The Eagles Conquest

'And no sign of the Second Legion! This is the Ninth's victory alone. Your victory, sir.'

'It's not over yet, Tribune. For any of us.'

'It's over for them, sir.' Vitellius waved an arm in the direction of the enemy camp through which the erstwhile defenders were streaming back towards the rear gateways.

'For them, maybe. Excuse me.' Geta turned towards his trumpeters. 'Sound recall and re-form.'

The bucinas each drew in a lungful of air and pursed their lips to the mouthpieces. The brassy notes blasted out a brief melody and then continued repeating it. Slowly the men of the Ninth disengaged and looked for their cohort standards. But before he could give the order for the signal to cease, Geta was aware of a new noise, a rippling roar of war cries welling up from behind the enemy camp. As the other members of the colour party became aware of the sound they looked to the low ridge behind the camp. All along the battle line men stood still and listened, Roman and Briton alike. Then as an icy dread gripped the exhausted Romans, Caratacus' carefully husbanded reserves burst into the camp.

'Oh shit!' Vitellius whispered.

Legate Geta smiled and drew his sword again. 'I rather think your earlier report of our triumph was greatly exaggerated. If we're going to make the columns of the Rome gazette, I'm afraid it may be the obituaries. '

The Eagles Conquest

Chapter Thirteen

Vespasian watched with unabashed anguish as the British reserves rolled forward like a great wave threatening to dash the thin line of the Ninth to pieces. The Fourteenth Legion would not be in a position to lend any support until the fight on the rampart was over, and then it would be their turn to be thrown into the grinder, with no possibility of retreat.

Beside the legate, Cato realised that the fate of the entire army was bound up in what happened in the very next moment. The Britons were on the verge of a decisive victory over the Roman invaders, and the mere thought of such a calamity filled him with bleak despair, as if the world itself was on the brink of extinction. Only the Second Legion stood in the way of disaster now.

Amidst the muffled din of the battle Cato thought he could hear the faint falling note of a trumpet, and he strained his ears to try and pick out the sound again. But whatever the sound may have been, it was lost now. Might it have been some trick of acoustics? he wondered. Or a stray note from a British war horn? Then it came again, more distinctly this time. Cato quickly turned to his legate.

'Sir! Did you hear it?'

Vespasian raised himself up and listened intently before he shook his head. 'I can't hear them. Are you sure? You'd better be sure.' In a mad instant Cato knew that it was down to him. On him alone hung the fate of the army.

'It's trumpets, sir! Ordering us to advance.'

Vespasian exchanged a long look with the optio and then nodded. 'You're right. I can hear them. Sound the advance!' Vespasian bellowed over his shoulder and before the first notes of the following signal had died, the Second Legion were advancing up the slope. Vespasian turned to his messengers. 'Pass the word, I want us to arrive in formation. If any man feels inclined to grab all the glory for himself and breaks ranks I will personally see to it that he's crucified. Centurion Macro!'

'Yes, sir.' Macro stood to attention now that there was no longer any need for concealment.

'Get your century formed up and rejoin your cohort.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good luck, Macro.' The legate nodded grimly. 'We'll need all the luck we can get.'

Then he turned and fell in step with the colour party as it crested the ridge and the full scale of the task was revealed to them. Even the veterans sucked in their breath and exchanged surprised looks. It was too late to go back on his decision now, Vespasian reflected. In a short time the Second Legion would earn a footnote in the pages of history for itself, and if the gods were kind this day, the reference would not be posthumous.

The centurions called the pace in steady parade-ground tones and the legion marched down the slope in lines of five cohorts. At the front of the Sixth Century Cato did his best to keep in step with his centurion. Ahead he saw that the British reserves had reached the rampart and were swarming up the reverse slope against the thin wall of shields presented by the men of the Ninth. Down by the river the cohorts of the Fourteenth were hastily re-forming as they reached the bank. But the rising tide made their progress across the ford terribly slow and even now most of them would arrive too late to be of any use.

The sudden threat from the Second Legion on their right flank threw the nearest British warriors into a panic; many just stopped in their tracks to stare at the new danger. The distance closed steadily and Cato began to make out individual features in the men he would soon be fighting hand-to-hand. He could see the lime-washed hair, the elegantly swirling tattoos covering their woad-stained torsos, the brightly dyed woollen breeches and the wicked long blades of their swords and war spears.

'Steady there!' Macro bellowed as the uneven slope caused his century to fall out of alignment with the rest of the cohort. 'Keep to the pace!'

The ranks hurriedly dressed themselves and the Sixth Century continued rolling forwards, less than half a mile from the fortifications now. A small band of sling men ran out of the nearest gateway and moved into range. Then a light but deadly volley of slingshot rattled down on the large rectangular shields of the legionaries. Something whined over Cato's head and a man at the rear of the century cried out as the shot shattered his collarbone. He fell out and slumped into the long grass, dropping his javelin. But there was no time to spare for the man as a fresh volley clattered down.

A quarter of a mile to go, and the slope levelled out. Now the Second Legion could no longer see the desperate fight along the palisade. A large gateway lay to the front of Cato's cohort, and the centurion pointed it out with his vine staff, giving the order for the cohort to wheel towards it. With a carelessness typical of the Celtic temperament, the gates lay wide open and the Fourth Cohort had brushed the slingers aside and was only a scant few feet from the fortifications before the first of the British heavy infantry appeared. With a defiant roar the Britons, in ornate helmets, kite shields and long swords, charged the Roman line.

'Javelins! Release at will!' Macro just had time to shout and the lead centuries of the cohort hurled an uneven volley that arced in a low trajectory straight for the British swordsmen. As always there was an instant of silence as the javelins swept down and their targets braced themselves for the impact. Then came a sharp crack and clatter followed by screams. Many of the javelins had lodged firmly in the British shields. Their soft iron shafts bent on impact and made it impossible for the recipients to throw them back or dislodge them from their shields, which then had to be discarded. After the javelin volley the legionaries quickly drew swords and closed with the Britons who were still reeling from the javelins. No amount of courage could withstand the ruthless efficiency of vigorous training and equipment specifically designed for such confined fighting conditions, and the Roman cohorts steadily pushed their way inside the fortifications. The superior numbers of the enemy, which might have made all the difference in an open battlefield, were here a handicap. The Britons were herded together in a tight press and cut down by the short swords stabbing out from between a wall of large rectangular shields.

The Sixth Century moved out to a flanking position once the cohort had fought its way through the gateway into a vast area of crude tents and other shelters erected by Caratacus' army. Between the Second Legion and the two other legions now fighting all along the earthworks, thousands of Britons were massed. There was a momentary lull as the enemy suddenly realised the grim reality of their predicament, caught between two Roman forces with no easy escape route. Their chiefs realised the danger they were in and strove to bring some semblance of order to their men before the battle turned into a massacre.