And still the line held.
Unable to make headway the Thracians started to spill around the unguarded flanks of the two outermost centuries; legionaries began to fall, heads and limbs missing. From his vantage point Vespasian was aware of the danger.
‘Fourth and sixth centuries advance!’ he yelled.
The cornu blared and the two centuries on the flanks of the second line moved forward at a jog, increasing their speed as they closed with the enemy. Their centurions ordered their charge. In the wake of a volley of pila they hit the side of the encircling Thracians, punching those still standing off their feet with their shields and then despatching them on the ground with firm thrusts of their swords.
The Thracians started to fall back; the encircling manoeuvre having failed, they had, for the time being, lost heart. As they disengaged the severity of their casualties became apparent. More than four hundred of their dead and dying littered the bloody ground in front of the legionaries and the hillside beyond.
A massive cheer rose from the newly blooded recruits as they watched their opponents retreat. A few of the more hot-headed made to follow them only to be bawled back into line by their centurions, who knew only too well the folly of an undisciplined pursuit.
Corbulo arrived at Vespasian’s side.
‘We’ve beaten them, sir,’ Vespasian said with some pride, although fully aware that his gladius remained in pristine condition in its sheath.
‘You’ve beaten them off more like, but they’ll come again. Savages like these have more bravado than sense. It’s time we got out of here. Cornicen, sound “Withdraw facing enemy”.’
Corbulo then turned to the centurion of the unused fifth century. ‘Send out a party of men to bring in our wounded and finish off those who won’t make it. We will leave none of our men behind to amuse those barbarians.’
Steadied by the shouts of the centurions in the front rank and the optiones in the rear, the centuries began to pull back, step by step, in time to the beat measured out by low blasts from the cornicen.
The cavalry disengaged from their private battles and galloped back to cover the infantry retreat. They saw off the sorties of small groups of impetuous Thracians who attempted to disrupt the retrieval of the Roman wounded with javelin volleys.
Slowly the Roman line fell back the hundred paces to the river. In front of them the Thracian warriors had retrieved their discarded shields and rearmed with javelins. Again they began to work themselves up into a frenzy.
‘It won’t be long before they pluck up the courage to have another go,’ Corbulo said. ‘Vespasian, get the rear three centuries and the wounded on to the ropes.’
The last of the archers was crossing as Vespasian ordered the fourth, fifth and sixth centuries on to the three remaining ropes. The men, having retrieved their packs, didn’t need to be told the urgency of the situation and leapt into the water. Behind them the three remaining centuries formed a convex wall, shielding the ropes from the enemy.
As the last men of the rear centuries clambered into the water another great roar went up. Vespasian spun his horse round; six hundred paces away up the hill the Thracians started to move forward slowly.
Magnus appeared at his side. ‘Now we’re for it.’
‘What are you doing here? Why aren’t you with the baggagecarts?’
‘Since when was I baggage?’
‘Since Corbulo put you in charge of it.’
‘As you said, I’m not under military discipline and I ain’t going across until you do.’
Corbulo came striding up to them. ‘We won’t have time to get all the men over before they’re on us. Tribune, get the third century across on all three ropes. I’ve sent the cavalry to try and delay the attack. And you,’ he said, looking at Magnus, ‘tell the baggage to get out of the river, then find yourself a shield and helmet. I imagine you’ll disobey me if I tell you to cross with it.’
‘Sir!’ Magnus hastened off as Vespasian dismounted.
The first and second centuries stood grimly watching their cavalry’s efforts to slow the advancing Thracians. Beaten off by volleys of javelins from the tightly packed horde, they turned and fled, back to the river.
‘Caepio, get your men across,’ Corbulo screamed. ‘There’s nothing more that you can do here.’
The thankful Gauls and Thessalians plunged their already tired horses into the river and began to wade to the far bank; a harder task now that the temporary barricade of wagons was no longer stemming the flow. The men of the third century were also struggling and the crossing had slowed to a snail’s pace. Their comrades, formed up on the far bank, called out encouragement but the quicker pace of the river took its toll. As Vespasian turned to join Corbulo with the remaining men he saw two legionaries being swept away, their heavy armour dragging them under. He knew it would take a miracle for them all to cross now.
The Thracians were less than three hundred paces off and had broken into a jog, gathering momentum for the final charge.
‘Well, tribune, let’s make sure that not all these men’s first action is their last,’ Corbulo said, turning to Vespasian. ‘We’ll take the impact of the charge and hold them; once we’re steady the rear rank can peel off to the ropes.’
‘What about the rest, sir?’
‘They’ll need to fight like lions. We have to make the enemy disengage, and then we run for the ropes. When the last men are on we cut the ropes and pray that we can hold on as the river swings us across.’
Magnus came puffing up the bank towards the two officers with a shield and helmet. He had a mule cart in tow.
‘Looks like we need to beat them pretty decisively to stand any chance here, hopefully these will help.’
‘What have you got there? I told you to get all the baggage across,’ Corbulo shouted, furious that his orders had not been obeyed to the full.
‘Pila, sir.’ Magnus pulled the leather cover off the cart.
A spark of hope kindled in Corbulo’s eyes. ‘What are you waiting for, man? Get them distributed.’
Quickly they ordered the men of the rear rank to grab four pila each and pass them up the files. The men’s morale was lifted by the weight of a pilum in their hands, and they started to beat them against their shields. From behind them their comrades on the far bank did the same. The noise made the Thracians pause. They had reached the long heap of mangled bodies that denoted the line of the last engagement, and were close enough now to see the new pila in their foes’ hands. They had already experienced at first hand that day the destructive power of the weapon, and even at odds of nearly ten to one they needed to boost their confidence. They started another round of jeering and cheering, working themselves up into battle fever.
‘We should go now, sir, whilst they’ve stopped. We could make it, surely?’
‘No, they’ll pick us off in the river with javelins; we need them to fire that volley at us whilst we’re shielded. Come, tribune, it’s the front rank for us. No doubt your insubordinate freedman will wish to join us?’
‘That is a very kind invitation, sir,’ Magnus said politely. ‘I’ll be a lot more use there than skulking around in the rear.’
Corbulo grunted and pushed his way between two files to the front.
Vespasian stood between Magnus and Corbulo at the centre of the Roman line, watching the Thracians getting their bloodlust up. They had found a wounded Thessalian who had been too far away for the retrieval parties to bring in. The hapless prisoner had a ropes tied around his wrists and was being stretched upright in the crucifix position by two men pulling on each arm. Around him danced a swarm of howling warriors brandishing their rhomphaiai.
‘Do not look away, lads,’ Corbulo bellowed. ‘Watch this and remember what they do to prisoners.’
The dancing stopped and the Thracians broke into a low chant that began to rise in volume until it drowned the screamed pleas of the prisoner. Two men took up positions behind him. The chant reached a crescendo and then suddenly stopped. Two rhomphaiai scythed through the air. The Thessalian’s legs dropped to the ground, but the man remained upright, screaming, stretched by the ropes, like ghastly washing on a line. Blood poured from his wounds in a pathetic imitation of the limbs he had just lost. With another sweep of flashing iron his arms were severed; they flew through the air on the end of the ropes spraying blood in macabre arcs. His limbless trunk crashed to the floor onto his severed legs. Two more warriors approached the tormented man and lifted the blood-spurting hulk in the air. Still alive but limbless, the Thessalian stared in catatonic shock at his erstwhile comrades, just a hundred paces away. Another flash and his head fell to the floor.