‘Next five!’ the centurions called out as the last two boats were secured, drawing Vespasian back to the matter in hand.
Five more boats, on either side, headed out into the river; on the bank, a century equipped with hammers and nails jogged down past the stakes, followed by mule carts full of planking. Ousting the former occupants of the boats, the four lead legionaries made their way forward along the secured boats; a work-chain formed behind them relaying the two-foot-wide planks to them. As the planks arrived they were laid down across the boats’ thick, horizontal gunwales and secured into place with long nails hammered through into the wood below. Working from the centre out, a twelve-foot-wide wooden road began to take shape, and was soon extended back to the bank by more planks overlapping those already laid. By the time the final planks were secured the next five boats were in place, stretching two-thirds of the way across the river, and the whole process began again as the last of the boats headed out towards their positions. On the far bank Paetus’ ala advanced past the line of the bridge as two boats landed a contubernium of legionaries equipped with sledgehammers and stakes to secure the bridges to the western bank.
Camp Prefect Maximus crashed to attention next to Vespasian with a jangle of phalerae, his military decorations, and gave his crispest salute. ‘The Second Augusta and its auxiliaries are formed up in column ready to cross, legate!’
‘Thank you, prefect.’ Vespasian turned to see the ten thousand men under his command extending up the hill in two columns, each eight men abreast. The warm westering sun glowed on their tired, grim faces and played on the burnished iron cladding them, front-lighting the standards that they would follow to death itself.
The shrill call of a long lituus cavalry horn from across the river startled Vespasian, not by its volume but by its significance. He did not bother to look at its source but instead turned his head to the north and saw what he had been dreading. The movement of the II Augusta had not gone unnoticed — how could it? A sizeable force had broken away from the Britannic horde and was now heading along the flat, riverside meadow towards them, led by a large formation of chariots. Paetus’ ala had dressed its ranks and broken into a trot towards the oncoming enemy, just a mile distant.
‘Speed this up, Maximus, or we’ll get caught before we’ve got the first cohort across.’
The prefect of the camp took a look at the last two boats on each bridge still to be positioned and ran off bellowing for more haste.
Magnus frowned. ‘That ain’t going to do much good, the lads are going as fast as they can; I’ve never seen a river bridged so quickly.’
Vespasian ignored him and signalled over to the I Cohort Hamiorum’s prefect to report to him.
‘Shadow our cavalry north, sprint if you have to, but I want there to be eight hundred arrows every ten heartbeats supporting them when they come into contact; and shoot at the horses.’
The prefect saluted and rushed away; within moments the Hamians had turned and were doubling north along the river in pace with the trotting Batavians.
Despite Magnus’ reservations, the appearance of Maximus at the end of the bridge had inspired the men to even greater efforts and the last two boats were now being lashed into position. Vespasian retreated a few paces up the hill and took his place in the front rank of the first cohort, next to Tatius; Magnus took his position on the other shoulder. Behind them the Eagle-bearer of the II Augusta, resplendent in his wolfskin, stood erect, ready to hold his sacred standard aloft with both hands in the coming battle whilst those around him fought to keep it safe from the enemy. Vespasian needed all his willpower not to fidget as the ropes were secured to the stakes and the final lengths of the wooden road were laid and nailed. A glance to the north told him that half a mile away the Batavians were less than two hundred paces from contact and the Hamians were sprinting in a ragged formation to keep up with them.
‘Don’t look at them, sir, there’s fuck all you can do about it,’ Magnus muttered in his ear.
Vespasian gripped his sword hilt and checked that the weapon was loose in its scabbard in an effort to keep his mind from the excruciating tension. He reflected that this was the first time he had used the Lady Antonia’s gift of her father Marcus Antonius’ sword in combat since the Jewish riots in Alexandria almost five years previously. He had missed it in Germania; the longer auxiliary spatha was not-
‘Clear the bridge!’ Maximus shouted.
The work parties dashed back down the wooden construction’s length, causing it to undulate unevenly.
‘Let’s move, primus pilus!’ Vespasian ordered before the last men were clear.
‘The first cohort will advance at the double.’
The cornu blew, the standards dipped twice and eight hundred men of the five double-strength centuries of the first cohort moved forward.
‘Break step!’ Tatius ordered just before the bridge.
With a series of small jumps they broke step so that their regulated pace would not cause the pontoon bridge to bounce itself to destruction as they pounded along the wooden road.
Vespasian restrained himself from racing across, keeping instead to the speed set by Tatius; hobnails thundered down behind him, amplified in the hollows of the boats below like a constant rumble of thunder in the darkest of storms. His anxiety grew with every step as his eyes continually flicked to the north where Paetus’ men were now engaged in a series of skirmishes with the elusive chariot force. Unwilling to make contact head on, the chariots had veered away at the last moment, their warriors hurling javelins into the Batavian ala, which returned the compliment, bringing many of the ponies crashing down, sending their wooden vehicles and their occupants hurtling through the air and causing dozens of obstacles in front of the cavalry line when they crunched to the ground. To break formation would have been disastrous; the Batavian line had been forced to stop and they were now fighting hand to hand with the few chariots they had caught and the dismounted warriors who had crawled from the wreckage. A couple of hundred chariots now swirled back at the pinned Batavians, under a continuous rain of arrows from the Hamians on the east bank, to deliver two or three javelins apiece into the stationary ala, felling many in a chorus of agony both human and bestial.
Suddenly Vespasian’s footsteps made no sound, nor did the ground move beneath him; the front rank was over. Half a mile to the north, Paetus’ ala broke and fled, unable to withstand the catastrophic losses dealt to them by a mobile enemy they could not fully engage. The Britons in turn were suffering grievously under the hail of Hamian shafts pouring from the sky, but they pursued their broken foe in the knowledge that they would soon outdistance the arrows of their tormentors. Behind the chariots, thousands of warriors surged forward in their wake in an undisciplined but determined mass.
The first cohort poured onto the west bank, Tatius increasing the pace as he realised they were in imminent danger of being caught in the open whilst forming up. He counted the paces aloud as they raced across the meadow, already trampled by Paetus’ cavalry in their sacrificial charge north. Next to them the Gallic cavalry ala thundered forward towards the hill, equally aware of the need for speed in this very tightly fought affair; behind them their infantry compatriots followed with all haste with their centurions and optiones bellowing encouragement. As Tatius reached the count of fifty the Batavians were no more than five hundred paces away, riding their foaming horses for their lives, outpacing their slower pursuers who in turn had outdistanced the Hamians’ extreme range. Their arrows were now turned onto the surging infantry behind the chariots, which began to pay with their lives for their compact formation.