Vindolanda

XI

‘I AM GUESSING that they want to fight this time,’ the tribune said, looking up at the masses of warriors on the spur above them, and the shields lining the rampart of an old fort. Hardly anyone lived up there these days, and the rampart was covered in grass and the ditch half filled with rubbish. Yet several hundred warriors had gathered there and it would not be easy to storm. Many more of the Selgovae formed a rough line across the saddle to the north of the fort, the warriors sitting or standing in loose masses. They had standards topped by bronze figures of gods or animals and men blasting out calls on their tall carnyxes, each trumpet’s mouth shaped like the head of a boar. The sound reminded Ferox of the ambush on the road. A picture of Sulpicia Lepidina came to mind and he shuddered at the thought of what they had planned to do to her.

The ground sloped up steeply to the saddle, which on the far side went down into a bigger, longer glen. If the campaign was going to plan, then the western column should be advancing up that valley towards them. Yet if they were to meet up, Crispinus’ men must force their way through this pass. The column was concentrated now, formed at the foot of the slope apart from half of the infantry of the Vardulli from Spain and all their cavalry who protected the baggage animals and watched the rear.

‘Despatch coming.’ Titus Annius pointed to the ridge behind them. Half a dozen cavalry were cantering down the smooth slope, led by a man with a luxuriously plumed helmet and a trooper holding his spear aloft, something flickering just below the head. As they came closer Ferox saw that it was a feather, as the commander of the Tungrians had guessed, and realised that the plumed officer was Flaccus, the junior tribune from VIIII Hispana. One of the cavalrymen in his escort had a freshly tied bandage round his thigh. They must have come from the Legate Quadratus and the main column.

‘We had a time of it getting through,’ the tribune said to Crispinus, before the two men moved to the side and spoke for some time.

It was an hour before noon on the morning after the attack on their camp. There were seven wounded men back with the baggage train to add to the eight given hasty burials before they set out. All but one of the dead were from the picket, for the attackers had hacked to pieces anyone who fell. The four survivors were all wounded, but had managed to stay on their feet and close together so that they were back to back. The attackers left forty-seven corpses on the ground and few if any of them had fled. There were no prisoners.

All of the dead bore the tattoos on forehead and hand and had fought with the same wild aggression as if they did not care whether they lived or died. None were skilful, and some carried woodsman’s or carpenter’s axes or just clubs rather than proper weapons. Yet they came on very fast and slashed or bludgeoned at anything within reach, keeping on striking even if they were covered with wounds. Soldiers spoke of men crawling towards them leaving the ground slick with blood, but still brandishing weapons. One of the Romans had been stabbed repeatedly when he went to check what he was sure was a corpse, given the horrible injuries to the Briton’s face, arms and chest.

As far as Ferox could tell, few of the dead appeared to be Selgovae, and instead were from many different tribes and much further afield. Quite a few looked half starved, with little trace of the muscles on arms and legs built up by warriors who practised for war. He had told Crispinus and the other senior officers about this, but was not sure how much they understood. Romans were apt to see all barbarians as much the same.

The man Ferox had killed was more of a puzzle. His forehead was marked with a stag, rather than a horse, and underneath were traces of an older tattoo: ten e q a ugi. It was a Roman mark in Latin, not something put on by the tribes, and Ferox’s best guess was something like tene me quia fugi – ‘Arrest me, for I have run away’. The antler-wearing priest rallying the tribes against Rome was a former slave, a man who had fled from his owner and been recaptured, then escaped again. He was a runaway slave, a fugitivus from the empire, perhaps from Britannia, although the man with the southern accent made Ferox wonder whether there were more runaways from far afield among this strange band. It helped to explain a man who used magical words of power and called on Isis and Hades and other gods not widely known among the tribes.

Crispinus read the despatch, spoke for a while with Flaccus and then summoned his officers to a consilium to explain what they were to do. ‘The Legate Quadratus is attacking from the south, driving up the valley towards us. There are strong forces facing him, but the enemy have placed these bands here to stop us from fighting our way in behind their main force.’ He saw Ferox’s questioning expression. ‘The enemy are two chieftains. Venutius, as we expected, and his neighbour Tagax.’

That was a surprise, since the second man had a reputation for mildness and was a frequent victim of his neighbour’s cattle rustling. ‘The legate has advanced, putting farms and villages to the torch if the people did not welcome him.’ That explained the resistance of the chieftains – push the mildest man too far and he will push back, especially if he was as proud as the leaders of the Selgovae. Ferox suspected that the clumsy hand of Claudius Super was behind the needless aggression of the Roman approach.

‘Our job is to storm the pass, then move through and block anyone from retreating up the valley.’ Crispinus sounded calm and confident, although Ferox noticed that he kept drumming the fingers of his right hand against his thigh. His plan was simple, but so was the problem and there was little opportunity for subtlety.

‘Flavius Cerialis and his Batavians will lead.’ The tribune smiled at the prefect. ‘You had better order your troopers to dismount and form with the infantry. I know that they will not like it, but the pass is not good ground for cavalry.’ Now he was looking at Brocchus, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.

‘Titus Annius?’

‘Sir.’

‘Your Tungrians will be to the left of the Batavians, held back a little. You will face the fort, but your job at first will be to guard the flank of Cerialis’ men against any charge. Once they have driven off the warriors in the pass, you will mount a combined assault on the ramparts. I shall give the order when it is time.’

‘Sir.’

‘The remainder of the infantry of the Vardulli along with Aelius Brocchus and the ala Petriana will act as a formed reserve, following at two hundred paces behind the main line. If we can sweep them out of this pass, then there ought to be good hunting for the cavalry. However, unless the enemy come down from their position you are not to attempt a charge without my express orders. Everyone clear about the part they are to play?’ The tribune’s fingers kept drumming against his thigh as the officers assured him that they understood. ‘Ferox, you will stay by my side as I may need you.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. The Tribune Flaccus informs me that the main column will be driving up the valley, forcing the enemy towards us. That may mean that we will face very large numbers for a while, but we will be relieved.’

‘I must also urge haste,’ Flaccus cut in, prompting a brief flash of anger from Crispinus. ‘I fear it took me much longer to reach you than we expected. I do trust that you will attack quickly.’

‘We shall obey our orders and do the thing properly.’ Crispinus spoke in a clipped and dismissive tone. ‘If things have worked out, the eastern column from Coria is already further north and closing in on the enemy from that direction.’

Ferox was dubious, and thought that the chances of the three columns meeting up on time and as planned were slim. Best to forget the eastern column. That larger force would have moved at reasonable speed along the road for some distance, but as soon as they left it to march cross-country he suspected that they would crawl along, even if there was little or no opposition. Give them another day or two and they might be coming down behind the enemy, but he doubted that they would be there any earlier. They should count themselves fortunate that Crispinus’ small force was approaching Quadratus and the main column in the west. Now all they had to do was to fight their way through to join up.

The Batavian infantry formed up in four ranks, the three centuries abreast with only a slight gap between them. That gave a frontage of fifty men, with the vexillum carried proudly in the centre of the formation, their green shields uncovered because they were to fight. Cerialis put the cavalry on the right in a block eight men wide and eight deep. Covering their flank, Titus Annius placed his Tungrians with their yellow shields, one century behind the other, each drawn up in six ranks, apart from twenty men who carried leather slings as well as their normal weapons who formed a thin line of skirmishers.

A bowshot behind the front line the Vardulli were stationed in a dense column, with the turmae of ala Petriana to their rear.

‘Some archers really would be nice,’ Crispinus said to Aelius Brocchus, as the prefect arrived to inform him that everyone was ready. ‘Soften them up a bit before we go in.’

‘Yes, and some scorpions.’ Light bolt-shooters or scorpiones were often taken by the legions on campaign and had the ability to pick off enemies at a range far beyond a sling or bow, but auxiliaries were rarely given them in the field.

‘Ah well, no use lamenting what we do not have. We shall just have to do it at close quarters.’ Crispinus was deliberately ignoring Flaccus, who kept making hints that time was passing. It had taken a good half-hour to get the units into position. Men had taken last gulps of posca, or something stronger if they had it, as the clouds blew away and a bright sun beamed down on them. Now, stripped down to their fighting gear, they carried no canteens, although some of the galearii were posted behind each formation with waterskins.

‘With your permission, sir,’ Ferox asked. Seeing the nod, he waved to Vindex who raised aloft a long spear topped with the head of the priest. The pair of them cantered up behind the Batavians and then walked their horses along in front of the Roman line, giving the tribesmen a good look.

There was a roar from up the slope, turning into shouts of anger and promises of vengeance. The warriors jeered and taunted, although he was not sure whether anyone recognised the man or they simply guessed that he was one of their own. When they came in front of the fort, Vindex dipped the spear and Ferox pulled the head free. He waved it around up in the air and then flung it forward. Warriors howled at him from the fort, and he heard them assure him that soon his own head would roll in the grass and get pissed on by their women.

‘Time to go,’ he told Vindex. ‘You had better join the scouts with the rearguard.’

‘And miss the fun?’

The Batavians clashed the shafts of their spears against their shields three times, the pounding sound sending echoes back down the valley. Ahead of them the Britons blew their trumpets and screamed defiance. The tall auxiliaries then raised their shields over their faces and set up a low murmur.

Vindex’s horse flinched at the unearthly sound, tugging hard on the reins and turning full circle. ‘Think he wants to change sides.’

The murmuring slowly grew louder, the Batavians letting the sound reverberate against the boards of their green-painted shields. It built up like a tide washing ashore, the crests of the waves rising.

‘What is it?’ Vindex asked.

‘They call it the barritus,’ Ferox told him. ‘It’s a German thing. They say you can tell who will win the battle from its sound.’

The steadily rising chant began to drown the challenging cries of the Selgovae. Warriors faltered, puzzled by a war cry that had no words, but kept getting louder.

‘If those boys had any sense they’d charge,’ Ferox said, looking up the hill as he and Vindex went back behind the Batavian line.

The Selgovae did not charge as the Batavian shout reached a crescendo, but the warriors had sunk into sullen, browbeaten silence. When the auxiliaries stopped the silence was oppressive. To Ferox it looked as if the lines of warriors up on the slope were quivering. He saw a few men at the rear walking away over the saddle. He was just about to urge Cerialis to move when the prefect drew his sword.

‘The Ninth Cohort will advance. Forward!’

The Batavians stepped out, left leg first so that the shield remained closest to the enemy. They were silent, eerily so, with only the clink of armour and equipment as they went at regulation pace up the slope. Cerialis rode just behind the flag in the middle of the line, a pair of picked veterans walking on either side of his horse.

The Selgovae started to shout again, jeering at the enemies, but somehow it did not sound as if their hearts were in it. A few ran out in front of the mass, javelins ready in the hands. More were drifting away to the rear across the saddle and out of sight.

Ferox joined Crispinus as he followed some twenty paces behind the Batavians. The Britons kept yelling as the Romans marched forward in silence. The first javelins were thrown. One struck a Batavian’s shield and bounced off, its force already spent. The others did not even come close. A few of the Britons out ahead of the mass became bolder and scampered nearer. The next missiles were better aimed. A Batavian was hit on the shin, the broad head of the javelin gouging flesh. He stumbled and fell flat on his face, hissing with pain.

‘Leave him!’ an optio yelled from his station behind the rear rank.

Another soldier cursed as the point of a thrown spear burst through the board of his shield. ‘Bastards!’ he screamed up the slope, shaking his own spear at them.

‘Silence!’ the optio bellowed. ‘Keep quiet and stay in your place!’

The Tungrians were moving as well, their slingers dropping stones on the rampart of the fort. It was awkward for the auxiliaries with the large flat oval shields to put a stone in the sling and swing it properly, so the Tungrians worked in pairs. One man covered his comrade with his shield while the other laid his shield down and lobbed missiles at the enemy. There were a few slingers among the Selgovae and stones whizzed through the air in response. They were harder to see than an arrow, let alone a javelin, which made it more difficult to dodge them. A Tungrian was down, kneecap badly bruised or broken by a stone.

‘Hey, reckon the legion is busy.’ Vindex was pointing past the enemy at a dark smear rising from the valley beyond. ‘There’s another,’ he added a moment later. The Legate Quadratus and his troops must be further forward than expected, already putting houses to the torch.

‘They’re breaking,’ Crispinus said, the words almost a question because he did not believe what he was seeing.

The Batavians were still fifty paces from the main line of Selgovae, but that line was dissolving as more and more men streamed back across the saddle.

The tribune slammed his spurs into the side of his horse, drawing blood and sending it shooting forward. ‘Charge, Cerialis! Charge!’

Flavius Cerialis obviously had the same thought. ‘Charge!’ he yelled, pushed his horse through the line of his own men. ‘Charge!’ The Batavians started to yell, raising a great angry howl as they broke ranks and sprinted up the slope, spears raised ready to throw, but their targets were fleeing ahead of them. The trumpeters did their best to sound their curved cornu-horns, but the notes were ragged and thin as the men ran to keep up.

‘Wait,’ Ferox told Vindex. ‘If they have the men and the wits to use them, they’d have a thousand warriors crouching just beyond that crest ready to hit us.’

Aelius Brocchus had not followed the tribune and gaped at the suggestion.

‘Trust a Silure to think like that,’ Vindex said.

‘They’re just barbarians,’ Flaccus said, but there was doubt in his eyes along with the excitement of the moment.

They watched as the Batavians surged up the last few yards on to the crest, led by Cerialis and with Crispinus now amongst them. They did not halt, but kept going, disappearing from view.

Aelius Brocchus let out a long breath and grinned. ‘Good job we are not still fighting the Silures. I’ll bring up my men.’ He headed down the slope.

There was a cheer as the Tungrians charged up the slope towards the old fort, their slingers tagging along with the main column. Its defenders were running like the other warriors, but going out through another entrance and fleeing along the heights.

Crispinus appeared back on top of the crest, beckoning to them.

Up close Ferox saw that the young aristocrat was flushed with excitement and finding it hard to keep still, so that he kept waving his sword and twitching on the reins with his other hand. His horse fidgeted almost as much as his rider. Down in the big valley there were farms burning and strong formations of Roman soldiers advancing. Ahead of them thousands of warriors retreated, most seeking the safety of the heights, and keeping well ahead of their pursuers. There were a couple of dead warriors lying on the grass around them, men who had stumbled as they tried to escape. ‘We need Brocchus and his cavalry!’ Crispinus was shouting in his enthusiasm. ‘If he moves quickly then we will have them.’

The side of the valley was steep, rocky and broken by plenty of little rivulets and gullies. This was the Selgovae’s own land, and the lightly clad unarmoured warriors bounded across it at great speed and were gaining ground quickly. The Batavians were already flagging, weighed down by their armour and equipment, and by that strange feeling of emptiness when a man had geared himself up to fight only to find that there was no battle. Some of the keenest were still running as fast as they could after the fleeing enemy. More were slackening pace and giving up. There was no trace of formation, just a couple of hundred panting men scattered across a hillside.

Ferox was just about to suggest sounding the recall when Cerialis found a cornicen and ordered the man to blow the signal on his trumpet. Crispinus started in surprise, frightening his horse, so that the animal bucked and kicked out violently. The tribune’s face was angry until he mastered himself.

‘Yes, of course. Order is vital,’ he said, more to himself than those around him. The same sapping disappointment mingled with relief began to do its work and his shoulders sagged. He took a deep breath. ‘Ferox. Ride to my Lord Brocchus and tell him to pursue the enemy as well as he is able, but to make sure that he does it in good order and takes no risks.’

The ala Petriana was already climbing towards the saddle, each turma in column one behind the other, so it did not take long to deliver the order.

‘We shall do our best,’ Brocchus said, and took his men forward. By the time Ferox rejoined the tribune, Titus Annius was there. Crispinus ordered the Tungrians to hold the fort and guard the pass. He expected that the whole column would cross and join up with the main force in the next valley, but would ride to find out the legate’s intentions. Nothing was said, but it was clear everyone expected the combined force to march back to its bases before their supplies ran out.

‘Ferox, come with me.’ Crispinus went to see Cerialis and told him to form his infantry on the slope and remount his cavalry. They were to wait for the rest of the column to catch up and then be ready to move at short notice. In the meantime, he was to send a messenger to Rufinus to bring the baggage and rearguard up.

Ferox was again told to follow – something Vindex did without being asked – and Crispinus headed down into the big valley to search for the Legate Quadratus and further instructions.

‘I cannot help being disappointed in the courage of our opponents,’ the aristocrat said. ‘They had the advantage of ground and could have put up a stern fight.’

‘And been slaughtered when they were trapped by the legate’s column?’ Ferox spoke bluntly. ‘They did what anyone would do. It’s not about courage, but sense.’

Crispinus did not appear to be listening. ‘Even so it was victory, albeit unfashionably bloodless.’

‘Shame we did not attack sooner,’ Flaccus said.

When they found him, the Legate Julius Quadratus evidently felt the same way. ‘You were late,’ he said. He was a squat man with a creased forehead and the belligerent expression of a caged bear. ‘You should have come through that pass three or four hours ago.’

‘We would,’ Crispinus said, as a senator’s son able to speak freely to a man even of such high rank. ‘We would indeed, had we received orders to do so in time.’

Quadratus turned to the tribune from VIIII Hispana and glared at him, his little eyes red-rimmed and angry. ‘What do you have to say, Flaccus? Was it your fault?’

‘I carried the message as fast as was possible. We lost one dead and another trooper wounded getting past the Brittunculi. I cannot carry the responsibility for other delays.’

The legate looked at each man in turn, wondering which was most at fault. ‘Well, then. No matter. What is done is done and the world moves on. We have taught the clans not to despise our power.’ He swept his arm along the valley, showing the burning houses. ‘We will press on for another couple of miles, kill or take any we can find and then camp for the night. You, Crispinus, will bring your men to join us. Tomorrow we can start home happy with what we have achieved.’

Ferox wondered whether the senator was already composing in his mind a heroic – perhaps even a poetic – account of the campaign. The truth was less impressive. They had burned farms, but not fought a major action, so on balance they had given the Selgovae plenty of good reasons to hate Romans and little reason to fear them. Few of the warriors had been taken or killed, and their families were safe as were their livestock. Homes could be rebuilt before the winter arrived. It would be a hard time for the clans, which would only make the tribesmen’s hatred deeper and provide fertile ground for druids preaching vengeance.

Claudius Super was delighted with the operation, and that was yet another reason to doubt that they had achieved very much good.

‘They’ll not despise us again!’ he declared, his mood so ebullient that he was friendly even to Ferox. ‘My dear fellow, it is so good to see you. We must have a drink to celebrate the triumph once the camp is pitched. This is a glorious day!’ From what he said it was clear that the legate’s force had begun laying waste to the farms several days ago. ‘They did not pay their tax so have only themselves to blame. This is justice!’

Ferox was glad to leave him when Crispinus asked him to take Vindex and his men and patrol the lands behind the column to make sure that no one tried to harass their rear as they went through the pass. For the next few hours they covered a wide area and saw plenty of warriors, all keeping their distance and tending to gather on the high ground. In the meantime the Vardulli escorted the baggage train over the saddle and down into the valley. The sun was low in the sky when they followed, so that he was all the more surprised to see the Tungrians still behind the ramparts of the old fort. Looking down from the top of the pass he could see no other Roman troops closer than a mile and a half. The camp was another mile beyond that, a dark rectangle of tents lit by lines of fires.

‘Something’s wrong,’ Ferox said and trotted over to the old rampart.

Titus Annius hailed him from the gateway. ‘Do you have new orders for me, centurion?’

Elderly gateposts stood on either side of the entrance, but the gates themselves had gone long ago. There were cattle pens inside the walls, and the daily movement of the herds to get water and food left the entrance way churned into a mire.

‘Afraid not, sir. To be honest we did not expect to see anyone still up here.’ Ferox was just outside the entrance to the fort, able to lower his voice.

Titus Annius had served for many years, but for most of that time had acted under the orders of someone else. Ferox could see the doubt in his face. ‘We were told to hold up here until we were relieved or got the order to rejoin the column.’

‘I fear that there has been some oversight. Our own troops have joined the main army and are some way north, setting up camp. I suspect the order to recall you has been lost or forgotten.’

It was obvious that Annius’ instincts told him the same thing. He had one century of his own men, for the other had been sent to help guide the baggage train over the pass and had left with them. There were also thirty legionaries with a couple of pack mules, who had come up to set fire to the houses in the fort. There were only half a dozen still with thatch on them, and the straw was damp, so that it had taken them a while to set the first one alight. After that it was easier, lighting torches from the blaze and holding them against the lowest parts of the roofs. As they spoke the last of the round houses caught fire, the strengthening wind blowing dense clouds of black smoke towards them.

Ferox blinked and coughed; the heat was strong even at this distance. Little pieces of smouldering straw floated through the air. ‘How long ago did you get your last order, sir?’

‘Must be three or four hours ago by now. The Tribune Flaccus came up in person with orders from the legate.’ The long habit of obedience fought against Titus Annius’ instincts until his mind found a happy compromise. ‘Would you be kind enough to ride down into the valley and remind them of our presence?’

‘If you wish, but I do think it would be wise for you to pull out now, before it gets dark.’

Titus Annius undid the tie on his helmet’s cheek pieces and rubbed his chin. There was a young centurion with the legionaries and he now wandered over to report.

‘Buildings destroyed, sir,’ he said, and then broke into a fit of coughing as he swallowed a bit of ash. The man noticed the plumed helmet slung behind his saddle, so gave an affable nod to Ferox, probably trying to work out his seniority and unit. Many officers from the legions disdained centurions from the auxilia. Titus Annius was very senior, but if he had not been a former centurion in a legion then he doubted that the man would have paid him so much respect. ‘Do we have fresh orders, sir?’

Titus Annius shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

Ferox swung down to the ground, boots sinking into the deep mud. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘this is certainly a mistake and you have not been left behind for a reason. There will be no blame.’ The words were out before he had thought properly and he knew that they were a mistake.

Titus Annius’ eyes widened and he clenched his teeth for a moment. ‘Blame?’ he muttered. ‘I have orders, regionarius, and until I have new ones I shall obey them. No one will ever question the discipline of the First Cohort while I am in charge.’ A few of the auxiliaries nearby nodded with approval.

‘They’re coming!’ Vindex had galloped over and yelled out the warning.