The thrust had been initiated by the report from a Britannic spy, in Cogidubnus’ pay, of the muster of a large war band at the fort, perhaps under the command of Caratacus himself, in preparation to strike eastwards, behind the line of the II Augusta’s advance, to harry their supply lines in order to force the legion to turn and deal with them, thus delaying considerably their spring campaign.
The legion’s arrival and surrounding of the fort the previous evening had been so swift that none of the Britons had managed to escape; those who had made it over the palisade had been quickly cut down or picked up by the legion’s Batavian auxiliary cavalry, which had skirted around the fort specifically to prevent anyone escaping and calling for aid. The spy’s estimate that there were upwards of four thousand men of fighting age within had been confirmed by prisoners less willing to endure the knives of their inquisitors. However, they had all denied Caratacus’ presence to the point of death.
Caratacus’ plan will not work now, Vespasian thought with a self-congratulatory half-smile, putting his anxiety for his brother to one side and concentrating on the matter in hand. The scene before him would have impressed him four years ago when he had first taken command of the II Augusta, but now, after two seasons’ campaigning in Britannia, it was a common sight for him; he counted them in his head and reckoned that this was his ninth siege.
Although the defences were almost a mile in circumference, there was but one entrance and that was facing Vespasian; but it was not a straight route up the hill to get there. The crossing points in each ditch were at different points, forcing an attacker to zigzag during the ascent, exposing their flanks to constant missile fire from the men on the walls. Many auxiliaries would die in a frontal assault just to reach the gates and then many more would perish as they tried to batter them down with the ram that stood ready, encased in a wooden housing covered with dampened leather to protect it from the fire-pots that would surely be hurled down from above.
But Vespasian was hoping that it would not come to that as he watched three mounted men, Britons, turn their horses and ride away from the gates. As they did there was a commotion on the palisade next to them; a figure jumped down, rolling as he landed, before fluidly regaining his feet and pelting towards the three riders. One slowed, braving the few javelins hurled down at the fugitive, and leant back, his arm outstretched towards the fleeing man who leapt, grabbing the proffered hand, and using his momentum swung himself up behind the rider. The horse reared in fright, almost unseating the men, before its rider brought it back down with a brutal tug of the reins and kicked it forward to thunder down the hill in the wake of his two comrades, now passing through the gap in the outermost ditch.
Vespasian waited with his officers in silence as they galloped down the hill, each man knowing that the news they brought would decide the fate of them all that day, one way or another.
There was a stirring amongst the legionaries as the horsemen passed through their formation; centurions and optiones bellowed at their men for silence.
‘I think the lads can tell by the expression on Cogidubnus’ face that the news is not good,’ Maximus muttered as order returned to the legion.
Vespasian grunted. ‘Of course it’s not good; who would try to escape from a fort that was going to surrender?’ The strained expression returned to his face as the riders drew near and their demeanour confirmed Maximus’ conjecture; but he also knew that their unwillingness to surrender may mean that there was an even greater prize at stake.
‘Their chieftain, Drustan, has sworn that they will fight to the death of the last child,’ Cogidubnus confirmed as he brought his horse to a halt. The fugitive, a young man with long matted hair, wispy stubble and a slim face smeared with dirt, slipped from behind one of the accompanying horsemen to the ground. ‘I offered them their lives and the status of allies of Rome with the right to bear arms.’
Vespasian tensed. ‘He’s in there, isn’t he?’
Cogidubnus spoke to the rescued man in his own tongue; he nodded his head as he replied. ‘Yes, legate, he’s in there; my agent here says he arrived two days ago.’
Vespasian glanced at the spy, astounded that such excellent information could have emanated from so unlikely a source. The man kept his head bowed; with his ragged clothes he looked more like a slave than a warrior. ‘And now he hopes to slip away whilst a whole sub-tribe sacrifices themselves for him.’
‘It would seem that way.’
Vespasian turned to his officers. ‘Gentlemen, I want this place completely surrounded before the assault starts; nobody must be allowed to pass through our lines. I’ve a feeling that by our swift action we may have cornered Caratacus.’
It had taken less than half an hour for the II Augusta to redeploy; each cohort had formed up in four ranks of one hundred and twenty men, standing in silence, encircling the hill, sealing it so that none might escape. Vespasian looked up the slope ahead of him, over the heads of the first cohort, to where three Gallic auxiliary cohorts, of eight hundred men each, were formed up, shields raised against the long-range slingshot raining down from the warriors on the wall, just over a hundred paces away. At the head of the central cohort stood the dark form of the ram’s housing surrounded by the century that had received the much-prized honour of leading the assault. In front of them to the left stood the eight hundred eastern archers of the Hamian auxiliary cohort and to their right were the legion’s sixty ballistae, bolt-shooters.
Vespasian steadied his horse and brought his right arm sweeping down; the cornicen next to him blew one low, rumbling note on his G-shaped horn. Simultaneously a crewman from each bolt-shooter thrust a flaming torch at the oil-drenched wadding wound around the tips of their three-foot-long wooden missiles and the Hamians ignited their arrows in small fires set along their line. With the massed thrumming of bows and the staccato thwacking of high-torsion engines releasing, hundreds of burning projectiles soared through the air leaving trails of black smoke in their wake, like plough-furrows in the sky.
The assault had begun.
The first volley tore over the palisade to punch into the wattle and daub walls and thatched roofs of the many round huts behind it; shrieks of the wounded indicated that it was not just the buildings that suffered. As the Hamians released a second volley from their powerful re-curved composite bows of wood and horn, Vespasian saw, with satisfaction, the first few thin tendrils of white smoke rise from within the fort. The Hamians managed six more volleys before the bolt-shooters released again; above, the smoke trails had smudged together into a thin grey pall that arced over the field to merge with the thickening fumes emitting from the fires feeding on thatch. Flames now licked up, under-lighting the denser clouds of smoke with a deep orange hue as the conflagration grew; here and there billows of steam added to the thickening atmosphere attesting to the fire-fighting efforts of those trapped within the fort. Their disembodied shouts floated down over the II Augusta as the hail of slingshot from the warriors on the wall, as yet untroubled by the arrows passing over their heads, continued to beat into the shields of the Gallic cohorts — with little effect.
A young tribune galloped down the slope towards him.
‘Are the Gauls ready, Vibius?’ Vespasian asked as the lad pulled up his mount and saluted.
‘Yes, sir. The two support cohorts have been issued with scaling ladders as you ordered.’
‘And Valens’ diversionary attacks?’
‘Yes, sir; he has enough planking to span the first ditch.’