‘There!’ A sharp-eyed young aide saw it first, just a tiny pinprick of light that quickly flared into something bigger, then another, and another. It was the signal Vespasian had been waiting for. He wriggled backwards down the slope until he was certain he wouldn’t be seen, then stood up as the others followed suit. Replacing his helmet with exaggerated ceremony, he turned to the senior tribune.
‘Order the men forward. And remember, every man beyond this ridge is an enemy of Rome and will be treated accordingly.’
Narcissus stood at the general’s shoulder as the long lines of Roman soldiers moved past them and disappeared over the brow of the hill. There was no urgency in the movement, only discipline and precision; the same discipline and precision that had carried these men and their forebears to the ends of the earth and defeated every foe; the discipline and precision that had won Rome the greatest Empire the world had ever seen.
He felt a hand on his shoulder and Vespasian’s strong voice in his ear.
‘You have shown you can scheme, spy. Now we will see if you can fight.’
XXXI
‘Lord?’ Caratacus heard the concern in his shield-bearer’s voice and suppressed a small stirring of irritation.
‘What is it?’ He didn’t turn his head. He had been concentrating on the river, attempting to interpret the sounds from the bridges and gauge the extent of the Roman progress. It was a bad moment to disturb him and he knew his voice was brusque.
‘Lord,’ the lad was pleading. ‘Look. To the west.’
Now he turned, and when he followed the pointing finger he was frozen by a momentary shiver of panic. At least a dozen huts, probably more, were blazing in the Dobunni encampment. It was impossible. There must have been some kind of accident. He shook his head. Don’t be a fool. This is no accident. Antedios was right, and he had underestimated the enemy. He willed himself to be calm. Fear was contagious. The chiefs around him must believe this was something he had prepared for.
‘Send a runner to Togodumnus,’ he ordered, deliberately keeping his voice steady. ‘Tell him I must know what is happening. Every detail of it.’
A messenger trotted off into the darkness, but he had only been gone for a few minutes when one of Togodumnus’s Dobunni warriors appeared, gasping for breath.
‘My… my…’
‘Wait,’ Caratacus admonished him gently. ‘The knowledge you carry is only of use if I can understand what you are saying. Recover your wind and be calm.’
The warrior nodded and stood sucking in air for a few moments. When he was ready, he straightened and looked the king in the eye. ‘My lord Togodumnus bids you to send reinforcements immediately. The Dobunni have been attacked by a force two legions strong.’ A murmur of dismay ran around the men surrounding him and Caratacus realized he should have received the message in private. But it was too late now. He raised a hand for silence and told the messenger to continue.
‘We are hard-pressed, but holding them. My lord is of the opinion that with the Iceni and the Durotriges under his command he will be able to crush the Romans and slaughter them to the last man.’
Caratacus felt Scarach stiffen at his side and put out a hand to calm him. Whatever he decided there was little chance the Durotrige war leader would agree to serve under Togodumnus. ‘And what does your lord believe we should use to fight the Romans here, where the main attack will come, when he has taken half my forces?’
The man chewed his lip. What he was about to say was not the sort of thing messengers wanted to tell kings, particularly not kings with Caratacus’s reputation. ‘My… my lord Togodumnus is of the opinion that the Dobunni are facing the main attack. He says… believes.. you have allowed yourself to be tricked by the Romans and urges you to join him against them and leave a small force here to hold the diversionary attack from the bridges.’
Scarach growled, but Caratacus ignored him. He walked forward to the edge of the hill and stared into the darkness. What was happening out there? He waited, feeling the pressure from the men behind him who wanted an instant decision, but knowing he must not react to it. Every instinct told him the main attack would come across the bridges. It was the Roman way. An assault in overwhelming strength that would grind the enemy into dust. Togodumnus must be wrong. It was impossible for the Romans to have crossed the river upstream with so many men. There wasn’t a ford for ten miles and Ballan’s riders had searched the whole length of the bank. For a moment his thoughts turned to the Iceni scout. Surely he should have returned by now. No. No time for that. He made his decision.
‘Tell your lord he must hold the Romans in place. Tell him I do not wish him to attack them, but to find a defensive position where he can protect my flank and hold it. Nuada?’ He called the Druid across. ‘You will accompany this man to the king of the Dobunni, see for yourself the strength of the enemy and his dispositions so that I may assess the threat, and return immediately you are certain of the position.’ He nodded in dismissal. Nuada didn’t like it, but what could he do? He needed to know what was happening, not what Togodumnus’s overactive imagination was telling him. He could see the messenger was reluctant to go and he didn’t blame him. Togodumnus was unlikely to take the reply well. He turned back to the assembled chiefs of the Catuvellauni, the Iceni, the Trinovantes and the Durotriges.
‘The main attack will come here, and when it comes we will choke the river with Roman corpses. The gods will it.’ The final four words echoed in his head and in the same instant his heart soared when he heard a clap of thunder as the gods reaffirmed their will. It took a second before he realized the sound was not thunder. It was the clash of wood and leather and metal as two mighty walls of shields met with a force that shook the earth. And it came from downstream.
It was impossible. How had they crossed the river in the east? It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that they were there. His army was caught between three Roman forces, any one of which might be strong enough to destroy him. The fine trap he had manufactured would become the graveyard of his warriors. His first instinct was to gather the bulk of his forces to meet the most obvious threat, from downstream, but he dashed the thought from his head. There was a greater danger, and it would come from across the river where he still sensed the bulk of the legionary force waited. His mind, which had been on the very brink of panic, cleared, and in extremity, he decided, there was an opportunity. Plautius had split his command. If — and it was an enormous if — he was given time to defeat the main thrust from the south, across the river, he could then attack each of the diversionary forces in turn. He undoubtedly still outnumbered his enemy and the deadly obstacles still lay submerged under the placid waters of the lagoon. It would be costly, bloody work and there would be many thousands of weeping widows by nightfall, but it was still possible to shatter the Romans, here, on the Tamesa.
But first he must buy himself time. Epedos and Bodvoc would have been surprised by the assault from downstream, but the very fact they were able to organize a defence line to meet the attack meant someone had reacted swiftly enough to ensure a crisis hadn’t turned into a disaster. Still, they would be hard-pressed.
‘Antedios? Take your Iceni and support the Atrebates and the Regni.’ He was giving up his precious reserves, but it had to be done. He was conscious of a greater pressure from that direction than from upriver, where he felt certain Togodumnus had overestimated the threat. ‘If it is your judgement that the Romans have been stopped you may return here to your positions, but I must have time to meet and destroy the main attack across the river. This is still the greatest danger. Do you understand?’
The Iceni king nodded. He was unused to being given orders like some beardless boy before his first battle, but he was aware of the gravity of the situation and had pledged his support for Caratacus. The sky was clearing now, heralding a sharp, crisp morning that reminded a man he must look to the crops that would see him through the winter. He had fought in more battles than he could remember, but his bones were creaking with age and his body was beginning to fail him. Would this be his last? With ponderous dignity he was helped on to the back of his pony, and he gave a final salute as he rode off at the head of his tribe.
At last, Caratacus could turn his attention to the river. It was light enough to see the far bank now, but the morning mist still blanketed any activity there or on the river itself. The only evidence was the sound of the bridge builders at work, and the frantic hammering and splashing told him they were close to completing their task. Every
