Rome’s Fallen Eagle

by Robert Fabbri

  Vespasian knew that now was the time to take the initiative. ‘The Second Augusta will advance!’

  Cornua sounded; the Eagle and the first cohort’s standard both dipped and, as one, the eight hundred men moved forward. The second cohort followed their lead as the third cohort, with Maximus in the front rank, finished forming line on the last piece of flat ground before the hill. Behind them more legionaries and auxiliaries doubled across the bridge, all the time adding to the legion’s fighting strength. Before them, the now stationary chariots, their impetus lost, turned and fled, to triumphant Roman jeers, back towards the mass of supporting infantry, just four hundred paces away, extending in a dark swarm from the river up to the hill’s crest.

  ‘Halt!’ Vespasian cried as they approached the first of the many wrecks that peppered the field.

  The line drew up just short of the first tangle of dead or writhing ponies and men in amongst the smashed remnants of three chariots as the third cohort, now in formation, doubled forward to complete it.

  ‘That was the easy part,’ Magnus muttered, looking at the horde flowing inexorably towards them.

  ‘Really? I’d say getting ten thousand men across a river, almost without casualties, under the eyes of the enemy was less than easy. Look.’ Vespasian indicated to his left.

  Up the hill the Gallic cavalry were silhouetted by deep golden light on its brow; the first of the auxiliary cohorts had almost reached them. The next two were close behind whilst the final couple were moving into position to form a reserve. As they watched, the lead cohort reached the crest and began to form line; the cavalry gave up the ground and disappeared over the hill. The next two cohorts also manoeuvred to face the enemy before all three jogged forward until the shoulders of the nearest cohort abutted the legion’s left flank, creating a solid line with a file of four men per pace extending for more than half a mile.

  As the last two Gallic cohorts moved forward to complete the second line Magnus grunted and turned back to the Britons. ‘Silly me, I didn’t realise that the easy bit was to hold our ground for an hour until sunset against five or six times our number.’

  Vespasian watched the massed warriors coming on and noticed that they were slowing. On their left flank, along the riverbank, hundreds of slingers were now engaged in a missile duel with the Hamians; the unshielded archers were having the worst of it as the rounded shot from their shielded opponents cracked into them and scores were already down with the rest retreating, under the pressure, out of reach of the shorter-ranged slings, back to their supply carts to restock their arrows. In the distance beyond, the Batavian infantry still held the high ground, fending off repeated uphill charges. What was happening with Sabinus’ legion at the bridge was obscured by the multitude before him, who now came to a halt just two hundred paces away.

  Again a chieftain stepped forward from the middle of the Britons’ line, tall and proud. Turning to face his followers, he raised his arms and shouted, loud and clear, in his native tongue.

  ‘That’s not the same one that we faced this morning, sir,’ Tatius said, ‘so he must be Togodumnus.’

  A roar went up and, from within the enemy horde, scores of carnyxes, long upright horns with animal mouths, were raised and began a blare of sounds ranging from shrill, staccato notes, like fox calls, through wavering mid-range trills and on to deep rumbles resembling the cornu. The din grew, drowning out the reports of the carroballistae as a volley of bolts streaked with deadly accuracy into the Britons, carving bloody gaps that were soon filled.

  Togodumnus ignored the deaths of such a small percentage of his men and turned to face the invaders, raising his sword in the air; it flashed golden in the evening sun, and, howling his hatred, he slashed it down.

  The Britons charged.

  With Togodumnus leading from the centre the charge bulged forward. It was unlike the one that Vespasian had witnessed only that morning; it was far more measured. No warriors were racing ahead in search of personal glory and, although there were no dressed ranks as such, there was a feeling of order; Vespasian realised that this time they had come to try to overwhelm the legion with their sheer weight of numbers.

  He looked to Tatius. ‘Your cohort, primus pilus.’

  Tatius nodded. ‘Prepare to release, then receive charge!’

  Again his orders were relayed through the silent cohort and eight hundred right arms went back. All along the Roman line the centurions took their lead from the senior cohort and the legionaries prepared themselves for the impact of the horde as they came on, brandishing flashing iron and bulging considerably now from the centre, flowing across the field like quicksilver.

  Again the artillery sent sixty lightning-fast bolts into the mass, skewering scores whose screams were drowned by the battle cries of tens of thousands. The slingers now turned their shot to the artillerymen as they strained to re-tension their carroballistae. Twirling their leather slings over their heads as they ran, they sent hundreds of stones clattering into the carts, cracking the bones of men and mules, felling many, driving some beasts to bolt with their loads and sending men scuttling for cover.

  Vespasian felt his bowels churn as the Britons came on and he comforted himself with the thought that every man in the Roman line must be feeling the same fear; he could smell it all around him.

  Without a pilum, he loosened his gladius in its scabbard and prayed silently that he would wield it with the martial prowess of its long-dead former owner. Still the Britons came, now less than fifty paces away, the swirling vitrum designs clearly visible on their naked torsos and arms, and long, drooping moustaches flowing back in the wind to reveal snarling mouths howling death. He tensed his shield arm.

  With the clash of metal and the resounding blows of shield against shield, the head of the bulge crashed into the third cohort; Vespasian glanced left as the second cohort’s pila flew skywards. Up the hill the Gallic auxiliary cohorts emitted dark shadows of javelins in turn as the bulge flattened against Roman shields, rippling out each way from its first point of impact.

  ‘Release!’ Tatius thundered as the breaking wave of humanity crashed onto the furthest shields of the second cohort.

  With a communal growl of exertion, the eight hundred legionaries of the first cohort launched their pila forwards, stamped down on their left feet and drew their swords in one much-practised motion. Vespasian felt the shield of the man behind him press firmly onto his back as the deadly volley swept silently towards the baying host.

  For a moment time seemed to still and the world was silent; and then screams rent the air, shrill and sudden, as the lead-weighted pila swept into the onrushing warriors, kicking them back in arcs of blood, howling, impaled, faces pulped by lead balls, shields smashed and arms pinned to chests or bellies. Back they were hurled in their hundreds, legs buckling beneath them, weapons flying up from outstretched arms, blood spraying with their death-roars, eyes wide with pain, flattening comrades behind, as those untouched by the volley sped past, suddenly seeming to accelerate because of their opposite trajectories.

  Vespasian gritted his teeth and, hunched behind his shield, tensed, as the human wave broke upon the first cohort, from left to right, with a racing, ever-nearing succession of pounding blows along the line. And then his body shuddered with the shock of a collision of such velocity that his right leg almost buckled behind him. The shield pressed against his back punched him forward, exploding the air from his lungs, as he fought to stay upright.

  Instinct took over.

  Gasping for breath, he jerked his shield upwards, cracking its rim on a descending arm, shattering it before it could deliver a downwards cut. He felt a sword clatter down his back as he stabbed his gladius at an angle through the gap between his and Magnus’ shields; yielding flesh ripped open and an instant later warm blood slopped onto his left foot. His ears rang with howls, metallic clangs and clashes and the pounding of bodies onto leather-faced wood. Twisting his blade, he pulled it free and raised his eyes to stare into tho
se of the man he had just gutted, pinioned upright against his shield by the press of blood-hungry warriors behind; his mouth was slack under a long moustache flecked with mucus and dirt and he tried to draw a choking breath. The Briton’s ribs had already cracked from the punch of Vespasian’s shield boss, and now being compressed against the same, he struggled to inhale; raising his chin, his eyes rolled, the whites bloodshot, as the pressure from behind grew. Vespasian responded and heaved forward against him, the men behind adding their combined weight. The stench of fresh faeces filled his nostrils, blanking out the iron tang of blood. To either side, Tatius and Magnus, bellowing every known curse, were also hunched behind their shields, straining with all their might, along with every other man in the Roman line, to halt the concerted drive from so many tens of thousands of men.

  Weapons were now pointless as the whole line became one long scrimmage; even if a gap in the shields could be found the flesh on the other side was already dead, either from a sword thrust or crushed to death by the enormous pressure, providing a barrier to the Britons’ swords; they no longer flashed down. The pressure suddenly increased on Vespasian’s back and he realised that the second line of cohorts had added their weight to the scrum. He kept his shoulder pressed at an angle to his shield, pushing against it also with his head, the fist of his right hand and his left knee, knowing that to use his whole body would mean a slow and painful crushing of his ribcage. The gutted warrior’s head lolled on the shield rim, bloody drool from his dead mouth trickled down the wooden board in front of Vespasian’s eyes. The yelling had died down to be replaced by the straining grunts and growls of a mass of men heaving against each other with every ounce of their strength.

  Even with the added weight of the second line the force was proving too much and the II Augusta was slowly and inexorably being pushed back. The leather thongs of Vespasian’s sandals were cutting into his feet from the pressure coursing down through his body and, despite the hobnails’ purchase, he felt them sliding backwards inch by inch, ripping up grass as they went. Back and back his feet slid, ploughing small furrows in the giving earth and the longer those grew the more his hope faded. He had calculated that they had retreated at least ten paces and knew that the force would soon tell somewhere along the line and it would break and disaster would ensue, when suddenly the pressure eased; they were no longer going back. He risked raising his eyes over the shield’s rim, using the gutted man as cover, and glimpsed chaos in the Britannic line: the Hamians were shooting low into the legs and buttocks of their rear ranks.

  Despite the slingshot barrage that they were receiving, the eastern archers were showing their mettle by concentrating their aim on the threat to the whole legion and not the massed slingers that pounded them. Many were going down but they kept shaft after shaft thumping into the Britons closest to them, those directly facing the first cohort.

  Vespasian knew that this was their one opportunity. They had to take it now before the Hamians were forced to withdraw. He looked at Tatius. ‘Forward!’

  The primus pilus turned and bellowed the command left and right; it was taken up not just by his subordinate centurions but by the whole cohort in a rough, growling chant.

  Vespasian heaved on his shield, feeling the combined pressure of the men behind, and forced his left foot forward a half-pace; next to him Magnus and Tatius managed the same. That first, small gain in ground was enough to inspire the cohort and quickly the chant changed from a growl to a loud and clear statement of intent. With another muscle-bulging push his left foot progressed another pace; and then another.

  ‘The bastards are slipping,’ Magnus shouted at him.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’ve churned all the blood, shit and piss into mud, they can’t grip.’

  With another concerted shove they regained an additional couple of paces back towards their original line and the pressure on their shields eased; the gutted man slithered to the ground along with a few hundred other crushed or stabbed warriors, forming a small wall of dead bodies beyond which the Britons were now in total disarray. Many had slipped in the mud produced from noisome fluids squeezed from the dead and dying in the crush, and more had tripped over the wounded brought down by the Hamians’ arrows as they had been forced back.

  Vespasian glanced at Tatius; they nodded to each other and stepped over the line of dead taking the front rank with them; now they could use their swords.

  Although disorganised, those Britons still on their feet scrambled to their own defence, leaping individually at the line of blood-smeared shields.

  Cracking his shield boss up into the naked chest of a giant of a man in front as he raised his long sword for a killing blow, Vespasian jabbed his gladius forward, low, slicing the point of its finely honed blade deep into the warrior’s groin as, beside him, Magnus narrowly avoided an overarm spear-thrust to his face, which cracked against the shield of the following legionary. In a swift double motion, Vespasian jerked his sword free and cracked his shield rim up under the now screaming giant’s chin, shattering his jaw and silencing him momentarily as Magnus, bellowing, stamped his hobnails down onto the spear-wielder’s foot; howling with pain the warrior yanked his broken foot back, pulling Magnus’ leg with it by a hobnail caught in the boot’s strapping. Caught off balance on a slimy surface, Magnus crashed onto his back, twisting his left leg under him. Despite his injured foot, Magnus’ opponent seized his opportunity and stabbed down with his spear, but the second rank legionary quickly straddled Magnus, lowering his shield to deflect the thrust into the ground. Pulling his gladius back, level with his face, he rammed it forward, straight and true, into the warrior’s throat, punching the Briton back so that he could take his place at Vespasian’s side, filling the gap.

  Not knowing what had become of Magnus, Vespasian worked his blade and concentrated on staying on his feet as the Britons who had slipped or tripped regained theirs and, covered in vile mud, hurled themselves forward. But there was no speed in their charge and they had reverted to fighting as individuals, so they stood little chance against the ruthless killing machine that moved relentlessly forward. A few score more of them sacrificed themselves on the dripping blades of the first cohort. Here and there they claimed a Roman life, but never the time to celebrate it. Soon they realised that there would be nothing to boast of around the campfires that evening; they turned and fled.

  ‘Halt!’ Vespasian cried as the first cohort found itself unopposed.

  The legionaries needed no second invitation and they stopped, gasping for breath, aching with exertion, physically and mentally exhausted.

  Looking to his left, Vespasian could see that things had not gone as well in other areas of the battle: the second cohort had also benefited from the archer support of the Hamians and had almost beaten off their opponents, but the third was in deep trouble and it had evidently only been the timely intervention of one of the third-line cohorts, plugging the gap as the second moved forward whilst the third was being forced back that had prevented the line from breaking. However, it was the situation up the hill that caused Vespasian the most concern: the two auxiliary cohorts on the left flank had been turned and, despite the reinforcements from the two in reserve, they were being slowly pushed back down the hill. The Gallic cavalry ala harrying the Britons’ flank and rear was the only thing stopping them from building up enough momentum to break the auxiliaries entirely.

  Vespasian pointed to the last few hundred Britons still in combat with the second cohort. ‘Tatius, take the first and clear those bastards away and then start rolling up their flank with the second. I’ll leave the fourth and the fifth here behind you to cover this ground. I’m sending the other cohorts to relieve the auxiliaries.’

  Tatius nodded his understanding, military formality being the last thing on anyone’s mind at that moment. Vespasian turned and made his way quickly down the files, patting gasping men on their shoulders as he went, knowing that speed, now, was everything.

  ‘I’m going
to take the civilian’s prerogative and sit the rest of this out, sir,’ Magnus said, limping up to Vespasian. ‘I’ve satisfied my curiosity and nearly got myself killed in the process.’

  Vespasian nodded to the II Augusta’s baggage, rumbling over the bridge and mustering to the rear of the legion. ‘I imagine that you’ll find a skin of wine over there that’ll put up much less resistance than a Briton.’

  Magnus grinned and then winced with pain. ‘Yes, that’s what I need, an enemy that doesn’t fight back when you try to empty it of its guts, if you take my meaning?’

  Vespasian watched his friend hobble away from the battle and felt a weariness settle upon him now that the tense excitement of conflict was wearing off. But he knew that he would get very little rest until victory was in Roman hands; and that would not be until tomorrow.

  He turned back to the battle. The screams of the maimed and the dying and the clamour of combat had not let up; Vespasian, however, was now inured to the cacophony. From the vantage point of his horse at the head of the legion’s four cavalry turmae, he watched the eighth, ninth and tenth cohorts double away up towards the hard-pressed Gallic auxiliaries; they had already been forced halfway back down the hill leaving a trail of dead in their wake. To his right the first cohort had swept away the remaining warriors opposing the second; and now, together, they had engaged the flank of the mass of Britons still pressing the centre of the crooked Roman line. He had sent a message to the Hamians to remain on the far side of the river, with the artillery, to discourage another attack along its body-strewn bank by the routed Britons who were now rallying on their comrades opposing Sabinus’ legion, which continued to demonstrate at the ruined bridge as if preparing to rebuild it, crucially keeping many thousands of the enemy occupied. Beyond them the Batavian infantry could just be seen in the dimming light still in position on their hill. There was, however, no sign of the XX returning from their diversionary march. But then, he reflected, it was less than two hours since the Batavians’ arrival on the hill had set the battle in motion and not even an hour since he had crossed the bridge, although it felt like a day at least. He looked up at the sky; night would be upon them soon, much to his relief. The battlefield was now in full shadow; they did not have long to hold before darkness would force the Britons to withdraw.