Or at least Cato hoped they were. He had heard no reports about their progress during the morning as the rest of the army marched out of the camp and took up their positions. Only the beggage train escort remained, lining the palisade as they watched their comrades prepare for battle. Overhead the clear sky that had greeted them at dawn was starting to cloud over ominously and the air stirred in flukey breaths of wind. A large number of camp followers had climbed on to a nearby knoll overlooking the section of the river where the legions would cross. Some had taken food and wine to consume as they watched the fighting.
‘They’re going to get a soaking,’ Cato remarked.
Children chased each other up and down the gentle slope or sat and made daisy chains. It was little different to the crowds that went to see the gladiator games, Cato mused. Only on a vastly different scale. There was one other crucial difference. If the battle went against the Romans, the spectators would be put to the sword alongside the legionaries. He looked at the children again. Many of them would be the offspring of soldiers and he wondered how many would end the day as orphans.
The crack of the catapults drew Cato’s attention back to the river and he watched as the shot flew up in an angled trajectory before seeming to hang motionless for an instant, then plunging down on to the enemy’s defences. It was hard to gauge the impact on the native warriors as they had all gone to ground the moment the Roman artillery went into action. Before that they had lined their defences shouting insults at the legions, waving fists, brandishing weapons, and a handful even baring their buttocks in a crude display of defiance. As soon as the first bolts shot across the river they dived down and the steep slope which had been alive with cavorting warriors suddenly seemed quite lifeless and still. Those behind the second line of defences soon realised they were out of range and safe for the moment and slowly reappeared and gazed down on the scene below. The iron heads of the bolts clattered against the rocks in the barricades and buried themselves in the soil of the hillside. Most of the rocks thrown by the catapults seemed to do just as little damage as they thudded to the ground. A few landed close behind the barricades where the enemy were taking shelter and Cato could well imagine the carnage that would result: skulls and bodies crushed into a bloody pulp by the impact.
However, the main purpose of the barrage was not to batter the enemy defences; a siege train would be required for that. Rather, it was intended to force the warriors to keep their heads down while the legions crossed the river and climbed towards the barricade. Only as they approached the first line of defences would the barrage cease, then a deadly hand-to-hand engagement would follow. Cato raised his gaze and saw the standard of Caratacus flying above the second line of defences and there, standing on a boulder, hands on hips, was a tall warrior with fair hair and beard flowing from beneath his gleaming helmet. Cato pointed him out.
‘Shame we haven’t got the range. One lucky shot and it’d all be over.’
‘You think?’ Macro said doubtfully. ‘Most of the barbarians on this island seem to hate our guts. One more or less isn’t going to make a difference.’
‘That particular Briton is the man who has been fighting us for the best part of a decade. He’s inspired tens of thousands to follow him, even though we have defeated him time and again and driven him back into these mountains. Even here, he has talked the Silurians and Ordovicians into becoming allies under his leadership. If there had been no Caratacus then our problems here would have been over long ago.’
Macro glanced at Cato. ‘There was a time you admired him.’
‘I used to. That was before he came between me and my wife, and the child she is carrying. Now, all I want is for this to be over so I can return to Rome. To the first home of my own.’
‘You’d miss the army. And you’d make a lousy civilian.’
‘You once said I’d never make a decent soldier.’
‘I did?’
Cato nodded.
‘Hmmm.’ Macro raised his eyebrows. ‘Seems I can be wrong about some things.’
A shrill note sounded and the signal was taken up by the horns of the Twentieth Legion. Cato and Macro unconsciously leaned forward slightly as the gleaming helmets and armour of the leading ranks rippled forward, marching towards the fast-racing waters of the ford. The eagle standard and the staff bearing the image of the Emperor advanced side by side above the tips of the javelins. It was a stirring sight, as Cato always found, but he could not put aside his growing sense of anxiety over the wisdom of a frontal attack.
A light pinging noise distracted him, and the breeze suddenly strengthened. He glanced up and blinked as the first drops of rain struck his face and glanced off his helmet and armour. The clouds that had come up from the east now hung over the hill and edged towards the Roman camp, blotting out the sun. A vast shadow crept over the ground before the camp and then engulfed Cato and Macro on the gate tower as the rain started to fall in earnest.
‘It’s a wonder this bloody island manages to stay afloat,’ said Macro as he pulled his cloak about his shoulders.
Cato made no comment as he watched the first wave of legionaries wade out into the river. The pace of the advance slowed to a crawl as the heavily armoured soldiers lifted their shields clear of the water and began to struggle to keep their footing. On the far bank Cato could see the faces of the enemy peering over the barricade as they watched the progress of the Romans. All the while the artillery continued hurling their missiles across the river, pinning the warriors down. The surface of the river was churned into white spray as the legionaries edged towards the far bank. At length, they reached the line of sharpened stakes and slowed down still further as they started to thread their way through the obstacles.
It was then that Caratacus sprang his first trap. The deep blast of a Celtic war horn echoed from the slopes of the hill and figures sprang up from the grass along the bank of the river. At first they seemed poorly armed, half naked with no helmets, shields or spears. Then Cato saw one of them raise his hand and twist it rapidly above his head.
‘Slingers.’
The range was no more that thirty paces and the targets floundering amid the stakes would be impossible to miss. The first shots struck home with a sharp rattle that could be heard even from the gate tower of the camp and Cato and Macro saw the first men go down, crashing into the shallows. Those who had been knocked senseless disappeared beneath the surface of the water, dragged down by the weight of their armour, and creating a fresh obstacle for their comrades. The men of the Twentieth raised their shields to protect themselves and struggled on into the hail of stone and lead shot hurled in their faces.
‘A nasty surprise, that,’ Macro commented. ‘But it won’t hold the lads back for long.’
‘No, but it will shake them. First round to Caratacus, I think.’
As the first legionaries struggled out of the water on to the bank, the slingers began to back off, keeping a safe distance as they continued to pelt their foes. One of the Romans, enraged, surged forward, clambering up the slope a short distance before his centurion bellowed at him and waved him back. But it was too late. His shield could only offer protection to the front and at once he was caught from the sides, the first shot smashing his knee so that he stumbled and fell. Unable to get up, he was struck again and fell, senseless, into the grass.
Macro hissed, ‘Stupid, bloody fool.’
The centurions and optios steadily formed men into their units as they emerged from the stake-strewn shallows and as soon as the three leading cohorts were in line, they began to advance up the slope. The slingers retreated before them, keeping their distance. All at once Cato saw one of them fly backwards a short distance, pinned to the ground by a wooden shaft.
‘They’ve been forced back into the artillery’s killing zone.’
‘Good!’ Macro thumped his right hand into the palm of the other. ‘Let
’s see how the bastards like a taste of their own medicine!’
More of the slingers were struck down, some by the catapult shot falling short of the first line of barricades. It was if they had been smashed into the ground by an invisible giant fist, Cato thought; like the wrath of Jupiter, best and greatest.
It couldn’t go on, however, for risk of shot falling amongst the leading ranks of the Twentieth, and a horn sounded to cease the bombardment. The last of the catapults and ballistas cracked and the crews stood by their weapons to wait for further orders. On the far bank the slingers scurried over the barricades, passing between the ranks of the warriors who had risen from cover now the danger from the Roman artillery had passed. At first Caratacus’s warriors hurled insults and challenges at the approaching wall of shields, then they followed up with rocks, a renewed hail of slingshot and arrows from archers who fired high over the heads of their comrades so that the arrows plunged down on the follow-up cohorts still crossing the river.
Cato felt a cold chill clench his heart as he saw the bodies littering the shallows and the far bank of the river. Some of the wounded who could walk were limping back across the current to seek treatment for their wounds. Well over a hundred had been lost so far, Cato estimated, and the fight for the first line of defences was only just beginning amid the dull gleam of the rain.
A blast of lightning dazzled the mountainous landscape, an image in stark white with dark shadows so that for an instant the scene looked like a monumental relief sculpture, scratched by the rain. Then the illusion passed and Cato beheld thousands of figures in combat as the men of the Twentieth closed with the enemy, swords and spears flickering in the gloom. A shattering crash and boom of thunder followed close on the heels of the lightning and then the hiss of the rain continued, pinging off Cato’s helmet so loudly that he found it hard to hear above the din. Over on the knoll the camp followers were huddled in their cloaks. Already some had given up and were scurrying down the slope and back to the camp to find shelter from the downpour.
Macro was saying something, and Cato shook his head and leaned closer. Macro cupped a hand to his mouth and shouted, ‘The general could have picked a better day for it. What do you think he’ll do? Call it off until the rain has passed?’
‘No. Not him. He intends to see this through whatever happens.’
‘Then it’s going to be tough on our lads.’
‘Very tough.’
They turned their attention back to the fight along the nearest rock barricades, barely visible through the dense sheen of the rain. The enemy appeared to be holding their own and the legionaries could not break through. A steady stream of walking wounded were clambering out of the river, soaked through. They passed between the cohorts of the second line and slumped on to the ground to wait for the medical orderlies to treat them. Some of the green recruits glanced anxiously at the wounded until their optios bellowed at them to face front.
For a while the rain continued, then stopped as suddenly as it had started and sunlight broke through a jagged rent in the clouds, bathing the battlefield in a glow that revealed the terrible struggle in startling clarity. The legionaries had managed to force their way over in several places and were pressing their slender advantage to create space for their comrades to feed into the fight. Then, at one of the points where the enemy had seemed to build the barricade particularly high, it began to move. Cato strained his eyes and could see men on the far side heaving on beams of wood and instantly grasped the danger. But he could only watch helplessly as the rocks began to tumble down on to the legionaries below. The small avalanche swept through their ranks, knocking men over and carrying them away in a tangle of bodies, flailing limbs, shields, earth and mud. The enemy unleashed more rockslides, sweeping great gaps through the tightly packed Roman formations. Then the war horns sounded once more, and the defenders abruptly abandoned their first position and began to clamber up to the second line of defences.
‘We’ve broken through,’ Macro said with grim satisfaction. ‘One last push.’
‘If only it was that easy,’ Cato replied. ‘Look at the incline. Our boys are going to be exhausted by the climb. In full kit, heavier now thanks to that rain and the river crossing. And the ground is going to be churned into thick mud. Hard going.’
They could see their comrades struggling through the gaps in the barricades, slipping and slithering as they negotiated the saturated ground, each laboured step making conditions even worse for those that followed. The lightly armed enemy easily outpaced them and the more daring amongst them stopped to snatch up rocks and hurl them back down the slope, some finding their mark and shattering the jaws, knees or shins of the pursuing Romans. Very soon it was clear to Cato that the men of the Twentieth would soon be a spent force, too exhausted to close with the enemy and fight. They were not even halfway up the slope before their advance came to a halt, men and kit coated in the thick dark mud, some having sheathed their weapons as they went down on hands and knees to get greater purchase on the slope. The centurions, identifiable by their transverse crests, still led the way, urging their men on. Behind came the optios lashing out with their long wooden staffs to try and drive forward those who were floundering at the rear.
Their slow climb was made more hazardous yet by the defenders now that the men of the first line had joined their comrades defending the upper barricade. A steady rain of rocks and other missiles clattered down on the legionaries, inflicting more casualties, and halting those men who raised their shields to try and protect themselves.
‘We’re in danger of losing this,’ Cato said quietly.
Macro grunted non-committally as he regarded the stalling attack. The first six cohorts had merged into one muddy mass, like maggots, and the remaining four cohorts were struggling to stay in formation as they began their climb from the riverbank. They reached the remains of the first barricade and picked their way over it before re-forming on the far side. At least their officers were keeping them in strict formation, Cato noted. Casualties stumbled past them and made for the river below, weakened by their wounds and the terrible exhaustion of the fight for the hill. Only once the four cohorts were ready did the officer commanding them give the order to advance. There was no steady progress as on a normal battlefield. Instead the front ranks seemed to inch forward as they started up the slope to reinforce the leading units. The glutinous mud made the going even harder for them.
The sprawling mass of the first six cohorts was at last approaching the upper barricade. The slope behind them was littered with men, few of whom had been wounded. Many simply sat, or lay, slumped in the mud, summoning up fresh reserves of strength before trying to continue. Before them a figure rose up on the barricade, brandishing a sword, and the blast of the enemy’s war horns rang out along the breadth of the hill. Hundreds of warriors poured over the barricade in a wave and launched themselves down the slope, plunging in amongst the Romans only a short distance below them. Sword and axe blades flashed form side to side as the disorganised front ranks of the Twentieth Legion were engulfed by the frenzied attack. Still more of the enemy were flowing over the barricade, adding their weight to the charge. Incredibly, the legionaries seemed to be holding the line but then there was no mistaking it, they began to be driven back down the slope.
‘Shit . . .’ Macro gripped the wooden rail of the gate tower tightly. ‘Now they’re for it.’
Cato nodded. Caratacus had timed his attack to perfection, allowing his enemies to exhaust themselves as they tried to close with his men. Now his warriors had the advantage of the high ground, as well as being fresh from their rest behind the upper barricade. They threw themselves at the mud-plastered legionaries, hacking and slashing with their blades as they wrenched the heavy shields aside and fell on the heavily armoured Romans like wolves. The foremost legionaries were cut down or driven back on their comrades, slithering in the bloodied quagmire. Nothing could resist t
he pressure from above and their comrades on the far side of the river could only look on with a growing sense of horror at the disaster unfolding before them.
The worst of it was yet to come, Cato knew, as the last four cohorts became entangled with the retreating men from the first wave. More legionaries stumbled and slid back until the entire legion was swiftly turned into a leaden mass of armoured men flailing in the mud. The enemy pressed their advantage home, thrusting the Romans down the slope, falling on any legionary who had tumbled to the ground and hacking him to death without mercy.
Macro thrust his arm out towards General Ostorius and his command party watching the battle from the calm refuge of the near bank. ‘For pity’s sake, why doesn’t he sound the call?’
‘I don’t know,’ Cato muttered. ‘I don’t know.’
All semblance of cohesion had disappeared. There was no hope of forming up around the standards or centurions as the legion was pressed back relentlessly. Then, at last, the shrill call ordering the retreat sounded from the cornus to one side of the general and his officers. The men of the Twentieth responded to the signal at once, clambering down the hill to the river. As they fell back, a roar of triumph welled in the throats of the native warriors pursuing them. Small knots of legionaries kept their face to the enemy and tried to hold some semblance of a line as they covered their comrades.
As the first of the men reached the riverbank they picked their way through the remaining stakes in the shallows and began to wade to safety, no longer even able to hold their shields overhead to save them from the water. Some were lost as the current tore them from the exhausted grip of their owners and they sank from sight, tumbling over and over in the river, occasionally throwing an edge above the surface before being rapidly born away again. The first men began to stagger up on to the near bank and collapse on the wet grass, gasping for breath. Others helped wounded comrades to make the crossing before slumping down beside them as soon as they reached solid ground. Gradually the bank filled up, like a vast casualty clearing station, and still more men dragged themselves out of the river.
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