Brigantia

XXVIII

‘It is rarely wise to be too clever.’ Neratius Marcellus repeated what he had said in the consilium the night before. ‘He expects us to attack him and so we shall. But in our own time and way.’

An hour after dawn and everyone was in place. On the left, both alae formed up, each in two lines of turmae. Ala Petriana was furthest forward, with the other ala behind and to its left. They would let the enemy horsemen come to them, rather than driving too deeply forward. The Gauls stood between the cavalry and the main force of infantry. A cohort of Legio XX was on the left, formed in two lines, each six deep. Two hundred paces to their right was the first cohort of Legio II Augusta, in a matching formation, with the eagle shining in the middle of the reserve line surrounded by five signa from the centuries of the first cohort and the vexillum flag of the detachment. The gap between the legionaries was filled by ten scorpions, light artillery, firing heavy bolts with tremendous force and uncanny accuracy and some of the archers in open order. The rest of the archers formed an extra rank at the back of the leading lines of legionaries. Behind them all, the other cohort of Legio XX acted as an immediate reserve.

‘Silly fellows,’ the legate said to his staff. ‘Ought to have thought more about what he was doing.’ The rampart built by the enemy covered most of their front line and was continuous, without the weak spot offered by a gate. Yet that also meant that there was no easy way through for their own warriors. A shrewder commander would have had openings every few hundred paces. What this meant was that the Romans could choose where to attack and not be too worried about their flanks, at least until they had got past the rampart. Neratius Marcellus planned to attack in two places with his legionaries. At the same time Cerialis’ Batavians, supported by the Vardulli, would storm the old hill fort. The cohort cavalry would provide the legate with his ultimate reserve.

Ferox was with the governor as he rode along the line of scorpions. He had asked for permission to lead some of II Augusta or anyone else in the first assault. Neratius Marcellus had refused, no doubt informed by Cerialis of what the prince had said. ‘No, I need you. I have few enough officers as it is, and none who know the tribes as well as you.’

As Ferox watched the crew of one of the engines load a bolt and start cranking the slide back to something like full tension, he tried to fight off a black mood. He did not believe that Enica was dead. Her brother had surely lied, for otherwise he would have shown them some trophy as proof; not her head, since taking the head of any woman would have disgraced a chieftain, let alone the self-proclaimed high king, but something else.

Enica lived, he was sure of that, just as he was sure that her life hung by a thread, and perhaps the same was true of Vindex and the others. What Ferox did today would decide her fate and theirs, and no doubt the gods would demand a heavy price. He might die today, and if that was what would happen then there was no point trying to hide, so he had asked to be at the forefront. There was no point trying to explain this to the legate or any Roman, for he could not say how he knew. Understanding had come slowly, as he’d lain awake through the last hours of the night, and in the red dawn he was certain. A man could not kill a druid and walk away. Acco was at work, or the magic the druid had unleashed, and the gods would play their games, and perhaps the chaos the old man had foretold would erupt here. If both brother and sister died then the Brigantes had no clear leader and the chiefs would fight each other. If the legate was defeated or died in the battle, the other restless and desperate leaders in other tribes might well decide to challenge Rome and the druid would prove right and flame and sword sweep through the province.

Ferox did not fear death, and if it saved his wife then he could almost welcome it. He found it hard to worry much about all those who would perish if the rebellion begun by the prince spread throughout the lands. Instead he thought of the girl in his arms, her softness and his surprise because at first she had been so timid and nervous. Was it just another act? He did not think so, but who could say for he had been wrong before.

It did not matter. Ferox knew that they must win and that he must accept any challenge or danger without hesitation. If death came then it came. He feared the half-death, to suffer wounds leaving him blind and crippled, eking out the long, slow years of life, dependent on the kindness of others, always knowing that his soul would carry the scars into the Otherworld. Yet if that was what the gods demanded, he would suffer it for her. Saving his wife gave Ferox’s own life purpose and meaning, and perhaps his craving for these was deeper that his newfound love.

‘Ready, my lord.’ A tesserarius from XX Valeria Victrix was in charge of the artillery, and now saluted the legate.

Archers stood in pairs between and behind the scorpions, with another group formed as a reserve, and a centurion commanded them, but they were out of bowshot of the rampart. Ferox looked at the row of faces peering over the parapet. Few wore helmets, and as far as he could see all were tribesmen fighting with their own weapons. Some probably had slings, although the Brigantes were not known for their skill with slings. Perhaps one or two were bowmen. Otherwise, they would be able to do nothing to the enemy until the Romans came close enough to hit with a javelin or stone hurled by hand. At least the rampart meant that the warriors could not surge forward before Arviragus was ready, as they had done in the last battle. A standard shaped like a cockerel bobbed up and down in front of them, and beside him stood a big man with a tall helmet and armour of bronze scales.

‘You may begin,’ the legate told the artillerymen. ‘An aureus apiece for the crew who nail that shiny fellow and the one with the bird.’

The tesserarius grinned, showing teeth that were yellow and broken. ‘Pick your targets!’ he shouted. ‘Shoot when you are ready.’

The first scorpion cracked like a whip, as the metal slide slammed forward. Ferox watched as the bolt flashed through the air and whipped several feet above the men on the rampart. The crews of the neighbouring artillery pieces jeered.

‘Silence there! Get on with your job!’ the tesserarius bawled at them. ‘Next peep out of any of you and I’ll have the bugger flogged.’

‘Oh the raven! Oh the wolf!’ The tribesmen began their chant. A lone man with a tall carnyx horn blasted out a challenge.

More of the scorpions cracked and slammed. The next two bolts drove deep into the turf of the wall.

‘Come to me and I will give you flesh!’

The trumpeter blew another rousing blast, which stopped with an abrupt clang as a bolt struck the boar’s head of the carnyx, flinging it back beyond the wall and leaving the player dazed, his mouth bloody.

‘Stop playing games, Marcus. Kill the mongrels!’

‘Oh the raven!’ Ferox thought of Enica hearing her people’s old song and hating the fact that she was on the other side.

The tall armoured chieftain took a bolt through the eye and vanished behind the parapet. His standard-bearer was leaning over him when another missile hit his neck and burst out the other side. The singing faltered. By now, the scorpions had the range, and their crews worked mechanically, cranking and loading, lining up on a target, loosing the bolt, and then doing it all over again. A few of the victims screamed, and there were jeers from the defenders whenever a man ducked in time or the bolt struck the parapet or whisked past overhead. Soon most of the shots struck a man in the shoulders or face, and more and more men bobbed down behind the parapet. No one was yelling back any more, let along chanting.

The last men hid out of sight or were killed, but Neratius Marcellus let the scorpions shoot for a little longer, before raising his hand. ‘Archers to advance. Scorpions to follow and set up fifty paces from the rampart. You can shoot over the bowmen if any of those fools feel brave again.’ He turned to Ferox. ‘Ride to the Augusta and tell them to advance when I signal. And then come back. I need you here.’ As he rode away he heard similar orders being issued to go to XX Valeria Victrix and the auxiliaries under Cerialis.

A warrior cautiously raised his eyes above the parapet, now that the bolts had stopped. He must have shouted something, although Ferox did not hear, for others joined him. Then the arrows started, and although no one was hit they were close enough to make everyone duck back down.

Ferox passed on the orders and trotted back to the legate, taking his horse parallel to the rampart and within range of a well-thrown javelin. None came his way, for the defenders remained in hiding, so there was no real test of whether the gods planned to claim his life. Neratius Marcellus raised one eyebrow when he saw the centurion wheeling round to join his staff, but made no comment. The legate gestured to the tubicen who trailed behind him and the man sounded the signal for orders. Then the vexillarius dipped his square red flag, embroidered with its golden figure of Victory, three times. Cornicines in all of the leading units blew the three notes of the advance.

They were closest to Legio XX, on its unshielded side, so Ferox saw the legionaries step out as neatly as if they were on parade, with the clinks and soft thump of soldiers on the march. A centurion ahead and to the right of the front half of the cohort was walking backwards, so that he could keep a close eye on his men. It was a gesture of contempt for the enemy, if a weak one, since the enemy remained invisible, save for the horsemen on their right and the distant figures of the men in the old fort.

The legionaries were silent apart from the calm voices of centurions, and the sharp rebukes from the optiones following each line whenever a man spoke or wandered out of place. In the distance, Ferox just caught a low murmur as the Batavians began the barritus, the old war cry of Germanic warriors. Men in the fort answered with cheers and blasts of horns, for there were no archers over there to keep them down. On the opposite side the cavalry of each army watched each other, neither making any move, until Ferox caught a flicker of something out of the corner of his eye and saw a chariot shoot out between two of the bands of Brigantian horsemen. The car was painted a pale blue, the team one black and one grey, and the warrior in the back wore silvered helmet and mail and carried a deep blue shield. More chariots followed, some red, some green and some white, with warriors capering as they brandished weapons and shields high. It was bad luck to drive with ponies of the same colour, or so most of the tribes believed, so Ferox was surprised to see one car painted black and pulled by black animals. Its warrior was stark naked, his body painted, and he was standing on the shaft between the ponies as the wheels thundered across the grass.

‘Well, there’s a sight,’ the legate said, as if commenting on a statue or painting. ‘A glimpse of Homer, perhaps! What a shame Ovidius is not here to see it.’ Ferox would have been glad to see the old fellow, and simply to know that he was well, and did not bother to remind the legate that the philosopher had seen plenty of chariots in Hibernia that summer.

The infantry pushed on steadily.

‘Good boys! Keep it steady there.’ The centurion going backwards did not shout, and simply spoke very loudly, his voice carrying easily along the first line formed by the cohort.

The chariots did not advance too far from their own cavalry, and then turned sharply, riding back and forth as the warriors showed off. Ferox saw ripples in the front rank of ala Petriana. He doubted the horses had ever seen or heard something like this, and more than a few were spooked by the flashes of metal and the spinning wheels as they crunched across the frosty grass. One beast turned and tried to push past the horses behind, its rider tugging desperately at the reins to stop it. At last he managed to drag his mount back around. Fortunately the Britons had not charged, for even a little bit of confusion could easily turn into panic. Ferox suspected that no one had seen the opportunity.

‘Pity we did not put some archers over there with the cavalry,’ the legate said wistfully. He glanced at the scorpions, but all were between the two leading formations of legionaries, and it would take time to bring a couple back so that they could see the chariots.

One of the warriors leaped down from his chariot and strode towards the Roman horsemen. Ferox could imagine him calling out his name and lineage and asking for a fitting opponent to face him in single combat. He wondered whether a few months ago the same man had been dressing in a toga and taking pride in speaking Latin, or whether this was one of those noblemen who had clung tightly to the old ways.

Aelius Brocchus galloped out from his station at the head of ala Petriana straight at the warrior, yellow-brown cloak billowing behind.

‘Damned fool,’ the legate muttered, half admiringly.

The Briton threw a javelin and the prefect deflected it with his shield. Brocchus had his own spear low down, and he urged his horse to go even faster, as the warrior drew his sword. The prefect leaned low and to the right, shield held up to protect his horse’s head, the reins hanging free as he steered the animal with his knees. The Brigantian raised his long sword, but before he could sweep down, the spear point drove into his stomach and through his body, lifting him off his feet. Brocchus struggled with the weight, for he was not a big man, and after a moment gave up and dropped both spear and the writhing warrior impaled on it.

‘Ferox,’ the legate said quietly. ‘Go and tell the prefect well done, but if he tries that again I’ll have him on a charge and dismissed from his post.’ He shook his head. ‘Really, a man of his years. And, Ferox?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Come straight back.’

Brocchus grinned as his men cheered him. Other warriors were on foot now, issuing their own challenges.

‘Stay in ranks!’ Brocchus shouted. ‘Keep order.’

Decurions echoed the command. ‘Stay in line, you bastards!’

The prefect nodded as he received the order. ‘Please don’t ever tell my wife,’ he added with a smile. ‘Oh well, so much for heroism, let us do this like proper soldiers.’ He ordered a turma to ride out and skirmish with the chariots.

By the time Ferox rejoined the legate, the legionaries were at the wall. Now and then a defender bobbed up, throwing a javelin or rock down. Few risked the time needed to aim properly, because the archers and scorpions were waiting. One legionary was behind the line, as a medicus tied a bandage around his bloodied head, while another lay still, a spear in his throat, but those were the only casualties. Men were working with dolabrae, using the wider head of the pickaxe to prise apart the turves in the wall. Others used crowbars or simply their hands, eating away at the hastily built rampart. Each legion was working on two breaches in the wall.

Something was wrong. Ferox’s instincts were calling to him that it was all too easy. Even with the risk from the arrows and bolts, the Brigantes seemed too cowed, as they let their defences be destroyed with no real effort to hinder the work. Ferox heard a distant roar as the barritus reached a crescendo and the Batavians charged. The defenders shouted back, hurling javelins at the auxiliaries as they scrambled up the grassy slope. Cerialis had orders not to press the attack too hard until the legionaries had crossed the wall, but such caution was all too easily forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Brocchus’ men worked in pairs, one covering the other so that they always had at least one javelin ready to throw. Two of the chariots lay as shattered ruins of men and ponies, brought down by killing one of the animals or the driver when they were going at full pelt. Three more warriors were wounded, and only one managed to get back on board and escape, and the cost was one trooper hit in the thigh and two horses wounded. Ferox did not think that Arviragus was with the chariots, although at this distance it was hard to be sure. As he watched, the naked warrior with the black chariot and team burst forward. A javelin twitched the mane of one of the ponies without doing harm, and another struck the warrior’s shield and stuck fast so that he dropped it. His own javelin hit the top of a trooper’s raised shield, but the auxiliary was slow and all he did was deflect the missile up into his face. The chariot raced past, and the warrior had his sword ready. He dodged the javelin of the trooper’s companion, and the auxiliary was still fumbling with his spatha when the chariot skimmed along past him and the long sword swept. Blood fountained high as the trooper’s head and helmet sailed through the air, and the black team was turning, galloping away to safety. Ferox could not help admiring the skill.

With a soft, almost gentle rumble, part of the rampart collapsed forward, the legionaries bounding back out of the way. The soldiers cheered, and a moment later more of the wall gave way to form a second breach.

‘Beware the Boars,’ the centurion who had started the advance going backwards bellowed out in triumph. Legio XX used a boar as its symbol on some of its standards, although its shield bore the device of Jupiter’s lightning bolts and the wings of thunder.

Valeria Victrix had broken the rampart before the other legion, and no doubt they would remind Augusta of this at every opportunity. Ferox imagined Tertullianus cursing in his high-pitched voice, until the wall started to crumble and their two breaches formed.

‘Capricorns!’ II Augusta had the capricorn symbol of the divine Augustus on its red shields.

As the dust cleared javelins came whipping through the breaches. Julius Tertullianus died in the moment of triumph as a spearhead struck him in the mouth and drove so deep into his head that the rear of his helmet was dented. Most of the men using the tools had laid aside their shields to work and now they paid for this, with half a dozen falling to wounds in the legs, and one whose mail failed to stop a powerful throw.

There was no check. A few men hurled pila through the gap, but most did not bother and raised the slim javelins to use as spears. Some stayed with their tools as they climbed up the slope made by the debris of the wall and charged inside. There was a dull roar of rage and an answering shout of anger from behind the wall.

‘Someone go and see what is happening!’ the legate gasped, and before he could say anything else Ferox put his horse into a run. Four mobs of legionaries attacked through the breaches. Formation was impossible and the lack of order could not be helped, but by now Ferox’s instincts were screaming even louder and he was sure that this was a trap.

He rode past the scorpions and archers, heading for the wall near one of the breaches made by II Augusta. From beyond the ramparts there were shouts, the clash of weapons, and screams of agony. More and more legionaries were pushing their way through the gaps, and behind them the reserve lines were close, ready to reinforce. The rampart was not high, so that when Ferox reined in beside it, the crest of his helmet was barely lower than the top of the parapet. There was no sign of any defenders. For a moment he wondered about trying Enica’s trick of standing on the saddle, before deciding not to risk it. This was a borrowed horse and rather skittish. Instead he jumped down and called to a couple of the archers.

‘Give me a hand.’

Putting a foot in one man’s cupped hands, he pushed up, and with a hefty shove from the over grabbed the top of the parapet and managed to get one boot on the narrow ledge in front of it.

‘Thanks, lads.’

Ferox pulled himself up, and to his relief no warrior was kneeling behind the barrier, waiting for this moment. A corpse with a bolt in its chest sprawled on the walkway, one arm hanging down, and apart from a few more dead and badly wounded warriors the wall was empty. Below there was fighting and he could see that the Romans were winning and steadily pushing forward. Dragging himself over, Ferox squatted next to the dead warrior and looked down. Most of the men from the first attacking line were already inside, in four groups in front of each of the breaches. As they cut their way forward, they spread a little with each pace gained. The reserves were starting to follow them, and he saw the eagle waving amid the other standards as the lionskin-headdressed standard-bearers advanced with their comrades.

‘What’s happening?’ Neratius Marcellus shouted from behind. The legate had come after him, too impatient to wait.

Ferox did not answer. He tried to count the warriors fighting the legionaries. They were little more than a mob, clustering around the Romans, so that the best he could get was an impression, but it was obvious that there were too few of them. Perhaps there were a few score more Brigantes than Romans, although that would soon change as the reserves caught up.

‘Damn it, Ferox, what is happening?’

He glanced to the right. The Batavians had not yet broken into the old fort and for the moment the two sides had separated and were lobbing javelins back and forth. On the left, the cavalry still waited, although from here he could see that the Britons had well over two thousand horsemen and more might be concealed by the woods. The royal cohort stood just a little back from the line of the rampart, each man with his shield resting against his legs and his spear in his hand as he waited in silence.

‘It’s a trap, my lord,’ Ferox called back. Everything pointed to that, for if this was all that was left of the prince’s army and the rest had deserted then why would he have fought at all? Ferox stared behind the clusters of Britons fighting the legionaries. There was just grassland for a couple of hundred paces before the ground rose to a low ridge, but it was hard to believe that the rest of the army could be so far away as behind the heights. He looked closer, saw the grass ripple in the wind, passed on, and then brought his gaze back. There was no wind.

Someone grunted as they landed on the parapet beside him. The legate stood up, brushing himself down. ‘Go on, lads!’ he shouted, as the legionaries made another surge forward. He turned. ‘Send up the other cohort.’ The tubicen called out and the vexillum waved as a signal.

‘Wait, my lord!’ Ferox watched the grass no more than seventy paces behind the retreating Britons, before he saw a head, then another peering out. ‘Look there!’ Once he had seen it, the shadow on the land was obvious. There was a gully, running all the way across the field, invisible until you knew where to look, but big enough to hide men – lots of men.

The warriors fighting the legionaries were going back faster now, leaving a lot of dead and wounded behind them. As they pushed on behind the front ranks, Romans jabbed down with pilum or sword to kill those who still moved, for it was never wise to take a chance and spare an enemy before the battle was won. A carnyx blew, the harsh quivering call loud even above the fighting, and the Britons turned and fled. Some died because they did not turn fast enough, and then more as the legionaries streamed after them, the wounded and slow being killed first. A great cheer of victory went up from the legionaries as the enemy broke. No one shouted any orders and the two cohorts just rushed ahead, eager to finish the job.

Then the prince sprang his trap.