Suddenly there was a sharp cry ahead, then a few more, as the front rank encountered the first series of underwater obstacles – several lines of sharpened stakes driven into the river bed.
'Break ranks!' shouted the chief centurion at the top of his voice. 'Break ranks and watch out for them fucking spikes! When you've got, em, pull ' em up and move on!'
The advance faltered and then halted as the men of the First Cohort felt their way through the water, pausing to heave the stakes up, two and three men at a time. Gradually a path was cleared through to the far bank, and the advance continued past the handful of injured men being helped to the rear. The First Century had already climbed out of the river and was dressing its ranks on the muddy bank when the following units passed through the gap in the stakes.
Geta turned back to Vitellius with a wry smile. 'I'm afraid things are about to get hot, so keep that shield up!'
The triremes stopped firing and the noise of bolts and rocks flying through the air ceased. The flat trajectory was now too close to the heads of the infantry to continue. As soon as the barrage stopped, there was a great roar and braying of war horns from the Britons behind the earthworks. All along the palisade the enemy rose up and prepared to meet their attackers. A strange whirring sound filled the air, and before the Romans could react, the first volley of slingshot slashed into the foremost ranks of the cohort, knocking men to the ground as the vicious mixture of lead shot and stones cracked into their targets. Vitellius raised his shield just as a shot struck the boss, the numbing impact jolting every bone and nerve as far as his elbow. Glancing about he saw that the First Cohort had gone to ground, covering themselves as best they could against the fusillade. But the curved line of the fortifications meant that fire was coming in on three sides and continued to whittle down the attackers. At the same time the Second Cohort was emerging from the river. Unless something was done immediately, the attack would crumble into a heaving mass that would provide the British slingers with the best possible target.
Geta was squatting beside Vitellius in the middle of the colour party.
He checked the strap on his helmet, held his shield close and rose to his feet.
'First Cohort! Form testudo by centuries!'
The order was relayed at top parade-ground volume by the chief centurion and the men of each century were bullied back onto their feet by their centurions. The men realised that the testudo was their best chance of surviving the assault, and they quickly formed the wall and roof of protecting shields. The colour party sheltered behind the shields of Geta's bodyguards and watched the testudo tramp towards the earth works, under constant, but largely ineffective, fire. As the following cohorts mounted the bank, the same order was given, and each formation was ordered to make for a different section of the defences. The muddy ground between the river and the fortifications was littered with dead and injured. Those who could kept themselves covered with their shields against the British missiles whirling through the air. Vitellius was filled with a sickly sense of fear and excitement as the First Cohort reached the outer ditch and, struggling to retain their formation, slowly rippled over its edge.
When the testudo reached the slope up to the palisade a sharp order was given. The formation dissolved and each man scrambled up the earthworks towards the British warriors screaming war cries beneath their flowing serpent standards. With the steep incline against them and laden down with heavy equipment, the legionaries fared badly. Many were swept from their feet by the slashes of the Britons' long swords and axes, to tumble down into the ditch, bowling over their comrades as they fell. Here and there a handful of men forced a way through or over the palisade, but the weight of numbers was against them and these brave pockets were quickly overwhelmed and hurled back down the slope.
The fighting spread all along the wall but the other cohorts fared no better and the number of Roman bodies sprawled across the slope of the earthworks steadily grew.
'Sir, should we pull back?' Vitellius asked the legate.
'No. The orders were clear. We keep going at them until Vespasian can attack their rear. '
The legate's staff officers exchanged worried glances. The Ninth were being cruelly punished for their headlong assault; they were bleeding to death while they waited for the Second Legion to attack. Looking round, Geta sensed the doubt in his men.
'Any moment now. Any moment the Second will attack. We just hold on until then.'
But already Vitellius could detect a change in the fight along the palisade. The legionaries were no longer rushing up the slopes, they were being driven to it by their centurions, bullied into attack by the blows from vine sticks. In several places the men were actually falling back from the wall, worn down by the effort and slowly but surely losing the will to continue the fight. The signs were unmistakable to everyone in the colour patty. The assault was crumbling before their eyes.
If Vespasian did not launch his attack immediately the costly efforts of the Ninth would have been in vain.
The Eagles Conquest
Chapter Eleven
'Why don't we attack?'
'Because we haven't been ordered to,' Macro replied harshly. 'And we sit tight until told otherwise.'
'But, sir, look at them. The Ninth are getting massacred.'
'I can see what's happening well enough, boy, but it's out of our hands.' Lying on their stomachs in the long grass growing along the crest of the low ridge, the skirmish line of the Sixth Century watched helplessly as the Britons smothered the Ninth's attack. For the inexperienced optio this was an unbearable agony. Barely a mile away his comrades were being slaughtered as they attempted to storm the earthworks. And yet not a hundred yards behind him the men of the Second Legion sat in silent concealment in the shadows of the trees. With one simple order they could sweep down the slope, catching the Britons between the two legions, and crush them totally. But the order had not been given.
'Here comes the legate.' Macro nodded back down the slope towards the trees. Vespasian came running up towards them, helmet tucked under his arm. A few yards short of the skirmish line the legate dropped down and crawled up beside Macro.
'How's the Ninth doing, Centurion?' 'Doesn't look good, sir.'
'Any signs of movement from the enemy's reserves?' 'None, sir.'
Behind the British lines sat several thousand men, calmly waiting to be called into action. Vespasian smiled with grim admiration of the enemy general's coolness. Caratacus knew the value of keeping a fresh reserve in hand and had firm control over his coalition of Trinovantes. The selfish pursuit of tribal glory had led to the destruction of more than one Celtic army in the past. Caratacus had even resisted the Batavian bait offered up by Plautius. Just enough men had been released to repulse the Roman auxiliaries and hold them back against the river. There, in the distance, beyond the earthworks defending the ford, a loose milling of men and horses revealed the plight of the Batavians.
Vespasian turned away from the spectacle. Compassion for his comrades urged him to order his legion to charge to the rescue. But that temptation had been foreseen by Aulus Plautius, and the general had stressed that his orders must be followed to the letter. The Second was to remain concealed until Caratacus had committed his reserves to the defence of the fortifications. The attack would be signalled by the massed trumpeters from the general's headquarters on the Roman bank. Only when the Britons were fully engaged would Vespasian be permitted to launch his attack. Only then.