“Quite a pounding,” Arthur observed.
“They could maintain this all day,” Bedivere replied. The Roman artillery train was organised and efficient. The Roman engineers would have stockpiles of projectiles to hand, with caravans of carts and wagons shipping more up from the rear.
“Have the army lie down,” Arthur said.
“Sire!” Bedivere protested. “That will expose your position.”
“Bedivere, if they are content to waste their munitions in futile efforts to strike a single target, so much the better. Have the men lie down.”
The word was passed and, one by one, the infantry companies lay on their faces.
In response to suddenly having nothing clear to shoot at, the Roman artillery crews faltered in their efforts. There was a brief dip in the rate of projectiles. Some direct hits were still made, churning earth and men’s bodies alike, but most grenades now skipped harmlessly over the prostrate shapes, embedding themselves in the raised ground to their rear. Shudders passed through Arthur and Bedivere’s feet. Dust and fragments of stone sprayed over them.
“Time to take the battle to them,” Arthur said.
His heralds raised a green flag with a golden zigzag emblazoned across it. Immediately, several companies of Familiaris Regis crossbowmen stood up and dashed forward, only halting when they’d reached a point where the artillery shots were landing behind them. They were perhaps seventy yards in front of the first line of Roman infantry, who watched them bemusedly. The crossbowmen, numbering maybe a thousand, quickly formed themselves into two ranks, covering as broad a field as possible. They each carried six packed quivers, and were equipped with heavy bows capable of releasing bolts over hundreds of yards. Using the iron foot-stirrup at the head of each weapon to gain leverage, they dragged their bowstrings back and loaded bolts into the grooves. Only seconds passed before the front rank had their weapons to their shoulders and had taken aim.
The Roman vanguard was composed of halberdiers. By necessity, they could not carry shields, but they were heavily armoured. Their sallets had visors attached with narrow v-shaped ports for vision; they wore corselets of overlapping steel plates over a thick mail coat, the sleeves of which extended to their wrists. Articulated steel gauntlets clad their hands, while centrally-ridged greaves covered their legs from ankle to mid-thigh. They had good reason to think they were safe. The first volley of bolts drove into them with clinks and clanks. Some rocked where they stood. Others were actually injured, the bolts finding chinks in their plating. One man went down screaming, a hand clasped to his visor, blood spurting from the port. The crossbows’ rear rank then loosed, the front rank loosed again, and so on in relay. A couple more halberdiers tottered backward. The others plucked at bolts which had lodged in their mail or under their plating.
To the rear of them, Emperor Lucius wiped sweat from his brow. “Forward companies to advance,” he told his deputies.
“My liege?”
“I’m tired of these foolish games. Arthur is the fly in my ointment and I want him extricated now. Right now!”
A trumpet sounded and the Roman catapults ceased. To the steady accompaniment of a lone battle-drum, the halberdiers started forward, tramping slowly and in perfect time, their bladed pole-arms level in front of them.
“Front rank… retreat!” the crossbows’ captain shouted.
The front rank, which had just loosed a volley, stepped two paces back — each man passing through gaps in the rear rank — where it halted again and reloaded.
“Rear rank… loose!” the captain cried.
The rear rank raised their weapons and discharged. Another cloud of bolts struck the advancing halberdiers. More thwacks and clinks sounded as further impacts were made. A few more dropped or reeled backward, clutching at wounds. The rear rank of crossbows retreated two paces and also reloaded.
“Front rank!” the captain shouted. The front rank raised their bows and discharged.
This was the way of it, the crossbows retreating in alternate ranks and maintaining a constant barrage on the advancing infantry. Always the same distance lay between the disparate forces. Behind the crossbowmen, the halberdiers could clearly see the main body of Arthur’s army now back on its feet, but if they were making progress in that direction it was painfully slow. Even when the bolts didn’t penetrate their armour, they stuck hard, bruising the men, unbalancing them. And it was unrelenting, one volley following another. Whenever men slumped down or staggered backward, others advanced from behind to fill the gaps, but this too became difficult as the bodies of dead and wounded started to clutter the route.
But the Romans’ real problems only began when a crossbowman fortuitously struck a man in the groin area. The target doubled forward with a keening shriek. The halberdiers’ leather and iron battle-skirts were not as sturdy as their plate corselets.
“Upper thigh and bollocks!” the crossbowman shouted. “That’s where they’re vulnerable!”
His captain took up the cry, and the rest of them adjusted their aim accordingly.
The two ranks of crossbowmen continued to retreat between fusillades, but now were doing visible damage to their opponents, who dropped in threes and fours rather than ones and twos, many curling into balls of agony on the ground.
Arthur glanced along his line. To the east and west, his longbows were in readiness, each archer waiting with bow now strung and at the horizontal, arrows nocked. By Arthur’s estimation, the halberdiers would be within range of bowshot in another fifty paces, and then Emperor Lucius would truly see carnage.
The Romans knew about the archers of Albion. They had heard about the British war-bow. A six-foot stave of yew, trimmed precisely so that its thick belly consisted of heartwood and its limbs of narrower sapwood to store tension, and strung with a cord of woven hemp. Its reputed draw-weight of one hundred and fifty pounds could drive their bodkin points, depending on the distance and angle, through plate armour. Some had chosen not to believe this. Others disregarded it simply because the court of King Arthur was admired more for the courage and chivalry of its knights. The archers of Albion could be little more in truth than auxiliaries, peasant soldiers whose job was to mop up the leavings of their lord and betters.
The halberdiers were now about four hundred yards from Arthur’s battle-front. It was the point of no return. Arthur passed on his orders. His heralds raised the appropriate flags, and clarions were sounded on both flanks of his army. The King watched as his archers — men honed to incredible strength and toughness through long years of practice — drew their fletched shafts to their ears. They did not aim; there was nothing to see from where they were deployed. But their missiles would fall thick across the entire front in a non-stop shower.