant, because they stepped up their efforts; arrows streaking up into the air before plummeting down almost faster than the eye could track it. Most of the time, men were able to drop what they were doing to dodge out of the way, but not always. Usually, an arrow is not fatal; however, in this case, the angle was so extreme that they were dropping down onto men’s heads, with more than enough impetus to pierce a helmet, unless it struck a glancing blow. Occasionally, we would hear a sharp clanging sound that signaled a man had escaped certain death. Those that struck square made a different, more solid sound when the metal point punched through the man’s helmet to bury itself into his skull. Most of the time, the man struck in this manner would topple over without making a sound, or at most giving a short, sharp cry, but one case in particular sticks in my memory. The Legionary did not fall over, and indeed continued to work, despite the fact that an arrow was protruding more than a foot out of his head. His comrades had to grab him, shouting at him to let him know that he was hurt, and at first, he refused to believe them. Then, I saw his hands reach up to gingerly feel around on his helmet until his fingers found the shaft of the arrow. I expected him to make some sort of reaction, or even to fall over dead, but instead, he merely turned about to go walking down the hill while his comrades, and everyone else watching, gaped in amazement. Once he drew closer, I could see blood streaming down his face by that point, yet his eyes remained straight ahead and he did not falter. He even remembered to salute me on passing by, giving me a nod, but saying nothing. I do not even remember if I returned the salute, instead just watched him walk to the hospital wagons to die.
Twang!
The first scorpion bolt shot towards the fortress, landing short, which is not unusual, hitting the wall several feet below the rampart. An instant later, another scorpion fired, using the first shot as a reference, this one hitting directly below an opening between the crenellations before glancing upward, narrowly missing a man who was slow to duck. Within a few moments, the dozen scorpions were putting up a steady hail of fire, the bolts streaking in between the gaps in the rampart, some of them striking fleshy targets. The first Thracians to die were men who were foolhardy or slow, not ducking out of the way quickly enough. Then the scorpion gunners waited, trying to time shots so that when a Thracian poked his head up to check on what was happening, they timed it perfectly, sending a bolt to meet him. It became something of a game and, of course, this led to spirited wagering between the crews, each of them trying to match their comrades. One Thracian met a spectacular end when he leaned over at the exact moment a bolt passed between the crenellations. Even from where I was positioned, I could see the blood and brain matter spray high into the air as the man’s head exploded, much to the delight of one crew and the groans of the other. The Thracian archers, no longer able to see their targets, were now reduced to standing a short distance back from the rampart so they in turn were not visible to our gunners, thereby firing wildly, with predictable results, their arrows landing almost everywhere except their intended target. In the same way, the Thracian artillery spotters were unable to aim their own weapons, consequently choosing to save their ammunition. Seeing that the rampart was now clear, I gave the order for the ballistae to open fire, the air soon filled with alternating high-pitched reports of the scorpions, punctuated by the lower, heavier booming sound of the ballistae arms slamming into the crosspieces. A moment later, there would be the sharp crack of a missile hitting the wall, and I was pleased to see that it only took each piece one or two stones to find the appropriate range. After a moment, I turned to Libo, giving him a nod and, without hesitation, he in turn gave his own command. The scouting party started out at the trot, heading up the road toward Serdica. I watched the rampart intently for any sign that a Thracian had managed to take a peek to see what was happening, bracing myself for the sound of a missile flying over the rampart, yet nothing happened. Turning to watch the dust trail of the scouting party, I saw them disappearing around the bend in the road as it curved slightly east, wrapping around the base of the mountain. Now there was nothing left to do but wait, for both the bombardment to reach a successful conclusion, and Libo and Lucullus to return with news.
