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 earthworks, 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 officers 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 party. 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.
Chapter Eleven
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‘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.
‘How’s the Ninth doing, Centurion?’
‘Doesn’t look good, sir.’
‘Any signs of movement from the enemy’s reserves?’
‘None, sir.’
Behind the British lines sat several thousand men, calmly waiting to be called into action. Vespasian smiled with grim admiration of the enemy general’s coolness. Caratacus knew the value of keeping a fresh reserve in hand and had firm control over his coalition of tribal levies. The selfish pursuit of tribal glory had led to the destruction of more than one Celtic army in the past. Caratacus had even resisted the Batavian bait offered up by Plautius. Just enough men had been released to repulse the Roman auxiliaries and hold them back against the river. There, in the distance, well beyond the earthworks defending the ford, a loose milling of men and horses revealed the plight of the Batavians.
Vespasian turned away from the spectacle. Compassion for his comrades urged him to order his legion to charge to the rescue. But that temptation had been foreseen by Aulus Plautius, and the general had stressed that his orders must be followed to the letter. The Second was to remain concealed until Caratacus had committed his reserves to the defence of the fortifications. The attack would be signalled by the massed trumpeters from the general’s headquarters on the Roman bank. Only when the Britons were fully engaged would Vespasian be permitted to launch his attack. Only then.
Vespasian noticed that the optio was giving him a bitter look, and to emphasise the point the boy gave an almost imperceptible nod down the slope. The insubordinate gesture was quite deliberate, but it was understandable and Vespasian forced himself to let it pass.
‘Keen to get stuck in then, young Cato?’
‘Yes, sir. As soon as we can, sir.’
‘Good lad!’ Vespasian cl
apped him on the shoulder before turning to the centurion. ‘The command post is just inside the woods there.’ He pointed to where the legion’s colour party was failing to look inconspicuous at the edge of the trees. ‘If anything develops down by the river, send a runner to me immediately.’
As the legate scrambled back down the slope, he felt the eyes of the entire Sixth Century follow him with the resentment all common soldiers feel for senior officers who seem to sacrifice their men needlessly. Of course it was unfair – Vespasian was under orders and could not do anything about the situation. He shared Cato’s angry helplessness and would dearly have liked to explain the general’s battle plan and demonstrate why the men of the Second had to sit and watch while their comrades died. But to share such confidences with a mere optio was unthinkable.
The colour party moved even more indiscreetly towards the edge of the trees as their legate approached.
‘What the bloody hell are you doing?’ he shouted angrily. ‘Get back out of sight.’ When they were once more among the trees, the legate called the senior officers of the legion over to him.
‘I want the legion moved up to within twenty paces of the ridge there. They’re to be formed up ready for battle, and to move forward the instant I give the order. Colour party with me.’
As the tribunes and senior centurions dispersed to pass the word to the rest of the legion, Vespasian led the colour party up to the spot indicated and a battle line was quickly marked out with the small red pegs designed for the task. Leaving the staff officers to their duties, the legate rejoined the Sixth Century and was horrified to see the new mounds of Roman bodies littering the wrong side of the ford’s defences. On the far bank of the river another legion, the Fourteenth, was quickly marching down towards the shallows to support the Ninth. As its First Cohort plunged into the slack current, passing the column of wounded streaming back to the Roman lines, Cato stirred in the long grass beside the legate, craning his neck to see better.
‘Down, you fool!’
Cato instantly obeyed, and then turned to his legate. ‘Sir! Did you see? The river’s getting deeper.’
‘Deeper? Nonsense! Unless the tide . . .’
The legate quickly looked up and stared hard at the river. The optio was right, it was deeper. Vespasian could see that the incoming tide was threatening to make the ford impassable. By the time the Fourteenth had crossed, the water would be too deep to permit a retreat. With cold dread he realised that this was something no one had considered the previous night when the general had gone over his plan. Surely he must see it now. Surely he must order the recall before two Roman legions were caught in the killing ground on the British-held side of the river. But there was no trumpet call, no shrill blaring of the bucinas to save the men of the Fourteenth from sharing the fate of the Ninth. Instead, the legion waded on, chest-high in the quickening current.
‘Poor bastards!’ muttered Macro. ‘They’ll be crucified.’
The uneven ranks of the Fourteenth struggled across the river. Men were almost up to their necks in the churning water now, and the watchers on the hill could well imagine the fear of the men crossing. And still no recall.
Behind the enemy line word had been passed of the new threat approaching their fortifications and the tribes surged forward to the crest of the ridge to watch the approach of another legion. Any sense of order their chiefs had struggled to maintain quickly dissolved as the Britons poured through the crude gateways, making for their comrades defending the palisade.
Vespasian watched as dense columns of his men emerged from the forest and moved into position. A few more moments and all would be ready. His ears strained for the first sound of the trumpets ordering the Second into action. But the air remained thick with the sounds of the battle below, unbroken by any trumpet call. By the time the Second Legion was formed up and ready to advance, the defenders on the palisade had been swelled by thousands more screaming to get their share of the promised bloodbath. And still no trumpets.
‘Something’s wrong.’
‘Sir?’ Macro turned to him.
‘We should have heard the headquarters trumpets by now.’
Then a dreadful thought occurred to Vespasian. Maybe he had missed the signal. Maybe the order had been given already and the men down by the river were desperately searching the ridge for any sign of relief.
‘Did either of you hear anything while I was back at the command post? Any signal?’
‘No, sir,’ Macro replied. ‘Nothing.’
Chapter Twelve
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‘Where the hell is the Second?’ Vitellius asked bitterly, not for the first time. Legate Geta exchanged a look with his chief centurion and briefly raised his eyes before drawing closer to the tribune crouching beneath his shield.
‘A quiet word of advice: officers should always consider how their demeanour affects the men around them. If you want to make a career out of the army you must set a good example. So let’s have no more of this nonsense about the Second, all right? Now get off your belly and stand up.’
At first Vitellius was incredulous. Here they were, right in the middle of a first-class military disaster, and Geta was more concerned about etiquette. But the contemptuous looks he was getting from the veterans who made up the command party shamed him. He nodded, swallowed, and rose to his feet, taking his place with the rest of the officers and standard bearers. The fire they had at first attracted from the British slingers had slackened as soon as the cohorts charged the palisade and now only the occasional quick shot could be spared in their direction.
Even so, two of the Ninth’s tribunes had been downed. One lay dead at the foot of the eagle standard, his face shattered by the impact of a lead shot. The other had just been struck on the shin. The bone was smashed. The young officer was white-faced with the effort not to let out a cry as he looked at the bone protruding from his skin. Vitellius was relieved when a burly legionary heaved the tribune up onto his shoulders and headed back across the river.
And there, surging down the slope and into the water came the Fourteenth Legion. For an instant Vitellius’ spirits soared at the prospect of reinforcements, a feeling shared by the rest of the colour party, until they saw how the tide was slowly covering the ford. Vitellius turned back to the legate, unable to conceal his alarm.
‘What’s the general up to?’
‘It’s all in the plan,’ Geta replied calmly. ‘You should know, you were at the briefing.’
‘But the river! We won’t be able to get back across unless we withdraw now, sir.’ Vitellius looked round the colour party despairingly. Surely someone would agree with him, but the contempt in their expressions only deepened. ‘We can’t just sit here, sir. We must do something. Before it’s too late.’
Geta regarded him silently for a moment, then pursed his lips and nodded. ‘You are right, of course, Vitellius. We must do something.’ Turning to the colour party, he drew his sword. ‘Raise the eagle. We’re going to advance.’
‘What?’ Vitellius stared at him in disbelief, and shook his head, desperately trying to think of a way to talk the legate out of the crazy decision. ‘But, sir. The eagle – what if it’s lost?’
‘It won’t be, once the men see it right at the front. Then they’ll fight to the last drop of blood to follow it to victory, or die in its defence.’
‘But it’d be safer where it is, sir,’ Vitellius countered.
‘Look here, Tribune,’ Geta said sternly. ‘That’s an eagle up on the standard, not a bloody chicken. It’s supposed to inspire men to valour, not to save their skins. I’ve had just about enough of your whining. You’re supposed to be a hero. I thought you’d saved the Second Legion’s bacon! Now I wonder . . . But you’re with us right now, and I need every man I can get hold of. So shut your mouth and draw your bloody sword.’
The steel in the legate’s tone was chilling. Without another word Vitellius drew his weapon and fell in behind the colour party. Geta led them at a t
rot over to where the First Cohort was battling to secure a foothold on the palisade. The wounded and dead carpeted the slope of the earthworks. As the colour party pressed through the throng towards the palisade, the British warriors hacked and slashed at them, their war cries deafening. At last the Ninth’s eagle rose above the crush and the legionaries returned the British cries with a great roar of their own.
‘Up the Hispania!’
The Romans fell upon their enemy with renewed energy and aggression and the flashing blades of the Roman short swords stabbed forward with deadly efficiency as all along the palisade the battle cry was taken up.
‘Up the Hispania!’
Vitellius kept his silence as with gritted teeth he pressed on with the colour party up the slope. Suddenly he found himself hard up against the palisade – a line of rough-hewn posts driven into the ground. Overhead loomed a yelling British warrior, black against the brilliant blue of the sky, axe raised for the kill. Instinctively Vitellius thrust his sword at the man’s face and ducked behind the rim of his shield. There was a sharp scream of agony an instant before the axe cracked into the reinforced trim along the top of the shield. Vitellius’ legs buckled for a moment and then he was up again. A huge centurion was at his side, great arms wrapped round a wooden stake which he was wrestling free of the soil.
‘Pull the palisade down!’ the centurion bellowed, grabbing hold of the next stake. ‘Pull it down!’
Other men followed suit and soon a number of small gaps had been wrenched in the palisade, and the Ninth began to force their way through to the flattened earth rampart beyond. To Vitellius’ left the eagle rose, and Britons swarmed towards it, drawn on by a savage desire to seize the legion’s standard and crush the resolve of their enemy. The fighting round the eagle was conducted with a terrible intensity that Vitellius could not have imagined possible from human beings. He turned away from the ghastly scene and urged the legionaries round him to press on through the palisade, jabbing his sword in the direction of the Britons.
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