Paetus saluted. ‘It’ll be a pleasure, sir.’
Vespasian watched his long-dead friend’s son canter back to his troops, hoping that he would not have to give him another order that would again put his life in such peril.
An unmistakeably Roman cheer jerked his attention away from such morbid thoughts and he turned to see the central mass of Britons begin to disintegrate. Hundreds were now streaming away to the north to escape the relentless blades of the first and second cohorts as they turned the Britons’ flank, compressing their unarmoured bodies against the third cohort, which, led by Maximus in the front rank, knew that their ordeal was almost over and began to fight with renewed vigour. The only auxiliary cohort not to have been turned also took heart despite their visibly dwindled number. More and more Britons turned and fled, flowing away across the field until a mere thousand or so warriors remained, in reasonable order, giving ground gradually, marshalled by the chieftain in their midst.
‘Togodumnus!’ Vespasian whispered to himself. He watched the Britons fall back in the face of the concerted Roman onslaught. From within their ranks carnyxes blew the same short, high refrain as their front rank steadily disengaged. In answer to the horns’ calls chariots raced towards them from the north, weaving through the warriors in flight as, up the hill, the Gallic auxiliaries finally broke. Togodumnus slowed his retreat, watching his right flank swarm down after the beaten Gauls, hewing at their rearmost with their slashing swords as the auxiliaries pelted towards the safety of the reserve cohorts just thirty paces down the hill. Vespasian saw the British chieftain pause and look back at his erstwhile opponents who now had warriors threatening their rear as if assessing whether the breakthrough on the right flank was worth exploiting. The reserve cohorts opened their ranks and the Gauls streamed through; with breathtaking precision they closed again just before the first of the Britons threatened to break through, leaving only a few auxiliaries stranded and doomed. Seeing the space blocked, Togodumnus continued his retreat, taking his men with him, steadily back, pace by pace, swords pointed at their foes who were now using the respite to relieve their lines. At fifty paces they simply turned their backs and jogged away towards the oncoming chariots.
The Roman centurions obeyed their orders and stood firm. There was no follow-up, not that close-formation heavy infantry would have been able to catch lighter Britons.
Vespasian stared at the retreating back of Togodumnus; to have a chance of breaking the retreating formation and perhaps capturing the greatest prize of the day he had to act immediately. A quick glance back up the hill confirmed that the reserve cohorts had checked the Britons’ advance and that the remnants of the Gallic auxiliaries were rallying behind them; the flank was secure for the time being. ‘Advance in column!’ A lituus cavalry horn blew behind him and he kicked his horse forward, waving an arm at Paetus to signal that he should do the same.
Accelerating into a canter he led the legion’s four cavalry turmae towards the small gap in the Roman line created by the first and second cohorts’ flanking move. The retreating Britons were no more than two hundred paces away, their backs still turned and their attention concentrated on reaching the chariots coming to cover their retreat.
Funnelling through the gap, the turmae slowed slightly as they changed formation from column to line, giving Paetus’ ala time to catch up. Without waiting for the ranks to be dressed, Vespasian drew his spatha and brandished it in the air. ‘Let’s have them, lads!’ The turmae roared, kicking their mounts into a gallop, clasping the reins with their left hands, shields strapped to the forearm, and feeling the weight of the javelins in the right.
The wind ripped at Vespasian’s cloak, whip-cracking it as his horse’s hooves accelerated out of the foul mud that delineated the extent of the recent bloody combat and onto firmer, open ground. After so long in the frightful confines of a compressed front rank, he found himself grinning at the exhilaration of the charge and turned, bellowing encouragement to his men, urging them on, in anticipation of facing the Britons’ chieftain.
The litui shrieked their high-pitched calls and were answered by those of the Batavians following close behind, anxious to have their revenge for the humiliation of retreat.
The blare alerted the Britons to their presence on the field; the panic felt by infantry at being caught in the open by cavalry shuddered through their ranks. Those closest to the relieving chariots, under a quarter of a mile away, broke into a sprint, fragmenting the body as Togodumnus bellowed at his followers to form up and face the threat. But the order had come too late and a few hundred were already away whilst the rest, confused and disorganised, attempted to form some sort of line.
‘Release!’ Vespasian cried as the enemies’ features became discernible. The turmae’s javelins soared into the air, with a velocity greatly increased by the speed of the charge, and hammered down in a hail of death onto the unformed lines. Slender, pointed missiles pummelled into naked flesh, throwing men back, skewering them to the ground, shafts vibrating with the sudden deceleration. Confusion heightened, panic escalated and gaps widened. Vespasian steered his horse directly at a warrior standing alone, attempting to fill an opening five paces wide, raising his sword two-handed over his head, his eyes widening with terror. Vespasian punched his spatha forward, horizontally, over his mount’s muzzle as the long blade flashed down, deflecting it with a ringing report. As if yanked simultaneously by the hair and ankles the warrior disappeared beneath the hooves of Vespasian’s horse as he broke through the line with troopers to either side of him, pressing home their advantage. On he drove, slashing down to his right into a neck, hacking it open in a spew of blood, on towards Togodumnus who stood, foursquare, facing him behind a barrier of warriors.
Another shudder went through the Britons’ formation; the Batavians’ javelin volley seared into them, followed by the massed weight of the ala crashing fresh holes through the line, bent on vengeance and rejoicing in its sensation as they slew. More and more warriors turned in flight but Togodumnus stood firm. His eyes oozed hatred and a sneer graced his ruddy, round face. With a roar, he barged through the barrier of his followers, sword raised, and leapt towards Vespasian, who slewed his horse to the right, taking the vicious slash clean on his shield. Togodumnus’ followers threw themselves at the troopers to either side of Vespasian in a blur of sudden movement; iron flashed, horses reared, blood sprayed and limbs fell, but Vespasian only had eyes for the Britannic chieftain. Pulling his high-stepping horse back to the left he drove it at Togodumnus; the Briton jumped backwards, lowering his sword, and with both hands clenched around the hilt he powered it into the beast’s broad chest. With a shrill whinny it reared up, yanking the weapon from Togodumnus’ grasp and hurling Vespasian from the saddle to land, with a lung-emptying crash, on unforgiving ground. Ducking under the thrashing forelegs, Togodumnus bounded through the air at Vespasian, drawing a sleek knife from his belt. With his vision clouded, Vespasian just made out the shape leaping towards him and rolled to his left; the chieftain landed with a jolt where Vespasian had been an instant before as the horse’s hind legs buckled; the beast tipped back and, with a final snort, it collapsed. Togodumnus turned his head and screamed as the dead weight of horse flesh descended upon him; with a cracking of bones it smashed down onto his prone form, bouncing up slightly on first impact, its flaccid body rippling back down with a secondary, crushing blow, pulverising the chieftain’s chest and leaving him staring with unseeing eyes at the darkening sky.
Then the chariots hit.
Heavy-shafted spears whipped into the melee followed by fresh warriors, running up the poles of their vehicles and leaping, using the extra height, straight at the troopers, knocking them from their saddles as their stocky ponies powered into their mounts, in a desperate attempt to rescue their chieftain.