Rome’s Fallen Eagle

CHAPTER XVII

Aulus Plautius grinned at his legates and auxiliary prefects assembled around a table in the open air. ‘We go immediately, gentlemen, to take advantage of the careless way that they’ve camped — before one of them shows some initiative and throws up defence works.’ He unrolled a roughly sketched map of the Afon Cantiacii, spread it on the table and put his finger on the river. ‘We’re here; just to the north of us the river does a dog-leg and for a half-mile stretch it’s out of sight of the Britons’ camp behind this hill.’ He pointed to the map and then at the 200-foot hill to their north, about a mile beyond the wrecked bridge. ‘I want the eight cohorts of Batavian infantry to swim across as soon as possible.’ He looked at a bearded auxiliary prefect. ‘Civilis, as the prefect of the first cohort, I’m placing you in command; as soon as you’re across, take that hill. That should wake them up. My hunch is that the undisciplined rabble will swarm all over you but with the high ground in your favour you should be able to hold long enough for us to almost achieve our objective before they notice what we’re doing; then the pressure will be off you and onto the Second Augusta. Any questions?’

Civilis frowned. ‘What is the objective that we’re acting as a diversion for?’

‘The Second Augusta throwing a bridge across the river, of course. You’re to keep that high ground at all costs. Now get going, there’s not a moment to lose and may Fortuna, or whichever god you Batavians hold dear, look to you.’

‘Fortuna will do, sir.’ Civilis saluted sharply along with his seven colleagues and jogged off to muster his men.

Plautius’ gaze ranged around his officers. ‘We’ve got two great advantages here: the Britons don’t know that we’ve got eight cohorts of eight hundred men each who can swim a river in full armour and they also don’t know about pontoon bridges. They think that we’re going to wait for the tide to go down and then start sinking piles into the river bed and start building a proper bridge, so let’s not disabuse them of that. I want you all to go through the motion of building camps to lull the long-hairs into a false sense of security and to draw their attention away from Civilis’ men heading north; but just do the earthworks, leave all the tents packed with the baggage.’ Plautius’ eyes rested on Vespasian. ‘The carts carrying the boats should be with us imminently; have them unloaded and ready in amongst your camp’s building works.’ His attention passed to Sabinus. ‘As soon as the Batavians appear on that hill, Sabinus, I want your legion to advance to the destroyed bridge and make as if you’re going to try and rebuild it. The Britons will then be split between trying to dislodge the Batavians and hurling slingshot at your lads to keep them off the bridge. I’m afraid you’ll take some casualties but it’s vital that you stay there.’

‘Yes, general.’

‘Vespasian, as soon as the Britons are preoccupied to the north you get those boats into the river, here.’ He pointed to a stretch of river, one mile to the south of the broken bridge. ‘The hills curve away from both banks at this point so you won’t have to be fighting uphill once you’re over there. You’ll have an hour to get across and secure enough of a bridgehead for Geta’s legion to cross behind you.’ He looked up at Geta. ‘I want your legion to form up right here where we are as soon as the Batavians appear on their hill; then I need you to march north to confuse Caratacus and his brother, they’ll think that you’re trying to cross where the Batavians did and that will keep their attention away from Vespasian. After an hour you double-back and cross the Second’s bridge at dusk. Once you’re across I’ll have the bridge towed up to the Fourteenth’s position under the cover of night, as soon as the moon has set; it’ll be ready by dawn. Then we attack, with the Second on the low ground along the river and the Twentieth on the high ground, both heading north to link up with the Fourteenth; we’ll then roll the long-hairs back and crush them against the Batavians.’

‘What about the Ninth, general?’ Corvinus asked, visibly affronted that his legion had not been mentioned.

‘I was coming to them, legate. Keep them hidden from view on the other side of the hill and then bring them over at dawn tomorrow and cross the bridge after the Fourteenth. Once the Britons break the survivors will head to the Tamesis. Just north of here it is less than a mile wide and apparently almost completely fordable at low tide; if you know the paths, there’s only a couple of hundred paces where you have to swim. We’ll try to stop them getting there and the fleet will try and pick them off in the water but I’m sure many thousands will escape across. Whilst we’re mopping them up I want the Ninth to head west with all possible speed and seize the north bank of the ford upriver; hold it until we arrive. If you have to fight your way across then so be it. Is that a task commensurate with your dignitas, Corvinus?’

Corvinus scowled, unsure of how to answer without appearing foolish, and instead just nodded dumbly.

Plautius gave a thin smile. ‘Good, I’m pleased to have found something worthy of you. Now, gentlemen, I’ll leave the battle orders for your legions and auxiliaries up to you; do what I have ordered in whatever way you see fit. Are there any questions?’

Vespasian looked around the other officers: most were looking at the map, mulling over the plan in their minds, their nods and sounds of agreement a testament to their finding it precise and workable. He caught a look of complicity pass between Corvinus and Geta and realised that the time that Narcissus had foreseen was fast approaching. He glanced at Sabinus, who nodded; he had also noticed the shared look and understood its significance.

After a few moments Plautius grunted in satisfaction. ‘Good. In the first contacts with the enemy I expect all of you to fight in the front rank. It’s imperative that the men know that their officers aren’t afraid of the sheer numbers of the clay-smeared bastards. Now return to your commands and start pretending to build camps; the Batavians should appear on that hill within the hour. I shall make sacrifices to Mars Victorious, Fortuna and Jupiter on the army’s behalf; let us hope that they hear me because this is going to be a very close-run action. Dismiss, gentlemen.’

‘Right, my lovelies, let’s get these bastard boats offloaded,’ Primus Pilus Tatius bawled at two centuries of legionaries, trained in assembling the pontoon bridge, looking unenthusiastically at a train of twenty ox carts each holding two fifteen-foot boats.

‘Don’t bother, primus pilus,’ Vespasian called, riding up the slope as fast as his dignitas would allow. ‘I’ve just had a look at the ground between here and where we’ll put the bridge across, it’s flat grassland; it’ll be much quicker to unharness the oxen and manhandle the carts down to the river.’

‘If you say so, sir.’ Tatius turned back to his men, some of whom were already obeying the last order. ‘Put those bastard boats back where you found them! Why are you taking them off perfectly good carts on which we can roll them down to the river?’ The legionaries looked confused at their primus pilus, but knew better than to ask questions. ‘That’s better; now unharness these oxen and take them away; and don’t eat them, they’re army property and need to report back to their rightful commander.’

‘Are the officers gathered at the praetorium, Tatius?’

‘Yes, sir, I left them there to come and sort out these boats.’

Vespasian kicked his horse forward through the carefully choreographed industry of constructing a marching camp and on towards the centre with Tatius following, having left the pontoon detail in the hands of the centuries’ optiones.

All of his tribunes, prefects and centurions from the legion and the attached auxiliary cohorts were waiting for him as he dismounted at the camp’s heart and handed his horse to a waiting slave.

‘I’ll be brief, gentlemen, as we should be on the move in a little over half an hour. Tatius has united the fifth and sixth centuries from the tenth cohort, both trained in pontoon construction, with the boats.’ He looked at his prefect of the camp. ‘Are the planks here, Maximus?’

‘Yes, sir. The first century of the second cohort is being issued with hammers and nails as we speak.’

‘Excellent. I’ve just been down to the river; the tide is on its way out but it is still a good fifty paces across, that’s thirteen or fourteen boats to span it, so we have enough to make a double span.’ He picked out Paetus from the crowd. ‘As soon as we make our move, Paetus, I want your lads to get down to the river and swim it in double quick time.’

The young prefect grinned. ‘I’ve already had them empty their water-skins and issued them with ten javelins each.’

‘Good. Once you’re across you’re to delay anything that tries to come and stop us finishing the bridge.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The Hamians will give you archer support from this bank.’ Vespasian looked for the prefect of the I Cohort Hamiorum. ‘How many arrows have your lads been issued with?’

‘Fifty apiece and twice that many on the reserve carts.’

Vespasian nodded. ‘That should last the day. I want all the legion’s bolt-shooters attached to the Hamians, Maximus.’ The prefect of the camp nodded. ‘Once the bridge is down — and let us pray to Janus that we can do it in half an hour — then the first cohort will lead the way over the right-hand bridge with Tatius and myself in the front rank. You will all follow our example, gentlemen, and fight in the front ranks of your units, even the young gentlemen.’ Vespasian cast his eye over the five youthful faces of the thin-stripe military tribunes, their shining eyes and earnest faces betraying excitement and apprehension in equal measure, and prayed that none of them would succumb to the mindless battle-frenzy that used to plague him in his youth; there was no place for that in the disciplined ranks of the legions. ‘Once across, the first cohort will form up facing north with the river right on their flank. They will be followed by the second with Mucianus in its front rank and then other cohorts in order. We’ll form up in three lines with four cohorts in the second line. The left-hand bridge will be for the auxiliaries; I want the Gallic cavalry ala over first to seize the high ground on our left flank as quickly as possible and hold it until the five Gallic infantry cohorts arrive. They should form up on the hill, maintaining contact with the legion’s left flank; the cavalry will then act as a deterrent for any attempt to outflank us up there. The legionary cavalry will be the last to cross and will act as a reserve. The Hamians and the artillery will stay on this bank and move forward with us, so the carroballistae should stay on their carts and shoot from them. However, today we will not move forward as our orders are to hold the bridgehead and wait for the Twentieth. Any advance we do make will be short and tactical and will be signalled by the first cohort; you will move to support it. Is that all clear, gentlemen?’

Murmurs of agreement from the assembled officers answered Vespasian’s question. ‘I very much doubt that we will be allowed to deploy unmolested but the quicker we do this thing the more chance we have of taking the Britons by surprise. But they will come for us, be assured of that, and they will try to push us back across the river.’ He looked out towards the horde of tribesmen on the hill opposite, less than a thousand paces away; they had given up their jeering and now seemed preoccupied with cooking their supper and drinking. Their voices were a constant background drone. ‘We mustn’t allow that to happen, so we will have to fight hard against odds of five or six, maybe even seven to one. Our objective is to secure a bridgehead by dusk; then the Twentieth will come over and join us, relieving our auxiliaries on the high ground. After that we will have a hard night of it, remaining in formation, sleeping briefly by rotation after what has already been a tiring day. In the morning we advance north and that, gentlemen, will be a bloody path.’

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 boats 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.’

‘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.

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 those 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.

Having given his orders clearly and succinctly to the reserve cohorts he could now only wait to see the results, since he had decided to stay with the legion’s cavalry to plug any gaps.

Paetus rode over to him from his rallied but depleted ala. ‘My chaps are down to just under three hundred effective, legate, but they’re ready and keen for another go. They didn’t like being routed in front of the whole army, especially as many of them have kinsmen in the infantry up on that hill. We’ll fight hard to make up for the shame.’

Vespasian studied the young prefect for a few moments; blood-soaked dressings on his right thigh and around his helmetless head told clearly of the ferocity of the action that had bought the legion the extra time it had needed to make the crossing. ‘Well done, Paetus, and thank you. Have your ala form up next to me and tell your lads that they shouldn’t be ashamed; we’d still be struggling to make it across if it hadn’t been for their sacrifice.’

Paetus saluted. ‘It’ll be a pleasure, sir.’

Vespasian watched his long-dead friend’s son canter back to his troops, hoping that he would not have to give him another order that would again put his life in such peril.

An unmistakeably Roman cheer jerked his attention away from such morbid thoughts and he turned to see the central mass of Britons begin to disintegrate. Hundreds were now streaming away to the north to escape the relentless blades of the first and second cohorts as they turned the Britons’ flank, compressing their unarmoured bodies against the third cohort, which, led by Maximus in the front rank, knew that their ordeal was almost over and began to fight with renewed vigour. The only auxiliary cohort not to have been turned also took heart despite their visibly dwindled number. More and more Britons turned and fled, flowing away across the field until a mere thousand or so warriors remained, in reasonable order, giving ground gradually, marshalled by the chieftain in their midst.

‘Togodumnus!’ Vespasian whispered to himself. He watched the Britons fall back in the face of the concerted Roman onslaught. From within their ranks carnyxes blew the same short, high refrain as their front rank steadily disengaged. In answer to the horns’ calls chariots raced towards them from the north, weaving through the warriors in flight as, up the hill, the Gallic auxiliaries finally broke. Togodumnus slowed his retreat, watching his right flank swarm down after the beaten Gauls, hewing at their rearmost with their slashing swords as the auxiliaries pelted towards the safety of the reserve cohorts just thirty paces down the hill. Vespasian saw the British chieftain pause and look back at his erstwhile opponents who now had warriors threatening their rear as if assessing whether the breakthrough on the right flank was worth exploiting. The reserve cohorts opened their ranks and the Gauls streamed through; with breathtaking precision they closed again just before the first of the Britons threatened to break through, leaving only a few auxiliaries stranded and doomed. Seeing the space blocked, Togodumnus continued his retreat, taking his men with him, steadily back, pace by pace, swords pointed at their foes who were now using the respite to relieve their lines. At fifty paces they simply turned their backs and jogged away towards the oncoming chariots.

The Roman centurions obeyed their orders and stood firm. There was no follow-up, not that close-formation heavy infantry would have been able to catch lighter Britons.

Vespasian stared at the retreating back of Togodumnus; to have a chance of breaking the retreating formation and perhaps capturing the greatest prize of the day he had to act immediately. A quick glance back up the hill confirmed that the reserve cohorts had checked the Britons’ advance and that the remnants of the Gallic auxiliaries were rallying behind them; the flank was secure for the time being. ‘Advance in column!’ A lituus cavalry horn blew behind him and he kicked his horse forward, waving an arm at Paetus to signal that he should do the same.

Accelerating into a canter he led the legion’s four cavalry turmae towards the small gap in the Roman line created by the first and second cohorts’ flanking move. The retreating Britons were no more than two hundred paces away, their backs still turned and their attention concentrated on reaching the chariots coming to cover their retreat.

Funnelling through the gap, the turmae slowed slightly as they changed formation from column to line, giving Paetus’ ala time to catch up. Without waiting for the ranks to be dressed, Vespasian drew his spatha and brandished it in the air. ‘Let’s have them, lads!’ The turmae roared, kicking their mounts into a gallop, clasping the reins with their left hands, shields strapped to the forearm, and feeling the weight of the javelins in the right.

The wind ripped at Vespasian’s cloak, whip-cracking it as his horse’s hooves accelerated out of the foul mud that delineated the extent of the recent bloody combat and onto firmer, open ground. After so long in the frightful confines of a compressed front rank, he found himself grinning at the exhilaration of the charge and turned, bellowing encouragement to his men, urging them on, in anticipation of facing the Britons’ chieftain.

The litui shrieked their high-pitched calls and were answered by those of the Batavians following close behind, anxious to have their revenge for the humiliation of retreat.

The blare alerted the Britons to their presence on the field; the panic felt by infantry at being caught in the open by cavalry shuddered through their ranks. Those closest to the relieving chariots, under a quarter of a mile away, broke into a sprint, fragmenting the body as Togodumnus bellowed at his followers to form up and face the threat. But the order had come too late and a few hundred were already away whilst the rest, confused and disorganised, attempted to form some sort of line.

‘Release!’ Vespasian cried as the enemies’ features became discernible. The turmae’s javelins soared into the air, with a velocity greatly increased by the speed of the charge, and hammered down in a hail of death onto the unformed lines. Slender, pointed missiles pummelled into naked flesh, throwing men back, skewering them to the ground, shafts vibrating with the sudden deceleration. Confusion heightened, panic escalated and gaps widened. Vespasian steered his horse directly at a warrior standing alone, attempting to fill an opening five paces wide, raising his sword two-handed over his head, his eyes widening with terror. Vespasian punched his spatha forward, horizontally, over his mount’s muzzle as the long blade flashed down, deflecting it with a ringing report. As if yanked simultaneously by the hair and ankles the warrior disappeared beneath the hooves of Vespasian’s horse as he broke through the line with troopers to either side of him, pressing home their advantage. On he drove, slashing down to his right into a neck, hacking it open in a spew of blood, on towards Togodumnus who stood, foursquare, facing him behind a barrier of warriors.

Another shudder went through the Britons’ formation; the Batavians’ javelin volley seared into them, followed by the massed weight of the ala crashing fresh holes through the line, bent on vengeance and rejoicing in its sensation as they slew. More and more warriors turned in flight but Togodumnus stood firm. His eyes oozed hatred and a sneer graced his ruddy, round face. With a roar, he barged through the barrier of his followers, sword raised, and leapt towards Vespasian, who slewed his horse to the right, taking the vicious slash clean on his shield. Togodumnus’ followers threw themselves at the troopers to either side of Vespasian in a blur of sudden movement; iron flashed, horses reared, blood sprayed and limbs fell, but Vespasian only had eyes for the Britannic chieftain. Pulling his high-stepping horse back to the left he drove it at Togodumnus; the Briton jumped backwards, lowering his sword, and with both hands clenched around the hilt he powered it into the beast’s broad chest. With a shrill whinny it reared up, yanking the weapon from Togodumnus’ grasp and hurling Vespasian from the saddle to land, with a lung-emptying crash, on unforgiving ground. Ducking under the thrashing forelegs, Togodumnus bounded through the air at Vespasian, drawing a sleek knife from his belt. With his vision clouded, Vespasian just made out the shape leaping towards him and rolled to his left; the chieftain landed with a jolt where Vespasian had been an instant before as the horse’s hind legs buckled; the beast tipped back and, with a final snort, it collapsed. Togodumnus turned his head and screamed as the dead weight of horse flesh descended upon him; with a cracking of bones it smashed down onto his prone form, bouncing up slightly on first impact, its flaccid body rippling back down with a secondary, crushing blow, pulverising the chieftain’s chest and leaving him staring with unseeing eyes at the darkening sky.

Then the chariots hit.

Heavy-shafted spears whipped into the melee followed by fresh warriors, running up the poles of their vehicles and leaping, using the extra height, straight at the troopers, knocking them from their saddles as their stocky ponies powered into their mounts, in a desperate attempt to rescue their chieftain.

Vespasian jumped to his feet, still gasping for breath, and, dodging an onrushing chariot team, looked around in the deepening gloom for a loose horse in amongst the chaos. Thrusting his sword into the back of a Briton hacking into a trooper’s throat he grabbed the reins of the dead cavalryman’s mount and, using the corpse as a step, hauled himself into the saddle. Knowing that the objective had been realised with Togodumnus’ death and with night falling fast he reared his mount up. ‘Break off! Break off!’

The troopers nearest him heard the cry and those who could began to disengage, passing the command on to their comrades further along the line. With most of the Britannic infantry now safely behind the chariots, the fresh warriors found themselves outnumbered and had already begun to seek the safety of their vehicles. It was almost by common consent that the combatants gradually parted, pulling back wearily, dragging their wounded with them, until the field was still and the two sides faced each other in the fading light. From the far side of the river came the sound of thousands of marching feet. The XX Legion had doubled back.

‘I can see that you’ve had a hard time of it, Vespasian,’ Gnaeus Hosidius Geta acknowledged, slipping from his horse as the cohorts of the XX marched over the bridge. ‘You’ve done well to hold a bridgehead against such numbers, even if they are barbarian savages.’

Vespasian managed to conceal his surprise at being complimented by a man who was normally antagonistic to him, if not openly hostile. ‘Thank you, Geta; the lads have fought well all day.’ He looked back over to the Britons’ lines; they had disengaged from the Batavians, leaving them in possession of the hill, and had pulled back from the ruined bridge now that the XIIII Gemina had retired. The whole army seemed to be concentrated upon lighting fires, thousands of which flickered golden in the half-light, and were paying no attention to the XX crossing the river. ‘It looks like they’re more interested in cooking their supper rather than trying to stop you crossing.’

Geta waved a hand dismissively. ‘Rabble, that’s all they are; brave enough but no discipline and badly led.’

‘They’ve got one leader less now; I killed Togodumnus earlier. Or rather my horse did by dying on him; crushed him to death.’

Geta looked at Vespasian, concerned; behind him his legion marched past and on up the hill. ‘That might not have been such a good thing to do.’

‘Why not? One less chieftain is one less point of focus for resistance.’

‘Granted, but today we’ve been helped by the fact that the brothers have seemed incapable of working together — they split their forces this morning and again this afternoon. If there had been one overall commander don’t you think that he would have left a holding force in front of the Batavians, ignored the Fourteenth and thrown everything he had against you and pushed you back over the river?’

Vespasian frowned. ‘Yes, you could be right, I suppose.’

‘I know I am; and tomorrow they’ll have just one commander, so we’ll have a harder time of it. Perhaps you should have thought of that before allowing your horse to kill Togodumnus.’ Geta turned and led his mount away, following his command up the hill.

Vespasian watched him go, his expression strained, as he contemplated his words and then dismissed them: although he conceded that Geta had a point, both Caratacus and Togodumnus would have to die or surrender for Rome to triumph and he felt sure that his actions that day had helped to hasten that event.

By the time night had fallen and a near-full moon shone over the field, the XX Legion had taken their position on the II Augusta’s left flank. Lines and lines of soldiers of Rome stretched from the river to the summit, preparing to stand to for the night; the moonlight played on their helmets, which glowed like regimented ranks of pearls. The last of the baggage crossed the bridge and then came the sound of the engineers splashing in the water, attaching ropes to the structure, ready to haul it north once the moon had set. Vespasian offered a prayer to Mars, knowing that tomorrow there could be no retreat back across the river.