The Eagles Conquest

The legate of the Ninth, Hosidius Geta, was standing immediately behind the First Century. At his side stood the legion's chief centurion and behind them the colour party surrounding the eagle standard.

'Afternoon, Vitellius,' Geta greeted him. 'You joining us?'

'Yes, sir. The general wants someone to analyse the ground as the attack goes in.'

'Good idea. We'll do our best to see you get to make your report.' 'Thank you, sir.'

Heads turned at the heavy irony lacing the tribune's reply but the legate was gentleman enough to let it pass.

Just then the headquarters trumpets blasted out a unit signal, followed by a short pause and then the call for advance.

'That's us.' The legate nodded to the chief centurion. Geta tightened the strap on his gaudily decorated helmet and drew in a deep breath to bellow out his orders.

'The First Cohort will prepare to advance!' A beat of three, and then, 'Advance!'

With the chief centurion calling out the pace, the cohort moved off in a rippling mass of bronze helmets, chinking links of mail and gleaming javelin tips, line after line of men marching straight down to the edge of the river where the water ran over a bank of shingle and weed.

Vitellius took his position just behind the legate, concentrating on keeping in step with the colour party. Then he was in the river, splashing into the brown churned-up water swirling in the wake of the First Century. To his right the nearest trireme seemed to be a vast floating fortress, towering up only fifty paces away. The faces of the crewmen were clearly visible on deck as they stepped up the bombardment of the far bank, softening up the defenders as much as possible before their army comrades struck home. The whack of the catapults and sharper cracks of the bolt-thrower arms carried clearly across the water, and were audible even above the infantry thrashing through the river.

The water quickly rose to his hips, and Vitellius glanced up in alarm to see that they were less than a third of the way across. The increase in depth slowed the advance and already the foremost lines were begi

Suddenly there was a sharp cry ahead, then a few more, as the front rank encountered the first series of underwater obstacles – several lines of sharpened stakes driven into the river bed.

'Break ranks!' shouted the chief centurion at the top of his voice. 'Break ranks and watch out for them fucking spikes! When you've got, em, pull ' em up and move on!'

The advance faltered and then halted as the men of the First Cohort felt their way through the water, pausing to heave the stakes up, two and three men at a time. Gradually a path was cleared through to the far bank, and the advance continued past the handful of injured men being helped to the rear. The First Century had already climbed out of the river and was dressing its ranks on the muddy bank when the following units passed through the gap in the stakes.

Geta turned back to Vitellius with a wry smile. 'I'm afraid things are about to get hot, so keep that shield up!'

The triremes stopped firing and the noise of bolts and rocks flying through the air ceased. The flat trajectory was now too close to the heads of the infantry to continue. As soon as the barrage stopped, there was a great roar and braying of war horns from the Britons behind the earthworks. All along the palisade the enemy rose up and prepared to meet their attackers. A strange whirring sound filled the air, and before the Romans could react, the first volley of slingshot slashed into the foremost ranks of the cohort, knocking men to the ground as the vicious mixture of lead shot and stones cracked into their targets. Vitellius raised his shield just as a shot struck the boss, the numbing impact jolting every bone and nerve as far as his elbow. Glancing about he saw that the First Cohort had gone to ground, covering themselves as best they could against the fusillade. But the curved line of the fortifications meant that fire was coming in on three sides and continued to whittle down the attackers. At the same time the Second Cohort was emerging from the river. Unless something was done immediately, the attack would crumble into a heaving mass that would provide the British slingers with the best possible target.

Geta was squatting beside Vitellius in the middle of the colour party.

He checked the strap on his helmet, held his shield close and rose to his feet.

'First Cohort! Form testudo by centuries!'

The order was relayed at top parade-ground volume by the chief centurion and the men of each century were bullied back onto their feet by their centurions. The men realised that the testudo was their best chance of surviving the assault, and they quickly formed the wall and roof of protecting shields. The colour party sheltered behind the shields of Geta's bodyguards and watched the testudo tramp towards the earth works, under constant, but largely ineffective, fire. As the following cohorts mounted the bank, the same order was given, and each formation was ordered to make for a different section of the defences. The muddy ground between the river and the fortifications was littered with dead and injured. Those who could kept themselves covered with their shields against the British missiles whirling through the air. Vitellius was filled with a sickly sense of fear and excitement as the First Cohort reached the outer ditch and, struggling to retain their formation, slowly rippled over its edge.

When the testudo reached the slope up to the palisade a sharp order was given. The formation dissolved and each man scrambled up the earthworks towards the British warriors screaming war cries beneath their flowing serpent standards. With the steep incline against them and laden down with heavy equipment, the legionaries fared badly. Many were swept from their feet by the slashes of the Britons' long swords and axes, to tumble down into the ditch, bowling over their comrades as they fell. Here and there a handful of men forced a way through or over the palisade, but the weight of numbers was against them and these brave pockets were quickly overwhelmed and hurled back down the slope.

The fighting spread all along the wall but the other cohorts fared no better and the number of Roman bodies sprawled across the slope of the earthworks steadily grew.

'Sir, should we pull back?' Vitellius asked the legate.

'No. The orders were clear. We keep going at them until Vespasian can attack their rear. '

The legate's staff officers exchanged worried glances. The Ninth were being cruelly punished for their headlong assault; they were bleeding to death while they waited for the Second Legion to attack. Looking round, Geta sensed the doubt in his men.

'Any moment now. Any moment the Second will attack. We just hold on until then.'

But already Vitellius could detect a change in the fight along the palisade. The legionaries were no longer rushing up the slopes, they were being driven to it by their centurions, bullied into attack by the blows from vine sticks. In several places the men were actually falling back from the wall, worn down by the effort and slowly but surely losing the will to continue the fight. The signs were unmistakable to everyone in the colour patty. The assault was crumbling before their eyes.

If Vespasian did not launch his attack immediately the costly efforts of the Ninth would have been in vain.

The Eagles Conquest