'Get my horse, and get another for the eagle-bearer.'
'You're not going up there, sir?' Plinius was shocked.
'Get the horses.'
While the mounts were fetched, Vespasian tightened the ties under his helmet. He looked at the eagle-bearer and was reassured by the man's easy composure, one of the key qualities looked for in men picked for the honour of carrying the eagle into battle. The horses were rushed to them by running slaves and the reins handed over. Vespasian and the eagle-bearer swung themselves up.
'Sir!' Plinius called out. 'If anything happens to you, what are your orders?'
'Why, to take the hill fort of course!'
With a swift kick of his heels Vespasian urged his horse towards the foot of the ramp, pounding across the open ground with the eagle-bearer just behind him, reins in one hand, the shaft of the standard clenched in the other. Up the ramp they galloped, swerving round at the first dogleg and on to the second ramp. Here lay the first Roman casualties, pierced by arrows or crushed by stones, their blood pooling on the track amid the feathered shafts that seemed to have sprung up from the soil. The wounded, seeing the horsemen approach, painfully hauled themselves to the side of the track, some of them managing to raise a cheer for the legate as he thundered past.
They turned the second dogleg, and quickly reined in as they came up against the rearmost century of the First Cohort.
'On foot!' Vespasian shouted over his shoulder to the eagle-bearer, and swung himself from the back of his horse. At once they were spotted by the defenders above them, and an instant later Vespasian's horse screeched as an arrow whacked into its flank. It reared up, front legs flailing, before scrabbling round to tear back down the ramp. More arrows and slingshot thudded home around the legate. He looked round and snatched a shield from the ground where it had fallen beside its dead owner. The eagle-bearer found another. Both of them pushed forward into the tightly packed ranks ahead.
'Make way! Make way there!' Vespasian called.
The legionaries parted at the sound of his voice, some with looks of blank astonishment.
'What the fuck is he doing up here?' an awestruck youngster wondered.
'Didn't think you were getting the enemy all to yourself, did you, son?' Vespasian shouted as he passed by. 'Come on, lads, one last push, then we '11 put paid to those bastards!'
A ragged cheer rippled out from the men as Vespasian and the eagle-bearer made their way up towards the gate, arrows and slingshot rattling off their shields. When he reached the flat ground before the fortified timber gate, Vespasian tried to hide his despair at the scene before him. Most of the engineers were dead, heaped round their ladders and to the side of the battering ram. The ram was now manned by legionaries who had had to lay down their shields to take up their position on the thick iron capped shaft of oak. Even as he watched, another man fell, shot through the gap between his helmet and his mail vest. The senior centurion thrust a replacement forward, but the legionary hesitated, looking anxiously at the savage faces screaming at him above the gate.
Vespasian ran forward. 'Out of my way, son!'
He dropped his shield and grabbed the rope handle, joining the rhythmic swing of the other men on the ram. As it smashed into the gate, with a shattering crash, Vespasian could see that the big timbers were starting to give way.
'Come on, men!' he shouted to the others along the ram. 'We're not being paid by the bloody hour!'
As soon as the Durotriges saw the legate they let out a great roar of defiance and turned their weapons on the enemy commander, and the man bearing the dreaded symbol of the eagle. The men of the First Cohort responded with a deafening cheer and renewed effort, hurling up their remaining javelins into the marred ranks of the Durotriges. Others snatched at the slingshots lying on the ground to hurl them at the defenders.
Another man fell beside the ram. This time the senior centurion threw his shield down and took the vacant position. Once again the ram slammed forward. With a crack, the central beam on the gate broke in two, and the surrounding timbers were wrenched out of alignment. Through the gaps the Romans could see the snarling faces of Durotriges and Druids massed on the other side. Through a narrow gap Vespasian spotted the locking bar.
'There!' He raised a hand to point. 'Shift the head to there!'
The line of the ram was quickly adjusted, and they swung again, forcing the gap to open wider. The locking bar shuddered in its brackets.
'Harder!' Vespasian shouted above the din. 'Harder!'
Each blow splintered more of the timbers until with a last wild swing the locking bar shattered. Immediately the gates gave way.
'Get the ram back!'
They backed up several feet and laid it down. Someone handed Vespasian a shield. He slipped his left arm into the straps and drew his sword, holding it horizontally at hip height. He breathed deeply, ready to lead his men through the gateway.
'Eagle-bearer!'
'Sir!'
'Stay close to me, lad:
'Yes, sir!'
'First Cohort!' the legate bellowed at the top of his voice. 'Advance!'
With a deep roar from hundreds of throats, the scarlet shields charged the gates and crashed into the screaming ranks of the tribesmen beyond. Packed in with the front rank of the First Cohort Vespasian kept his shield up and thrust into the dense mass of humanity before him, sinking his blade into flesh, then twisting and wrenching it back, before striking again. All around him men screamed, shouted their warcries, grunting with the effort of each thrust and slash, crying out in agony as they were wounded. The dead and injured fell to the ground, those still living struggled to protect themselves beneath their shields and avoid being trampled to death.
At first, the dense mass of Romans and Durotriges was locked solid, neither giving an inch of ground. But as men fell, the tribesmen began to give ground, thrust back before the shield wall of the Romans. The ground beneath Vespasian's boots was slick with churned mud and warm blood. His greatest fear at that moment was that he might lose his footing and slip.
The First Cohort ground forward, hacking a path through the Durotriges. The defenders, urged on by the Druids in their ranks, fought with desperate courage. Tightly packed as they were, their long swords and war spears were almost impossible to wield effectively. Some dropped their main weapons and used their daggers instead, trying to wrench the Roman shields aside and stab at the men sheltering behind. But few of the Durotriges were armoured and their exposed flesh was easy prey for the lethal swords of the legionaries.
Slowly, the Durotriges crumbled, falling back at the rear of the press in ones and twos, the men throwing terrified glances at the relentless approach of the golden eagle. A line of Druids stood behind the defenders and scornfully attempted to drive the less courageous of their allies back into the battle. But in a short time too many tribesmen were fleeing the terrible Roman killing machine and the Druids were helpless to stop them. The mighty defences the Durotriges had placed so much faith in had failed them, as had the promises of the Druids that Cruach would protect them this day, and smite the Romans. All was lost, and the Druids knew it too.
Standing behind the line of Druids, a tall dark figure with an antlered headpiece shouted an order. The Druids turned at the sound, and saw their leader pointing back towards the enclosure on the far side of the hill fort. They closed ranks and began to run towards their last line of defence.