Invader

by Simon Scarrow, T.J. Andrews

Genres: Historical Fiction; War & Military

Synopsis

Roman Britain, AD 44. General Plautius' hard-won defeat of Caratacus should have brought peace. But though the land is conquered, it is far from tamed. A puppet king is doing little to calm the hatred of the tribes and bring them under Roman rule.

Fighting is in Optio Horatius Figulus' blood. His Celtic ancestry is mocked by his fellow soldiers, but it gives him the toughness essential for survival. His Centurion, though, is a very different kind of soldier—one who seems to care more about paperwork than leading his men into battle.

Sent on a thankless mission deep in hostile territory, in the knowledge that to fail will bring the end of his military career, Figulus finds his courage—and that of his men—tested to the very limit. And, more than anyone, Figulus understands the Celtic mind. He knows that, even utterly crushed in battle, their warriors routed and the Druids driven from their hill forts, the tribesmen of Britannia will sooner die than surrender.

Release date: January 14, 2016

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 300

Sample

CHAPTER ONE

Calleva, winter AD 44

A chill blast of air swept through the headquarters tent as the new legate of the Second Legion strode briskly through the tent flap.

‘On your feet!’ the camp prefect boomed to the officers seated inside. ‘Legate’s arrived.’

The officers fell silent and instantly shot up from their stools, standing to attention as the legate marched past. Lucius Aelianus Celer nodded at the camp prefect, his hands and face tingling from the cold night air. He had only recently arrived from Rome to assume command of the legion and the miserable conditions of the island had come as something of a shock to him. With each passing day he found himself yearning for the blissful warmth of his native Campania. Shaking off the cold, Celer approached a hide map suspended on a wooden frame at the front of the assembled rows of officers. A junior tribune stepped forward from beside the map and handed him a short wooden cane. Celer glanced at the camp prefect and straightened his back.

‘Thank you, Quintus Silanus.’ The prefect nodded. Turning to the officers, Celer addressed them in his silky aristocratic voice. ‘At ease, gentlemen.’

An uneasy silence hung over the gathered men as they sat down. Even in the wan glow of the oil lamps Celer could see the anxiety etched across their faces. Less than a month had passed since the Second Legion, under the leadership of his predecessor, Vespasian, had defeated Caratacus, king of the Catuvellauni and the leader of those native tribes who had chosen to resist the Roman invaders. After a long and bloody campaign, Vespasian had finally routed Caratacus’s army in a brutal pitched battle. Victory had come at a heavy price, with the Second Legion suffering grievous losses and Caratacus escaping from his captors. It was the end of the campaigning season, winter was on the way and the soldiers would be spending the next few months bottled up in the legionary fortress until the new campaign in the spring. Celer cleared his throat.

‘It’s a cold night, gentlemen, so I’ll keep this brief,’ he declared. ‘In the past month, we have received numerous reports of attacks on our positions to the south. Patrols have been ambushed, forts razed to the ground and naval supply depots sacked. We are not talking about the odd opportunistic raid, but a campaign of coordinated attacks. The situation is so grave that I’m told even Greek merchants are now refusing to do business outside of our legionary camps.’ That last remark drew a polite chuckle from his audience. Celer paused and half smiled before continuing. ‘I know some of us had hoped that defeating Caratacus would bring peace to this benighted land. However, following his escape it appears that our enemies have rediscovered their courage. The Durotriges have taken it upon themselves to redouble their resistance to our inevitable rule. My illustrious predecessor Vespasian may have conquered this territory, but he did not succeed in taming it – a failure I plan to correct.’

Celer turned towards the map depicting that large swathe of southern Britannia which nominally lay under Roman control, extending east from the naval base at Rutupiae all the way along the path of the River Tamesis past Calleva to the edge of the mountainous region to the west. Celer nodded at the map.

‘Our intelligence sources indicate that these attacks are the work of Durotrigan warriors operating from the Isle of Vectis.’ He pointed with his cane to a wedge-shaped island situated a few miles south of the mainland. ‘During Vespasian’s lightning campaign across their territory last summer, a significant number of the enemy managed to flee the hill forts. In Vespasian’s haste to advance west, however, he neglected to turn back and deal with this rabble, allowing them to successfully withdraw to Vectis.’

Celer turned back to the officers and tightly gripped his cane, his knuckles shading white. He continued.

‘From their base on Vectis, the enemy has been able to launch wave after wave of attacks on the mainland, retreating to the isle before our forces can effectively engage them. Gentlemen, it’s vital that we subdue Vectis once and for all and stop the Durotriges using it as a base to attack our supply chain along the coast. Accordingly, tomorrow at dawn the Fifth, Sixth, Seventh and Ninth Cohorts will march down to the naval port west of Noviomagus Regnorum. As we speak, a dozen galleys and supply ships from the Britannic fleet are sailing to the port from Rutupiae. Once our men reach the coast, we’ll embark the ships, load our supplies and make for Vectis.’

There were low murmurs amongst the officers at the prospect of having to fight again so close to the bitterly cold winter months. Several exchanged wary glances with one another. A few men on the rear rows muttered to themselves. Celer was unmoved. He raised a hand, swiftly silencing the room.

‘Thankfully, Fortuna shines on us. Over the past few weeks, our native scouts have been operating in secrecy on Vectis, gathering intelligence on the enemy. They have reported back that the Durotriges have no defensive fortification to speak of.’ Celer chuckled to himself. ‘As a matter of fact, they’re still constructing a hill fort in time for the coming winter. If we act now, we can take the hill fort before the Durotriges have a chance to complete their defences, rout the enemy and be back in the camp before the first storms arrive.’ He regarded his men with a smug grin. ‘The advantage will be ours. We’ll have strength in numbers. The enemy will have nowhere to run. In addition, an advance squadron of ships has moved into position along the coast, cutting off their supplies from sympathisers on the mainland. All things being equal, Vectis should fall easily. Of course there’ll be the usual nests of resistance to stamp out. Once that’s done we can start dividing up the booty.’

The mood inside the tent quickly lifted at the mention of earning a share from the spoils of war. Each officer, Celer knew, stood to make a tidy sum from the captured natives, who would be shipped to Gaul and sold into slavery, not to mention the treasure troves of ornately decorated weapons and jewellery hoarded by the native aristocracy.

‘We’ll land here.’ He pointed with his cane to a notch of land on the east coast of the isle. ‘The enemy won’t be expecting an attack from the east. Acting on my orders, our scouts have disseminated false information to the Durotriges. They believe we will approach from the more obvious route to the north.’ He drew the cane up the centre of the isle, to an inlet running up towards the northern coast. ‘The east of Vectis will be mostly undefended, except for perhaps a token presence.’

Celer sought out a face among the throng and rested his gaze on a man seated on the front row. The man had bright blue eyes and an aquiline nose and he wore a fine cloak. ‘Tribune Palinus.’

‘Sir?’ The man looked up and blinked.

‘You’ll be in charge of the Fifth Cohort. Your men will land first and secure the beach ahead of the main force. Think you can handle it?’

Palinus puffed out his chest with obvious pride. ‘You can count on me, sir. I won’t let you down.’

‘Good.’ Celer flashed him a thin smile before turning his gaze on to the rest of the men. ‘Now, then. Any questions?’

A centurion at the back raised a hand. He was a short, pale man with dark curly hair and he lacked the scars of many of his comrades. Celer regarded him coolly.

‘Yes, Centurion Ocella?’

‘Sir,’ Ocella began carefully. ‘What kind of force are we up against?’

‘According to the spies, several hundred at most,’ Celer responded casually; he did not want to dampen the good mood. ‘All the more reason to move now, before they have a chance to dig themselves in and reinforce their numbers. Of course, I would prefer for us to attack in greater numbers. But as you all know, the legion is thinly stretched as it is after the recent engagement with Caratacus. Some of your own units are badly depleted. They’ll be replenished with the reserves recently arrived from Gesoriacum.’ The legate tipped his head in the direction of the prefect. ‘Silanus has been overseeing their training and assures me the men are ready for battle. Isn’t that right, Silanus?’

‘Ready as they’ll ever be, sir,’ the prefect replied guardedly.

‘Quite.’ Celer gave a sharp nod of his head. Then he handed the cane back to the orderly and straightened his back. ‘Gentlemen, conquering Vectis is vital if we’re to continue our advances in the next campaign season. General Plautius has ordered us to seize the territory which lies beyond the Durotriges. Some of the tribes in that distant region have already sent envoys to Calleva suing for peace.’ The legate smiled. ‘It seems our strategy of total war against the Durotrigans has shaken their neighbours. Which is as well, as the Emperor is very keen for this savage land to be pacified so it can start paying its own way.’ His expression abruptly hardened. ‘However, we cannot advance west as long as our supply chain to the rear remains exposed to raids. Any more questions?’

He looked round the tent. No one responded and Celer nodded with satisfaction. ‘Good.’ Then he gestured to an officer seated in the middle of the front row next to Tribune Palinus. All eyes turned to a heavily built man running to fat with a dark complexion that betrayed his southern Italian roots.

‘In my absence, Senior Tribune Aulus Vitellius will assume command of the rest of the Second Legion,’ Celer said. ‘Some of you will already know the tribune from the early days of the invasion. He’s recently rejoined the Second after a spell in Rome. Prefect Silanus has been bringing him up to speed.’

Vitellius smiled slowly at the legate. ‘And I look forward to fulfilling my duties, sir,’ he said in a deep voice before turning to the officers and fixing them with his icy stare. ‘Rome has its pleasures, of course. But I must say it is good to be back among true comrades.’

Celer forced a smile to his lips. ‘I’m sure Tribune Vitellius will make a fine commander of the legion in the interim.’

Then he nodded curtly at Silanus and headed for the tent flap. The officers rose simultaneously and snapped to attention as the legate strode stiffly out of the tent. Vitellius and the legate’s orderlies followed close behind. Once the legate and his entourage had departed from the tent, Silanus stood the officers down with a gruff reminder that they were to collect their written orders from the legate’s secretaries before returning to their units to brief their men.

The officers filed out of the tent and emerged into the icy evening. Although it was not yet winter the weather had already taken a turn for the worse, a grim reminder of the long, hard months to come. As the officers dispersed towards their various barracks, Centurion Ocella snorted angrily.

‘Wonderful,’ he muttered to his optio. ‘Just bloody wonderful.’

‘What is, sir?’

Ocella stopped in his tracks and glared at his recently assigned subordinate. He was a physically imposing man, broad-shouldered with taut, hardened muscles and a pinkish scar above his right eye. With his wild hair and stubbly cheeks, he had the makings of a competent if unremarkable soldier, Ocella considered. But he made a poor optio. He was hopeless at the day-to-day paperwork and administrative duties required of a junior officer. Whoever had originally promoted him to the post must have been desperate, Ocella decided, or plain mad. Now he was stuck with the burly Gaul. His last optio had died of an infected leg wound sustained in the battle with Caratacus’s army, and the legate had taken the unusual step of imposing the optio upon him, denying the centurion the usual custom of promoting his own candidate from the rank and file. A fact which only increased his disdain for the man in front of him.

‘What the hell do you think, Figulus?’ Ocella snapped haughtily, bracing himself against the brisk wind. ‘This mission. What with this foul weather and a sea crossing, it’s taking quite a risk. And for what? To deal with a few pathetic stragglers on some remote isle.’ He muttered a curse under his breath and looked away. ‘Meanwhile the Fourteenth and Ninth Legions get a taste of the real action to the west and north.’ He glanced quickly back at his second-in-command. ‘More spoils of war to be had there too, I’ll wager.’

Horatius Figulus pursed his lips. Despite his commanding officer’s strong words, Figulus saw an unmistakable glint of anxiety in the centurion’s eyes, and his voice wavered noticeably as he spoke. Figulus had been a soldier of Rome long enough to recognise Ocella as a ceremonial soldier, the type of officer who preferred kit inspections and nights of drinking, gambling and whoring to proper soldiering on the battlefield. As was often the case with such commanders, Figulus sensed that Ocella was driven by a need to prove himself in front of his comrades, whatever the cost.

Figulus shrugged. ‘I reckon we’ve got bigger worries than the size of the booty, sir.’

‘Oh?’ Ocella cocked an eyebrow. ‘What do you mean?’

Figulus scratched his beard. ‘The Durotrigans are the hardest warriors in all of Britannia, sir. If there’s many of them camped on Vectis, they won’t give up without a proper fight. Hill fort or no hill fort.’

‘And what makes you an expert on the Durotriges, hmm?’ Before Figulus could reply, Ocella stroked his chin and added, ‘I suppose being half Gaul, you’re practically related to these savages.’

Figulus bristled slightly at the insult but bit back on his anger. Although his father had served in the auxiliary cohort long enough to earn Roman citizenship, Figulus took quiet pride in his Gallic roots. He’d spent his childhood in the town of Lutetia in his native Gaul, the grandson of a Aedui nobleman, before joining the Second Legion at the age of eighteen. If anyone in the legion ever accused him of split loyalties, Figulus was quick to reply that he considered himself more Roman than most Romans. But while his devotion to his comrades was never in question, he knew that the truth was slightly murkier. He felt his Gallic ancestry deep in his blood, and he kept the memory of his roots alive by learning the native tongue, which was similar to Gallic. Over the past few weeks in Calleva, he had become fluent in the local dialect. Some of the rankers joked or gently teased him about his Gallic forebears; Ocella preferred to make thinly veiled digs. Figulus refused to rise to the bait and answered politely.

‘Not only that, sir. I fought them. Last summer. Under Vespasian. We drove them from their hill forts, one by one. They put up a fierce struggle, I can tell you. Even the women and children. They’d rather die than surrender.’

‘Really? You heard the legate’s briefing. The hill fort is incomplete, their supplies have been cut off and they won’t be expecting an attack from the east. What could possibly go wrong?’

Without replying, Figulus looked down the sloping ground towards the defensive perimeter of the timber fort. Beyond it lay the town of Calleva, a large sprawl of thatched roofs visible above an earth rampart. The Second Legion had returned to the fort next to Calleva after the recent campaign and yet the town was already beginning to follow Roman custom. New streets had been laid out in a Roman-style grid. Numerous taverns and brothels were open for business. Some of the local aristocrats even dressed like Romans. To Figulus’s eyes, the pace of change in this part of the province was remarkable.

Even so, he felt his chest tighten with tension. He glanced back at Ocella. ‘I wish I could agree with you, sir. But take it from me. Conquering Vectis is going to be a lot harder than you think . . .’



CHAPTER TWO

Isle of Vectis, Five Days Later

A full-throated scream pierced the damp air as an arrow flashed past Figulus, striking the soldier next to him through the neck. The man jolted and his head snapped back, blood fountaining out of his mouth as he fell into the water with a crash of spray.

‘Form up on the beach!’ Ocella bellowed to his men as he reached the shoreline ahead of Figulus. ‘Form up, for fuck’s sake!’

As the soldiers jumped over the sides of the galleys and into the icy waters below, they came under immediate attack from archers perched on the chalk cliffs either side of the narrow beach. Arrows rained down on the legionaries in a constant deadly hiss. Some were struck down as soon as they hit the water, their bodies sinking beneath the surface, arrow shafts jutting out of their necks and torsos. Others clasped wounds as they frantically limped towards the shore along the sandbar, the shallow water running red with blood.

Figulus waded past the dead and the dying, his neck muscles clenching with anger. The landing had been a disaster. At dawn the twelve galleys had launched from the naval base at Noviomagus and made for the east coast of Vectis, their decks heaving with soldiers. The lead four galleys had run aground on a sandbank a short distance from the shoreline, with the men on board forced to leap down from the decks and wade through freezing water almost up to their necks. The rest of the fleet was left floundering further out at sea as the trierarchs gave orders for the ships to navigate around the grounded vessels, delaying their arrival. Figulus glanced back and saw the soldiers huddled on the crowded decks of the galleys, forced to watch their imperilled comrades scramble ashore.

He looked ahead as the survivors of the Sixth Century waded towards the shore, rallying around Ocella. Driving rain spattered against their helmets in a rhythmic din, the men weighed down by their armour, short swords and shields. Their woollen tunics were soaked through, adding to their weight. As Figulus pushed on through the shallow water he felt something cold brush against his stocky leg. He glanced down and saw the limbs of a pale body beneath the surface. Several arrow shafts protruded from his chest and his dull eyes were wide open, his face locked into an expression of silent agony. Figulus nudged the dead soldier aside with his shield and hurried ashore, dodging arrows, his hobnailed boots squelching on the wet sand.

A scene of grim horror confronted him on the beach. Everywhere he looked soldiers were writhing on the ground, the lapping waves washing faint veins of blood upon the wet sand. Maimed men were struck again by arrows as they clawed their way towards their comrades higher up the beach. Pinned down by the missiles raining down from the cliffs, the survivors of the first wave to land had been unable to form up and provide an effective shield for the freshly landed troops, who were picked off at will by the archers positioned on the cliff tops. A few scattered soldiers had managed to form up on the crescent-shaped beach. As arrows thunked into the sand around him the optio felt a bitter rage fill his heart. Once again, a ragtag army of Britons had succeeded in inflicting terrible casualties on their Roman foe.

‘Get over here!’ Ocella screamed to Figulus as the century formed up in a rough line, hefting their shields above their heads to protect them from the missiles pouring down on them. ‘Today, Optio Figulus!’

As the optio ran on, the air came alive with a furious, wind-like whoosh, and a stream of arrows arced through the gloomy sky, hailing down on the isolated men of the Fifth Cohort to a chorus of pained cries. An arrow punched through the arm of a man in front of Figulus. The legionary released his grip on his shield and pawed at the pointed tip sticking out of his flesh as he sank to his knees. The Gaul hoisted his shield above his head. There was a brittle clang as a missile clattered against his shield boss. Figulus lost his footing as he tripped over a splayed corpse and he crashed to the ground, splashing head first into a puddle of gleaming blood beside the body of a wounded soldier. Blinking salty droplets out of his eyes, Figulus quickly picked himself up and scrambled on. He looked back past his shoulder as a cluster of arrows stabbed the sand a few steps to his rear.

In the next instant Figulus drew up alongside his centurion, catching his breath. Ocella shot him a scolding look.

‘What the fuck kept you?’ he snapped.

‘Sorry, sir,’ Figulus grunted. ‘Dropped my lucky charm.’ Seeing the centurion’s quizzical expression, he unclenched his left fist to reveal the silver medallion depicting Fortuna. ‘Almost lost it in the surf.’

Ocella was momentarily lost for words. ‘You nearly got yourself killed over that?’ He shook his head in disgust. ‘Bloody Gauls . . . Forget it. Look, there’s no time. We’re in the shit. Those archers have got us pinned down and the cohort’s in complete disarray. Most of our ships are stuck out at sea. Only the Fifth’s managed to land, together with one squadron of cavalry, and there’ll be no support from the warships until they get round that cursed sandbar.’

Figulus followed his line of sight as Ocella nodded out towards the sea. A bank of dark cloud loomed above the grounded galleys. Beyond them several more warships rocked back and forth on the deep swell of the sea. Among these ships he spotted the vessel carrying the legate, a quinquereme, with a long purple pennant fluttering from its mast.He turned back to the centurion and cleared his throat uneasily. ‘The gods only know when Celer and the rest of our lads will get ashore.’

‘A token resistance,’ Ocella muttered under his breath. ‘That’s what the legate promised. Look around you. What the hell’s token about this?’ He pointed out the archers on the cliff.

Figulus tightened his grip on his shield handle as he scanned the beach.

‘Where’s Tribune Palinus?’ Ocella barked. ‘He’s supposed to be in charge here.’

‘There, sir,’ a soldier to the right of Figulus shouted. ‘Palinus took the cavalry up that way.’ He pointed to where the gently sloping beach led up to a bank of shingle, and beyond that stood a low but sheer cliff. A series of small tree-lined gullies were cut into the cliff, providing natural exits from the beach. The beach itself was bounded at either end by rising cliffs.

Ocella snorted through his flared nostrils. ‘Typical bloody Palinus, showing off as usual. Idiot thinks he’s the new Caesar.’

At that moment the air exploded with a hail of dull thwacks and sharp clatters as javelins replaced the shower of arrows. A shrill cry carried across the damp air as a javelin punched through a legionary’s mail armour, goring his flesh. Another soldier on the outer line of the formation howled in agony as a javelin slammed into his boot just beyond his shield. Blood instantly coloured the sand around his foot. The soldier released his grip on his shield and reached down to clasp his wound. A handful of arrows clattered into the shingle and one plunged into his neck; the man collapsed in front of Figulus with a gasping cry.

‘Take cover!’ Ocella roared at his men. ‘I SAID TAKE COVER!’

The men hunkered under their shields as the missiles continued to clatter down on them, crashing off the edges of shields like giant hailstones smashing on a tiled roof. Then Figulus heard a whirring sound as slingers added to the barrage and slingshot struck the Romans’ shields with a deafening rattle. The odd cry told of a javelin punching through a shield and impaling its target, or a lead shot shattering a soldier’s bones. But for the most part the shields offered the legionaries a solid defence against the frenzied wave of missiles. Figulus felt his shield shudder and heard the sharp crack of splitting wood as a Celtic javelin slammed into it, the tip punching through the wood a mere few inches from his face. He gritted his teeth, his forearm and bicep muscles aching from the strain of keeping his shield raised above his head. He was now drenched in sweat despite the cool weather as the physical and mental stress of battle began to take its toll.

‘Hold your ground!’ Ocella yelled. ‘They can’t keep this up forever!’

In the next instant the stream of missiles abruptly ceased, and a still silence fell on the beach. There was only the relentless hiss and suck of the waves on the shore and the groans of wounded men. Figulus peered over the metal brim of his shield at the cliff top to the north, watching intently as the archers retreated from view.

‘Maybe Palinus has scared them off,’ Ocella mused. ‘The glory-hunting fool. He’ll take all the credit, as usual.’

Figulus grunted as he wrenched the javelin free from his shield. ‘Pity. And there I was looking forward to getting stuck into the lot of ’em.’

‘Maybe not,’ a legionary next to him muttered darkly.

Figulus glanced at the man who’d spoken. He had a prominent scar running down the side of his face and purpled cheeks from years of hard drinking. He’d been one of the first men to introduce himself to the Gaul after Figulus’s transfer to the Sixth Century a few weeks earlier. Titus Terentius Rullus was one of the veterans of the Sixth Century.

‘Eh?’ Ocella snapped. ‘What do you mean?’

Rullus nodded at the widest gully cut into the cliff. At once the centurion and his deputy swung their gazes in the same direction. Figulus spied something moving towards them from the treeline at the crest of the gully. As the object bolted out of the murky gloom and down the face of the cliff, the Gaul realised it was a striking white horse, galloping towards them at a furious pace. Then he noticed something else and felt a cold fear clamp over the nape of his neck.

‘Shit,’ he growled. ‘That’s Tribune Palinus’s horse, sir.’

The horse drew closer, and reared up as it reached the bottom of the slope. Figulus and the others saw blood streaking the animal’s flanks.

‘Looks like the bastards have done for Palinus,’ Rullus muttered.

A menacing war cry sounded from somewhere beyond the trees at the top of the cliff. Just then a long line of muscular figures lined up on the crest of the main gully, their woad-stained bodies clearly visible. Each warrior brandished a long sword which they thumped repeatedly against their round shields in a gesture of defiance. Some of the Durotrigans intoned strange chants, inciting the native gods to help them crush their sworn enemy. One of the men jabbed his thrusting spear at the sky and Figulus felt his stomach churn as he caught sight of the tribune’s severed head mounted on the tip of the spear. Then the native war horns called the warriors to battle. The braying notes sent a cold chill through Figulus and his comrades.

‘Durotrigans,’ said Rullus. ‘Hundreds of ’em by the looks of it. Must have cornered Palinus and his mates when they reached the top of the cliffs. Poor buggers.’ He turned to the Gaul. ‘Looks like you’re going to get your wish after all, sir.’

Figulus tightened his thick fingers round the grip of his short sword and grinned at the Britons lined up on the hilltop as he called out to his men, ‘If the bastards want to play rough, then they’ve come to the right men!’



CHAPTER THREE

The wild war cries of the Durotrigans instantly cut out. There was a moment’s pause and then the warriors began storming down the cliff towards the cohort assembled on the beach, swarming through the long grass covering the gully in dense tufts, their lime-washed hair flowing behind their broad shoulders. Swallowing his fear, Ocella swiftly turned to address the century.

‘All right, lads! Spread out! Form a line. NOW!’

At once the legionaries broke up from their solid defensive formation and brought their shields down in front of them in a single smooth motion while Ocella moved to take up his position on the front line. Many of the soldiers had abandoned their javelins in the struggle to get ashore, and Figulus herded those who were still equipped with a throwing weapon towards the rearmost rank so that they could launch their missiles over the heads of their comrades. Then Ocella ordered the front rank of men to draw their weapons and the air was filled with the sound of grating metal as swords were unsheathed from scabbards. Similar orders were given by centurions up and down the beach as the men of the Fifth Cohort prepared to face the warriors bearing down on them.

‘Javelins . . . ready!’ Figulus bellowed.

The men to the rear of the century lifted up their weapons so that they gripped them horizontally across their shoulders.

The dark great mass of Durotrigans had reached the bottom of the cliff and were charging across the shingle beach less than a hundred paces away. Their line stretched in a loose formation across nearly the full length of the beach and at this distance Figulus could see that some wore mail vests over their tunics. Their straggly beards were visible beneath their helmets and swirling patterns were painted on the front of their shields. Most of the enemy were bare-chested, and a handful wore nothing, to express their contempt for their Roman enemy. A few of the warriors were armed with war spears, although most brandished the heavyweight long swords so beloved of the Celts.

The Durotrigans swept across the shingle beach in a mass, some men racing ahead of their comrades. Figulus looked on as the gap between the Romans and the enemy rapidly closed, waiting to give the signal for the men to hurl their javelins at the onrushing Britons