The Furies of Rome (33 page)

And that silence remained on the Roman side; mute and grim were the wedges of legionaries as they watched, with hardened eyes, their foes regain their steel and their pace and their volume.

‘Why weren’t we a party to that little trick?’ Titus asked.

‘Spooking the enemy evidently isn’t a privilege extended to reserve formations in Paulinus’ army,’ Vespasian hazarded, his nervousness dissipating, having witnessed more than a hundred thousand men falter.

Paulinus, seated upon his horse, with his staff, to the rear of the first cohort, nodded to the cornicern stationed near him; the man pressed his lips to the mouthpiece and issued a two-note rumble that, because of its booming depth, carried beneath the clamour approaching. The signal was repeated throughout the army and, as the Britannic mass came to within fifty paces of the Roman teeth, the legionaries in the front four ranks and down the sides of the wedges stamped their left feet forward and pulled their pilum-wielding right arms back, keeping their shields up as the javelin rain started to fall.

Vespasian watched Paulinus calculating distance in his head, thinking of all the times he had to do the same thing when he had been the legate of the II Augusta. He glanced back at the approaching horde. ‘Three, two, one,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Now.’

Sure enough the cornu sounded and a black cloud of pila rose from the legionaries. It was not continuous because the rears of the wedges were not yet in range, but it was lethal. Lead-weighted iron shafts tore from the sky; at thirty paces out the warriors facing the thinning parts of the wedges were pounded backwards in explosions of blood, screaming, bodies arched and pierced, arms flailing, to crash into those behind, taking them down to entangle the feet of yet more following.

Indentations appeared along the Britannic front and, as they were filled, fifteen paces out, another dark hailstorm slammed into them, pulping faces, pinning shields and shield-arms to bellies, slicing into ribcages to explode out through backs in sprays of crimson that splattered the faces and torsos of the men behind the instant before they impaled themselves on the razor-sharp, protruding points. Down went hundreds more in the limb-thrashing agonies of death; many others were tripped or pulled to the ground, there to die trampled by so many feet that their bodies split open and their offal warmed the earth.

But what were hundreds or even thousands amongst the tens of thousands as Boudicca’s army surged on, howling bare-toothed hate, swords and spears held high, their long moustaches flowing back in the wind of their haste?

With shoulders jammed into shields and heads hunched low, the legionaries braced themselves for the impact, sword in hand, blade protruding beyond shield-rim.

The pilum clouds now erupted from the rears of the wedges, pummelling down hundreds more, but still that made no difference.

And then the horde hit the leading centurions and flooded down the sides of the wedges so that it seemed to Vespasian, further up the slope looking down, that the wedges themselves were moving forward, penetrating the Britannic body with the ease of a needle into an eye.

But, as they pushed in up to the hilt, the wedges took the velocity out of the massed charge for the impacts were spread and the weight of more than one hundred thousand was dispelled so that what could have been a hammer blow that sent the Roman line reeling back did no more than bow it slightly. A massed grunting and groaning erupted from both sides as the strain shifted back and forth until equilibrium was settled. And it was at this point that the Roman war machine roared into action. Cocooned behind their shields, held firm against the shock of impact, the legionaries down each side of the wedges had room to wield their blades so that the teeth themselves sprang teeth. Swift and sure they worked them through the gaps between their shields and their comrades’ next to them, slanted at the same angle of the wedge to present a smooth surface. Stab, pierce, twist left and right, withdraw again and again, no matter if they killed the same flesh twice or thrice as the grinding of the war machine continued.

Pressed together in the crush of the attack the Britannic warriors had not the room to wield their blades with the freedom that they relished in individual combat; they could do little more than hack, in downward strokes, with their long swords or jab, overarm, with spears at heads and shoulders. These, however, were protected by the shields of the legionaries behind them and the warriors did no more than scar the legion’s emblem blazoned on boards or blunt their blades on bosses. And upright they died and upright they remained long after their deaths, oozing fluids as their cadavers were pierced again and again for want of fresher flesh, held fast by the press of the tens of thousands behind desiring only to sweep the Romans to their doom.

But the men of Paulinus’ army had no intention of letting that be so; now they had absorbed the impact, now they had started to kill and feel the warmth of the blood and urine of their enemies splatter down their legs and onto their feet, now that their comrades around them still stood firm and fought as one, now that they knew that they had not been driven back by the headlong charge and now that they realised that there could not be another; now, because of all those factors, the men of Paulinus’ army started to believe that they could triumph and that the field would end the day carpeted with the bodies of their foes and not their own. And so they doubled their efforts, not only now working their swords but punching also with their shield-bosses to clear away the upright, lolling dead and expose new targets. Down the corpses slithered, leaving trails of dark slime smeared on Roman shields; second rank legionaries stabbed into them in case a vestige of life remained in one, enough to punch a knife up into the groin of the man straddling them as, without any signal but rather from the collective consciousness of every component of the war machine, the Roman formation took a step forward.

Now it was with joy, not fear, that they worked their blades and Vespasian sucked in a lungful of air, realising that he had been holding his breath since the first contact a couple of hundred racing heartbeats ago. ‘We can do this,’ he said to no one in particular, and probably no one heard for the din of battle raged and no one looked at him because it was virtually impossible to tear eyes away from the wondrous sight just down the hill.

Vespasian glanced over at Paulinus; the Governor sat bolt upright in the saddle, both fists clenched, pulled tight to his stomach, his jaw jutted and his eyes staring so intently at his men as he willed them on that they seemed to be bursting from their sockets.

With another phenomenal effort, Paulinus’ army took another step forward and the first signs that warriors in the forward ranks of the Britannic mass were having second thoughts about remaining in combat started to manifest themselves: individuals turned their heads to see if a way clear was possible, some here and there even tried to force their passage back, receiving wounds to their kidneys from the relentless swordwork of men who just wanted to kill in revenge for the fear that they had been made to feel by the sight of so vast an army.

On the Roman blades worked, sheened dark with blood and faeces, slicing into Boudicca’s army, instilling terror where there had once been confidence. Whether Boudicca was aware of this or whether it was some other power who ordered it forward, Vespasian knew not; but what he was suddenly conscious of, as was every other man, friend or foe alike, was a cold dread approaching from the heart of the Britannic horde, a cold dread that he had felt before and it was close again. He looked up; dead centre between the tips on the first and second cohorts’ wedges was a swirl in the enemy mass as warriors, despite the crush, shoved each other out of the way to make room for a group of filthy, matted beings surrounding Boudicca. Myrddin was coming at the call of the Queen and he had summoned his powers channelled from the dark gods of the indigenous people of this isle; gods for whom the great henges had been built long before the Celtic tribes’ arrival with their druidical priests more than twenty-five generations before. Gods whose secrets the druids had rediscovered and whose powers, now, only the druids understood; and Boudicca had chosen to wield them.

Through the mass of warriors came the sacred band of druids surrounding the Queen, brandishing writhing serpents and symbols of the sun and moon, wailing invocations to the gods of the Celts and the darker gods of those before, adding fervour, as they progressed, to the warriors already in combat and a desire to engage in those who were not. Wherever they passed, the intensity of the fighting grew as they inspired the Britannic warriors, imbuing within them a new strength born out of the chill fear they had conjured. With Myrddin leading, they went in a straight line for he was heading for the weakest point at the centre of the Roman formation where two wedges segued together, a place where the line was only two men deep. It was a place, Vespasian knew, where Myrddin, inspiring the warriors around him, could cause the Roman army to be riven in two.

And Paulinus knew that too for he pulled his horse about and raced back to the waiting Batavians. ‘Tribune,’ he said, in a calm voice but edged with tension, to Titus as he pulled up, ‘I need your men to reinforce that weak spot. My lads won’t stand for long against Myrddin, they know of his terror from Mona, which is why we couldn’t capture or kill him. But he can die like any other man and perhaps your boys have as good a chance as any having not yet learnt to fear him.’

Titus saluted and then looked down at the advancing druids now just twenty paces from the junction of the wedges. ‘We’ll do our best, sir.’

‘We’ll do more than that,’ Sabinus said, his eyes locked on the cause of so much suffering, ‘we’ll take his heart and head.’

Doubt registered on Paulinus face. ‘Do you know what you’re up against, senator?’

‘Yes; and the reason why I came back to this shithole was to have a chance of completing my unfinished business with him.’

Paulinus nodded and turned away.

Titus barked the order to advance at Jorik; the decurion repeated it in Batavian and the signaller blew a shrill note on his
lituus
, the long cavalry horn with an upturned end. The standard dipped and the cavalry unit moved forward at a walk.

Vespasian judged the distance between them and the crucial point. ‘We need to hurry, Titus.’

‘Sound the trot,’ Titus ordered Jorik as they moved on down the hill.

A series of shrill notes quickened the Batavians’ pace as Myrddin and Boudicca approached the join between the first and second cohorts; around them warriors fought with the abandonment of fanatics, pressing the legionaries hard, pushing them back, stretching the bow. Across the rest of the field the Romans still made progress, advancing step by step, thus making this push in the centre so much more likely to succeed as the line was being strained. On the far right there were signs of the Britannic warriors fleeing in large numbers as Cogidubnus’ Regni and Atrebates auxiliaries triumphed against their fellow countrymen; but all that success would be for nought if the centre broke. Should that happen the entire army would soon be enveloped and then it would just be a matter of meticulous slaughter. And that was what Boudicca had realised; this, now that the initial charge had not swept the Romans away, was her only hope.

Vespasian felt his heart pumping as, with another blast of the
lituus
, their speed increased to a canter down the hill. Myrddin was less than fifty paces away and already the legionaries before him had started to give ground, so furious now was the assault by warriors inspired by his and Boudicca’s presence.

As they came to twenty paces from the rearmost legionaries the line bowed even further so that they were now no longer shoulder to shoulder, working as one, but, rather, becoming isolated, a target for the individualistic combat so favoured by the Britons. The Roman formation was cracking and, with a chilling series of imprecations, Myrddin cast his serpents over the heads of his warriors and onto the wavering legionaries; and with them he cast the fear of his power, a cold power that cannot be used for good, and it froze the heart of all who felt it and the soldiers of Rome within its net either turned and ran or stood transfixed with fear to be cut down by merciless slashes as Boudicca screamed her followers on.

Britannic warriors now began to pour through the gap and turned left and right onto the rear of the legionaries to either side.

A shudder went through the first and second cohorts.

‘Release and charge!’ Titus screamed at the top of his voice and the two hundred troopers under his command thundered towards the breech, hurling their javelins at the densely packed flesh as they did, as more of the Iceni flooded through.

His javelin spent, Vespasian drew his sword and felt the cold fear of Myrddin creep towards his heart; he wanted nothing more than to turn and escape the dread that he induced but his mount carried him on, unmoved by fear of human gods. Thus every horse in the half ala carried the charge home, despite their riders’ terror; they piled into the warriors and the Batavians forced themselves to use their swords. Down their blades flashed; Vespasian’s arm jolted at the first impact, slicing through a collarbone. To his left, Titus reared up his horse so that the beast’s forelegs thrashed out, cracking a skull and snapping an arm. To his other side, Sabinus, leaning forward, hacked his way on, his hatred bare and overcoming the cold aura emanating from his target, now just ten paces away. Magnus, never one for mounted combat, had hung back with his dogs, waiting for a chance of work more to his liking. A bestial screech from next to him, as Vespasian cleaved open a baying man’s helm, and Titus’ horse reared up even further, a spear deep in its chest; upright it was in its agony and Titus clung to its mane but could not keep his seat. He slithered down the dying beast and hit the ground, feet first, just managing to dodge out of the way as the horse arced over and collapsed onto its back. Warriors, keen to take advantage of a dismounted officer, surged towards him as Vespasian desperately tried to turn his mount left, towards his son, but found himself having to defend to the right; a quick glance over his shoulder told him that Titus was struggling to hold off the attack; a sword swiped at neck height but Jorik forced his mount forward to take the blow on its shoulder. The beast went down, toppling its rider into the mass of warriors and blocking them from Titus, leaving Jorik to perish beneath the blades of the Iceni as the Batavians slogged forward.