Masters of Rome: VESPASIAN V (Vespasian 5) Page 3

  But Vespasian was hoping that it would not come to that as he watched three mounted men, Britons, turn their horses and ride away from the gates. As they did there was a commotion on the palisade next to them; a figure jumped down, rolling as he landed, before fluidly regaining his feet and pelting towards the three riders. One slowed, braving the few javelins hurled down at the fugitive, and leant back, his arm outstretched towards the fleeing man who leapt, grabbing the proffered hand, and using his momentum swung himself up behind the rider. The horse reared in fright, almost unseating the men, before its rider brought it back down with a brutal tug of the reins and kicked it forward to thunder down the hill in the wake of his two comrades, now passing through the gap in the outermost ditch.

  Vespasian waited with his officers in silence as they galloped down the hill, each man knowing that the news they brought would decide the fate of them all that day, one way or another.

  There was a stirring amongst the legionaries as the horsemen passed through their formation; centurions and optiones bellowed at their men for silence.

  ‘I think the lads can tell by the expression on Cogidubnus’ face that the news is not good,’ Maximus muttered as order returned to the legion.

  Vespasian grunted. ‘Of course it’s not good; who would try to escape from a fort that was going to surrender?’ The strained expression returned to his face as the riders drew near and their demeanour confirmed Maximus’ conjecture; but he also knew that their unwillingness to surrender may mean that there was an even greater prize at stake.

  ‘Their chieftain, Drustan, has sworn that they will fight to the death of the last child,’ Cogidubnus confirmed as he brought his horse to a halt. The fugitive, a young man with long matted hair, wispy stubble and a slim face smeared with dirt, slipped from behind one of the accompanying horsemen to the ground. ‘I offered them their lives and the status of allies of Rome with the right to bear arms.’

  Vespasian tensed. ‘He’s in there, isn’t he?’

  Cogidubnus spoke to the rescued man in his own tongue; he nodded his head as he replied. ‘Yes, legate, he’s in there; my agent here says he arrived two days ago.’

  Vespasian glanced at the spy, astounded that such excellent information could have emanated from so unlikely a source. The man kept his head bowed; with his ragged clothes he looked more like a slave than a warrior. ‘And now he hopes to slip away whilst a whole sub-tribe sacrifices themselves for him.’

  ‘It would seem that way.’

  Vespasian turned to his officers. ‘Gentlemen, I want this place completely surrounded before the assault starts; nobody must be allowed to pass through our lines. I’ve a feeling that by our swift action we may have cornered Caratacus.’

  It had taken less than half an hour for the II Augusta to redeploy; each cohort had formed up in four ranks of one hundred and twenty men, standing in silence, encircling the hill, sealing it so that none might escape. Vespasian looked up the slope ahead of him, over the heads of the first cohort, to where three Gallic auxiliary cohorts, of eight hundred men each, were formed up, shields raised against the long-range slingshot raining down from the warriors on the wall, just over a hundred paces away. At the head of the central cohort stood the dark form of the ram’s housing surrounded by the century that had received the much-prized honour of leading the assault. In front of them to the left stood the eight hundred eastern archers of the Hamian auxiliary cohort and to their right were the legion’s sixty ballistae, bolt-shooters.

  Vespasian steadied his horse and brought his right arm sweeping down; the cornicen next to him blew one low, rumbling note on his G-shaped horn. Simultaneously a crewman from each bolt-shooter thrust a flaming torch at the oil-drenched wadding wound around the tips of their three-foot-long wooden missiles and the Hamians ignited their arrows in small fires set along their line. With the massed thrumming of bows and the staccato thwacking of high-torsion engines releasing, hundreds of burning projectiles soared through the air leaving trails of black smoke in their wake, like plough-furrows in the sky.

  The assault had begun.

  The first volley tore over the palisade to punch into the wattle and daub walls and thatched roofs of the many round huts behind it; shrieks of the wounded indicated that it was not just the buildings that suffered. As the Hamians released a second volley from their powerful re-curved composite bows of wood and horn, Vespasian saw, with satisfaction, the first few thin tendrils of white smoke rise from within the fort. The Hamians managed six more volleys before the bolt-shooters released again; above, the smoke trails had smudged together into a thin grey pall that arced over the field to merge with the thickening fumes emitting from the fires feeding on thatch. Flames now licked up, under-lighting the denser clouds of smoke with a deep orange hue as the conflagration grew; here and there billows of steam added to the thickening atmosphere attesting to the fire-fighting efforts of those trapped within the fort. Their disembodied shouts floated down over the II Augusta as the hail of slingshot from the warriors on the wall, as yet untroubled by the arrows passing over their heads, continued to beat into the shields of the Gallic cohorts – with little effect.

  A young tribune galloped down the slope towards him.

  ‘Are the Gauls ready, Vibius?’ Vespasian asked as the lad pulled up his mount and saluted.

  ‘Yes, sir. The two support cohorts have been issued with scaling ladders as you ordered.’

  ‘And Valens’ diversionary attacks?’

  ‘Yes, sir; he has enough planking to span the first ditch.’

  ‘Ride back down to him and tell him not to wait for the Gallic auxiliaries to make it to the gate. I want him to go immediately to keep as many Britons as possible occupied away from fighting the fires. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, sir!’ With a perfunctory salute Vibius turned his horse and galloped away under another flaming volley.

  Vespasian glanced at Maximus, seated on a horse next to him, and allowed himself a grin of enjoyment. ‘Time to clear the walls for our gallant Gauls.’ He nodded at the cornicen. ‘Second target.’

  This time the man blew two shorter notes; the effect was immediate: the Hamians lowered their trajectory, sending shaft after shaft at the warriors manning the palisade whilst the ballista crews adjusted their sights to the same effect. By the time the first bolts pounded into the smoke-wreathed palisade it was clear of the enemy, who had hunkered down, unwilling to risk their lives until the situation made it necessary; they were all well aware that that moment would come soon.

  The clearing of the wall was the signal that had been prearranged with the prefects of the Gallic auxiliary cohorts and for the first time that day a shout erupted from the Roman lines. The lead cohort moved forward up the steep hill towards the gap in the foremost ditch, its first century pushing and pulling the ram in its midst; the lucky few toiling safely within the structure and the rest hauling on the two ropes to the front or the bars ranged down the side or pushing from behind. The second century led the way to provide some cover to the front whilst other auxiliaries crowded around their comrades heaving at the great engine of war, sheltering them with their shields to the sides; but no shots came from above as the Hamians continued their strafing of the wall. The two support cohorts raced ahead from either side, quickly passing over the crossing points in the nearer ditch and then fanning out along the rim between it and the last ditch, left and right to either side of the gate. Crouching down under their shields, scaling ladders laid on the ground before them, they waited for their comrades with the ram to arrive. On up the hill the ram ground, gradually gaining momentum, the solid wooden wheels, turning on goose-fatted axles, rumbled over the earth, closing in on the first obstacle.

  It was for this moment that the Britons were waiting; the gap in the ditch, only forty paces from the palisade, was angled to the left and narrow, no more than six feet wide so that a wagon could just pass safely through. The ram’s housing had been especially adapted overnight so that its wheels just
fitted, leaving no room for the men heaving on the side-bars and, more crucially, no room for the protective shield-bearers to either side. The leading second century passed through first and formed up in two ranks, one kneeling, one standing, making a wall of shields facing the enemy. As the engine followed, the men to either side were forced to fall back and wait; the ram lost momentum and the auxiliaries manhandling it lost their shelter. As one, hundreds of heads appeared over the palisade, arms twirling leather slings above them; many fell back, pierced by feathered shafts, into the fires beyond, but the majority managed three swift revolutions before releasing and then ducking back down to reload. A hail of shot sped unseen down onto the auxiliaries; much clattered off the protective wall of the second century’s shields but enough pounded in on the first century, felling men with shattered limbs and pulped faces as their comrades strove on, knowing that to flee with the whole legion watching would bring a shame upon them too heavy to bear. A few men from the second century ran back to haul the dead and wounded out of the way of the heavy wheels and to take over the empty places on the ropes; auxiliaries behind added their weight to the effort and the ram again picked up speed.

  Another volley of ballista bolts hissed over the toiling centuries’ heads, punching warriors bodily back, skewered and arcing blood, as they reappeared on the wall, slings reloaded. Yet, braving the Hamians’ constant rain of arrows and indistinct in the thickening smoke, those still standing again whirled their slings about their heads, quickly achieving the velocity for another deadly salvo that pummelled into the target, dropping men with shrill shrieks or in deathly silence. Once again the ram’s progress was slowed, but not before the back wheels cleared the gap and the protective shield-bearers could again stream through.

  A huge cheer rose from every man witnessing the feat and Vespasian found himself gulping in air; he had not taken a breath for some time. Glancing left to the south side of the hill he saw that Vibius had delivered his message. Valens was on the move with the legion’s second, third and fourth cohorts, now formed into columns, eight men abreast. In front of each formation, long planks had been thrown across the first ditch and pioneers had climbed carefully down their sheer sides and were now working between the stakes, raising upright supports for the temporary bridges.

  Satisfied that his second in command was progressing with all due haste, Vespasian turned his attention back to the hill, now swathed in roiling smoke. The ram was just visible being manoeuvred right to negotiate the gap in the second ditch, twenty paces from the gate. The second century had already crossed and had formed up as before to shield their comrades from as much missile hail, both slingshot and now javelin, as possible – although the more acute angle so close to the palisade made their efforts of little account and, as he watched, two men on the ropes fell. But the ram kept on moving, its front wheels now halfway across the gap. The Hamians and bolt-shooters continued their volleys, although it was largely by guesswork as the figures on the palisade were only visible intermittently. The two supporting Gallic cohorts remained shielded and ready on either side of the gate, ladders now projecting skywards from their midst.

  Vespasian looked down at the cornicen. ‘The first cohort to advance!’

  An ascending series of three notes rumbled from the bronze instrument. Vespasian saw the standards of the five double-strength centuries of the legion’s élite cohort dip and then, to the bellows of their centurions and optiones, one by one they marched forward towards the gap in the first ditch. Now it was all about breaking down the gate to let those seasoned killers in.

  But disaster had struck.

  Through the eddying smoke the ram was just discernible; it was listing to the right. Vespasian tensed, straining his eyes; a gust cleared his view for a few moments, enough time to watch the earth crumble beneath the rear, right-hand wheel and see it slip over the edge. The housing crashed down onto its back axle, the angle causing the suspended ram to swing to the right, stunning many of the auxiliaries labouring within the structure and skewing it even more with its momentum. For two or three quickening heartbeats the engine teetered on the brink as men rushed to its left side to cling to it, hoping that their weight would somehow avert the inevitable.

  But the inevitable, as ever, happened.

  Beginning with a slow lean that quickly accelerated, the housing crashed, with a splintering and cracking of wood that could be just heard even over the din of the assault, to its ruin onto the stakes in the ditch below, taking the men inside down with it onto the fire-hardened points. For a moment its front end stood perpendicular before it toppled back, lengthways along the ditch, disappearing from view.

  Vespasian kicked his horse forward. ‘Maximus! Stay here and give the orders; keep the momentum up and tell the Hamians and the artillery to aim for the wall above the ram.’

  Confident that he had left the overall command of the assault in the hands of the most experienced man in the Roman ranks, Vespasian urged his horse into a gallop up the hill; the turma of legionary cavalry, acting as his bodyguard, followed in his wake. He sped past the legion’s first cohort, overtaking them halfway up, and then dismounted and ran on, with his escort following, through wispy smoke. Keeping his shield high, he passed the eight remaining centuries of the Gallic cohort who had stopped, unsure of how to proceed now that the means to open the gate had been taken out of commission, and arrived at the second ditch in the shadow of the gate. ‘Where’s your prefect?’ Vespasian demanded of the auxiliary centurion of the third century as he too crouched with his men, shielded against the hail of shot.

  The man indicated with his head towards the ditch. ‘Down there, sir, trying to sort out the mess.’

  ‘Bring your century and follow me; I want you to form up in testudo on the gap facing the ditch and be prepared to haul the ram up.’

  ‘Sir!’ The centurion’s battle-hardened face set firm with resolve, evidently pleased to have a direct order in the chaos.

  Vespasian ran forward at the crouch, his shield taking hit after hit; his red cloak and tall horsehair plume making him highly conspicuous. Behind him he heard the bellowed orders of the centurion getting his men on the move. Reaching the ditch he looked down; the housing lay on its back, mangled. Stakes jutted out along its twenty-foot length; a few were slimed with gore, protruding from impaled bodies and, in one case, the back of a broken skull. In amongst the wreckage the surviving men of the first century worked furiously trying to clear a way to the ram and tending to the wounded whilst the second century did their best to shield their comrades, although the archery and artillery concentrated on the wall above them meant that very few Britons risked exposing themselves to try a shot. Nevertheless, three men from his escort stood over Vespasian, protecting him with their shields.

  ‘Prefect!’ Vespasian shouted, spotting the cohort commander amid the carnage. ‘Cut the ram free and pass it up to those men in the gap.’ He pointed to the third century now forming a testudo, holding their oval auxiliary shields over their heads and to their front and sides creating a reasonably safe leather and wood box around themselves. ‘Forget about the wounded for the moment; we need to open that gate before the assault falters.’

  The prefect acknowledged the order and bellowed at his men to start cutting the ropes that suspended the ram from its housing.

  Vespasian turned to two of his escort crouched behind him. ‘Run to the support cohorts on either side of the wall and tell them to start scaling the palisade as soon as they see the ram lifted out of the ditch.’

  With a salute to their commander and a nervous glance between them the two men scampered off. Down in the ditch much of the protective leather had been stripped away from the wooden frame and the ram was clearly visible; the last few ropes were being cut and the prefect had gathered all his able-bodied men along its length ready to lift the great trunk – almost two feet in diameter – either by the hooks to which the ropes had been fastened or by cradling it underneath. The final rope was left attached to t
he ram but unknotted from the housing; an auxiliary hurled the loose end of it up to the centurion of the third century, who fed it into his men’s formation.

  ‘Lift, you whoresons!’ the prefect roared at his men.

  Vespasian made a mental note to mention the prefect in his report to Plautius.

  The ram rose from the ground. Javelins hurtled down from above in increasing numbers as the defenders realised what was being attempted; the second century’s shields vibrated with their impacts.

  The ram was brought up to shoulder level and the slack was taken out of the rope as the men within the midst of the testudo lowered their shields and made ready to take the strain. Vespasian glanced around his shield, up at the top of the palisade; men were still braving the Hamian and artillery volleys in order to disrupt the operation that, if it was successful, would spell their deaths as surely as an arrow in the eye. As he looked, two Britons were punched back by feathered shafts; two more immediately took their places, such was the defenders’ desperation to halt the progress of the ram.

  The auxiliaries raised the ram above their heads and began to feed it, foot by foot, up into the heart of the testudo as the javelin storm increased, felling three of the work-party; the prefect rushed to add his support to the weight, bellowing at his men to go faster. Vespasian held his breath, knowing that he was powerless to speed things up; the men were working as fast as possible and his shouting at them as well would make no difference. He steeled himself for what he knew he must do as soon as the ram was back up, knowing that the chances of success would be greatly increased if he fought in the front rank, sharing the danger with his men. How he wished that his old friend, Magnus, always so useful in a fight, was with him to guard his right shoulder and not a thousand miles away in Rome.