‘On, lads! On! Kill them! Kill them all!’
Hardly a man spared him a glance as they charged through. Only when he was sure that there were enough Romans on the rampart to form a living barrier between himself and the enemy did Vitellius climb through the ruined palisade and onto the rampart. From this height he had a quick chance to survey the immediate battlefield. On both sides the fighting line stretched out along the curved fortifications. Behind the Ninth Legion the First Cohort of the Fourteenth was emerging from the river and would shortly add its weight to the assault. Even now it might not be needed. Geta’s desperate attempt to force the defences was succeeding and all the while more and more Romans were packing the rampart and pushing the Britons back, down the reverse slope and into their camp. Sensing that victory was at last in their grasp, and driven on by a blood-crazed desire to avenge the torment they had suffered on the killing ground by the river, the men of the Ninth savagely hacked their way forwards.
Vitellius went with them, urging the legionaries on as he sought to rejoin the colour party. He found them in a ring of bodies – Roman and Briton alike sprawled at the foot of the eagle. Most of the officers bore wounds from the desperate fight on the rampart and Vitellius saw that fewer than half of the original party were still on their feet. Geta was busy issuing orders to be carried to the cohort commanders to prevent their units from dispersing in a general pursuit of the enemy. The fresh troops of the Fourteenth would be permitted that duty while the Ninth secured the fortifications they had given so many lives to take.
‘There you are, sir!’ Vitellius called out cheerfully. ‘We did it, sir! We beat ’em!’
‘We?’ Geta arched an eyebrow but Vitellius ploughed on. Sheathing his bloodied sword he grabbed the legate’s hand and pumped it warmly.
‘A brilliant action, sir. Quite brilliant. Wait until Rome hears about this!’
‘I thought we’d lost you, Tribune,’ Geta said quietly.
‘Got separated in the crush, sir. I helped some lads break onto the rampart over that way.’
‘I see.’
The two men faced each other for a moment, the tribune smiling effusively, the legate’s expression cold and restrained. Vitellius broke the silence.
‘And no sign of the Second Legion! This is the Ninth’s victory alone. Your victory, sir.’
‘It’s not over yet, Tribune. For any of us.’
‘It’s over for them, sir.’ Vitellius waved an arm in the direction of the enemy camp through which the erstwhile defenders were streaming back towards the rear gateways.
‘For them, maybe. Excuse me.’ Geta turned towards his trumpeters. ‘Sound recall and re-form.’
The bucinas each drew in a lungful of air and pursed their lips to the mouthpieces. The brassy notes blasted out a brief melody and then continued repeating it. Slowly the men of the Ninth disengaged and looked for their cohort standards. But before he could give the order for the signal to cease, Geta was aware of a new noise, a rippling roar of war cries welling up from behind the enemy camp. As the other members of the colour party became aware of the sound they looked to the low ridge behind the camp. All along the battle line men stood still and listened, Roman and Briton alike. Then as an icy dread gripped the exhausted Romans, Caratacus’ carefully husbanded reserves burst into the camp.
‘Oh shit!’ Vitellius whispered.
Legate Geta smiled and drew his sword again. ‘I rather think your earlier report of our triumph was greatly exaggerated. If we’re going to make the columns of the Rome gazette, I’m afraid it may be the obituaries.’
Chapter Thirteen
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Vespasian watched with unabashed anguish as the British reserves rolled forward like a great wave threatening to dash the thin line of the Ninth to pieces. The Fourteenth Legion would not be in a position to lend any support until the fight on the rampart was over, and then it would be their turn to be thrown into the grinder, with no possibility of retreat.
Beside the legate, Cato realised that the fate of the entire army was bound up in what happened in the very next moment. The Britons were on the verge of a decisive victory over the Roman invaders, and the mere thought of such a calamity filled him with bleak despair, as if the world itself was on the brink of extinction. Only the Second Legion stood in the way of disaster now.
Amidst the muffled din of the battle Cato thought he could hear the faint falling note of a trumpet, and he strained his ears to try and pick out the sound again. But whatever the sound may have been, it was lost now. Might it have been some trick of acoustics? he wondered. Or a stray note from a British war horn? Then it came again, more distinctly this time. Cato quickly turned to his legate.
‘Sir! Did you hear it?’
Vespasian raised himself up and listened intently before he shook his head. ‘I can’t hear them. Are you sure? You’d better be sure.’ In a mad instant Cato knew that it was down to him. On him alone hung the fate of the army.
‘It’s trumpets, sir! Ordering us to advance.’
Vespasian exchanged a long look with the optio and then nodded. ‘You’re right. I can hear them. Sound the advance!’ Vespasian bellowed over his shoulder and before the first notes of the following signal had died, the Second Legion were advancing up the slope. Vespasian turned to his messengers. ‘Pass the word, I want us to arrive in formation. If any man feels inclined to grab all the glory for himself and breaks ranks I will personally see to it that he’s crucified. Centurion Macro!’
‘Yes, sir.’ Macro stood to attention now that there was no longer any need for concealment.
‘Get your century formed up and rejoin your cohort.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good luck, Macro.’ The legate nodded grimly. ‘We’ll need all the luck we can get.’
Then he turned and fell in step with the colour party as it crested the ridge and the full scale of the task was revealed to them. Even the veterans sucked in their breath and exchanged surprised looks. It was too late to go back on his decision now, Vespasian reflected. In a short time the Second Legion would earn a footnote in the pages of history for itself, and if the gods were kind this day, the reference would not be posthumous.
The centurions called the pace in steady parade-ground tones and the legion marched down the slope in lines of five cohorts. At the front of the Sixth Century Cato did his best to keep in step with his centurion. Ahead he saw that the British reserves had reached the rampart and were swarming up the reverse slope against the thin wall of shields presented by the men of the Ninth. Down by the river the cohorts of the Fourteenth were hastily re-forming as they reached the bank. But the rising tide made their progress across the ford terribly slow and even now most of them would arrive too late to be of any use.
The sudden threat from the Second Legion on their right flank threw the nearest British warriors into a panic; many just stopped in their tracks to stare at the new danger. The distance closed steadily and Cato began to make out individual features in the men he would soon be fighting hand-to-hand. He could see the lime-washed hair, the elegantly swirling tattoos covering their woad-stained torsos, the brightly dyed woollen breeches and the wicked long blades of their swords and war spears.
‘Steady there!’ Macro bellowed as the uneven slope caused his century to fall out of alignment with the rest of the cohort. ‘Keep to the pace!’
The ranks hurriedly dressed themselves and the Sixth Century continued rolling forwards, less than half a mile from the fortifications now. A small band of slingmen ran out of the nearest gateway and moved into range. Then a light but deadly volley of slingshot rattled down on the large rectangular shields of the legionaries. Something whirred over Cato’s head and a man at the rear of the century cried out as the shot shattered his collarbone. He fell out and slumped into the long grass, dropping his javelin. But there was no time to spare for the man as a fresh volley clattered down.
A quarter of a mile to go, and the slope levelled out. N
ow the Second Legion could no longer see the desperate fight along the palisade. A large gateway lay to the front of Cato’s cohort, and the centurion pointed it out with his vine staff, giving the order for the cohort to wheel towards it. With a carelessness typical of the Celtic temperament, the gates lay wide open and the Fourth Cohort had brushed the slingers aside and was only a scant few feet from the fortifications before the first of the British heavy infantry appeared. With a defiant roar the Britons, in ornate helmets, kite shields and long swords, charged the Roman line.
‘Javelins! Release at will!’ Macro just had time to shout and the lead centuries of the cohort hurled an uneven volley that arced in a low trajectory straight for the British swordsmen. As always there was an instant of silence as the javelins swept down and their targets braced themselves for the impact. Then came a sharp crack and clatter followed by screams. Many of the javelins had lodged firmly in the British shields. Their soft iron shafts bent on impact and made it impossible for the recipients to throw them back or dislodge them from their shields, which then had to be discarded. After the javelin volley the legionaries quickly drew swords and closed with the Britons who were still reeling from the javelins. No amount of courage could withstand the ruthless efficiency of vigorous training and equipment specifically designed for such confined fighting conditions, and the Roman cohorts steadily pushed their way inside the fortifications. The superior numbers of the enemy, which might have made all the difference in an open battlefield, were here a handicap. The Britons were herded together in a tight press and cut down by the short swords stabbing out from between a wall of large rectangular shields.
The Sixth Century moved out to a flanking position once the cohort had fought its way through the gateway into a vast area of crude tents and other shelters erected by Caratacus’ army. Between the Second Legion and the two other legions now fighting all along the earthworks, thousands of Britons were massed. There was a momentary lull as the enemy suddenly realised the grim reality of their predicament, caught between two Roman forces with no easy escape route. Their chiefs realised the danger they were in and strove to bring some semblance of order to their men before the battle turned into a massacre.
In the middle of the Second Legion’s battle line Cato stood shoulder to shoulder with his centurion in the dense ranks of men waiting for the order to finish the fight. On the extreme right of the Roman line Vespasian gave the order to advance; the command was quickly passed along to each cohort and moments later, behind a wall of shields, the legion moved forward at the slow, even pace of the unit advance. Those slingers and archers still supplied with ammunition kept up their fire on the Roman ranks, but the shield wall proved to be all but impenetrable. In desperation the British warriors started to hurl themselves forward, directly into the shields, to try and break up the line.
‘Watch it!’ Macro shouted as a huge man lumbered in towards Cato at an oblique angle. The optio swung his shield left and thrust the boss towards the man’s face. He felt something connect and then automatically thrust his short sword into the man’s guts, twisted and withdrew the blade. The Briton groaned and collapsed to one side.
‘Nice kill!’ Macro smiled, in his element, as he stuck another Briton in the chest and kicked the man free of his weapon. Two or three men of the Sixth Century, overcome by the desire to get at the enemy, burst forward, out of the Roman line.
‘Get back in the ranks!’ Macro bellowed. ‘I’ve got your names!’
The men, instantly stilled by his voice, slunk back and rejoined the formation, not daring to meet the centurion’s withering gaze, for the moment more concerned about the inevitable disciplinary punishment than the present fight.
The battle on the palisade was over and the men of the Fourteenth Legion were pushing the Britons back down the reverse slope into their encampment. Caught between the two forces, the Britons fought for their lives with a wild desperation that Cato found truly terrifying. The savage faces, flecked with spittle from their hoarse screams, confronted him like the spirits of devils. The Roman army’s training took over and the sequence of advance-thrust-disengage-advance was carried out automatically, almost as if his body belonged to another entity altogether.
As the dead and dying fell beneath the blades of the Romans, the line slowly moved forward over a field of bodies, wrecked tents and scattered equipment. Suddenly the Sixth Century came upon an area the Britons had set aside for cooking; the turf ovens and open fires still crackled and burned with an orange brilliance in the failing light, bathing those nearby in a lurid red that only accentuated the horror of battle.
Before Cato could see it coming, a massive blow to his shield caught him off balance and he tumbled into a large steaming pot suspended over a fire. The flames seared his legs and before the water spilled and dowsed the fire, it scalded him down one side of his body. He could not help screaming at the sharp, nerve-searing agony of his burns and nearly dropped his shield and sword. Another blow landed on his shield; looking up, Cato saw a thin warrior with long pigtails looming over him, feral hatred twisting his features. As the Briton raised his two-handed axe for the kill, Cato thrust Bestia’s sword up to cover the blow.
It never landed. Macro had rammed his blade in under the Briton’s armpit almost up to the hilt and the man died instantly. Biting back the pain from his burns, Cato could only nod his thanks to the centurion.
Macro flashed a quick smile. ‘On your feet!’
The front rank of the century had passed them and for a moment Cato was safe from the enemy.
‘You all right, lad?’
‘I’ll live, sir,’ Cato hissed through gritted teeth as a river of pain raged down the side of his body. He could hardly focus his mind through the agony. Macro was not fooled by the bravado, he had seen it enough times in the fourteen years he had served in the army. But he had also come to respect an individual’s right to deal with it as he chose. He helped the optio back to his feet, and without thinking gave Cato an encouraging slap on the back. The youngster stiffened, but after only a moment’s trembling he recovered enough to take a firm grasp of his sword and shield, and pushed his way towards the front rank. Tightening his grip on his own sword handle, Macro waded back into the fight.
For Cato the rest of the battle for the Britons’ camp was a blur in his mind, so much effort was required to keep the terrible pain of his burns at bay. He might have killed any number of men but later he could not recall a single incident; he stabbed with his sword and countered blows with his shield oblivious to any sense of danger, aware only of the need to control the agony.
The battle flowed remorselessly against the Britons, crushed between the relentless pressure of the two legions. Desperately they looked for the point of least resistance and began to rush for the gaps between the closing lines of legionaries. First dozens then scores of Britons broke away from their comrades and ran for their lives, scrambling up the reverse slopes of the ramparts and running off into the gathering dusk. Many thousands escaped before the two lines of legionaries met and encircled a doomed band of warriors determined to fight to the last.
These were no ordinary levies, Macro realised as he exchanged blows with an older warrior whose sweat glistened on the skin of his well-muscled body. A heavy gold torc hung round the Briton’s neck, similar to the trophy taken from the corpse of Togodumnus, which Macro now wore. The Briton saw it; recognition flashed across his features and he hacked at Macro with renewed frenzy in his desire for revenge. His wrath did for him in the end; the cooler-headed Roman let the man’s fading energy use itself up on his shield before a swift strike settled the matter. A legionary, one of the previous autumn’s recruits, knelt down and laid a hand on the dead Briton’s torc.
‘Take that and you’re dead,’ warned Macro. ‘You know the rules on looting.’
The legionary nodded quickly and threw himself at the dwindling knot of Britons, only to impale himself on a broad-bladed war spear.
Macro swore. Then he pushed
on, and found Cato at his side once more, teeth clamped together in a snarl as he fought on with vicious efficiency. As the setting sun’s afterglow of orange and red stained the sky, a Roman trumpet blasted out the signal to disengage and a small space opened up around the surviving Britons. Cato was the last one to give way; he had to be physically hauled back from the fight by his centurion and shaken into a more stable frame of mind.
In the dusk, a small ring of no more than fifty of the Britons glared silently at the legionaries. Bleeding from numerous wounds, blood-smeared bodies heaving with spent breath, they leaned on their weapons and waited for the end. From the ranks of the legions a voice called out to them in a Celtic tongue. A call for surrender, Macro guessed. The call was repeated and this time the surrounded Britons gave vent to a chorus of shouts and defiant gestures. Macro shook his head, suddenly very weary of killing. What more had these men to prove by their deaths? Who would ever know of their last stand? It was axiomatic that history was written by the victors in war. He had learned that much from the history books Cato had used to teach him to read. These brave men condemned themselves to die for nothing.
Gradually the defiant words and gestures petered out and the Britons faced their foes with fatalistic calm. There was a moment’s silence, then without need of any word of command the legionaries surged forward and wiped them out.
By torchlight the Romans took stock of their victory. The gates were guarded against counterattack and the work of searching the bodies strewn across the British encampment for Roman injured commenced in earnest. With torches held aloft, the patrols of legionaries located their wounded comrades and carried them to the forward casualty station hurriedly erected on the bank of the river. The wounded Britons were mercifully despatched with quick sword and spear thrusts and heaped into piles for later burial.
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