Auximum resisted.
The hill town looked down upon the inland road from a steep rise of stone and scrub. Its walls were not great enough to stop an army for long, but the road beneath them was too narrow to ignore. If Alaric marched past, the garrison could descend behind him, strike the wagons, cut messengers, and force every supply cart to move under guard.
Valerius rode forward beneath a white cloth and called for the commander.
The answer came from the wall.
An arrow struck the earth beside his horse.
Athaulf smiled from ear to ear. “At last, someone answers plainly.”
Alaric gave the town one more chance. He sent word that he wanted the road, the military stores, and safe passage. Private homes would remain untouched. The garrison could keep its arms if it stood down.
The commander appeared above the gate. “Auximum does not open for rebels.”
Alaric looked up at him. “Then Auximum will open broken.”
The gates closed behind the commander.
At dawn the next morning, the attack began.
It was work, not glory. The road climbed toward the gate, narrowing as it rose. Men advancing beneath shields had little room to spread, and every step placed them more directly beneath the defenders above.
Gothic archers moved first. They sent volleys toward the battlements while shield men dragged the ram uphill beneath a timbered cover. The first blows struck the gate hard enough to shake dust from the stone arch.
Then the defenders answered.
Rocks came down first.
One smashed through the edge of the ram cover and crushed a man beneath it. Another struck a shield and drove the soldier holding it to his knees. Men closed around him and kept pushing.
From above came clay jars wrapped in burning cloth.
They shattered across the wet hides covering the ram shelter. Pitch spread in black fire. One jar burst against the side where the hides had slipped. Flame ran down the timber and across a man’s sleeve before he could tear it free.
He screamed.
Two warriors dropped the ram handles and dragged him backward while others threw earth and water over the burning cover. A second jar broke among them. Fire splashed across boots and shields. One man rolled in the road while another beat at his cloak with both hands.
Athaulf shouted for the ram to keep moving.
“Hold the roof! Keep striking!”
The ram struck again.
And again.
The gate held.
By midday, the slope below Auximum was littered with broken shafts, split shields, and stones thrown from the wall. The defenders had too few men to drive Alaric away, but enough height to make every yard expensive.
Alaric watched from below the rise as another rock crashed through the assault line.
“Pull them back,” he ordered.
Athaulf turned sharply. “We have them.”
“We have men burning beneath a wall.”
“Another hour—”
“Tomorrow.”
Athaulf looked up at the gate, furious at being denied the breach. Then he raised his arm and called the withdrawal.
The Goths carried their wounded down the hill beneath shields while Roman arrows followed them. The defenders shouted from the battlements. Some struck spear shafts against stone and cheered as though Alaric had been defeated.
Athaulf heard them.
“Let them enjoy tonight,” he said. “Tomorrow I will sleep in their square.”
Alaric looked toward the wounded being laid beside the road. “Tomorrow you will take the gate. You will not take the town.”
Athaulf’s expression hardened. “They burned our men.”
“Their soldiers defended their wall.”
“Our dead will understand the distinction.”
“They had better,” Alaric said. “Because I will not answer Roman slaughter by teaching my army to become Roman.”
That night the carpenters rebuilt the ram shelter. Fresh beams were fitted beneath the roof. Wet hides were layered over one another and tied so they could not slide apart. Barrels of water were placed behind the assault line. Archers were assigned specific stretches of battlement rather than told simply to shoot at the wall.
Alaric walked among the wounded before returning to his tent. One man had lost the use of an arm. Another lay wrapped from shoulder to waist where pitch had burned through cloak and tunic. The smell of scorched wool and flesh clung to the camp.
No one asked whether the town would be spared.
By dawn, everyone knew the answer depended upon the men still able to obey when the gate finally opened.
The second attack began before the defenders had finished their morning meal.
This time the Gothic archers did not loose in great volleys. They watched the battlements and shot at every man who leaned far enough over the wall to throw stone or fire. The ram climbed beneath its layered hides while shield men locked around it.
Rocks struck the roof and rolled away.
A jar of burning pitch shattered across the hides. Steam and smoke rose together as men beneath the shelter threw water upward without stopping the ram.
Boom.
The gate shook.
Boom.
The bar behind it groaned.
From above, the commander shouted for more stones.
Athaulf stood close enough to the ram that fragments of wood struck his armor. “Again!”
The men drove the beam forward.
By afternoon, one hinge had begun to tear from the masonry. The gate no longer closed squarely after each blow. A gap opened between the doors and vanished again.
The defenders saw it.
So did the Goths.
The assault changed. Weariness disappeared beneath anticipation. Men crowded too close to the road, eager to be first through when the doors failed.
Alaric rode along the lower line. “Hold your ranks! No man enters until ordered!”
They heard him.
Whether they would remember after two days beneath stones and fire was another matter.
Late in the day, the ram struck again.
The timber bar behind the gate split with a sound like a tree breaking in winter.
The next blow tore one hinge free.
The doors folded inward.
For half a heartbeat, both sides stared through the opening.
Then the Goths surged.
Athaulf was among the first through.
The defenders tried to form inside the gate, but the breach was too sudden and the space too narrow. Spears struck. Shields collided. A Roman went down beneath three men before he could retreat. Another threw away his sword and raised both hands.
A Gothic warrior cut him down anyway.
The killing spread faster than command.
Men who had spent two days watching friends crushed and burned poured into the street shouting. A defender ran toward the square and was struck from behind. Another was dragged from a doorway. Someone kicked open the entrance to a house. A woman screamed inside.
Alaric came through the broken gate with the reserve and saw the victory becoming something else.
“Athaulf!”
Athaulf turned from a Roman soldier he had driven against a wall.
Alaric pointed toward the street. “Stop them.”
For an instant Athaulf only stared. Around him men were still fighting, shouting, breaking through doors, chasing defenders who no longer had a line to hold.
Then he understood.
He slammed his sword back into its sheath.
“WITH ME!”
Some heard him.
Not enough.
Athaulf seized the nearest Gothic warrior by the back of his armor and hurled him away from a wounded Roman on the ground.
“He surrendered!”
The warrior spun toward him, blood and fury in his face. “They burned Hrodgar!”
Athaulf struck him across the mouth with the back of his gauntlet.
“Then honor Hrodgar by obeying the king.”
He turned toward the men filling the street.
“SHIELDS TO THE SQUARE! FORM ON ME!”
Captains took up the command. Their voices collided with the noise of the breach. Shield companies pushed through the confusion, not against Romans now, but between Gothic warriors and the houses beyond them.
Athaulf caught another man by the shoulder as he tried to force a doorway.
“Back.”
The warrior hesitated.
Athaulf shoved him into the street. “Back, or I cut you down myself.”
That message traveled.
Slowly, brutally, order returned.
Warriors formed ranks around the square. Men still hunting defenders were called back by name. Doors were closed. Civilians were driven indoors for their own protection, not dragged out. Surrendered soldiers were disarmed and placed under guard.
The noise changed.
Not silence. Not yet.
But command had returned.
Alaric walked into the square while the last scattered fighting died in the streets beyond it. Athaulf came to him breathing hard, his sword still sheathed.
“The town is secured,” Athaulf said.
Alaric looked toward a dead Roman lying beside the fountain, then toward one of his own warriors being carried in with burned hands.
“Now keep it secured.”
Athaulf nodded once.
The commander was brought before Alaric near sunset with blood on his cheek, his sword still at his belt, and shame in his eyes. He looked past the king toward his broken gate and the Roman dead in the square.
“I defended my town.”
“You did.”
“Then finish it.”
Alaric looked at the citizens watching from windows and doorways. Then he looked at the Goths who had bled for two days beneath their walls.
“Keep your sword.”
The commander stared at him.
Alaric continued. “You fought for your duty. Live long enough to remember mercy.”
The commander’s hand tightened around the hilt, but he did not draw it.
Alaric turned to Athaulf. “No looting. No reprisals. Take the military stores, count them, and leave enough food for the town.”
Athaulf glanced toward the gate where blackened timbers still smoked.
Then he looked at Alaric.
“It will be done.”
Mercy after a breached gate changed the road more than any easy surrender.