With a defiant roar the Britons, in ornate helmets, kite shields and long swords, charged the Roman line.
‘Javelins! Release at will!’ Macro just had time to shout and the lead centuries of the cohort hurled an uneven volley that arced in a low trajectory straight for the British swordsmen. As always there was an instant of silence as the javelins swept down and their targets braced themselves for the impact. Then came a sharp crack and clatter followed by screams. Many of the javelins had lodged firmly in the British shields. Their soft iron shafts bent on impact and made it impossible for the recipients to throw them back or dislodge them from their shields, which then had to be discarded. After the javelin volley the legionaries quickly drew swords and closed with the Britons who were still reeling from the javelins. No amount of courage could withstand the ruthless efficiency of vigorous training and equipment specifically designed for such confined fighting conditions, and the Roman cohorts steadily pushed their way inside the fortifications. The superior numbers of the enemy, which might have made all the difference in an open battlefield, were here a handicap. The Britons were herded together in a tight press and cut down by the short swords stabbing out from between a wall of large rectangular shields.
The Sixth Century moved out to a flanking position once the cohort had fought its way through the gateway into a vast area of crude tents and other shelters erected by Caratacus’ army. Between the Second Legion and the two other legions now fighting all along the earthworks, thousands of Britons were massed. There was a momentary lull as the enemy suddenly realised the grim reality of their predicament, caught between two Roman forces with no easy escape route. Their chiefs realised the danger they were in and strove to bring some semblance of order to their men before the battle turned into a massacre.
In the middle of the Second Legion’s battle line Cato stood shoulder to shoulder with his centurion in the dense ranks of men waiting for the order to finish the fight. On the extreme right of the Roman line Vespasian gave the order to advance; the command was quickly passed along to each cohort and moments later, behind a wall of shields, the legion moved forward at the slow, even pace of the unit advance. Those slingers and archers still supplied with ammunition kept up their fire on the Roman ranks, but the shield wall proved to be all but impenetrable. In desperation the British warriors started to hurl themselves forward, directly into the shields, to try and break up the line.
‘Watch it!’ Macro shouted as a huge man lumbered in towards Cato at an oblique angle. The optio swung his shield left and thrust the boss towards the man’s face. He felt something connect and then automatically thrust his short sword into the man’s guts, twisted and withdrew the blade. The Briton groaned and collapsed to one side.
‘Nice kill!’ Macro smiled, in his element, as he stuck another Briton in the chest and kicked the man free of his weapon. Two or three men of the Sixth Century, overcome by the desire to get at the enemy, burst forward, out of the Roman line.
‘Get back in the ranks!’ Macro bellowed. ‘I’ve got your names!’ The men, instantly stilled by his voice, slunk back and rejoined the formation, not daring to meet the centurion’s withering gaze, for the moment more concerned about the inevitable disciplinary punishment than the present fight.
The battle on the palisade was over and the men of the Fourteenth Legion were pushing the Britons back down the reverse slope into their encampment. Caught between the two forces, the Britons fought for their lives with a wild desperation that Cato found truly terrifying. The savage faces, flecked with spittle from their hoarse screams, confronted him like the spirits of devils. The Roman army’s training took over and the sequence of advance-thrust,
‘Javelins! Release at will!’ Macro just had time to shout and the lead centuries of the cohort hurled an uneven volley that arced in a low trajectory straight for the British swordsmen. As always there was an instant of silence as the javelins swept down and their targets braced themselves for the impact. Then came a sharp crack and clatter followed by screams. Many of the javelins had lodged firmly in the British shields. Their soft iron shafts bent on impact and made it impossible for the recipients to throw them back or dislodge them from their shields, which then had to be discarded. After the javelin volley the legionaries quickly drew swords and closed with the Britons who were still reeling from the javelins. No amount of courage could withstand the ruthless efficiency of vigorous training and equipment specifically designed for such confined fighting conditions, and the Roman cohorts steadily pushed their way inside the fortifications. The superior numbers of the enemy, which might have made all the difference in an open battlefield, were here a handicap. The Britons were herded together in a tight press and cut down by the short swords stabbing out from between a wall of large rectangular shields.
The Sixth Century moved out to a flanking position once the cohort had fought its way through the gateway into a vast area of crude tents and other shelters erected by Caratacus’ army. Between the Second Legion and the two other legions now fighting all along the earthworks, thousands of Britons were massed. There was a momentary lull as the enemy suddenly realised the grim reality of their predicament, caught between two Roman forces with no easy escape route. Their chiefs realised the danger they were in and strove to bring some semblance of order to their men before the battle turned into a massacre.
In the middle of the Second Legion’s battle line Cato stood shoulder to shoulder with his centurion in the dense ranks of men waiting for the order to finish the fight. On the extreme right of the Roman line Vespasian gave the order to advance; the command was quickly passed along to each cohort and moments later, behind a wall of shields, the legion moved forward at the slow, even pace of the unit advance. Those slingers and archers still supplied with ammunition kept up their fire on the Roman ranks, but the shield wall proved to be all but impenetrable. In desperation the British warriors started to hurl themselves forward, directly into the shields, to try and break up the line.
‘Watch it!’ Macro shouted as a huge man lumbered in towards Cato at an oblique angle. The optio swung his shield left and thrust the boss towards the man’s face. He felt something connect and then automatically thrust his short sword into the man’s guts, twisted and withdrew the blade. The Briton groaned and collapsed to one side.
‘Nice kill!’ Macro smiled, in his element, as he stuck another Briton in the chest and kicked the man free of his weapon. Two or three men of the Sixth Century, overcome by the desire to get at the enemy, burst forward, out of the Roman line.
‘Get back in the ranks!’ Macro bellowed. ‘I’ve got your names!’ The men, instantly stilled by his voice, slunk back and rejoined the formation, not daring to meet the centurion’s withering gaze, for the moment more concerned about the inevitable disciplinary punishment than the present fight.
The battle on the palisade was over and the men of the Fourteenth Legion were pushing the Britons back down the reverse slope into their encampment. Caught between the two forces, the Britons fought for their lives with a wild desperation that Cato found truly terrifying. The savage faces, flecked with spittle from their hoarse screams, confronted him like the spirits of devils. The Roman army’s training took over and the sequence of advance-thrust,
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