Vindolanda

XII

THERE WERE EIGHTY-NINE men in the century from cohors Tungrorum, along with an optio as acting commander, supported by a signifer and tesserarius. That was little more than half of the full complement for in theory the cohort had an unusual organisation, with six centuries of one hundred and forty men apiece. A decade ago they had often mustered something close to that total, before the army’s priorities changed and few recruits were sent to Britannia. The young legionary centurion had thirty men from Legio II Augusta, with carefully painted Capricorns on either side of the bosses on their rectangular red shields. Stretched all along the rampart, without keeping any reserve, that would still have meant no more than a man every three or four paces.

Ferox grabbed Titus Annius by the arm. ‘We should go, sir!’

The commander of the cohort shook him off. ‘I cannot,’ he said. He looked tired, the lines on his face harsh in the light from the burning houses. ‘If you can get new orders for me, then that would be different.’

‘I’ll do my best.’ Ferox walked a few paces away and then stopped as he made up his mind. ‘Go down to the main force,’ he shouted to Vindex. ‘Tell them what is happening and that we shall need help!’ The Brigantian waved and rode away to rejoin the other scouts.

Ferox watched, wishing that he had gone with him and not quite sure why he had chosen to stay. ‘Hold this, lad,’ he told one of the auxiliaries, passing over the reins. Ferox stuffed his hat into a pouch on his belt and put on his helmet. At least the silhouette would mark him out as a Roman and a centurion. He checked that his gladius and his dagger slid easily from their scabbards and ran to follow Titus Annius, wondering whether he was staying simply because he liked the Tungrians’ commander.

There were tumbled circles of stone clustered inside the ramparts, the remains of old houses, making it hard to move quickly, while the dark smoke drifted slowly across the fort and it was impossible to see very much. Two of the burning huts were at the far end, upwind in a fitful breeze that fanned the flames without being strong enough to blow the clouds away quickly. Ferox gave up trying to thread his way through the ruined huts and instead bounded on to the rampart. There were fifty or sixty warriors in a mass down the slope from him. Far more were on the top of the next peak on this long ridge. Closer still, men with slings and javelins were edging nearer to the fort.

Ferox ran along the grassy top of the rampart. Here and there were the stumps of posts showing that there had once been a palisade to protect men on the walls. A pebble from a sling flicked through the grass just ahead of him as he ran. Another whipped past inches from his face. There was no protection for a man on the rampart any more, and the Tungrians were wisely waiting behind the wall rather than be targets on top of it. For the moment the Selgovae were only probing, unsure how many Romans were in the smoke-filled ruin, but soon they would see the defenders’ weakness.

He ran on. There were two old gateways in the rampart. The one he had come through faced the approach to the pass, while the second was at the far end, looking towards the rest of the ridge. The wind veered and gusted, letting him glimpse the high plumes of Annius and the legionary centurion near the far gateway. Ferox hurried towards them, running down the inside slope of the rampart and scrambling over the dry stone walls of a cattle pen.

Titus Annius saw him and looked angry. ‘Thought you had gone for orders.’

‘I have sent my men, but reckoned that you might need an additional officer.’

The cohort commander shrugged, and went back to telling the legionary centurion to form his men to block the open gateway. Earlier in the day the Selgovae had pulled a cart across the gap, but when they abandoned the fort they had dragged it away and pushed it down one of the slopes. It lay there now, both wheels shattered so that they could not recover it.

‘You hold here, Rufus,’ Titus Annius told the centurion from II Augusta. ‘I’ll put a detachment on the other gate, and keep the rest formed up in groups of twenty ready to take anyone who comes over the walls.’

Rufus nodded. His face was dark with patches of soot. ‘What about the other gap in the wall?’

Titus Annius slapped his hand against his leg in annoyance. ‘I’d forgotten. I’ll put men there.’

‘I did not know that there was another way in,’ Ferox said.

‘It’s not a real gate,’ Rufus told him. ‘Just a bit of a gap on the far side where they bring sheep in and out. We came through with the mules.’

The smoke was getting denser and Ferox realised that sparks from burning thatch must have set the bracken and heather alight. It was mainly on the slope of the big valley, but the wind had veered more westerly and was driving the banks of smoke back over the fort.

‘Shields up!’ Rufus’ men braced their big curved shields as javelins hissed through the air towards them. There were dull thumps as the heads struck hard against the leather-coated wood and bounced back, and a high-pitched ping as another deflected off the domed iron boss in the centre of one shield. The legionaries stood three abreast and three deep in the gateway. Each man carried a pilum, the heavy javelin used by the legions and no one else, with a small pyramid-shaped iron head at the end of a slim two-foot-long iron shank attached to a four-foot-long wooden shaft. Its weight gave the pilum a short range, but was concentrated behind that small point to drive through shield or armour as if it were soft butter.

‘Wait for the order!’ Rufus burst into another fit of coughing, but the young centurion sounded calm and confident. The carnyxes were blowing outside, gathering the warriors together and lifting their spirits. With a sudden shout dozens of warriors surged forward at the men in the gateway. They were led by a tall man with a bronze helmet and white horsehair plume waving behind him. He had a long sword and large round shield painted with the symbol of a boar in white. Behind him came others in tunics and trousers, with little shields and javelins or blunt-tipped slashing swords.

‘Wait!’ Rufus stood to the right of the nine legionaries holding the gateway, his unshielded side to the enemy but sheltered by the rampart. Five more soldiers waited just behind him and the rest were formed in ranks ready to support both groups. The piled stone ruins of a house stood on the other side of the gateway, which would make it hard for anyone to come across the rampart there. Even so, Ferox drew his sword and stood ready. Titus Annius was beside him, a shield as well as sword in his hand, and the two auxiliaries from his personal escort on either side of him. Ferox had not seen anyone bring the commander his shield.

‘Throw!’ Rufus shouted to his men and the three legionaries in the first rank took two paces forward, right arms swiftly back before they hurled the heavy pila forward. As they threw the second rank followed them and loosed their own pila. The three men in the rear allowed the same slight pause before they followed. Pila were big and bulky and the slight delay reduced the chances of weapons hitting each other and being wasted.

‘Charge!’ Rufus screamed, for legionaries were taught to be aggressive. The yelling men surged out of the gateway, reaching down with their right hands to draw swords as they ran. Ferox, Annius and the others followed them. Clear of the gateway, he saw that the enemy leader was down, a pilum having punched through his shield and pinned it to his body. Another man was wailing in high-pitched agony with the long javelin driven into his groin. He sat on the grass, blood bubbling from his mouth. Beside him a warrior was dead, the pilum still stuck in his head, and a fourth man had the slim shank sticking out for a good six inches from the back of his impaled thigh.

The rest had halted, confused and shocked, as the legionaries ran forward ten paces into them. The Romans punched with their heavy shields – Ferox saw one of the Selgovae lifted off his feet by the blow – and followed up with jabs of their swords. It was over almost as soon as it began. Three more warriors were down, the wounded finished off with economical thrusts, and the rest fleeing back.

Neither Ferox nor Annius had got close enough to cross blades with the enemy. Rufus had blood on his sword and a spatter of enemy’s blood across his face. The legionaries were chattering excitedly, some of them trying to recover their pila and having little luck. One of the ones to hit the ground had broken when it had hit a stone. Two more were intact and usable, but the ones that had found victims were stuck fast, designed to penetrate rather than to slide out with ease.

‘Given us some time anyway,’ Titus Annius said.

A legionary grunted as a javelin came at him from his unshielded right side. It hit one of the plates of his segmented cuirass, the force knocking him over even though it did not pierce the soft iron.

‘Get back!’ Titus Annius called. ‘Re-form in the gate.’

Warriors were beginning to close on them. Another javelin arced down, not sticking when it hit the ground, but sliding forward through the grass to stop just in front of Ferox. One of his comrades helped the man knocked down as the legionaries walked backwards, using their shields to stop the missiles. Stones from slings smacked against them, and one went low, cracking on a man’s shin, breaking bone. The legionary dropped, and as the man beside him leaned down to help a javelin hit him in the right arm. He hissed, dropping his sword.

‘Run!’ Ferox shouted. The gate was close and it was better to dash back to the protection of the ramparts rather than try to block missiles coming from all around. He ran to the fallen man, grabbing his arm and dragging him across the grass. Someone else took the legionary’s other arm and to his surprise he saw Titus Annius, sword back in its sheath and trying to use his shield to protect them all. The cohort commander grinned.

‘Nearly there,’ Annius said, and then a stone grazed the bridge of his nose and slammed into his right eye, turning it into bloody pulp. He staggered, letting go of the man’s arm and raising his hand to his face.

Ferox dragged the legionary another pace, to where one of his comrades was waiting. The two Tungrians escorting the cohort commander were at his side, one leading him away and the other doing his best to cover them. More legionaries came out of the gate to help.

A long ululating scream and a naked warrior came bounding towards them, spear in one hand and a little axe in the other. He was covered in tattoos and for the first time today Ferox saw the mark of the horse on his forehead. The warrior threw his spear at the Tungrian auxiliary who caught it on his shield, the point bursting through a couple of inches, but not enough to reach him. A pilum would have pierced the wood and slid through to hit the man behind. The auxiliary swayed back from the blow and the warrior ran past him, ducking the thrust spear and raising his axe to cut down at Ferox, who caught the man by his wrist and stabbed him in the throat. No more warriors followed him and instead they hung back, content for the moment to lob missiles.

‘Come on!’ he said to the Tungrian, turning to run. A sling stone brushed the doubled-up mail armour on his shoulder, stinging a little, but doing no damage. They were through the gate, the last to retreat, and Rufus shouted at his men to re-form in the gap. Titus Annius was sitting propped up against the wall of the collapsed hut beside the gate. His helmet was off and his escort and another Tungrian were cleaning and bandaging the wound as best they could. It looked bad, an eye destroyed at least, and the centurion was clearly in no state to command.

Ferox strode over to Rufus. ‘I am Flavius Ferox, centurio regionarius, and I am senior here.’ That was probably true and he hoped that the man would accept it without debate. ‘I’m also from the Second, albeit on detached service.’

‘Oh,’ Rufus said in surprise. ‘That Ferox.’ Ferox thought he caught a low ‘omnes ad stercus’ from one of the soldiers nearby. He guessed that they had heard about the disasters on the Danube, and maybe they thought him unlucky to be around.

The young centurion checked himself and stiffened to attention. ‘Of course, sir, you can rely on the Capricorns.’ Ferox had not heard the nickname before, but then since he had spent no time with the legion that was not surprising. ‘Sir?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why are they holding back? They could swarm all over these walls and there isn’t much we could do about it.’

‘My guess is that they’re waiting for dark. If they come now, we will take a lot of them with us.’ He spoke loudly so that the men could hear as well. ‘A hell of a lot of them if I know Second Augusta.’ The legionaries looked pleased. ‘And these Tungrian boys can handle themselves as well. They won’t get in easily and they might not get in at all. So they’ll wait for night and try to overwhelm us. What they don’t know is that we won’t hang around for that.’

‘Sir?’

‘We’re pulling out back to the column, but we have to be smart. Hold here with your lads while I sort out the others. We will pull back from the walls into the centre of the fort before we bring back the men from the gates. We also need to get all the wounded away. Your mules, too. I don’t want anybody to have their pay docked for losing army property!’ A few of the men grinned.

Before he left he had the Tungrians rig up a stretcher from a couple of spears and some cloaks to carry the now unconscious Titus Annius. He got the legionaries to make something similar for their own man wounded in the leg. The heather was burning for a long way along the slope behind them. He looked at the little gap in the rampart that Rufus had mentioned, but saw that the hillside beneath it was ablaze so that they could not use it. That meant the other main entrance, the one near the saddle and in plain view of the Selgovae. The optio of the Tungrians had taken charge of the gateway and had a line of men occupying it. So far no warriors had tried an attack, but a few were skirmishing with javelins and slings, so he had sent his own slingers out to hold them in check and even drive them back some distance. One auxiliary had an injured knee and another man had had his nose smashed, leaving his face swollen and bloody, and there were several bundles of rags down the slope – tribesmen who had not spotted the cast lead bullets used by the auxiliaries. They were harder to see than pebbles and flew straighter because of their even shape, but by now the Tungrians were running low and using whatever stones they could pick up. So far the Selgovae had not noticed and were keeping their distance.

It was getting darker, and not just because of the fires that kept the air thick with ash and unpleasantly hot. Ferox looked for the tesserarius, a quiet veteran with face and arms the colour of teak.

‘Pick a dozen good men and come with me.’ As the man gathered his detachment, Ferox told the optio to keep the men at the gate, but to form the rest up in a deep column inside the fort. The wounded commander arrived, carried by four men. ‘Detail ten men to stay with him at all times.’

Ferox hurried back to the far end of the fort, the tesserarius jogging alongside. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Gambax, my lord.’

‘You and your men wait here, but keep off the path.’ There was a narrow track winding through the centre of the old settlement. Over to their right, the thatch of a burning house collapsed, sending up a flurry of sparks. ‘I’ll be back to take charge, but your job is to cover the retreat of the legionaries, so once they go by, you form a line across the path and hold. Someone else will be waiting to cover us. Understand?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good. I’ll be back.’

The legionaries had two more wounded, both in the foot or shin where missiles had gone under their shields. Four more corpses in front of the gateway showed that they had thrown back another little attack. Three men too injured to walk, four to carry each of them, and another man with a wounded arm left fourteen fit men to stand with the centurion. Ferox sent the wounded and the carriers back and got Rufus to divide the others into two groups. Seven men went back along the path to where it turned the first corner.

‘Count to fifty and then bring the rest back. If no one is following then get everyone back. I have a covering party waiting to protect you.’ He snatched up a shield left by one of the wounded men, feeling the weight, but glad of the hours he had spent using a heavier practice shield.

Ferox counted in his head and was past fifty before he reached the Tungrians. Turning, he saw the first legionaries come into sight, coughing from the smoke. Rufus and the others appeared a moment later. He beckoned them on, and told the auxiliaries to open out and let them through. Sweat poured down his face from the heat, leaving pale rivulets in the grime from the smoke.

He repeated the count and reached fifty again. ‘Go. Form on the back of the column. I’ll be right behind you.’

The Tungrians doubled away and he stared down the path. The shout came from his left, and he saw a warrior crouching on top of the rampart, calling back to the others that the Romans were fleeing. Ferox followed the auxiliaries.

‘Sound the charge!’ he shouted at the cornicen. ‘Now!’ The man was standing next to the dense column of Tungrians, with the signifer carrying the vexillum. Both had bearskins over their helmets, the paws crossed and pinned into place on their chests. The cornicen licked his lips and played the three rising notes of the charge, the last one drawn out.

‘Go!’ Ferox yelled.

‘Charge!’ That was the optio at the head of the century. The Tungrians guarding the gate dashed forward and down the slope towards the Selgovae. The warriors skirmishing scampered away, not sure how far the Romans were going. Behind the optio and his men, the main column jogged out of the gate, shields and equipment thumping, and then wheeled to head up to the saddle. Ferox panted as he ran to catch up, for he needed to be there if he was to make this work. Behind the Tungrians came the wounded and the legionaries’ mules, with Rufus and his fourteen men and Gambax’s party at the rear.

The Selgovae were chanting war cries, blowing their tall trumpets, the noise growing louder all the time, but were still unsure what was happening. It would not last. The optio halted his men. Ferox was near the top of the pass and yelled at the Tungrians to split into two halves. The front of the column kept going, vanishing over the crest, while the others turned about as the wounded were carried or limped past them.

Ferox stopped on the crest beside the waiting auxiliaries. He looked down into the valley and saw the front half of the column going rapidly downhill. For a moment he worried that they were panicking and had forgotten their orders, but then they halted and faced about. A bigger worry was that there was no sign of any troops from the main force coming back for them. For over a mile the valley side was empty. Back nearer the fort there was only flames and masses of dense smoke, which should at least make it harder for the Selgovae to follow them that way. A great howl of rage and excitement surged up as the tribesmen realised that their enemy was not only in the open but running.

Rufus and the rearguard struggled up to the crest, the legionaries burdened with their bulky red shields, the Tungrians loping up the slope with more ease. ‘Stop fifty paces down the slope,’ Ferox told him, pointing down towards the main valley.

The optio and his men were turning now, running back as he had ordered, but the closest warriors sprang forward very fast. Javelins flashed as they went through the air. An auxiliary fell, a spearhead driven deep into his thigh, and beside him another man slipped or tripped. Two Britons were on him before he could push up again. They jabbed with their spears, piercing his mail, and the man writhed, back arching from the pain. Another warrior reached the soldier hit in the leg and slashed down with his long sword, easily beating aside the wounded man’s feeble attempts to block the blows. Scores more Selgovae were bounding up the slope. Hundreds more were surging around from the heights at the far end of the old fort, racing to join the hunt.

Ferox saw the optio in the middle of his men, the two upright feathers on his helmet making him seem taller than the rest, but then the man fell, perhaps hit by a stone. Two of the Tungrians went back for him only to be engulfed by the tide of warriors streaming up the slope. Ferox heard a long piercing scream, saw flashes of swords hacking and the three auxiliaries were gone. The optio’s remaining men sprinted away, some dropping shields and spears in a desperate quest for speed.

‘We are going forward,’ Ferox announced to the thirty or so Tungrians formed in three ranks at the top of the pass. ‘When I give the order, I want you to cheer harder than you ever have in your life. Then we march forward ten paces and keep banging your spears against your shields. Front rank will throw spears and the rest keep theirs ready. But we halt!’ He turned to stare at the faces, the usual mixture of young and old, all of them nervous, but some hiding it better than others. ‘Once we are done, you wait for the order and then we go back at the double the way we came and down the other side. Understand?’

Men nodded.

‘I can’t hear you.’

‘Sir!’ they shouted.

‘Good.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Forward, march!’ Ferox banged the blade of his gladius against the brass edging of his borrowed shield. The auxiliaries cheered and beat the shafts of their spears against their own shields as they went down the slope.

‘Come on!’ he shouted. ‘Make these scum hear you!’

The Selgovae looked up, surprised to see the Romans come on. Many hesitated, slowing down or stopping. A few chased after the fleeing remnants of the optio’s men.

‘Go to the side!’ Ferox yelled angrily at the fugitives and pointed with his sword. He was counting the paces in his head.

‘Halt! Front rank, throw!’

Moving gave force to a thrown spear, but these men had all trained to throw from the halt as well and the slope was in their favour. Eleven broad-shafted spears spun through the air, leaf-shaped heads glinting. One lucky throw hit a charging warrior squarely in the chest and burst out through the man’s back, flinging him over. Two more warriors were hit and the rest ran back a short way.

‘Back! Back!’ Ferox yelled. The Tungrians needed no urging and turned and fled, equipment banging as they jogged up the slope, barging into each other. Ferox followed. There were fresh shouts of triumph from the Selgovae and the trumpets blared again.

‘Keep going!’ The Tungrians spilled over the crest and Ferox saw that the other half-century was waiting there, with the legionaries formed up alongside them. Rufus was in front, his white crest standing out, his sword raised high. That was not the order he had given, but perhaps the man was right to reinforce this first surprise for the enemy. Ferox glanced back over his shoulder, saw a sea of tribesmen rushing up the hill, the nearest no more than twenty paces behind. He felt the draught as a javelin hissed through the air just beside him, then was running down the far side of the crest and safe for at least a few moments.

‘Form up there! Form up down the slope!’ he yelled at the Tungrians, trying to make sure that they remembered his orders. Each group was to do a bound of one hundred paces and then turn about to face the enemy and protect the other units as they went back. He was about to join the covering party when Rufus grinned and gestured with his sword down the hillside.

‘We’ll be fine!’ he called. ‘You’re needed there.’

Ferox smiled back and kept going, his back slick with sweat from the weight of his armour and from all this running.

‘Halt!’ he yelled at the Tungrians. ‘About turn!’ The auxiliaries obeyed, even though they did not know him. For the moment it was working, but it would not take much for panic to break out and then there would just be a stream of fugitives running down the valley side, and the slow, the weak, the clumsy and the unlucky would die. Perhaps none of them would get away, for he still saw no sign of supports coming to aid them. He wondered whether Vindex had found someone senior yet, and whether they would have the sense to take the word of a Briton even though he was one of their scouts.

A warrior appeared on the crest, and in a moment there were dozens more alongside him. Rufus’ men cheered, and the Tungrians and little detachment of legionaries charged up towards them. That was always tiring, even for a short distance, but the men pounded up the hill. Ferox could not hear the order, and a shift in the wind wafted a mist of smoke over the charging Romans so that it was hard to see. There was no mistaking the ripple in the formation as the first rank threw spears or pila, then the second and then the third. Warriors fell all along the crest and then the legionaries and Tungrians ran into them, and even if they were panting, they charged with spirit.

‘Don’t wait too long,’ Ferox said softly, worrying that the young centurion would get carried away with his success. ‘Come back, back.’

He realised that he was holding his breath, so let it out and saw the ragged line of Romans turn about and march back down this side of the crest. The top of the pass was covered in bodies, and Rufus’ men had inflicted heavy losses on the boldest of their enemies. There were also two Tungrians and a legionary wounded so that they had to be carried, taking more men away from the fighting.

‘Ready, lads. Our turn next!’ Ferox told the auxiliaries. Once they were safely behind the crest, Rufus ordered his men to double down the slope. It was hard to keep at a steady pace going downhill, especially burdened with bulky shields and wearing armour and helmets, and by the time they passed Ferox and his men the legionaries and auxiliaries were half running, half stumbling along, formation ragged.

A lone warrior appeared on the crest. He was slim and tall, with mail armour, a red-and-white-striped cloak and a bronze helmet. Everything about the man seemed to glow, apart from his shield, which was drab and plain.

‘Step back five paces, slowly now.’ The Tungrians obeyed Ferox’s quiet order. ‘When the time comes, second rank to throw their spears. If I say charge we go ten paces and then stop. If I say hold we hold, and if I say run you follow me and run as if the demons of hell are behind you.’ He saw surprise on the auxiliaries’ faces, and was pleased that there were a few grins.

Britons appeared all along the crest, stepping up around the lone warrior. Tall carnyxes began to blare out their challenge.

‘Step back,’ Ferox ordered. ‘And another pace.’ He glanced behind and saw that Rufus had turned and re-formed his men, but they had gone much further than he had wanted and were a good hundred and fifty paces away. That was always the problem with a withdrawal. Men hurried back, going faster and running for longer than they were supposed to until the officers managed to stop them.

The Selgovae were walking down the slope, most of them coming in ranks, side by side, banging weapons on their little shields and chanting something that might have been a word and might have been a grunt over and over again. The warrior in the striped cloak was in the middle, and beside him was another, bare-chested man, taller and broader, with streaks of grey in his long brown hair. He carried a big rectangular shield, its battered and scarred surface still showing the thunderbolt symbols of Legio XX, but painted over with a charging boar. Just behind them someone carried a standard with a bronze cockerel at the top.

‘Steady, lads, back another step.’

A couple of Britons ran out from the front of the formation, javelins poised to throw.

‘Keep it steady, lads. Shields braced, back another pace.’ One of the auxiliaries in the third rank slipped and fell with a loud curse. Javelins thumped into the shields of the men in front, one driving through the board of the shield and sending a splinter to graze the man’s face.

Ferox glanced back. The shape of the valley side was less even than he had thought and rose behind him in a low spur, so that he could no longer see the Roman camp. He had no idea whether or not help was coming. The wounded men were being carried across a little gully just in front of the low spur. The Selgovae kept up their chant, the noise getting louder and louder, so that it almost seemed to punch at them. Ferox was about to turn back to judge whether he had time to run faster before re-forming again when there was a flicker of movement on the spur. A man appeared, almost doubled up in a crouch, spear and shield held low as he came on to the low rise. It was too far away to see, but Ferox could sense the man smile as he stood up. The warrior was naked save for a cloak, his body scored with lines and circles of blue woad, and as he brandished his spear in the air dozens and then scores of men answered his shout and poured over the spur.

‘Orb!’ Ferox shouted. ‘Form an orb, two ranks deep! Move!’ It was not the order they were expecting, but long practice or instinct took over and the Tungrians in the rear rank faced about and stepped forward, the men in the middle going faster. The front ranks bent back on the flank and in a moment they formed a very rough circle. Ferox was in the middle, pulling men from the second rank to strengthen the sides and rear, shouting and shoving to get them into place. One of the auxiliaries grunted as a javelin came over the top of his shield and drove through the reinforced mail on his shoulder. Ferox pulled the man back into the middle of the formation.

The Selgovae were closer now, more and more missiles thumping into the Tungrians’ shields. One of the soldiers was hit square in the face with such force that his helmeted head snapped back as he was flung to the ground. Ferox looked down the slope and saw Rufus and his men running downhill, charging back to protect the wounded against the new threat, but more and more warriors streamed over the spur. They must have gathered there out of sight, waiting for the moment. The Romans charged in a loose swarm, all order gone, and he saw the young centurion at their head, but doubted that they could break through against such numbers. Well, there was nothing he could do to help and each group must fight its own little battle and see who lasted the longest.

Ferox pushed his way into the middle of the front rank, in time to feel his borrowed shield shudder with the strike of a javelin. ‘Right, lads. Let’s show ‘em how the best soldiers in the world fight,’ he called. ‘The poor bastards don’t know who they’re facing yet!’

‘Poor buggers,’ someone said.

‘Don’t feel sorry for them, just kill ‘em,’ he told the auxiliaries.

The Selgovae charged. They threw more javelins first, and Ferox felt his shield rock with another blow. The man next to him folded as a heavier spear smashed through the layers of wood and stuck fast in his belt. He was pulled back and another soldier stepped into his place just in time to meet the warriors.

Ferox’s world became small, for there were no more orders to give and all that mattered were the men standing alongside him and the wild-eyed men coming at him. The first was young, only a boy and eager to prove himself in battle, rushing at the enemy, his terror turning to rage. He flung himself forward, shield thrust out as Ferox raised the boss of his own big legionary scutum and put his weight behind it. A bigger man might have knocked him over, but Ferox was solid, heavy in all his armour, and he was just pushed back, boots sliding a foot down the gentle slope. He saw the boy raising his long sword to slash down and jabbed forward with his gladius, the long triangular point sliding into his armpit. The boy’s mouth opened wide although Ferox did not hear any cry amid the shouting and clash of arms, and he turned the blade to help free it as he pulled back and jabbed again, straight into the throat. Blood jetted over his shield and sprayed on to his face and he had to blink to see, but already his gladius, was back, poised to strike again.

When Ferox opened his eyes the boy had fallen and an older man jumped over him, thrusting with his spear at his head. He ducked his head out of the way, felt a heavy blow against the cheek piece of his helmet, stabbed forward, but was blocked by the man’s square shield. The soldier on his right was hit by a low slash, coming under the shield and slicing into his leg beneath the knee. He swayed, lowering his guard, and the warrior behind the one he was fighting thrust a long spear through the Tungrian’s eye. The dying auxiliary was pulled forward into the mass of the enemy, and his adversary stepped on to him. Ferox twisted a little to the left, punched hard with the boss of his shield and managed to knock the man back, but felt a hammer blow to his right chest as the warrior facing him slammed his spear forward. The tip caught on the fastening of the shoulder piece and broke off. If not for that fluke then he suspected that he would be down.

An auxiliary from the second rank pushed his way into the space and let Ferox concentrate on his own opponent. The man had a lined face and the look of someone who had fought many times. His eyes never left the Roman, and there was no warning when he flung his spear at the centurion’s face. Ferox raised his shield, saw the now blunt head punch through the wood and leather, and felt the clumsiness that came from the long-shafted spear stuck into it. He slashed down at the wood, managed to push the spear free, and by that time the warrior had drawn his long slim sword, the blade notched in several places.

Ferox brought his gladius up, elbow bent, blade at eye level ready to strike and waited for the warrior to slash at him. He was only dimly aware of men squaring off all around him. The warrior feinted a cut to the left of his head, once, twice, and then scythed the blade down. Ferox leaned down, lifting his shield, and saw the iron blade slice into the brass edging. His own gladius shot forward at the man’s face, was pushed aside by his shield and did no more than graze the warrior’s cheek. His shoulder and chest ached, and he was panting with sheer effort.

The warrior punched with his shield, but it was so much smaller than the scutum that it did not unbalance Ferox. His gladius shot forward again as the man’s head bowed a little, his right arm swinging down, and the point went through his mouth with such force that Ferox felt teeth smash and bone crack.

The Tungrians cheered, a thin, exhausted sound, but one of triumph none the less because the Selgovae were going back. They did not go far, the warriors stepping away a few paces to be out of reach of spear thrusts. Ferox lowered the dead warrior to the ground, and had to put a boot on his neck to drag his sword free. Two of the auxiliaries were dead, four more too badly wounded to stand and most of the rest were hurt, but able to fight on. All were red-faced, breathing heavily, dripping with sweat from armour and helmets that now felt as heavy as lead.

‘Well done, lads.’ Ferox gasped the words and had to make a real effort to raise his voice. ‘We’re showing them. We’ve got them worried now.’

‘Yeah, bet they’re terrified,’ one of the Tungrians said. ‘Pissing in their boots.’ The men laughed and it was a wonderful sound that made Ferox feel close to all these men he had known for just an hour or two. He glanced behind. There were dead and wounded strewn all over the grass down the slope. There were two knots of Romans surrounded by hundreds of Selgovae and he saw that the Romans were trying to push their way forward.

‘Shields up!’ he shouted, for javelins and spears were coming at them. Surely they must run out of things to throw soon. One of the auxiliaries threw his own spear up the slope, and shouted in triumph as a warrior was pitched back. A moment later he was struck on the foot and squealed like a pig until one of his comrades yelled at him to stop.

‘Shit,’ someone said. The warriors were coming forward again, slower this time, but with determination and not bothering to chant.

‘Steady, lads. We’ll show ’em!’ The fight was much like the first, men grunting like tired labourers as they thrust and hacked at each other from just a foot or two away. Ferox took a glancing cut just below the knee and was lucky that it did not do any real damage. His helmet crest took another blow, sheering almost half of it away, and he was struck twice on the shoulders and knew that he was bruised even if the blades had not penetrated. He cut his first opponent across the face and when that man slipped back and another replaced him, he unbalanced the second warrior with a strike of his shield and thrust into his belly.

The Tungrians did not cheer the second time that the enemy pulled away, going further back up the slope to rest and gather themselves for the last great effort. Instead the auxiliaries gulped for breath like men surfacing after time under water. Only a dozen were still on their legs and they formed a single rank, spaced wider apart than was safe and still only just managing to shelter the thirteen wounded. The rest had been dragged out of the formation by the Britons and slaughtered if they were not already dead. Several of the Selgovae waved aloft heads cut from the corpses. There were more warriors dead or crippled than Romans, but it did not matter. Ferox doubted that they would stand against another attack. Down the slope one of the groups of Romans had vanished, and the other had shrunk and was beset on all sides. He wondered what had happened to Vindex and the message and why no help had come, but it no longer really mattered, for unless they came very soon there would only be corpses to find.

Ferox sighed, breathed deeply, and stepped out of the ring of soldiers. There was one last gamble, and he might as well roll the dice, because if it did not work then they were all dead men. He raised his heavy shield and his gladius high.

‘Does any dare to fight me?’ He glared at the mass of warriors just a couple of spear lengths away. ‘I am Flavius Ferox, centurion of Rome and Lord of the Silures.’ The last was not true, but what did that matter in a man’s last moments? ‘I am a warrior and spit on you cowards who do not dare to meet me man to man.’ He spoke slowly because the local accent was so strong and he wanted them to understand. In their place, he would have lobbed a couple of spears at such a boastful idiot, but they were not Silures and Ferox relied on the tribesmen’s sense of pride and their love of a gesture fit for song.

The man carrying the Roman shield stepped forward and then turned to face the warriors, raising his spear high and roaring at them. The Selgovae cheered him, while Ferox fought back the temptation to run forward and stab the man in the back. He needed time, and that meant playing by the rules.

‘Come on, then, or do you need the shouts of others to make you brave?’ Ferox said.

The warrior ignored him, still with his bare back towards the Roman, before turning round very slowly. ‘You sound like a sparrow chirping,’ he said. He looked to be about forty, a fraction shorter than Ferox, but just as broad and with arms that looked even thicker. There was a silver torc around his neck, slim bracelets on his wrist, and a long sword at his belt. He wore plain shoes and trousers made from wool dyed in a blue, green and grey tartan. Old scars criss-crossed a chest that was free of any paint or tattoo. Patches of the red-painted shield showed wood where the leather surface was torn. The man must have kept it that way deliberately, no doubt to show that he had taken it from its owner in a fierce fight.

‘You are the Silure who is a slave for the Romans.’ The man had the palest eyes Ferox had ever seen, their gaze as bright and cold as winter sun, and it was that which sparked the memory. This was Venutius himself and as well as a great thief he was known as a deadly fighter. ‘I’ll give your head to my dogs,’ he said. Close behind was the warrior in the red and white cloak, and now that he was nearer Ferox could see that he was no more than fifteen or sixteen, the few sparse hairs on his upper lip a weak attempt at a moustache. Next to him was the standard.

‘If they are like you, they’ll yap more than they bite!’

Venutius, the lord of these valleys, chuckled as if amused, then threw his spear with all his might. At this distance it would pierce the board of any shield and Ferox punched at it with the boss, felt the iron dent so hard that it pressed against his knuckles, and he slid back through the grass, struggling for balance. The chieftain had his sword out, the slim blade three feet in length, shaped into a point as well as sharpened on the edges. He surged forward at the Roman and his people cheered him on.

Ferox’s left hand stung and his arm felt numb. He raised his scutum again as the Briton slammed his own shield into it, and again Ferox went back. The long sword slashed down and the centurion felt the blow slam on to the top of his shield, bursting through the binding and cutting a slice through the three layers of wood. He jabbed forward with his gladius, but the chieftain jumped back, surprisingly nimble for so big a man, and the iron point struck only into empty air.

It was hard to breathe and he felt the strength draining from his body. He had not seen Venutius or the youngster in the fighting, and they looked fresh and strong while he was close to exhaustion. He was too tired to be afraid.

Venutius came forward, dancing as much as walking, his legs bent. He thrust with his sword and Ferox blocked it, but his own swift jab forward went over the man’s shield and broke the skin in a slash across the chieftain’s shoulder. Venutius punched with his shield, but was too close for it to have much force, and Ferox swerved out of the way, making the man turn so that now they were on the same level. The chieftain jumped back again.

Ferox made sure that his breathing was even more laboured than it needed to be. It was unnerving having his right side to rows of enemies just a few paces away, but he had to ignore them and fix his mind and spirit on his opponent.

The chieftain came on again, his sword raised high this time, ready for a great downward slash. It was the way the Britons fought, and always a risk for it left much of his body unprotected by shield. Ferox had his sword high, ready to stab at eye level, but he guessed that Venutius’ guard was a feint and so was his. The Briton wanted to draw his eyes up to the sword.

Venutius twitched his right hand as if to hack down, but checked it as the centurion raised his own blade high to parry, and instead put his weight behind his shield and punched it forward. Ferox stepped into the blow, weight behind his own scutum, feeling the terrible slam that knocked the breath from both men. It brought him close to the chieftain and he kept his gladius up, but slammed the carved wooden pommel into the man’s face. It was shaped like a globe and had a small bronze nipple on the end.

The chieftain reeled from the unexpected blow, and Ferox followed it with a second, even harder, and felt the man’s nose break. He struck again and again, aiming at the forehead, and Venutius swayed, face bloodied and cold eyes suddenly empty. Then he sank to his knees. Ferox jumped back and let the man fall.

The young warrior in the striped cloak yelled, a sound without words, and rushed at him, sword high. Ferox barely had time to raise his shield before the blade carved through the air. It hit the top of his scutum, widening the great rent torn in it by Venutius, and Ferox let it drop to the ground, because the boy’s sword was stuck in the wood. He darted his gladius at the boy, the point going between the top of his mail and the cheek pieces of his bronze helmet, the crest a raven hinged so that the wings flapped.

‘You have a lot to learn, boy, but may not get a chance.’ Ferox held the sword there, pressing hard enough so that the lad would feel it and know that only a little more force would open his throat to the bone. The young warrior gulped, and although his green eyes stared wide in terror, he did his best to look brave.

Trumpets sounded. Not the vibrating call of the carnyx, but the rasp of the army’s brass cornu-horns and iron trumpets. The Selgovae were chattering, men pointing past the centurion, but Ferox did not take his eyes from the boy.

‘You are brave,’ he said, ‘and it is no disgrace to lose to an older fighter.’

‘Get it over with.’ The lad did not sound like one of the Selgovae and had more of the lilting tone of the Caledonians of the far north. The warriors were going back up the slope, turning to run.

Ferox pressed just a little harder. The boy closed his eyes, but did not flinch. The centurion held the sword there before pulling it back.

The boy opened one eye and then the other.

‘Go!’ Ferox told him. ‘Take him with you.’ He pointed with his sword at the groaning Venutius. ‘Get away if you can and go with honour as brave men who met other brave men. Let us hope that next time we meet in friendship.’ The boy was gaping, so he thought one of Vindex’s favourite expressions might help. ‘Piss off!’ he told him.

The young warrior laughed and leaned down to help the chieftain up. Venutius was bruised, his nose smashed, but he looked at the centurion and gave a gentle nod of his head.

Ferox turned away from them to look at the battered remnants of the Tungrians as they stood, leaning on their shields and panting, struggling to understand that they had survived. Down the slope he saw Cerialis and Brocchus leading turmae of their horsemen over the low spur. They cut some of the Britons down, but the rest were running and most would get away because the horses could not go fast on this ground. There were legionaries behind them, but he doubted that the heavily laden soldiers would catch many of the nimble warriors.

‘Well done, lads,’ he said to the Tungrians, but could find neither the words nor the energy to say more.