The morning. And victory.
Cathal had more than twenty thousand men at his command. Something like fourteen thousand would attack the temporary fort of the Ninth. He knew the defences would be formidable, but his numbers were so overwhelming they would simply swamp the defenders.
His scouts had been watching the Roman columns advance for weeks and they estimated their strength as much lower than the previous year. Perhaps the gods had brought some disease to strike them down, but whatever the reason it gave him a great advantage that might not last. Cathal reckoned the defenders of the western camp numbered fewer than four thousand men, and the entire Roman force fourteen thousand at best.
If he could smash the first Roman camp quickly and regather his forces to attack the second, Agricola was doomed. After his victory he would turn south, destroying the occupiers where he found them, and then …
He dashed the dream from his mind. ‘We must be in position just after dusk.’
Of course, they weren’t in position just after dusk, or anything like it. This was the first time Cathal had attempted a manoeuvre with so many warriors from different tribes in the darkness and in total silence, although he’d done what he could to ease their passage, sending scouts in advance to locate and identify the gathering points he’d chosen among the trees and scrub overlooking the western Roman outpost.
They’d positioned the camp where he’d predicted, on a piece of higher ground overlooking a river crossing. He’d slipped past the outlying cavalry defenders and watched with something like admiration as the soldiers transformed the rough slope into a formidable defensive position. A single ditch surrounded the perimeter, which was something like three or four hundred paces a side, with the spoil piled to create a mound in the rear before the earth was topped with sharpened wooden stakes. At one point the soldiers were forced to hack their way through a rocky outcrop to continue the ditch, and he studied this operation with particular care. While men excavated the ditch others marked out areas with coloured flags, raised lines of tents well away from the walls where they might be vulnerable to spears, built ovens and dug latrine pits. The frenzied activity, so meticulously regulated, fascinated and concerned him. He knew no gathering of tribesfolk could ever be persuaded to work with such precise coordination.
The only points of access and exit were four gates, one in each side, where a causeway crossed the ditch, guarded against a direct frontal attack by a raised mound of earth. Yet for all their efforts the Romans couldn’t alter one natural flaw in their defensive position. A hillside dominated the north flank, and although it was being cleared by men with axes this too he studied with interest. When Cathal was satisfied he had identified every strength and weakness he withdrew and made his plans. Now he feared those plans would never come to fruition.
Time was his enemy, and it flowed through his fingers like water. Donacha’s Venicones were late to start their march from the gorge. It turned out that, affable and loyal as he was, Donacha was a fussy, nervous commander who didn’t have the confidence to hurry the disparate veterans who led his war bands. They, in turn, argued over who should have precedence, and the result was a delay of more than an hour. When they did get started, progress was slow over the rough ground. One chief lost his marker, leaving an entire tribe wandering around leaderless in the darkness. Another decided he’d found an easier route and ended up blocked from his destination by the force that had remained on the main track. Even Cathal’s Selgovae weren’t immune from the chaos and he spent hours sweating and cursing, harrying the sluggards and prodding the feckless into position. Every few moments his eyes would drift fearfully to the eastern mountains for evidence of the first glow of dawn that would signal the abandonment of the attack or discovery by the enemy. Yet gradually messengers appeared out of the darkness to announce that their commanders were in position. He allowed a short pause for rest before he gave the signal.
‘Now,’ he whispered to Colm.
The Selgovae put his hands to his mouth and the high pitched ‘Kyick’ of a circling buzzard echoed through the darkness. Cathal had originally suggested the cry of a hunting owl, but Colm pointed out there were so many of the real thing the chances of one precipitating a premature attack were too great. They could only hope that the Romans couldn’t tell the one from the other.
All around him men began to move forward in the darkness.
LI
Quintus Naso completed his inspection of the Ninth’s temporary camp by torchlight and, much as he expected, found everything to his satisfaction. The men carried out these duties every night with the same precision they conducted manoeuvres on the battlefield. If they showed any sign of complacency their centurions were quick to remind them of their duty.
It wasn’t the perfect defensive position. Agricola’s insistence on the necessity for mutual support dictated that the gap between each of the army’s positions should be less than an hour’s march. If not in line of sight, the sentries in each camp should be capable of seeing the pair of fire arrows that were the signal help was required.
This sloping, heather-clad hillside overlooking the river was the best the engineers could find within that narrow field of options. It was only after the camp had been laid out that they’d discovered that the west side of the position was a thin layer of earth overlaying solid rock. That had meant a slight but unfortunate constriction in the camp perimeter boundary, and much sweating and cursing from the soldiers forced to hack and chip their way through the rock to complete their portion of ditch.
His greatest concern lay on the north side of the camp where the palisade was overlooked by a steep hillside blanketed in scrubby oak and ash. If enemy spearmen managed to creep down the slope they’d be in a position to swamp the defenders on that wall with missiles and the Roman pila wouldn’t have the range to reply. The praefectus castrorum had countered the threat by placing one of the legion’s artillery pieces, an onager catapult or a scorpio shield-splitter, every thirty paces. Naso ordered men to clear the slope of trees to provide a clearer field of fire and doubled the sentries.
‘Who has the watch tonight?’ he asked the duplicarius in charge of setting the guard.
‘The First cohort of the Usipi have the initial three watches.’
Naso pursed his lips in distaste. The Usipi had been recruited from beyond the Rhenus during Vespasian’s campaign to strengthen the frontier, though impressed was probably the better word. Fine warriors, every one a young man in his prime, they were unwilling soldiers with no love for Rome. Agricola had brought them on campaign only with the greatest reluctance. But the only alternative was an even more recently recruited cohort of Brigantes, still raw, wild and only half disciplined. The last thing he wanted on his walls at night was an untrained Celt who’d probably have felt more at home with the enemy than in Roman armour.
‘Make sure their officers keep a close eye on them,’ he ordered. ‘In fact, I want every eighth man to be a Roman officer.’
He knew the order would irritate the man and annoy the Usipi commander even more, but Rufus’s message from Valerius rang in his ears. No compromise on defence. It still puzzled him why the governor had kept Valerius with him at the Twentieth’s camp. Rufus, normally so loquacious, had gone strangely quiet when he’d asked the reason. Naso was happy enough to be in charge, but every man in the legion knew that a rift had occurred between Valerius and Agricola, and many speculated on the reasons for it.
Naso had a feeling it had much to do with the governor’s curious lethargy and his insistence on consolidating every piece of captured ground with forts that ate up the army’s manpower. As a result of Emperor Domitian’s demands the Ninth was down to just over half its strength, with fewer than a hundred cavalry and auxiliary infantry cohorts of questionable quality.
He remembered the moment during the punishment raid on the Venicones. Naso had no regrets about suggesting Valerius would make a better governor than the current incumbent. In many ways Julius Agricola wa
s a bureaucrat in a legate’s armour. More happy with a stylus in his hand than a sword, caution was his watchword. It galled the men that they’d been campaigning for four years and seemed no closer to destroying the enemy’s strength than in the beginning.
In Naso’s opinion the job would have been done in half the time with Valerius in charge. He would have found a way to bring the Selgovae to battle with the might of all three legions and either killed or captured the legendary Calgacus. Without Calgacus the other northern tribes would have been forced to come to terms.
Perhaps he was wrong and Agricola’s bid to lure Calgacus would succeed, but the giant Celt had never taken the bait in the past. The main thing that worried him was the governor’s decision to split his force. If they were close enough to provide mutual support in an emergency why not just stay together? As far as Naso could see the Twentieth’s camp was like the plug in an amphora. All it needed was a few watchtowers to ensure the Celts didn’t slip past unseen and the result would be the same.
He stared out into the darkness. The likelihood was that they’d be here for some time. Tomorrow he would order the construction of a second ditch and bank, rocks or no rocks. For the moment one fact gave him a certain comfort. No Celt had ever dared attack a Roman fortress of this size and strength.
‘Carry on,’ he told the duplicarius, and walked back to the praetorium and his cot.
Two hours later he woke with the certainty his world was ending. Outside the praetorium tent the alarm bell clanged with deafening sound. He threw on his tunic and a servant helped him into his plate armour. Julius, one of the junior military tribunes, dashed into the tent. ‘What’s happening?’ Naso demanded as he strapped on his sword.
‘Celts outside the north wall, lord.’
‘How many?’
‘The decurion couldn’t say for certain, but he estimates a substantial force.’
The servant completed the last straps and Naso rushed from the praetorium with his headquarters staff and his bodyguard section. They raced through the darkness to the baggage carts parked along the Via Sagularis inside the threatened wall. A messenger reported that the two reserve cohorts, including the double-strength First, were already in position on the parade square and ready to respond to an attack from any quarter. An archer ran up to join the group, followed by two slaves carrying an iron bucket full of hot coals.
Should he send the emergency signal?
Not yet. First he had to discover if this was a mere provocation. It could be a feint attack to get him to hold his position while the Celts hit the Twentieth with a larger force, or, more likely, made their escape from Agricola’s trap. They paused thirty paces short of the palisade where two centuries of the Second cohort, the unit assigned to defend the position, waited in reserve.
‘Careful, sir,’ a centurion warned. ‘They’re sending over showers of spears every few minutes.’
‘Testudo,’ Naso ordered. With a rattle of overlapping wood his bodyguard instantly surrounded him with a protective carapace of shields. ‘To the parapet.’
They advanced at a walk, ignoring the sharp clatter of spears and slingshots against the seasoned oak of the legionary scuta. The ground rose beneath Naso’s feet as they arrived at the north wall. Crixus, the centurion commanding the palisade’s defenders, was peering into the stygian darkness.
‘What’s happening?’ Naso demanded.
‘Beg to report a sentry heard movement during the first hour of the second watch.’ Crixus’s deep voice had an edge that betrayed his tension. ‘He thought it might just be deer, but we manned the wall just in case. Next thing we knew there was a rush of screaming Celts from the darkness. Thousands, it sounded like. By Fortuna’s favour we were ready for them. A cast of pila and a volley from the shield-splitters stopped them dead and since then all they’ve been doing is making the odd feint to keep us honest,’ he ducked down as a missile hissed out of the darkness, just missing his helmet, ‘and annoying us with their spears and slingshots, but that’s about it.’
‘So they didn’t press the attack?’
‘No,’ Crixus admitted. ‘They just stood at the other side of the ditch screaming in that foul language of theirs, then retreated when we used the onagri and scorpiones on them.’
‘A feint, then?’
‘It didn’t feel like it at the time,’ the centurion said ruefully. ‘But the more I think about it, yes.’
Before Naso could reply the strident blare of a horn split the night and a great roar erupted across the camp. ‘The east gate.’ He was already moving away and the testudo closed in around him. ‘Hold this wall with your current strength at all costs,’ he called. ‘I may have to call on your reserves. Julius?’ He called to his aide. ‘As quickly as you can. My compliments to the First cohort. They should reinforce the defenders on the east wall.’ His heart was racing, but his voice was calm. Twenty years of experience told him he was making the right decisions. There was just one more thing. This second attack was no feint. ‘Signaller, loose your warning arrows.’
They waited while the archer dipped the first pitch-soaked arrow into the brazier and sent the flaming missile arcing high into the night sky, swiftly followed by another. Naso watched the second arrow fall in a glowing arc, knowing that reinforcements would soon be on their way from the Twentieth. He felt excitement, but, as yet, no concern. Twelve hundred of the best-trained, best-armed and best-disciplined troops in Britannia were now defending the east wall. He would back them to hold off any number of barbarians.
In the same moment Cathal launched his real attack.
He’d identified the weakness during his daylight study of the camp. The Romans assigned to cut the ditch through the rocky ground on the western flank had the most difficult task. Every foot they excavated took ten times the effort of their brothers digging in the relatively soft peat. When they piled the rocky spoil on top of the bank and placed their defensive stakes he noticed their frustration as they tried to secure the five-foot posts of the palisade. They were still working while every other unit in the fort ate and rested. Eventually they completed the task, but as he watched them clean their tools something became clear to him. As long as their section looked as strong as the adjoining walls the leaders of these men were satisfied. It had given him his idea.
The sword brothers of the Selgovae and their Venicones allies spent the day manufacturing two kinds of wooden hurdle. One was three paces long and two wide and constructed of tightly woven branches, the other smaller, but heavier, consisting of three or four timbers roped together. Eight thousand men silently worked their way into position while the guards were distracted by the two feint attacks. Cathal used the two fire arrows as his signal to advance. The Celtic warriors launched themselves towards the camp’s defences, using the light hurdles to protect them from the Roman javelins that rained down as the guards reacted. When they reached the stone-cut ditch they used their burdens to bridge the gap in a hundred places. Warriors sprinted across the bridges and smashed the heavy hurdles into the palisade of stakes. Even firmly embedded, the frail walls might have succumbed to the battering rams, but these stakes were planted in thin soil laced with rocks and stones. As the wall disintegrated and thousands of Selgovae and Venicones warriors poured into the camp, the defenders, soldiers of the despised Usipi auxiliary unit, threw down their weapons and fled.
Standing amid the wreckage of the wall with the lifeless body of a Roman officer who’d been one of the few to stand and fight at his feet, Cathal felt a surge of exaltation. Howling warrior bands surged past him, hunting down the surviving defenders until all resistance on this side of the camp had been shattered. By now the men holding the north and east walls would know they’d been outflanked. If they stood and fought they’d be assailed on three sides. Their only hope was to join up with the other components of the beleaguered garrison. And that was what Cathal wanted.
He would kill them all.
‘Come.’ He led his bodyguard past supply wagons i
nside the wall and through the lines of tents, many already flattened, the flaps wide and the soldiers’ belongings scattered around the entrances. One tent was in flames and in the flickering yellow light Cathal bent to pick up a small metal figure from the dirt. A woman in a long dress, with braided hair and one arm raised in a gesture that might be welcome or dismissal. A legionary’s wife or lover? A goddess? A commotion among the tents to his left drew his attention. In the darkness dozens of warriors had stopped to seek plunder, squabbling noisily over the choicest pieces.
‘Get those men moving,’ he told Colm. ‘They’ll have plenty of time when the Romans are dead.’
The veteran warrior led Cathal’s bodyguard into the mass of men, lashing out left and right with the flat of their swords. Cathal wondered how many more men had stopped to look for treasure or to avoid the fighting. To achieve a swift victory here and to move against the camp of the Twentieth legion before dawn he needed every available warrior.
As Cathal moved forward through the chaos he tried to gauge the ebb and flow of the battle from what he could hear. Shouts, screams and the clash of arms from right and left told him that at least a few defenders on this side of the camp continued to fight. Somewhere ahead of him a Roman trumpet blared and he wondered what it signified. A glint of metal in the darkness and the shadowy figure of a Roman soldier, helmet gone and head bleeding, charged from Cathal’s left. He held a long spear aimed at the big Selgovae’s chest.
Cathal turned towards his attacker and in one movement sidestepped the point and brought his hammer round in an arc that smashed the legionary’s shoulder and threw him off his feet. Colm stepped out of the darkness and stilled the shuddering body with a thrust to the throat.
‘Let’s hope they are all so easy to kill.’ Cathal’s sword brother grinned.
‘Let’s hope not all of them are so brave,’ the Selgovae king countered.
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