Cato 02 - The Eagles Conquest by Simon Scarrow

heavy equipment, the legionaries fared badly. Many were swept from their feet by the slashes of the Britons’ long swords and axes, to tumble down into the ditch, bowling over their comrades as they fell. Here and there a handful of men forced a way through or over the palisade, but the weight of numbers was against them and these brave pockets were quickly overwhelmed and hurled back down the slope.
    The fighting spread all along the wall but the other cohorts fared no better and the number of Roman bodies sprawled across the slope of the earthworks steadily grew.
    ‘Sir, should we pull back?’ Vitellius asked the legate.
    ‘No. The orders were clear. We keep going at them until Vespasian can attack their rear. ‘
    The legate’s staff officers exchanged worried glances. The Ninth were being cruelly punished for their headlong assault; they were bleeding to death while they waited for the Second Legion to attack. Looking round, Geta sensed the doubt in his men.
    ‘Any moment now. Any moment the Second will attack. We just hold on until then.’
    But already Vitellius could detect a change in the fight along the palisade. The legionaries were no longer rushing up the slopes, they were being driven to it by their centurions, bullied into attack by the blows from vine sticks. In several places the men were actually falling back from the wall, worn down by the effort and slowly but surely losing the will to continue the fight. The signs were unmistakable to everyone in the colour patty. The assault was crumbling before their eyes.
    If Vespasian did not launch his attack immediately the costly efforts of the Ninth would have been in vain.
     

Chapter Eleven
    ‘Why don’t we attack?’
    ‘Because we haven’t been ordered to,’ Macro replied harshly. ‘And we sit tight until told otherwise.’
    ‘But, sir, look at them. The Ninth are getting massacred.’
    ‘I can see what’s happening well enough, boy, but it’s out of our hands.’ Lying on their stomachs in the long grass growing along the crest of the low ridge, the skirmish line of the Sixth Century watched helplessly as the Britons smothered the Ninth’s attack. For the inexperienced optio this was an unbearable agony. Barely a mile away his comrades were being slaughtered as they attempted to storm the earthworks. And yet not a hundred yards behind him the men of the Second Legion sat in silent concealment in the shadows of the trees. With one simple order they could sweep down the slope, catching the Britons between the two legions, and crush them totally. But the order had not been given.
    ‘Here comes the legate.’ Macro nodded back down the slope towards the trees. Vespasian came running up towards them, helmet tucked under his arm. A few yards short of the skirmish line the legate dropped down and crawled up beside Macro.
    ‘How’s the Ninth doing, Centurion?’ ‘Doesn’t look good, sir.’
    ‘Any signs of movement from the enemy’s reserves?’ ‘None, sir.’
    Behind the British lines sat several thousand men, calmly waiting to be called into action. Vespasian smiled with grim admiration of the enemy general’s coolness. Caratacus knew the value of keeping a fresh reserve in hand and had firm control over his coalition of Trinovantes. The selfish pursuit of tribal glory had led to the destruction of more than one Celtic army in the past. Caratacus had even resisted the Batavian bait offered up by Plautius. Just enough men had been released to repulse the Roman auxiliaries and hold them back against the river. There, in the distance, beyond the earthworks defending the ford, a loose milling of men and horses revealed the plight of the Batavians.
    Vespasian turned away from the spectacle. Compassion for his comrades urged him to order his legion to charge to the rescue. But that temptation had been foreseen by Aulus Plautius, and the general had stressed that his orders must be followed to the letter. The Second was to remain concealed until