Rome’s Fallen Eagle (42 page)

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 and 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.

Vespasian drew another deep breath, tightened the chinstrap on his helmet and then looked down at the cornicen standing close to him. ‘The Second Augusta will advance!’

The Britons had, quite literally, been caught napping. The small force that they had left by the ruined bridge had not noticed the pontoon being towed soundlessly downriver in the complete darkness of the moonless part of the night. The first they knew about it had been when the lead cohorts of the XIIII Gemina, with Aulus Plautius and Sabinus in their front rank, had suddenly stormed across a bridge that had appeared, seemingly, out of nowhere. By the time any of them had worked out how it had been done they were facing the mechanical blades of the Gemina’s first cohort and the question was driven from their minds by the pain that they inflicted. Within a few moments those who were not lying dead or wounded were fleeing back to the main body of their countrymen further up the slope, who broke into a roar of anger so loud that it would have disturbed the peace of Hades itself.

The II Augusta marched steadily on, with the XX beside it; their auxiliaries followed behind. This was to be a day for close-quarters butchering; Vespasian had decided to use the lighter auxiliaries to chase the Britons once they had been broken into a
defeated rabble. The legionaries knew that it was down to them to break the horde that was rapidly arming just a mile ahead of them. They thumped their pila slowly but rhythmically on their shields as they advanced, singing the hymn of Mars in low, sonorous voices to the beat, stirring courage into their hearts.

The men of the XX took up the song, doubling the volume; ten thousand voices now boomed out the ponderous hymn praising the god of war and asking him to hold his hands over them as they marched, rank upon rank, towards their enemies in the half-light.

Vespasian looked up and down the lines of iron-clad heavy infantry advancing steadily towards a fearsome enemy, many times their number; their expressions told that each man was determined to play his part to the best of his ability in the coming battle, to fight for himself and the men next to him in the spirit of camaraderie that glued a legion together, each man equally as important as the next. He pulled back his shoulders and sat bolt upright in the saddle, his heart swelling with pride; his self-doubt, which had been eating at him only moments earlier, dissipated to be replaced by a certainty: he would command his legion to the best of his ability. To doubt his ability would be to let down the men surrounding him. Rome would conquer and he would play his part in that victory and Rome would remember his name for his actions on this day.

More than half of the XIIII Gemina’s cohorts were across the bridge when the attack came. A multitude of disembodied voices rose out of the gloom, brewing into a shrieking of war cries, and the shadow of massed warriors rolled down the hill. Individual figures were indistinguishable in the dim yet waxing light, but their intent was clear: they were all heading in one direction, towards the XIIII to throw them back across the river before the II and the XX could link up with them. With all of their Batavian auxiliaries still occupying the high ground to the north the XIIII Gemina’s strength was just five thousand legionaries; five thousand against almost a hundred thousand. The weight pressing against their shields would be intolerable; they could not resist for long.

‘Advance at the double!’ Vespasian called to the cornicen over the tumultuous bruit of charging Britons and the rousing hymn of his men.

Within a few heartbeats the order was relayed throughout the legion; the pace increased but the song remained the same.

On the eastern bank the Hamians and artillery carts, shadowing the legion, also accelerated, knowing that, although their shafts would make little impact on the numbers of such a vast horde, every death they caused would count in some small way to the legion’s preservation.

In the growing light, individuals could now be made out, pelting down the slope towards the cohorts forming up beyond the pontoon bridge; the first line of five, with Sabinus in the front rank, had been completed and the rear line consisted now of two cohorts with the rest streaming over behind. The formation was a pitiful sight when compared to the mass surging towards it and Vespasian was under no illusions that it would not be swamped, having nothing to protect its flanks.

Judging the distance in the ever-growing light Vespasian reckoned that they were five hundred paces away; they could cover that ground in half as many heartbeats. Sabinus must hold for that time.

A dim pall soared from the XIIII Gemina: pila. An instant later another volley followed; both were absorbed by the Britons as if they had been cast, instead, into a river: the deaths of a few thousand of that multitude made no impact on their intent.

Then the charge carried home. The line shuddered, almost buckled and then gave a few paces before settling. Then it disappeared, engulfed. Above, the first rays of the sun hit high-altitude cloud with a deep red glow as if the sky itself was bleeding.

The only evidence of the legion’s existence was now the clamour of battle rising from within the packed mass of warriors. The last two cohorts crossed the bridge and disappeared into their midst proving that the legion still held, adding their weight to what would be, Vespasian knew from the previous day, an horrific heaving match of rib-crushing intensity.

With two hundred paces to contact, a goodly proportion of the Britons swirled away from the XIIII Gemina and turned to face the II Augusta, easing the pressure on Sabinus’ legion; they had held for those vital first few moments, they could surely hold a while longer against fewer enemies. The warriors still up the hill also changed their direction and made towards the XX, further reducing the threat to the beleaguered legion. On the eastern bank the Hamians began releasing volley after volley into the fray, felling hundreds, whilst the artillery carts’ crews levelled their weapons and frantically began the loading process.

Vespasian put his fear for his brother from his mind and concentrated on the timing of the signals. All around him the hymn to Mars soared to the sky, drowning out the clanking of equipment and the doubled footsteps of the legionaries but not the din of the battle raging deep within the howling enemy, who were now almost close enough to receive the first of the legion’s deadly weapons. He gave the order and the pila flew. More than two thousand of the cruel barbed points swept into the front ranks of the Britons, reaping a bloody harvest of ripe young lives and sowing terror into the hearts of their comrades behind as they leapt the skewered bodies seeping their lifeblood into the earth.

But they came on. Vespasian ordered the charge and the legion accelerated for the final few paces to the rumble of cornua. The hymn faltered as the long line of front rank shields, each with the weight of four armoured men behind it, powered into the Britons. A massed communal gasp burst from the lungs of both sides. The Roman shield wall drove forward with the impetus of the charge; the regimented discipline of the heavily armoured legionaries thrust the more numerous but lighter and less cohesive Britons back with grinding inevitability.

Then came the clash of iron; then the screaming started.

The legion gradually lost momentum and the battle settled. Much to Vespasian’s relief the Roman line remained firm, but it was perilously thin. Shouting over the tumult he ordered the second line of five cohorts forward to add their pila and their weight to the fight. Still singing the hymn at the tops of their voices the other half of the legion advanced; each soldier hurled
both their pila in quick succession over the heads of their comrades and then joined the heaving files, pressing their shields into the backs of the men before them.

The extra weight of half a legion driving into the Britons broke whatever loose formation they had. Hundreds crumpled dead and hundreds more were punched back, blood pulsing from mortal wounds, as the legion regained momentum and ploughed on. The men in the first line who had stopped singing at first contact took up their comrades’ hymn again as they slew, praising the god of war as they savagely worked their blades.

A new terror then scythed into the warriors as the artillery shot weighty wooden bolts into their flank in one torsion-powered, devastating volley, clearing swathes of them away in a sudden acceleration of blurred motion as men just disappeared from sight to reappear again ten paces away with a bolt sideways through their chest and surprise in their dead eyes.

The men of the II Augusta sang on, blades slick with gore and faeces, stamping their feet forward over fallen Britannic warriors. The front rank straddled the bodies; the second rankers ground their swords into them, whether they looked alive or dead; wary of an upward thrust of a knife into their groins, they took no chances.

Pushed steadily back and back, pace by pace, tripping over corpses, the Britons’ resistance gradually waned as the sun rose. Vespasian had no way of knowing how long they had been fighting, time had become meaningless and he could only measure it in the regular artillery volleys; he thought that he had counted eight but could not be sure. What was sure, however, was that the deadly bolts had cleared the riverbank of the enemy and the first cohort was now almost unopposed. Through the gap he could see the left-hand cohorts of the XIIII Gemina; they still held. With one concerted effort the II Augusta could link up with them and the line would be complete.

Another artillery volley hissed into the Britons, plucking yet more from their feet in showers of blood and dropping them back down with their limbs at impossible angles, like puppets with their strings severed. This time the Britons wavered and the
men of the II Augusta sensed it. Taking advantage of the momentary lull they surged forward with renewed vigour, stabbing their swords, punching their shield bosses, stamping their feet, stab, punch, stamp, stab, punch, stamp; the rear ranks still singing, the front saving their precious breath for the struggle.

The Britons began to fall back with greater urgency as the unstoppable Roman war machine increased its pace, dealing out death to all in its path. The first cohort now slewed, wheeling to the left, blocking the artillery’s direct line of fire, but closing on the left flank of the XIIII Gemina. More and more Britons were backing away, allowing the II Augusta more ground, which it gratefully accepted as it closed in on its sister legion.