by James Mace
Artorius walked back to where his kit was laid out. He was surprised to see Optio Parthicus standing with a fresh tunic for him.
“Beg your pardon, sir, but I went through your pack and found this for you, seeing as how you didn’t have a spare laid out, and your other one got soaked when you dropped it in a puddle. I would have given you one of mine, but seeing as how you’re about twice the size I am, I don’t think it would fit. And I don’t think you want to go into battle tomorrow all soggy.”
For the first time that evening, Artorius cracked a smile. It was a relief for him, knowing that he had leaders within the legion who were capable of making decisions on their own and did not rely upon him for everything. It was even better having an optio who watched out for him when he was too preoccupied to look out for himself.
“The lads are securing the second bridge now,” Magnus said as Artorius finished lacing up the ties on his segmentata.
“Excellent!” Artorius replied as the Norseman then helped him into his phalerae harness, belt, and sword baldric. “I’ll return over that one so we can make sure it can hold the weight.”
Despite not knowing what waited for them on the other side, as well as his uncertainty over whether or not his supply trains could even get across, he was filled with confidence, knowing that in a crisis his legionaries could adapt and still execute their mission.
While the legions struggled to get their initial rope bridges in place, a detachment of cavalry, along with several hundred Batavi auxiliary infantry, achieved an even more impressive crossing of the river. Most had spent their youths swimming in even more treacherous waters, and the legionaries on the southeastern bank were awestruck as the auxiliaries leapt into the river with the same exuberance as if they were boys playing back home again.
Though a good swimmer in his own right, Tribune Cursor found himself relying heavily on the aquatic skills and tenacity of his horse, as he clutched the saddle for all he was worth. Many of the Batavi made the trek in full kit, and Cursor was impressed as he watched some of them float past him in the darkness, calmly pulling themselves along even as their weapons and armor weighted them down. Though their hamata chainmail was far lighter than the segmentata plate worn by legionaries, it was still no small feat that they made their way across, encumbered as they were.
As he made his way through the thick growth of reeds and tall grasses on the far side, the Tribune noted that the Batavi had already formed a vanguard and were pressing forward. One of their officers was waiting for him, and he wordlessly signaled for Cursor to follow him. The Tribune left his horse with one of his cavalrymen and crept along behind the man, trying his best to keep quiet as they hunkered low through the thickets. They came up a short embankment lined with sporadic trees. As the two men hunkered down behind a large briar bush, Cursor gasped at the sight across the open plain. Hundreds of war chariots were arrayed in a massive column, with sizeable gaps between each rank in order to give room to limber up the horses when they made ready to go into action.
“This must be every damn chariot in all of Britannia!” the officer whispered. He then observed, “They intend to let the legions get a number of their men across, and then smash into them like a giant hammer.”
“Chariots are worthless without horses,” Cursor noted. He nodded towards the east as the faintest glow of the predawn illuminated the area. “An hour until the sun rises. It is time to move, and let us hope the legions are able to secure their pontoon bridges!”
As a veteran of Braduhenna, where he received Rome’s highest honor, the Grass Crown, Cursor understood the peril his men would be in, should the legions fail to emplace their bridge and make their way across. Being cut off and surrounded was the ultimate feeling of hopelessness, and while his cavalry would have a reasonable chance of breaking away and outrunning the barbarians, his Batavian infantry would have no means of escape. And honor would not allow Cursor to abandon even one of his men.
Though his plan was similar to Artorius’, Vespasian had a narrower crossing, and since his was the main effort for the coming battle, he had access to all of the rafts and pontoon bridge material. Several squads of legionaries had gotten to the other side in a similar fashion as Artorius and his men, though the rest were now waiting for the pontoons to be placed. The Twentieth Legion would require hours to cross over, when what Vespasian required was speed once he was ready to attack. It was quite a feat of Roman engineering, to say nothing for it all being accomplished under the cover of darkness and with minimal talk amongst the soldiers carrying out the task.
The pontoons for this particular bridge were prefabricated over the previous couple days, using logs lashed together to make short rafts. They were large enough for a squad of legionaries to stand on. Though heavy and cumbersome, they were manageable when carried by groups of men who were used to working together. The support ropes were laid out across the water, with the pontoons going in between. As the first was laid into the water, soldiers quickly tied the ends to the support ropes, repeating the process as they formed their bridge across the short stretch of water. Within less than an hour, the bridge was in place, and although it curved substantially in the middle, where the river current dragged against it, Vespasian knew it would do the task required.
“We’re ready for the general advance, sir,” Master Centurion Lyto reported. “No signs of the enemy yet from the pickets on the far side.”
“What in Juno’s name is wrong with them?” the chief tribune asked. “They’re just going to let us across?”
“We have a report from Cursor’s auxiliaries,” Lyto explained. “Togodumnus has arrayed hundreds of war chariots off to the left of where we’re crossing.”
“He intends to let us cross, then hit us in the flank with his chariots while his warriors engage us from the front,” Vespasian observed. “Provided Cursor waits until just before dawn to take out their horses and chariots, we can catch them off-guard. I also doubt that Togodumnus thinks we’re brazen enough to attempt a water crossing at night, and he cannot be altogether certain that we will attack at all.” He then turned to his chief tribune. “I will take half the legion across now, you will remain with the rest in reserve. Once we push out far enough, I will get the signal back for you to bring the rest over. We’ll them form into a single front, with the Fourteenth Legion becoming the reserve.”
The young man looked crestfallen at first at the thought of having to stay back, but then realized quickly enough that with the size of their enemy, he would get his share of fighting soon enough. Behind them, Master Centurion Lyto led the first century of men over the river, where he would coordinate the initial placement of his men. With any luck, to say nothing of careful preparation and discipline, Togodumnus would be met with a nasty surprise come morning.
Chapter XVIII: Hammer the Winds
***
The frantic calls from war horns, and what sounded like the cries of a thousand terrified animals, awakened Togodumnus from his fitful slumber. The Catuvellauni king threw off his bearskin blanket and stumbled from his tent. The sky was now cloudless, in a show of just how rapidly the weather changed on the isle, and the rising sun in the east blinded him temporarily as it first broke over the horizon. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he scanned the valley below. Enemy skirmishers were appearing from the woods in a statement of Roman audacity; for the main attack would, in fact, come right at them from across the river.
It was as the king expected and why he had left his chariots concentrated near his main camp. And yet, as he looked off to his right, he could see a large number of his war chariots still in their staging area with no horses being limbered up.
“Why have they not moved?” he asked aloud. He then turned to a messenger. “Have our chariots manned at once! They must smash the Romans as they cross the river, before they can establish their battle formations!”
“Yes, my king.” The man quickly mounted his horse and rode at breakneck speed down the hill, not knowing that m
ost of the Roman legion to their front was already across the river and making ready to advance out of the wood line.
Togodumnus quickly threw on his mail shirt and baldric. He was baffled by the great confusion below, as warriors seemed slow to engage the Romans. Behind their vanguard of auxiliary skirmishers he could now see the distinctive red shields and gleaming armor of legionaries.
“Damn it all!” he swore. “Where are my chariots? Why do they not ready themselves to attack?” He summoned his horse, quickly mounting and riding to see what the issue was. As his horse cantered down the slope, he came upon Caratacus, who had spent the remainder of the night with his warriors on their temporary mustering field. It was he who had discovered the reasons for his brother’s frustration, for he had intended to personally lead the charge of heavy chariots that would drive the Romans back into the river.
“The Romans have driven off or killed all of the chariot horses!” he shouted in dismay. “Their light auxiliaries crossed during the night and just as the sun rose, killed or spooked them all. We were almost trampled by the mad rush of those that had escaped the slaughter.”
“Bastards,” Togodumnus growled. He took a deep breath through his nose, finding his resolve. “No matter. Brother, you will take our warriors and drive the Romans back into the river. Our numbers alone will prove too much for them. I will go and rally our ‘friends’ and see why they delay.”
“Steady lads!” Vespasian shouted as he leapt from the makeshift rope bridge. Soldiers of the Second Legion were still getting used to their commanding general’s ‘lead-by-example’ mentality that had not been seen since the days of Germanicus Caesar.
Vespasian had told his senior officers that he could not very well coordinate the battle from behind a wall of trees on the far side of the river. Therefore, he had dropped his cumbersome cloak and grabbed one set of spanning ropes just as the latest wave of legionaries reached the far side. A few sporadic enemy skirmishers were battling with one of his centuries off to his left, though these were mostly disorganized bands of frenzied warriors with little to no coordination or mutual support.
The Britannic fighting men were extremely brave, and in single combat equal to or, perhaps in some cases, even better than legionaries. However, besides their inferior weapons and being mostly devoid of armor, what they lacked was discipline and the ability to work together. This was evident as individual warriors would smash their weapons against the Roman shield wall with no coordinated effort to dislodge the legionary formation, which was steadily growing as more soldiers crossed the river.
As he watched a barbarian smash his great sword against the shield of the centurion on the far right of the century near the crossing point, Vespasian drew his gladius and quickly high stepped through the tall grasses towards the fray. So intent was the man on killing the centurion, he was oblivious to the even greater prize of a Roman general until the last moment, when Vespasian plunged his weapon into the barbarian’s back. The man cried out through gritted teeth, dropping his weapon as his back arched and spasmed. The legate wrenched his gladius free as blood gushed from the deep wound.
“Centurion,” he said calmly, “push your cohort to the left and start advancing towards the enemy camp. We need to make room for the others.”
“Sir,” the man replied before barking out subsequent orders for his men.
As Vespasian turned back, he saw his second wave of men crossing as fast as they were able, though with the weight of their weapons and armor they could only risk putting a few men on the pontoons at a time. Each man moved at a slow jog, watching his footfalls and keeping his eyes on the feet of the man in front of him until they reached the end, where they leapt from the bridge and made their way into the growing fray. Centurions and their principle officers were always the first over, accepting the greatest risk of falling prey to their still-mobilizing enemy while waiting for their men to fall in on them. As legionaries stepped onto the bank, their squad leaders would direct them to their places in the formation, while simultaneously getting accountability of their men. Discipline and training made their efforts instinctive, and Vespasian was impressed by just how quickly his legion was making its way across the river. The first half of his legion was now across; just enough to form a viable battle front.
A cornicen had finished making the trek and quickly ran over to his commander, along with the master centurion, who had placed his First Cohort in what was to be the center of the formation.
“Sound the advance,” Vespasian ordered. He then turned to the master centurion. “The rest of the legion is forming a reserve. As we push forward, the ground looks like it opens up, and we can commit them to the wings.”
“Yes, sir,” Lyto replied as he drew his gladius and joined his First Cohort. On the far side of the river, the Fourteenth Legion was already forming up in columns, anxiously awaiting the order to cross.
The notes sounded on the cornicen’s horn, and the aquilifer soon joined them. With a handful of legionaries acting as his bodyguard, the legate of the Second Legion stepped off with his men. To his front, the barbarians were forming up into a massive horde and sprinting towards them. Their resounding war cries striking terror into lesser men. With no way of knowing whether the Ninth Legion had affected its naval landing or if the Twentieth successfully crossed its position on the far left, all Vespasian could do was lead his men forward, to where the battle now began in earnest.
Legionaries unleashed their javelins, leaving scores of enemy casualties in their wake. This made their companions slightly less bold, as the screams of the badly maimed resounded above their war cries. With swords drawn, the Romans advanced together as an impenetrable beast with quickly stabbing blades for teeth, ready to bite at those who foolishly stepped too close to them.
Vespasian called for his horse. Although he preferred to fight on foot with his men, he knew his place under these circumstances was not on the battle line. As the Second Legion pressed out into the open, the legate got his first clear view of the immediate tactical situation. Though the enemies’ numbers were vast, they seemed very disjointed with little to no sense of cohesion. Many who now faced the advancing Roman line were suddenly hesitant about pressing the attack, not least because of the numbers of killed and badly injured warriors who had been struck down by the volleys of javelins. This hesitation was by no means cowardice, but rather that inner desire for survival that all men and animals are born with. It was strange, too, in that it appeared that various bands of barbarians had not so much as left their campfires. Still lingering about, as if they were oblivious to the battle.
Vespasian watched as one warrior, probably a high ranking leader, gave a loud shout and charged forward with his large sword held overhead. A large band of his men followed, and they crashed hard into the Roman shield wall. A proper melee ensued, with centurions conducting passages-of-lines as their men wore down every couple minutes. With each successive assault more of the barbarians fell, killed or maimed on legionary blades. The Romans were suffering casualties as well, though these were comparatively few, protected as they were by their superior armor and disciplined tactics. Many of the wounded were helped to the rear of the formation by their friends in subsequent ranks, though a hapless few found themselves pulled off the battle line by their foes, where they were subsequently hacked to pieces. And yet the legion kept pressing forward, inflicting a terrible toll upon the Catuvellauni and their allies. If Togodumnus had thought numbers alone would win the day, he sadly had never considered the disciplined might of the armored Roman war machine.
Vespasian rode his horse down the line, watching as the reserve cohorts of his legion fanned out in either direction, taking their positions on the ends of the advancing force. Behind him he could also see the first wave of soldiers from the Fourteenth Legion following their eagle across the river. Overall, his portion of the battle was being executed as intended.
“The legion is across. All cohorts are ready to advance,” a tribune said,
as the sounds of trumpets and enemy war horns sounded in the far distance.
“Very good,” Artorius replied with a nod. “How far away do you suppose those are?”
“Hard to say,” the tribune replied. “They’re very faint, so my guess would be about ten miles.”
It was a strange circumstance, given that the equite tribunes were his political and social superiors, and yet because of how the chain-of-command worked within the legions, it was he who gave the orders.
He was still shivering from the cold of his swim which, despite his strength and physical prowess, had drained him completely. The sun was slowly rising, and the master centurion was grateful that the skies were relatively clear.
“Rider approaching, sir!” a legionary shouted.
Artorius was immediately alert and looked off to his left-front, grinning as he recognized the cavalry officer who rode up and quickly dismounted.
“Centurion Taurus!” he said, extending his hand. “I thought we’d lost your lot in the crossing.”
“We found a viable fording point a few miles downriver,” the cavalry centurion explained. “But the woods and undergrowth were so damn thick we could scarcely move. Had to make our way due west for a mile or so until we found our way out and then double-back. That’s where we saw them.”
“Who?”
“Enemy reinforcements,” Taurus explained, “about eight to ten thousand strong. They’re making their way up from the southwest.”