Vindolanda

II

THE BATAVIANS WERE hot and stiff and knew that they still had more than half their journey to go to reach Coria. There was an ala based there, one of the all-cavalry units whose troopers were better paid and better mounted than the horsemen serving with an infantry cohort. The Batavians were determined to show those arrogant Gallic and Thracian bastards just what real horse warriors looked like. Anything metal, from spear points to armour, belt buckles to helmets, and the fittings and round phalerae on the harness of their horses had been polished until it shone, and then polished again to make sure. There had been a lot of competition to get selected for this detail, and the men who were chosen had swapped equipment with the unlucky ones if their own was no longer perfect. The horses’ coats gleamed almost as bright as the iron and bronze from being brushed, manes were neatly parted and tails combed. Shields were repainted, the red of the central star and the white rosettes made bright on the green field. Every man was big, even in a cohort known for the height and breadth of its soldiers, and although the horses were some of the largest available they were dwarfed by their riders. The decurion in charge wore a cuirass where alternate scales were tinned or gilded, and with his new yellow cloak looked like a god of war come to earth. He had a matching yellow plume on his silvered helmet decorated with figures of animals and hunters. The other eleven soldiers had bearskin glued to the bowls of their bronze helmets, the fur brushed so that it stood up. That was a mark of a Batavian, a sign that enemy or fellow soldier alike should treat him with respect.

They kept to a slow pace, trotting only occasionally because otherwise the mules drawing the carriage could not keep up. That meant that they could not stop the flies from tormenting the horses, and holding shield and reins in one hand and spear in the other meant that there was no free hand to swat them away. So the horses suffered and pressed close behind the ones in front to let their swishing tails give some protection. It was all worth it. The job was a lot easier than doing fatigues back at Vindolanda. It was an honour to be chosen, and to guard the occupant of the coach, but more pleasant was the prospect of at least one night at Coria, which was a much bigger base, with taverns and a proper bath-house. They would drink and bathe, eat and drink some more, and if a brawl or two broke out then so much the better.

The decurion was a good-looking man, immaculately turned out, and had not been chosen because he was especially bright. Like the others he let the warmth of the sunny afternoon and the steady rhythm of horses and the jingle of harness and equipment lull his senses. Hardly anyone spoke, and they walked along as the hours passed, conscious that a dozen picked Batavians had little to fear on a road like this.

It was the coach driver who spotted the dark smoke rising away to the west and called out. That was far behind them, which meant that turning back would probably take them towards the threat.

‘We keep going,’ the decurion said. ‘Keep your eyes open, boys.’ He sent a man to ride one hundred paces ahead and another to follow a similar distance behind the coach.

Flies continued to plague them and the steady buzzing added to the warmth of the afternoon to make them sleepy. The shade of a patch of oaks was cool and very welcome, even if it did nothing to hold back the swarms of insects. The road came out into the open, before twisting to find a gentler path down into a gully and up the other side. Beyond that it wove through a long wood, the tree branches sometimes touching as they closed over the road. The decurion knew the place well and wanted to get past it as fast as they could.

The driver was good and took the coach carefully down the slope, reining the mules back when they tried to rush up the far bank. The carriage was high, not really designed for paths like this, and it would be all too easy to tip it or break a wheel.

‘We need to be quick,’ the decurion called back to him as the driver eased the team and coach up on to the flat. The decurion could not see the man he had sent ahead, because the track turned sharply as it went into the trees.

A flick of the whip put the four mules into a trot and they hurried on. The woods were on either side, the trees a good javelin throw away from the road at this point, but pressing nearer up ahead, where the path turned again after about forty paces. There was no sign of the leading rider.

‘Bellicus!’ the decurion called out. The man was not doing much good if he could not see him.

A horn blew, a harsh, high-pitched, reverberating call unlike any army trumpet. Something whipped through the air and slammed into his right thigh, driving through muscle and flesh and into the wood of the saddle. An instant later a second arrow hit his chest, piercing one of the tinned bronze plates. He was flung back hard against the horns at the rear of his saddle, gasping as the wind was knocked from him with the force of a swung hammer. A slim shaft almost three feet in length with white feathers on the end stuck out of his chest. There was a great dark stain spreading out from the arrow in his thigh, more blood welling from the wound in his chest and seeping out between the scales, and as he tried to breathe his spittle was red. The decurion slumped forward as two more arrows sliced through the air. A horse reared, screaming in agony and hoofs thrashing. The rider alongside was hit low in the throat, the long-pointed arrow spearing into the little gap between the broad cheek pieces and the top of his mail shirt, with a force so great that it lifted him up and out of the saddle. He fell, arms spread and spear and shield dropping from lifeless hands, blood jetting in a high fountain. There was a rattle as sling stones struck, blinding one of the horses and striking another man’s helmet with a dull thud.

An old soldier, grey-bearded and with an empty eye socket covered by a leather patch, took charge.

‘Back!’ he yelled at the driver. ‘Get back across and get going. We’ll protect you!’

The coachman nodded and pulled hard on one side of the reins, flicking his whip to turn the team.

‘Testudo!’ the old soldier shouted. ‘Testudo on me!’

The rearing horse was down, an arrow in its belly and a front leg broken by a stone. Its rider was underneath, and he cried out as the animal rolled over him, limbs thrashing, and then went silent. The man hit on the helmet swayed, was hit by another stone, this time in the face, smashing his nose, and fell to the ground in a clatter of armour and weapons.

‘On me!’ the veteran kept yelling. He had his horse facing the woods, at an angle as if to make it a barrier, and the other six men rode to stand in a line behind him. Their long oval shields were upright, covering the rider from shoulder to below the knee and because of the angle giving some protection to their horse. It was a drill they often practised and the Batavians formed up without having to think about what they were doing.

Behind them the carriage and team were already half round and heading towards the path into the gully. Sling stones struck hard against shields. An arrow hit the old soldier’s shield and punched through the leather and three layers of wood so that the tip was just inches from his body. The arrowhead was long and narrow, tapering to a point, not like the broader heads used by the army’s archers. A second arrow flicked past his face, so close that he could feel the feathers brush him. He glanced back and saw the coach heading down into the gully.

‘Keep together, boys!’ he shouted, not because they needed the instruction but because it was good to hear a confident voice. ‘Not long now. Wait for the word and then we follow.’

A man jerked his shield forward to block an arrow aimed at his horse’s neck and almost spun with the savagery of the blow. Another Batavian was hit on the foot by a stone and spat curses in his own tongue until an arrow took him in the mouth.

The harsh trumpet blew, a deeper call repeated again and again. A horse turned away from the line, shaking its head from a brutal blow. The first arrow took it in the neck, making it fall forward, front legs buckling, and the second slammed into the cavalryman, bit through the rings on his mail shirt and went deep into his belly.

Twenty or more yelling men came streaming out of the woods on the other side of the track, behind the Batavians. They were tall barbarians, wild-haired and carrying the little square shields they liked so much.

‘Go!’ yelled the veteran. ‘Back! Back!’ He yanked on the reins, and the horse, its mouth in pain from the big army-issue bit, turned immediately and bounded back. The last five men were with him, all order gone as they galloped towards the gully. The old soldier saw the coach climbing the far bank; then it seemed to sway. Arrows ripped through the air and he saw the coachman pitch forward as one struck him squarely in the back, the shaft going so deep that little more than the feathers showed. The carriage juddered, then tipped and fell to the left, mules crying out as the weight dragged them back and over.

The screaming was all around them, and the hiss of javelins. Another Batavian went down, a thrown spear knocking him out of the saddle even though it did not pierce his mail. Britons surrounded the fallen man in a moment, hacking down with their long swords. The veteran turned and hurled his spear back, taking one of the warriors in the side as he raised his sword for another slash. Then his horse was at the lip of the gully, and suddenly the beast collapsed under him and he was flung forward through the air, until the ground slammed into him and there was only blackness.

Ferox’s gelding had always been willing, and went into a stuttering run, feet pounding across the spongy grass, its breath coming in gasps. Vindex was close behind. They saw a lone cavalryman still this side of the gully, bringing up the rear, the carriage turned frantically back and the confusion as the Batavians were shot down. Someone brought a moment of order, the troopers forming a line to protect the coach as it escaped. Ferox saw arrows skimming past them and wondered at that because bowmen were not common in Britannia, let alone here in the north, and these looked to be uncommonly good ones.

The cavalryman acting as rearguard saw them just as the coach toppled and the little line split apart. He gaped, raising his spear, but then he hesitated when he recognised the crest of a centurion.

‘He’s with me!’ Ferox shouted in case the fool mistook Vindex for an enemy. ‘Come on!’

The centurion pressed on the last few yards towards the edge of the gully, waving to the man to follow. On the far side the first of the troopers came over the lip, horse slipping for a moment. A warrior was behind him, spear held low to thrust upwards.

‘Kill him!’ Ferox called to the Batavian left as rearguard, pointing at the Briton, and the cavalryman saw the target, reached back and threw his own spear in one smooth motion. It was a heavy weapon, designed as much for thrusting as throwing, and the distance was a good thirty paces, but the throw was good. The leaf-shaped head dug into the warrior’s leg and he screamed and fell, rolling down the bank.

Ferox urged his tired gelding straight down the slope, not bothering to follow the gentler path. He drew his sword, felt the wonderful balance and the sheer joy that came from holding a good blade. The overturned carriage was close by, lying on its side, the heavy door twitching as someone tried to push it open, but that did not matter, for all he needed was enemies to kill until he had no more strength and they killed him in turn. It would soon be over.

A scream, a long and piercing cry of sheer agony, made him hesitate for it was a woman’s cry. With the sound of great effort the door of the carriage was flung open and a woman pulled herself up with both hands and scrambled out, tearing her pale blue dress slightly on the edge of the doorframe. She was slim, with golden hair tied back into a bun and pendant earrings clinking as she moved. There was another scream as she reached down, pulling at something, and then she saw him, recognising the helmet.

‘Help me!’ she yelled. ‘She’s hurt.’

Vindex came over the lip, followed by the cavalryman, long sword drawn. There was one Batavian trooper in the bottom of the gully, waiting with spear ready to support the rest, and two spilling over the far edge, until the horse of one of them was killed and the rider flung down.

Ferox urged his horse over to the carriage to help the woman. It was narrower than he had thought, so that the side was not much higher than his chest. He sheathed his sword, feeling his anger deflate as he did so, and then he pushed off the front horns of the saddle and jumped on to the overturned coach. The fair-haired woman was struggling to lift another, younger and smaller than her, her black hair unpinned and hanging down on one side.

‘Let me.’ Ferox knelt on top of the open door as it lay flat and took the girl underneath her arms. She had delicate features, but her face was strained and as he hauled her up she hissed in agony and went limp. If she had not been so light he doubted that he could have managed it. There was a heavy gold necklace at her throat.

There were two cavalrymen still up the far bank who turned at bay and for a moment held the Britons back. The third man, and the one who had acted as rearguard, watched their flanks from the flat bottom of the gully.

‘Give her to me!’ Vindex had ridden to the far side of the coach and waited, arms raised to take the unconscious girl. The centurion passed her to him.

‘Oh bugger,’ the Brigantian said, looking back past them, the way that the two men had come.

Ferox followed his gaze and saw eight horsemen coming quickly towards the gully. Several had mail, a few helmets, but the leader wore only trousers, his broad chest covered in intricate tattoos, his hair washed in lime and combed up into spikes. They must have been hidden in the grove of oaks, waiting their moment.

‘That way!’ Ferox pointed. ‘Down the gully.’ He pointed southwards. ‘Go!’ The ground was steeper that way, turning into a little ravine, the banks above it lined with trees. They might manage to get some way down before the Britons caught them, and at least they could make it difficult for them. Apart from that, there was nowhere else to go.

‘You two!’ he shouted at the Batavians in the gully. ‘Watch your rear!’ The nearest man looked back, saw the threat and nodded. ‘Give us as long as you can, then follow.’ He pointed down the gully. One of the men up on the far bank tumbled down the side, his dying horse following.

The fair-haired woman screamed as a javelin stuck into the wood beside her, throwing up splinters. The gelding was done, its long tongue lolling out, and the centurion knew that it would be hard to ride far down the gully as after a while it turned into scree.

The lone Batavian up on the far bank was making his horse rear, almost dancing it back and forth as he drove at the warriors. Ferox heard him laugh, taunting them, and when one of the Britons came close he saw the trooper’s long spear take him in the throat, coming back bloody as the Batavian held it poised to thrust again or throw. The other two troopers urged their horses up the other bank and with a whoop charged at the oncoming horsemen.

Ferox jumped down on the far side of the carriage, his foot catching a bronze statuette of one of the Muses on the corner of the roof, so that he landed awkwardly, rolling in the mud churned by wheels and hoofs.

‘Come on, you silly girl!’ He was up again, yelling at the woman to follow him. ‘Come on!’ He lifted his hands to catch her.

She glared at him, blue eyes angry, then crouched and sprang off. The same little bronze statue snagged the hem of her blue dress and tore it again. Ferox caught a glimpse of whitened sandals, pale green stockings and smooth calves before he caught her, slipping back a little in the mud.

‘Go!’ he ordered, spinning her round and shoving her down the slope. ‘After your mistress, girl!’ He guessed that no wealthy Roman woman would wait to help her maid, so this one must be the slave of the girl Vindex was carrying, the one with the golden necklace. A spoilt attendant with ideas above her station by the look of it, for she did not run, but looked back over her shoulder as if to argue.

‘Run!’ he shouted as loud as he could and slapped her hard on the rump, making her stagger forward and at last follow her mistress. Hitching up her skirts to reveal long elegant legs, she ran.

Ferox turned, drawing his sword once more. This time he did not feel the same thrill, although it was still so very natural. The sword was at least a hundred years old, a proven blade when his grandfather had taken it from a Roman to give to him. It was longer than the sort the army issued these days, but the perfect balance showed that the smith who had made it was a man of genius.

He began to walk backwards, ready to call the Batavians to follow. He could no longer see the pair who had charged the horsemen, but so far none of those barbarians had spilled over the bank. On the other side the lone cavalryman still held most of the barbarians back, wary of his deadly spear and the thrashing hoofs of his horse. Two warriors had slipped past now that there was no one left to guard the bottom of the gully. They came on in a crouch, warily, until one saw him.

The centurion kept going back, waiting for the right moment to stop. The two Britons were barefoot and bare-chested, and had their hair washed with lime to make it stiff and white so that it stood out like a wild halo. There was something dark on the foreheads, but otherwise no sign of the painted symbols worn by many tribes. Each had a small square shield with a central dome-like boss. The first had a knife at his belt and hefted a spear. The other had a long-bladed sword, without a point, but made heavy to add weight to the edge.

The two men split, so that they could take him from two sides. Ferox kept going back. The spearman was to his left and the swordsman to his right. They came slowly at first, watching him, until without visible signal both men yelled and ran at him.

Ferox charged, going to the left. He dodged when the warrior tried to punch at him with his little shield, took hold of the spear shaft with his left hand, pushing it aside, and raked the long triangular point of his gladius across the man’s stomach, letting the shape of the blade slide in and pull free easily. Just inches away, he saw the man’s snarl of anger and fear turn into one of agony, noticed that he had the lines of a horse tattooed on his forehead, and then he was past.

The swordsman came at him, blade held high ready to chop down. Ferox had no shield to block the blow, so he waited until the last moment and then dived to the side, rolling, and stabbed up into the Briton’s groin, twisting the blade free. The warrior was shrieking, a high-pitched wail, doubling up with pain as Ferox pushed himself up and used the motion to thrust again, this time into the man’s throat. Blood gushed out as the scream ceased and the man died. This one had the same tattoo.

Ferox pulled the blade free and let the body fall. He went back to the other man, sitting and trying to hold in his innards as they spilled out of the great gash across his stomach. The palm of the warrior’s hand was tattooed as well, but with all the blood he could not be sure of the design. The centurion took careful aim and jabbed once into the back of the man’s neck. With a sigh as the air left him the man slumped forward. It was unlikely that the enemy would not know where they had gone, but at least this one would not be able to tell them.

There was a great shout, and he saw that the lone Batavian had been shot in the chest with an arrow. The man’s horse was bleeding from several wounds, and there were gouges on the rider’s legs. Half a dozen warriors closed around him, some of them big men with long shields, and as the horse sank to its knees the Batavian was pulled down. Ferox could not see over the bank of the gully and had no idea what had happened to the other two.

He ran. The slave girl had helped Vindex lower her mistress down before he also dismounted. The Brigantian struck his horse to make the beast ride off, and then slung the still unconscious girl over his shoulder. He waved at the centurion to hurry, before lumbering on with his burden, pushing his way through a mass of brambles. The slope must have dropped sharply, because Ferox lost sight of them before he had gone a few more paces.

When he reached the brambles he stopped and looked back. There was no sign of any Batavians, but warriors on foot and horseback were swarming around the coach, yelling in their victory. One man had a tall carnyx-trumpet and raised it over his head with both hands. The tattooed rider was standing on top of the coach, waving a severed head in one hand. He was haranguing them, pointing down the gully, and then he swung his hand and let loose a cloud of powder so thick that it looked like smoke. He must be the priest, the man who had violated the sacred stones by drawing on them.

Ferox started to push his way through the brambles and bracken, unclasping the brooch and letting his cloak fall because he knew it would just keep snagging.

The carnyx sounded again and the yelling stopped. They were coming.