“Loose. Concentrate on the bowmen.” He heard the order given from somewhere to his right and estimated the enemy were now approximately two hundred paces away and took aim. The first arrow flew straight and true and landed somewhere in the crowd of bodies eating up the ground below. The second arrow he saw clearly land as it entered the forehead of a baying woman who instantly fell backward and was lost in the crowd.
The Britons lit their arrows and launched the first wave to a sound of cheers and roars as they took to the air. Valerius watched as the bowmen gathered around those with torches lighting their deadly arrow heads coated in oil. He aimed again for the torch bearer almost directly in line with him, his arm wavered slightly as the pressure of the draw took hold. Sighting the big man along the length of the shaft he let loose allowing the barbed missile to fly free. It rose slightly on its downward path as it headed for its target but quickly dropped again arcing toward the flame.
The torch bearer didn’t see it approach as he was too busy with his task as archers fought to use his flame. The sharpened iron head penetrated his temple with a violent impact that rocked his huge head sideways as he had turned shouting at another man. It sank deep into his skull and he fell backwards but was propped up by the bodies around him, his torch disappearing from sight as others scrambled to retrieve it. Valerius turned nocked another arrow and drew back again aiming for the same spot where two men he saw were now aflame, their clothing on fire. The torch bearers flames must have ignited their cloaks.
He calmly looked down the shaft of his next arrow and considered shooting at the men screaming as their flesh burnt but instead shot to the side of them, the others could burn. As the first of the enemy arrows began to find length, they landed still on aflame embedding themselves into the wood of the defensive positions. Those that landed in the freshly dug soil of the palisade were extinguished as oxygen smothered them, others set fire to anything they hit that was combustible.
Vespasian had considered having legionaries placed at strategic intervals with the few buckets they had recovered from the spoiled wagons nearby but knew the men would have made all too easy targets. He knew they wouldn’t last long silhouetting themselves above the defensive wall but also knew they couldn’t afford to use water in such a way. He prayed his gamble would work as the barbarians drew to within a hundred paces of their line.
“Loose pila.” A centurion shouted from somewhere behind Valerius but he concentrated on his own task and continued to launch arrows. He was aware of running boots hitting the ground all around him and then a wave of javelins were launched into the air. He looked briefly and saw the soldiers returning to their stock pile for more. Turning back to the front he saw the javelins land as they buried themselves into the men and women who were intent on killing them. Dozens were felled in that first launch and fell backward onto a wave of advancing bodies. They were dragged to the side or pushed out of the way and vanished from sight almost instantly under the feet of those who came after them.
The screams of the Britons were animal like now and a lot louder as they vented their fury at those above. Some were silenced forever in the next avalanche of arrows and spears but still the mass kept advancing, seemingly undaunted. Valerius drew his gladius as the first of them reached the rampart, his face glowing from the flames of arrows burning into the wood of the palisade. He tried to run up the steeper incline of the defensive wall but slipped and fell backwards on loose soil. He took the opportunity of sinking an arrow into the soft ground as his feet scrambled for purchase and tried pulling himself up on its length. Anger bore into the young archer from the enemy as he realised it was useless and nocked another arrow.
“Heavy pila, loose!” Another order rang out from somewhere.
The nearest attacker was now less than fifteen feet below him and jumping to reach the sharpened stakes on the defences. The draw string was allowed to race forward freeing its arrow but in his haste Valerius jerked his arm at the last instant and missed the manic warrior who wanted to kill him. He reached for another arrow blindly, keeping his eyes on the man who was now joined by others, as they sought to gain entry to the mountain fort. Another legionary stepped forward and hurled a heavy javelin towards them, it sank deep into an exposed throat and gurgling, the man fell away.
The sound of battle was almost deafening now at such close quarters as the Britons tried repeatedly to climb the wall. Many died and more were wounded as they were repelled time and time again as they fell in their heroic but foolhardy hordes. Some climbed up onto the backs of others and grabbed for the burning stakes only to be run through by pila, heavy and light now as the men of the Second butchered away at hands, arms, heads and bodies.
So close were the enemy now that the soldiers could lean out and stab down at the brave, who threw themselves against their spears bending iron as they plunged them into the faces of the screaming few who managed to climb onto the flaming stakes. Burning or stabbed, they fell away, only to be replaced by others. Occasionally one would get over the palisade only to be chopped down by a gladius. It wasn’t all one way however, as soldiers were lanced by a thrown spear or hit by the occasional arrow when an archer could free himself from the masses to shoot. The injured men were quickly carried away from the front line and further up the slope to safety and replaced by other troops eager to kill the barbarians.
Caratacus watched from behind a line of heaving bodies pushing to get forward and surveyed the scene above him. The attack had stalled on the defensive line of the mountain encampment and now his people were being slaughtered, bottled up like penned sheep. He watched as a man fully aflame jumped back down from the palisade and landed on top of others who fought to push him away, punching and kicking. The Roman legionaries looked like cloaked devils as they thrust their spears downward lit up against the flaming wood. Helmets glinted and armour shone, reflecting the fires that burned before them as they went about their deadly work. He knew that to continue in this way would mean the death of more brave souls for no gain and knew he couldn’t allow that to happen.
“Withdraw,” he started to shout, “Withdraw.” He ran forward and grabbed at the backs of those crowding forward and spun them around shouting at them to retreat.
“Fucking move.” He snarled into faces that turned to see what was happening and who was shouting and what.
“Can’t you see this is pointless we’re just dying up there?” He spun one woman round and she careened backwards falling down the slope into the legs of others still clambering upward. He grabbed at others and hurled them backward until more and more realised what was happening, who was demanding the retreat. Slowly the tide began to turn and run back down the mountain followed by the occasional javelin or arrow. Those struck slumping forward onto their faces as they were hit, legs flailing into the air. Some lost their footing because of the gradient and tumbled downward screaming as they went limbs breaking. Caratacus turned and joined the retreating army as he fought to maintain his balance, the attack had been a failure and so something else was called for.
The rest of the day was spent helping those that could be helped, down from the slope, those who were dead and there were many, were left where they had fallen. There were injured still below the defensive line crying out for help but when anyone approached to try and recover them, arrows and javelins forced them back. The Romans weren’t in any mood to grant leniency even to the injured as they knew their own fate if they were to be taken, a stalemate was reached.