Then came the clash of iron; then the screaming started.
The legion gradually lost momentum and the battle settled. Much to Vespasian’s relief the Roman line remained firm, but it was perilously thin. Shouting over the tumult he ordered the second line of five cohorts forward to add their pila and their weight to the fight. Still singing the hymn at the tops of their voices the other half of the legion advanced; each soldier hurled both their pila in quick succession over the heads of their comrades and then joined the heaving files, pressing their shields into the backs of the men before them.
The extra weight of half a legion driving into the Britons broke whatever loose formation they had. Hundreds crumpled dead and hundreds more were punched back, blood pulsing from mortal wounds, as the legion regained momentum and ploughed on. The men in the first line who had stopped singing at first contact took up their comrades’ hymn again as they slew, praising the god of war as they savagely worked their blades.
A new terror then scythed into the warriors as the artillery shot weighty wooden bolts into their flank in one torsion-powered, devastating volley, clearing swathes of them away in a sudden acceleration of blurred motion as men just disappeared from sight to reappear again ten paces away with a bolt sideways through their chest and surprise in their dead eyes.
The men of the II Augusta sang on, blades slick with gore and faeces, stamping their feet forward over fallen Britannic warriors. The front rank straddled the bodies; the second rankers ground their swords into them, whether they looked alive or dead; wary of an upward thrust of a knife into their groins, they took no chances.
Pushed steadily back and back, pace by pace, tripping over corpses, the Britons’ resistance gradually waned as the sun rose. Vespasian had no way of knowing how long they had been fighting, time had become meaningless and he could only measure it in the regular artillery volleys; he thought that he had counted eight but could not be sure. What was sure, however, was that the deadly bolts had cleared the riverbank of the enemy and the first cohort was now almost unopposed. Through the gap he could see the left-hand cohorts of the XIIII Gemina; they still held. With one concerted effort the II Augusta could link up with them and the line would be complete.
Another artillery volley hissed into the Britons, plucking yet more from their feet in showers of blood and dropping them back down with their limbs at impossible angles, like puppets with their strings severed. This time the Britons wavered and the men of the II Augusta sensed it. Taking advantage of the momentary lull they surged forward with renewed vigour, stabbing their swords, punching their shield bosses, stamping their feet, stab, punch, stamp, stab, punch, stamp; the rear ranks still singing, the front saving their precious breath for the struggle.
The Britons began to fall back with greater urgency as the unstoppable Roman war machine increased its pace, dealing out death to all in its path. The first cohort now slewed, wheeling to the left, blocking the artillery’s direct line of fire, but closing on the left flank of the XIIII Gemina. More and more Britons were backing away, allowing the II Augusta more ground, which it gratefully accepted as it closed in on its sister legion.
The sun rose over the hill in the east, bathing the field of battle with morning light to the accompaniment of the long rumble of cornua and the blare of litui; massed horns crying from the top of the hill. The Britons looked up as they backed away, their faces falling in despair; at that instant the first man turned and ran.
The rout began.
Vespasian looked up to his right; along the hill’s crest was lined the VIIII Hispana and its auxiliaries, silhouetted against the golden, newly risen sun. On they came, marching in battle order over the hill and down, another deadly Roman war machine, fresh and ready to do the work that justified its existence. Having just faced three legions and been pushed back at great loss, the sight of a fourth was too much for even the most reckless warrior and the rout spread like fire through a field of wheat stubble.
The first cohort’s shoulders touched the flank of the XIIII Gemina; the line was complete. Vespasian ordered the auxiliaries and the legion’s cavalry up. Now was the time to finish it.
A deep booming from the cornua told the cohorts to open their ranks; gaps appeared between each unit. Taking his place at the front of the legionary cavalry, Vespasian kicked his horse forward and led them, along with Paetus’ ala and the Gallic ala, through the gaps towards the exposed backs of the fleeing warriors; behind them came the infantry cohorts. As they sped across the body-strewn ground more horns blared, this time from the hill occupied by the Batavian foot; Vespasian glanced up to see all eight cohorts charging down the slope towards the chaotic, porous flank of the broken horde. Vengeance for the hot and bloody time they had endured the previous day would soon be theirs and, as Vespasian’s sword slashed open the first exposed back that he came across, the Batavians carved into the other side of the rout with deadly intent.
The cavalry broke formation to sweep through the fleeing warriors, hacking and stabbing at them as they pounded back up the hill for their very lives. Here and there they came across little pockets of roughly organised resistance, men banded together for safety in clumps of a hundred or more retreating in tolerable order; these they avoided, not wishing to fall at the very moment of victory, concentrating instead on the plethora of individuals. They went down in their hundreds, shrieking curses as the invaders’ blades ripped the life out of them and they crashed to the blood-soaked earth of their homeland that Rome would now claim for its own.
Vespasian showed no mercy as he weaved his horse left and right, picking off as many of the vanquished as possible. He took care, however, that he and his cavalry did not venture too far into the main body of the Britons and risk being isolated and surrounded and, no doubt, subjected to a vengeful death. Further up the hill the XX Legion’s cavalry had broken out to reap their share of easy lives in amongst the more dense formation of the rout. A quick glance behind told him that the XIIII Gemina had moved aside and the first units of the VIIII Hispana were preparing to cross the bridge and begin their lightning march west to the Tamesis crossing point. Closer to him a group of Roman cavalry galloped in his direction with Aulus Plautius, resplendent in his general’s cloak and helmet crest, at their head.
‘Legate!’ the general shouted as he approached. ‘Pull your cavalry back before they get cut off. We’ll follow up with the auxiliary infantry; we’ll push them north into the Tamesis and hopefully a few thousand will drown trying to cross.’
‘Yes, general.’ Vespasian shouted at the nearest liticen, ‘Sound the recall!’
The man raised his horn and the order was sounded.
‘Your legion has served Rome and the Emperor well, Vespasian; I shall make sure that the right people know that. Today has been a good day for all our careers.’
Vespasian looked at Plautius; under the veneer of his cloak he was blood-splattered and cut and there were huge dents in his cuirass. ‘The Fourteenth had the hardest time, I should think; how is my brother?’
Plautius frowned, dislodging scrapings of crisp, dried blood from his forehead. ‘He’ll survive; he took a spear-thrust in his right shoulder just before the Britons broke. The bleeding has been stopped but he won’t be fit for command for a couple of days or so. I’ve got my personal doctor looking after him.’