by K. M. Ashman
For the rest of the evening they made their plans until every officer knew their role in detail and each left to brief his men. The battle of the Medway was about to begin.
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Caratacus and Togodumnus stood high on their vantage point overlooking the legions formed up on the other side of the river. Rank after rank of heavily armed men stared back across the water and had done so since first light. Troops of cavalry galloped around the edges and dozens of lighter armed units were strategically placed at the edges of the legion. The King and his brother were particularly fascinated at the giant wooden machines that catapulted stones across the river, and though they were easily dodged and landed harmlessly in the marshland, their potential was obviously huge.
Below the two brothers, their own warriors were formed up in their separate clans, waiting on the hard ground to meet any force crossing the river. The King knew that any Romans managing to reach the harder surface would be mercilessly cut down by his men. Should his front line be taken, his chariots would sweep down and wipe the invaders from the field. The bulk of his forces were deployed across the wooded slopes between the Medway and the Tamesas, while most of the women and children had already crossed the second river and were well on their way to Camulodunum.
Caratacus had expected better from the Romans. Their reputation was formidable but he could see nothing to worry him here and was impatient for the assault to start. He did not have the slightest idea that the manoeuvres to his front were a diversion, and the actual assault had started many hours earlier.
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In the darkness of the early hours, over four thousand Batavian auxiliaries, experts in river crossings back in their native Gemina, had already swum across the river five miles downstream and taken up positions in the bracken and undergrowth of the enemy hills. Similarly, five miles upstream, the engineers had floated the assault boats in the darkness and tied them side by side until they stretched across the river from bank to bank. Under normal circumstances, the boats would have been boarded out with planks to make a solid bridge, but as the noise would have alerted any nearby sentries, over five thousand men crossed barefoot from boat to bobbing boat, until eventually, the entire Augustan legion lay hidden on the northernmost bank of the Medway. When Plautius received the runners telling him the crossings had been successful, he sent the message to start and eight Cohorts of Batavian light infantry arose silently from their positions to start the advance on the enemy positions deep in the forests.
The outer positions of Caratacus’s warriors were taken completely by surprise, and as the silent attackers picked up momentum; their overwhelming force carried them deep into the enemy positions. They fell on the sentries and rampaged throughout the lines of chariots, targeting the horse’s legs as they passed, hamstringing the panicking animals to prevent them from being of any use in the harnesses. Man and beast fell beneath the initial onslaught and they decimated over half of Caratacus’s animals before the defending warriors realised the danger. Caratacus heard the news from a runner and though he was initially shocked, refused to panic. He turned to Togodumnus.
‘Take the northern clans and wipe them out,’ he said. ‘I will face the frontal assault when it comes.’
Togodumnus turned his horse and galloped to the council of northern leaders gathered half a mile away. Twenty minutes later, two thousand warriors were storming through the woods to confront the threat from the Batavians.
Within the hour, the Roman offensive faltered and the Batavians, having achieved their mission, retreated eastwards along the river before forming a defensive line across the valley. They strung their bows and waited patiently as the counter offensive drew closer. Within minutes, the expected throng of warriors emerged screaming from the forest and descended on the Batavian lines. The first few hundred fell beneath the hail of arrows, but such was the impetus of the assault, the Batavians only managed to get three volleys off before the barbarians were upon them, man against man in a straightforward battle to the death.
To the west, the waiting Vespasian received the order to advance and led his legion down-stream to assault Caratacus’s west flank, but due to the delay in communication, this time found the barbarian army ready and waiting. With over half of his chariots out of use, Caratacus deployed the centre bulk of his forces to meet Vespasian’s legion, outnumbering them two to one. With little time, the Romans formed up into classic battle lines and Centurions raced amongst their forces barking their orders and encouraging their nervous men.
‘At fifty metres,’ screamed the Primus Pilus, ‘launch all remaining Pilae, they will be no use to you at close range. At ten metres, we will charge. Do not falter; strike with as much aggression as you can muster. This will be a battle like no other. If the man to your front falls, then step over him. There will be no relief, each man will fight until we prevail or fall.’
A roar from above threatened to drown out his voice as their opponents streamed from the wooded hill.
‘Look to your Gods, men,’ shouted Vespasian drawing his Gladius, ‘for today we make history.’
Again, two massive and ferocious forces smashed into each other on the banks of the Medway and though he had sent seasoned warriors to face Vespasian, Caratacus knew he had been out-thought by the Roman General. Across the river he could see his opposite number on a hill and realised the display had been a diversion.
‘Very clever, Roman,’ he said to himself, ‘but your forces are still outnumbered. By the time you ford the river, your men will be nothing but meat for the wolves.’ Even though he was aware that the Batavians to the east had been contained, he knew that the legion attacking him from the west had to be repelled to stand any chance of victory. He gave the order for the remainder of his force to be deployed westward, to back up those already confronting Vespasian’s legion, leaving only a thousand men to repel any frontal assault from Plautius.
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Plautius watched what he could of the battles across the river and received runner after runner bringing news from the two fronts. Throughout the day, dozens of separate conflicts took place between the rivers, with both forces equally matched and the battles ebbed and flowed as each side took the initiative, only to be beaten back by their opponents.
To the east, the Batavians had repelled the first onslaught of the barbarians and were holding their own in their defensive positions, benefiting from the advantage of having hundreds of archers, a luxury Togodumnus did not enjoy.
To the west, Vespasian was in trouble, and though his legion fought bravely, by the time nightfall came they had lost the ground previously gained throughout the bloody battles of the day. Caratacus had managed to deploy some of his remaining chariots and though Pila had brought many of the horses down, they inflicted terrible casualties on the legion before they fell.
At last, darkness fell and as the legion was so close to the enemy, there was no possibility of building a camp. Instead, they formed defensive lines, ten men deep with every other man allowed to sleep for an hour at a time.
A few hundred yards away, the barbarians also slept with their weapons and though they were unwilling to fight in the dark, Caratacus knew that with a final push, they would overwhelm the legion the following morning. The barbarians were by far the happier force throughout the night and the taunts of their warriors echoed across the battlefield, ringing in the ears of the silent Romans, unaware that even as they celebrated, Plautius had taken steps to ensure the following day went better than the first.
Caratacus had left his position above the ford, knowing that he had another twelve hours before the tidal river would be low enough for Plautius to bring his legion across. He joined the tribes facing the threat to the west and reinforced their numbers with even more men, determined to shatter Vespasian’s numbers with overwhelming force. He held a war council with the clan leaders and his tribes moved onto the slope above Vespasian’s position, waiting for the dawn to light his historic victory. As the darkness eased, th
e chanting started and Caratacus was joined by Togodumnus to stare over the battlefield, fully expecting to see lines of terrified Romans facing certain death.
What he saw chilled him to the bone. Vespasian’s legion had already mustered in the darkness and stood in their Cohorts, impatient for the conflict to begin. They had reorganised after the battle the day before and though their numbers were somewhat smaller, they had managed to reform into recognisable units. Banners and standards flew from each Cohort, and in the centre, Caratacus could see the famed Roman eagle he had heard so much about. However, it was not the reorganised legion that caused his doubt, but what lay beyond.
Behind Vespasian, stood thousands of extra troops sent by Plautius to reinforce the beleaguered legion. Heavy infantry, archers and spear throwers stood in their units and detachments of cavalry lurked on the fringes like predators at a killing, waiting for their swift and lethal skills to be called upon. A unit of over five hundred men littered the forward slope of a small hill, their leather slings hanging from their muscular right arms, while their left hands played with the lethal lead shot stored in their pouches.
Geta had brought his legion across the same pontoon bridge during the night and not only had they managed to form up in support of Vespasian in time for the dawn, but behind their lines, Caratacus could see something else, a line of wooden structures that filled him with dread.
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‘Ready!’ roared Geta and over fifty artillery pieces were loaded with an assortment of ammunition. Some of the Onagers were loaded with limestone rocks, their fragile structure designed to shatter on impact with the hard ground to send flint sharp shards amongst the enemy, whilst others were loaded with oil filled clay pots, their narrow necks plugged with wax around a protruding wick. When the pots smashed amongst an enemy force, the burning wicks would ignite the oil, and spread flaming death amongst flesh and bone.
Teams of operators loaded Ballistae with iron tipped arrows, standing ready to re-arm the crossbows as fast as they could be fired, and rank upon rank of Scorpio operators loaded their smaller tripod based crossbows with their own heavy bolts. Every legionary in the front two ranks drew their swords, and the spear throwers ran forward to form up before the lines, each armed with a dozen Pilae.
It was an awesome sight and Caratacus couldn’t fail to be impressed. He looked around his army and though he realised the risk, his forces were now almost frantic with blood lust and impatient to attack the Romans. He knew the outcome was now far from certain, but there was no way he could stop his forces from engaging the enemy, for even if he had given the order to withdraw, he would be ignored. Realising he had no choice; he drew his longsword and held it above his head. All around, his forces stared up at the King, awaiting the final order.
‘Catuvellauni!’ he roared. ‘They have raped our women and killed our children. Now is the time for revenge. Before the sun sets, your belts will be heavy with Roman heads.’
Those within earshot cheered their King and the roar was taken up all the way along the lines of warriors.
‘Are you ready?’ he shouted.
The crescendo of screaming peaked at an unbelievable level.
‘Spare no one,’ he roared. ‘Drive them back into the sea,’ and Caratacus dropped his sword to point toward the enemy before finally screaming the battle charge.
‘Britannia!’
‘Britannia!’ echoed the thousands of warriors and the whole army descended on the two waiting legions like a swarm of locusts.
----
Caratacus had never seen anything like it. Before his men were within a hundred yards, they were being decimated by exploding stones and balls of flame. A hail of arrows and lead shot brought those who dodged the missiles down before they had to run the gauntlet of the spear throwers. His men fell in their hundreds, but despite this, their sheer numbers and the impetus of their downhill charge, meant that his warriors crashed into the Roman lines with lethal force. The deep lines of opposing men surged back and fore like a swell on the sea, the front lines unable to deploy their personal weapons with much effect, due to the pressure from those in front and of those behind. As natural lulls took place and the lines disengaged, individual conflict broke out and though the skill and training of the Romans meant they were far more efficient at killing, the overall weight of numbers started to tell, and Vespasian’s legion was forced to fall back.
Caratacus suddenly spotted an opportunity to deal a devastating blow to his enemy. A clan of his warriors had broken through the Roman lines, and were closing in on the legion’s standard bearer. Vespasian, had quickly reformed his defences to protect the eagle, but was under severe pressure. Caratacus turned to his brother.
‘Take the remaining chariots,’ he said. ‘Bring me their eagle.’
Togodumnus signalled the chariot leader and led them in a breakneck charge toward the battle taking place around the legion’s standard.
Across the valley, Legatus Geta saw the danger. There was nothing more devastating to any force than the loss of their eagle, and though it was not his own, he would not stand back and watch a comrade suffer the ultimate humiliation. He signalled for a Cohort to follow him and charged across the valley to help his comrade.
Vespasian and a hundred of his men were fighting desperately to defend their eagle, outnumbered four to one by screaming warriors, and it was with relief he saw Geta’s Cohort smash into the flanks of the enemy. Again, the battle swung as sword cleaved flesh and club smashed skull. The screaming of man and beast echoed across the plain as Caratacus deployed even more men, knowing that the whole battle could revolve around this smaller conflict. Geta had lost his helmet to a glancing blow from a sword and stood atop a crashed chariot surrounded by his Cohort, exhorting his men to greater efforts against the overwhelming numbers.
Caratacus looked down at the battle, picking out the bright red hair of his brother as his chariot closed in on Vespasian’s standard. Togodumnus was within a few metres of his prize and Caratacus knew that the Romans would falter with the fall of one of their leaders. The hill was now swarming with his warriors and the two sides were indistinguishable amongst the fray. Caratacus knew this was the moment he would fulfil his destiny.
Suddenly, he looked up at the sky, the light seemingly darker and for a second, he frowned as he wondered what was happening. The air was thick with death, as thousands of missiles soared across the valley. Caratacus was shocked. Surely the enemy risked the death of their own men with such a volley.
As if to answer his unspoken question, a division of Roman horns bellowed a distinctly different tone across the battlefield and hundreds of legionaries dropped to their knees, each covering themselves with their shields.
The effect was devastating. Arrows, spears and lead shot fell on the ranks of Roman and Celt alike, but being aware of the tactic, the attackers had reacted instantly to the risk from their own forces and protected themselves from the hail of death. During the battle, Geta’s legion had advanced in support of their Legatus and the supporting Cohorts had brought their weapons within range to provide the devastating onslaught, and though some legionaries were killed in the assault, their numbers were minimal whilst the Catuvellauni on the other hand, fell in their thousands. Caratacus’s attention turned to his brother. There was still hope. If they could only seize a standard, they could hold it to ransom.
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Togodumnus had left his chariot and along with the last of his warriors, had managed to get within a few paces of the legion’s eagle, when a red cloaked Roman ran across to block his way.
‘Over my dead body, heathen,’ hissed Vespasian in Latin and he launched into a straight sword battle with the brother of the King. Togodumnus had the advantage with the larger sword and forced Vespasian backwards, the Roman’s shorter sword deflecting the larger one frantically and without time to respond with a strike of his own. Seeing an opportunity, Vespasian ducked a blow aimed at his head and ran into Togodumnus, tackling him to the floor
, but though he had the momentum, the larger warrior got the better of the Roman and rolled on top of him, grabbing him around the throat to cut off his airway.
Vespasian’s strength was fading and he knew he was losing the fight, but as his consciousness started to ebb, the clamp around his airway suddenly eased and the look of hatred on his opponent’s face was replaced with one of painful surprise, as Vespasian slowly pushed his Pugio deep between the Celt’s ribs and into his lungs. Togodumnus released his opponent and got to his feet before staggering a few yards and falling to his knees. He held the wound closed with his blood-stained hands as he struggled to draw breath. Vespasian stood up and grabbed the legion’s standard from the Aquilifer. He turned to Togodumnus.
‘Is this what you want barbarian?’ he asked as the mortally wounded warrior looked up at him.
‘Well here it is,’ he snarled and thrust the iron tipped staff bearing the golden eagle deep into his opponents chest, forcing his body to arch backwards and pinning him to the ground.
All around him Geta’s reinforcing cavalry were pouring into the fray, followed up by Cohorts of infantry slaughtering everything in their path. Caratacus knew the battle was lost, for though there were still thousands of his warriors fighting the Romans, the momentum had finally turned his enemy’s way and the fresh troops were wiping out his exhausted men with impunity.
Caratacus looked once more at his dead brother impaled by the legion’s standard. His limp body was bent backwards at the knees and his head hung unnaturally back, his flaming red hair dangling to the floor, exposing his throat to the sky.
Vespasian picked up his Gladius and looked up at Caratacus astride his war horse on the rise.
‘Caratacus!’ he screamed, ‘thus lays the fate of Britannia!’