‘The bastards are slipping,’ Magnus shouted at him.
‘What?’
‘They’ve churned all the blood, shit and piss into mud, they can’t grip.’
With another concerted shove they regained an additional couple of paces back towards their original line and the pressure on their shields eased; the gutted man slithered to the ground along with a few hundred other crushed or stabbed warriors, forming a small wall of dead bodies beyond which the Britons were now in total disarray. Many had slipped in the mud produced from noisome fluids squeezed from the dead and dying in the crush, and more had tripped over the wounded brought down by the Hamians’ arrows as they had been forced back.
Vespasian glanced at Tatius; they nodded to each other and stepped over the line of dead taking the front rank with them; now they could use their swords.
Although disorganised, those Britons still on their feet scrambled to their own defence, leaping individually at the line of blood-smeared shields.
Cracking his shield boss up into the naked chest of a giant of a man in front as he raised his long sword for a killing blow, Vespasian jabbed his gladius forward, low, slicing the point of its finely honed blade deep into the warrior’s groin as, beside him, Magnus narrowly avoided an overarm spear-thrust to his face, which cracked against the shield of the following legionary. In a swift double motion, Vespasian jerked his sword free and cracked his shield rim up under the now screaming giant’s chin, shattering his jaw and silencing him momentarily as Magnus, bellowing, stamped his hobnails down onto the spear-wielder’s foot; howling with pain the warrior yanked his broken foot back, pulling Magnus’ leg with it by a hobnail caught in the boot’s strapping. Caught off balance on a slimy surface, Magnus crashed onto his back, twisting his left leg under him. Despite his injured foot, Magnus’ opponent seized his opportunity and stabbed down with his spear, but the second rank legionary quickly straddled Magnus, lowering his shield to deflect the thrust into the ground. Pulling his gladius back, level with his face, he rammed it forward, straight and true, into the warrior’s throat, punching the Briton back so that he could take his place at Vespasian’s side, filling the gap.
Not knowing what had become of Magnus, Vespasian worked his blade and concentrated on staying on his feet as the Britons who had slipped or tripped regained theirs and, covered in vile mud, hurled themselves forward. But there was no speed in their charge and they had reverted to fighting as individuals, so they stood little chance against the ruthless killing machine that moved relentlessly forward. A few score more of them sacrificed themselves on the dripping blades of the first cohort. Here and there they claimed a Roman life, but never the time to celebrate it. Soon they realised that there would be nothing to boast of around the campfires that evening; they turned and fled.
‘Halt!’ Vespasian cried as the first cohort found itself unopposed.
The legionaries needed no second invitation and they stopped, gasping for breath, aching with exertion, physically and mentally exhausted.
Looking to his left, Vespasian could see that things had not gone as well in other areas of the battle: the second cohort had also benefited from the archer support of the Hamians and had almost beaten off their opponents, but the third was in deep trouble and it had evidently only been the timely intervention of one of the third-line cohorts, plugging the gap as the second moved forward whilst the third was being forced back that had prevented the line from breaking. However, it was the situation up the hill that caused Vespasian the most concern: the two auxiliary cohorts on the left flank had been turned and, despite the reinforcements from the two in reserve, they were being slowly pushed back down the hill. The Gallic cavalry ala harrying the Britons’ flank and rear was the only thing stopping them from building up enough momentum to break the auxiliaries entirely.
Vespasian pointed to the last few hundred Britons still in combat with the second cohort. ‘Tatius, take the first and clear those bastards away and then start rolling up their flank with the second. I’ll leave the fourth and the fifth here behind you to cover this ground. I’m sending the other cohorts to relieve the auxiliaries.’
Tatius nodded his understanding, military formality being the last thing on anyone’s mind at that moment. Vespasian turned and made his way quickly down the files, patting gasping men on their shoulders as he went, knowing that speed, now, was everything.
‘I’m going to take the civilian’s prerogative and sit the rest of this out, sir,’ Magnus said, limping up to Vespasian. ‘I’ve satisfied my curiosity and nearly got myself killed in the process.’
Vespasian nodded to the II Augusta’s baggage, rumbling over the bridge and mustering to the rear of the legion. ‘I imagine that you’ll find a skin of wine over there that’ll put up much less resistance than a Briton.’
Magnus grinned and then winced with pain. ‘Yes, that’s what I need, an enemy that doesn’t fight back when you try to empty it of its guts, if you take my meaning?’
Vespasian watched his friend hobble away from the battle and felt a weariness settle upon him now that the tense excitement of conflict was wearing off. But he knew that he would get very little rest until victory was in Roman hands; and that would not be until tomorrow.
He turned back to the battle. The screams of the maimed and the dying and the clamour of combat had not let up; Vespasian, however, was now inured to the cacophony. From the vantage point of his horse at the head of the legion’s four cavalry turmae, he watched the eighth, ninth and tenth cohorts double away up towards the hard-pressed Gallic auxiliaries; they had already been forced halfway back down the hill leaving a trail of dead in their wake. To his right the first cohort had swept away the remaining warriors opposing the second; and now, together, they had engaged the flank of the mass of Britons still pressing the centre of the crooked Roman line. He had sent a message to the Hamians to remain on the far side of the river, with the artillery, to discourage another attack along its body-strewn bank by the routed Britons who were now rallying on their comrades opposing Sabinus’ legion, which continued to demonstrate at the ruined bridge as if preparing to rebuild it, crucially keeping many thousands of the enemy occupied. Beyond them the Batavian infantry could just be seen in the dimming light still in position on their hill. There was, however, no sign of the XX returning from their diversionary march. But then, he reflected, it was less than two hours since the Batavians’ arrival on the hill had set the battle in motion and not even an hour since he had crossed the bridge, although it felt like a day at least. He looked up at the sky; night would be upon them soon, much to his relief. The battlefield was now in full shadow; they did not have long to hold before darkness would force the Britons to withdraw.
Having given his orders clearly and succinctly to the reserve cohorts he could now only wait to see the results, since he had decided to stay with the legion’s cavalry to plug any gaps.
Paetus rode over to him from his rallied but depleted ala. ‘My chaps are down to just under three hundred effective, legate, but they’re ready and keen for another go. They didn’t like being routed in front of the whole army, especially as many of them have kinsmen in the infantry up on that hill. We’ll fight hard to make up for the shame.’
Vespasian studied the young prefect for a few moments; blood-soaked dressings on his right thigh and around his helmetless head told clearly of the ferocity of the action that had bought the legion the extra time it had needed to make the crossing. ‘Well done, Paetus, and thank you. Have your ala form up next to me and tell your lads that they shouldn’t be ashamed; we’d still be struggling to make it across if it hadn’t been for their sacrifice.’