Brigantia

XXVII

THE ARMY MARCHED south under a grey sky, and most of the time Ferox rode with the legate, for in spite of Tertullianus’ pleas for an additional centurion with his first cohort of II Augusta, Neratius Marcellus wanted an extra officer for his own small staff.

Enica had gone, not just from his tent but from the camp, and Vindex had gone with her, as had Sepenestus and Gannascus. The legate obviously knew where they had gone, but said nothing other than to assure him that they would be as safe as they could be with the column. ‘Some loyal Brigantes went with them.’ Ferox wondered why the legate had changed his mind about the advantage of trumpeting the presence of the high queen with the column. Even more he hoped that the legate had judged the loyalty of the tribesmen well.

Last night was a like a dream, save that it had not faded in memory. Ferox felt a contentment he had not known for a long time, deeper even than the thrill after the first time he had lain with Sulpicia Lepidina. Oddly what little anger he had felt at Lepidina’s betrayal had gone as well, leaving the fondness of happy memory. Their son was a wonderful gift, even if Ferox could never declare his love openly, and he still trusted the lady to care for him.

Early in the day Ferox was sent back with orders for Cerialis, who was in command of the infantry forming the rearguard, mostly composed of his own Batavians, with their moss-topped helmets looking like fur until you came very close. The prefect was affable, and Ferox felt an odd relief that the affair with the man’s wife was now over forever. He had always liked Cerialis too much to enjoy cuckolding the man, even though he knew the marriage was one of advantage rather than affection, let alone love.

‘There are worse deaths,’ Cerialis said, after receiving the warning that they would be crossing a bridge soon, so that the rearguard was to halt and wait while this brought its inevitable delays. The legate suggested that he let his men light fires and cook. The Batavians had returned to their cohort and spread the word of the death of Longinus. His true identity was a jealously guarded secret, and Ferox was one of the few outside the unit to be admitted to it. ‘In a way, I am relieved,’ the prefect said. ‘He went out bravely, and performing a good act. All his family are long gone, and he had already stayed with the cohort long after he should have retired. Where could he go?’ He reached out his hand. ‘The lads know you were not to blame. They know too that he liked you.’

Ferox shook the proffered hand. Amused tolerance was more his sense of Longinus’ feelings towards him, but perhaps he was wrong. As well as prefect, Cerialis was of the royal line of his tribe, and he spoke as both on a matter all the Batavians felt deeply.

‘No hard feelings,’ the prefect told him. ‘You did your best for him, and you brought most of the lads home.’

As Ferox rode back to the legate he found himself wishing that the prefect’s generosity extended to his affair. As far as he knew, Cerialis had not the slightest idea of any of it, and it was surely best that he never did. How could any husband forgive a man who slept with his wife and fathered a child with her?

Ferox brooded as he rode, and then as he waited for the baggage train to file slowly across the bridge, poorly greased axles screamed on the wheels of the carts. The drivers always claimed the noise warded off evil spirits and he did not know whether this was true. The galearii were slaves owned by the army, given a basic uniform and menial tasks like driving the transport. They were a strange, insubordinate bunch who kept themselves to themselves, jealous of the rare freedom they received. On one of the nearest carts a woman sat suckling a baby, and he guessed she was probably the ‘wife’ of a galearius rather than a soldier. She had a sullen expression and deeply lined face, whether from the harshness of her life in general or the more recent rigours of giving birth.

An image formed in his mind of Claudia Enica holding a newborn babe as he stared down, brimming over with love for them both. It was strange to realise that he had come to love her, even if he had not the slightest idea of when this had happened. Desire had been there from the start, but that was no more than the natural instinct of any man seeing an attractive woman. Respect had grown over time as they had travelled together, but the love he now knew was altogether different.

The woman on the cart lifted the baby and placed it on her shoulder, patting gently until it belched with surprising loudness. She glared at Ferox, perhaps thinking he was leering at her uncovered breast.

It was all a dream, for how could they have a future? He could not imagine the elegant Claudia living as the wife of a mere centurion, let alone one who had long since ruined his career and found himself on the edge of the world. Neither could he see himself as her consort, the pair of them puppet rulers of an allied tribe. The Brigantes would surely not accept him and he could not spend all his life scowling to order. That way lay only boredom, despair and drink. Enica deserved better, as the legate had said; certainly better than a man who had seduced another’s wife. She was beautiful and young, a queen now, at least assuming the legate won his battle and she survived it all. What was he? He felt the blackness grow inside him, the despair and self-pity and hate that made the oblivion of drink call out to him.

The wind picked up and as it made the covering on the cart flap noisily, he half thought he heard Acco’s laughter and his grandfather’s scorn. ‘Live with what you have done, whatever it is,’ the Lord of the Hills had said. ‘No magic in this world can change the past and wishing things were otherwise is the part of a fool and a coward.’

The cart was across, and before the oxen on the next one were goaded into lurching forward, Ferox cantered across, ignoring the protests of the weary optio guiding the traffic. Once across he left the road and gave the animal its head, pounding past the transport as the draft animals plodded along in an unearthly chorus of squeaking metal. At least the sight helped convince him that the legate was as well prepared as possible for such a hastily planned campaign. There were more than ninety carts and wagons, some of them big four-wheeled affairs pulled by a team of eight. Almost all were drawn by oxen, so that they were lucky to make ten miles in a day, but along with the hundreds of mules and ponies they carried bread, flour and salted meat. He was pleased to see that some also had bundles of firewood, for they could not be sure to find enough wood for fires along the way.

Everything about the little army was reassuring in a way so different from Crassus’ force. It was hard to believe that was only a few weeks ago. Neratius Marcellus marched with more of everything, soldiers as well as supplies, and that was part of the difference, but only part. As it went south the column torched no farms, great or small. The legate had given strict orders that no one was to be treated as an enemy unless they attacked the Romans. Even the sight of men carrying arms was not to be seen as a mark of rebellion unless they made use of them. These were the lands of allies of the Roman people, old friends to be treated with respect and courtesy, for the soldiers were here to protect them, not fight them. Anything taken from the land, from livestock, hay or food, was to be paid for in coin. Ferox wondered how many people would risk coming forward to speak to the soldiers, and was surprised when during the day several farmers appeared. The column had followed the legate’s orders since the march began and word was spreading.

He rode past the contingent of II Augusta, Julius Tertullianus waving to him as he passed. The princeps posterior commanded his own cohort, the double-strength First, its numbers topped up to almost its regulation strength of eight hundred by volunteers from the rest of the legion. They carried the eagle, but since today it was their turn to take second place to the vexillation from Legio XX Valeria Victrix, the gilded bird was concealed behind a protective leather cover.

The Victrix supplied almost as many men in two cohorts, and both contingents had spent the last year in the north, drilling and training. The governor had gathered a major force to hold manoeuvres over the summer, ready for a campaign if necessary and for grand exercises if it was not. Now they had their campaign, and Ferox had to wonder whether the legate had had this possibility in mind all those months ago. Tertullianus and some of his men had fought against the pirates during the attack on the island in the far north so had a recent victory to feed their confidence. Some of the auxiliaries were even more experienced, having fought in several campaigns. Cerialis’ Batavians and Rufinus’ Vardulli each mustered six hundred infantrymen as well as turmae of cavalry. There were two hundred and fifty more from cohors IV Gallorum, and three hundred and fifty archers, lean Syrians from cohors I Hamiorum. Supporting these were just over a thousand cavalry, drawn mainly from ala Petriana and ala I Hispanorum Asturum and the cavalry of the cohorts. It was not simply that Neratius Marcellus had more men, they all marched with an assurance and ease that had been utterly lacking in most of Crassus’ force.

On the next day the outlying cavalry patrols saw bands of horsemen watching them. There were more of them the day after, and once or twice javelins were thrown on each side, with no more result than a horse taking a graze. Neratius Marcellus had his army march in agmen quadratus, the main force moving in a long rectangle, the baggage in the centre on the road and the fighting units ready to turn outwards and face an attack from any direction. Bands of tribesmen were visible from time to time, especially on the hills to the west, watching and waiting. The legate ordered his own cavalry never to push too far away from the main force, and not to be too aggressive unless they were pressed. The warriors did not press close, so that the two sides watched each other as the Romans trudged south.

Halfway through the morning of the fourth day since Ferox had joined the column, Brocchus with the advance guard sent a rider back to say that there was an army waiting to meet them. The prefect estimated that the enemy numbered at least twelve thousand men, and when Ferox was sent to join him he judged the number about right. This time Arviragus had not blocked the road, and instead his army stood on hills to the west. It was a decent position, the left flank strengthened by the grassy walls of a long-abandoned fort and the right with good, gently rolling ground ideal for cavalry and beyond that thick woodland. Any attempt to outflank would be seen long before it posed a threat, and in any case would mean attacking up even steeper and more difficult slopes. Ferox saw men at work in front of the main line, finishing off a turf rampart that would cover much of the slope.

‘Bit of a cheek,’ Brocchus said, for the wall was being raised using the army’s routine technique. Ferox could see that most of the men doing the work were the royal guard.

Neratius Marcellus did not hurry. He let the column arrive at its own pace and when the leading auxiliary infantry arrived he formed them into a line facing west, and a good half-mile from the enemy. One of the cohorts of XX Valeria Victrix soon joined them, and then after that he set the remaining legionaries to digging the camp, which had already been marked out on the ground with flags showing where everything was to go.

The legate sat on his horse alongside Ferox, Brocchus and other officers and scanned the enemy line.

‘Will they attack, sir?’ the tribune in charge of the vexillation from Legio XX asked. The enemy had made no move so far, and most of the warriors sat or wandered around, while the guardsmen toiled away to make their rampart. Arviragus was riding a grey, and was clearly visible supervising the work and watching the Romans just as they watched him.

‘Oh, I should not think so. After all the trouble they have gone to, making their little wall, they must be desperate to make use of it.’ The prince’s plan was obvious. He wanted the Romans to attack him. The rampart would not only make that attack harder, but it would help restrain the enthusiasm of his own warriors. Let the Romans come up the hill and be killed. In the meantime his cavalry, whose numbers looked far larger than the Romans’, would hold the right of their line, until the attack was spent or beaten back and then they and any warriors he had held back could sweep round and through the Roman left, rolling up the whole line.

Ferox wondered whether to speak, and was prevented when Neratius Marcellus proceeded to give an almost identical summary to the narrow-stripe tribune. ‘Let him sleep thinking he has us beaten,’ the legate concluded, ‘and worrying that we will try a night attack. We will attack an hour after dawn.’

‘Is it worth considering the night assault, my lord?’ The tribune must have commanded an auxiliary cohort before he was given his post, but may well have seen little service. He was a pale man, with narrow lips, and darting eyes, with the air of someone trying not to be noticed.

Neratius Marcellus smiled. ‘I could be Alexander and tell you that I will not steal a victory in that way! Or just say that I am getting old and need a good night’s sleep. The truth is that a December night is too long and too cold. The men need rest and food, and I do not want everyone blundering about in the dark. Let us do things in what passes for sunlight here in the north, and make sure that we do everything to perfection.’

The legate expanded on the theme in his consilium that night, as he issued orders to all the senior officers and commanders of cohorts and alae in the army. There were only seventeen men all told, including Ferox and the two cornicularii who struggled to keep pace with the governor’s rapid dictation. Each officer would then take written orders and pass them on to his subordinates. The whole army would be armed and in formation in the road behind the ramparts an hour before dawn. That was normal practice, but they were to form so that they could march out and easily take up their allotted place in the battle lines.

The night was clear and cold, the grass crunching underfoot as it froze. Men were glad whenever they could stand or sit near a fire, and listening to the low conversations Ferox felt their confidence. They wanted the campaign over so that they could get back to warm barracks and a quiet winter. No one seemed to doubt that they would win, or if they did, like good soldiers they kept it to themselves. They moaned about the food, and the cold, and bastards from the other units who did not know how to use a latrine, and all the usual things legionaries and auxiliaries liked to complain about. At the third hour of the night Ferox went to visit the picket outside the main gate. The duty fell to the Batavians that night, and he found Cerialis there. They had lit fires thirty paces beyond the picket, which meant that they would get a bit of warning of any attack. A lot of units did this, although Ferox thought it was wrong because it made it impossible to see anything beyond the fires.

‘Tomorrow we kill you!’ a voice yelled from the darkness.

‘He’s back,’ muttered one of the soldiers.

‘We’re going to cut off your pricks!’ This came in a deeper voice than the first.

‘He must have found a friend,’ one of the older soldiers said. ‘In this cold he’ll be lucky to find anything.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ another of the Batavians replied, and then raised his voice. ‘Piss off, you daft buggers!’

‘You are all traitors!’ Ferox thought he saw a pale shape moving in the dark and knew the voice of Arviragus. ‘Trajan is dead, and your legate a traitor who will die along with all his supporters.’

‘That’s nice!’ a soldier shouted back.

‘Tell your officers to give up,’ the prince continued.

Cerialis took a couple of paces forward and cupped his hands to shout louder. ‘Lord prince, you are the traitor and rebel. Trajan lives and we all serve him, true to the oath you have broken. You must all lay down your arms and trust to his mercy!’

Arviragus’ laughter was loud. ‘Will you give a message to Flavius Ferox?’

Cerialis glanced back, wondering whether the centurion wanted to declare himself, and then nodded in understanding. ‘I will give it.’

‘Tell him that bitch, my sister, is dead. Tell him that. As high king I ordered her death and that of all those with her. They are all dead. Tell him that.’

A grey horse shone as it bounded forward, the prince whirling something bulky around in his hand before he flung it forward. It bounced on the grass and rolled a little before it stopped. One of the Batavians flung a javelin, but it fell several paces short and the prince had wheeled his horse and galloped away.

Ferox ran forward, trying to fight down his fears. He could see that the prince had thrown a head, but when he came close he saw it was large and must be a man’s. For a moment he worried that it was Gannascus, until he picked it up and saw that the hair was short and the chin clean shaven.

‘I do not know him,’ he said.

‘I do.’ Cerialis was alongside. ‘It is the prefect in command at Cataractonium.’