Brigantia

XXIV

‘SO, AM I married to a criminal?’ That night Enica came to the tent where Ferox was held. Longinus was with her, but even so a legionary came inside to watch them. Under her cloak she wore a dress rather than her travelling clothes. ‘A gift from the legate,’ she added, seeing him notice. ‘Plunder from the villa, I expect, and a little vulgar. And not silk, more’s the pity. I feel alive with vermin.’ Rain pattered against the roof of the tent as they spoke.

‘Are we even married?’

She placed her hands over her heart and feigned a sob. ‘How can you say that?’

‘Did the cavalry come back?’ he asked. ‘The ones sent after the herd?’

Longinus shook his head. ‘Two turmae gone.’

‘Crassus expects them to return by dawn. Probably had to go further than expected, he says.’ Enica kept her tone flat. The legionary was young and seemed nervous. ‘There is no need to panic over so small a matter.’ She sighed. ‘Of course, I asked Crassus to release you. I think he was shocked to hear of our wedding. Seemed best not to say anything about the ceremony. As far as he is concerned, we are both citizens, lawfully and properly wed, even though he clearly feels I have married beneath me. That is quite something given that I am sure he feels I am half-barbarian still.’

‘Well, he has a point.’

‘Legionary,’ she commanded, ‘I think you should kick the prisoner for insolence.’

‘My lady?’ The soldier was confused.

‘Never mind. Let us just say that I begged that he show leniency for my sake and the sake of my friendship with his sister, that he must excuse your atrocious manners and that you were a highly experienced officer who could be very useful.

‘He told me not to worry my pretty head about such matters, that he knew best, and then he put his hand on my leg. In Londinium more than once I caught him looking at me. It was not any great compliment, as he leered at anything with breasts.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Perhaps you should kick him, Longinus, as a favour to me.’

‘An honour, lady.’ The veteran did not move.

‘I behaved with dignity and left. I did not even kill him. He is brother to my dear friend, after all.’ The legionary gaped at her. ‘And such as he is, he is the only man with the rank to command here.’

‘How will your brother fight?’

‘He is not clever, but neither is he a fool. He must win or no one else will join him and he is doomed. Tomorrow perhaps, or the day after. I cannot see his patience lasting longer.

‘Now, we must go. Soldier, do your orders permit a wife to kiss her husband?’

The legionary was uncertain. ‘I was told you are not to touch at all, lady. I am sorry.’

‘Then how would it be if I was to kiss you and you passed the kiss onto my husband’s lips?’

The legionary blushed.

‘Try it, lad, and I’ll throttle you,’ Ferox said.

‘So be it. Farewell, husband.’

The next morning, Enica’s judgement of her brother was borne out. In the second hour of a short November day, the leading horsemen saw the enemy. They were waiting where the road climbed a gentle hill, armour and weapons gleaming in the bright sunshine that had finally broken through the clouds.

Crassus was delighted, so much so that he ordered Ferox brought to him and even permitted him to have his sword. Claudia Enica was there, escorted by a pair of Batavians. The dress had gone, and she was once again in travelling gear, the familiar boots joined by breeches and two heavy tunics so that she wore her cloak open, and Ferox could see the hilt of a borrowed gladius. Before he left the camp, Ferox had managed to have a word with Vindex, so that the scout and the others ought to be riding out to the west, making sure that the prince had not sent a force to come in behind Crassus. As far as he could tell, the legate of Legio VIIII Hispana was not worried about such things. Indeed he was joviality itself, holding out a hand in welcome. ‘Ah, Ferox, I trust yesterday’s reproof has sobered you, and that you will remember the proper way for an officer to behave.’

Enica glared at him warningly.

‘My lord,’ Ferox said, hoping the aristocrat would take this as obedient contrition.

‘Good man.’ They were on a hillock beside the road, watching the column deploying into a battle line. Crassus swept his arm along the ridge ahead of them. ‘There are the rebels. I make their numbers little more than ours.’ A mounted vexillarius carried the square red flag marking the commander’s position.

That seemed about right, though only if he believed the entire enemy force was visible. In the centre, formed across the road itself, were the dark blue shields of around three hundred men of the Brigantian royal cohort. From this distance they looked the same as their own auxiliaries, for they wore mail, bronze helmets in the regulation pattern, and each carried a spear and a lighter javelin, as well as having a gladius on their right hip. They were drilled and trained like Roman soldiers, and if they were anything like the horsemen who had accompanied Arviragus, they ought to be pretty good. Their line was broken a little by the ditch on either side of the road, but otherwise their formation was neat. More to the point they waited in silence, keeping in their ranks and watching as Crassus’ men formed up to attack.

On each flank a body of two hundred mounted guards sat on their horses, the gaps between each turma visible even at this distance. Ferox presumed the men he had got to know a little on their journey to Mona were among them. At this distance they could easily have been a regular ala, and a good one at that, each turma mounted on horses of a distinct colour. For some reason the Brigantes had always had a fondness for chestnuts, and more than half of the troops rode them.

Next to each detachment of cavalry was a loose swarm of horsemen, tribesmen armed and ready to fight in the traditional way. Ferox could make out a couple of mail-clad leaders in front of the warriors on the enemy left and three on the right, and judged that there were over a hundred riders in each group. Between them and the foot guards were clumps of warriors. They were not in neat ranks and there was a lot of movement as men milled around, some sitting or standing, and, no doubt, being Brigantes, all of them talking. They would close up before the fight, but were not soldiers and saw no reason to act like them. There were some three hundred and fifty on either side of the royal cohort.

‘How many men serve in the royal guard, lady?’ Ferox asked the question loudly enough for Crassus to hear.

‘Nearly eight hundred infantry in the cohort,’ she explained. ‘My Lord Crassus, is there not a name for a regiment of that size?’

‘Indeed there is, my dear Claudia. It is a cohors milliaria. The royal ala is of standard size.’ Crassus gave her an indulgent smile. ‘It is much to the credit of your fellow tribesmen that so many of them have refused to join the rebels. As so often, rumour has exaggerated the army of your treacherous brother.’

Ferox was about to suggest the obvious alternative, when another fierce stare from Enica warned him off. On the enemy right the ground rose steeply up towards the hills, which meant that the Romans could not try to envelop them. On their left was a wood, straggling on for miles away from the road. Plenty of men could be waiting there in concealment. More could be behind the low crest of the ridge.

Crassus had deployed his own men to match the frontage of the enemy. The turmae sent on the cattle raid had not returned, and with so few horsemen left, there were around ninety on each flank and a turma of twenty-eight stationed near the commander. These, along with the veterans, were his only reserve. The legionaries of VIIII Hispana stood as two improvised cohorts in the centre, the men standing in three ranks. That was fine for steady, confident troops, but Ferox wondered whether it was deep enough. One cohort was led by only two centurions, the other by three, and there were barely more optiones and other leaders standing behind the formation to keep the men in ranks. The auxiliary infantry on either side of the legionaries were six deep, a far more prudent formation that made it easier to control the men. A tenth of all the infantry were still at the camp, some four and half miles to the rear, guarding the baggage.

‘Time to temper the steel,’ Crassus announced, and rode towards the battle line. ‘Soldiers!’ His voice surged to the power of a trained orator. ‘Before us we see traitors to the lord Trajan. He is our emperor! To him you swore your sacramentum! To him we look to steer the res publica onwards to peace and prosperity!’

Ovidius had said he thought Claudia Enica to be a great actress. For Ferox, all that meant was that she was a wealthy and educated Roman, for they all performed at every opportunity. Crassus must have read in histories of the great orations delivered by famous commanders before a victory. He could sense the man revelling in the occasion, perhaps imagining how a writer would phrase what he said. Enica shrugged and trotted her horse after the commander, and Ferox followed.

‘Arviragus who leads that rabble over there took the same oath! He has broken it! None but the vilest of worms would commit such an impiety. The gods will punish him and all who follow him and we are their instruments.’

Ferox lagged behind, so that he heard muttered comments from the legionaries.

‘Hear that, we’re gods!’

‘Can’t be, gods don’t fart! You might be a humping goddess.’

‘Promises, promises.’

At least they sounded in good spirits. A soldier with the energy to moan was not too worried to do his job.

‘Traitors will suffer eternal torment in the Underworld. Think of Sisyphus…’ Crassus seemed to have forgotten his audience and began to invoke a schoolboy’s list of famous traitors and others suffering punishment in Hades. The legionaries lost interest and began to joke and bitch about other things. It was better than thinking.

‘Buggers had to be uphill, didn’t they’, ‘You’re a lazy bastard, Servius’, and so on and so on. Crassus was walking his horse further and further away, right arm flailing in all the gestures of an orator.

‘Look, lads!’ Ferox raised his voice so that he got their attention. ‘Brigantes can’t fight, but they’re all rich. So go up there and slaughter the bastards and shag their women!’

Someone laughed and then started to cheer, and the shout rippled along the line. Crassus spun his horse around on a denarius, delighted at the enthusiasm his words had provoked. Enica flicked her hand against his thigh in reproof.

He shrugged. ‘Best to keep it simple,’ he whispered.

Sadly, that also appeared to be Crassus’ approach to tactics. ‘The army is to advance!’ he shouted. ‘Keep in your ranks, follow your orders, and the day is ours!’ He drew a sword with an ornate handle shaped like an eagle’s head and pointed it towards the centre of the ridge. ‘Forward!’

Officers repeated the order and the line stepped out. The enemy were half a mile away, and for the moment the ground was flat. Part of Hispana had the same problem with the ditches as the royal cohort, but they coped well and kept the separate sections of the cohort in line. The enemy watched, the warriors shuffling and pushing into a closer formation so that soon they had a front rank of men standing in line, shields ready. Most of the boards were painted blue, the favourite colour of the tribe when it went to war.

Crassus came back and they fell in with his staff.

Ferox knew he had to speak and did his best to find the right words. ‘My lord, barbarians are naturally devious, and the Brigantes worse than most.’ He suspected Enica’s eyes were boring holes into his back. ‘That wood on their left is a likely place for a treacherous ambush.’

Crassus was still buoyed up by the cheering. ‘Yes, I have thought the same thing,’ he replied, ‘and wondered whether anyone else would spot the danger.’

‘Perhaps if we refused our right, my lord? Then if they come at us from the wood, we can hit them hard once they are in the open.’

‘Serve ’em right too.’ Crassus smiled. ‘That is exactly what I was planning. Send orders for the cavalry and auxilia to hold back a little.’ A galloper rushed off with the message.

The Brigantes were singing, the sound still too faint to make out the words. Ferox did not recognise the tune, but beside him Enica stiffened. She reached out, clasping his wrist tightly. ‘Oh the raven! Oh the wolf.’ The words were in the language of the tribes. ‘Come to me and I will give you flesh!’ Her eyes were glassy. ‘It is the old battle song of my people. I never thought that I would hear it. Still less from an enemy.’

Ferox leaned over and kissed her, and wrapping his arm around her back held her for a little while. He was as surprised as she was, and when the moment passed they pulled apart, embarrassed.

Crassus laughed. ‘Time for that later! Ah, good, they are obeying.’ On the Roman right the cavalry halted. The auxiliary infantry went a little further and then stopped. Ferox saw an optio on the far right of Hispana’s line stand and stare at them. Crassus had not explained his plan to the rest of his force. The far end of the legionary cohort seemed to stagger, men confused and nervous, before shouts and blows got them back moving again. A moment later, the auxiliary horse and foot started advancing again, so that the right flank of the army was stepped back.

‘Come to me and I will give you flesh!’ Ferox caught the words now, for they were less than a quarter of a mile away. The Carvetii were kin to the Brigantes, but he had never heard Vindex or any of his warriors raise this chant. The tune was gentle, almost mournful, and yet the words held a deep menace. He saw a lone figure on a grey riding up and down in front of the Brigantian line. At this distance the face was unclear, and he could not hear the lone voice shouting, so imagined Arviragus bellowing at his warriors to keep in line. There were always youngsters eager to show off or too scared to wait, let alone the men drunk to the fill and brimming over with the courage it sometimes gave. If a few surged forward, more would follow, and the prince was doing everything to control his men and make them fight as one.

A narrow ditch, unseen until the last moment because of the long grass, caused confusion among the left cohort of Hispana. Some men jumped it, others slipped in or chose to wade through the foot or so of water in the bottom, and there was much shouting and jostling before the ranks were restored. The Romans marched on in silence, until some of the auxiliary infantry began their own chant. It sounded like an angry grunt, repeated over and over again.

‘Tell them to be silent and stay in their ranks,’ Crassus barked at a decurion, who rode off to give the order. ‘Discipline wins battles, not shouts and bravado.’

‘Oh the raven! Oh the wolf!’

Arviragus’ horse reared up and he flourished his sword in a great circle over his head. Ferox could see that he was wearing the helmet and armour he had brought from Mona. Perhaps he had told his men that the spirit of Venutius was with them. If so, then little of the old war leader’s cunning was on show, for the prince pointed his blade at the Romans and set his horse into a gallop straight at them.

The singing turned into a roar and the warriors followed, streaming down the slope. The royal guards hesitated for just an instant, and then they too charged, ranks quickly becoming ragged. Horsemen rapidly outpaced the men on foot.

‘No patience,’ Enica said softly.

‘Barbarians,’ Crassus said with contempt.

Hundreds of men were pouring from the woods as well, some in the full panoply of the royal cohort and even more warriors. The Roman cavalry charged to meet them, some of them whooping as loudly as their foes. Seeing them pass, the auxiliary infantry jogged forward, banging the shafts of their spears against their shields.

‘What are they doing?’ Crassus gasped. ‘Discipline.’ Kicking his horse, he galloped towards the legionaries, yelling, ‘Halt! Halt there!’ His standard-bearer and two troopers followed.

The right-hand cohort of VIIII Hispana heard first and shuddered to a halt. The other went on another twenty paces before the centurions screamed at the soldiers to stop. Optiones ran up and down behind the rear rank, shoving men back into place.

‘Pila!’ Crassus’ voice carried. The leading warriors were fifty paces from the Roman line, Arviragus riding among them. Legionaries in the front rank raised their heavy javelins, poised to throw.

‘Steady now!’ The commander almost shrieked the words, and whether his words were not clear or too many men were nervous, someone hurled his pilum, the slim shank flashing as it caught the light. The missile sailed up and then came down striking the ground and sliding through the grass some way in front of the enemy. Another pilum was thrown, then another, and whole front rank joined in.

‘Stop! Stop, you fools!’ Crassus implored them, and centurions were yelling. Most of the second rank threw before they understood. One pilum spitted a warrior as he bounded forward, shield held too wide. The impact flung him back and knocked down another man. That was the only missile to strike home and the rest pattered to earth harmlessly.

A legionary in the third rank turned and tried to run. An optio was there, blocking his path with his hastile, the staff showing his rank. Then the man next to the first fled, dodging past. More followed. The line rippled like a long ribbon blowing in the wind.

‘Go!’ Ferox told Enica. Find Vindex and the others, and I’ll find you.’

She stared, then nodded. ‘What about you?’

‘I am still bound to the fool’s sister, so will try to get him out of this. Keep her safe,’ he told the Batavians. ‘Now go!’

Ferox walked his horse over to the turma of cavalry. ‘We’re going to save the legate. Will you follow me, decurion?’

The man gulped. ‘Yes, sir.’ He looked relieved to have the decision made for him.

‘Optio.’ Ferox called to the man in charge of the veterans. ‘Form an orb. We may have to fight our way out. Right, boys,’ he said to the cavalry. ‘Follow me,’ He drew his sword.

Crassus was riding among the legionaries, calling for order. ‘Pila!’ he bellowed. Some responded. The Brigantes were close now, barely ten or twelve paces away, and the few missiles thrown punched through shields and armour into flesh. Warriors dropped, or spun around, shield pinned to their arm or body. It was not enough to check the onslaught.

The legionaries broke. One moment there were two ragged lines facing the enemy, and then there were just hundreds of men running away. Some threw down shields and raced ahead of the rest. Others were still confused, searching for someone to tell them what to do, but fleeing in the meantime because everyone else was. A few knots of men clustered together, walking backwards, still ready to fight, and in a moment they were islands washed around by a wave of enemies. Crassus and his little escort came back with the crowd.

‘Halt, damn you! Re-form!’ No one listened to the legate. On the left the auxiliary infantry charged with a shout and it was the Brigantes who gave way. The cavalry on their flank attacked alongside them, but at the last minute wheeled their horses round and fled. On the right the Roman horsemen burst into the mass of attacking warriors, cutting them down. Numbers were against them. The charge lost momentum, and the troopers were in the middle of a crowd of enemies. Horses were speared, riders dragged down and slashed as they lay.

Ferox eased his horse into a trot. The fugitives were a hundred yards away, some of the enemy among them. He could see Crassus, mouth open as he screamed at the legionaries. His vexillarius was beside him and one of the troopers. Ferox could no longer see the other one. Crassus slashed down, and he wondered whether the legate had lost his temper and was now attacking his own men. Then the vexillum fell, and the standard-bearer slumped forward onto his horse’s neck, a javelin sticking out of his back.

‘With me!’ Ferox shouted, raising his gladius. His horse stretched into a canter.

Legionaries, faces pale and mouths open, were fleeing past them. ‘Rally on the veterans!’ Ferox yelled, without much hope that they would obey. Crassus was alone above the crowd, for the other trooper vanished.

‘Save the legate!’ Ferox yelled, driving his horse forward. The fugitives were splitting to run around the oncoming horsemen, and only a few came straight on, too terrified to reason. One barged into the shoulder of Ferox’s horse and was knocked down. He could see Crassus, four enemy warriors around him. Arviragus was thirty paces away, trying to reach the commander, but his own men and the fleeing Romans were in the way.

Ferox saw a warrior raising his spear. He edged the mare to the left, pushed the shaft of the weapon aside, and was past him before there was time to cut down. Ahead of him, Crassus sliced deep into a warrior’s skull, but his blade stuck in the dead man. A spear point drove into the side of his horse, and the animal screamed, collapsing. Crassus pushed against its neck, flinging himself off, landing on one of his attackers. Both men fell, but the legate no longer had a sword. Another warrior tried to get past the thrashing hoofs of the wounded horse to stab the aristocrat in the back.

‘You!’ Arviragus had seen the centurion.

Ferox ignored him. He was alongside Crassus, and cut down, slashing into a warrior’s neck. Blood spurted high as the man dropped his own sword and made a futile attempt to staunch the wound with his hands. Ferox sawed on his reins, making the mare rear. Its front hoofs knocked one man back and made the rest wary. He slashed to the other side, striking a shield with a dull thump. Then the turma arrived, spearing warriors, scattering them, driving into the crowd.

Crassus head butted the warrior he was grappling with, leaving his forehead bloody. Ferox had not expected an aristocrat to fight in such a way and could not help grinning.

‘Come, my lord! Behind me.’ He switched his sword to the left hand and held out his right. Crassus was swaying, stunned. ‘Move!’ Ferox screamed, and that prompted anger and then realisation. The legate took his hand and jumped up behind him.

‘Retire!’ Ferox shouted the order as loud as he could. A space had cleared around the turma. Two horses were down, a trooper dead and the other jumping up behind a comrade just as the legate was doing.

‘Fight me!’ Arviragus still struggled to force his way through the mass of his own men. ‘Ferox, fight me now!’

The troopers were falling back, ranks long vanished, but keeping together. Ferox was tempted to pass Crassus to another rider and meet the challenge.

‘Give me your sword,’ the legate said. ‘I’ll kill him.’

‘Don’t be an idiot, sir,’ he whispered back, and then raised his voice to shout. ‘The queen sends you her greetings! She is well, prince, and will soon lead her people!’ Ferox slapped his horse’s rump with the flat of his sword. ‘Come on, girl!’ She bucked, flinging the legate up until he came down hard against her spine, then she turned and cantered away after the turma. A javelin whizzed as it passed over Ferox’s head. Crassus had his arms around the centurion to stay on, the motion of the running horse bouncing him up and down with every step, while the rear horns of the saddle jabbed into him.

The few knots of legionaries to resist had been cut down and the survivors were still running. On the left, the auxiliary infantry gave way more slowly, the Brigantes keeping at a wary distance, until some of the mounted guards came in behind them. Someone kept the men in hand, and the auxiliaries formed into a circle, not quite as neat as the defensive orb of the drill book, but good enough. Javelins showered down on them. The entire right of the Roman force had collapsed.

Fortunately most of the Brigantes either chased the fugitives or surrounded the circle of auxiliaries. Only a few hundred, mostly from the royal cohort, were forming to advance against the veterans, and the prince was doing his best to marshal them into ranks. Ferox realised that the optio had not obeyed his order. The old soldiers were in a dense cuneus, a block ten broad and seven deep. At the order they marched forward, forcing the retreating turma to split and go on either side. The optio nodded affably to Ferox.

Arviragus was still mounted among all the men on foot. The front rank was ready, oval shields with dark blue fields almost touching, spears raised to thrust over them.

‘Come on, boys! Let them hear you!’ The Brigantes yelled defiance. The veterans ignored them, marching forward in silence apart from the bump of shields and rattle of armour and belts. Some of the Britons threw javelins. One fell short, another stuck fast in a scutum and the rest bounced off the big curving shields.

‘Pila!’ The optio had a voice as harsh as a raven’s.

‘Charge!’ Arviragus screamed, and the Brigantes joined in the shout as they rushed forward.

‘Front rank!’ the optio cawed. With a ripple ten pila were thrown, spinning through the air. One of the guardsmen was hit in the face, the small, pyramid-shaped head of the missile smashing into the bridge of his nose. Another caught the man beside him in the neck. Two more punched through shields, and slid on breaking rings on mail shirts to reach flesh.

‘Second rank!’ Ten more pila followed, devastating the ranks immediately in front of the cuneus. Arviragus’ horse fell, and he was pitched off to fall among his men. A dozen others were wounded or dead, the charge halted in its tracks and the men clustering together.

‘Third rank!’ This time the pila struck a huddle of shields, their owners packing tight and trying to shrink to make themselves as small as possible. One of the heavy javelins pierced two overlapping oval shields, pinning them together.

Ferox reined in to watch, and felt the legate’s weight slip away. ‘They’re my men,’ he said, striding away to join the cuneus.

‘Charge!’ As soon as each man had thrown his pilum, he had grasped the handle of his gladius. Pushing forward and down, the short blades slid easily from their scabbards, ready in hand as the order came to attack. The veterans broke into a run and raised a shout that drowned out all the other noise on the battlefield. Ahead of them, the huddle of shields split apart as the Brigantes ran. Not a man stayed to meet the Romans sword to sword.

‘That’s how it’s done,’ Ferox said, half to himself. He looked among the bodies and could see no sign of Arviragus, although his horse lay dead. For the moment the Britons were running in this part of the field.

‘Halt.’ The veterans stopped. ‘Retire!’ The detachment from Legio XX about faced and marched smartly back the way they had come. Crassus fell in beside the optio on the right at the end of the front rank. ‘Well done, boys. Now we shall go back a little way and then face them again. That’s if they dare.’ The veterans marched steadily on. They had done this before.

Ferox saw the Brigantes reforming two hundred paces away. There were more of them this time, although he could not see the prince. He looked behind and saw a trail of dead legionaries. Some of the horsemen had found easy pickings among the fugitives, but the ones he saw were scattered as they chased the rest. There was no sign of any group under control and likely to turn back to face the legate and his little band. Sixty auxiliaries came to join them, the only formed remnants of the whole right.

A trumpet sounded, a Roman trumpet, and although that did not mean much with the royal ala present, he was relieved to see two turmae who had rallied and now attacked the horsemen pursuing the fugitives. The Brigantes were scattered, horses weary, so were almost as helpless a prey as the panicking legionaries had been not long ago. Over on the other flank the circle of auxiliaries held out, but the organised bands of the enemy were focusing most of their attention on them and Crassus simply did not have the men to reach them. They must either fight their way free or fall where they stood, and Ferox suspected that it would be the latter.

He decided to leave. Crassus had a good chance of withdrawing with what was left of his army, for there was no sense of purpose to the enemy now. He wondered whether the prince was injured or whether he was too inexperienced to know what to do. In the centre, the main mass watched the veterans retreat without making any effort to push them. If Crassus did not do anything too foolish, then he ought to get away. He had lost his first battle and seen his dreams of glory shattered, but at least the man was acting as a senator should, refusing to give in, saving whatever men he could and preparing to fight again another day. That was what the aristocracy preached. Ferox had read that the consul Varro lost fifty thousand legionaries in an afternoon, and then got a vote of thanks from the Senate for not despairing of the republic because he refused to accept the enemy’s overtures of peace.

This was a small disaster, very small by comparison, but fortunately both commanders were almost as inept as each other. If Arviragus could have held his men in place for longer, then he would surely have rolled up the Roman line and inflicted even greater loss. Even so, it was a victory, and that was what the leader of a rebellion needed more than anything else. He had drawn first blood, facing the might of the empire and routing it. People would hear the news and wonder whether Rome was as powerful as they had thought. Only the truly desperate or determined joined a cause without hope, but as hope grew they would wonder and more and more would take the risk. News of this victory would surely at least double Arviragus’ numbers before the end of the month. If he won again, then all of the Brigantes might rise, and if they did, so would other tribes. The conspirators had spoken of indebted chieftains throughout the province, men with little left to lose. They might declare themselves for some true emperor, or speak of freedom. That did not matter, for all that it really meant was fire and sword throughout the lands. However many years it took, the Romans would win in the end, so it was really just about how many had to die.

Crassus had given Arviragus a chance, and unless he was badly hurt, the prince was the sort of man to seize it with both hands. As high king his words would carry even more weight, and there was only one thing left that stood in his way. Ferox rode off to find his wife.