They did not have to wait long. With a roar that was blood-curdling even at two miles distant, the dark shadow of warriors began to flow down the hill with a viscous, ever-changing front, like molten pitch being poured from a tub onto an enemy below.
On they came as the cloud of a first volley of javelins from the XX Legion’s Spanish and Aquitanian auxiliaries darkened the sky above them to dissipate quickly into a sharp-pointed rain. Vespasian watched with silent admiration; the charge refused to falter as the first and then the second volley hailed down on it.
‘Sir!’ a young voice shouted as the charge hit home with a marked increase in volume.
Vespasian looked around to see the thin-stripe tribune from Plautius’ staff, sitting on a sweating horse, saluting.
‘Yes, Tribune Alienus?’
‘The general compliments you on your actions so far and asks that you move your auxiliaries forward to threaten the enemy’s flank. He believes that will cause them to break; once they do you are to follow them up with all possible haste and try and catch them as they cross the Afon Cantiacii.’
‘Thank you, tribune, you may tell the general that it will be done.’
Alienus saluted again before galloping off as Vespasian issued the orders for Maximus, the camp prefect, to relay to the waiting messengers of the legion’s cavalry detachment and then to oversee the manoeuvre.
The horsemen sped off and Vespasian turned his attention back to the fighting on his right. The auxiliary line had held and, with a rumble of cornua, the XIIII and the XX were advancing to relieve them.
Magnus gave a wry smile. ‘You have to hand it to the army, when it comes to tactics they don’t win any prizes for innovation.’
‘If something works then why change it?’ Vespasian replied, admiring the precision of the manoeuvre as the rear ranks of auxiliaries broke off and filed back through their legions’ lines.
By the time both legions were fully engaged the II Augusta’s auxiliaries, still smeared in fresh blood, were jogging past Vespasian, equipment jangling and feet pounding, in columns eight abreast and on through the gaps created between the front rank cohorts of the legion. As they emerged onto the open ground the columns fanned out to either side in a fluid motion of precisely drilled soldiery to form a four-deep line, each unit abutting its neighbour. The shouts of their centurions and optiones as they dressed the ranks were lost beneath the battle’s bellows, screams and clanging, metallic clashes, as if herds of cattle were being slaughtered simultaneously to the accompaniment of thousands of blacksmiths maniacally ringing down blows upon their anvils.
With the ranks straight, the auxiliary line began its advance from the left, co-ordinated by Maximus, wheeling until it was at forty-five degrees and then moving forward at the double towards the Britons’ exposed flank.
Vespasian glanced up the hill ahead; there was no sign of the defeated force. ‘Slow advance!’
Again the cornu sounded and again the II Augusta moved forward steadily up the hill in support of their auxiliaries as they closed with the enemy. The sight of a fresh force closing in on the battle put heart into the men of the XIIII and XX Legions and they renewed their efforts as, simultaneously, the Britons wavered; the faint-hearted turned to flee back up the slope rather than take on the new enemy. Panic began to spread through the mass of warriors and more and more turned to run until only the most blood-hungry were left to face the mechanical sword work of the legions; they were soon despatched with merciless and violent efficiency.
And then suddenly it was over.
Maximus recalled the II Augusta’s auxiliaries; they had not even needed to charge, their presence alone had been enough to turn the battle. They moved swiftly across the path of the advancing legion and took up position two hundred paces to its front.
To Vespasian’s right, the XIIII and XX both relieved their front rank cohorts and allowed their auxiliaries through to form a protective line ahead of them before continuing their advance so that the three legions were at a slant with the II Augusta in the lead.
Vespasian sat bolt upright on his mount, his heart thumping in his chest. ‘Advance at the double!’ he called down to the cornicen, revelling in the pride he felt as his legion led the way west, chasing a beaten but not yet defeated foe.
The message rumbled out and within a few heartbeats the legion had quickened its pace, their footsteps pounding the already trampled grass. Ahead, the auxiliary cohorts responded and started to jog up the last hundred paces of the hill as a lone warrior appeared at its summit. Within moments the warrior was joined by a multitude of figures, silhouetted by the afternoon sun, stretching across the length of the hill-brow. The auxiliaries halted and for the third time that day dressed their ranks for combat.
‘Halt!’ Vespasian ordered.
‘Bastards haven’t run away like they should,’ Magnus complained as the cornu’s notes brought the legion to a stop.
‘We’ll have to keep beating them until they do,’ Vespasian muttered as he tried to assess how many men could be hidden behind those already visible.
The XIIII Gemina and the XX carried on until they were level with the II Augusta before they too halted, and for the first time that day silence descended over the field as the two forces faced each other.
Vespasian looked over his shoulder to Plautius’ command position behind Sabinus’ legion; messengers were being despatched. He turned back to the enemy; they were still. The two sides continued to stare at each other for a few more quickening heartbeats until the lead warrior began to walk forward towards the II Augusta; after he had covered ten paces he raised a branch in full leaf in the air and the men behind him followed.
‘They’ve had enough already,’ Magnus exclaimed as all along the Roman lines cheering erupted.
‘I don’t think so; look.’ Vespasian pointed to the slowly advancing Britons. No one appeared over the hill behind them. ‘It must be just one tribe and a small one at that. I’m going to talk with them.’ He kicked his horse forward as the Britons slowed and then as one threw their weapons to the ground before walking backwards a few paces away from them and then falling to their knees.
Vespasian galloped through the ranks of his legion and on past the auxiliaries to draw his horse up in front of the lead warrior, the only man still on his feet.
The Briton looked up at him. His face was long and ruddy with lines of care etched from the corners of his eyes and frown creases across his brow, which, combined with his downward-drooping silver moustache, gave the impression of a world-weary man burdened with troubles. ‘I am Budvoc, King of the Dobunni, subject of Caratacus and master of nothing but my own fate,’ he said in passable Latin. ‘Today I and my warriors have done all that honour requires of us and now, having shed our blood, we choose our fate. If we are to remain a subject tribe we will do so out of choice and we would rather be subject to the might of Rome than to our neighbours the Catuvellauni. What is your name, general?’
‘Titus Flavius Vespasianus, but I am no general, I am a legate.’
‘No matter, legate; it was this legion that we fought following Caratacus and it was this legion that defeated us and it is to this legion that we yield.’ He took his sword from its scabbard and dropped it on the grass in front of Vespasian’s horse’s hooves and then placed his branch over it, covering it with its leaves. ‘We are your people now, do with us what you will.’
‘What’s going on here, legate?’ Plautius shouted, pulling his horse up.
‘I’ve just accepted the surrender of Budvoc of the Dobunni, sir.’
‘Have you now?’ Plautius looked down at the King. ‘Well, Budvoc, your men fought bravely even though they were led by men with as much military sense as a mule. I imagine that you have nothing to thank Caratacus or Togodumnus for in the way that they behaved this day.’