The Sword of Attila by David Gibbins Page B

streaking ahead of a rolling wave of Vandal warriors that he knew would absorb the people trying to flee them as easily as a great tidal wave engulfs all before it on its way inland. He and his
numerus
were themselves part of that inexorability, a brittle line of defence that stood no chance of halting the onslaught, but they would not go down without a fight.
    He forced himself to look away, turning around to make sure that everything was ready. Half a mile behind them the walls of Carthage were framed by the red glow of the rising sun, as if the city were on fire already. He wondered whether anyone was watching from the walls, or whether the sentries had fled to the last remaining ships in the harbour. Beyond the hillocks five hundred paces behind the trench he could just make out the throwing arms of the five catapults, each one winched back by a windlass against the torsion of the coiled rope that held the base of the arm in the heavy frame. Under each arm hung a pouch containing a clay ball filled with a combustible mixture, ready to swing out once the artillerymen had struck the retaining pin with a wooden mallet. He could see the men now, one for each catapult, holding the burning tapers that they had lit from the last residue of the cooking fire; on his command they would light the fireballs and then the naphtha in the ditch in front of them.
    They were staring at him now, waiting for his signal. All of the men in the trench were doing the same, their hands white-knuckled on their weapons, as if the entire
numerus
were wound tight like the catapults. He turned back to look over the parapet. The dogs were coming closer, no more than four hundred paces away, tearing ahead in their eagerness to reach their prey, a huge trail of dust rising behind them. Striding out of the dust he could see the first of the wolf-masters, the Alan warriors, immense men with furs on their shoulders, cracking the whips they used to drive the dogs forward, carrying the vicious nail-studded clubs that were their hallmark in battle. A torrent of Vandals seemed to cascade over the slope behind them, traversing the valley and running up the slope towards the trench, the dogs close enough now to be able to see their fangs and the red of their eyes. Flavius stared at the oncoming mass, gauging their speed and likely point of impact.
Something was wrong.
He turned to Macrobius. ‘The fireballs are meant to fall on the mass of the enemy. The dogs will be upon us before the Vandals come within range.’
    Macrobius held his sword at the ready. ‘Then we will deal with the dogs as they come through,’ he replied. ‘Stick to your plan, tribune.’ He turned and looked at his men. ‘Steady,’ he growled. ‘
Sagittarii,
tense your bows.’
    The archers every fifth man along the line raised their bows and aimed, holding their position while Macrobius lifted his hand. Flavius glanced back at the artillerymen. He had told them only to loose on his command, and he hoped they would keep their nerve. They were men he had specially recruited into the
numerus
for the task, veterans from the frontier
limitanei
recommended by Macrobius who had sworn to draw their swords and stand their ground once the
onagers
had sprung.
    The first of the Alaunt was only a stone’s throw away now, a lunging form bigger than any wolf Flavius had ever seen, pounding its way up the slope towards them, its dark hair bristled and flecked with foam that was slavering out of its jaws. Flavius held his sword with two hands, ready to thrust into bellies, into necks, knowing that there would be little scope for swinging or slashing. He envied Arturus his
gladius,
and saw the Briton in his cassock further down the parapet close to the road along which he had sent his Nubians and his mule back towards the city. The dogs were nearly upon them, a line of great hulking beasts in a dust cloud that obscured everything that was coming behind. Macrobius tensed