Vespasian had told his senior officers that he could not very well coordinate the battle from behind a wall of trees on the far side of the river. Therefore, he had dropped his cumbersome cloak and grabbed one set of spanning ropes just as the latest wave of legionaries reached the far side. A few sporadic enemy skirmishers were battling with one of his centuries off to his left, though these were mostly disorganized bands of frenzied warriors with little to no coordination or mutual support.
The Britannic fighting men were extremely brave, and in single combat equal to or, perhaps in some cases, even better than legionaries. However, besides their inferior weapons and being mostly devoid of armor, what they lacked was discipline and the ability to work together. This was evident as individual warriors would smash their weapons against the Roman shield wall with no coordinated effort to dislodge the legionary formation, which was steadily growing as more soldiers crossed the river.
As he watched a barbarian smash his great sword against the shield of the centurion on the far right of the century near the crossing point, Vespasian drew his gladius and quickly high stepped through the tall grasses towards the fray. So intent was the man on killing the centurion, he was oblivious to the even greater prize of a Roman general until the last moment, when Vespasian plunged his weapon into the barbarian’s back. The man cried out through gritted teeth, dropping his weapon as his back arched and spasmed. The legate wrenched his gladius free as blood gushed from the deep wound.
“Centurion,” he said calmly, “push your cohort to the left and start advancing towards the enemy camp. We need to make room for the others.”
“Sir,” the man replied before barking out subsequent orders for his men.
As Vespasian turned back, he saw his second wave of men crossing as fast as they were able, though with the weight of their weapons and armor they could only risk putting a few men on the pontoons at a time. Each man moved at a slow jog, watching his footfalls and keeping his eyes on the feet of the man in front of him until they reached the end, where they leapt from the bridge and made their way into the growing fray. Centurions and their principle officers were always the first over, accepting the greatest risk of falling prey to their still-mobilizing enemy while waiting for their men to fall in on them. As legionaries stepped onto the bank, their squad leaders would direct them to their places in the formation, while simultaneously getting accountability of their men. Discipline and training made their efforts instinctive, and Vespasian was impressed by just how quickly his legion was making its way across the river. The first half of his legion was now across; just enough to form a viable battle front.
A cornicen had finished making the trek and quickly ran over to his commander, along with the master centurion, who had placed his First Cohort in what was to be the center of the formation.
“Sound the advance,” Vespasian ordered. He then turned to the master centurion. “The rest of the legion is forming a reserve. As we push forward, the ground looks like it opens up, and we can commit them to the wings.”
“Yes, sir,” Lyto replied as he drew his gladius and joined his First Cohort. On the far side of the river, the Fourteenth Legion was already forming up in columns, anxiously awaiting the order to cross.
The notes sounded on the cornicen’s horn, and the aquilifer soon joined them. With a handful of legionaries acting as his bodyguard, the legate of the Second Legion stepped off with his men. To his front, the barbarians were forming up into a massive horde and sprinting towards them. Their resounding war cries striking terror into lesser men. With no way of knowing whether the Ninth Legion had affected its naval landing or if the Twentieth successfully crossed its position on the far left, all Vespasian could do was lead his men forward, to where the battle now began in earnest.
Legionaries unleashed their javelins, leaving scores of enemy casualties in their wake. This made their companions slightly less bold, as the screams of the badly maimed resounded above their war cries. With swords drawn, the Romans advanced together as an impenetrable beast with quickly stabbing blades for teeth, ready to bite at those who foolishly stepped too close to them.
Vespasian called for his horse. Although he preferred to fight on foot with his men, he knew his place under these circumstances was not on the battle line. As the Second Legion pressed out into the open, the legate got his first clear view of the immediate tactical situation. Though the enemies’ numbers were vast, they seemed very disjointed with little to no sense of cohesion. Many who now faced the advancing Roman line were suddenly hesitant about pressing the attack, not least because of the numbers of killed and badly injured warriors who had been struck down by the volleys of javelins. This hesitation was by no means cowardice, but rather that inner desire for survival that all men and animals are born with. It was strange, too, in that it appeared that various bands of barbarians had not so much as left their campfires. Still lingering about, as if they were oblivious to the battle.
Vespasian watched as one warrior, probably a high ranking leader, gave a loud shout and charged forward with his large sword held overhead. A large band of his men followed, and they crashed hard into the Roman shield wall. A proper melee ensued, with centurions conducting passages-of-lines as their men wore down every couple minutes. With each successive assault more of the barbarians fell, killed or maimed on legionary blades. The Romans were suffering casualties as well, though these were comparatively few, protected as they were by their superior armor and disciplined tactics. Many of the wounded were helped to the rear of the formation by their friends in subsequent ranks, though a hapless few found themselves pulled off the battle line by their foes, where they were subsequently hacked to pieces. And yet the legion kept pressing forward, inflicting a terrible toll upon the Catuvellauni and their allies. If Togodumnus had thought numbers alone would win the day, he sadly had never considered the disciplined might of the armored Roman war machine.
Vespasian rode his horse down the line, watching as the reserve cohorts of his legion fanned out in either direction, taking their positions on the ends of the advancing force. Behind him he could also see the first wave of soldiers from the Fourteenth Legion following their eagle across the river. Overall, his portion of the battle was being executed as intended.
“The legion is across. All cohorts are ready to advance,” a tribune said, as the sounds of trumpets and enemy war horns sounded in the far distance.
“Very good,” Artorius replied with a nod. “How far away do you suppose those are?”
“Hard to say,” the tribune replied. “They’re very faint, so my guess would be about ten miles.”
It was a strange circumstance, given that the equite tribunes were his political and social superiors, and yet because of how the chain-of-command worked within the legions, it was he who gave the orders.
He was still shivering from the cold of his swim which, despite his strength and physical prowess, had drained him completely. The sun was slowly rising, and the master centurion was grateful that the skies were relatively clear.
“Rider approaching, sir!” a legionary shouted.
Artorius was immediately alert and looked off to his left-front, grinning as he recognized the cavalry officer who rode up and quickly dismounted.
“Centurion Taurus!” he said, extending his hand. “I thought we’d lost your lot in the crossing.”
“We found a viable fording point a few miles downriver,” the cavalry centurion explained. “But the woods and undergrowth were so damn thick we could scarcely move. Had to make our way due west for a mile or so until we found our way out and then double-back. That’s where we saw them.”