The ram again thundered forward; the auxiliaries, faces racked with fear, heaved at it with the extra strength afforded by desperation as oil, ignited by the glowing charcoal scorching their upturned shields, dripped down into their formation. The gates shuddered as the bar across them cracked; the ram returned with brutal force, splintering the bar and driving the gates ever back. A spear punched through the gap, cleaving the centurion’s mouth, shattering teeth, and slicing through soft tissue and bone to burst out of the back of his neck in an explosive spray. Vespasian lowered his burning shield to face the threat as all around him the men of the century dropped the ram and slammed their shoulders into the two gates, edging them back. More spears thrust through the gap, cracking into Vespasian’s shield and those of the auxiliaries who now stood to either side of him. They stood firm as the men on the gates strained with the defenders in a contest of strength and will; gradually but inexorably the gates ground backwards as men from the next century rushed to aid their comrades. The gap widened even more and the shield-wall extended; javelins now hissed towards them, thumping into their shields that dripped flaming oil. To his rear, Vespasian could hear the other centuries’ officers bellowing orders at their men to storm the breached defence; he sensed bodies forming up behind him and felt relief at the arrival of support — even if it was not Magnus.
The gates shifted another couple of feet and in the swirling smoke beyond, back-lit by flaming huts, stood a mass of warriors. With a volley of sleek-pointed javelins announcing their intent, they charged.
Holding his smoking shield tight before him, Vespasian led the auxiliaries’ response, breaking into a jog for the few closing paces before the two sides collided just inside the gates. The moment before contact, in an action instilled by years of repetitive training, the auxiliaries punched their shields forward and up as they stamped their left legs down, planting them squarely on the ground whilst thrusting their swords, underarm, between the gaps at their adversaries’ groins. The shock of impact crunched through Vespasian’s frame as he strained his left arm to hold back the weight of the charge, hunkering down behind his shield to avoid the wild slashes of long swords and the overarm thrusting of spears. The auxiliary next to him, blood already splattered on his chain mail, screamed in an unintelligible tongue; Gallic, Vespasian assumed as he furiously worked his sword arm forward to feel it jar against wood. The weight of the file behind him pushed into his back and a shield was thrust over his head, protecting him from projectiles hurled from the wall to either side. Javelins from the rear ranks hurtled overhead, slamming into the packed mass of defenders compacted by warriors at the rear surging forward against a Roman line that held solid. Another punch with the tip of his weapon brought a lingering scream from ahead as he felt it tear through yielding tissue; warm fluid slopped onto his sandalled feet as he twisted his blade, rolling his wrist left then right, before abruptly yanking it out. He felt a body slither down his shield and jabbed his sword down at it as he stepped over his fallen foe, praying that the man behind him knew his business and would ensure that the warrior was despatched.
Another warrior stood in his path, snarling under a drooping moustache, his naked torso smeared with blue-green vitrum swirls, brandishing a slashing-sword above his head. With lightning speed, the weapon flashed towards him, left to right; Vespasian ducked under the swipe at the same moment as the Gallic auxiliary to his left raised himself to stab overarm at the throat of his own opponent. With a wet crunch the blade seared through the Gaul’s neck, cutting off his stream of obscenities, severing his head and sending it spinning, spiralling blood, away into the fray. Vespasian sliced his weapon down, taking the Briton’s arm off at the elbow while the headless corpse sank to the ground disgorging its contents in a crimson fountain as the heart pumped on for a few beats; the freshly carved stump added to the gore spraying about and the warrior screamed, looking incredulously at his shortened arm. It was the last thing he saw; Vespasian’s sword punched back up into his throat as an auxiliary from the second rank stepped into his decapitated comrade’s place.
Vespasian took another step forward; gradually the auxiliaries were pushing their way into the hill-fort. How the support cohorts were doing in their attempts to scale the palisade to either side of the gate, Vespasian had no idea; he did not even know if they had made it across the final obstacle with their twenty-five-foot ladders that would just reach the top of the palisade from the bottom of the ditch. He pushed on, punching with his shield boss, stabbing with his sword and stamping with his feet, working his body to its limits as the cacophony of battle swirled around him along with the smoke from burning thatch, cocooning him in a world of brutal images and ever-present danger.
How long he struggled for he could not tell but profound weariness was beginning to envelop him. He forced his aching muscles on, waiting for an opportunity to relieve the front rank with fresh troops; but the press of battle prevented this. His breathing had become ragged and he could feel his reactions slowing; he knew that he would not survive long if he stayed to the fore of the fight. Yet how could he, the legate, retire from the combat by himself? Straddling another body as the man behind him stabbed the tip of his weapon into the stricken man’s throat, Vespasian felt a ripple flow through the tightly bunched defenders, from south to north; suddenly the timbre of the Britons’ yells changed from defiance to surprise. As he worked his blade he saw from the corner of his eye a couple of Britons further back look nervously over their shoulders. They had been hit in the flank; somewhere along its length the Romans had succeeded in scaling the palisade. Now he knew that they were in and all he had to do was survive for a few racing heartbeats more.
Sensing that victory was imminent, the auxiliaries pushed forward into the wavering Britons, stabbing and hacking with blood-slick blades, each step forward easier than the last as the enemy lost cohesion and resolve in equal measure. Through a break in the smoke, Vespasian glimpsed Roman helmets away to the left: legionary helmets, not auxiliary. Valens had made it over the palisade with his three cohorts, fifteen hundred men. Now they just had to clear the way for Tatius’ first cohort to enter the hill-fort. They, along with the three auxiliary cohorts already joined in the assault, would be enough to prevail, whilst the rest of the legion and Gallic cohorts and Cogidubnus’ recently raised Britannic cohort would prevent any escape. Caratacus would be at least killed, if not captured alive.
Caught between the two-pronged attack and the fires to their rear and suffering casualties at a steadily increasing rate, the Britons broke, fleeing into the smoke.
Glancing up, left then right, Vespasian saw the defenders leaping from the palisade anxious not to be caught between the auxiliaries coming through the gates and those of the two cohorts now streaming over the walls, the Hamians and artillery having ceased their volleys. However, he was under no illusion that it was over. ‘Halt!’ he shouted to the century that had led the charge. ‘Move aside.’
The century’s survivors — Vespasian estimated that they were down to half their number — gladly complied and stepped out of the way in an unmilitary fashion, too exhausted to care about drill, as the rest of the cohort streamed into the fort, their prefect at their head.
‘They’ll regroup beyond the flames, prefect,’ Vespasian called. ‘Keep your lads tight together.’
With a half-made salute the prefect led his men on into the smoke as the legion’s first cohort doubled through the gate. Vespasian did not bother to give Primus Pilus Tatius any orders; four years working closely with the veteran centurion had taught him that the man knew his business.