Hammer of Rome

by Douglas Jackson

  ‘The only terms they will offer your people are slavery and servitude,’ Cathal said brutally. ‘Your own words, Guiderius, of less than a week ago. You know them better than I. What price will they exact for this Roman blood you shed?’

  Guiderius’s eyes remained fixed on the distant hills, but his silence told Cathal he knew the answer well enough: his head.

  Eventually, the Brigante ruler said: ‘This is my land and these are my people and I will not abandon them, whatever the price. My mother shamed our nation when she sold Caratacus to Rome for a few more years of isolation, but of course they came back for more. Client state, they called us, a barrier between their civilization,’ his lips twisted into a bitter smile, ‘and the yet more barbarous tribes to the north. By my actions here I will repay my mother’s debt and restore Brigante pride.’

  Cathal turned to study their surroundings. Brynmochdar was a low hogback mound amidst a rolling landscape and not in itself a natural defensive position. He guessed it had originally been chosen as a gathering place, or perhaps a trading post, but its link to his mother blinded Guiderius to any flaws it might have as a fortress.

  Guiderius’s new rampart and ditch followed, as well as it could, the contours of the hill and would provide a formidable enough barrier if he were allowed to complete it. From what Cathal could see the ditch was too shallow and the earth mound behind it had crumbled in places, but there were not enough people to repair the damage. The stock pens stood on a flat area to the west of the original fort. Women and elders had begun to slaughter animals to provide meat for the thousands of workers’ evening meal. The plaintive lowing of the condemned beasts shut out the thump of spade and mattock, and the combined stink of animal dung, blood and offal assailed his nostrils. For the moment supplies were plentiful, but Cathal could see that a breakthrough at a single weak spot could change that in an instant. One of the few genuine advantages was the number of streams that ran through the fort, although the Romans could nullify that by damming or contaminating the water further upstream. He remembered winter nights around the fire when his father Dugald had talked of his time with Venutius. The old man spoke of walls of shields and warriors fighting not man to man, as the Selgovae and the Brigantes did, but as a single combined unit. It troubled Cathal that he couldn’t divine what advantage this gave them, but Dugald had been sure. Certainly, Venutius suffered a great defeat and the Romans placed his head on a pole and paraded it around the Brigante settlements. No doubt his skull was someone’s drinking bowl now. He prayed that would not be Guiderius’s fate, because, despite the other’s weaknesses as a man and a leader, he liked the little Brigante, but he feared it was a vain hope. ‘At least shorten your perimeter. Your walls are too long and your ditches too shallow to be defended by the warriors you have.’

  ‘When the Carvetii come …’

  ‘I cannot stay and fight beside you.’

  ‘I know,’ Guiderius acknowledged. ‘You must look to your own people now.’

  ‘But I will do what I can.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘We will try to disrupt their supply lines. Make them think they are assailed from the rear.’ He left unspoken the fact that his primary reason for remaining in the area was not to support Guiderius, but to study the Roman method of war. He intended to test his warriors against theirs, if he could manoeuvre a position that gave him a fair prospect of success.

  ‘I have one request.’ Guiderius sounded uncharacteristically hesitant.

  ‘You may ask anything of me.’

  ‘Take Gwlym with you.’

  ‘The blind druid?’ Cathal immediately regretted his offer. He remembered the malevolent, sneering features and red-rimmed, pus-filled eye sockets.

  ‘He disturbs the men with his talk of Boudicca and Mona. They say he carries death with him.’

  ‘We will be riding hard. It will be dangerous. Perhaps …’

  But Guiderius would not be diverted. ‘I will supply him with a good horse and a steady man to make sure he stays in the saddle. Do not make me plead, Cathal.’

  ‘Of course.’ The words choked in Cathal’s throat. The king shamed him. For all his faults Guiderius was a good man and a good friend. If he could hold the Romans here and hurt them it might give Cathal’s Selgovae another two seasons to prepare.

  A shout went up from the south wall and Cathal looked up to see a flare of orange on a faraway hill. As he watched it quickly spawned a towering pillar of smoke.

  ‘They are coming,’ Guiderius said quietly. ‘You should go.’

  Cathal turned and clasped his friend’s hand. ‘Fare well, lord king. I wish you the joy of victory.’

  ‘We will meet again, Cathal of the Selgovae.’

  Cathal nodded.

  But would it be in this world or the next?

  IV

  Valerius looked out from the hillside where Gaius Rufus had made his earlier estimate of the enemy strength and found himself in agreement with his scout. Brynmochdar was the largest hill fort he’d encountered in Britannia. It was an immense place. The walls encompassed more land than those of some great cities, probably three or four times longer than the ramparts of the original colonia. In the hazy dawn light it appeared dangerously formidable, but a closer look with a soldier’s eye revealed a slightly different picture.

  To his front warriors lined the wooden palisade several deep, long hair fluttering in the light breeze and spear points glinting, but away to the flanks he noticed that the numbers thinned out and some sections weren’t manned at all. Anticipation welled up inside him as he studied the defences themselves. The palisade and shallow single ditches might have had Salve written over them for all the obstacle they posed to a legionary cohort. Beyond them lay a broad open space where thousands of people milled to find a vantage point to view the attackers. A mistake, because that human barrier would make it difficult for King Guiderius to move reinforcements within his perimeter. Cattle pens and rough supply huts thrown up in recent days further hindered internal movement. In the distance, close to the centre of the complex, he could see the raised mound of what looked like a more solid fortification. The inner stronghold called for some attention, but he’d worry about that when the time came.

  Valerius had ridden to the fort with the advance party of two auxiliary cavalry wings. On the flat ground between the two rises a thousand troopers were laid out in their squadrons like a giant mosaic, struggling to keep their mounts still amidst the swarms of buzzing flies. The bulk of the Ninth was still on the march from the temporary camp a few miles to the south.

  ‘Cornelius?’ He called to the commander of his personal guard. ‘Take two squadrons of Gauls and ride a quick circuit of the place. Make the defenders think you pose a threat despite your numbers. The odd rush at the walls when you consider it safe, but don’t risk anyone. There’s no point in losing men just to confirm what you see with your own eyes.’

  ‘Legate.’ Felix snapped a quick salute and rode off, shouting for Nilus, his trumpeter. A short series of calls rang out and two units of thirty men detached from the mass of cavalry and followed Felix east along the front of the low scarp defending Brynmochdar. Not a steep scarp, by any means, especially not at the great double gate where the raw, newly cut timbers shone like gold in the morning sunlight. Valerius remembered a hill fort he’d stormed a long time ago as a fresh-faced young tribune who still had his right hand. There had been lines of great ditches that funnelled the attackers into blind alleys and killing zones, hidden trenches filled with wooden stakes, and boiling water pouring from above. The gradient steepened with every step until each breath threatened to choke a man and his legs felt as though they were on fire. The rattle of arrows and boulders on the triple oak shields that were the only thing keeping the soldiers alive. Then the gate.

  ‘Have the Second cohort find a suitable baulk of timber and fit it to the ram,’ he ordered. ‘Something impressive that will make them think we really mean to have that gate.’

&nb
sp; The gate was the key. Not because Valerius planned to break through at that point, but because it was where he wanted the Brigantes to believe he intended to break through. He waited patiently until a new blast of horns announced the arrival of his legion.

  The front ranks of the Ninth marched into view in the attack formation he’d ordered. Three cohorts off to the east to threaten the walls beyond the gate; solid, compact slabs of heavily armed and armoured infantry almost five hundred men strong. Four more to form up directly opposite the gate, with the Second cohort and their ram in the centre. And, closest to Valerius but fifty or sixty feet below, a further three cohorts almost equal in numbers to the four opposite the gate, because one was the double-strength First.

  The legionaries wore a mix of either chain armour vests or the more recently introduced lorica segmentata plate. Men favoured chain because it had fewer buckles, could be donned in seconds and was easier to keep rust free as long as you could access a few handfuls of sand. Others swore by the plate on account of its lightness and flexibility. They were willing to expend the time it took to strap on the thirty-four separate elements because plate would turn the point of a spear that would penetrate chain if the thrust was powerful enough. Beneath the armour, their tunics might once have been called red, but depending on age and wear covered every shade from off-white through pink and various combinations of terracotta to bright scarlet. They marched ready to fight, a pair of javelins on their right shoulders and left arms toting their big triple-layered oak shields, heads encased in polished iron helmets equipped with neck guards and cheekpieces. Every man carried a gladius, the legionary’s deadly short sword, in a scabbard attached to the belt at his waist.

  Four cohorts of auxiliary infantry, a further two thousand soldiers, stood in reserve, but Valerius was confident he wouldn’t have to use them. He felt a surge of elation. The Brigantes were precisely where he wanted them, trapped in the great cage they’d created for themselves.

  Agricola had promised two cohorts of the Twentieth and his own hallowed presence, but Valerius didn’t plan to wait for either. This would be the Ninth’s victory, and the triumph would be all the greater for the overwhelming numbers they faced, perhaps four or five times their own. The question was how many of the enemy were up for the fight?

  Gaius Rufus had partially answered the question. The little scout had intercepted a tribe slinking away from the great fortress the previous night and they’d provided all the information Valerius needed about the scene laid out before him. King Guiderius commanded, probably from the central fort, guarded by every warrior loyal to him, and, of course, the giant barbarian prince whose presence so excited Agricola. It would be Valerius’s pleasure to lead him to the governor at the end of a rope.

  A thunder of hooves announced the return of Felix and his Gauls. The young decurion leapt from his horse and sprinted up the bank to join Valerius. ‘You were right, lord, they don’t have enough men to defend the whole perimeter in any depth. The northern ditch and palisade is unfinished in places. I’d suggest that a feint attack in the east to draw the defence and an all out assault in the centre would probably carry the walls, unless it’s a ruse to draw us in.’

  ‘There is always that possibility,’ Valerius agreed. ‘But judging by the lack of depth in the defences here in the south I doubt it’s the case.’ He drew the cavalryman aside. ‘Pass on your recommendation to the commander of the Ala Petriana and the First Asturians, but as an order from me. Petriana to take the lead. They are to wait until the legion is fully engaged before they proceed with any attack.’

  ‘Cohorts signalling they’re in position, legate,’ Valerius’s second in command Quintus Naso announced.

  No point in delaying any further. ‘Order the artillery to loose,’ Valerius said. A young signaller stationed further up the hill waved a red pennant back and forth above his head. Along the line, each scorpio and ballista team would be tensed for the signal.

  A series of staccato thumps announced a volley from the closest machines and Valerius knew it would be being repeated all along the line. He had no siege towers to deploy and none of the large catapults Corbulo had put to such good use at the battle of the Cepha Gap. Even so, the legion’s smaller missile throwers were capable of dispensing death on a horrific scale. He heard the first crunching impacts and the shrieks of the Celtic warriors massed in such tempting numbers at the perfect range for a flat trajectory. Half of the pieces were scorpiones, heavy, reinforced mechanical bows that could fire a big five-foot bolt four or five hundred paces depending on the conditions. ‘Shield-splitters’ the legionaries called them. They were well named and they’d be just as deadly against the painfully thin palisade. Skimming the top of the wall, where the bravest were cavorting and howling insults on their makeshift earthen fighting platform, the bolts would remove heads and smash skulls before spitting those further behind. Even if the aim was low the arrow was as likely to pierce the wall of wooden branches as not, and with the same results.

  The stone-throwing ballistae which made up the balance of the artillery could be even more devastating to body and morale. The ten-pound missiles simply smashed through flesh and bone until the sheer number of victims slowed their momentum. Valerius had seen warriors torn in half, with great gaping holes in their torsos, men with ribcages torn asunder to reveal still-beating hearts; arms, legs and heads ripped from bodies. Even the splinters of smashed bone from the initial victims could maim those around them. Any missile which overshot the front ranks caused similar carnage among the thousands of women and children crowded behind the warriors to watch the legion deploy.

  Valerius allowed the barrage to continue until the fire from the ballista teams began to slow. He could almost feel the urgency of the legionary cohorts as they stood in their tight-packed squares tensed for the order to advance.

  ‘Have we had any word from Governor Agricola?’

  ‘None, sir,’ Naso confirmed.

  Patience, Valerius, patience. He gave them another three volleys. ‘Signal the attack.’

  Above him the signaller waved a green flag three times.

  Away to his right the four cohorts in front of the gate attacked in a sudden disciplined rush, but he had to wait a dozen frozen heartbeats before the flanking units began their slow deliberate march. Now the Brigante king would be torn between sending warriors to reinforce his most threatened sector at the gate, or keeping them to combat the apparently less urgent hazard to the walls on either side. Valerius had massed his stone-throwing ballistae in front of the flanking cohorts with orders to concentrate their fire directly on the fragile wooden palisade. The resulting damage resembled a mouth full of rotting teeth, with gaps and jagged stumps all along the line, and mutilated, dead and dying Brigante warriors piled up behind. Yet thousands more stood behind the parapet of dead, tattooed, bare-chested and howling their defiance, urging the Romans towards their spears.

  Valerius gave the gateway attack one last glance before focusing his attention on the main thrust. If the gate fell, so much the better. The left and right hand cohorts stood ready to capitalize on the ram’s success, but they deliberately hung back a little to the side of their ostensible target. The centre pair of cohorts had already formed testudo as they approached the gateway under a hail of slingshots, spears, arrows and large stones. Stray missiles found gaps between the shields and left a few casualties crawling or coughing up blood in their wake. So far everything was going to plan.

  Valerius’s greatest hope of success depended on the three left hand cohorts. Theirs was the steepest part of the scarp, but also where the ballistae had done the most damage. He’d used all his experience to plan the attack. It was based on a much more difficult investment of Cremona more than a decade before, where the city had been defended by veteran legionaries and surrounded by stone walls. The First cohort led this sector of the attack. Eight hundred men deployed in five double-strength centuries, two in the van and three behind to form an arrow head. They advanced i
n testudo so the attackers within the carapace of linked shields could ignore the slingshots and spears that rained down on them. As they approached the ditch, the first two centuries transformed seamlessly into eight normal half centuries advancing in two ranks of four. Concealed in the ranks of one of the following cohorts three centuries of Thracian auxiliary archers moved to take up position where they could swamp the defenders with arrows. At first it appeared the foremost half centuries must be trapped in the defensive ditch and either slaughtered or forced to turn back. Instead, those in the van combined to create a sloping ramp of shields on to which the following half centuries leapt. Balancing on the trembling platform they immediately formed testudo and were able to tear at the shattered remains of the palisade in a perfectly timed assault. The defenders threw themselves at the locked shields, but all they won for their trouble was a handspan of gladius and a lingering death. Within moments the legionaries created a perimeter line a hundred paces wide. Even before it was complete the following centuries and cohorts poured over the human bridges to add their weight to the attack. Valerius saw a veteran centurion in their midst take control and suddenly the perimeter was expanding left and right and forward to create a greater tactical space to be exploited. As if by metamorphosis a cohort wedge the soldiers called a Boar’s Head formed within the Roman bridgehead: a compact arrowhead of six centuries. With barely a pause for breath they charged to smash into the heart of the mass of stunned defenders. Simultaneously, the cohort on the right of the attack, which had been supporting the assault on the gate, took advantage of the confusion to make their own lunge at the walls in coordination with the expanding perimeter, causing yet more confusion and dismay among the defenders.

  ‘Shit.’ Valerius turned at Naso’s muttered curse. Of course, it had all been going too well. When the Boar’s Head smashed into the defenders a century detached and, driven by battle madness or simple over-enthusiasm, sprinted in open order towards the ultimate prize, the fort at the centre of the great compound. It was magnificent. It was brave. The type of thing Valerius had done when a battle was at its cusp. Win, and the man who led it was a Hero of Rome; lose … and you were dead. Hundreds of Brigante warriors erupted from a piece of broken ground on to the flank of the charging men and they disappeared in a welter of falling swords and plunging spears.