Emperor of Rome Page 8

  Malichus’ cavalry, black-robed horsemen with curved swords, round shields and a fist-full of javelins, galloped away into the new morning with high-pitched ululations and much waving of weaponry. The foot archers followed, more of a rabble than a formation, the Nabatean Arabs evidently placing little importance on ranks and files or, indeed, jogging at the same pace.

  But Vespasian was not going to judge the effectiveness of his diversionary troops by their appearance as he, Magnus and Titus sat on their horses outside the camp’s southern gate watching Malichus ride towards them.

  ‘Good morning, Vespasian,’ the Nabatean king said, bringing his beautiful Arab stallion to a majestic halt.

  ‘That is a beautiful animal,’ Vespasian said in admiration. ‘As beautiful as the team you gave me fifteen years ago.’

  Malichus stroked his mount’s neck with obvious affection. ‘There are plenty more like him in my kingdom. How are my gifts?’

  ‘They were the best team of their generation but they don’t race any more; they’re very active in the stud, though.’

  A gleam came into Malichus’ eye and his teeth sparkled in a grin. ‘We’re never too old for the stud, eh, my friend?’ He leant over and slapped Vespasian on the thigh. ‘I congratulate you on your woman; I admit that I saw her, although you Romans don’t seem to cover your women as we do. Anyway, she is as beautiful as any one of my wives or concubines.’

  ‘I shall tell her that you said so, Malichus.’

  A look of horror passed over the king’s face. ‘For the love of all the gods do not do that, Vespasian; if it should reach the ears of my women that I complimented another woman’s beauty the jealousy would be intolerable and I would hear of nothing else for months on end. Believe me, my friend, my life would not be worth living.’ His face brightened. ‘But come, we sit and talk of women when there is Jewish blood to spill.’

  ‘Expect my signal within half an hour, Malichus,’ Vespasian said as he noticed the first inquisitive heads poke over the walls of Jotapata, half a mile down the hill.

  ‘I look forward to it. I will see you at the end of the day and we shall dine on Yosef’s corpse.’ With a flourish of his hand he spun his horse and rode off to take his place at the head of his archers.

  ‘I hope he meant that we shall dine using Yosef’s corpse as a table and not as an ingredient,’ Magnus said as the first of the auxiliary cohorts marched with smart precision through the gate.

  ‘We seem to be attracting the right sort of attention,’ Vespasian observed, ignoring Magnus and gazing down the hill to the town. Malichus’ Arabs were passing it by, now more than a couple of hundred paces from the gate, just out of bowshot. ‘If I’m not mistaken, that is Yosef himself come to take a look at us.’

  Titus grinned at his father. ‘The sight of a retreating army should give him a nice feeling as he has his breakfast.’

  ‘If he goes for the ruse, I’m sure it will. Now we just wait until the Fifth emerge.’

  Titus squeezed Vespasian’s forearm. ‘Good luck, Father. I’ll go and rejoin my legion now.’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Son. As soon as you hear the fight commence you can turn your legion round and bring it back to the camp; with luck you’ll … no, I won’t say it. I tempted the gods with an incautious remark yesterday, I’ll not do the same today.’

  *

  The final elements of the XV Apollinaris paraded through the gate, mules loaded with tents and legionaries weighed down with their full kit hanging in bags slung on the yokes they carried on their shoulders: the image of a legion on the move.

  Vespasian kicked his mount forward, leaving Magnus muttering about climbing ladders at his age, and swung in beside Vettulenus, the head of the V Macedonica. Casting a look behind he saw with satisfaction that the leading cohort was, indeed, ready for action. Pila instead of yokes slanted over their shoulders and within their formation pioneer centuries concealed their ladders held low by their thighs.

  ‘Ride ahead and give Malichus the signal,’ Vespasian ordered one of the messengers accompanying him. He watched the legionary cavalryman race off towards the Arabs, who were now a mile away below the town, and then turned to Vettulenus, saying: ‘This will take careful timing.’

  It was as the Arabs began to stream from their path and head for the southern wall of Jotapata that Vespasian saw urgent movement on the defences as Yosef and his comrades, just a couple of hundred paces away, ran along the northern wall following the path of Malichus’ archers.

  ‘Now!’ Vespasian said to Vettulenus who immediately gave the order to the cornicern striding next to him. Four rising notes sounded over the column to be repeated by musicians further down the formation. The effect was immediate: centurions bellowed and standards dipped and pointed towards the town as, from further down the column, the archers of the fourth Syrian double-timed along the leading three cohorts as they formed a line, eight men deep, facing the northern wall. Behind them mule carts bearing the legion’s carroballistae, still covered in blankets, trotted forward, positioning themselves at the centre of the assault force before turning their aim to the walls. The blankets were ripped off and the crews jumped up to their weapons and furiously worked the ratchets.

  ‘Forward!’ Vespasian ordered as the Syrian archers completed their screen. The low notes rumbled, the order was relayed and, in silence, the three cohorts of the V Macedonica moved forward, at a jog, behind the archer screen. The thumps of artillery release and the whoosh of projectiles passing overhead gave more of a sense of urgency to each man in the attack and the pace increased as if by mutual consent. At a hundred paces out the Syrians let fly their first volley but, as yet, there was no one on the walls, which gave Vespasian the hope that they might reach them without serious setback.

  On they went under the cover of carroballista projectiles and Syrian arrows. Vespasian held his excited horse back as he trotted in front of the central cohort next to Vettulenus, willing the defenders to keep their attention on Malichus’ Arabs on the south side of the town. With fifty paces to go Vespasian muttered a prayer to his guardian god, Mars, to hold his hands over him in the coming engagement and to blind the Jews to the attack. At twenty paces out the Syrians loosed their last volley and turned to filter through the legionary files; ladders came to the fore and Vespasian’s heartbeat quickened as a few defenders appeared on the walls and slingshot flew. He swung his leg over the rump of his horse and jumped to the ground as the pioneers rushed to the base of the walls arcing their ladders up.

  The first one in place was going to be Vespasian’s; no one was going to stop him. Pushing aside the pioneer erecting it, he set his foot on the second rung and began to climb, shield over his head and bellowing over his shoulder to those behind him. ‘With me, lads! I was storming forts when you were sucking on your mothers’ tits.’

  Up he went, rung after rung, hauling himself up with one hand as his shield arm, held rigid above him, braced against the crack and thump of mighty impacts; stones, javelins, roof-tiles and slingshot rained down upon him, slowing his progress the higher he reached as the deadly hail thickened. A judder ran through the ladder and he felt it being pushed away from the wall. He glanced down; the next man was a few rungs below him and then the man after that had only just started to climb. ‘Hurry, man, we need more weight on the ladder!’ He doubled his efforts to push himself up another couple of rungs as the men below him came as close as they could, making room for another couple to add their weight to the ladder, which crashed back down against the wall, too heavy to be easily dislodged. A thrust of a spear jabbing against his shield told Vespasian that he was in range of hand-held weapons and therefore nearly at the summit; now came the hard part. Letting go of the ladder with his sword arm he pulled his gladius from its sheath and pumped his legs, one two, one two, hurling himself upwards as he punched his shield, repeatedly, blindly, to clear a way ahead. The lip of the wall came in view under his shield, he was there; he cracked his shield rim at the throat of the first def
ender who came into focus and worked his legs, taking care not to overbalance backwards. With a lightning thrust he sent the tip of his blade into the eye of the man replacing the defender with the crushed throat. On he climbed as, to the left and right of him, two centurions were also making the same hazardous transition from ladder to wall. With a final leap, he landed on the battlements, a spear narrowly missing his left calf; he jammed his shield on it to prevent it from being pushed up into his groin, which, as he looked down on the hate-filled, bearded faces below him on the three-pace-wide walkway, was feeling very exposed. He knew from past experience that there was only one viable alternative to standing on the wall to be a target for, and eventually succumb to, many spear thrusts: so he jumped. Shield and sword exploding out to either side, the boss breaking a skull, the blade cleaving into a jaw as he kicked the man directly before him in the chest to send him toppling back, arms windmilling as he teetered on the brink, before gravity got the better of him and he plunged onto his comrades, below, awaiting their turn on the ramparts.

  Vespasian was up and he was exposed and now only fury could be his friend and keep him safe; and fury came willingly to him as only an old friend can. His blade leapt left and right, a blur of fluid motion, rending blood-spurting flesh, piercing organs and severing limbs as a roar, primeval and brutal, erupted from that deep part within him that was only ever exposed in the extreme danger and joy of battle. On he pressed, gore-slimed and howling, a thing barely recognisable as human, as he strove to link up with the centurion who had mounted the ladder next to him, just ten paces away. Behind him his supporting legionaries piled onto the battlements, killing the wounded and kicking their bodies down onto the defenders trying to mount the steps to reinforce the dwindling first line of defence.

  ‘Centurion! To me!’ Vespasian shouted to the leader of the assault group to his right who was beset by enemies on all sides. But too late, the transverse plume on the centurion’s helmet jerked back as a spear thrust took him in the forehead and a flashing blade sent his right hand spinning away still gripping his sword. His supporting legionaries, jumping down behind their officer, bellowed their anger at his demise and waded into the men responsible. Eyes wide and rolling, filled with hatred, mouths inarticulate with guttural, bestial roars, they began to exact full retribution for the death of the man who had, in life, ruled them with fear and a vine-stick and now in death released in them a surge of loyalty so strong that they thought nothing of dying for their vengeance.

  Vespasian’s shield slammed into a young lad, barely bearded, cracking ribs and projecting him back into the comrade behind him, as he strove to join up with the legionaries avenging their centurion. How things were progressing further afield from his microcosm of violence he could not tell; all he knew was that they had to consolidate their line and so he fought on, with fury as his guide, to clear that crowded walkway and join up with the lads surging up the neighbouring ladder.

  But the slaughter had left a ghastly residue, as treacherous as it was noisome: the fluids of ruptured bellies provided no purchase for iron hobnails and Vespasian’s leading leg went from under him, forcing the other leg back to counterbalance and leaving him wide astride and attempting to push himself back upright with his shield rim and the clenched fist of his sword arm. The red cloak and high plume of his helm, conspicuous at the best of times, proved an irresistible draw as he floundered on the slick stone. A shield, thrust over his head from behind, took the first downwards blow aimed at his neck as another legionary stamped his left foot next to his general and presented his shield as protection for Vespasian’s face. Pulling his feet together, Vespasian managed to rise as his two saviours parried the blows that sought to despatch him to the Ferryman; the sudden twinge of a pulled left thigh muscle caused him to grimace but, knowing that he had no time for such trifles, he rode over the pain and jabbed his shield forward, once again able to fend for himself.

  ‘Thanks, lads,’ he huffed as the two legionaries came onto each of his shoulders, presenting a three-man shield wall, swords flashing low as they stamped forward; defenders edged back as Vespasian and his new comrades advanced, death in their eyes and blood on their blades. With only a couple of paces to go to link up with the next ladder and no more than half a dozen Jews in the way, two of them fighting in the other direction, Vespasian gritted his teeth against the pain from his thigh and tried to blink the incessant sweat from his eyes, to no avail. As one, they stamped forward another pace, their swords jabbing out between their shields. But their opponents were not faint of heart and had already seen, with certainty, their own deaths; it was now just a matter of the manner of their passing to choose and for them the choice was obvious: with the intensity of the religious fanatics that they were, the four men facing Vespasian, with one accord, pounced forward brandishing captured shields and swords to crash into him with the intention of taking the life of the Roman general with theirs. And it was a torrent of slashing strokes that rained down upon Vespasian and his two comrades; there was no craft to them, only savagery, and the pounding of metal on leather-faced wood throbbed in Vespasian’s ears, drowning out the rage of the fight behind and beyond. It was a shrill scream that broke through the reverberating din as Vespasian’s shield arm began to buckle under the pummelling, and it was from next to him and not in front. Again he jabbed his sword out, only to hit another shield, and, in that instant, light appeared on his shielded side as the legionary to his left tumbled away, down off the wall, an arrow in his neck. The Jewish archers had been brought back from Malichus’ diversionary attack to deal with the real assault.

  In came the arrow storm, aimed at the legionaries but often hitting defenders as well, for the captains of the archers cared not if some of their own were cut down so long as Roman lives were reaped in abundance. Fletched missiles hissed up at the small groups of Romans on the wall who, as they had not yet managed to form a contiguous line by linking up, could not have their shields facing the incoming hail as well as defend themselves in the hand-to-hand combat that embroiled them still. To remain isolated was to die, or, worse still, be captured. With no one on his left shoulder, Vespasian was directly exposed to the deadly attentions of the archers whose numbers were growing all the time as they raced out of the tangle of narrow streets between Jotapata’s chaotic and cramped buildings and formed along the road that ran the length of the wall. With nothing to lose but his life, he stooped down and swiped under his foes’ shields; his blade bit into an ankle, almost taking the foot right off, to bring down one of the four Jews assailing him. The legionary to his right slammed his shield forward and up, catching a forearm on a downward stroke, snapping the bone so that the incoming sword fell from a useless hand; his blade then stabbed up into the vitals of the wounded Jew as the flashing pain of the shattered limb caused him to loosen his shield guard. With two of the four disposed of and the odds even, Vespasian pushed himself forward against one of the remaining two whilst stabbing his sword down into the throat of the screaming Jew clutching at his flapping foot, ending his noise and his life.

  It was with a stinging pain and the inability to put any weight onto his left leg as he thrust his opponent over that Vespasian collapsed; down he went after the man, landing heavy on his chest, exploding the air from his body. Knowing he was hurt and almost helpless added yet more clarity to Vespasian’s thought; he pushed himself up with his left arm and drove the tip of his sword into the choking man’s mouth. Blood sprayed out, coating Vespasian’s face; he rolled aside, bringing his shield to bear to the archers. The legionary to his right stood over him as more came from behind to drag him away. His shield echoed with the juddering thumps of arrow hits as he stole a look down at his left leg: the pulled thigh muscle was in spasm.

  ‘Pull me up!’ he yelled at a legionary trying to drag him back.

  As the man bent down he was spun around and sent crumbling to the ground, dead before he hit it, with an arrow in his cheek, its tip protruding from the side of his head.


  Cursing and realising that their position was becoming even more precarious with every racing heartbeat, Vespasian crawled back, keeping his shield up, towards the ladder he had mounted what seemed like days ago but was, in reality, little more than the time it takes for a man to empty a full bladder. He reached the wall and managed to haul himself upright; keeping all the weight on his right leg he surveyed the length of the defences in both directions and groaned. In all but a few places the assault parties had failed to join up before the return of the archers, and his men were suffering from their storm of missiles whilst still fighting hand to hand with the defenders remaining on the battlements now bolstered by reinforcements pounding up the steps from below.

  Not to admit it to himself would have been a foolish act of stubbornness that would have cost more lives of his men; their position was untenable. He drew breath and then with as much force as he had left within him roared: ‘Withdraw! Withdraw!’

  The cornicern at the bottom of the ladder heard his general’s command and rumbled the notes that were soon echoing all over the front. The Roman attack had failed and now it was a matter of extracting as many men as possible alive from the walls of Jotapata.

  It was with failure in his heart that Vespasian stood on one leg using his shield to cover the men heading over the wall and down the ladder away from the lethal arrow storm that had proved too much. Many did not risk the wait for the ladders and, instead, took their chances with the twenty-foot leap to the hard ground below, but for Vespasian, in his condition, this was not an option and the defenders, emboldened by the Roman retreat, were closing in.

  ‘I’ll hold them, sir!’ an optio shouted, raising his shield in front of Vespasian. ‘Get on the ladder.’

  Vespasian knew it was no shame not to be the last man off the battlements as he heaved himself onto the wall; he had done all that had been required of him, leading from the front and being hurt in the process. Throwing his life away would serve no purpose and would be contrary to the greater good; with the second rebuff in as many days, leadership was required. The optio roared at a couple of legionaries to join him defending their general as he made his escape; their shields feathered with shafts, their faces were grim as they realised that they were to sacrifice their lives so that Vespasian could live.