‘Ride back down to him and tell him not to wait for the Gallic auxiliaries to make it to the gate. I want him to go immediately to keep as many Britons as possible occupied away from fighting the fires. Is that clear?’
‘Yes, sir!’ With a perfunctory salute Vibius turned his horse and galloped away under another flaming volley.
Vespasian glanced at Maximus, seated on a horse next to him, and allowed himself a grin of enjoyment. ‘Time to clear the walls for our gallant Gauls.’ He nodded at the cornicen. ‘Second target.’
This time the man blew two shorter notes; the effect was immediate: the Hamians lowered their trajectory, sending shaft after shaft at the warriors manning the palisade whilst the ballista crews adjusted their sights to the same effect. By the time the first bolts pounded into the smoke-wreathed palisade it was clear of the enemy, who had hunkered down, unwilling to risk their lives until the situation made it necessary; they were all well aware that that moment would come soon.
The clearing of the wall was the signal that had been prearranged with the prefects of the Gallic auxiliary cohorts and for the first time that day a shout erupted from the Roman lines. The lead cohort moved forward up the steep hill towards the gap in the foremost ditch, its first century pushing and pulling the ram in its midst; the lucky few toiling safely within the structure and the rest hauling on the two ropes to the front or the bars ranged down the side or pushing from behind. The second century led the way to provide some cover to the front whilst other auxiliaries crowded around their comrades heaving at the great engine of war, sheltering them with their shields to the sides; but no shots came from above as the Hamians continued their strafing of the wall. The two support cohorts raced ahead from either side, quickly passing over the crossing points in the nearer ditch and then fanning out along the rim between it and the last ditch, left and right to either side of the gate. Crouching down under their shields, scaling ladders laid on the ground before them, they waited for their comrades with the ram to arrive. On up the hill the ram ground, gradually gaining momentum, the solid wooden wheels, turning on goose-fatted axles, rumbled over the earth, closing in on the first obstacle.
It was for this moment that the Britons were waiting; the gap in the ditch, only forty paces from the palisade, was angled to the left and narrow, no more than six feet wide so that a wagon could just pass safely through. The ram’s housing had been especially adapted overnight so that its wheels just fitted, leaving no room for the men heaving on the side-bars and, more crucially, no room for the protective shield-bearers to either side. The leading second century passed through first and formed up in two ranks, one kneeling, one standing, making a wall of shields facing the enemy. As the engine followed, the men to either side were forced to fall back and wait; the ram lost momentum and the auxiliaries manhandling it lost their shelter. As one, hundreds of heads appeared over the palisade, arms twirling leather slings above them; many fell back, pierced by feathered shafts, into the fires beyond, but the majority managed three swift revolutions before releasing and then ducking back down to reload. A hail of shot sped unseen down onto the auxiliaries; much clattered off the protective wall of the second century’s shields but enough pounded in on the first century, felling men with shattered limbs and pulped faces as their comrades strove on, knowing that to flee with the whole legion watching would bring a shame upon them too heavy to bear. A few men from the second century ran back to haul the dead and wounded out of the way of the heavy wheels and to take over the empty places on the ropes; auxiliaries behind added their weight to the effort and the ram again picked up speed.
Another volley of ballista bolts hissed over the toiling centuries’ heads, punching warriors bodily back, skewered and arcing blood, as they reappeared on the wall, slings reloaded. Yet, braving the Hamians’ constant rain of arrows and indistinct in the thickening smoke, those still standing again whirled their slings about their heads, quickly achieving the velocity for another deadly salvo that pummelled into the target, dropping men with shrill shrieks or in deathly silence. Once again the ram’s progress was slowed, but not before the back wheels cleared the gap and the protective shield-bearers could again stream through.
A huge cheer rose from every man witnessing the feat and Vespasian found himself gulping in air; he had not taken a breath for some time. Glancing left to the south side of the hill he saw that Vibius had delivered his message. Valens was on the move with the legion’s second, third and fourth cohorts, now formed into columns, eight men abreast. In front of each formation, long planks had been thrown across the first ditch and pioneers had climbed carefully down their sheer sides and were now working between the stakes, raising upright supports for the temporary bridges.
Satisfied that his second in command was progressing with all due haste, Vespasian turned his attention back to the hill, now swathed in roiling smoke. The ram was just visible being manoeuvred right to negotiate the gap in the second ditch, twenty paces from the gate. The second century had already crossed and had formed up as before to shield their comrades from as much missile hail, both slingshot and now javelin, as possible — although the more acute angle so close to the palisade made their efforts of little account and, as he watched, two men on the ropes fell. But the ram kept on moving, its front wheels now halfway across the gap. The Hamians and bolt-shooters continued their volleys, although it was largely by guesswork as the figures on the palisade were only visible intermittently. The two supporting Gallic cohorts remained shielded and ready on either side of the gate, ladders now projecting skywards from their midst.
Vespasian looked down at the cornicen. ‘The first cohort to advance!’
An ascending series of three notes rumbled from the bronze instrument. Vespasian saw the standards of the five double-strength centuries of the legion’s élite cohort dip and then, to the bellows of their centurions and optiones, one by one they marched forward towards the gap in the first ditch. Now it was all about breaking down the gate to let those seasoned killers in.
But disaster had struck.
Through the eddying smoke the ram was just discernible; it was listing to the right. Vespasian tensed, straining his eyes; a gust cleared his view for a few moments, enough time to watch the earth crumble beneath the rear, right-hand wheel and see it slip over the edge. The housing crashed down onto its back axle, the angle causing the suspended ram to swing to the right, stunning many of the auxiliaries labouring within the structure and skewing it even more with its momentum. For two or three quickening heartbeats the engine teetered on the brink as men rushed to its left side to cling to it, hoping that their weight would somehow avert the inevitable.
But the inevitable, as ever, happened.
Beginning with a slow lean that quickly accelerated, the housing crashed, with a splintering and cracking of wood that could be just heard even over the din of the assault, to its ruin onto the stakes in the ditch below, taking the men inside down with it onto the fire-hardened points. For a moment its front end stood perpendicular before it toppled back, lengthways along the ditch, disappearing from view.
Vespasian kicked his horse forward. ‘Maximus! Stay here and give the orders; keep the momentum up and tell the Hamians and the artillery to aim for the wall above the ram.’
Confident that he had left the overall command of the assault in the hands of the most experienced man in the Roman ranks, Vespasian urged his horse into a gallop up the hill; the turma of legionary cavalry, acting as his bodyguard, followed in his wake. He sped past the legion’s first cohort, overtaking them halfway up, and then dismounted and ran on, with his escort following, through wispy smoke. Keeping his shield high, he passed the eight remaining centuries of the Gallic cohort who had stopped, unsure of how to proceed now that the means to open the gate had been taken out of commission, and arrived at the second ditch in the shadow of the gate. ‘Where’s your prefect?’ Vespasian demanded of the auxiliary centurion of the third century as he too crouched with his men, shielded against the hail of shot.