Identifying the prefect as the same man who had let Caratacus through the line just two days previously, he resolved to forgive him if he played his part well. ‘Prefect Galeo, take your men through the Hamians and link up with the first and second cohorts.’
‘Yes, sir! Do you want-’
‘Don’t talk about it, do it!’
The prefect swallowed and crashed a salute. He bellowed the order to advance and the eight hundred Gauls moved forward at the double. Within a few moments they were filtering through the Hamians’ formation; the archers ceased their volleys as they passed and then turned towards the fort once they were clear.
As the Gauls reached the open ground they broke into a charge, preventing the Britons from encroaching too far forward now that the arrows had stopped flying. Roaring the battle cry of their forefathers they threw themselves at the Britons’ shield-wall with a mighty clash of iron.
The gap had been plugged but as Vespasian looked along the Roman line he saw that, in the centre, it had started to buckle and the reserve cohorts were retreating.
Once again digging his heels into the bruised flanks of his mount, Vespasian forced the tiring beast into action; speeding past the depleted legionary cavalry now rallying next to their Gallic comrades he caught sight of his prefect of the camp. ‘Maximus! With me!’
The veteran spun his horse and accelerated it after his commander.
Within a hundred pounding heartbeats, Vespasian reached the first reserve legionary cohort as the bulge in the line deepened and the clamour from the Britannic host intensified. ‘What the fuck are you doing marching away?’ he roared at the primus pilus. ‘Get your cohort in to support the centre with its weight.’
‘But you just sent a legionary cavalry messenger with orders for us to fall back, sir.’
‘Fall back? With the line threatening to break? I gave no such order; now, get forward before we’re all dead.’
The centurion saluted and bellowed the order to turn and advance. Vespasian rode on up the reserve line of a further retreating two cohorts, halting them. ‘You stay here with these cohorts, Maximus. We’re holding a defensive position. Hold the line at all costs, understand?’
Maximus nodded and grinned. ‘How long do you expect us to hold?’
Vespasian offered a quick prayer to Mars to guide him in the art of war as he turned his horse. ‘Until I hear from Valens and can contrive a counter-attack that will break the Britons’ will.’
CHAPTER IIII
Vespasian brought his mount to a violent halt next to Cogidubnus, who was waiting with the young tribunes, Marcius and Vibius; behind them stood the Britannic auxiliaries with the Gallic cavalry and the now rallied remnants of the legionary cavalry, fewer than eighty troopers in total. Blassius arrived moments later.
‘I left the other Gallic auxiliaries with Valens and the second cohort as you ordered, sir,’ the tribune reported, shouting against the din of combat along the third of a mile front. ‘The Batavians were just arriving with him as I left. He said that there was no one in the fort.’
‘I know there was no one in the fort,’ Vespasian replied, trying to keep his voice level but failing. ‘What about a flank attack? Were the Britons trying to force a way around behind the fort?’
‘No, sir, not by the time I left. Valens had begun to move around the hill; he reckoned that, provided he doesn’t encounter opposition, it would take a quarter of an hour before he would be in position for a flank attack.’
Vespasian ran a hand through his hair, his face taut. ‘Yes, that’s what I thought.’ He glanced up the Roman line; the reinforced centre had pushed back but the Britons’ assault showed no signs of abating. ‘We need to break them before they wear us down. Are your men ready to be blooded, Cogidubnus?’
The King held his look. ‘They will prove their loyalty to Rome and reap their revenge on Caratacus for his years of subjugation of the Atrebates and the Regni.’
‘I’m sure they will. Have some men collect the ladders left up by the gate and then take your lads down into the outermost ditch. I’ll meet you there; we can use it to work our way behind the Britons’ line.’
‘The rebel tribes’ line,’ Cogidubnus corrected.
‘Indeed, the rebels’ line.’ Vespasian turned back to Blassius. ‘Go up to the Hamians …’ Vespasian faltered, looking over the tribune’s shoulder; there were no archers lining the fort’s palisade silhouetted by the fires within. ‘The Hamians! Where in Hades are they?’
Cogidubnus pointed south; the rear of the eastern archers’ column could just be seen, a few hundred paces away, disappearing into the night. ‘They turned around and marched off south soon after you left.’
‘I gave no such order.’
‘I saw a legionary cavalry messenger ride up to them and then they turned and left. I assumed that he must have come from you.’
‘That’s the second false message.’ He paused, suddenly realising what was happening. ‘Alienus! It must be him. Which way did he go?’
‘I didn’t notice.’
Blassius frowned with recollection. ‘One passed me just now heading around the fort towards Valens’ position.’
‘Gods below! Blassius, take a half turma of the Gauls and get after him; capture him before he stops Valens with another false message. I want him alive.’
Blassius saluted and hurried off, and Vespasian turned his attention to Marcius and Vibius. ‘Marcius, take another half turma of the Gauls and get those Hamians back to the fort as fast as they can run; and I mean run. I want them on the palisade shooting down into the flank of that hairy horde now! Vibius, we’re going to force a gap between the ditch and the left flank of the line; when we do, take the rest of the cavalry through and take the long-hairs in the rear.’
The young man saluted, determination written on his face but with anxiety in his eyes. Vespasian prayed that the former would overcome the latter as he turned back to Cogidubnus. ‘Let’s get this done; we don’t have much time.’
‘It looks like we’ll have to get out of that ditch without archer support,’ Cogidubnus observed.
‘I’m afraid so, my friend.’
‘Then it’s just as well that a quarter of my lads have slings.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Vespasian asked, seeing Magnus walking down from the fort’s gates; behind him a party of Britannic auxiliaries collected up the discarded ladders used in the abortive assault while the rest of the cohort clambered down into the outermost defensive ditch just behind the first cohort’s line.
‘Ah! Watching the shambles I think is the nicest way I can put it. What the fuck’s going on?’
‘Alienus has been riding around the field posing as my messenger, giving false orders; but despite that, we’ve just managed to hold off a surprise night attack for the last quarter of an hour in what I would describe as a desperate scramble to stay alive, not a shambles. Now if you’ve got nothing better to do than criticise then I would suggest that you piss off back to bed and wait to see whether you wake up in the morning with a Briton’s spear up your arse or not.’
Magnus looked out over the battle raging below. ‘No, I’ll stay. What made you guess they were coming?’
Vespasian turned towards the ditch. ‘There’s no time for that now.’
‘Where’re you going?’
‘Down into that ditch with a whole load of Britons who promise me that they would rather kill other Britons than Romans.’
‘Then I’d better come along and make sure that they keep that promise.’
The cacophony of ringing metallic clashes and human cries of pain, encouragement, fear and despair grew deafening as Vespasian weaved his way through the sharpened stakes embedded in the bottom of the ditch; the Britannic auxiliaries followed behind. They were level with the line of combat but the rampart on the front lip of the ditch hid them from the combatants’ sight.