'How should I know? I'm not a bloody theatre director! Improvise.' 'And if that doesn't satisfy him?'
'Then the legion gets into battle a bit earlier than we bargained for.' 'He's seen me!' Pyrax stiffened nervously, before he remembered to raise an arm in greeting.
Cato eased himself forward until he could glimpse the approaching Briton through the sun-dappled ferns and stinging nettles. The man had reached the weir and reined in his horse. He called out again, the words still indistinct above the faint roar of tumbling water. Pyrax waved his hand again, and followed it with a slow, elaborate shake of the head. The Briton turned downriver and shouted something to his comrades, a short distance beyond. After a brief exchange the Briton dug his heels into his horse and continued approaching the river bend.
'What now?' Pyrax asked softly.
'When I say "now" you beckon him and steer the horse back round the bend until you are out of sight of the others. We'll jump him.' 'Great. And then?'
'One thing at a time.'
As Cato continued to watch from cover, the horseman walked his mount closer, his demeanour casual and unconcerned as he enjoyed the early summer morning. Cato wriggled back a short way and gently drew his sword. Taking his cue, the other men braced themselves to spring once the Briton had passed beyond them. Then when the man was no more than a hundred feet away, close enough for Cato to see beneath his helmet he was just a youngster, the shrill cry of a Celtic war horn carried up the river. The Briton checked his horse and turned back towards the band of horsemen. They were wheeling round, arms waving frantically, gesturing for him to come at once. With a final shout towards Pyrax, the young Briton turned his horse and kicked it into a trot towards his comrades who were already surging up the slope in the direction of the fortified river crossing.
'What shall I do?' asked Pyrax.
'Nothing. Stay still until they're out of sight.'
As Cato had expected, the Britons were in too much of a hurry to spare their lone scout any attention and the horsemen disappeared without a backward glance at Pyrax. When the youngster had disappeared into the trees, Pyrax relaxed his grip on the reins and slumped forward.
'Shit! That was close.'
'Nice work!' Cato smiled as he rose up and patted the horse on the side of its head.
'What was all that about? That blast on a horn.'
'I guess they've discovered the Batavians. You'd better get back to Vespasian at once and let him know what's happened. We'll continue down the river but I doubt we'll encounter any more of their scouts now. You get going.'
'Right!' Pyrax yanked the reins round and kicked in his heels. 'Pyrax!' Cato called after him. 'You'd better lose the helmet and cloak before you go if you want to survive long enough to make the report!'
The Eagles Conquest
Chapter Ten
A distant mass of infantry and cavalry was forming up behind the British fortifications as Vitellius looked anxiously towards the north-east. It was almost midday, the sky was a deep blue and the sun beat down on the two armies facing each other across the river. From where he stood he had a glorious view across the gently rolling landscape, much of it cleared for the cultivation of cereal crops, gently rippling like sheets of green silk in the light breeze. This land would make an excellent province for the empire, he decided, once its inhabitants had submitted to Rome and adapted to civilised ways. But that submission was not forthcoming. Indeed these people were proving to be a somewhat tougher nut to crack than the army had been led to believe. Their technical knowledge of modern warfare was sadly lacking but they fought with an elan that was most impressive.
As soon as the Roman warships had expended their incendiary ammunition, the Britons had scurried out from behind their earthworks and thrown up a screen of rubble-filled wicker baskets to protect them from the bolt-throwers as they repaired the fire damage. Many more men had been cut down in the process, but the Britons had simply heaved the corpses up onto the earth works. One particular warrior had proved extremely aggravating for the Roman artillery crews. He was a huge man, with a winged helmet over his blond hair, and he stood naked at the water's edge, shouting abuse at the Roman warships as he defiantly waved a double-headed axe. Every so often he would turn round and thrust his backside towards the enemy, defying them to do their worst. The navy were piqued by this haughty challenge, and the bolt-throwers on the nearest trireme had swung round towards the British warrior. He was proving to be remarkably agile and so far he had managed to avoid the bolts being fired at him. Indeed, the more insulting he got, the worse the crews' aim became in their desperation to nail him.
'Fools!' muttered General Plautius. 'Can't those idiots see what he's doing?'
'Sir?'
'Look, Vitellius.' The general pointed. The ship that was concentrating its fire on the blond warrior was also shielding the Britons from the other triremes, and their repair work continued apace. 'Bloody navy! Letting pride come before brains, as usual.'
'Shall I send a man to the fleet prefect, sir?'
'No point. By the time we reach him, and he gets a message to the captain of that ship, the bloody Britons will have finished their work and be settling down for an afternoon nap. All because some touchy naval officer can't cope with a barbarian waving his bloody arse in his face.'
Vitellius picked up the strained note in the general's voice and realised that the previous evening's plan was beginning to unravel. Not only had the navy failed to destroy the defences, they had failed even to damage them enough to clear the way for the subsequent infantry assault. And far from demoralising the Britons the navy had made the Romans look foolish by turning their wrath on one naked warrior. When the Ninth crossed the ford they would be facing an emboldened enemy fighting from behind fortifications. The success of the attack was no longer a foregone conclusion. To add to this problem, there had been no report on the progress of the Second Legion since it had crossed the river at first light. If Vespasian was manoeuvring according to plan, he would almost be in position now, ready to launch an attack on the Britons' right flank.
At the other end of the battlefield word had come back from the prefect in charge of the Batavian cohorts that the river crossing had been successful. The enemy had been caught on the hop, and all the men had formed up on the far bank before any serious counterattack could be launched by the Britons. Better still, the Batavians had run into a large unit of chariots. Undaunted by these impressive but outdated weapons, the Batavians had ploughed into them, attacking the horses first, as General Plautius had ordered. Without horses the chariots were useless, and all that remained to be done was the mopping up of the unmounted spearmen and their drivers.
So far so good.
But now Caratacus was wise to the weakness of the Roman force on his left flank and was rapidly moving to surround the Batavians and throw them back against the river. If that could be done quickly enough he would be able to redeploy his forces to meet the next attack Plautius had prepared. Now was the time for the Ninth Legion to make their move, to take the pressure off the Batavians and suck more Britons into the defence of the fortifications around the ford. And when Caratacus' last reserves had been committed then the Second Legion would emerge from the woods to the south-west and crush the enemy in an iron vice.
'Oh, sir!' Vitellius suddenly laughed. 'Look there!'
The naked warrior had finally paid the price for his bravery, and was sitting down, legs open and stretched out before him as he struggled with a bolt that had smashed into his hip. From the amount of blood that was flowing into the churned mud around him, a major artery must have been severed by the bolt. Even as they watched he was struck in the face by another bolt, and helmet and head burst into bloody fragments as the torso was hurled back by the impact.
'Good!' The general nodded. 'That should please the navy. Tribune, it's time for the main assault. Better get yourself a shield from someone.' 'Sir?'
'I need a good pair of eyes on the ground, Vitellius. Go in with
the first wave and make a note of all the defences you encounter, the nature of the ground you pass over, and any terrain we might be able to exploit if we have to go through it all over again. I'll have your report when you get back.'
If I get back, Vitellius reflected bitterly as he sized up the task facing the Ninth Legion. It would be dangerous down there, far too dangerous. Even if he survived, there was always the chance of suffering an injury so disfiguring that it would cause people to avert their gaze. Vitellius was vain enough to want affection and admiration as well as power. He wondered if the general might be persuaded to send a more expendable officer instead, and looked up. Plautius was watching him closely.
'There's no reason to delay, Tribune. Off you go.'
'Yes, sir.' Vitellius saluted and immediately commandeered a shield from one of the general's bodyguards, before making his way down to the two cohorts of the Ninth Legion earmarked for the first assault. The other eight cohorts were sitting down in the trampled grass that sloped towards the river. They would be afforded a spectacular view of the attack and would cheer their comrades on at the top of their voices when the time came – mostly out of a sense of self-preservation, for if the first wave failed, it would be their turn to face the Britons soon enough. Vitellius picked his way through the unit and made for the even lines of the First Cohort – every legion's teeth arm, a double strength unit trusted with the most dangerous tasks on any battlefield. Over nine hundred men stood to attention, spears grounded, silently surveying the dangers ahead of them.
The legate of the Ninth, Hosidius Geta, was standing immediately behind the First Century. At his side stood the legion's chief centurion and behind them the colour party surrounding the eagle standard.
'Afternoon, Vitellius,' Geta greeted him. 'You joining us?'
'Yes, sir. The general wants someone to analyse the ground as the attack goes in.'
'Good idea. We'll do our best to see you get to make your report.' 'Thank you, sir.'
Heads turned at the heavy irony lacing the tribune's reply but the legate was gentleman enough to let it pass.
Just then the headquarters trumpets blasted out a unit signal, followed by a short pause and then the call for advance.
'That's us.' The legate nodded to the chief centurion. Geta tightened the strap on his gaudily decorated helmet and drew in a deep breath to bellow out his orders.
'The First Cohort will prepare to advance!' A beat of three, and then, 'Advance!'
With the chief centurion calling out the pace, the cohort moved off in a rippling mass of bronze helmets, chinking links of mail and gleaming javelin tips, line after line of men marching straight down to the edge of the river where the water ran over a bank of shingle and weed.
Vitellius took his position just behind the legate, concentrating on keeping in step with the colour party. Then he was in the river, splashing into the brown churned-up water swirling in the wake of the First Century. To his right the nearest trireme seemed to be a vast floating fortress, towering up only fifty paces away. The faces of the crewmen were clearly visible on deck as they stepped up the bombardment of the far bank, softening up the defenders as much as possible before their army comrades struck home. The whack of the catapults and sharper cracks of the bolt-thrower arms carried clearly across the water, and were audible even above the infantry thrashing through the river.
The water quickly rose to his hips, and Vitellius glanced up in alarm to see that they were less than a third of the way across. The increase in depth slowed the advance and already the foremost lines were beginning to bunch up. The centurions in the following units slowed the pace and the cohort floundered on, water rising steadily until it was halfway up their chests. Vitellius saw that they were approaching the far bank, fifty paces away, and beyond that the looming mass of the British earthworks guarding the ford.
Suddenly there was a sharp cry ahead, then a few more, as the front rank encountered the first series of underwater obstacles – several lines of sharpened stakes driven into the river bed.
'Break ranks!' shouted the chief centurion at the top of his voice. 'Break ranks and watch out for them fucking spikes! When you've got, em, pull ' em up and move on!'
The advance faltered and then halted as the men of the First Cohort felt their way through the water, pausing to heave the stakes up, two and three men at a time. Gradually a path was cleared through to the far bank, and the advance continued past the handful of injured men being helped to the rear. The First Century had already climbed out of the river and was dressing its ranks on the muddy bank when the following units passed through the gap in the stakes.
Geta turned back to Vitellius with a wry smile. 'I'm afraid things are about to get hot, so keep that shield up!'
The triremes stopped firing and the noise of bolts and rocks flying through the air ceased. The flat trajectory was now too close to the heads of the infantry to continue. As soon as the barrage stopped, there was a great roar and braying of war horns from the Britons behind the earthworks. All along the palisade the enemy rose up and prepared to meet their attackers. A strange whirring sound filled the air, and before the Romans could react, the first volley of slingshot slashed into the foremost ranks of the cohort, knocking men to the ground as the vicious mixture of lead shot and stones cracked into their targets. Vitellius raised his shield just as a shot struck the boss, the numbing impact jolting every bone and nerve as far as his elbow. Glancing about he saw that the First Cohort had gone to ground, covering themselves as best they could against the fusillade. But the curved line of the fortifications meant that fire was coming in on three sides and continued to whittle down the attackers. At the same time the Second Cohort was emerging from the river. Unless something was done immediately, the attack would crumble into a heaving mass that would provide the British slingers with the best possible target.
Geta was squatting beside Vitellius in the middle of the colour party.
He checked the strap on his helmet, held his shield close and rose to his feet.
'First Cohort! Form testudo by centuries!'
The order was relayed at top parade-ground volume by the chief centurion and the men of each century were bullied back onto their feet by their centurions. The men realised that the testudo was their best chance of surviving the assault, and they quickly formed the wall and roof of protecting shields. The colour party sheltered behind the shields of Geta's bodyguards and watched the testudo tramp towards the earth works, under constant, but largely ineffective, fire. As the following cohorts mounted the bank, the same order was given, and each formation was ordered to make for a different section of the defences. The muddy ground between the river and the fortifications was littered with dead and injured. Those who could kept themselves covered with their shields against the British missiles whirling through the air. Vitellius was filled with a sickly sense of fear and excitement as the First Cohort reached the outer ditch and, struggling to retain their formation, slowly rippled over its edge.
When the testudo reached the slope up to the palisade a sharp order was given. The formation dissolved and each man scrambled up the earthworks towards the British warriors screaming war cries beneath their flowing serpent standards. With the steep incline against them and laden down with heavy equipment, the legionaries fared badly. Many were swept from their feet by the slashes of the Britons' long swords and axes, to tumble down into the ditch, bowling over their comrades as they fell. Here and there a handful of men forced a way through or over the palisade, but the weight of numbers was against them and these brave pockets were quickly overwhelmed and hurled back down the slope.
The fighting spread all along the wall but the other cohorts fared no better and the number of Roman bodies sprawled across the slope of the earthworks steadily grew.
'Sir, should we pull back?' Vitellius asked the legate.
'No. The orders were clear. We keep going at them until Vespasian can attack their rear. '
The legate's staff of
ficers exchanged worried glances. The Ninth were being cruelly punished for their headlong assault; they were bleeding to death while they waited for the Second Legion to attack. Looking round, Geta sensed the doubt in his men.
'Any moment now. Any moment the Second will attack. We just hold on until then.'
But already Vitellius could detect a change in the fight along the palisade. The legionaries were no longer rushing up the slopes, they were being driven to it by their centurions, bullied into attack by the blows from vine sticks. In several places the men were actually falling back from the wall, worn down by the effort and slowly but surely losing the will to continue the fight. The signs were unmistakable to everyone in the colour patty. The assault was crumbling before their eyes.
If Vespasian did not launch his attack immediately the costly efforts of the Ninth would have been in vain.
The Eagles Conquest
Chapter Eleven
'Why don't we attack?'
'Because we haven't been ordered to,' Macro replied harshly. 'And we sit tight until told otherwise.'
'But, sir, look at them. The Ninth are getting massacred.'
'I can see what's happening well enough, boy, but it's out of our hands.' Lying on their stomachs in the long grass growing along the crest of the low ridge, the skirmish line of the Sixth Century watched helplessly as the Britons smothered the Ninth's attack. For the inexperienced optio this was an unbearable agony. Barely a mile away his comrades were being slaughtered as they attempted to storm the earthworks. And yet not a hundred yards behind him the men of the Second Legion sat in silent concealment in the shadows of the trees. With one simple order they could sweep down the slope, catching the Britons between the two legions, and crush them totally. But the order had not been given.
'Here comes the legate.' Macro nodded back down the slope towards the trees. Vespasian came running up towards them, helmet tucked under his arm. A few yards short of the skirmish line the legate dropped down and crawled up beside Macro.
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