‘But where are the bodies?’ Vespasian asked, smiling at his friend’s hypothesis. ‘Perhaps Paetus can tell us; we should come across him soon.’
‘I don’t understand why you didn’t send a message ordering him to come to you instead of traipsing all the way up here.’
Vespasian pulled up his horse and turned it around. ‘That’s why,’ he said, extending his arm to the view.
Below them the country was speckled with marching columns, eight men abreast, arranged in an almost straight line north; the three legions in the middle were advancing in a broader formation, each forty men abreast in two long columns of five cohorts and trailed by endless pack-mules and wagons. Between Vespasian and his II Augusta, just three miles distant, tramped his seven infantry auxiliary cohorts, the closest one, the archers of I Cohort Hamiorum, was a hundred paces just down the slope from them. In front of the three legions the XIIII Gemina’s eight cohorts of Batavian infantry scouted ahead to spring any ambushes set, in order to protect the more valuable lives of the Roman citizens in the legions. A cavalry turma galloped past them returning from a patrol to the west. The low, booming sound of cornua floated up from the army as it advanced with the sun reflecting off countless helmets.
In the distance, ten miles away to the north, the supporting squadron of triremes and supply vessels appeared like small dots on the glittering Tamesis estuary. Then to the east, bringing up the rear five miles behind the last of the columns, was the dark shadow of the siege train and heavy baggage followed by the almost square formation of the VIIII Hispana flanked by auxiliary cohorts.
‘What a sight that is,’ Vespasian said after a few moments of admiration. ‘That is a very big army.’
Magnus was unimpressed. ‘I’ve seen bigger.’
Vespasian was disappointed at his friend’s reaction but hid it; he had forgotten momentarily that Magnus had served with Germanicus in Germania with armies almost twice the size. ‘I suppose you must have,’ he mumbled, turning his horse and kicking it on up the hill towards the woods that crowned it. ‘Anyway, the main reason is to see for myself the lie of the land ahead of us.’
‘Of course, very sensible.’
‘And to see what Paetus’ situation is at first hand.’
‘Indeed.’
Paetus’ situation was similar to every other commander’s in the army: quiet. ‘We’ve seen hardly anyone,’ he told Vespasian and Magnus once they had caught up with him amongst the trees. ‘Occasionally we come across small family groups, without any men of fighting age, hiding in the woods with their livestock. I don’t let the chaps touch them, not even take something for the pot. All my patrols from the south have come back in with nothing to report apart from the occasional hostile deer that demonstrates its martial prowess with a consummate display of running away. Nothing’s here, and no one is moving.’
‘I’ve a feeling that we’ll find them soon, Paetus.’ Vespasian looked out over the thickly forested country to the south. ‘How deep have you sent patrols into there?’
‘Ten miles in, sir. We’ve found nothing but a few charcoal burners. It’s thick forest; you could hide an army in there but it wouldn’t be able to move very fast.’
‘Thank you, Paetus, keep your lads at it.’ Vespasian turned to leave.
‘You know of course where they all are?’ Magnus said as they rode out of the trees.
‘Where?’
‘All together.’
‘I’ve worked that out. The question is: are they waiting for us at the river, or are they trying to get around behind us, or are they going to do something that we just don’t expect?’
Magnus’ face fell. ‘I think it’s the latter, sir, look.’ He pointed west to a hill just beyond the advance of the Batavian infantry.
Vespasian followed his gaze; over the hill came a dark smudge, blurred by the dust rising from it. Then came the distant roar of massed voices raised in hatred. ‘They must be mad! They can’t take us head on.’
Thousands of warriors, led by hundreds of two-horse chariots careering over the grass, were swarming for the XIIII Gemina and the II Augusta. The Batavians had evidently had warning from advance scouts and the eight cohorts had formed into line and closed up forming a protective shield for the legions as they too manoeuvred into battle order.
‘I think it’s time you got back to the legion, sir.’
CHAPTER XVI
‘It seems that we’re facing about thirty thousand, sir. Plautius has ordered us to send forward cohorts one to four of our Gallic auxiliaries to support the Batavians,’ Mucianus reported as Vespasian and Magnus pulled their horses up to a skidding halt at the II Augusta’s command post between the two lines of its ten cohorts, now in battle formation. ‘I’ve sent them; they made contact with the Batavians not long ago. The fifth I’ve had move on to our left flank along with the rest of the legion’s cavalry.’
‘Good; what are our orders?’
‘Form two lines to give us as broad a frontage as possible but remain in open order, which we’ve done, and then wait.’
‘Wait?’
‘Yes, sir, wait.’
‘All right. Send a messenger to the First Hamiorum telling them to come in range of our left flank; I want archer support when it comes to it. And send another to Paetus; he’s to stay on the hill in case they try to outflank us. You can rejoin your first and second cohorts when that’s done.’
‘Yes, sir!’
Vespasian looked over the heads of his front rank cohorts and up the slope ahead; two hundred paces away, the auxiliaries were formed up four ranks deep in a line almost a mile long. Beyond them, at the top of the hill, a mass of thousands of naked and halfnaked tribesmen bellowed war cries, whilst capering and brandishing weapons as hundreds of chariots skitted around on the cropped grass before them. Skilled drivers brought their vehicles close enough for the single warrior in each to hurl a couple of javelins at the shielded auxiliaries before veering their stocky ponies off back up the hill to be replaced by another wave and then another before coming around again. Occasionally a warrior, carried away by battle-lust, jumped from his chariot to charge single-handedly into the front rank of the auxiliaries — with the inevitable consequence. His brisk and bloody death earned raucous roars of approval from the mass of tribesmen watching on.
One man in particular caught Vespasian’s eye: tall and powerfully built, his broad chest and muscular arms daubed in swirls of blue-green vitrum and his hair spiked high with lime, he stood proud in his speeding chariot, punching a sword into the air, urging each wave on down the slope towards the Roman lines. ‘That chieftain must be either Caratacus or Togodumnus.’
‘Running around in circles in chariots isn’t going to get them anywhere,’ Magnus observed. ‘Why don’t he just order them to charge?’
‘I think that their noble warriors in the chariots have to have the honour of being the first to engage the enemy. They’re expecting us to send a few champions forward for some single combat. According to Caesar it’s how they like to start battles.’
‘Well, they’re going to have to get used to our way now. Our lads haven’t even bothered to waste any javelins on them.’
A rumble of cornua relayed along the line; the auxiliaries’ standards dipped one by one, ordering the advance. The Batavians and Gauls, whose great-grandfathers had so fiercely opposed Rome and her conquests, now marched forward to conquer in her name.
The chieftain jumped from his chariot and, facing back up the hill to his massed warriors, extended his arms, sword in one hand, shield in the other, as if embracing every man. The chariots hurtled away, leaving their warriors on the field with their chieftain as slowly he turned to face the oncoming enemy.
The Britons charged.
It was a charge unlike any Vespasian had seen or heard before: wild, unco-ordinated, and fearsome in its recklessness. With a roar that would shake the dark realm of Pluto himself and with no thought for maintaining lines for mutual support, thousands of warriors, smeared in outlandish blue-green designs, waving long slashing swords above the spiked hair on their heads, ran pell-mell down the slope, each trying to outdo his comrades for the honour of being the first to draw blood. They were oblivious to danger as hundreds were punched down by the first javelin volley that scythed through them, fifty paces out. They hurdled their skewered dead and wounded, who crashed to the ground in sprays of crimson, splintering the shafts that impaled them, and came on as a second volley tore through their massed, unprotected flesh, thumping them off their feet, backs arched, teeth bared, screaming their last.