Rome’s Fallen Eagle (37 page)

‘Halt!’ Vespasian ordered.

‘Bastards haven’t run away like they should,’ Magnus complained as the cornu’s notes brought the legion to a stop.

‘We’ll have to keep beating them until they do,’ Vespasian muttered as he tried to assess how many men could be hidden behind those already visible.

The XIIII Gemina and the XX carried on until they were level with the II Augusta before they too halted, and for the first time that day silence descended over the field as the two forces faced each other.

Vespasian looked over his shoulder to Plautius’ command position behind Sabinus’ legion; messengers were being despatched. He turned back to the enemy; they were still. The two sides continued to stare at each other for a few more quickening heartbeats until the lead warrior began to walk forward towards the II Augusta; after he had covered ten paces he raised a branch in full leaf in the air and the men behind him followed.

‘They’ve had enough already,’ Magnus exclaimed as all along the Roman lines cheering erupted.

‘I don’t think so; look.’ Vespasian pointed to the slowly advancing Britons. No one appeared over the hill behind them. ‘It must be just one tribe and a small one at that. I’m going to talk with them.’ He kicked his horse forward as the Britons slowed and then as one threw their weapons to the ground before
walking backwards a few paces away from them and then falling to their knees.

Vespasian galloped through the ranks of his legion and on past the auxiliaries to draw his horse up in front of the lead warrior, the only man still on his feet.

The Briton looked up at him. His face was long and ruddy with lines of care etched from the corners of his eyes and frown creases across his brow, which, combined with his downward-drooping silver moustache, gave the impression of a world-weary man burdened with troubles. ‘I am Budvoc, King of the Dobunni, subject of Caratacus and master of nothing but my own fate,’ he said in passable Latin. ‘Today I and my warriors have done all that honour requires of us and now, having shed our blood, we choose our fate. If we are to remain a subject tribe we will do so out of choice and we would rather be subject to the might of Rome than to our neighbours the Catuvellauni. What is your name, general?’

‘Titus Flavius Vespasianus, but I am no general, I am a legate.’

‘No matter, legate; it was this legion that we fought following Caratacus and it was this legion that defeated us and it is to this legion that we yield.’ He took his sword from its scabbard and dropped it on the grass in front of Vespasian’s horse’s hooves and then placed his branch over it, covering it with its leaves. ‘We are your people now, do with us what you will.’

‘What’s going on here, legate?’ Plautius shouted, pulling his horse up.

‘I’ve just accepted the surrender of Budvoc of the Dobunni, sir.’

‘Have you now?’ Plautius looked down at the King. ‘Well, Budvoc, your men fought bravely even though they were led by men with as much military sense as a mule. I imagine that you have nothing to thank Caratacus or Togodumnus for in the way that they behaved this day.’

The King shook his head. ‘Regretfully Caratacus wanted to claim the glory of defeating you for himself and would not wait for his brother even though his army was in sight. I understand honour and I understand the need to die for honour’s sake but I
will not sacrifice my men for the vainglorious honour of a fool.’

‘And on your honour do you swear that your men will submit to Rome?’

‘I will take my own life if any of these men here raises a hand against you.’

‘In that case your lives will be spared and you will remain free. You will stay here under the guard of the reserve legion. If you try to escape or break your word in any way one half of you will die on crosses and the other half will become slaves.’

The King bowed. ‘That will not be necessary, general.’

‘I hope not. Vespasian, have two cohorts of your auxiliaries remain with them until the Ninth arrive, they shouldn’t be long, they’re already in sight, and then let’s get on; we’ve got a river to cross.’

The sun glowed golden, falling into the west, bathing the grassy summit of the final hill before the Afon Cantiacii with soft, warm light. Vespasian rode ahead of his legion and auxiliaries with Mucianus, Maximus and Magnus, escorted by sixty of the legion’s hundred and twenty cavalry. The other half was away patrolling the river, having reported that the Britons had crossed to the west bank and destroyed the bridge behind them.

Suppressing an elated grin at the way he and his legion had conducted themselves that day, Vespasian looked back at his men trudging wearily up the hill behind him. ‘We must make sure that the lads get a good meal and a good night’s rest, Maximus. Give them permission to have half as much again of their food ration once we’ve built the camp; but not their wine ration. I don’t want them hungover in the morning; I’ve a feeling that we’re going to have a hard day of it.’

‘The food I can do, sir, but as to getting a good night’s rest, that’s unlikely for all of them; I expect that you’ll want a lot of patrols out as I’m sure the long-hairs will try a few raids across the river.’

Vespasian cursed himself inwardly for letting his elation cloud his professionalism. ‘You’re right, of course, Maximus, but try and spread the duties.’

‘I’ll see to it that only one century from each cohort has a broken night’s sleep.’

Feeling foolish at having been reminded of a simple precaution by his prefect of the camp, however tactfully it was done, Vespasian vowed to himself to be more level-headed after the rush of battle. Maximus would not have cause to correct him again; but then, he reflected, that was part of his role. The prefect of the camp was by far the most experienced soldier in the legion; he would have joined up as a raw legionary recruit and worked his way up through the ranks to become the most junior centurion in the tenth cohort. He then would have risen through the centurionate, eventually becoming the primus pilus of the first cohort before being promoted to the highest rank a legionary could aspire to. With that much combat and administration experience he was there to keep an eye on his less experienced social betters and superiors: the legate and the senior tribune.

It was a good system, Vespasian considered, as they ascended the last few feet to the hill’s summit, provided that the legate was not so arrogant as to dismiss the advice of a man of a far lower social status, which was a fault all too common in society. He swore to himself that he would never make that mistake; better to look a bit foolish and be safe than to try and save face and be dead.

Such musings were immediately driven from his head as he crested the brow of the hill. ‘Mars Victorious, hold your hands over us,’ he whispered as he looked down the half-mile slope to the river and the broken, wooden bridge and then beyond.

On the far bank and up the hill beyond, stretching left and right for almost a mile, were more men than he had ever seen gathered in one place other than in the Circus Maximus back in Rome. They were camped haphazardly in groups and clusters and as he looked more were arriving over the hill and swarming down to join their countrymen. As the Roman legions appeared on the brow the entire British army got to their feet and roared their defiance; it was deafening.

‘There must be over a hundred thousand of them.’

Maximus drew his horse up next to him and surveyed the scene for a few moments. ‘Yes, that would be about right; maybe
ten thousand or so more or less than that and their numbers are growing all the time. If I was Plautius I wouldn’t wait for tomorrow; there’s still four hours of daylight left; plenty of time to bridge a river.’

Magnus whistled softly in admiration. ‘Now that’s what I call a big army!’

CHAPTER XVII

A
ULUS
P
LAUTIUS 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.