The advance to the Tamesis was rapidly running out of control, Vespasian decided. The pursuit of the Britons had been badly mishandled by the Batavian cohorts. Rather than concentrate on clearing the line of march through to the next river, the auxiliaries had fallen victim to the blood lust so typical of their race. And so the cohorts were dispersed over a wide front, running down every Briton that came in sight, as if the whole thing was just some great stag hunt.
Below the hill crest, the dense undergrowth dipped down to merge with yet another of the marshes that seemed to comprise rather too much of this landscape. Dotted among the gorse thickets were the crests of helmets and the odd standard as the Batavians, their thirst for blood evidently not yet slaked, pushed their way through the gorse, struggling along narrow paths in pursuit of the hapless Britons. The marsh stretched out, dull and featureless, before it gave way to the wide gleaming expanse of the great Tamesis coiling its way into the heart of the island. The track the Second Legion was marching along went straight down the slope, and on to a crude causeway that ended in a small jetty. A matching jetty lay on the far side of the river.
Vespasian slapped his thigh in frustration at the nature of the task ahead. His battle-trained horse ignored the sound and grazed contentedly at the luscious grass growing alongside the track. Irked by the beast's ignorant complacency, Vespasian yanked on the reins and wheeled the animal round to face back down the line of the legion. The men stood still and silent, waiting for orders to move. A dark writhing mass some miles off revealed the progress of the Fourteenth Legion approaching the Tamesis from a roughly parallel track a few miles upstream.
According to Adminius there should have been a bridge lying before the Fourteenth but Vespasian could see no sign of it. Caratacus must have had it destroyed. If there were no other bridges or crossing points, the legions would have to march upstream in search of an alternative way across, all the while extending the tenuous lines of supply back to the depot on the coast. Alternatively, Plautius might chance an opposed landing. Away to the east where the Tamesis broadened towards the distant horizon the distinct forms of ships were visible as the fleet strove to retain contact with the advancing legions. Even though Adminius claimed that the Britons had no fleet to oppose the Romans, General Plautius was not taking any chances. The sleek silhouettes of triremes shepherded the low broad-beamed transports struggling to keep in formation. Only when these ships had rejoined the army could a river assault begin.
But all these considerations were academic for the moment. The orders in hand were simple enough: the Second was to fan out and clear this stretch of the south bank of any remaining enemy formations. Simple orders. Simple enough to have been written by a man who had not seen the lie of the land for himself. Vespasian knew that the legion would not be able to retain a battle line as it negotiated the gorse thickets. Worse still was the marsh which would suck the men down unless they were fortunate enough to stumble upon the paths used by the natives. By nightfall Vespasian expected to find his legion completely dispersed and bogged down, stuck in the vile marsh until daylight gave them a chance to re-form.
'Give the signal!' he called out to the headquarters trumpeters. A chorus of spitting ensued as the men cleared their mouths and pursed their lips to their instruments. A barely discernible nod from the senior trumpeter was instantly followed by the harsh notes of the execute instruction. With well-trained precision the First Cohort marched past their legate. The senior centurion marked the turn point and barked out the order to change formation and the front ranks marched to the right, perpendicular to the track. Immediately they encountered the first patch of gorse bushes, the cohort broke formation to negotiate the obstacle and the steady marching pace slowed to a stumbling shuffle as the succeeding cohorts tried not to pile into the rear of the cohort in front. Vespasian met the eyes of Sextus, the Second Legion's grey-haired camp prefect, and grimaced. The most senior career soldier in the legion inclined his head in full agreement about the idiocy of most orders emanating from army headquarters.
A manoeuvre that could be executed so efficiently on the parade ground rapidly degenerated into an unsightly tangle of cursing men that struggled across the wild terrain for the best part of an hour before the Second Legion had shifted its facing and was ready to advance down the slope towards the distant Tamesis. Once the cohorts were in position Vespasian gave the order to advance and the line moved forward, overseen by the centurions holding their canes out and cursing at the men to keep the line straight.
Once again, the thick patches of gorse opened up gaps in the line and in very little time the legion disintegrated into clusters of struggling men. Here and there the line halted as men encountered Britons, mostly wounded, and disarmed them before sending them to the rear under guard. Those that were too badly injured to walk were quickly despatched with a sword thrust to the hemi, and the legionaries struggled forward again. Often the Britons would attempt to bolt for it and with excited cries the legionaries would tumble after them to add yet more spoils to the campaign pot. In the partially clear ground before the dense growths of gorse a motley crowd of prisoners grew in size, while off to one side a small group of injured men bore witness to the trickle of casualties returning from the clashes being fought out of sight in the wilderness beyond. These were the only indication of the way the fight was going.
By mid-afternoon, under the despairing eye of the legion's legate and his staff officers, the Second Legion had been reduced to small bands hacking their way through to the marsh with little or no sense of where the rest of their comrades were. Mingled in among them were occasional small knots of Britons also trying to make the river in the hope of escape, and faint war cries and the ringing clash of blades wafted up the slope. Vespasian and his staff had dismounted and sat in the shade of a small copse not far from the track, watching the chaotic melee in silent frustration. By late afternoon most of the men of the legion were lost to view and only the legate's guard century stood formed up in a thin line a hundred paces down the slope. Beyond them sat the pathetic huddle of prisoners, surrounded by gorse briars hacked down and piled up in a circle to form a crude stockade. Beyond the briars a scattered line of legionaries stood watch. Tribune Vitellius rode down to inspect the captives. When he had finished interrogating their leader, he gave a last cuff to the man's head and swung himself up onto his mount and spurred it back up the slope.
'Discover anything useful?' asked Vespasian.
'Only that some of the better educated among these savages have a little Latin, sir.'
'But no fords or bridges nearby?'
'No, sir.'
'It was worth a try, I suppose.' Vespasian's gaze flickered back to the legate's guard century baking in the sun.
'Tell them to sit down,' Vespasian muttered to the camp prefect. 'I doubt the Britons will be springing any surprises on us now. No point in keeping the men on their feet in this heat.'
'Yes sir.'
As Sextus bellowed the order down to the guard century, tribune Vitellius caught the legate's eye and nodded back towards the track. A messenger was galloping up. When he spotted the legate's command party he spurred his horse along the ridge towards them.
'What now?' wondered Vespasian.
Breathless, the messenger slid from his horse and ran to the legate, dispatch already to hand.
'From the general, sir,' he panted as he raised his hand in a salute. Vespasian acknowledged him with a curt nod, took the scroll and broke the seal. His staff officers sat impatiently waiting for their legate to read it. The message was brief enough and Vespasian immediately handed it on to Vitellius.
Vitellius frowned as he read it. 'According to this, it appears we should already be down on the river bank and be preparing for a river assault this evening. The navy will be carrying us across and providing fire support.' He looked up. 'But, sir.' He waved a hand down the slope towards the gorse and the marsh which had swallowed up the Second Legion.
'Quite, Tribune. Now read out the last bit.'
Vitellius did so. 'Further to earlier orders it should be noted that the Batavian cohorts have encountered problems dealing with the marsh terrain and you are advised to limit your advance to established tracks and paths only… '
One of the junior tribunes hooted with derision and the rest laughed bitterly. Vespasian held up his hand to quieten them before he turned back to Vitellius.
'Seems the lads back at army headquarters haven't quite grasped the practical difficulties attached to the orders they are so quick to dish out. But with your recent staff experience I'm sure you'd know all about that. '
The other tribunes struggled to hide their grins and Vitellius blushed. 'Still, we can't carry this order out. By the time the legion reassembles on the river it'll be well into the night. And the navy are still some miles downriver. There's no chance of an assault until tomorrow,' concluded Vespasian. 'The general had better be told. Tribune, you know the ropes at headquarters and you know our situation here. Go back to Aulus Plautius with the messenger and let him know our position and tell him that I will not be able to carry out the assault until tomorrow. You might also describe the terrain in some detail so that he understands our position. Now go.'
'Yes, sir.' Vitellius saluted and strode across to his horse, angry at the prospect of a long hot ride, and bitter at the legate's sarcastic treatment of him in front of the junior tribunes.
Vespasian watched in amusement as the tribune snatched the reins from the hands of a horse holder and threw himself onto his horse's back. With a savage kick to the animal's ribs he galloped off in the direction of army headquarters. It had been impossible to resist teasing Vitellius, but any elation he might have derived from deflating the smug tribune quickly evaporated, and he cursed himself for indulging in behaviour that was far below the dignity of his rank. Fortunately, the camp prefect had missed the exchange; as the tough old veteran strode back up the slope from the legate's guard he frowned at the amused expressions on the faces of the young tribunes.
'Fresh orders, sir?'
'Read it.' Vespasian held out the scroll.
Sextus quickly scanned the document. 'Some young gentleman on Plautius' staff is going to get a few harsh words when I catch up with him, sir.'
'Glad to hear it. In the meantime we need to reassemble the legion. There's no point in sounding the recall. They're far enough into the marshes by now to make it easier to continue forward than march back.' 'True enough,' muttered Sextus, stroking his chin.
'I'll take the command party and the guard century down the causeway to that jetty.' Vespasian pointed down the slope. 'Once we get there I'll start sounding the recall. Meanwhile, you and the junior tribunes mount up and find as many of our men as possible and let them know what's going on. We need the main body of the legion gathered on that rise by the jetty before nightfall if we're going to have enough men for the assault in the morning.'
'Fair enough, sir,' said Sextus. He turned to the junior tribunes who had all heard the legate's orders and were not looking forward to the discomfort of their task. 'You heard the legate! Off your arses and on your horses, gentlemen. Quickly now!'
With a barely tolerable display of reluctance the young tribunes dragged themselves to their horses, trotted down the slope and separated along the myriad paths and ways that crisscrossed the dense mass of gorse and marsh. Vespasian watched them disappear from sight. Then he turned to his own mount and led the legate's guard and the rest of the command party towards the track leading down to the causeway.
This was no way to fight a battle, he reflected angrily. No sooner had the Second Legion won back its self-respect than some bloody careless order plunged the men into an unholy mess, dispersed and leaderless across the wretched wilderness of this wretched bloody island. By the time he managed to regroup the legion they would be exhausted, filthy, and hungry, their flesh and clothing torn to shreds by the gorse bushes. It would be a wonder if he managed to get them even to contemplate anything half so dangerous as the general's order for an amphibious assault on the opposite river bank.
The Eagles Conquest