Vespasian turned back to the trierarchus and bellowed: ‘Get me twenty or so sailors or oarsmen, with as many javelins as they can carry!’ The trierarchus acknowledged the order and Vespasian pulled on the nearest Hamian’s shoulder. ‘Fall back!’
The archers retreated to the mainmast, the angle of the ship taking them out of the slingers’ line of sight; within a few moments the rag-tag crew had joined them and broached the weapons box beneath the mast. They retrieved half a dozen javelins each.
‘On my command,’ Vespasian shouted over the battle’s clamour to the javelinmen, ‘run to the bow and get as many shots into the midst of the Britons on the left as you can. The archers will come with you and take care of the slingers. Understood?’
The scratch unit nodded nervously and mumbled the affirmative; the Hamians, more positive, nocked arrows ready to give cover.
Vespasian grabbed a couple of javelins. ‘Right … now!’ He sprinted up the sloping deck with his men following; reaching the bow he hurled his first missile into the Britons facing Tatius and then, within an instant, let fly with the second as his men did the same. The Hamians shot a volley at the slingers who, caught unawares, did not reply until the swift archers had released another, bringing down more than half a dozen as javelin after javelin hurtled down into the press of warriors with shocking effect. Slingshot took two of the oarsmen back, blood exploding from ghastly head wounds, before they could release their full complement of missiles; but the rest completed their task and it was enough. The Britons gave ground, such were their losses; Tatius urged his legionaries forward. As he pulled his men back to the mast to rearm, Vespasian glimpsed the extreme left of the first century link up with their comrades from the second next to them.
‘We do this once more,’ he said as his men emptied the remaining javelins from the weapons box, ‘but this time to the extreme right.’
Drawing his sword, Vespasian again raced forward; however, he did not stop at the bow but continued down the ramp, jumping off to the right and running along the rear of legionaries as javelins rained down from the ship. Reaching the last file, who were struggling thigh-deep in blood-red water to prevent the century being outflanked, Vespasian splashed around them and, roaring incoherently, crashed his shield into the side of the first Briton he came to, punching him away from the legionary facing him. Pushing forward to the next man he halted suddenly as a javelin passed just over his shoulder and seared into the tribesman’s chest, throwing him back with outstretched arms and shocked dead eyes.
Encouraged by their legate’s intervention and the missile barrage from above, the legionaries pressed forward, finding that the weight against them had lessened considerably. Flashing their blades, whilst struggling to keep their footing on the treacherously slippery stones beneath the water, they edged on as the rear ranks of Britons fell to the javelin storm and their resistance began to peter out. Stabbing his sword hard and low into an unprotected thigh and receiving a spray of arterial blood up his arm, Vespasian reached the water’s edge; two rear rank legionaries pushed past him to extend the line, stamping on the wounded warrior as he clutched his thigh on the shingle and finishing him with a thrust to the throat. With one final flurry of punching shields and thrusting sword tips they slew or beat off the last few tribesmen between them and the fifth century.
The line was complete.
Vespasian pulled back, breathing in ragged bursts, and stared with wild, combat-hardened eyes up and down the beach; there was no break in the Roman formation, all the cohorts had successfully landed and linked up and were now fighting at least four deep against a much depleted enemy. However, there were scores, maybe hundreds, of Roman dead sprawled in the shallows and on the shingle and he knew that the II Augusta would need a new draft of recruits before it could start its push west the following spring.
A new sound broke over the cacophony of battle, a sound not heard since the first blows had been struck: the call of massed carnyxes. A hundred paces beyond the Britons a group of warriors blew a single note repeatedly on their strange, upright horns. As the note continued the Britons began to pull back. Vespasian sighed in relief; that call could mean only one thing: Cogidubnus’ honour was satisfied. He looked around for the cornicen and shouted: ‘Disengage!’
Four deep notes rumbled out to be taken up by neighbouring cohorts and soon the soldiers of both armies were stepping away from one another, exhausted and relieved that the ordeal was over. Here and there pockets of violence continued where bloodlust overruled self-preservation until the combat was stopped either by death or the intervention of comrades.
Eventually all hostilities had ceased, the carnyx and cornu calls faded and an eerie quiet descended over the beach, broken only by the moans of the wounded, the lapping of waves and the creaking of ships.
As the Britons withdrew in a line to the carnyx players, one man stayed facing the II Augusta.
Vespasian sheathed his sword and walked forward. ‘Keep them formed up, Tatius,’ he said, slapping his blood-covered primus pilus on his shoulder as he passed through the ranks. ‘And have Verica come and join me.’
Tatius barely acknowledged him, his chest heaving with exertion.
Crunching his way across the shingle, Vespasian approached the solitary man; even given that he was higher up the beach than him, he could see that Cogidubnus was huge, at least a head taller with a bull-like neck around which was wrapped a golden torc as thick as a thumb. Silver arm rings, just as thick, bound bulging biceps as if they needed to be restrained from bursting through the skin.
Vespasian stopped five paces distant and, saying nothing, waited.
Cogidubnus smiled knowingly, inclined his head and approached. ‘I am Cogidubnus, King of Vectis.’
‘Titus Flavius Vespasianus, legate of the Second Augusta.’ To Vespasian’s surprise, rather than bowing in submission Cogidubnus held out his arm for Vespasian to grasp as if they were equals. He did not take it but, rather, indicated with his head at the blood encrusted upon it. ‘Your honour comes at a very high blood-price, Cogidubnus.’
The King wiped some of the crust away. ‘Today is the first time that Roman blood has soiled my skin but not the last time that Britannic blood will soil yours, legate; take my arm in friendship and I swear by Camulos, god of war, that today will also be the last time I shed Roman blood.’
Vespasian looked up into Cogidubnus’ pale green eyes; they burnt with pride but showed no hatred nor sign of desire for vengeance. Verica had been right: this man would be Rome’s friend and the sacrifice of his men this day to ensure that had been worth it. He grasped the proffered arm with a firm grip; it was returned with more than equal measure.
‘You may keep your sword, Cogidubnus.’
‘And my crown? Do you have the power to promise me that?’
‘No. I’ll not lie to you; it’s something that’s only within the Emperor’s gift, but I can-’
The shrill blast of a lituus, from behind the Britons, cut him off. Vespasian jerked his head up in its direction: half a mile away, on a knoll to the right of the Britons’ line, glinting in the warm morning sun, appeared Paetus’ Batavian ala, formed up ready to charge.
Cogidubnus released his grip and wrenched his arm free. ‘Is this Roman honour to take a surrendering enemy from behind?’
The rear rank Britons began to turn to face the new threat, growling their disgust at the perceived treachery.
‘Trust me and come with me, Cogidubnus,’ Vespasian entreated, looking the towering King in the eye. ‘They’re not aware of your surrender; they must be assuming that we’re at a standoff and that their intervention will make the difference. We can stop this — but we’ll have to sprint around your men.’