The Eagle's Conquest

by Simon Scarrow

  ‘Up, Praetorians, and at ’em!’ Macro shouted, as if his words would carry across the vale. ‘Get ’em!’

  The centurion’s excitement was shared by those on the grassy mound. Officers craned their necks to try and get a better view of the distant assault. The Emperor was bouncing up and down in his saddle in unrestrained glee as the Praetorian cohorts charged home. So much so that he had forgotten the next phase of his own battle plan.

  ‘Caesar?’ Plautius interrupted.

  ‘Oh, what is it now?’

  ‘Shall I give the order for the legions to move up?’

  ‘What?’ Claudius frowned before he recalled the necessary details. ‘Of course! Why h-h-hasn’t it been done already? Get on with it, man! Get on with it!’

  The order to advance was sounded, but the mist obscured any evidence of its being carried out until, at length, the front ranks of the Ninth Legion appeared as spectral shapes gradually emerging into view on the far slope. Cohort after cohort negotiated the ditches with painful slowness, or so it seemed when viewed from the mound. Some of the officers were nervously exchanging quiet words as they surveyed the advance. Something was wrong. The rear ranks of the Praetorian cohorts were still in view on top of the palisade. They should have advanced further by now but seemed to have been stopped dead by something not visible from this side of the ridge. The foremost legionaries of the Ninth were already in among the rear ranks of the Praetorians, and still the waves of the succeeding cohorts emerged from the mist and advanced up the slope.

  ‘Won’t there be something of a t-tangle if this carries on?’ asked the Emperor.

  ‘I fear so, Caesar.’

  ‘Why isn’t somebody doing something about it?’ Claudius looked round at his assembled staff officers. Blank-faced to a man. ‘Well?’

  ‘I’ll send someone to find out the reason for the delay, Caesar.’

  ‘Don’t bother!’ Claudius replied hotly. ‘If you want something done p-p-properly you just have to do it yourself.’ Grabbing his reins tightly, he dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and plunged down the mound towards the mist.

  ‘Caesar!’ Narcissus called out desperately. ‘Caesar! Stop!’

  When Claudius rode on heedless, Narcissus swore and quickly turned to the other officers, who were watching events in amazement. ‘Well? What are you waiting for? There goes the Emperor and where he goes his headquarters follows. Come on!’

  As the Emperor disappeared into the fog, his staff officers streamed after him, desperately trying not to lose sight of the ruler of the Roman Empire as he raced into danger.

  ‘What on earth is going on?’ asked Vespasian. He was standing by his horse at the head of the six cohorts of his legion. With no warning the Emperor and his entire staff had charged from the mound, and what looked like the tail end of a horse race was melting into the mist. He turned to his senior tribune, eyebrows raised.

  ‘When you’ve got to go, you’ve got to go,’ suggested Vitellius.

  ‘Most helpful of you, Tribune.’

  ‘Do you think we should follow them?’

  ‘No. Our orders were to stay here.’

  ‘Fair enough, sir.’ Vitellius shrugged. ‘The view’s better in any case.’

  Vespasian stood and watched the far slope where the succeeding waves of attackers had become hopelessly mixed up before any officers had a chance to halt the advance and reorganise their men. ‘This could turn into something of a disaster if we’re not careful.’

  ‘Hardly an edifying spectacle, is it, sir?’ Vitellius chuckled.

  ‘Let’s just hope that’s the worst that will happen today,’ replied Vespasian. He glanced up at the clear sky from where the morning sun now shone brightly, and then down at the mist. ‘Would you say it’s lifting?’

  ‘What was that, sir?’

  ‘The mist. I think it’s lifting.’

  Vitellius stared at it for a moment. The white threads of mist were definitely thinner at the edges and already the dim outline of the forest away to the left was showing through.

  ‘I believe you’re right, sir.’

  That the Emperor survived the mad dash right through the middle of his army Narcissus could only put down to some kind of divine intervention. In the dense white mist it was almost impossible to keep up with Claudius. Men scattered to the left and right at the sound of approaching hoofbeats and watched in astonishment as Claudius galloped by, closely pursued by General Plautius and his staff officers. As the Roman lines became more congested, Claudius was forced to slow down, and at last the others caught up with him and fought to clear a path through the packed ranks. As they climbed the slope out of the mist, the full scale of the disorganisation became clear. Across the entire front men were being crushed together. It was worst by the ditches, where those unfortunate enough to be caught in the bottom were wedged in tightly, and any who stumbled and fell were trampled to death on the ground. Only by using the brutal force of their mounts did Claudius and his staff at last gain the palisade and understand what had gone wrong.

  Caratacus had foreseen everything. The ditches and the palisade were just a screen before the real defences laid out on the reverse slope. For hundreds of feet on either side ran a system of concealed pits with spikes at the bottom – the ‘lilies’ so beloved of Julius Caesar – and finally a deep trench and yet another turf rampart defended by a palisade. With no artillery fire to support them, the Praetorian units had been forced to advance into this deathtrap alone, with the Britons fighting them every step of the way.

  All across the slope were the bodies of Praetorians impaled on lily spikes or crippled by concealed caltrops, whose vicious iron points went right through the soles of their boots and into their feet. There were only a few paths through the spikes and the Praetorians had been funnelled into these tight spaces where they were kept at bay by a handful of Britons while their flanks were exposed to merciless fire from small redoubts rising above the traps all around. The arrival of yet more troops had made the situation progressively worse as the Praetorians were forced even further into the trap.

  Claudius gazed upon the disaster in horror; Plautius was in a cold rage. Without waiting for imperial approval he shouted out his orders.

  ‘Get a messenger to each legate. They’re to withdraw their men immediately. Make for their start markers and wait for further orders. Go!’

  As the staff officers fought their way back down the slope, Claudius came out of his frozen state and responded to the orders his general had just given. ‘Very good, Plautius – a tactical withdrawal. Very s-s-sensible. But first, let’s make good use of this d-diversion. The second can advance r-round the ridge and catch them in the flank. Give the order r-r-right now!’

  Plautius stared at his Emperor, dumbfounded by the sheer idiocy of the order. ‘Caesar, the Second is the last body of formed-up legionaries we have left.’

  ‘Exactly! Now give the order.’

  When Plautius didn’t move, the Emperor repeated the order to Narcissus. At once the chief secretary glanced round for someone to ride to Vespasian.

  ‘Sabinus! Over here!’

  As Narcissus gave the order, there was a growing roar from the enemy as word passed down their lines that the Roman Emperor himself was within striking distance. Slingshot and arrows from the British lines began to thud down around Claudius and his staff, and the imperial bodyguard hurriedly placed themselves round their master, raising their shields to shelter him. The rest of his companions had to dismount and take shields from the dead as the volume of missiles increased. Looking out from under the rim of a British shield, Narcissus caught sight of a ripple of crimson cloaks in the mass of Britons swarming before them, and the roar in the throats of the enemy reached a fanatic pitch as Caratacus’ elite warriors swept towards the Roman Emperor.

  ‘Now we’re for it!’ Narcissus muttered, before he turned back to Sabinus.

  ‘Understand this. If your brother doesn’t move his men up in time, the Emperor will be
lost and the army will be slaughtered. Go!’

  Sabinus stabbed his heels into his mount and the beast reared before surging back through the packed ranks of legionaries. Behind Sabinus the roar of the Britons converging on the Emperor’s position drowned out the other sounds of battle.

  Desperate and confused faces flashed before him as he urged his mount on, brutally clearing his way through the dense mass, heedless of the cries of those men knocked down and trampled by his mount.

  At last, the crush of legionaries thinned and he spurred his horse into a gallop up the slope towards the Roman camp. Through the mist his eyes anxiously sought for the first sign of his brother’s legion. Then the spectral shapes of the standards appeared directly ahead. Suddenly, the mist cleared and, with a shout, Sabinus steered his horse round beside his younger brother, and breathlessly passed on the Emperor’s order.

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Quite serious, brother. To the right of the ridge and sweep round into their flank.’

  ‘But there’s a marsh over there. Where the elephants went. Where the hell did they end up?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Sabinus said breathlessly. ‘Just carry out the order. We might yet win the battle.’

  ‘Win the battle?’ Vespasian looked up across the thinning mist to where the other legions were crowding back down the slope. ‘We’ll be lucky if we aren’t massacred.’

  ‘Just carry out the order, Legate!’ Sabinus said harshly.

  Vespasian glanced at his brother, and then looked again at the battlefield before he made the decision all his instincts and military judgement told him to make.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No?’ Sabinus repeated, eyes wide. ‘What d’you mean, no?’

  ‘The Second is staying here. We’re the reserve,’ explained Vespasian. ‘If Claudius throws us away in some hare-brained attack then there’s nothing left to meet any surprise the Britons throw at us. Not while the other legions are in that mess.’ He nodded across the vale. ‘We stay here.’

  ‘Brother, I beg you. Do as you are ordered!’

  ‘No!’

  ‘The Britons have already sprung their surprise on us,’ Sabinus argued desperately. ‘And now we – you – can surprise them.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Vespasian.’ Sabinus leaned forward and spoke with quiet intensity. ‘Do it! If you stand here you’ll be accused of cowardice. Think of our family name. Do you want the Flavians to be remembered as cowards for the rest of time? Do you?’

  Vespasian returned his older brother’s stare with equal intensity. ‘This is not about posterity. This is about doing the right thing. By the book. While the army is disorganised, we must have a standing reserve. Only a fool would disagree.’

  ‘Quiet, brother!’ Sabinus glanced round nervously in case Vespasian’s intemperate words had been overheard. Vitellius stood to one side and casually raised a hand in greeting.

  ‘Vespasian—’

  But the legate was no longer listening. He was staring at the forest, more clearly visible in the thinning mist. Unless his eyes were playing him false, there was movement down there. From under the boughs of the trees at the edge of the forest, briar thickets were slowly emerging in dozens of places. What dark magic was this? Could those devils the Druids conjure up the very forces of nature to aid them in their fight against Rome?

  Then the briars were thrown to one side and the true genius of Caratacus’ plan became clear. From deep within the forest charged a column of chariots. The thunder of hooves and rumble of wheels was audible even up by the Roman army’s camp. The heavy British chariots burst out into the open and charged down upon the artillery positions on the left flank.

  The legionaries manning the bolt-throwers had no time to react to the threat and were cut down where they stood, trampled and ridden over by the chariots, or speared by the warriors riding on the chariot beds. In the wake of the chariots swarmed thousands of lightly armed men carrying pikes. They streamed across the rear of the attacking force like grey ghosts in the thinning mist. They paid no attention to the still cohorts of the Second Legion as they rushed to close the trap on Claudius and the main body of his army. More Britons appeared all along the edge of the forest and threw themselves upon the legions’ tangled flank. The ferocity of the attack compounded the effect of the surprise and the Britons carved a deep swathe through the disorganised Roman lines. Panic welled up and swept ahead of the British onslaught and some legionaries backed away, while others simply turned and ran to the right of the line.

  ‘Dear gods,’ said Sabinus. ‘They’re trying to drive us into the marsh.’

  ‘And they’ll do it,’ said Vespasian grimly, ‘unless we intervene.’

  ‘Us?’ Sabinus looked horrified. ‘What can we do? We should guard the camp, so the survivors have somewhere to run.’

  ‘Survivors? There won’t be any survivors. They’ll run all right, straight into the marsh and drown, or be stuck in the mire and cut to pieces.’ Vespasian reached over and gripped his brother’s arm. ‘Sabinus, it’s down to us. There’s no one else. Do you understand me?’

  Sabinus recovered his self-control and nodded.

  ‘Good!’ Vespasian released his arm. ‘Now go into the camp and fetch the other four cohorts and any auxiliary troops you can find. Get them formed up as quickly as you can and attack straight down the hill. Make as much noise as you can. Now go!’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I’ll take my chances with what I’ve got here.’

  Sabinus wheeled his horse and spurred it up towards the main gate of the camp, bent low across the beast’s neck as he kicked his heels in.

  With a last glance after his brother, Vespasian wondered if they would ever meet again in this world. Then he pushed the grim thought from his mind, and steeled himself for what he must do if the army and his Emperor were to be saved. He turned to his tribunes and called them over. The young men listened intently as he delivered his instructions as crisply as he could and then galloped away to deliver the orders to the senior centurions of the six cohorts. Vespasian dismounted, handed the reins to a groom and asked for his shield to be brought to him. He undid the clasp on his scarlet cloak and let it slip to the ground.

  ‘Make sure that is taken back to my tent. I’ll need it tonight if it gets cold.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ His personal slave nodded with a smile. ‘I’ll see you later then, master.’

  Having checked the chin strap of his helmet and made sure that his shield grip was dry, Vespasian drew his sword and rapped it on the rim of his shield. He glanced over his cohorts to make sure that all was ready. The men were standing to, silently formed up and intently following the action down in the vale as they waited for the order.

  ‘The Second will advance, on the oblique!’ he shouted out, and the order was quickly relayed along the line. He counted three before the execution phase of the order and then filled his lungs. ‘Advance!’

  At a steady pace the six cohorts moved forward and started down the slope towards the shouts and screams of the desperate battle being fought in the vale. The mist was rapidly thinning and starting to reveal the full scale of the disaster facing Claudius and the other three legions. Caught out of formation and sent reeling by the surprise attack from the forest, the rear ranks had broken and were blindly fleeing across the battlefield towards the marsh. Scattered pockets of resistance showed where a centurion had managed to show sufficient resolve and presence of mind to gather men to face the British pikemen. Ranged behind their closely aligned shields, small groups of legionaries fought their way towards each other but they were getting the worst of it because of the reach of the enemy’s pikes.

  The standards of the Fourth Cohort bobbed up and down with the rhythmic pace of their bearers and Cato’s eyes were automatically drawn to them as their gilded decorations caught the sun and glowed with a fiery burnish. The cohorts were marching in two lines of three centuries, with the Sixth Century positioned on the right
of the rear rank. Cato had a clear view of the line of advance. The tall oaks of the forest loomed up ahead and to the left of the Second Legion, wide trails leading into their shadows clearly visible now that the briar screens had been discarded. Ahead and to the right bodies were strewn across the trampled grass, which was still wet with dew that drenched his boots. The cohort passed over the remains of the left flank artillery battery. Most of the weapons had been knocked over, and the bodies of their crews lay crumpled all around. Cato had to sidestep the corpse of a centurion, and glancing down he felt the bile rise in his throat at the sight of the bloody gristle and severed tendons in the side of the officer’s neck where a sword blow had nearly taken his head off.

  They kept on moving and left the carnage of the battery behind. As they advanced, Cato saw that at last some of the enemy were responding to the cohorts’ approach. The nearest of the pikemen had turned to face the threat and were shouting warnings to their comrades. More and more of them turned to attack the Second Legion, screaming their war cries as they levelled their pikes.

  ‘Halt!’ Vespasian bellowed.

  The cohorts drew up one pace on, hands tightening round their javelins in anticipation of the next order.

  ‘Prepare javelins!’

  The legionaries of the front line of centuries hefted the shafts of their javelins and stretched their throwing arms back. The British charge faltered. With no shields to protect them, the pikemen well knew how vulnerable they were to a volley of javelins.

  ‘Release!’

  The legionaries’ arms flew forwards, releasing a ragged belt of dark lines that arced up in the air towards the Britons. As they reached the highest point of their trajectory the javelins seemed to hang for an instant, and the war cries of the Britons abruptly died in their throats as they braced themselves for the impact. The tips of the javelins dropped, and the volley plunged down into the British ranks, tearing into and through the unprotected bodies of the pikemen. The charge collapsed at once and the Britons who survived the first volley glanced fearfully towards the cohorts as Vespasian called the second line to readiness. But there was no need for another shower of javelins. Almost as one, the Britons backed away, not willing to brave another volley and join their stricken comrades lying dead and wounded amongst the jagged hedge of javelin shafts whose heads had buried themselves in bare flesh and soil.