Rome’s Fallen Eagle

by Robert Fabbri

  As the truth of his words was contemplated by his officers the timbre of the drone of the thousands of voices from across the river changed, gradually at first and then quickly, to become another roar of defiance.

  Vespasian looked north and smiled grimly as he felt his pulse quicken and a churning in the pit of his stomach. ‘The Batavians have made it; so it begins, gentlemen. Return to your units, have them stop this pointless camp construction and form them up in column. I’ll give the order to move as soon as I think that the Britons have their attention sufficiently engaged elsewhere; the Batavians, Hamians, artillery and the bridge party will go first. I’ll go with them, Mucianus; once we’ve reached the river, move the men out. Dismiss.’

  With a jangling of equipment the officers saluted their legate, turned smartly and marched away to rejoin their commands. Vespasian gazed back across the river; the Britannic horde was starting to swarm north with an oddly fluid swirling motion.

  ‘Just like a flock of starlings changing direction,’ Magnus commented, coming up behind him.

  ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many starlings flocking together.’ Vespasian turned and looked at his friend and started in surprise. ‘What are you doing dressed like that?’

  ‘Well, I’m wearing this chain mail tunic in order to make it harder for one of them savages to examine my entrails; as for the helmet, that’s quite good for preventing your head being split open, and the shield is a far more effective device for deflecting a sword blow than just your left arm, if you take my meaning?’

  ‘I do indeed; does that mean you’re determined to fight?’

  ‘I did contemplate making myself a nice little picnic supper and sitting up here on the grass to watch the whole affair but then I thought that I might get rather chilly, so it would be better to be tucked up nice and snug in the front rank next to you. Oh, and I brought this for you.’ Magnus handed Vespasian his shield.

  ‘Aren’t you getting a little old for this?’ Vespasian asked, taking the shield with a nod of thanks.

  ‘I’m fifty-one this year, plenty of fight and fuck left in me; besides, I ain’t never fought a Briton – should be interesting.’

  Vespasian shook his head, knowing that he would be unable to talk Magnus out of a fight that, as a civilian, was not his. He realised that he did not want to either; he would feel much better with his friend at his side. He looked back across the river; the Britons were moving north en masse. As he watched the dark shadow of humanity cloud the grassy hillside, a limb of it suddenly split off and headed down towards the river; the XIIII were approaching the broken bridge. Vespasian offered a silent prayer to Sabinus’ god Mithras to hold his hands over his brother as, half a mile to his right, the XX started to move north behind the XIIII in their feint to the Batavians’ crossing point.

  ‘That’s got them interested,’ Magnus observed as the volume of the Britons’ shouting rose appreciatively at the sight of a new threat on the move.

  ‘It has indeed, almost all of them are moving away from us; time to go.’ He looked at the duty bucinator waiting by the praetorium. ‘Sound the advance.’

  The notes rang out, high and clear, and immediately the throaty rumbling of cornua boomed out. To his left the two bridging centuries began to push their carts down the hill with mounting speed as Paetus’ cavalry galloped away, followed by the Hamian archers at a jog and then the sixty mule carts carrying the legion’s bolt-shooters.

  Vespasian took a deep breath and steeled himself for what he knew would be one of the most testing few hours of his life. ‘Let’s get this done, my friend.’

  ‘I was hoping you’d suggest that.’

  Vespasian and Magnus began to walk down the hill in the wake of the carts as, all around, the cohorts of the II Augusta and its auxiliaries prepared for combat against an enemy that far outnumbered them. Vespasian knew that the struggles of that afternoon would seem as nothing compared with what awaited the II Augusta on the far bank of the Afon Cantiacii.

  ‘Don’t just look at them, float them!’ the centurion of the sixth century of the tenth cohort bawled at four of his men who were momentarily resting after the exertion of lifting a boat from its cart; behind him, men pounded sledgehammers down upon eight thick stakes, ramming them into the drier earth up the bank. The legionaries hurriedly tipped the boat over onto its bottom and manhandled it through the tall reeds on the riverbank and onto the mud beyond. With a real sense of urgency, enhanced by their centurion’s malevolent glare, they untied the two oars secured to the benches inside and then pushed it into the river; all four of them jumped in, with muddied sandals, once it had achieved buoyancy.

  Vespasian watched, occasionally glancing nervously north, past the artillery carts forming up in three ranks of twenty behind the Hamians and on to where the Britons were swirling towards their perceived threats; along the bank the unloading procedure was repeated until all the boats were bobbing in the slow-flowing river.

  The pounding ceased when the optio in charge of that detail was satisfied that the eight stakes, four for each bridge, were secure enough to begin fastening the four long coils of rope waiting on the ground; beyond them, the boats of the second bridge waited in the water. Slightly further south, on the opposite bank, Vespasian could see the last of Paetus’ men scramble out of the river to join the ala, already forming up in four lines. So far there was no sign of the enemy moving against them.

  ‘We might just get away with this,’ Vespasian said, looking past Magnus, up the hill to where the II Augusta was doubling down towards them.

  Magnus spat and clenched his thumb between his fingers and muttered a prayer, warding off the evil-eye.

  ‘Sorry.’

  ‘First boats!’ the centurion roared; his colleague on the second bridge bellowed the same order.

  Five boats immediately started rowing into position, fanning out into the river. As the first boat came in line with the stakes two legionaries grabbed it, holding it steady, whilst a couple more passed the coils of rope, each secured to two stakes, to the men not rowing, one in the bow, the other in the stern. They quickly fed the rope through large metal eye-holes screwed into each end of the vessel and secured them before passing them onto their colleagues in the second boat as it came alongside. The oarsmen held the boats together as the ropes were threaded through, knotted and then passed onto the third boat, the outside oarsman always working his blade in the water keeping the line stable, withdrawing it only as the next boat came into position. Beyond them a mirror image of this operation was taking place with the second span.

  Vespasian looked back to the hill in the north; a mass of chariots was speeding up the grassy slope towards the Batavians arrayed along its summit. A thin, dark cloud suddenly soared up from the auxiliaries and arced in the sky to descend into the chariots’ midst; any screams resulting from the volley were drowned out by the general background roar of tens of thousands of raised voices, but even at this distance he could make out scores of chariots immobilised on the slope with their ponies lying still before them.

  ‘Next five!’ the centurions called out as the last two boats were secured, drawing Vespasian back to the matter in hand.

  Five more boats, on either side, headed out into the river; on the bank, a century equipped with hammers and nails jogged down past the stakes, followed by mule carts full of planking. Ousting the former occupants of the boats, the four lead legionaries made their way forward along the secured boats; a work-chain formed behind them relaying the two-foot-wide planks to them. As the planks arrived they were laid down across the boats’ thick, horizontal gunwales and secured into place with long nails hammered through into the wood below. Working from the centre out, a twelve-foot-wide wooden road began to take shape, and was soon extended back to the bank by more planks overlapping those already laid. By the time the final planks were secured the next five boats were in place, stretching two-thirds of the way across the river, and the whole process began again as the last of the boa
ts headed out towards their positions. On the far bank Paetus’ ala advanced past the line of the bridge as two boats landed a contubernium of legionaries equipped with sledgehammers and stakes to secure the bridges to the western bank.

  Camp Prefect Maximus crashed to attention next to Vespasian with a jangle of phalerae, his military decorations, and gave his crispest salute. ‘The Second Augusta and its auxiliaries are formed up in column ready to cross, legate!’

  ‘Thank you, prefect.’ Vespasian turned to see the ten thousand men under his command extending up the hill in two columns, each eight men abreast. The warm westering sun glowed on their tired, grim faces and played on the burnished iron cladding them, front-lighting the standards that they would follow to death itself.

  The shrill call of a long lituus cavalry horn from across the river startled Vespasian, not by its volume but by its significance. He did not bother to look at its source but instead turned his head to the north and saw what he had been dreading. The movement of the II Augusta had not gone unnoticed – how could it? A sizeable force had broken away from the Britannic horde and was now heading along the flat, riverside meadow towards them, led by a large formation of chariots. Paetus’ ala had dressed its ranks and broken into a trot towards the oncoming enemy, just a mile distant.

  ‘Speed this up, Maximus, or we’ll get caught before we’ve got the first cohort across.’

  The prefect of the camp took a look at the last two boats on each bridge still to be positioned and ran off bellowing for more haste.

  Magnus frowned. ‘That ain’t going to do much good, the lads are going as fast as they can; I’ve never seen a river bridged so quickly.’

  Vespasian ignored him and signalled over to the I Cohort Hamiorum’s prefect to report to him.

  ‘Shadow our cavalry north, sprint if you have to, but I want there to be eight hundred arrows every ten heartbeats supporting them when they come into contact; and shoot at the horses.’

  The prefect saluted and rushed away; within moments the Hamians had turned and were doubling north along the river in pace with the trotting Batavians.

  Despite Magnus’ reservations, the appearance of Maximus at the end of the bridge had inspired the men to even greater efforts and the last two boats were now being lashed into position. Vespasian retreated a few paces up the hill and took his place in the front rank of the first cohort, next to Tatius; Magnus took his position on the other shoulder. Behind them the Eagle-bearer of the II Augusta, resplendent in his wolfskin, stood erect, ready to hold his sacred standard aloft with both hands in the coming battle whilst those around him fought to keep it safe from the enemy. Vespasian needed all his willpower not to fidget as the ropes were secured to the stakes and the final lengths of the wooden road were laid and nailed. A glance to the north told him that half a mile away the Batavians were less than two hundred paces from contact and the Hamians were sprinting in a ragged formation to keep up with them.

  ‘Don’t look at them, sir, there’s fuck all you can do about it,’ Magnus muttered in his ear.

  Vespasian gripped his sword hilt and checked that the weapon was loose in its scabbard in an effort to keep his mind from the excruciating tension. He reflected that this was the first time he had used the Lady Antonia’s gift of her father Marcus Antonius’ sword in combat since the Jewish riots in Alexandria almost five years previously. He had missed it in Germania; the longer auxiliary spatha was not—

  ‘Clear the bridge!’ Maximus shouted.

  The work parties dashed back down the wooden construction’s length, causing it to undulate unevenly.

  ‘Let’s move, primus pilus!’ Vespasian ordered before the last men were clear.

  ‘The first cohort will advance at the double.’

  The cornu blew, the standards dipped twice and eight hundred men of the five double-strength centuries of the first cohort moved forward.

  ‘Break step!’ Tatius ordered just before the bridge.

  With a series of small jumps they broke step so that their regulated pace would not cause the pontoon bridge to bounce itself to destruction as they pounded along the wooden road.

  Vespasian restrained himself from racing across, keeping instead to the speed set by Tatius; hobnails thundered down behind him, amplified in the hollows of the boats below like a constant rumble of thunder in the darkest of storms. His anxiety grew with every step as his eyes continually flicked to the north where Paetus’ men were now engaged in a series of skirmishes with the elusive chariot force. Unwilling to make contact head on, the chariots had veered away at the last moment, their warriors hurling javelins into the Batavian ala, which returned the compliment, bringing many of the ponies crashing down, sending their wooden vehicles and their occupants hurtling through the air and causing dozens of obstacles in front of the cavalry line when they crunched to the ground. To break formation would have been disastrous; the Batavian line had been forced to stop and they were now fighting hand to hand with the few chariots they had caught and the dismounted warriors who had crawled from the wreckage. A couple of hundred chariots now swirled back at the pinned Batavians, under a continuous rain of arrows from the Hamians on the east bank, to deliver two or three javelins apiece into the stationary ala, felling many in a chorus of agony both human and bestial.

  Suddenly Vespasian’s footsteps made no sound, nor did the ground move beneath him; the front rank was over. Half a mile to the north, Paetus’ ala broke and fled, unable to withstand the catastrophic losses dealt to them by a mobile enemy they could not fully engage. The Britons in turn were suffering grievously under the hail of Hamian shafts pouring from the sky, but they pursued their broken foe in the knowledge that they would soon outdistance the arrows of their tormentors. Behind the chariots, thousands of warriors surged forward in their wake in an undisciplined but determined mass.

  The first cohort poured onto the west bank, Tatius increasing the pace as he realised they were in imminent danger of being caught in the open whilst forming up. He counted the paces aloud as they raced across the meadow, already trampled by Paetus’ cavalry in their sacrificial charge north. Next to them the Gallic cavalry ala thundered forward towards the hill, equally aware of the need for speed in this very tightly fought affair; behind them their infantry compatriots followed with all haste with their centurions and optiones bellowing encouragement. As Tatius reached the count of fifty the Batavians were no more than five hundred paces away, riding their foaming horses for their lives, outpacing their slower pursuers who in turn had outdistanced the Hamians’ extreme range. Their arrows were now turned onto the surging infantry behind the chariots, which began to pay with their lives for their compact formation.

  At seventy paces Vespasian nervously glanced sidelong at the primus pilus but refrained from saying anything, knowing that the seasoned veteran knew just how much frontage his eight-hundred-man cohort needed to form up. With his heart thumping within his chest he pushed himself forward; Magnus grunted with exertion next to him.

  ‘Right wheel!’ Tatius shouted as he passed one hundred.

  The front rank wheeled to the north with the fleeing Batavians now less than three hundred paces away. After twenty more excruciating heartbeats Tatius raised his arm in the air. ‘Halt and form line!’ He gradually slowed his pace to prevent a disastrous concertinaing of the cohort and then finally stopped; behind him the column fanned out, slotting lines of four men into position on either side with the ease and precision that come only from endless drill, turning the column into a line, four men deep. To their rear, the Gallic auxiliaries pounded on towards the high ground and the second cohort cleared the bridge as the Batavians, to their front, swerved to get around their comrades revealing the chariots and massed warriors beyond.

  Tatius gave a questioning sideways look at Vespasian.

  Vespasian nodded. ‘It’s your century, primus pilus, you give the orders until I decide that the legion should be doing something else other than holding its ground.’

&nb
sp; ‘Sir! Present pila!’

  Throughout the cohort, cornua rumbled, his subordinate centurions repeated his order and all along the front rank, rippling out from either side of Tatius’ central position, left legs stamped forward, shields snapped to the front and the long, barbed-ended shafts of pila protruded over their tops. Although the pilum was not designed as an overarm thrusting weapon, Tatius knew, with his long years of experience, that presenting a solid wall spiked with wicked iron points at the ponies’ eye height would prove to be a savage deterrent to the stocky beasts thundering towards them just a hundred paces away.

  Vespasian glanced over his left shoulder. Above the heads of grim legionaries he could see the second cohort’s standard level with him; they had extended the line. The third cohort could be glimpsed as figures flicking past the gaps in the formation; beyond them Paetus’ cavalry were rallying and the Gauls had begun the ascent of the high ground. He turned back to the oncoming terror, now just fifty paces away, and realised that the third cohort would be caught mid-manoeuvre.

  A very quick succession of sharp twangs and heavy thumps caused his eyes to flick right as the faint traces of sixty carroballista bolts flashed low across the river with a resonating hum to slam into the chariots, causing high-velocity carnage. Men, beasts and vehicles were punched away in a heartbeat of violence; just in front of Vespasian, a pony was thumped into its neighbour, a bloodied ballista bolt through its neck, skewering the two animals together as the driver of the chariot next to them was bodily lifted from his kneeling position and thrown, impaled, against the belly of the thrashing beast; there he stuck, gaping-mouthed. The whole tangled mess skewed around, with blood spraying, to crash to the ground in shrieking agony. All through the Britannic charge chariots flipped over, splintering apart, wheels, wickerwork and wood shards flying back up into the faces of those coming behind, as yet untouched; they swerved to avoid the wrecks before them, trampling the prostrate bodies of the wounded and felling half-dazed survivors as they staggered to their feet, all the time slowing as their drivers and warriors looked with fear at the II Augusta’s artillery across the river that was capable of wreaking so much havoc. Within a few moments of the volley’s impact the charge had come to a grinding halt; more than fifty chariots lay in shattered ruins, either as a direct result of the heavy missiles or from collisions with the wreckage that they had caused.