'Fools!' muttered General Plautius. 'Can't those idiots see what he's doing?'
'Sir?'
'Look, Vitellius.' The general pointed. The ship that was concentrating its fire on the blond warrior was also shielding the Britons from the other triremes, and their repair work continued apace. 'Bloody navy! Letting pride come before brains, as usual.'
'Shall I send a man to the fleet prefect, sir?'
'No point. By the time we reach him, and he gets a message to the captain of that ship, the bloody Britons will have finished their work and be settling down for an afternoon nap. All because some touchy naval officer can't cope with a barbarian waving his bloody arse in his face.'
Vitellius picked up the strained note in the general's voice and realised that the previous evening's plan was beginning to unravel. Not only had the navy failed to destroy the defences, they had failed even to damage them enough to clear the way for the subsequent infantry assault. And far from demoralising the Britons the navy had made the Romans look foolish by turning their wrath on one naked warrior. When the Ninth crossed the ford they would be facing an emboldened enemy fighting from behind fortifications. The success of the attack was no longer a foregone conclusion. To add to this problem, there had been no report on the progress of the Second Legion since it had crossed the river at first light. If Vespasian was manoeuvring according to plan, he would almost be in position now, ready to launch an attack on the Britons' right flank.
At the other end of the battlefield word had come back from the prefect in charge of the Batavian cohorts that the river crossing had been successful. The enemy had been caught on the hop, and all the men had formed up on the far bank before any serious counterattack could be launched by the Britons. Better still, the Batavians had run into a large unit of chariots. Undaunted by these impressive but outdated weapons, the Batavians had ploughed into them, attacking the horses first, as General Plautius had ordered. Without horses the chariots were useless, and all that remained to be done was the mopping up of the unmounted spearmen and their drivers.
So far so good.
But now Caratacus was wise to the weakness of the Roman force on his left flank and was rapidly moving to surround the Batavians and throw them back against the river. If that could be done quickly enough he would be able to redeploy his forces to meet the next attack Plautius had prepared. Now was the time for the Ninth Legion to make their move, to take the pressure off the Batavians and suck more Britons into the defence of the fortifications around the ford. And when Caratacus' last reserves had been committed then the Second Legion would emerge from the woods to the south-west and crush the enemy in an iron vice.
'Oh, sir!' Vitellius suddenly laughed. 'Look there!'
The naked warrior had finally paid the price for his bravery, and was sitting down, legs open and stretched out before him as he struggled with a bolt that had smashed into his hip. From the amount of blood that was flowing into the churned mud around him, a major artery must have been severed by the bolt. Even as they watched he was struck in the face by another bolt, and helmet and head burst into bloody fragments as the torso was hurled back by the impact.
'Good!' The general nodded. 'That should please the navy. Tribune, it's time for the main assault. Better get yourself a shield from someone.' 'Sir?'
'I need a good pair of eyes on the ground, Vitellius. Go in with the first wave and make a note of all the defences you encounter, the nature of the ground you pass over, and any terrain we might be able to exploit if we have to go through it all over again. I'll have your report when you get back.'
If I get back, Vitellius reflected bitterly as he sized up the task facing the Ninth Legion. It would be dangerous down there, far too dangerous. Even if he survived, there was always the chance of suffering an injury so disfiguring that it would cause people to avert their gaze. Vitellius was vain enough to want affection and admiration as well as power. He wondered if the general might be persuaded to send a more expendable officer instead, and looked up. Plautius was watching him closely.
'There's no reason to delay, Tribune. Off you go.'
'Yes, sir.' Vitellius saluted and immediately commandeered a shield from one of the general's bodyguards, before making his way down to the two cohorts of the Ninth Legion earmarked for the first assault. The other eight cohorts were sitting down in the trampled grass that sloped towards the river. They would be afforded a spectacular view of the attack and would cheer their comrades on at the top of their voices when the time came – mostly out of a sense of self-preservation, for if the first wave failed, it would be their turn to face the Britons soon enough. Vitellius picked his way through the unit and made for the even lines of the First Cohort – every legion's teeth arm, a double strength unit trusted with the most dangerous tasks on any battlefield. Over nine hundred men stood to attention, spears grounded, silently surveying the dangers ahead of them.
The legate of the Ninth, Hosidius Geta, was standing immediately behind the First Century. At his side stood the legion's chief centurion and behind them the colour party surrounding the eagle standard.
'Afternoon, Vitellius,' Geta greeted him. 'You joining us?'
'Yes, sir. The general wants someone to analyse the ground as the attack goes in.'
'Good idea. We'll do our best to see you get to make your report.' 'Thank you, sir.'
Heads turned at the heavy irony lacing the tribune's reply but the legate was gentleman enough to let it pass.
Just then the headquarters trumpets blasted out a unit signal, followed by a short pause and then the call for advance.
'That's us.' The legate nodded to the chief centurion. Geta tightened the strap on his gaudily decorated helmet and drew in a deep breath to bellow out his orders.
'The First Cohort will prepare to advance!' A beat of three, and then, 'Advance!'
With the chief centurion calling out the pace, the cohort moved off in a rippling mass of bronze helmets, chinking links of mail and gleaming javelin tips, line after line of men marching straight down to the edge of the river where the water ran over a bank of shingle and weed.
Vitellius took his position just behind the legate, concentrating on keeping in step with the colour party. Then he was in the river, splashing into the brown churned-up water swirling in the wake of the First Century. To his right the nearest trireme seemed to be a vast floating fortress, towering up only fifty paces away. The faces of the crewmen were clearly visible on deck as they stepped up the bombardment of the far bank, softening up the defenders as much as possible before their army comrades struck home. The whack of the catapults and sharper cracks of the bolt-thrower arms carried clearly across the water, and were audible even above the infantry thrashing through the river.
The water quickly rose to his hips, and Vitellius glanced up in alarm to see that they were less than a third of the way across. The increase in depth slowed the advance and already the foremost lines were beginning to bunch up. The centurions in the following units slowed the pace and the cohort floundered on, water rising steadily until it was halfway up their chests. Vitellius saw that they were approaching the far bank, fifty paces away, and beyond that the looming mass of the British earthworks guarding the ford.