Masters of Rome by Robert Fabbri Read Free Book Online

prevented this. His breathing had become ragged and he could feel his reactions slowing; he knew that he would not survive long if he stayed to the fore of the fight. Yet how could he, the legate, retire from the combat by himself? Straddling another body as the man behind him stabbed the tip of his weapon into the stricken man’s throat, Vespasian felt a ripple flow through the tightly bunched defenders, from south to north; suddenly the timbre of the Britons’ yells changed from defiance to surprise. As he worked his blade he saw from the corner of his eye a couple of Britons further back look nervously over their shoulders. They had been hit in the flank; somewhere along its length the Romans had succeeded in scaling the palisade. Now he knew that they were in and all he had to do was survive for a few racing heartbeats more.
    Sensing that victory was imminent, the auxiliaries pushed forward into the wavering Britons, stabbing and hacking with blood-slick blades, each step forward easier than the last as the enemy lost cohesion and resolve in equal measure. Through a break in the smoke, Vespasian glimpsed Roman helmets away to the left: legionary helmets, not auxiliary. Valens had made it over the palisade with his three cohorts, fifteen hundred men. Nowthey just had to clear the way for Tatius’ first cohort to enter the hill-fort. They, along with the three auxiliary cohorts already joined in the assault, would be enough to prevail, whilst the rest of the legion and Gallic cohorts and Cogidubnus’ recently raised Britannic cohort would prevent any escape. Caratacus would be at least killed, if not captured alive.
    Caught between the two-pronged attack and the fires to their rear and suffering casualties at a steadily increasing rate, the Britons broke, fleeing into the smoke.
    Glancing up, left then right, Vespasian saw the defenders leaping from the palisade anxious not to be caught between the auxiliaries coming through the gates and those of the two cohorts now streaming over the walls, the Hamians and artillery having ceased their volleys. However, he was under no illusion that it was over. ‘Halt!’ he shouted to the century that had led the charge. ‘Move aside.’
    The century’s survivors – Vespasian estimated that they were down to half their number – gladly complied and stepped out of the way in an unmilitary fashion, too exhausted to care about drill, as the rest of the cohort streamed into the fort, their prefect at their head.
    â€˜They’ll regroup beyond the flames, prefect,’ Vespasian called. ‘Keep your lads tight together.’
    With a half-made salute the prefect led his men on into the smoke as the legion’s first cohort doubled through the gate. Vespasian did not bother to give Primus Pilus Tatius any orders; four years working closely with the veteran centurion had taught him that the man knew his business.
    It was with relief that he saw his cavalry escort, now remounted, following the first cohort into the fort. He took his horse from the decurion and hauled himself wearily into the saddle. ‘Thank you, decurion, I don’t think I could walk another pace.’
    â€˜Then you ain’t exercising enough,’ a voice from behind him commented.
    Vespasian spun round, his eyes murderous.
    â€˜Perhaps you should do more riding of a different sort, if you take my meaning?’
    Vespasian’s face broke into a broad grin. ‘Magnus! What in the name of all the gods are you doing here?’
    Magnus rode up to Vespasian and proffered his arm. ‘Let’s just say that Rome’s a bit unwelcoming for me at the moment, but I think that can probably wait until later, sir, seeing as you seem to be in the middle of storming a hill-fort.’
    Vespasian grasped his friend’s muscular forearm. ‘I’m intrigued, but you’re right, it can wait until I’ve caught Caratacus.’
    Vespasian rode past the