Chapter 197

“This is a siege, do you understand? A siege!” Timasion roared. “If the hoplites can’t get up the wall, we can’t take the city! What good is it if they save their own skins? Go! Now!”

Timasion watched as the herald crossed the moat and ran toward the light infantry. Only then did his gaze return to the base of the wall, where the ground was littered with the dead and the dying, mercenaries and Crimisans alike, their groans of agony rising in a grim chorus.

He had seen such scenes too many times. Before coming to Magna Graecia, they had spent months besieging Larissa in Asia Minor under Thibron’s command. He knew all too well the brutal calculus of a siege. But a direct assault was his only option. Time was the key to his success.

“Watch out, Chieftain!” The shout from one of his men was instinctual. He ducked his head behind his shield. A sharp clang reverberated through his arm as an arrow struck the bronze and ricocheted away.

He had just let out a breath when a chorus of screams was followed by a tremendous crash. He didn’t need to look. Another scaling ladder had been pushed over. A bitter frustration began to gnaw at him.

***

“General, the enemy light infantry are advancing!” a citizen-soldier cried in panic.

Orikepos’s heart went cold. The light infantry, which had been holding back before the moat, had now rushed to the base of the wall. Compared to the wild, inaccurate archery of his own poorly trained men, the enemy’s bowmen were lethally precise. They were now responsible for the majority of the casualties on the battlements.

“Ignore the men on the ladders! Concentrate your fire on the light infantry!” he commanded, running along the parapet walk, shouting orders to his archers.

“They’re over the wall again!” The panicked cry stopped him in his tracks. Not far away, a mercenary had gained the top of the wall. He blocked the thrusting spears with his shield and leaped forward. The spears missed, and he landed on top of them, pinning them beneath him. He did not rise immediately, but instead, with his right hand, he began to slash wildly with his sword. Several nearby citizen-soldiers, their legs unprotected, screamed and fell. The mercenary then got to his feet, but instead of pressing his advantage, he retreated to the top of the ladder, crouching with his back to the crenellation, his body fully protected by his shield.

The thrusting spears did little damage against his shield, and the defenders, fearing the flash of his sword from beneath it, dared not approach. In that moment of hesitation, another mercenary crested the wall.

“Push forward! Block them!” Orikepos shouted, leading the reserve force to the breach. A dense forest of spears drove the two mercenaries into a corner.

“Pry off their shields!” Orikepos had barely gotten the words out when a soldier beside him let out a piercing scream, a javelin buried in his ribs.

From below, the light infantry redoubled their efforts, concentrating their arrows and javelins on that single section of the wall to support their comrades. The hoplites on the ladders climbed with renewed speed.

Orikepos frantically diverted all his remaining forces to seal the breach. After a furious, bloody struggle, the mercenaries were finally driven back, but the parapet walk was now choked with the dead and wounded Crimisans.

Faced with these bloodthirsty, battle-hardened veterans, Orikepos felt a sense of despair. Every time they broke through, they inflicted grievous casualties. His manpower was stretched to the breaking point. “Go to General Antaoris!” he ordered a messenger. “Tell him the enemy has thrown all their strength against the north wall! We cannot hold much longer! Tell him to send reinforcements!”

But Antaoris had no more men to send. The enemy was concentrating its assault on the north and west, while the troops defending the eastern wall stood idle. He made a snap decision. He sent a runner to General Plaedes with an order: “Lead the eastern garrison to reinforce Orikepos at once.”

“Chieftain Timasion! Chieftain Timasion!” a herald cried, dodging arrows as he rushed to Timasion’s side. “The enemy on the eastern wall has withdrawn!”

“I see it,” Timasion said, his voice alive with a grim excitement. “Go to Thorax. Tell him to move now.”

“Yes, Chieftain!”

As the herald departed, Timasion raised his arm and roared, “Brothers, one more push! With me! The enemy is about to break!” He raised his shield, sprinted to the nearest ladder, and began to climb. The soldiers below gave him a powerful boost, and he shot up several rungs. The man ahead of him was already over the wall. Scrambling hand over hand, Timasion reached the top, drew his sword, and, with his shield held before him, vaulted onto the battlements. Ignoring the spears and swords that jabbed at him, he leaped forward, using his momentum to smash into the defenders as his sword scythed through the air.

“Back to back! Back to back!” he bellowed as he fought. The other mercenaries who had been cornered immediately rallied to him.

Inspired by Timasion’s example, the mercenaries launched another furious assault. They breached the north wall in several places. If Plaedes and his reinforcements had not arrived at that moment, Orikepos’s defense would have collapsed entirely.

The two sides clashed in a brutal melee on the narrow walkway. The arrival of the reinforcements bolstered the Crimisans’ morale, and they began to drive the mercenaries back.

But just then, a great commotion erupted from the east.

“The enemy is on the wall! The enemy is on the wall!” the citizen-soldiers shrieked in terror.

Orikepos whipped his head around. Along the eastern wall, a wave of enemy peltasts, armed with leather shields and scythe-like blades, was charging toward them. He had no time to wonder how they had gotten up. He frantically ordered Plaedes to turn his men back to intercept them, but in the tangled, chaotic fighting, it was impossible to disengage.

The Thracian peltasts were devastatingly swift. They crashed into the packed ranks of the defenders, and in the tight confines of the walkway, their long-bladed rhomphaias became terrifying instruments of death. The sharp, hooked blades caught arms and legs, severing tendons and bone; they hooked around necks, slicing through arteries. The Crimisan citizen-soldiers fell in swathes, and the survivors fell back in terror. But the peltasts were on them like wolves, and other mercenaries, seeing the chaos, began to pour over the walls.

The eastern flank of the north wall’s defense had been broken. The veteran mercenaries drove the routing Crimisans before them. On the crowded walkway, the panicked defenders trampled each other in their desperation to escape. Some were pushed from the inner side of the wall, falling to their deaths below.

Orikepos and Plaedes, seeing the carnage, were seized by the same terror. Fearing they would be trapped and killed, they abandoned their posts and fled, allowing the mercenaries to swarm onto the battlements, seize the walkways near the gates, and trap countless more Crimisans on the walls. The mercenaries showed no mercy, cutting them down or forcing them to leap from the ramparts.

From below, Antaoris watched the horrifying spectacle, the ceaseless screams of his citizens tearing at his heart. But even in this moment of crisis, he had to suppress his grief. He began to organize the retreating soldiers and civilians for a last stand at the acropolis in the southern part of the city.

The mercenaries, now in control of the north wall, opened the gates, and the rest of their army flooded into the city.

“Chieftain, we have won! We have taken the city!” one of his men cried, helping the wounded Timasion to his feet.

Timasion, a spear wound in his thigh and a sword cut on his arm, was overcome with exhilaration. If the enemy had not broken when they did, he would have surely died on the wall. “Say rather, we now have a city,” he said, his voice filled with triumph.

His ruse had worked. During his time in the Theonian League, he had carefully questioned his old comrades about the capture of Amendolara and had learned of the special siege weapon they had used: the grappling hook. He had obtained a rough sketch and had secretly commissioned dozens of them from the blacksmiths of Heraclea. During the assault, he had deliberately concentrated his forces on the west and north walls. Once the defenders of the eastern wall—which was protected on its other side by the River Umbrian—were drawn away, he had sent Thorax and his trained peltasts, carrying the hidden grappling hooks, to the base of the east wall. Even if they were spotted, without the tell-tale scaling ladders, they would not have raised a general alarm. The peltasts had scaled the walls and delivered the fatal blow.

After descending from the wall, Timasion met up with Cleanor, who had taken the west gate, and they began to pursue the routed enemy. But soon, the mercenaries broke from their ranks. They began to storm into houses, looting property and seizing women.

Timasion was furious, not because he was opposed to plunder, but because the battle was not yet over. The remnants of the enemy were holed up in the acropolis. They had to be crushed, the entire city secured, before any celebration could begin.

But the mercenaries, drunk on victory, were acting on instinct, ignoring his commands. Timasion felt a flash of the same powerlessness that Davos must have felt. Knowing it was useless, he still cursed them, venting his frustration.

“Chieftain, they are trapped in the acropolis. They cannot escape,” Thorax said, trying to calm him. “Let the men have their fun. We can blockade the acropolis, and when they are finished, we will rally them and take it.”

“I am not worried about the Crimisans,” Timasion said with a fretful anxiety. “I am worried about Croton.”

“Even if Crimisa sent a messenger the moment we attacked,” Cleanor reasoned, “by the time he reaches Croton, the council debates, a decision is made, and the army is mobilized… they cannot possibly arrive before nightfall. And I do not believe the Crotoniates have the same courage as Davos to launch a night attack. By then, we will be masters of the entire city, and our own envoy will have already reached the Theonian Senate. When Croton attacks tomorrow, Davos will have already made his decision.”