Rome’s Fallen Eagle (48 page)

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.