Masters of Rome: VESPASIAN V (Vespasian 5) Read online

  The ram juddered and a shriek pierced through the tumult.

  ‘Get that fucking thing out of his hand!’ the prefect roared.

  Without any ceremony the javelin skewering an auxiliary’s hand to the ram was yanked out; the man fell to his knees nursing the bloody wound as his comrades toiled on, heaving the ram the last few feet up out of the ditch and into the testudo. The Britons now concentrated their efforts on the partially shielded formation as the ram was passed through its middle.

  Vespasian ran to the front of the century and took up position next to the centurion at the head of the ram, grasping a hook whilst keeping his shield above his head. ‘Get them turned to face the gate!’

  The centurion screamed the order; the century rotated ninety degrees as javelins pounded its wooden roof. Glancing left and then right, Vespasian could see the two supporting cohorts making their way down into the second ditch with their tall scaling ladders, drawing a little of the defenders’ attentions away from the ram. He shared a grim but determined look with the centurion and gave a brief nod.

  ‘Forward at the double!’ the centurion cried.

  Hefting the ram in their midst, the auxiliaries broke into a jog, behind them the remainder of the cohort followed up. Within a few pounding heartbeats they covered the last twenty uphill paces to the gates; without stopping, they crashed the ram into them with a heavy report, shaking the structure but doing no discernible damage.

  ‘Swing it back on my mark!’ Vespasian cried. ‘And now!’

  As one the men carrying the ram withdrew it and then swung it forward with all possible momentum, cracking it into the gates whilst their comrades did their best to shield them from the constant rain of missiles. Again the gates shook and again the auxiliaries swung.

  But then came what Vespasian had been dreading but somehow had to be endured. Clay pots filled with red-hot charcoal crashed down onto the upturned shields, fragmenting into sharp shards and releasing their scorching contents onto the men underneath. Vespasian stifled an agonised scream as a glowing coal fell onto the back of his hand; it was all he could do not to relinquish his grip on the ram’s hook as the burning lump rolled off leaving seared skin and the stench of scorched flesh. Cries from all around attested to the effectiveness of the stratagem but somehow the ram was swung again and then again.

  Now there was a crack of light between the gates and Vespasian’s hopes soared. ‘Keep at it, lads!’

  With another resonating blow the gates shifted back a bit more, widening the gap; figures could be seen through it rushing to lend their weight to the defences. Javelins now flicked overhead as the remainder of the cohort’s centuries loosed their primary weapons at the defenders, punching many of them back, arms flailing, eyes rolling, shrieking into the fires beyond. Yet still the fire-pots fell onto their upturned shields; as Vespasian turned to encourage the men one screamed in agony as his woollen tunic suddenly ignited and Vespasian felt a sticky liquid slop through a gap in the shield-roof.

  ‘That’s oil, sir!’ the centurion yelled, his voice taut with dread as flames burgeoned on their makeshift cover.

  The ram again thundered forward; the auxiliaries, faces racked with fear, heaved at it with the extra strength afforded by desperation as oil, ignited by the glowing charcoal scorching their upturned shields, dripped down into their formation. The gates shuddered as the bar across them cracked; the ram returned with brutal force, splintering the bar and driving the gates ever back. A spear punched through the gap, cleaving the centurion’s mouth, shattering teeth, and slicing through soft tissue and bone to burst out of the back of his neck in an explosive spray. Vespasian lowered his burning shield to face the threat as all around him the men of the century dropped the ram and slammed their shoulders into the two gates, edging them back. More spears thrust through the gap, cracking into Vespasian’s shield and those of the auxiliaries who now stood to either side of him. They stood firm as the men on the gates strained with the defenders in a contest of strength and will; gradually but inexorably the gates ground backwards as men from the next century rushed to aid their comrades. The gap widened even more and the shield-wall extended; javelins now hissed towards them, thumping into their shields that dripped flaming oil. To his rear, Vespasian could hear the other centuries’ officers bellowing orders at their men to storm the breached defence; he sensed bodies forming up behind him and felt relief at the arrival of support – even if it was not Magnus.

  The gates shifted another couple of feet and in the swirling smoke beyond, back-lit by flaming huts, stood a mass of warriors. With a volley of sleek-pointed javelins announcing their intent, they charged.

  Holding his smoking shield tight before him, Vespasian led the auxiliaries’ response, breaking into a jog for the few closing paces before the two sides collided just inside the gates. The moment before contact, in an action instilled by years of repetitive training, the auxiliaries punched their shields forward and up as they stamped their left legs down, planting them squarely on the ground whilst thrusting their swords, underarm, between the gaps at their adversaries’ groins. The shock of impact crunched through Vespasian’s frame as he strained his left arm to hold back the weight of the charge, hunkering down behind his shield to avoid the wild slashes of long swords and the overarm thrusting of spears. The auxiliary next to him, blood already splattered on his chain mail, screamed in an unintelligible tongue; Gallic, Vespasian assumed as he furiously worked his sword arm forward to feel it jar against wood. The weight of the file behind him pushed into his back and a shield was thrust over his head, protecting him from projectiles hurled from the wall to either side. Javelins from the rear ranks hurtled overhead, slamming into the packed mass of defenders compacted by warriors at the rear surging forward against a Roman line that held solid. Another punch with the tip of his weapon brought a lingering scream from ahead as he felt it tear through yielding tissue; warm fluid slopped onto his sandalled feet as he twisted his blade, rolling his wrist left then right, before abruptly yanking it out. He felt a body slither down his shield and jabbed his sword down at it as he stepped over his fallen foe, praying that the man behind him knew his business and would ensure that the warrior was despatched.

  Another warrior stood in his path, snarling under a drooping moustache, his naked torso smeared with blue-green vitrum swirls, brandishing a slashing-sword above his head. With lightning speed, the weapon flashed towards him, left to right; Vespasian ducked under the swipe at the same moment as the Gallic auxiliary to his left raised himself to stab overarm at the throat of his own opponent. With a wet crunch the blade seared through the Gaul’s neck, cutting off his stream of obscenities, severing his head and sending it spinning, spiralling blood, away into the fray. Vespasian sliced his weapon down, taking the Briton’s arm off at the elbow while the headless corpse sank to the ground disgorging its contents in a crimson fountain as the heart pumped on for a few beats; the freshly carved stump added to the gore spraying about and the warrior screamed, looking incredulously at his shortened arm. It was the last thing he saw; Vespasian’s sword punched back up into his throat as an auxiliary from the second rank stepped into his decapitated comrade’s place.

  Vespasian took another step forward; gradually the auxiliaries were pushing their way into the hill-fort. How the support cohorts were doing in their attempts to scale the palisade to either side of the gate, Vespasian had no idea; he did not even know if they had made it across the final obstacle with their twenty-five-foot ladders that would just reach the top of the palisade from the bottom of the ditch. He pushed on, punching with his shield boss, stabbing with his sword and stamping with his feet, working his body to its limits as the cacophony of battle swirled around him along with the smoke from burning thatch, cocooning him in a world of brutal images and ever-present danger.

  How long he struggled for he could not tell but profound weariness was beginning to envelop him. He forced his aching muscles on, waiting for an opportunity to relieve the fro
nt rank with fresh troops; but the press of battle prevented this. His breathing had become ragged and he could feel his reactions slowing; he knew that he would not survive long if he stayed to the fore of the fight. Yet how could he, the legate, retire from the combat by himself? Straddling another body as the man behind him stabbed the tip of his weapon into the stricken man’s throat, Vespasian felt a ripple flow through the tightly bunched defenders, from south to north; suddenly the timbre of the Britons’ yells changed from defiance to surprise. As he worked his blade he saw from the corner of his eye a couple of Britons further back look nervously over their shoulders. They had been hit in the flank; somewhere along its length the Romans had succeeded in scaling the palisade. Now he knew that they were in and all he had to do was survive for a few racing heartbeats more.

  Sensing that victory was imminent, the auxiliaries pushed forward into the wavering Britons, stabbing and hacking with blood-slick blades, each step forward easier than the last as the enemy lost cohesion and resolve in equal measure. Through a break in the smoke, Vespasian glimpsed Roman helmets away to the left: legionary helmets, not auxiliary. Valens had made it over the palisade with his three cohorts, fifteen hundred men. Now they just had to clear the way for Tatius’ first cohort to enter the hill-fort. They, along with the three auxiliary cohorts already joined in the assault, would be enough to prevail, whilst the rest of the legion and Gallic cohorts and Cogidubnus’ recently raised Britannic cohort would prevent any escape. Caratacus would be at least killed, if not captured alive.

  Caught between the two-pronged attack and the fires to their rear and suffering casualties at a steadily increasing rate, the Britons broke, fleeing into the smoke.

  Glancing up, left then right, Vespasian saw the defenders leaping from the palisade anxious not to be caught between the auxiliaries coming through the gates and those of the two cohorts now streaming over the walls, the Hamians and artillery having ceased their volleys. However, he was under no illusion that it was over. ‘Halt!’ he shouted to the century that had led the charge. ‘Move aside.’

  The century’s survivors – Vespasian estimated that they were down to half their number – gladly complied and stepped out of the way in an unmilitary fashion, too exhausted to care about drill, as the rest of the cohort streamed into the fort, their prefect at their head.

  ‘They’ll regroup beyond the flames, prefect,’ Vespasian called. ‘Keep your lads tight together.’

  With a half-made salute the prefect led his men on into the smoke as the legion’s first cohort doubled through the gate. Vespasian did not bother to give Primus Pilus Tatius any orders; four years working closely with the veteran centurion had taught him that the man knew his business.

  It was with relief that he saw his cavalry escort, now remounted, following the first cohort into the fort. He took his horse from the decurion and hauled himself wearily into the saddle. ‘Thank you, decurion, I don’t think I could walk another pace.’

  ‘Then you ain’t exercising enough,’ a voice from behind him commented.

  Vespasian spun round, his eyes murderous.

  ‘Perhaps you should do more riding of a different sort, if you take my meaning?’

  Vespasian’s face broke into a broad grin. ‘Magnus! What in the name of all the gods are you doing here?’

  Magnus rode up to Vespasian and proffered his arm. ‘Let’s just say that Rome’s a bit unwelcoming for me at the moment, but I think that can probably wait until later, sir, seeing as you seem to be in the middle of storming a hill-fort.’

  Vespasian grasped his friend’s muscular forearm. ‘I’m intrigued, but you’re right, it can wait until I’ve caught Caratacus.’

  Vespasian rode past the last of the smouldering huts. All around lay the bodies of the dead – women and children as well as warriors – sprawled, bloodied and broken. Ahead of him, lined across the hill-fort, from the southern wall to the northern, stood the II Augusta’s first and second cohorts, supported by the third and fourth. Beyond them was a mass of warriors and their families.

  ‘Looks like they’re going to surrender,’ Magnus observed, scratching his grey hair. ‘They must have decided that a life of slavery is preferable to an honourable death. I’ll never understand these savages.’

  ‘That suits me; it’ll save a lot of Roman lives and I’ll get a healthy cut of the profit from their sale. But if they are surrendering it must mean that Caratacus is dead.’

  ‘Or he’s escaped.’

  ‘Impossible, the fort is surrounded.’

  Magnus grunted, his scarred ex-boxer’s face betraying his scepticism at that assertion, as they dismounted.

  Cogidubnus was waiting for Vespasian next to Tatius. ‘They are willing to surrender; Drustan and Caratacus are dead.’

  ‘Where are their bodies?’

  ‘Drustan’s is with them but they claim that Caratacus’ corpse was completely burnt in the fire.’

  ‘Bollocks!’

  ‘That’s what I thought; but if they’re willing to surrender they must be confident that Caratacus is safely away.’

  Vespasian scowled. ‘Take their surrender; he can’t have got out of here.’ He turned to Tatius. ‘Have every hut searched for trapdoors and other hiding places and whilst the lads do that have the prisoners pass through the gates one by one so that Cogidubnus can examine each of them.’ He turned back to the Briton. ‘Even the women; you never know what he could be disguised as.’

  Cogidubnus nodded and walked away with Tatius to organise the surrender and search of the hill-fort.

  Vespasian turned to Magnus. ‘Something is not quite right here. Come on.’

  He kicked his horse towards the south wall and, dismounting, climbed one of the many ladders leading up to the walkway that ran around the palisade’s entire length. Magnus followed him up.

  Looking out around the hill’s circumference Vespasian saw what he expected: it was surrounded by cohort after cohort with never more than a fifty-pace gap between each one. ‘Surely no one could get through that.’ They walked around to the western and then northern sections; every angle was covered.

  ‘Perhaps he was burnt after all,’ Magnus suggested.

  ‘No, if he died they would have saved the body to prove it.’

  ‘Then he must be hiding.’

  ‘Sir!’ Tatius called from under the west-facing wall. ‘We’ve got something.’

  Vespasian and Magnus ran back and climbed down to the primus pilus; in his hands he held some wooden boards.

  Vespasian looked at the ground at his feet; it was a tunnel entrance, just wide enough to admit a man. ‘Shit!’ He pulled up the remaining boards and saw a ladder within; he climbed in.

  He headed down into darkness with Magnus following. After descending ten feet or so he came to a level tunnel; light could be seen at its far end. He speeded up, anxious to get out of the close confinement. A few moments later his head popped out into the open; in front of him were stakes: he was in the ditch below the palisade. Opposite was another tunnel leading to the second ditch; he made his way through the stakes and climbed in. Pulling himself along with his arms for a dozen or so paces of gradual descent he emerged at the other end into the second ditch. He dusted himself off and looked around. On the far side was the only growth of bush that had been allowed to cultivate around the defences on the steep west slope; foot-holes led up the ditch’s side beneath it.

  Magnus joined him. ‘So this is how he got out.’

  Vespasian pointed to the foot-holes. ‘Yes, and that’s how he got away.’ He climbed up the vertical bank and peered into the bush; there was a narrow path cut through it that went on for thirty paces down the hill. He crawled down its length and came out into a dell in the hillside, deep enough to obscure him from both the walls above and the auxiliary cohort on station at the base of the hill.

  ‘He could have got to here unseen,’ Magnus said, peering over the edge and down to the troops at the bottom, ‘but the rest of the way down is op
en ground; our lads are bound to have seen anyone coming out of here.’

  ‘Let’s go and ask them.’

  Vespasian and Magnus jogged over to the auxiliaries; their prefect strode forward to meet them. ‘The fort is ours, legate?’

  ‘It is, but we’re missing one vital component, Galeo. Did anyone come out?’

  The prefect looked confused. ‘Just the man you sent an optio to bring out: the spy.’

  ‘What spy? What optio?’

  ‘The young lad seemed too young to be an optio but it was hard to tell under all the grime on his face.’ He pulled a scroll from his belt and proffered it to Vespasian. ‘But he had written orders with Plautius’ seal on, giving him permission to get our agent out of the place before it fell, so he wouldn’t get killed in the chaos of the assault.’

  Vespasian glanced at the scroll, knowing immediately that it was a forgery. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Just after the attack started.’

  ‘Where did they go?’

  ‘They rode off, around the fort heading for our camp.’

  ‘Are you sure that they didn’t turn away and ride off?’

  ‘I don’t know; I didn’t pay them any attention once they’d gone.’

  Vespasian’s fists clenched. He felt like pummelling the man although he knew that it was not his fault; he had been duped. ‘This optio, did he give his name?’

  ‘Yes, sir; Alienus.’

  Vespasian raised his eyes to the sky. ‘I might have guessed.’

  ‘So he was from you?’

  ‘No, prefect, he was not.’

  CHAPTER II

  ‘WE PICKED UP their trail, sir; they doubled back and headed west.’ Lucius Junius Caesennius Paetus, the young prefect of the Batavian auxiliary cavalry ala, reported in clipped patrician tones, standing to attention on the opposite side of the desk to Vespasian in the praetorium tent. ‘Judging by the tracks, they were a good two hours ahead of us. After five miles or so they met up with a group of at least thirty horsemen and changed direction to just north of west. By that time the light was fading and we had to turn back.’