Emperor of Rome Page 13

  Again a cushion was lowered on chains, the spotter above yelling directions; but this second was not as robust as the first and nor was the guidance equally accurate as, in their haste to deploy it, it fell uneven and swinging. With another thundering resound and a judder of freshly laid stone, the lip of the newly extended wall, directly above The Brute, collapsed, spilling the spotter from his perch to crash down amidst the falling stone onto the roof of the housing; off he rolled from the steep, oil-slick hides to pitch to the ground, his head crushed under jagged rock. The men of The Brute cheered his demise as proof of the effectiveness of their weapon and hauled all the harder on their ropes and the new, quickly constructed extension continued to tumble.

  Stone and shaft still whispered overhead as Titus ordered forward the men of his legion’s first cohort, who had the honour to storm the breach. On they came, at the double, led by the redoubtable Urbicus, primus pilus of the legion’s élite unit. Battle-worn and grizzled, his numerous phalarae, awarded for bravery, clinking on his harness, and his transverse, white horsehair plume marking his position to his men, Urbicus advanced past Vespasian’s position, now to the rear of The Brute, with the eagerness of a voyage-weary sailor approaching a brothel. At Urbicus’ bellowed command, the first century of the first cohort formed into testudo as the original wall now crumbled freely and the breach became viable. Positioning his men to the right of The Brute, as the second century did the same on the left with the rest of the cohort waiting behind, Urbicus, impervious to missiles hurled down from above, waited for the great ram to be withdrawn from the gash in Jotapata’s defences. And as the two towers rumbled up to the walls, The Brute was pulled back, foot by foot; a century of archers, now brought forward to beneath its protective roof, pumped shaft after shaft into the breach to stop a shield wall from forming or a sortie taking the offensive to the attackers. But the latter was what Urbicus and his men were determined to prevent and the moment the gap between the ram’s head and the wall was wide enough for one man, Urbicus leapt through with an inchoate roar that rose above the cacophony of strife to which Vespasian had long since become accustomed. An instant later, the centurion of the second century followed his senior officer into the breach; hobnails gripping, shoulders rolling, lips snarling, the two centurions pumped their legs with vigour to climb the tumbled stone, dust and smoke obscuring their passage, swords drawn and shields raised. Without pause, their men stormed in behind them, determined to be deemed worthy of a place in the two senior centuries of the legion.

  It was with pride that Vespasian watched Urbicus lead his men into the dust and smoke of the breach and it was with fear and pride that he saw Titus jump from the saddle and follow them in. Such considerations were forced from his mind as, with a grinding of wood on wood and the rattle of loosened pulleys, the two towers dropped their ramps to crunch down upon the defences. Even as the wooden ramps still quivered with the impact, the senior centurions of the assault cohorts charged across. A slingshot to the forehead snapped one back to plunge headlong, dead before he hit the ground. His men, incensed at his demise, their hatred boiling, took their wrath to the enemy and flung themselves forward as, at the rear entrances to the towers, men queued to mount the internal steps and follow their comrades over the wall and on into the town that had defied them for so long.

  With great satisfaction and much relief, Vespasian swung his right leg over the rump of his mount and jumped to the ground. Jotapata was falling and this sack was one he would relish.

  However, there are peoples who will never admit defeat, no matter how crushing the odds against them, and Rome found her match in that virtue in the Jews of Jotapata. All had been prepared in advance and all went according to plan.

  Three legionaries plummeting headlong, screaming to the ground, from the right-hand tower, no more than thirty paces from him, was the first inkling Vespasian had that something was wrong. He glanced up to see two more men slipping from the ramp whilst others whirled their arms in the air, trying to retain their balance as their feet slid from under them. More men disgorged from the bowels of the tower and rushed onto the ramp in their haste to make contact with the enemy, colliding with their comrades floundering on a slick surface and losing their footing as, from the wall, defenders threw buckets full of greasy liquid onto the wooden surface. More legionaries fell into the void – two clinging on for a few moments with their hands until their fingers were kicked away or trodden on by struggling mates as the pressure from behind continued to grow.

  In panic, Vespasian looked to his left, over The Brute, to see the mirror image played out on the second tower as legionaries skidded along the ramp, failing to get purchase on the wood, and then dived into the chasm below. Heartened by the effectiveness of the stratagem, the defenders thrust long spears into the chaos, dislodging many more of the hapless soldiers of the assault cohorts until the ramps were clear. The danger filtered back to those waiting in the towers and the aerial attack faltered.

  Vespasian ran to the breach and clambered over the rubble, crowded with legionaries; on the other side of the walls hand-to-hand combat raged as more and more of the first cohort streamed through the gap. But the defenders had been ready for them in the narrow streets, along a frontage of no more than a hundred paces, opening out onto the wider thoroughfare that ran the length of the wall. Here, where close confines negated their numerical inferiority and protected by their captured armour and shields, they fought toe to toe with the élite, professional soldiery hurled against them, their refusal to acknowledge defeat giving them the edge that they needed.

  The Jewish line was holding.

  ‘With me,’ Vespasian shouted at a centurion leading his men down the rubble in a column, four abreast. The man acknowledged his general’s command and fell in behind him. ‘We go for that flank,’ Vespasian instructed, pointing at the right-hand side of the fight straddling the thoroughfare itself and abutting, fifty paces away, stone steps leading up to the walkway on the wall; Titus’ distinctive helmet plume bobbed at the heart of the melee. ‘We need to help your legate break through to those steps and then clear the wall so that the tower assaults can restart.’

  The centurion nodded, understanding exactly what was expected of him and his men; he looked over his shoulder and, waving his sword in the air, urged his century on, past the bloodied body of Urbicus, staring with sightless eyes up at the empty ramp of a siege tower, thirty feet above him.

  Running next to the centurion, Vespasian grimaced at the pain in his side and struggled for breath, feeling each one of his fifty-seven years weigh heavy upon him and envying the relative youth of the centurion pounding along beside him. Perhaps age was telling on him more than he cared to admit to either himself or Caenis. Her image flashed across his inner vision, highlighting his mortality as he had a moment’s thought that he may not see her again. He thrust doubt from his mind and hurdled a fallen legionary. Ten paces away, the extreme right of the fight raged with the acute violence of bitter foes giving and expecting no quarter. It was here that Vespasian flung himself, to support his son and to save the faltering assault. With the wrath of a man who has seen the prize he thought he had won being snatched away from him, Vespasian barged through the rear ranks of legionaries, bellowing at them to make way for the fresh troops behind him. Through he drove, his sword held at shoulder height as the legionaries gave way to him. With an explosive punch of his shield into the chest of a manic-eyed, blood-spattered youth, Vespasian burst through the front rank of the Roman line. A sharp jab down to the throat sent the youth, already reeling and winded, back in a spray of gore from a gaping wound. Incoherent rage spewed from Vespasian as he stamped his left foot forward and lowered his shield to block a low spear thrust. Next to him, he felt the centurion press against his left shoulder as his men relieved the tiring legionaries of the first and second centuries. New strength gave new impetus and the Jews, lacking the ability to relieve their line, fought on with weakening arms against the fresh troops. On Vespasi
an worked his blade, on and on as he strove to reach the steps; stroke after stroke he dealt, supported by the century he had brought with him, every man striving for the same objective. And back the defenders fell in the face of such heated violence; tired and weakened by more than a month and a half of the deprivations of a siege, they retreated foot by foot, but they did not waver; their formation remained solid.

  ‘There they are!’ Vespasian shouted as the steps came into focus within the violent microcosm of reality that was his present existence. ‘One more effort!’

  Resurgent were the thrusts of blades darting from the Roman line as they reacted to their general’s appeal; explosive were the punches of the shields that accompanied them. Forward they pressed, closing on their objective; a Jew fell dead at the foot of the steps and then another stepped backwards, over his fallen countryman, defending himself against the relentless thrusts of his veteran opponent. Back and up the man went, the legionary pressing him all the time; Vespasian mounted the steps after them, shouting at the veteran to finish the job. But as they rose they cleared the scrum of the melee and became a target for a new force. Unable to enter into the fray for fear of hitting their own in such close quarters, the Jewish slingers and archers had remained concentrating on targets to the other side of the wall. Now with the enemy isolated and exposed within the walls they took their chance. With at least four shafts appearing simultaneously in him, the veteran plunged off the steps onto the defenders below, breaking them and providing a gap through which the centurion powered, pulling his men with him. Cursing at his conspicuousness, Vespasian pushed on up the steps praying that the man behind him would hold his shield over him. Lunging at the retreating Jew, he sliced through his calf and then pounded him off the steps as he screamed and hopped on one leg. With the walkway in sight, Vespasian surged forward, feeling the presence of men coming up behind him. It was with a bellow of achievement that he took the last step, shafts and slingshot fizzing past from many angles. A searing pain shot up his right leg; he faltered and stumbled. Down he went to his knees, visible to all. A cheer rose from the defenders as they saw the Roman general fall and cries of concern stuck in the gorges of the legionaries as many turned to see the enemy surging towards their stricken leader.

  Vespasian looked down at his foot: an arrow pierced it through and blood flowed freely from both entry and exit wounds. ‘Help me up!’ he shouted at the nearest legionary. ‘I can’t walk.’

  Sheathing his sword, the legionary grabbed Vespasian’s hand as his comrades held their shields over their general. Using his one good leg, Vespasian pushed and pulled himself up, wrapping an arm around the man’s shoulder. With the protective shields cracking to the impacts of arrow and shot, Vespasian hobbled back down the steps.

  ‘Are you all right, Father?’ Titus asked as he pushed through the crowd to aid Vespasian.

  He grimaced with the pain. ‘I’ll be fine, I think. Now get the lads out of here; without the towers we haven’t got the walls and without the walls we are in a death trap. Unpleasant as it is to admit it, we’ve failed again today.’

  CHAPTER VI

  ‘IWILL NOT WITHDRAW, nor will I off er them terms for surrender so that they can walk away and do the same thing again elsewhere.’ Vespasian was adamant; the pain inflicted by the doctor administering to his wound added to his vehemence.

  ‘I didn’t say that you should do either of those things,’ Magnus said, as soothingly as his gruff manner would allow. ‘I just said that you’re going to have to rethink what you’re doing here, as in: “how you are dealing with the situation here” rather than “whether or not you should be here at all”.’

  Vespasian winced as the doctor continued to swab out the two wounds, although the pain now was nothing compared to what he had endured during the extraction of the shaft; he had almost crushed Caenis’ and Titus’ hands as they held him down. ‘Yes, well, how do you rethink taking a town by siege when the whole place is filled with religious fanatics so treachery isn’t an option, especially since they stoned to death the only three agents we had inside?’

  ‘But it is an option now, Father,’ Titus informed him from his seat in the corner of Vespasian’s private accommodation.

  Vespasian frowned, interested in his son’s statement. ‘Go on.’

  Titus took a sip of his warmed wine and then rolled the cup in both his hands. ‘One of my double agents slipped out through the breach as we retired.’

  ‘One of your double agents?’ Vespasian dismissed the news with a petulant wave of his hand. ‘What use is that? He’s bound to betray us so you might as well just nail him up and perhaps we’ll all feel a little better.’

  ‘No, Father, he’s far too useful. He’s decided that his best chance of survival is to throw himself at my mercy, which, if what he says is true, may well be forthcoming.’

  ‘What does he say?’

  ‘I’ll send for him once the good doctor here has finished putting you in an even worse mood.’

  ‘And you’re sure he’s speaking the truth?’ Vespasian asked Titus once they had finished listening to Hormus’ rendering of the deserter’s words.

  Titus looked uncertain, hunching his shoulders. ‘I think so, but who can ever be sure with these people? However, it does make sense if you do the arithmetic. When we first arrived here we were told that there were between three and four thousand defenders inside Jotapata and look at just how spendthrift they’ve been with their lives since. It could easily be that they were forced to use every last man to stop us from getting through today, even though they were only containing us across a hundred-pace front and probably had a similar number of men on the walls.’ Titus pointed at the deserter. ‘He maintains that Yosef sent half the men remaining to him out on the sortie against The Brute this morning and they all died. So I should say that it’s perfectly possible that there are no more than four hundred fighting men left in the town at most.’

  ‘And their women and children?’ Caenis asked. ‘From what you’ve told me, they can be as deadly as the males.’

  ‘With slings from a distance, yes, perhaps.’ Titus looked at Hormus. ‘Ask him.’

  A brief conversation in Aramaic ensued before Hormus replied. ‘He estimates there to be no more than twelve hundred women and children left. Many slipped out through the ravine before we discovered it, to ease the burden on supplies.’

  Vespasian thought for a few moments, contemplating his newly bandaged foot. ‘And he is sure about the exhaustion, that none of the guards can stay awake at night any more through lack of sleep and malnourishment?’

  ‘Look at him, Father; I think his appearance speaks for itself.’

  Vespasian had to admit that the deserter did indeed look as if he was on the verge of laying himself down to die. Gaunt, pale and with dark sagging sacks under his eyes, the Jew looked even worse than he smelt – which was saying a considerable deal. ‘And this unguarded door that he claims is the back way into the citadel, you believe him?’

  ‘We’ll find out when we get there, won’t we? We’ll take him with us, and if it’s not exactly how he says it is, he’ll die.’

  Coming to a decision, Vespasian looked at his son. ‘We’ll go in at the beginning of the twelfth hour of the night.’

  Titus looked confused. ‘We?’

  ‘Yes, we. I’ll lead the assault.’

  ‘Father, you can barely walk; you’ll be worse than a man short, since someone will have to help you. And, besides, how can the slowest member of the unit lead from the front without gravely slowing the whole operation down?’

  ‘I’ll manage.’

  ‘No you won’t, my love,’ Caenis said with a degree of firmness that surprised Vespasian. ‘I realise that you feel today was an affront to your dignitas and an insult to Roman arms in general, and so it was, but that dent to your pride doesn’t give you the right to act like a fool.’

  ‘Act like a fool, woman! Me? How dare you talk to me like that?’ Vespasian jumped to his feet an
d immediately regretted it, slumping back down to his couch with clenched teeth.

  ‘I dare because somebody has to,’ Caenis snapped. ‘Look at you: you’re practically a cripple and you talk of leading a century on a night assault, scaling the walls, creeping past sleeping sentries and then capturing the citadel, before the Jews are awake, just as the rest of the legion pours through the breach at the crack of dawn. Please be sensible.’

  Vespasian checked a biting retort that he would probably regret and looked at the people around him; apart from the kneeling prisoner, who spoke no Latin, he was surrounded by those closest to him: his eldest son, his oldest friend, his longtime lover and his freedman. Those who loved him best; there was no need to feel obliged to save face with Titus, Magnus, Caenis and Hormus and, indeed, he felt shame at having acted so ridiculously. Of course he could not lead the attack. Again he cursed the stubbornness of the Jews, and Yosef ben Matthias in particular, for holding out so desperately just when he thought he had triumphed. ‘Boiled fenugreek!’ he spat. ‘We were defeated by fucking boiled fenugreek. I’ve never even heard of boiled fenugreek becoming impossibly slippery; imagine my despatch back to Rome when I say that I lost over twenty men to boiled fucking fenugreek? I’ll be a laughing stock.’

  ‘You’ll be a laughing stock if you try and lead a night assault hopping on one foot,’ Magnus pointed out. ‘And, what’s more, I’ll wager that you’ll be a dead laughing stock.’

  Vespasian relented. ‘You’re right; you’re all right: I’m just being foolish because I want to be there at the death and have my revenge of these bastards who’ve defied me for the last, how long is it?’