Rome’s Fallen Eagle

CHAPTER XX

‘My nephew will yield,’ Verica assured Vespasian, ‘and once he does he will be completely loyal to Rome.’

Vespasian tightened his grip on the rail as the trireme was again buffeted by a gust of wind in the choppy channel between the mainland and the Isle of Vectis. ‘Do you think so? He’s shown no inclination to be so in the last month of negotiations.’

‘Once honour has been satisfied he will accept Rome.’

‘But to satisfy his honour a good many of my men will have to die?’

Verica shrugged and wiped the drops of salty spray from his face. ‘It’s always been the way of things. Many more of his warriors will die for his honour than will legionaries.’

‘I’m sure they will; but why do it? Why didn’t he just capitulate when I sent envoys offering good terms?’

‘Because I told him not to.’

Vespasian turned to the old King, startled. ‘You did what?’

‘I did what I knew to be the best for everyone as I intend to make Cogidubnus my heir. My people’s blood has been shed fighting for Caratacus at the crossing of the Afon Cantiacii; Cogidubnus and his warriors weren’t there because of his and Caratacus’ hatred for each other. If Cogidubnus were to surrender to Rome without a fight my people would never accept him.’

‘They accepted you back and you came with us.’

‘True, but they did so only grudgingly. Now that Caratacus has been defeated and has fled west the Atrebates and Regni confederation are no longer under his dominion. They have accepted me back as their rightful King who was usurped by Caratacus. However, they resent the fact that I came with Rome and didn’t stand with them against her.’

‘So to secure your position you will make your nephew a hero for resisting Rome and then adopt him as your heir and fuck all the lives that will cost.’

‘Yes, you could put it like that; but the important issue is that my kingdom will be stable and when I die, which will be very soon, there will be a strong successor who will be supportive of Rome. You wouldn’t like the Atrebates and the Regni revolting next year or the year after, cutting off your supply lines as you move west, would you?’

‘No, I wouldn’t.’

‘If this battle doesn’t happen then that’s what you’d have. Both my sons are dead, legate, and my natural heir is my sole grandson, named after me, but he is only in his teens; he’s too young and, besides, he’s lived with me in Rome for the last three years so he doesn’t know my people and they won’t accept him.’

‘Doesn’t he mind being passed over for his cousin?’

‘I haven’t told him yet; but I hope that he will see that it’s for the best. I think he’ll try to make his way in Rome. Along with me, he was given citizenship and equestrian rank and now speaks fluent Latin. At the moment he’s serving as a thin-stripe tribune on Plautius’ staff, perhaps you’ve come across him? Tiberius Claudius Alienus is the Latin name he’s taken.’

‘Alienus? Yes, I’ve seen him; he is young.’

‘And obviously not strong enough to hold my people together under Rome.’

‘And Cogidubnus will be if he can demonstrate that he stood up to Rome?’

‘Yes; this small battle and small loss of life is a price worth paying for that, don’t you think?’

Vespasian looked round at the hundred and fifty men of the first century of the depleted first cohort, kneeling on the deck, wet with spray, looking in apprehension at the island’s shore, now less than a mile away, which, even in the thin dawn light, was visibly defended by a large force. Behind them, clutching their bows, knelt the two contubernia of Hamian auxiliaries that Vespasian had allocated to each ship. How many of these men would be dead within the hour to secure Verica’s kingdom? After a few moments contemplating the hardened faces he realised that, pragmatically, it did not matter how many would die now so long as the goal was achieved and Verica’s chosen heir could be seen as a man who bowed to the superior might of Rome after testing that strength for himself. Rome’s position in Britannia would be stronger for it.

Verica was right, Vespasian mused, as the wind tugged at his cloak: his welcome had been less than enthusiastic. In the month after Corvinus’ arrest, Vespasian had led his legion south, in stages, down through the Atrebates’ heartland; every hill fort, township or village they had come to had opened their gates and submitted to Rome. The warriors had laid down their weapons but Vespasian had permitted them to take them back up so long as they acknowledged Verica as their King who would rule in the Emperor’s name; indeed, he even bore the Emperor’s name, Tiberius Claudius Verica, having been granted citizenship by Claudius whilst he was in Rome. This fealty, however, had not been granted immediately and Verica had been obliged to enter into protracted negotiations with the elders of each settlement before they would consent to accepting back their former King. The pacts had inevitably been settled with a long night’s drinking, each successively taking their toll on the ageing Verica’s health, and in the mornings there had always been fewer warriors coming to reclaim their swords than had deposited them the previous day. Some warriors had been waylaid heading west to Caratacus and they had been sent in chains to Plautius for use in Claudius’ mock victory but a significant number had slipped away to swell the ranks of the defiant chieftain’s growing army.

Verica’s arrival at his power base, Regnum — a port within a natural harbour on the mainland, just to the east of Vectis — had been more triumphant as he was welcomed by his kin of the Regni. The II Augusta’s welcome, however, had not been so warm and both Vespasian and Verica had been forced to work hard at smoothing over relations between the two sides during the following month as the legionaries built a permanent camp and the navy modernised the port. It was at this point that Vespasian had entered into negotiations with Cogidubnus, King of Vectis, for the peaceful surrender of his kingdom, but his overtures had always been thwarted, despite the honourable terms offered and the presence of a large Roman fleet in the Vectis channel.

Now he had been forced to use that fleet to take what Rome demanded he realised why it had not been given freely. He looked sidelong at the wily old King. ‘Why didn’t you tell me that you’d told Cogidubnus not to surrender without a fight? I’ve wasted almost a month in negotiating with him.’

‘I had to have my people see that you were prepared to try and talk peace; had I told you at the beginning you would’ve invaded immediately and Rome would’ve looked like an impetuous aggressor.’ Verica turned his rheumy eyes to Vespasian. ‘You have to understand, young man, that if Rome is to stay here and doesn’t wish to keep four or five legions constantly tied up keeping the tribes subdued, then you must rule with the broad consent of the people and to get that Rome must be seen as powerful and inclusive. And besides, had I told you, you might have had me executed.’

‘That would’ve been a very unwise move.’

‘Yes, it would’ve been, and I’m pleased that you can see that.’

‘Brace yourselves, my lovelies,’ Primus Pilus Tatius roared. ‘This won’t hurt — too much.’

The double-strength century slammed their shields down on the deck and crouched behind them; sailors ran forward to man the two corvi. The hollow thwacking of slingshot thumping into the hull from the beach, just over a hundred paces away, started in earnest. The now familiar sight of massed, clay-daubed tribesmen bellowing their defiance and brandishing their weapons to the blaring of carnyxes sent a shiver of fear down Vespasian’s spine; he felt his left hand go clammy as it grasped his shield grip. He offered a silent prayer to his guardian god to spare him this day from falling in a battle that was unnecessary in the short-term but whose long-term political implications he now fully understood.

The hiss of a speeding lead shot passed close to Vespasian’s head and he too knelt down behind his shield. ‘You’d best get below, Verica.’

The King nodded and walked away towards the stern, erect and seemingly oblivious to the stones and lead that now flew all around. Vespasian glanced to either side; the forty ships of his invasion fleet were all in a line, with no more than five-pace gaps between their oars, and would hit the beach simultaneously; behind them on the right flank were six ships in reserve, carrying Paetus’ cavalry.

At a shouted order from the trierarchus the oars were brought rasping in and Vespasian knew that they would hit the beach in a matter of moments. With a sharp cry of pain one of the sailors stumbled back and collapsed at the foot of a corvus, clutching a shattered arm. A roar from the trierarchus sent two more men forward to take his place. Only one man made it to the bow; his mate lay on the deck with blood seeping from his mouth, his forehead shattered by the direct hit of a high-velocity missile.

The hail of shot intensified, ricocheting off shields, the rail and the mast with sharp staccato cracks. Hunched tight behind their leather-clad wooden guards the men of the first cohort grimaced, gritting their teeth as the unrelenting salvo clattered about them and spent shots rolled up and down the heaving deck. Vespasian’s ears sang with the report as his shield jolted back and a rounded stone, half the size of a fist, rebounded off and slammed into the shin of a kneeling legionary, cracking the bone and puckering the flesh. The man screamed and clasped his right hand to the wound but kept his shield up knowing, even in his agony, that to lower it would mean death.

The shots trailed off as the ships neared the beach, making the angle impossible for the slingers but bringing them into the range of hand-hurled weapons; javelins and spears rained down and the legionaries raised their shields into an interconnecting roof, but not before two soldiers fell, pierced and bleeding, to the deck.

With the grating rasp of wood on shingle the trireme ground up the beach, decelerating violently. The impact sent many of the legionaries sprawling forward, dismantling the protective roof with catastrophic consequences. Almost a dozen failed to obey Tatius’ screamed order to stand and move forward as the two corvi arced down, with a rattle of pulleys and a squeal of hinges, onto the shingle, crushing one warrior who was unable, owing to the press of comrades behind, to move out of the way. As the legionaries ran forward to the ramps the javelin barrage was supplemented by renewed efforts from the slingers, who once again had a direct line of sight. Vespasian raised his shield, deflecting a heavy spear, and, drawing his sword, barged his way into the third rank as they began their descent down the right-hand ramp with a volley of pila. With shot pounding in from the front and sharp iron hissing down from above, the first cohort surged down the vibrating wooden planking, front ranks with their shields forward and the rest raising theirs once they had loosed their pila, knowing that the sooner they closed with the enemy the sooner the heavy hail of missiles would lessen as close contact made their usage nigh on impossible.

Down they coursed into the warriors clustered nine or ten deep at the base of each ramp.

‘With me!’ Vespasian shouted over his shoulder to the men in the fourth and fifth ranks as the lead legionaries exploded onto the first of the Britons. He jumped off the side of the corvus, taking the men behind him with him, and hurled himself onto the warriors below, punching his shield down as he landed, knocking the sword from a snarling, naked man’s hand and following through with his shield boss to split open his face and send him crashing to the shingle. Vespasian landed with a heavy jolt on top of the unconscious warrior and rolled to one side, bringing his shield up over his face as the wicked point of a spear thrust down at him. With an arm-juddering impact, the iron tip embedded itself in the solid wood as a couple of the legionaries who had followed him regained their feet. Vespasian felt the pressure on his shield ease and smelt fresh faeces, suddenly, next to his head. He kicked his shield up and twisted around, getting to his knees as the spear-wielding Briton fell forward, shrieking, his belly slashed open, spewing forth its reeking contents. With no time to acknowledge the man’s killer and straining with the added weight, Vespasian forced himself to his feet; he slammed his spearencumbered shield forward, catching the shaft of the weapon on the shoulder of the next warrior as he endeavoured to close the gap. The impact dislodged the spear; it fell at the warrior’s feet, entangling them, and he stumbled, pitching forward onto Vespasian’s sword-weighted fist. Then, with a dull crunch of a shattered jaw and teeth, he slumped back. Vespasian moved forward, giving a lightning jab at the throat of the downed tribesman before joining the comrade who had probably saved his life in close combat sword work as more and more legionaries crashed down onto the beach behind them, forcing the Roman line ever wider. Then came what he had been waiting for: a fletched shaft suddenly materialised in the forehead of a warrior in front of him; the Hamians were now shooting into the enemy’s ranks, sowing terror amongst them and causing the less steady to back off, relieving some of the pressure on Roman shields.

Although he could not see further than the little bubble of death and violence that encompassed him, Vespasian prayed as he worked his blade that the same scene was being played out in front of each of his vessels: if the Hamians were now shooting from the bow that meant all the legionaries were off the ship.

Feeling the weight behind him steadily increase, he disengaged and ducked down to one side allowing the next man to take his place. Pushing his way back, he made his way to the corvus and clambered back up to the deck. Looking up and down along the beach he saw that most of the ships had disgorged their martial cargo and in a few places centuries from neighbouring vessels had linked up, forming the beginnings of one long front. All the Britons were engaged in clumps around the beached ships; now was the time to seize the initiative.

‘Raise the signal flag,’ Vespasian called to the trierarchus.

After a brief scurrying of bare-footed sailors, a large, square black flag was hoisted up the mainmast. Within a few moments the reserve ships responded and set a course to land on the extreme right flank. Praying that Paetus would be able to land his cavalry quickly and unhindered, Vespasian barged his way between two Hamians at the bow and returned his attention to the fighting in front of his ship. The first century had pushed the Britons back a few paces, thanks to the earlier archer support. However, to counter this, the Britons had withdrawn slingers behind their line and they had now entered into a missile duel with the Hamians, two of whom were already sprawled on the deck. Deprived of the limited but crucial archer support the first century was now struggling to make any headway in linking up with the second century on their left and the sixth century to their right; fighting in isolation they ran the serious risk of being swamped.

Vespasian turned back to the trierarchus and bellowed: ‘Get me twenty or so sailors or oarsmen, with as many javelins as they can carry!’ The trierarchus acknowledged the order and Vespasian pulled on the nearest Hamian’s shoulder. ‘Fall back!’

The archers retreated to the mainmast, the angle of the ship taking them out of the slingers’ line of sight; within a few moments the rag-tag crew had joined them and broached the weapons box beneath the mast. They retrieved half a dozen javelins each.

‘On my command,’ Vespasian shouted over the battle’s clamour to the javelinmen, ‘run to the bow and get as many shots into the midst of the Britons on the left as you can. The archers will come with you and take care of the slingers. Understood?’

The scratch unit nodded nervously and mumbled the affirmative; the Hamians, more positive, nocked arrows ready to give cover.

Vespasian grabbed a couple of javelins. ‘Right … now!’ He sprinted up the sloping deck with his men following; reaching the bow he hurled his first missile into the Britons facing Tatius and then, within an instant, let fly with the second as his men did the same. The Hamians shot a volley at the slingers who, caught unawares, did not reply until the swift archers had released another, bringing down more than half a dozen as javelin after javelin hurtled down into the press of warriors with shocking effect. Slingshot took two of the oarsmen back, blood exploding from ghastly head wounds, before they could release their full complement of missiles; but the rest completed their task and it was enough. The Britons gave ground, such were their losses; Tatius urged his legionaries forward. As he pulled his men back to the mast to rearm, Vespasian glimpsed the extreme left of the first century link up with their comrades from the second next to them.

‘We do this once more,’ he said as his men emptied the remaining javelins from the weapons box, ‘but this time to the extreme right.’

Drawing his sword, Vespasian again raced forward; however, he did not stop at the bow but continued down the ramp, jumping off to the right and running along the rear of legionaries as javelins rained down from the ship. Reaching the last file, who were struggling thigh-deep in blood-red water to prevent the century being outflanked, Vespasian splashed around them and, roaring incoherently, crashed his shield into the side of the first Briton he came to, punching him away from the legionary facing him. Pushing forward to the next man he halted suddenly as a javelin passed just over his shoulder and seared into the tribesman’s chest, throwing him back with outstretched arms and shocked dead eyes.

Encouraged by their legate’s intervention and the missile barrage from above, the legionaries pressed forward, finding that the weight against them had lessened considerably. Flashing their blades, whilst struggling to keep their footing on the treacherously slippery stones beneath the water, they edged on as the rear ranks of Britons fell to the javelin storm and their resistance began to peter out. Stabbing his sword hard and low into an unprotected thigh and receiving a spray of arterial blood up his arm, Vespasian reached the water’s edge; two rear rank legionaries pushed past him to extend the line, stamping on the wounded warrior as he clutched his thigh on the shingle and finishing him with a thrust to the throat. With one final flurry of punching shields and thrusting sword tips they slew or beat off the last few tribesmen between them and the fifth century.

The line was complete.

Vespasian pulled back, breathing in ragged bursts, and stared with wild, combat-hardened eyes up and down the beach; there was no break in the Roman formation, all the cohorts had successfully landed and linked up and were now fighting at least four deep against a much depleted enemy. However, there were scores, maybe hundreds, of Roman dead sprawled in the shallows and on the shingle and he knew that the II Augusta would need a new draft of recruits before it could start its push west the following spring.

A new sound broke over the cacophony of battle, a sound not heard since the first blows had been struck: the call of massed carnyxes. A hundred paces beyond the Britons a group of warriors blew a single note repeatedly on their strange, upright horns. As the note continued the Britons began to pull back. Vespasian sighed in relief; that call could mean only one thing: Cogidubnus’ honour was satisfied. He looked around for the cornicen and shouted: ‘Disengage!’

Four deep notes rumbled out to be taken up by neighbouring cohorts and soon the soldiers of both armies were stepping away from one another, exhausted and relieved that the ordeal was over. Here and there pockets of violence continued where bloodlust overruled self-preservation until the combat was stopped either by death or the intervention of comrades.

Eventually all hostilities had ceased, the carnyx and cornu calls faded and an eerie quiet descended over the beach, broken only by the moans of the wounded, the lapping of waves and the creaking of ships.

As the Britons withdrew in a line to the carnyx players, one man stayed facing the II Augusta.

Vespasian sheathed his sword and walked forward. ‘Keep them formed up, Tatius,’ he said, slapping his blood-covered primus pilus on his shoulder as he passed through the ranks. ‘And have Verica come and join me.’

Tatius barely acknowledged him, his chest heaving with exertion.

Crunching his way across the shingle, Vespasian approached the solitary man; even given that he was higher up the beach than him, he could see that Cogidubnus was huge, at least a head taller with a bull-like neck around which was wrapped a golden torc as thick as a thumb. Silver arm rings, just as thick, bound bulging biceps as if they needed to be restrained from bursting through the skin.

Vespasian stopped five paces distant and, saying nothing, waited.

Cogidubnus smiled knowingly, inclined his head and approached. ‘I am Cogidubnus, King of Vectis.’

‘Titus Flavius Vespasianus, legate of the Second Augusta.’ To Vespasian’s surprise, rather than bowing in submission Cogidubnus held out his arm for Vespasian to grasp as if they were equals. He did not take it but, rather, indicated with his head at the blood encrusted upon it. ‘Your honour comes at a very high blood-price, Cogidubnus.’

The King wiped some of the crust away. ‘Today is the first time that Roman blood has soiled my skin but not the last time that Britannic blood will soil yours, legate; take my arm in friendship and I swear by Camulos, god of war, that today will also be the last time I shed Roman blood.’

Vespasian looked up into Cogidubnus’ pale green eyes; they burnt with pride but showed no hatred nor sign of desire for vengeance. Verica had been right: this man would be Rome’s friend and the sacrifice of his men this day to ensure that had been worth it. He grasped the proffered arm with a firm grip; it was returned with more than equal measure.

‘You may keep your sword, Cogidubnus.’

‘And my crown? Do you have the power to promise me that?’

‘No. I’ll not lie to you; it’s something that’s only within the Emperor’s gift, but I can-’

The shrill blast of a lituus, from behind the Britons, cut him off. Vespasian jerked his head up in its direction: half a mile away, on a knoll to the right of the Britons’ line, glinting in the warm morning sun, appeared Paetus’ Batavian ala, formed up ready to charge.

Cogidubnus released his grip and wrenched his arm free. ‘Is this Roman honour to take a surrendering enemy from behind?’

The rear rank Britons began to turn to face the new threat, growling their disgust at the perceived treachery.

‘Trust me and come with me, Cogidubnus,’ Vespasian entreated, looking the towering King in the eye. ‘They’re not aware of your surrender; they must be assuming that we’re at a standoff and that their intervention will make the difference. We can stop this — but we’ll have to sprint around your men.’

Cogidubnus held Vespasian’s look briefly. ‘No, it’ll be quicker to go through.’ He turned and ran back towards his warriors; Vespasian signalled to Tatius to remain where he was and then followed, pumping his shorter legs ferociously so as not to be outpaced.

As Cogidubnus reached the first of his warriors he slowed to a walk; Vespasian tried to pass him but was restrained by the King’s massive hand clamping onto his shoulder.

‘We pass through slowly, legate, together.’

Vespasian looked up; Paetus’ ala had already begun to move forward. ‘But we’ll be too late.’

‘My men haven’t yet laid down their arms; there are many here who would kill you, so stay close.’

Unable to do anything but comply, Vespasian walked forward with the King into the mass of his bloodied and battle-scarred warriors, cutting across them towards the right-hand corner. They parted grudgingly, their mouths set grim beneath their long moustaches, their eyes hard. As Vespasian passed through they closed behind him, towering over him, pressing in on him so that he was engulfed by the stench of their sweat and their hot breath; he kept his head held high, looking neither left nor right, refusing to be intimidated by their height. Cogidubnus spoke soothingly to his people in their own tongue whilst all the time keeping a firm grip on Vespasian’s shoulder, emphasising that the Roman was under his protection. Growing shouts of warning and alarm from the rear of the formation told of the approach of Paetus’ cavalry but Vespasian could see nothing over the heads of the warriors.

They reached the tribesmen who had turned to face the charge and Cogidubnus moved with more urgency, pushing through, raising his voice to make them move aside. Suddenly the warriors before them extended their spears forward and went down on one knee. Vespasian’s heart pounded; Paetus’ men were at full charge, almost a javelin throw away. Cogidubnus roared a command to his men and pushed him forward. Shouting for all he was worth Vespasian ran out into the open, holding his right hand, palm out, aloft.

But the volley had been released.

More than three hundred javelins soared through the air towards him, followed by a high-velocity wall of horseflesh. He stopped abruptly, still bellowing at Paetus to stop, and raised his shield. Three evilly sharp points appeared a thumb’s breadth through the board before his eyes; the weight of their impact buckled his legs and he collapsed onto his knees, twisting his right hand back to support himself as the burden of the javelins pulled his shield aside leaving him totally exposed.

He stared in horror at horses; nothing but horses: black, bay, dun, brown, grey horses. Eyes wild, mouths foaming, teeth bared, heads tossing, flanks sweating, forelegs kicking, all he could see was horses, horses. Noise suddenly broke into his consciousness: neighing and whinnying; the shouts of men in languages that he could comprehend and in those that he could not; hooves thumping the ground, metal jangling. A confusion of sound, as confusing as the images before him: horses rearing, horses scraping their forelegs through the air, horses everywhere — but not trampling him.

Suddenly he realised he could see their bellies; they were rearing; they were stationary.

And then in twos and threes they came down, snorting, prancing, high-stepping, onto four legs and now he could see their riders, bearded, chain-mailed, helmeted with the same wild eyes as their mounts as they looked fearfully beyond him.

‘Stop,’ Vespasian shouted hoarsely, as if he could not believe that they had really come to a halt.

‘We have, sir, and rather abruptly so.’

Vespasian blinked repeatedly and eventually focused on Paetus looking down at him from a very skittish mount.

‘And judging by the fact that these barbarians aren’t trying to hack us off our horses, I take it that they’ve surrendered and that’s why you rather foolishly stood in front of our charge.’

‘And that’s why I ordered my men not to return the volley,’ Cogidubnus said, walking forward, ‘despite the fact that a score or more have been killed. But many more would have died had it not been for the legate.’ He stood over Vespasian, contemplating him with a confused expression for a few moments as if trying to decide just what was kneeling on the grass. He held out his hand and helped Vespasian to his feet.

‘Take your men back to the beach, Paetus,’ Vespasian ordered, still reeling from the terror. Feeling the weight of the javelins embedded in his shield he threw it down and winced; there were four heads piercing it, not three, and one was bloodied. He turned his arm over to reveal a seeping puncture just below the elbow; a shock of pain suddenly hit him and he clasped his hand to the wound.

Cogidubnus pulled his hand away to examine the injury. ‘It’s not deep and it’ll heal well; it was honourably received. It was a brave act that saved many lives, both Roman and Briton. My crown may not be yours to give, legate, but I would rather accept it from your hand than from an emperor who expects men to die for him whilst he sits in his palace.’

Verica emerged from the ranks of Britons. ‘There is no choice in the matter, nephew; it is only the Emperor who has the power to grant your kingdom. However, he is imperfectly formed and cannot fight.’

‘Then Rome has the wrong emperor. What is an emperor if he does not lead his men in battle?’

‘An emperor is power; power to which you and I must now submit. He is on his way here to lead the army into Camulodunum. When we go there and bow before him we will act as if he has personally achieved the greatest victory and we will laud him as the supreme man on earth, even though he is a fool that drools.’

‘And this is the man I must serve, rather than the warrior who defeated me and then saved the lives of many of my men?’

Vespasian kept his face neutral. ‘Yes, Cogidubnus, we all must serve him.’