Rome’s Fallen Eagle (46 page)

Vespasian felt his throat dry as the acrid fumes from the still smouldering burnt-out village rasped into his lungs. It was not the first such sight that they had come across but it was certainly the largest since leaving the camp at dawn two hours before and riding past the gutted remains of the tiny infant. He surveyed the
dismal scene of charred bodies and timber for a few moments and then turned to Sabinus. ‘This must be what caused the smoke I saw yesterday, it’s big enough.’

‘Then the Ninth can’t be too far off.’

Vespasian pointed to the half-burnt body of a young girl. ‘Corvinus isn’t going to make matters easier by doing this. It’s one thing to beat an army and kill as many fighting men as possible, but murdering women and children for no reason other than you’ve come across their village isn’t going to induce that beaten army to surrender. They’ll be bent on revenge.’

‘If you beat them often enough they’ll surrender because they fear you.’

‘Yes, but if they hate you as well then how long will they submit before rebelling? As Plautius said, we’ve come here to stay; incidents like this will just cause resentment that we’ll pay for in Roman lives later.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about it; a few lives here and there aren’t going to make much difference in the long term. There’s a lot of hard fighting ahead before we completely subdue this island and many more children are going to go the way of that little girl, and you and I will be responsible for our fair share of them. We need to keep going whilst I’ve still got the energy.’ Sabinus flicked his reins and moved off, leaving Vespasian to contemplate the dead child.

Magnus joined him. ‘He’s right, we should get going, sir. Forget about her, she was lucky to reach the age she did. At least she had the chance to know that she was alive unlike that baby them druids sacrificed last night.’

‘I suppose you’re right, Magnus.’

‘Of course I’m right. It don’t do to dwell on death: too morbid. It comes to all of us and the timing is in the hands of the gods.’

‘And in the hands of their priests, evidently,’ Vespasian retorted, urging his horse forward and signalling to Paetus to move his men out.

Vespasian led the column on at a canter, northeast across flat semi-wooded land, following the trail of the VIIII Hispana,
passing burnt-out farmsteads and villages, each one adding to his growing sense of urgency; now that Corvinus had damned himself he had to be stopped before he did irreparable damage to the chances of an honourable surrender.

As the sun climbed towards its zenith, rising through a blue sky punctuated by scudding, high clouds, the column crested the first low hill they had encountered and Vespasian, Sabinus and Paetus simultaneously drew up their mounts.

‘Shit!’ Sabinus exclaimed. ‘He’s fighting Claudius’ battle for him.’

Vespasian punched his thigh hard, causing his horse to step nervously. ‘Narcissus will have me for this, I’ve totally mistimed it.’

A mile or so before them, the VIIII Hispana and its auxiliary cohorts were engaged with an enemy force of at least twice their number. The legion’s line was broad and thin with only two cohorts held in reserve in front of the gates of the marching camp in which they had spent the night. The left flank seemed to be anchored to marshy ground to the north, preventing any attempt by the Britons to move around it in any great numbers; but the right flank was hard-pressed and had buckled round in order to prevent an outflanking move by combined chariotry and cavalry.

‘What are your orders, legate?’ Paetus asked, controlling his frisky mount with a couple of sharp tugs of the reins.

‘Sir,’ Magnus shouted. ‘Look behind us.’

Vespasian glanced over his shoulder; from this vantage point he could see for some distance over the Tamesis basin. Less than three miles away was a fast-moving column. ‘Cavalry! That must be Plautius’ forward ala riding ahead of the legion. Paetus, send a messenger down to them and order them, in my name, to hurry. And send one to Plautius to tell him what’s happening.’

‘Yes, sir! And what do we do?’

‘What we have to: charge the Britons threatening Corvinus’ right flank and hope that we can hold until that ala arrives. Form line!’

Within moments the riders had been despatched and the shrill blare of the lituus filled the air as the column, bridles jangling,
horses snorting and decurions shouting, changed formation into a four-deep line.

Vespasian pulled his brother to one side. ‘I don’t care what you say, Sabinus, but there is no way that you’ll be fit enough for this.’

Sabinus went to protest but Vespasian cut him off. ‘You go down and get into the camp, and see if you can find anything of interest in Corvinus’ praetorium. That would be much more useful than getting yourself killed because you’re too weak to punch a sword hard.’

Sabinus grasped his brother’s forearm. ‘Just this once I’ll listen to you and take your advice, brother.’

‘You’re going to have to ask for a loan now, sir,’ Magnus chuckled as Sabinus rode off, ‘Sabinus just listened to someone.’

‘Well, you go with him and make sure he doesn’t do it again, I wouldn’t want to ask for two loans in the same day. You’ll be of much more help with him than getting in everyone’s way complaining about fighting on horseback.’

‘I can’t argue with that,’ Magnus affirmed, following in Sabinus’ path.

The line was formed and Vespasian took his place between Ansigar and Paetus, drawing his sword, glancing at the young cavalry prefect and giving a brief, business-like nod.

‘The First Batavian Ala will advance!’ Paetus roared, sweeping his spatha from its scabbard and raising it in the air.

The lituus sounded and the three hundred surviving Batavian troopers kicked their horses forward, holding their reins in their shielded hands and brandishing javelins in the air with their right.

Down the hill they came, breaking first into a trot and then a canter at Paetus’ signal; the thunder of hooves drowned out the clamour of the battle before them as they pounded across the ground towards the legion’s threatened right flank. As they closed the distance, Paetus ordered the charge; the troopers roared the battle cry of the Batavians, deep and guttural, and urged their willing steeds on. Vespasian’s calves gripped the sweating flanks of his mount, feeling its huge chest rise and fall,
sucking in vast gulps of air as it drove its legs forward over the rough grass, head stretched forward, ears back, the muscles and ligaments in its powerful neck straining beneath tight skin.

A force of a few score British cavalry and some chariots broke away from the hard-fought melee that had infiltrated the Roman line and turned to face the newcomers to the field; but it was not enough. Many of them went down to the hissing volley of sleek javelins that broke their already ragged formation and panicked more than a few of their mounts.

With the enemy’s cohesion gone, most of the Batavians’ horses willingly carried the charge home, crashing through the large gaps in the Britons’ unsteady line, with only a few shying at the last, unwilling to charge straight into a fellow beast, even though they were of smaller stature.

Slicing his spatha in a sideways cut, Vespasian severed the sword arm and opened the naked chest of a young mounted warrior, almost half his age, sending him howling to the ground in a spew of blood as his mount bolted in terror. Vespasian’s horse and those of his comrades slowed suddenly of their own accord as they penetrated deep into the Britons’ formation, turning the combat into a static affair. Many troopers wheeled their mounts on the spot, hacking at any enemy brave enough to attempt to hold his ground, clearing the areas around them with bloody efficiency before moving on towards fresh foes. Working with Paetus and Ansigar’s turma, Vespasian cleaved a path towards the rear of the Britons still engaged with the extreme right auxiliary cohort of the Roman line.

The auxiliaries, with weight of man and beast pressing against them greatly reduced, roared their war cry and renewed their bloody endeavours. Punching their swords up into the eyes of the stocky ponies and hacking at the dangling legs of their riders, they forced them back from within their formation and gradually began to lock shields again, cohering the unit together once more into an effective fighting force determined to avenge the dead comrades beneath their feet.

With the blades of the vengeful auxiliaries before them and the honed iron of the new, terrifying force bearing down upon
their defenceless backs, the Britons wavered for a few moments and then, as if by immediate mutual consent, broke. Chariots and cavalry turned and fled back towards the bulk of their army around the corner of the buckled flank. Vespasian and Paetus led the Batavians in a haphazard pursuit, slashing at the backs of the enemy and the rumps of their horses. With only a few javelins flung by chariot-mounted warriors to harm them, the Batavians took to their merciless task with relish, shedding as much blood as possible without venturing too far and risking engulfment by the horde of foot warriors that were still very much of a mind to break the Roman will. Behind them the auxiliaries followed, led by their centurions and pushed forward by the long poles of the optiones to their rear, arcing back round to straighten the line.

‘Halt!’ Vespasian cried as their quarry diverted around the flank of the main body of foot warriors, who began to turn and face the Batavians.

‘Fall back and rally!’ Paetus shouted, knowing that they were too disorganised to risk an encounter with infantry.

The lituus blew and the Batavians retired, melting around the side of the oncoming auxiliaries who continued at a brisk jog, shield to shield, increasing in pace as they closed with the enemy until, in an act of brave opportunism, they swung round and crashed into the Britons’ flank.

Vespasian surveyed the scene as the decurions dressed the Batavians’ ranks a hundred paces behind the auxiliaries. The VIIII Hispana held as the Britons attacked and then retreated, only to charge again, repeatedly. This was not the mindless shoving and heaving in a press of bodies in an attempt to break through by sheer weight of flesh, this was hand-to-hand combat in waves; flowing forward, with long swords flashing and spears jabbing, making contact and then disengaging and pulling back as if sucked by an undertow before surging forward again. The effect rippled up and down the line, so that there was always contact at various points, in a strangely fluid motion; except where the auxiliaries had pinned the flank. Here the Britons were forced against the shields of the rightmost legionary cohort and the legionaries were thankful for it. Their unseen
blades were working bloody death in the press of front rank warriors, who shrieked in gutted agony as the moist coils of their intestines slopped to the churned ground to be stamped upon by hobnailed boots as the legionaries pressed home their advantage.

Caught on the anvil of the legion by the heavy blow from the auxiliaries hammering into their flank, panic began to spread through the massed tribesmen and the tone of their cacophony changed, rising in pitch, becoming shriller and more terrified.

The legionaries pressed on whilst the auxiliaries continued to squeeze and the warriors fell in droves, unable to pull back from the cruel blades. And yet they held, as if the will of their gods forced them to stand and die on the sacred earth of their homeland; their screams and death-shouts rising to the sky in homage to the deities that watched over them but could not, ultimately, protect them.

And then came a new sound: a low groan of despair. Vespasian looked to his left; along the crest of the hill, mounted figures were arriving. More and more appeared, ranging along the entire length of the crest. As their number increased so did the hopes of the Britons lessen, for they knew that behind this second, larger unit of mounted troops would surely be another legion of Rome and the blare of its horns would herald their certain deaths.

Sensing the growing hopelessness in their opponents, the legionaries went on the offensive, urged on by their centurions, attempting to maintain contact all along the line, engaging the enemy on their own terms and increasing their kill rate. The Britons, forced back and suffering dreadful casualties, wavered. Then, as the second mounted force to appear on the hill that day advanced, they began to break and run; the tide had turned.

Away they flowed to escape the relentless blades of the legion, leaving their many dead and wounded behind them, sprinting east for their lives.

Vespasian turned to Paetus. ‘Join up with this new ala and pursue for a mile or so; kill as many as you can.’

‘My pleasure, sir. Won’t you be joining us?’

‘No, Paetus; I’m going to find Sabinus and then together we’ll confront Corvinus. If we’re dead when you get back you must ride to Plautius and tell him that we’ve failed.’

Paetus saluted as Vespasian turned his horse and rode towards the camp.

Riding at speed behind the ranks of cheering cohorts, Vespasian quickly reached the southern gate of the marching camp and then followed the deserted Via Principalis to the praetorium at the camp’s heart. Dismounting, he tethered his horse and then passed through the unguarded entrance.

‘You took your time, brother,’ Sabinus said from the depths of the tent.

‘There was the small matter of an army of Britons to defeat. Where are the guards?’

‘They wouldn’t co-operate so Magnus and I were forced to relieve them of their weapons. They’ll be fine, apart from having sore heads.’

‘Did you find anything?’

‘Very much so; it’s in the sleeping quarters with Magnus.’

Vespasian followed his brother through an entrance at the rear of the tent to see Magnus sitting by a figure lying prone on the bed. As his eyes got used to the dim light he could make out long grey hair and a drooping black moustache. ‘Verica! What’s he doing in here?’

‘It’s not of his own accord,’ Magnus informed him, ‘he was unconscious and tied up when we found him; he only started to come to just before you arrived.’

The old King slowly opened his eyes and groggily focused on Vespasian, then said: ‘They came to surrender.’

‘Who did?’