watched, the pennant briefly dipped on the nearest vessel, confirming the order. Tiny figures hurried into position around the catapults fixed to the decks. Smoke trailed into the air from the portable ovens requisitioned from the army the previous evening. At first the prefect of the fleet had refused point blank to allow any fire-making apparatus on to his ships; the risk was just too great. The general had insisted; the enemy fortifications must be burned down to help the later infantry assault. In any case, he had pointed out, the fleet was no longer at sea. If the worst happened the sailors would be in easy reach of their comrades on the shore.
‘And the galley slaves?’ the prefect of the fleet had asked. ‘What about them?’
‘They’re chained to their benches,’ explained the prefect patiently. ‘If there’s a fire, there won’t be much chance to get them out.’
‘I expect not,’ General Plautius agreed. ‘But look on the bright side.
Once we defeat that lot over the way, I guarantee that you will have first pick of the prisoners to replace any losses. Happy?’
The prefect considered the proposition and eventually nodded. Some fresh recruits to the slaves’ benches would be well received by his captains, those who would still have ships, that is.
‘Now,’ Plautius had concluded, ’see to it that we have some incendiary artillery ready for the morning.’
Recalling the scene, Vitellius smiled as he climbed the slope back to the general’s command post.
As the sun rose behind them, the ships’ catapults opened up, their throwing arms smacking against their restraining bars. Thin coils of greasy smoke trailed up and over towards the Britons’ fortifications, and then the pots smashed down, dousing them in bright pools of blazing oil. Bolt-throwers hurled heavy iron arrows at the palisade to discourage any attempt by the Britons to put the fires out.
Vitellius had seen the effects of a bolt-thrower barrage before and knew just how effective those weapons could be. The Britons, however, had not, and as the tribune watched, a swarm of the natives rushed up over the earthworks and ran towards a section of the palisade that had taken a direct hit and was burning nicely. Reaching the spot, the Britons frantically shovelled earth onto the fire while those with buckets formed a chain down to the river. But before the chain could even begin to work, the bolt-thrower crews had trained their weapons against it, and in moments the ground was littered with figures struck down by a hail of bolts. The survivors fled back towards the earth works, swiftly followed by their comrades with shovels.
‘Shouldn’t see much more of them this morning, sir.’ Vitellius was smiling as he rejoined General Plautius.
‘No. Not if they have any brains.’ Plautius shifted his gaze to the right where the river’s silvery surface curved round in a great sweep and disappeared between rising ground on the other bank. At this moment, four miles downstream, the Batavian cohorts should be swimming across; four thousand men in mixed cohorts of horse and infantry. Recruited from the recently subdued tribes on the lower Rhine, the Batavians, like all auxiliary cohorts, were supposed to harass the enemy until the legions could close in for the kill. With any luck they would gain the far bank and form up before the enemy scouts had time to summon forces to meet the threat. Plautius had no doubt that Caratacus would have men positioned along the river bank for several miles in both directions. Plautius was counting on the Britons not being able to react fast enough to quell each attack.
As soon as he detected enemy movement downstream, the frontal assault would begin. Directly in front of him, at the foot of the slope down by the ford, the massed ranks of the Ninth Legion stood still and silent, waiting for the order to advance on the enemy fortifications. Plautius well knew the cold dread that would be biting at the pit of
‘And the galley slaves?’ the prefect of the fleet had asked. ‘What about them?’
‘They’re chained to their benches,’ explained the prefect patiently. ‘If there’s a fire, there won’t be much chance to get them out.’
‘I expect not,’ General Plautius agreed. ‘But look on the bright side.
Once we defeat that lot over the way, I guarantee that you will have first pick of the prisoners to replace any losses. Happy?’
The prefect considered the proposition and eventually nodded. Some fresh recruits to the slaves’ benches would be well received by his captains, those who would still have ships, that is.
‘Now,’ Plautius had concluded, ’see to it that we have some incendiary artillery ready for the morning.’
Recalling the scene, Vitellius smiled as he climbed the slope back to the general’s command post.
As the sun rose behind them, the ships’ catapults opened up, their throwing arms smacking against their restraining bars. Thin coils of greasy smoke trailed up and over towards the Britons’ fortifications, and then the pots smashed down, dousing them in bright pools of blazing oil. Bolt-throwers hurled heavy iron arrows at the palisade to discourage any attempt by the Britons to put the fires out.
Vitellius had seen the effects of a bolt-thrower barrage before and knew just how effective those weapons could be. The Britons, however, had not, and as the tribune watched, a swarm of the natives rushed up over the earthworks and ran towards a section of the palisade that had taken a direct hit and was burning nicely. Reaching the spot, the Britons frantically shovelled earth onto the fire while those with buckets formed a chain down to the river. But before the chain could even begin to work, the bolt-thrower crews had trained their weapons against it, and in moments the ground was littered with figures struck down by a hail of bolts. The survivors fled back towards the earth works, swiftly followed by their comrades with shovels.
‘Shouldn’t see much more of them this morning, sir.’ Vitellius was smiling as he rejoined General Plautius.
‘No. Not if they have any brains.’ Plautius shifted his gaze to the right where the river’s silvery surface curved round in a great sweep and disappeared between rising ground on the other bank. At this moment, four miles downstream, the Batavian cohorts should be swimming across; four thousand men in mixed cohorts of horse and infantry. Recruited from the recently subdued tribes on the lower Rhine, the Batavians, like all auxiliary cohorts, were supposed to harass the enemy until the legions could close in for the kill. With any luck they would gain the far bank and form up before the enemy scouts had time to summon forces to meet the threat. Plautius had no doubt that Caratacus would have men positioned along the river bank for several miles in both directions. Plautius was counting on the Britons not being able to react fast enough to quell each attack.
As soon as he detected enemy movement downstream, the frontal assault would begin. Directly in front of him, at the foot of the slope down by the ford, the massed ranks of the Ninth Legion stood still and silent, waiting for the order to advance on the enemy fortifications. Plautius well knew the cold dread that would be biting at the pit of
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