Rome’s Fallen Eagle

by Robert Fabbri

  Having given his orders clearly and succinctly to the reserve cohorts he could now only wait to see the results, since he had decided to stay with the legion’s cavalry to plug any gaps.

  Paetus rode over to him from his rallied but depleted ala. ‘My chaps are down to just under three hundred effective, legate, but they’re ready and keen for another go. They didn’t like being routed in front of the whole army, especially as many of them have kinsmen in the infantry up on that hill. We’ll fight hard to make up for the shame.’

  Vespasian studied the young prefect for a few moments; blood-soaked dressings on his right thigh and around his helmetless head told clearly of the ferocity of the action that had bought the legion the extra time it had needed to make the crossing. ‘Well done, Paetus, and thank you. Have your ala form up next to me and tell your lads that they shouldn’t be ashamed; we’d still be struggling to make it across if it hadn’t been for their sacrifice.’

  Paetus saluted. ‘It’ll be a pleasure, sir.’

  Vespasian watched his long-dead friend’s son canter back to his troops, hoping that he would not have to give him another order that would again put his life in such peril.

  An unmistakeably Roman cheer jerked his attention away from such morbid thoughts and he turned to see the central mass of Britons begin to disintegrate. Hundreds were now streaming away to the north to escape the relentless blades of the first and second cohorts as they turned the Britons’ flank, compressing their unarmoured bodies against the third cohort, which, led by Maximus in the front rank, knew that their ordeal was almost over and began to fight with renewed vigour. The only auxiliary cohort not to have been turned also took heart despite their visibly dwindled number. More and more Britons turned and fled, flowing away across the field until a mere thousand or so warriors remained, in reasonable order, giving ground gradually, marshalled by the chieftain in their midst.

  ‘Togodumnus!’ Vespasian whispered to himself. He watched the Britons fall back in the face of the concerted Roman onslaught. From within their ranks carnyxes blew the same short, high refrain as their front rank steadily disengaged. In answer to the horns’ calls chariots raced towards them from the north, weaving through the warriors in flight as, up the hill, the Gallic auxiliaries finally broke. Togodumnus slowed his retreat, watching his right flank swarm down after the beaten Gauls, hewing at their rearmost with their slashing swords as the auxiliaries pelted towards the safety of the reserve cohorts just thirty paces down the hill. Vespasian saw the British chieftain pause and look back at his erstwhile opponents who now had warriors threatening their rear as if assessing whether the breakthrough on the right flank was worth exploiting. The reserve cohorts opened their ranks and the Gauls streamed through; with breathtaking precision they closed again just before the first of the Britons threatened to break through, leaving only a few auxiliaries stranded and doomed. Seeing the space blocked, Togodumnus continued his retreat, taking his men with him, steadily back, pace by pace, swords pointed at their foes who were now using the respite to relieve their lines. At fifty paces they simply turned their backs and jogged away towards the oncoming chariots.

  The Roman centurions obeyed their orders and stood firm. There was no follow-up, not that close-formation heavy infantry would have been able to catch lighter Britons.

  Vespasian stared at the retreating back of Togodumnus; to have a chance of breaking the retreating formation and perhaps capturing the greatest prize of the day he had to act immediately. A quick glance back up the hill confirmed that the reserve cohorts had checked the Britons’ advance and that the remnants of the Gallic auxiliaries were rallying behind them; the flank was secure for the time being. ‘Advance in column!’ A lituus cavalry horn blew behind him and he kicked his horse forward, waving an arm at Paetus to signal that he should do the same.

  Accelerating into a canter he led the legion’s four cavalry turmae towards the small gap in the Roman line created by the first and second cohorts’ flanking move. The retreating Britons were no more than two hundred paces away, their backs still turned and their attention concentrated on reaching the chariots coming to cover their retreat.

  Funnelling through the gap, the turmae slowed slightly as they changed formation from column to line, giving Paetus’ ala time to catch up. Without waiting for the ranks to be dressed, Vespasian drew his spatha and brandished it in the air. ‘Let’s have them, lads!’ The turmae roared, kicking their mounts into a gallop, clasping the reins with their left hands, shields strapped to the forearm, and feeling the weight of the javelins in the right.

  The wind ripped at Vespasian’s cloak, whip-cracking it as his horse’s hooves accelerated out of the foul mud that delineated the extent of the recent bloody combat and onto firmer, open ground. After so long in the frightful confines of a compressed front rank, he found himself grinning at the exhilaration of the charge and turned, bellowing encouragement to his men, urging them on, in anticipation of facing the Britons’ chieftain.

  The litui shrieked their high-pitched calls and were answered by those of the Batavians following close behind, anxious to have their revenge for the humiliation of retreat.

  The blare alerted the Britons to their presence on the field; the panic felt by infantry at being caught in the open by cavalry shuddered through their ranks. Those closest to the relieving chariots, under a quarter of a mile away, broke into a sprint, fragmenting the body as Togodumnus bellowed at his followers to form up and face the threat. But the order had come too late and a few hundred were already away whilst the rest, confused and disorganised, attempted to form some sort of line.

  ‘Release!’ Vespasian cried as the enemies’ features became discernible. The turmae’s javelins soared into the air, with a velocity greatly increased by the speed of the charge, and hammered down in a hail of death onto the unformed lines. Slender, pointed missiles pummelled into naked flesh, throwing men back, skewering them to the ground, shafts vibrating with the sudden deceleration. Confusion heightened, panic escalated and gaps widened. Vespasian steered his horse directly at a warrior standing alone, attempting to fill an opening five paces wide, raising his sword two-handed over his head, his eyes widening with terror. Vespasian punched his spatha forward, horizontally, over his mount’s muzzle as the long blade flashed down, deflecting it with a ringing report. As if yanked simultaneously by the hair and ankles the warrior disappeared beneath the hooves of Vespasian’s horse as he broke through the line with troopers to either side of him, pressing home their advantage. On he drove, slashing down to his right into a neck, hacking it open in a spew of blood, on towards Togodumnus who stood, foursquare, facing him behind a barrier of warriors.

  Another shudder went through the Britons’ formation; the Batavians’ javelin volley seared into them, followed by the massed weight of the ala crashing fresh holes through the line, bent on vengeance and rejoicing in its sensation as they slew. More and more warriors turned in flight but Togodumnus stood firm. His eyes oozed hatred and a sneer graced his ruddy, round face. With a roar, he barged through the barrier of his followers, sword raised, and leapt towards Vespasian, who slewed his horse to the right, taking the vicious slash clean on his shield. Togodumnus’ followers threw themselves at the troopers to either side of Vespasian in a blur of sudden movement; iron flashed, horses reared, blood sprayed and limbs fell, but Vespasian only had eyes for the Britannic chieftain. Pulling his high-stepping horse back to the left he drove it at Togodumnus; the Briton jumped backwards, lowering his sword, and with both hands clenched around the hilt he powered it into the beast’s broad chest. With a shrill whinny it reared up, yanking the weapon from Togodumnus’ grasp and hurling Vespasian from the saddle to land, with a lung-emptying crash, on unforgiving ground. Ducking under the thrashing forelegs, Togodumnus bounded through the air at Vespasian, drawing a sleek knife from his belt. With his vision clouded, Vespasian just made out the shape leaping towards him and rolled to his left; the chieftain landed with a jolt where Vespasian had
been an instant before as the horse’s hind legs buckled; the beast tipped back and, with a final snort, it collapsed. Togodumnus turned his head and screamed as the dead weight of horse flesh descended upon him; with a cracking of bones it smashed down onto his prone form, bouncing up slightly on first impact, its flaccid body rippling back down with a secondary, crushing blow, pulverising the chieftain’s chest and leaving him staring with unseeing eyes at the darkening sky.

  Then the chariots hit.

  Heavy-shafted spears whipped into the melee followed by fresh warriors, running up the poles of their vehicles and leaping, using the extra height, straight at the troopers, knocking them from their saddles as their stocky ponies powered into their mounts, in a desperate attempt to rescue their chieftain.

  Vespasian jumped to his feet, still gasping for breath, and, dodging an onrushing chariot team, looked around in the deepening gloom for a loose horse in amongst the chaos. Thrusting his sword into the back of a Briton hacking into a trooper’s throat he grabbed the reins of the dead cavalryman’s mount and, using the corpse as a step, hauled himself into the saddle. Knowing that the objective had been realised with Togodumnus’ death and with night falling fast he reared his mount up. ‘Break off! Break off!’

  The troopers nearest him heard the cry and those who could began to disengage, passing the command on to their comrades further along the line. With most of the Britannic infantry now safely behind the chariots, the fresh warriors found themselves outnumbered and had already begun to seek the safety of their vehicles. It was almost by common consent that the combatants gradually parted, pulling back wearily, dragging their wounded with them, until the field was still and the two sides faced each other in the fading light. From the far side of the river came the sound of thousands of marching feet. The XX Legion had doubled back.

  ‘I can see that you’ve had a hard time of it, Vespasian,’ Gnaeus Hosidius Geta acknowledged, slipping from his horse as the cohorts of the XX marched over the bridge. ‘You’ve done well to hold a bridgehead against such numbers, even if they are barbarian savages.’

  Vespasian managed to conceal his surprise at being complimented by a man who was normally antagonistic to him, if not openly hostile. ‘Thank you, Geta; the lads have fought well all day.’ He looked back over to the Britons’ lines; they had disengaged from the Batavians, leaving them in possession of the hill, and had pulled back from the ruined bridge now that the XIIII Gemina had retired. The whole army seemed to be concentrated upon lighting fires, thousands of which flickered golden in the half-light, and were paying no attention to the XX crossing the river. ‘It looks like they’re more interested in cooking their supper rather than trying to stop you crossing.’

  Geta waved a hand dismissively. ‘Rabble, that’s all they are; brave enough but no discipline and badly led.’

  ‘They’ve got one leader less now; I killed Togodumnus earlier. Or rather my horse did by dying on him; crushed him to death.’

  Geta looked at Vespasian, concerned; behind him his legion marched past and on up the hill. ‘That might not have been such a good thing to do.’

  ‘Why not? One less chieftain is one less point of focus for resistance.’

  ‘Granted, but today we’ve been helped by the fact that the brothers have seemed incapable of working together – they split their forces this morning and again this afternoon. If there had been one overall commander don’t you think that he would have left a holding force in front of the Batavians, ignored the Fourteenth and thrown everything he had against you and pushed you back over the river?’

  Vespasian frowned. ‘Yes, you could be right, I suppose.’

  ‘I know I am; and tomorrow they’ll have just one commander, so we’ll have a harder time of it. Perhaps you should have thought of that before allowing your horse to kill Togodumnus.’ Geta turned and led his mount away, following his command up the hill.

  Vespasian watched him go, his expression strained, as he contemplated his words and then dismissed them: although he conceded that Geta had a point, both Caratacus and Togodumnus would have to die or surrender for Rome to triumph and he felt sure that his actions that day had helped to hasten that event.

  By the time night had fallen and a near-full moon shone over the field, the XX Legion had taken their position on the II Augusta’s left flank. Lines and lines of soldiers of Rome stretched from the river to the summit, preparing to stand to for the night; the moonlight played on their helmets, which glowed like regimented ranks of pearls. The last of the baggage crossed the bridge and then came the sound of the engineers splashing in the water, attaching ropes to the structure, ready to haul it north once the moon had set. Vespasian offered a prayer to Mars, knowing that tomorrow there could be no retreat back across the river.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  THE FIRST GLOW of dawn touched the eastern horizon to the sporadic accompaniment of birdsong. Vespasian was just finishing a tour of the five cohorts standing to, praising the men for their gallantry the previous day and encouraging them to face the perils of this new one with the same resolution. Maximus had rotated the ten cohorts allowing each four hours’ sleep under the clear sky that had burst forth with stars once the bright moon had set. Supper had been bread and salted pork eaten standing in formation; no fires had been lit so as not to provide light for the Britannic slingers and few archers to aim by. The slingers had come on a couple of occasions, unnoticed in the dark until their deadly shot clattered into the unsuspecting ranks, felling a few in the moments before shields were raised properly. After the first such attack only the very weary or reckless allowed their shields to drop, earning a sharp, hissed tirade from their centurions.

  The II Augusta suffered no other attacks during the long night; however, the prolonged noise of battle from over the hill in the early hours implied that the XX Legion’s auxiliaries had encountered a night outflanking move by the Britons. The fact that no alarm had been raised had led Vespasian to conclude that they had been successfully repelled and a messenger from Geta had confirmed this shortly before he had begun his tour of inspection.

  Vespasian drew a deep breath of fresh, early summer dawn air as he surveyed the spectral ranks of legionaries; he wondered how many, that day, he would be sending either to their deaths or to lives of limbless misery relying upon the charity of strangers. He knew that it was a morbid subject to contemplate but the weight of command lay heavy upon him after the battles of the previous day. Although he thought that he had acquitted himself well – the praise, albeit double-edged, from the far more experienced Geta had confirmed that – he was well aware of just what a close-run thing the securing of the bridgehead had been. The margin between victory and defeat had been fine, to say the least, and the thought of failure in front of the whole army had gnawed at him ever since his public dressing-down by Aulus Plautius for his neglecting to advance quickly enough to Cantiacum. Even though it had not had disastrous consequences it had been a salutary lesson to him and he now knew that a cautious general could be as much of a liability to the army as a rash one. Sometimes it was essential to make a decision without knowing all the facts; therefore the key to a successful decision was sound judgement. But that could only be gained by experience; and experience was something he was lacking.

  As the other five cohorts, recently woken from their brief sleep, marched smartly back into position in the second line, he looked at the centurions’ weathered and hardened faces. He could see that each one had far more experience than he with his four years’ service as a military tribune and two years, so far, as a legate; and yet he was their superior by chance of birth. What did they think of him for his delay at Cantiacum? Did they trust him with their lives now after yesterday’s action when his timely reinforcement of the left flank narrowly saved the legion from being surrounded; or did they consider him to be another inexperienced commander placed over them because that was how the system worked and they were forced to make the legion function in spite of him? He did not know an
d he could not ask anyone. He smiled ruefully and reflected that this was the lot of a commander: loneliness. There was no one with whom he could share his thoughts and doubts, not even Magnus, because doing so would make him appear weak, and that was a quality that was universally despised in every soldier from the newest recruit to the most seasoned general.

  A cornu rumbled from over by the ruined bridge and in the dim half-light he could just make out figures jogging across the newly positioned pontoon bridge upriver from it. Plautius was not waiting for dawn; he was seizing the initiative whilst the enemy was still rousing from sleep. Grateful for another lesson in decisive action, Vespasian consoled himself with the undoubted fact that if he survived this campaign he would be one of the most battle-hardened and experienced legates in the legions and he was learning from a general whom, despite his political slipperiness, he was coming to admire. He strode towards the II Augusta’s command point in the gap between the two lines of cohorts, where his new horse awaited, determined not to make any mistakes of judgement this day and steeling himself for hours of noise, blood and death. His confidence grew as he mounted up and surveyed the might of the legion all around him; they would triumph this day because Rome accepted no other result.