river. Pass that on, centurion, and pass the word for Gallus to report to me.’
As Corbulo’s warning was relayed down the column other shouts and cries could be heard coming from a wood half a mile further down the river to the east.
‘Mauricius has found their cavalry,’ Corbulo guessed. ‘Let us hope that he can hold them for long enough.’
‘How will he get across?’ Vespasian asked. Corbulo didn’t answer.
They were a hundred paces from the river. The third rope had now been secured and the engineers had started work on a fourth. Two hundred paces to their right Caepio had formed up his Gallic auxiliaries to cover any flank attack should the Thracians break through Mauricius’ cavalry.
Gallus brought his horse to the trot next to his commanding officer and saluted. ‘Sir, the river is between four and five feet deep and the current is very strong. We have lost one man swept away already.’ His face betrayed a mixture of nerves and excitement at the promise of his first action.
‘Thank you, tribune. Gentlemen, speed and efficiency are the keys,’ Corbulo said to his two young subordinates. ‘Gallus, the second cohort will cross first with the mule train and then form up on the far bank facing the enemy. Vespasian, your cohort will form up, two centuries deep, here, to cover their crossing and that of the auxiliaries, if there are any left. Have your men pile their packs by the ropes before forming up.’ Corbulo looked towards the wooded area downstream whence the clash of weapons and the screams of wounded still came. ‘If we are attacked we shall make a fighting withdrawal century by century; Faustus’ century will be the last to cross. Call in the scouts, they’re no use to us out there now, we know what’s coming; then get your freedman to lead the carts into the water upstream of the ropes and keep them there, just the carts, not the pack-mules. Hopefully they’ll slow the speed of the water and fewer men will be swept away.’
‘Yes, sir!’ They both saluted.
‘And, Gallus,’ Corbulo continued, ‘if we are attacked and I don’t make it over, cut the ropes, stay formed up on that side and oppose their crossing, that’s the best chance that you’ll have. If you try to run they’ll catch you and cut you to pieces.’
CHAPTER XXI
Magnus had been less than pleased with his role, but, grumbling, had taken the carts to their position in the river. As the mules struggled to keep their heads above the flow one of teams panicked. The animals broke their harnesses, and they, the load and their driver had been swept away in the freezing torrent, almost taking one of the ropes with them. The rest, perhaps chastened by the fate of their fellows, resigned themselves to their task and held their positions.
Vespasian sat on his horse to the rear of the second century of his cohort, at the centre of the Roman line; next to him waited the cohort’s cornicen. Each century stood four men deep and twenty men across. Caepio’s four turmae of Gauls covered their left flank and the Thessalian light cavalry their right. Spread out in skirmish order in front of them was the fifty-strong unit of light archers.
Behind him Corbulo and Gallus marshalled the second cohort in front of the two upstream ropes and the pack-mules by the two downstream. The crossing began. The men, eager to have the river between them and the enemy, ignored the freezing temperature of the water and, with shields slung across their backs, began to haul themselves across, one hand holding on to the ropes, a foot above the surface, the other clutching their pack-poles and pila.
The first two centuries crossed without mishap and were forming up, sodden, on the far bank, when from up the slope in front of Vespasian, audible even over the rush of the water, came a great shout. The Thracian war band appeared over the crest of the hill and stood silhouetted against the late-afternoon sky. They gave another huge roar, clashed their javelins against their oval shields, and then started to jog steadily down the slope.
A wave of fear rippled through the cohort of new legionaries.
‘Steady, lads,’ Faustus called from his position in the front rank next to the signifer, ‘remember your training. Hold the line, listen for the cornu signals, release your pila when ordered and then shields together, weight on your left legs and stab through the gaps. You’ll break their mothers’ hearts.’
A nervous cheer went up from the ranks.
‘That’s not a cheer,’ Faustus roared. ‘That sounded to me like the squealing of a gaggle of Mesopotamian bum-boys getting it up the arse for the first time. Now give me a cheer worthy of the Fourth Scythica.’
Their confidence boosted by the redoubtable Faustus, the legionaries raised a mighty cheer and began to bang their shields rhythmically with their pila. The noise was deafening, but still the Thracians came on.
Vespasian looked back to the river; the pace of the crossing had quickened with the now-visible threat of the Thracians only a half a mile away. Four centuries were over and the last two were in the water. They would be able to start withdrawing his cohort soon, but not without first engaging the enemy. It would be, as Corbulo had said, a fighting withdrawal; he hoped that his men would have the discipline for such a manoeuvre.
Then disaster struck. The mule team nearest the far bank, unable to take the noise and the rushing water any more, bolted for dry land. Caught unawares by the sudden lurch their driver was hauled off his seat on the cart and swept downstream, the reins still around his wrists. The power of the current caused the reins to yank the terrified beasts to their right, toppling them and their wagon. The whole lot swept into the first line of legionaries, plucking eight from the rope as it crashed through them and on into the second line. The men on the second rope had time to see it coming. They dropped their packs and pila in order to hold on with both hands. The cart, the thrashing mules and their comrades cascaded into the legionaries, entangling them in a mesh of limbs, reins and wheel spokes. They held on for dear life and for a moment the whole avalanche slowed, straining the rope. The men to the front of the mess scrambled as fast as they could for the safety of the bank, whilst those behind shouted at their comrades to let go, but to no avail. With a sickening inevitability the weight on the rope wrenched the tree to which it was tied on the far bank from the ground, its roots already loosened by years of erosion. The rope with its cargo of men and debris arced out into the current towards the last of the pack-mules on the third rope. The unfortunate creatures were knocked off balance and away downstream taking those from the fourth rope with them, their handlers saving themselves by dropping their leads and clinging with both hands to the still secure ropes.
Vespasian watched as Corbulo and Gallus raced around trying to restore order to the crossing, but his attention was soon drawn away by the mounting noise of his men and their opponents. The Thracians were only two hundred paces away. With Corbulo busy down at the crossing it would now be down to him to issue the signals. He knew the theory from his lessons with Sabinus, all those months ago. He had seen them work in training on the march from Italia, but he had never seen them given for real. He knew that the timing was everything.
The archers to their front let off three quick long-range volleys bringing down nearly eighty of the tightly packed war band, but doing nothing to halt their advance.
‘Open ranks!’ he shouted at the cornicen. The low notes of the G-shaped instrument rumbled over the field, its deep tone audible to all over the din of battle cries. Immediately every other man of each century stepped behind his comrade to the right, creating passages for the now retreating archers to run through.
‘Close ranks!’ The cornicen sounded a different call and the manoeuvre was reversed.
Unencumbered by body armour the Thracians increased their speed steadily. They were a hundred paces out. Vespasian knew it would come soon.
‘Shields up!’ Again the cornu sounded. The rear three ranks raised their semi-cylindrical rectangular shields and stepped forward to hold them over the heads of the men in front of them. They created a patchwork roof that, if firmly supported, would keep those beneath safe from javelin, arrow or slingshot.
At forty paces from the Roman line the Thracians let out a huge roar and hurled their javelins. Hundreds of the iron-tipped missiles soared into the air and then arced down towards the three centuries and the cavalry to their flanks. With a thunderous clatter, like hail on an ox-hide drum, they rained down on to the waiting shields of the legionaries, thumping into the leather-covered two-inch-thick wood. The temporary roof held firm, with only the occasional scream indicating the inexperience of some rookie who had fatally let down his comrade to the front. The few gaps were immediately closed.
‘Shields down!’ Another blast from the cornu and the men lowered their shields, snapping off any javelins still
