He looked to Tatius. ‘Your cohort, primus pilus.’
Tatius nodded. ‘Prepare to release, then receive charge!’
Again his orders were relayed through the silent cohort and eight hundred right arms went back. All along the Roman line the centurions took their lead from the senior cohort and the legionaries prepared themselves for the impact of the horde as they came on, brandishing flashing iron and bulging considerably now from the centre, flowing across the field like quicksilver.
Again the artillery sent sixty lightning-fast bolts into the mass, skewering scores whose screams were drowned by the battle cries of tens of thousands. The slingers now turned their shot to the artillerymen as they strained to re-tension their carroballistae. Twirling their leather slings over their heads as they ran, they sent hundreds of stones clattering into the carts, cracking the bones of men and mules, felling many, driving some beasts to bolt with their loads and sending men scuttling for cover.
Vespasian felt his bowels churn as the Britons came on and he comforted himself with the thought that every man in the Roman line must be feeling the same fear; he could smell it all around him.
Without a pilum, he loosened his gladius in its scabbard and prayed silently that he would wield it with the martial prowess of its long-dead former owner. Still the Britons came, now less than fifty paces away, the swirling vitrum designs clearly visible on their naked torsos and arms, and long, drooping moustaches flowing back in the wind to reveal snarling mouths howling death. He tensed his shield arm.
With the clash of metal and the resounding blows of shield against shield, the head of the bulge crashed into the third cohort; Vespasian glanced left as the second cohort’s pila flew skywards. Up the hill the Gallic auxiliary cohorts emitted dark shadows of javelins in turn as the bulge flattened against Roman shields, rippling out each way from its first point of impact.
‘Release!’ Tatius thundered as the breaking wave of humanity crashed onto the furthest shields of the second cohort.
With a communal growl of exertion, the eight hundred legionaries of the first cohort launched their pila forwards, stamped down on their left feet and drew their swords in one much-practised motion. Vespasian felt the shield of the man behind him press firmly onto his back as the deadly volley swept silently towards the baying host.
For a moment time seemed to still and the world was silent; and then screams rent the air, shrill and sudden, as the lead-weighted pila swept into the onrushing warriors, kicking them back in arcs of blood, howling, impaled, faces pulped by lead balls, shields smashed and arms pinned to chests or bellies. Back they were hurled in their hundreds, legs buckling beneath them, weapons flying up from outstretched arms, blood spraying with their death-roars, eyes wide with pain, flattening comrades behind, as those untouched by the volley sped past, suddenly seeming to accelerate because of their opposite trajectories.
Vespasian gritted his teeth and, hunched behind his shield, tensed, as the human wave broke upon the first cohort, from left to right, with a racing, ever-nearing succession of pounding blows along the line. And then his body shuddered with the shock of a collision of such velocity that his right leg almost buckled behind him. The shield pressed against his back punched him forward, exploding the air from his lungs, as he fought to stay upright.
Instinct took over.
Gasping for breath, he jerked his shield upwards, cracking its rim on a descending arm, shattering it before it could deliver a downwards cut. He felt a sword clatter down his back as he stabbed his gladius at an angle through the gap between his and Magnus’ shields; yielding flesh ripped open and an instant later warm blood slopped onto his left foot. His ears rang with howls, metallic clangs and clashes and the pounding of bodies onto leather-faced wood. Twisting his blade, he pulled it free and raised his eyes to stare into those of the man he had just gutted, pinioned upright against his shield by the press of blood-hungry warriors behind; his mouth was slack under a long moustache flecked with mucus and dirt and he tried to draw a choking breath. The Briton’s ribs had already cracked from the punch of Vespasian’s shield boss, and now being compressed against the same, he struggled to inhale; raising his chin, his eyes rolled, the whites bloodshot, as the pressure from behind grew. Vespasian responded and heaved forward against him, the men behind adding their combined weight. The stench of fresh faeces filled his nostrils, blanking out the iron tang of blood. To either side, Tatius and Magnus, bellowing every known curse, were also hunched behind their shields, straining with all their might, along with every other man in the Roman line, to halt the concerted drive from so many tens of thousands of men.
Weapons were now pointless as the whole line became one long scrimmage; even if a gap in the shields could be found the flesh on the other side was already dead, either from a sword thrust or crushed to death by the enormous pressure, providing a barrier to the Britons’ swords; they no longer flashed down. The pressure suddenly increased on Vespasian’s back and he realised that the second line of cohorts had added their weight to the scrum. He kept his shoulder pressed at an angle to his shield, pushing against it also with his head, the fist of his right hand and his left knee, knowing that to use his whole body would mean a slow and painful crushing of his ribcage. The gutted warrior’s head lolled on the shield rim, bloody drool from his dead mouth trickled down the wooden board in front of Vespasian’s eyes. The yelling had died down to be replaced by the straining grunts and growls of a mass of men heaving against each other with every ounce of their strength.
Even with the added weight of the second line the force was proving too much and the II Augusta was slowly and inexorably being pushed back. The leather thongs of Vespasian’s sandals were cutting into his feet from the pressure coursing down through his body and, despite the hobnails’ purchase, he felt them sliding backwards inch by inch, ripping up grass as they went. Back and back his feet slid, ploughing small furrows in the giving earth and the longer those grew the more his hope faded. He had calculated that they had retreated at least ten paces and knew that the force would soon tell somewhere along the line and it would break and disaster would ensue, when suddenly the pressure eased; they were no longer going back. He risked raising his eyes over the shield’s rim, using the gutted man as cover, and glimpsed chaos in the Britannic line: the Hamians were shooting low into the legs and buttocks of their rear ranks.
Despite the slingshot barrage that they were receiving, the eastern archers were showing their mettle by concentrating their aim on the threat to the whole legion and not the massed slingers that pounded them. Many were going down but they kept shaft after shaft thumping into the Britons closest to them, those directly facing the first cohort.
Vespasian knew that this was their one opportunity. They had to take it now before the Hamians were forced to withdraw. He looked at Tatius. ‘Forward!’
The primus pilus turned and bellowed the command left and right; it was taken up not just by his subordinate centurions but by the whole cohort in a rough, growling chant.
Vespasian heaved on his shield, feeling the combined pressure of the men behind, and forced his left foot forward a half-pace; next to him Magnus and Tatius managed the same. That first, small gain in ground was enough to inspire the cohort and quickly the chant changed from a growl to a loud and clear statement of intent. With another muscle-bulging push his left foot progressed another pace; and then another.