He turned away. He had no time to spare for conversation with fools, even if the fool was Ballan.
‘Not twenty thousand,’ the Iceni whispered, and Caratacus froze. ‘No more than ten. King Epedos and the Atrebates vanished in the night. Antedios, my king, is dead. Bodvoc fights alone.’
XXXII
Rufus was puzzled. He was still alive. They were all still alive.
The British force on the far side of the western battleground dwarfed the thin line of auxiliaries. One all-out charge was surely all it should have taken to sweep the Batavians aside, yet they had made only three half-hearted attacks before withdrawing to the far side of the clearing. Occasionally, one of their champions would emerge to shout insults and a challenge at one of the Roman officers, but the auxiliaries only jeered at their antics. The high tide of the barbarian attack was visible in the scattering of crumpled bodies just in front of Frontinus’s shield wall, the harvest of Batavian throwing spears, but they were only a tiny fraction of the losses the Britons could have afforded to ensure a quick victory.
‘Why don’t they come?’ he asked Frontinus.
The Batavian shrugged, unmoved as he had been when the British attacks had splintered on the Roman spears. ‘Perhaps they are afraid of Bersheba?’
‘That would be like Bersheba being afraid of a rabbit.’
Frontinus grinned. ‘Then I think they lack a leader. By now they will know they are attacked on three sides.’ He had informed Rufus of Plautius’s battle plan once he was certain the Second’s crossing would be complete. ‘They will be nervous. If two forces have crossed the river by stealth, why not three? Even now an army could be cutting off their retreat and ensuring their annihilation. They are brave, but their women and children are in the camps yonder, and even a brave man will look to his family when all hope of victory is gone.’
His words made Rufus think of Gaius, back with the Roman baggage train. Was he wondering where his father had gone, or was he too young to understand? Whatever the answer he wished he was with his son now.
‘Commander!’ The warning shout came from one of the auxiliaries in the front rank. Frontinus marched over to him and looked to the far side of the field, where a horseman in a silvery grey robe rode at the side of a British chariot, the first they’d seen that day. The man standing beside the chariot driver wore the glittering symbols of his rank, heavy golden torcs which ringed his neck and arms. His green cloak was pushed back from his shoulders, but otherwise he was naked to the waist, and even from three hundred paces Rufus could see he was powerfully built.
‘There is your leader,’ Frontinus shouted back to him.
Nuada had finally tracked Togodumnus down to his hut in the centre of the Dobunni encampment. It had been evident as soon as the Druid set eyes on the tiny Roman force that Caratacus’s brother had exaggerated the danger, and equally evident that Caratacus would not have ordered Togodumnus merely to hold his line if he’d known the paucity of the Roman forces. The sub-chiefs of the Dobunni were unable to meet his eyes when he demanded to know where Togodumnus was, but he’d soon discovered the king had retired, sulking, to his hut when he’d heard of his brother’s refusal to support him. He could have used subtler methods to stir him from his torpor — Togodumnus was a king, after all — but Nuada was a Druid, and a Druid of little patience. It hadn’t been difficult. A man who has been brought up in the shadow of priests will be for ever susceptible to their magic. The knowledge that his private parts would turn black and fall from his body if he remained where he was soon restored Togodumnus’s courage, if not his spirit.
But now that he was back with his army, it seemed he was having another change of heart. Nuada reined in his pony in the centre of the Dobunni line and Togodumnus told his charioteer to halt. He stared towards the Batavian shield wall.
‘Caratacus ordered me to hold the Romans, not to attack them. Am I to disobey his orders?’
Nuada smiled through gritted teeth. Worm, he thought, it will be the first time you have obeyed them, and the last. But when he spoke it was with the silken voice of reason. ‘Your brother was unaware of the true circumstances, Lord Togodumnus. The two legions which attacked you have evidently retreated across the river in fear of your vengeance, and left this paltry force of mercenaries as a sacrifice to appease your wrath.’ He waved a disdainful hand at the Roman line, which looked pathetically thin and weak when compared to the Dobunni host facing them. ‘Lord Caratacus would squash them like a flea, and he would expect a mighty champion like his brother to do the same.’
Togodumnus stared across the gap towards the Romans. The defeat at the first river line — despite his protestations to the contrary, he was forced to admit it had been a defeat — had left him nervous of the power of the legions. Yes, there were comparatively few of the lightly armed auxiliaries, but he had seen them fight and had learned to fear them. There had been reports of movement in the trees along the clifftops to the Roman left that he didn’t like. He turned to Nuada, who had dismounted from his pony. ‘I understand your concern, Nuada, and I share it, but in all honour I cannot disobey my brother’s orders without a counter-order or…’ he gave a smile that made the Druid’s hackles rise like a brindle hound’s, ‘a sign from the gods.’
Nuada stared at him for a moment, not hiding his contempt. He looked to the skies, hoping a convenient cloud would cover the sun, but the heavens were a dome of perfect blue. Not even a solitary hawk to claim as a messenger.
‘I-’ He had just opened his mouth to reason with the fool, when a gigantic, impossibly loud roar shook the trees and shattered the silence. He felt his heart swell and said a swift prayer of thanks. As he turned in triumph towards the Roman lines he had a glimpse of Togodumnus’s face, ivory white. Why had he not noticed it earlier? Of course, it was almost perfectly camouflaged against the grey stone at the base of the cliffs.
He raised his bear claw and pointed it towards Bersheba, the Emperor’s elephant.
‘There!’ he roared, so all could hear it, even those at the furthest wings of the Dobunni attack. ‘There is your sign. Kill the beast and the gods will wash these accursed invaders from our land and hurl them into the sea. Kill the beast and free this land of Britain. Kill the beast and ensure a hundred years of peace.’ More quietly, but in a tone even more commanding, he said, ‘There, Lord Togodumnus, is your honour and your fame. Kill the beast and none will dare say the name of Caratacus in your hearing again.’
Togodumnus stared back at him, his eyes bright with… what? Fear? No, the opposite. The Dobunni king’s thin lips drew back from his teeth in a feral snarl and he tapped his charioteer on the right shoulder.
‘Attack!’ His scream rent the air and was taken up by hundreds, thousands, all along the line. The Dobunni multitude broke into a run as one man and fell on the Batavian line like a pack of howling wolves.
The day was still young when that first terrible assault came; by the time it had been repeated more times than he could count Rufus felt like an old man. He wasn’t alone. Frontinus had the lined face of an ancient to match the premature grey of his hair and a haunted look that was shared by all the survivors of his dwindling, parch-mouthed band of heroes. A line that had started the day four men deep was worn down to a single thin strand. The dead and the wounded had been hauled clear and lay together with nothing to distinguish one from the other but the occasional shudder or moan. Those injured still able to walk wandered among them handing out the last of the dwindling water supply to the ones most likely to survive, but no one else raised a hand to aid them. They were saving what was left of their strength to meet the next charge.