javelins.
A great shout rent the air and both Cholon and Titus turned in their saddles, just in time to see Aquila, at the head of the princeps of the 18th Legion, take the crest of the ridge, his enemies in full flight before him.
Their next battle was at a heavily contested river-crossing, the main problem being that there was no room on the opposite bank to deploy, since, apart from a narrow strip of land, the rock rose sheer for a hundred feet. Titus had searched the river up and down its length for an easier passage, but in his bones he knew there was nothing. The mere presence of his enemies, in such force, on the opposite hills was proof of that. But the one asset that the Roman legion had in this situation was that they could all swim; the other advantage lay in their discipline. A well-trained army could attack at night — something denied to wild hordes of barbarians. Titus rested his men throughout the day, with only the rearguard engaged in any meaningful way, and stood down his auxiliaries; this was no task for local troops.
Then, using the cover of cloud, interspersed with fitful moonlight, he threw a line of cavalry across the river, well downstream, each soldier and horse roped to the other. These men and their horses would stay there all night, set to catch anyone swept away by the force of the water. Then, in almost pitch darkness, the most experienced heavy infantrymen, with ropes tied round their middle and stakes lashed to their backs, followed the velites into the water, holding clear their great metal-topped hammers. Aquila was at their head, his red-gold hair with the white band lashed round it picking up what little light existed. He swam swiftly to the other bank, forming the skirmishers into a defensive screen that would allow their comrades to work. The first the defenders knew of the coming assault was the sound of those stakes being driven into the damp riverside earth. The ropes were lashed to the stakes and at a steady pace Titus pushed his infantry across.
Aquila had already led his skirmishers up the steep slope, so that the tribesmen found themselves engaged in battle before they were properly awake. Fighting in the dark is terrifying, never knowing where the enemy is; or if the ghostly shape in front of you is friend or foe. Such hand-to-hand combat required a steely determination that the defenders lacked. Titus had the horns sounded continuously, and out of tune, from the moment the first stake was driven into the earth. This cacophony bounced off the rocks, multiplying and, added to the screams of the attackers, making the defenders feel that they were under attack from some horrifying monster. Each of Aquila’s men had, like him, a white cloth tied round his head. The Romans, even in the dim light, could identify their enemies, and they extracted a heavy toll long before the heavier troops arrived to take over the assault.
Yet someone gathered them into a cohesive line, shouting commands that Aquila heard clearly. He sent a messenger back to warn Titus, well aware that the effect, initially, would be minimal. The Celts started to throw their javelins over the heads of the Romans on the cliff, aiming them in the general direction of the river. With such a mass of men in the water, struggling across the foaming torrent on dozens of ropes, many found a target. The screams of the wounded added to all the other noises of battle that echoed off the rock face, and, downstream, the line of cavalry found that they were indeed required, if only to stop the bodies of drowned men flowing all the way to the sea.
When they ran out of spears, a distinct horn sounded, and the defence evaporated, leaving the Romans no one to fight.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The fog swirled around them, making their long, curled brass horns sound like something from the underworld. Few would have sailed into this, but Marcellus blessed the mist, for it could mean he would get his men ashore unopposed. They had spotted the first of the Lusitani the day before on the eastern shore, following them on land as the fleet made its way north. As darkness fell, beacons were lit on the hilltops so that the message would proceed ahead of those on foot, who could not be expected, in the dark, to match the pace of well-rowed galleys. To the west lay an endless expanse of sea and beyond that the edge of the world, peopled by demons and sea- nymphs who fed on human flesh and turned the wits of those they did not eat.
Nothing could be seen of east or west in this mist. In the bows, the slow chant of the leadsman, calling out the depth of water beneath the keel, added a nerve-jangling litany to the ethereal call of the horns. Marcellus was with the fellow doing the casting, listening carefully to the depths, for they were in shoal water, perhaps surrounded by jagged rocks, with his ship in the very lead, each galley in the fleet taking station right behind the one ahead. If he could get through whatever they faced, so could they.
‘Sand on the line,’ called the leadsman, before casting it ahead again.
The quinquereme rowed on slowly, its forward movement carrying it to a point where the line was vertical. The leadsman hauled quickly, pulling it out of the water, examining the tallow at the end to see what lay on the bottom, then, swinging it in an ever-widening circle, cast it forward again.
‘Give the order for silence,’ said Marcellus to a sailor standing behind him. ‘No more horns. And you, leadsman, whisper to me.’
The sailor rushed to obey and his young commander strained forward. They were close inshore now, and the sound of the waves would tell him if he had guessed right. If they crashed unevenly and noisily, he would be on a rocky shore, in grave danger of holing his ship and sinking, but if he heard the hiss of water running evenly up a beach, then he would be safe. Marcellus could put men ashore and start to build the first Roman stockade in Lusitani territory.
The fog lifted like a curtain suddenly whisked aside. Marcellus did not look back to see if the other galleys were still hidden, being too taken by the sight that greeted him on the sandy shore: rows and rows of Lusitani tribesmen, their spear tips glinting in the watery sun, lined the golden beach. A great roar welcomed him, with the spears jabbing impatiently, and threateningly, in the air. In the middle of the throng stood a magnificently clad chieftain, who opened his arms, shield in one hand, sword in the other, in a gesture intended to invite them to do battle.
‘Steer parallel to the shore,’ he called and the galley swung round, each ship emerging from the fog doing likewise, eventually anchoring in a line that matched the serried ranks of warriors waiting for them to try and wade ashore.
‘Well, Regimus, what do you think?’
The older man rubbed his short, iron-grey hair. ‘Not a single ship. We’ve haven’t seen one the whole way here.’
‘No,’ replied Marcellus. ‘Yet these Lusitani are here. It’s as though they knew in advance that this were where we intended to land.’
‘Oh, they knew all right. All that beacon-burning was just to make sure we came as far as this bay. I daresay everyone in Portus Albus knew where we were headed by the time we sailed.’
Marcellus stood still, his eyes fixed on the edge of the shore. He could see the line of weed by the feet of the front rank of warriors; between that and the sea, the sand was wet, which told him they had been there since high tide. If the warriors had waited that long on land, then it was a fair bet that the ships would be at sea, full of men, ready to fall on their rear.
‘Well, Legatus?’ asked Regimus, neatly underlining, by the unusual use of Marcellus’s rank, that the sole responsibility lay with him.
Marcellus smiled. ‘I’ve no intention of retreating, Regimus, though I’m not averse to letting them think I am.’
He turned and looked at the bank of offshore fog. The indentation on the shore was like a capsule, with the mountains at the back, the arms of the bay on each side running into the fog, forming an impenetrable wall to the rear.
‘I think they’re hoping we’ll attack.’
Marcellus interrupted, still smiling. ‘At which point their ships will come in and try to catch us in the water as we wade ashore.’
‘That thought might cheer you up, Marcellus Falerius, but it makes my blood go cold.’
The young legate laughed. ‘Don’t be silly, Regimus. Can’t you see we’ve got them in a trap?’
The rings of earthworks, in the morning light, seemed to rise one upon the other like some gigantic temple. Below Numantia, in front of their position, two rivers cut a wide swathe through the countryside. The only route of
