Despite their losses the Britons pressed forward, methodically finding and removing every one of the stakes. It was taking them far less time to clear the obstacles away than Macro's men had spent planting them. A little more than quarter of an hour after they had begun the task, the enemy had almost reached the tangle of cut and sharpened wood that formed the barricade along the bank of the island. A few of the Romans leaned forward and thrust the points of their javelins towards the warriors.
'Get back in line!' Macro bawled at them. 'You don't do a thing until I tell you to!'
Their dangerous work done, the Britons in the river slowly backed away, keeping low behind their shields as the slingshot continued to splash into the water all around them. Behind them the native chieftains were already marshalling their men for the assault. Macro noted that the initial wave was made up of well-equipped men: nearly all had helmets and chain-mail vests. Caratacus must be in a hurry to get his forces across the river if he was prepared to throw his finest warriors in first. Beyond the three hundred or so men pressed close together at the edge of the river was a dense mass of slingers and bowmen. The latter were of little concern to Macro; their short bows might be an irritant to skirmishers, but they would never penetrate a legionary shield. The slingers, though, could inflict terrible punishment.
'This is going to be rough, lads! Keep your shields up until I give the order. We'll use the rear rank javelins only; we'll need to use the rest as spears The javelins will have to go in quick, so I'll only give the order to loose. Throw it in and get down again until that lot reach the barricade.' He looked round at his men. 'Understand?'
The nearest men nodded, and a few men mumbled their acknowledgement.
'Bullshit! I can't hear you! Do you bastards understand me?'
'Yes, sir!' every man in his century roared back.
Macro smiled. 'Good! Once they get close enough to go hand to hand, I want you to give them a fucking good kicking. They'll not forget the Third Century in a hurry!'
'Here they come!' someone shouted out, and all eyes turned towards the far bank. The native warriors lurched forward, down the track and then splashed into the river. As they came on the Britons screamed out their battle cries, accompanying their challenges with a deafening clatter of weapons being struck against the metal rims of their shields. There were no horns to urge them on – they were making enough noise to drown out any encouragement from their own side. They were close enough for the Romans to make out the cold determined expressions on the faces beneath the helmets. These were not the usual run of wild woad-stained barbarians with lime-washed hair; they knew their business and would be formidable opponents.
Macro glanced beyond the front rank of the enemy surging through the water and saw the slingers begin to whirl their thongs over their heads.
'Get down!'
The Romans dropped behind their shields as the air was filled with the zipping sound of slingshot hurtling towards them. The volley was well aimed and only a handful of shots cracked through the branches overhead. The rest struck the Roman shields in a rattling cacophony of thuds. The bombardment continued remorselessly and Macro had to take the risk of being struck each time he glimpsed round his shield to check the progress of Caratacus' assault wave. The enemy waded steadily across the ford, no longer slowed down by the underwater obstacles. This was no wild charge, and the warriors advanced with deadly intent, not needing the cheap morale boost of a frenzied Celtic rush towards the thin Roman line.
The slingshot barrage abruptly slackened and then stopped and Macro peered cautiously over the rim of his shield. The enemy was no more than twenty paces away, thigh-deep in foaming spray, and the slingers no longer dared to loose their missiles at the Romans for fear of striking their own men.
'Hit 'em back!' Macro called out. 'Javelins! Slingers, loose!'
There was no parade-ground finesse in the way the legionaries rose up with a shout ripping from each man's throat as those in the rear rank swung their javelin arms back, took a line on the enemy massed before them, and hurled their weapons. On the flanks the Roman slingers let loose a fusillade of shot against the exposed sides of the enemy column, and a few of the warriors fell, sprawling and splashing into the river. The rest recovered quickly from the javelin volley and picked their way through their dead and injured comrades, then closed on the barricade. Macro had hoped that they would rush the last distance in the usual reckless manner but these men were superbly self-controlled, and as some raised their shields towards the waiting Romans their comrades hacked at the tangle of branches and wrenched pieces free.
'Get stuck in!' Macro shouted, grabbing a javelin from the nearest legionary. He flicked it round into an overhand grip and pushed his shield forward, crushing up against the barricade until he was within reach of the enemy. An arm stretched out between the shields and grasped a length of branch. Macro thrust the point of the javelin into the flesh just below the elbow and heard a voice cry out in pain. As he ripped the iron head back there was a sharp clang and heavy impact on his shield boss. He glanced round and saw that a number of the enemy warriors were armed with long, heavy spears and were trying to keep the Romans pinned back, away from the barricade.
'Watch the spears!' Macro yelled.
He searched for a new target and saw eyes glaring at him over the rim of a kite shield. Macro feinted and as the shield shot up he switched the aim and thrust at the man's thigh. At the limit of his reach, the iron tip ripped through the warrior's woven trousers and only grazed the flesh beneath. The centurion grunted in frustration and then carefully stepped back from the barricade, nodding to a legionary in the rear rank to take his place.
Macro looked around at his century. The men were holding their own. The slingers, distanced from the fight along the barricade, had been targeted by the enemy and an unequal exchange was being fought out between the slingers of both sides. The Romans crouched low as they worked their slings up to speed and then rose quickly to release the shot before ducking down again. Their foes enjoyed no such shelter, and Macro noted, with satisfaction, that a number of almost submerged bodies were slowly spiralling downstream from the bloodstained ford. But enough of that, he decided. The slingers' attention was needed elsewhere. He bellowed his next order above the clash and thud of weapons and cries of men.
'Slingers! Target the infantry! The infantry!'
The men on the wings looked towards him, understanding. One fool quickly rose up to have a last shot at the enemy slingers and was instantly struck in the face. His head snapped back and blood sprayed into the air, splattering his comrades on either side. The man collapsed in an inert bundle on the ground. Macro ground his teeth in anger. He had few enough men already, without anyone throwing his life away in such a careless fashion. A soldier's first duty was to his comrades, and he served them best by staying alive and fighting at their side. Such reckless acts of courage or battle rage were criminally selfish, in his view, and he cursed the man. But he was not the first to die. Already there were three other Roman dead: one sprawled on the ground inside the barricade, the others hanging over the tangle of branches, blood pouring from their wounds on to the muddy river bank below.
'Look at that!' a legionary called out nearby, and Macro followed the direction of the man's gaze across the ford. As the slingshot from the Roman flanks lashed into the sides of the enemy column an older warrior was bellowing out orders. The men around him steadily closed up and offered their shields up in an unbroken line to either side and overhead. Macro was astonished by the manoeuvre, which the enemy had clearly adapted from the example of the legions. Now the shot was rattling harmlessly off the shields, protecting the men within.