Brigantia

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘Well, he has a point.’

  ‘Legionary,’ she commanded, ‘I think you should kick the prisoner for insolence.’

  ‘My lady?’ The soldier was confused.

  ‘Never mind. Let us just say that I begged that he show leniency for my sake and the sake of my friendship with his sister, that he must excuse your atrocious manners and that you were a highly experienced officer who could be very useful.

  ‘He told me not to worry my pretty head about such matters, that he knew best, and then he put his hand on my leg. In Londinium more than once I caught him looking at me. It was not any great compliment, as he leered at anything with breasts.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Perhaps you should kick him, Longinus, as a favour to me.’

  ‘An honour, lady.’ The veteran did not move.

  ‘I behaved with dignity and left. I did not even kill him. He is brother to my dear friend, after all.’ The legionary gaped at her. ‘And such as he is, he is the only man with the rank to command here.’

  ‘How will your brother fight?’

  ‘He is not clever, but neither is he a fool. He must win or no one else will join him and he is doomed. Tomorrow perhaps, or the day after. I cannot see his patience lasting longer.

  ‘Now, we must go. Soldier, do your orders permit a wife to kiss her husband?’

  The legionary was uncertain. ‘I was told you are not to touch at all, lady. I am sorry.’

  ‘Then how would it be if I was to kiss you and you passed the kiss onto my husband’s lips?’

  The legionary blushed.

  ‘Try it, lad, and I’ll throttle you,’ Ferox said.

  ‘So be it. Farewell, husband.’

  *

  The next morning, Enica’s judgement of her brother was borne out. In the second hour of a short November day, the leading horsemen saw the enemy. They were waiting where the road climbed a gentle hill, armour and weapons gleaming in the bright sunshine that had finally broken through the clouds.

  Crassus was delighted, so much so that he ordered Ferox brought to him and even permitted him to have his sword. Claudia Enica was there, escorted by a pair of Batavians. The dress had gone, and she was once again in travelling gear, the familiar boots joined by breeches and two heavy tunics so that she wore her cloak open, and Ferox could see the hilt of a borrowed gladius. Before he left the camp, Ferox had managed to have a word with Vindex, so that the scout and the others ought to be riding out to the west, making sure that the prince had not sent a force to come in behind Crassus. As far as he could tell, the legate of Legio VIIII Hispana was not worried about such things. Indeed he was joviality itself, holding out a hand in welcome. ‘Ah, Ferox, I trust yesterday’s reproof has sobered you, and that you will remember the proper way for an officer to behave.’

  Enica glared at him warningly.

  ‘My lord,’ Ferox said, hoping the aristocrat would take this as obedient contrition.

  ‘Good man.’ They were on a hillock beside the road, watching the column deploying into a battle line. Crassus swept his arm along the ridge ahead of them. ‘There are the rebels. I make their numbers little more than ours.’ A mounted vexillarius carried the square red flag marking the commander’s position.

  That seemed about right, though only if he believed the entire enemy force was visible. In the centre, formed across the road itself, were the dark blue shields of around three hundred men of the Brigantian royal cohort. From this distance they looked the same as their own auxiliaries, for they wore mail, bronze helmets in the regulation pattern, and each carried a spear and a lighter javelin, as well as having a gladius on their right hip. They were drilled and trained like Roman soldiers, and if they were anything like the horsemen who had accompanied Arviragus, they ought to be pretty good. Their line was broken a little by the ditch on either side of the road, but otherwise their formation was neat. More to the point they waited in silence, keeping in their ranks and watching as Crassus’ men formed up to attack.

  On each flank a body of two hundred mounted guards sat on their horses, the gaps between each turma visible even at this distance. Ferox presumed the men he had got to know a little on their journey to Mona were among them. At this distance they could easily have been a regular ala, and a good one at that, each turma mounted on horses of a distinct colour. For some reason the Brigantes had always had a fondness for chestnuts, and more than half of the troops rode them.

  Next to each detachment of cavalry was a loose swarm of horsemen, tribesmen armed and ready to fight in the traditional way. Ferox could make out a couple of mail-clad leaders in front of the warriors on the enemy left and three on the right, and judged that there were over a hundred riders in each group. Between them and the foot guards were clumps of warriors. They were not in neat ranks and there was a lot of movement as men milled around, some sitting or standing, and, no doubt, being Brigantes, all of them talking. They would close up before the fight, but were not soldiers and saw no reason to act like them. There were some three hundred and fifty on either side of the royal cohort.

  ‘How many men serve in the royal guard, lady?’ Ferox asked the question loudly enough for Crassus to hear.

  ‘Nearly eight hundred infantry in the cohort,’ she explained. ‘My Lord Crassus, is there not a name for a regiment of that size?’

  ‘Indeed there is, my dear Claudia. It is a cohors milliaria. The royal ala is of standard size.’ Crassus gave her an indulgent smile. ‘It is much to the credit of your fellow tribesmen that so many of them have refused to join the rebels. As so often, rumour has exaggerated the army of your treacherous brother.’

  Ferox was about to suggest the obvious alternative, when another fierce stare from Enica warned him off. On the enemy right the ground rose steeply up towards the hills, which meant that the Romans could not try to envelop them. On their left was a wood, straggling on for miles away from the road. Plenty of men could be waiting there in concealment. More could be behind the low crest of the ridge.

  Crassus had deployed his own men to match the frontage of the enemy. The turmae sent on the cattle raid had not returned, and with so few horsemen left, there were around ninety on each flank and a turma of twenty-eight stationed near the commander. These, along with the veterans, were his only reserve. The legionaries of VIIII Hispana stood as two improvised cohorts in the centre, the men standing in three ranks. That was fine for steady, confident troops, but Ferox wondered whether it was deep enough. One cohort was led by only two centurions, the other by three, and there were barely more optiones and other leaders standing behind the formation to keep the men in ranks. The auxiliary infantry on either side of the legionaries were six deep, a far more prudent formation that made it easier to control the men. A tenth of all the infantry were still at the camp, some four and half miles to the rear, guarding the baggage.

  ‘Time to temper the steel,’ Crassus announced, and rode towards the battle line. ‘Soldiers!’ His voice surged to the power of a trained orator. ‘Before us we see traitors to the lord Trajan. He is our emperor! To him you swore your sacramentum! To him we look to steer the res publica onwards to peace and prosperity!’

  Ovidius had said he thought Claudia Enica to be a great actress. For Ferox, all that meant was that she was a wealthy and educated Roman, for they all performed at every opportunity. Crassus must have read in histories of the great orations delivered by famous commanders before a victory. He could sense the man revelling in the occasion, perhaps imagining how a writer would phrase what he said. Enica shrugged and trotted her horse after the commander, and Ferox followed.

  ‘Arviragus who leads that rabble over there took the same oath! He has broken it! None but the vilest of worms would commit such an impiety. The gods will punish him and all who follow him and we are their instruments.’

  Ferox lagged behind, so that he heard muttered comments from the legionaries.

  ‘Hear that, we’re gods!’

  ‘Can’t be, gods don�
��t fart! You might be a humping goddess.’

  ‘Promises, promises.’

  At least they sounded in good spirits. A soldier with the energy to moan was not too worried to do his job.

  ‘Traitors will suffer eternal torment in the Underworld. Think of Sisyphus…’ Crassus seemed to have forgotten his audience and began to invoke a schoolboy’s list of famous traitors and others suffering punishment in Hades. The legionaries lost interest and began to joke and bitch about other things. It was better than thinking.

  ‘Buggers had to be uphill, didn’t they’, ‘You’re a lazy bastard, Servius’, and so on and so on. Crassus was walking his horse further and further away, right arm flailing in all the gestures of an orator.

  ‘Look, lads!’ Ferox raised his voice so that he got their attention. ‘Brigantes can’t fight, but they’re all rich. So go up there and slaughter the bastards and shag their women!’

  Someone laughed and then started to cheer, and the shout rippled along the line. Crassus spun his horse around on a denarius, delighted at the enthusiasm his words had provoked. Enica flicked her hand against his thigh in reproof.

  He shrugged. ‘Best to keep it simple,’ he whispered.

  Sadly, that also appeared to be Crassus’ approach to tactics. ‘The army is to advance!’ he shouted. ‘Keep in your ranks, follow your orders, and the day is ours!’ He drew a sword with an ornate handle shaped like an eagle’s head and pointed it towards the centre of the ridge. ‘Forward!’

  Officers repeated the order and the line stepped out. The enemy were half a mile away, and for the moment the ground was flat. Part of Hispana had the same problem with the ditches as the royal cohort, but they coped well and kept the separate sections of the cohort in line. The enemy watched, the warriors shuffling and pushing into a closer formation so that soon they had a front rank of men standing in line, shields ready. Most of the boards were painted blue, the favourite colour of the tribe when it went to war.

  Crassus came back and they fell in with his staff.

  Ferox knew he had to speak and did his best to find the right words. ‘My lord, barbarians are naturally devious, and the Brigantes worse than most.’ He suspected Enica’s eyes were boring holes into his back. ‘That wood on their left is a likely place for a treacherous ambush.’

  Crassus was still buoyed up by the cheering. ‘Yes, I have thought the same thing,’ he replied, ‘and wondered whether anyone else would spot the danger.’

  ‘Perhaps if we refused our right, my lord? Then if they come at us from the wood, we can hit them hard once they are in the open.’

  ‘Serve ’em right too.’ Crassus smiled. ‘That is exactly what I was planning. Send orders for the cavalry and auxilia to hold back a little.’ A galloper rushed off with the message.

  The Brigantes were singing, the sound still too faint to make out the words. Ferox did not recognise the tune, but beside him Enica stiffened. She reached out, clasping his wrist tightly. ‘Oh the raven! Oh the wolf.’ The words were in the language of the tribes. ‘Come to me and I will give you flesh!’ Her eyes were glassy. ‘It is the old battle song of my people. I never thought that I would hear it. Still less from an enemy.’

  Ferox leaned over and kissed her, and wrapping his arm around her back held her for a little while. He was as surprised as she was, and when the moment passed they pulled apart, embarrassed.

  Crassus laughed. ‘Time for that later! Ah, good, they are obeying.’ On the Roman right the cavalry halted. The auxiliary infantry went a little further and then stopped. Ferox saw an optio on the far right of Hispana’s line stand and stare at them. Crassus had not explained his plan to the rest of his force. The far end of the legionary cohort seemed to stagger, men confused and nervous, before shouts and blows got them back moving again. A moment later, the auxiliary horse and foot started advancing again, so that the right flank of the army was stepped back.

  ‘Come to me and I will give you flesh!’ Ferox caught the words now, for they were less than a quarter of a mile away. The Carvetii were kin to the Brigantes, but he had never heard Vindex or any of his warriors raise this chant. The tune was gentle, almost mournful, and yet the words held a deep menace. He saw a lone figure on a grey riding up and down in front of the Brigantian line. At this distance the face was unclear, and he could not hear the lone voice shouting, so imagined Arviragus bellowing at his warriors to keep in line. There were always youngsters eager to show off or too scared to wait, let alone the men drunk to the fill and brimming over with the courage it sometimes gave. If a few surged forward, more would follow, and the prince was doing everything to control his men and make them fight as one.

  A narrow ditch, unseen until the last moment because of the long grass, caused confusion among the left cohort of Hispana. Some men jumped it, others slipped in or chose to wade through the foot or so of water in the bottom, and there was much shouting and jostling before the ranks were restored. The Romans marched on in silence, until some of the auxiliary infantry began their own chant. It sounded like an angry grunt, repeated over and over again.

  ‘Tell them to be silent and stay in their ranks,’ Crassus barked at a decurion, who rode off to give the order. ‘Discipline wins battles, not shouts and bravado.’

  ‘Oh the raven! Oh the wolf!’

  Arviragus’ horse reared up and he flourished his sword in a great circle over his head. Ferox could see that he was wearing the helmet and armour he had brought from Mona. Perhaps he had told his men that the spirit of Venutius was with them. If so, then little of the old war leader’s cunning was on show, for the prince pointed his blade at the Romans and set his horse into a gallop straight at them.

  The singing turned into a roar and the warriors followed, streaming down the slope. The royal guards hesitated for just an instant, and then they too charged, ranks quickly becoming ragged. Horsemen rapidly outpaced the men on foot.

  ‘No patience,’ Enica said softly.

  ‘Barbarians,’ Crassus said with contempt.

  Hundreds of men were pouring from the woods as well, some in the full panoply of the royal cohort and even more warriors. The Roman cavalry charged to meet them, some of them whooping as loudly as their foes. Seeing them pass, the auxiliary infantry jogged forward, banging the shafts of their spears against their shields.

  ‘What are they doing?’ Crassus gasped. ‘Discipline.’ Kicking his horse, he galloped towards the legionaries, yelling, ‘Halt! Halt there!’ His standard-bearer and two troopers followed.

  The right-hand cohort of VIIII Hispana heard first and shuddered to a halt. The other went on another twenty paces before the centurions screamed at the soldiers to stop. Optiones ran up and down behind the rear rank, shoving men back into place.

  ‘Pila!’ Crassus’ voice carried. The leading warriors were fifty paces from the Roman line, Arviragus riding among them. Legionaries in the front rank raised their heavy javelins, poised to throw.

  ‘Steady now!’ The commander almost shrieked the words, and whether his words were not clear or too many men were nervous, someone hurled his pilum, the slim shank flashing as it caught the light. The missile sailed up and then came down striking the ground and sliding through the grass some way in front of the enemy. Another pilum was thrown, then another, and whole front rank joined in.

  ‘Stop! Stop, you fools!’ Crassus implored them, and centurions were yelling. Most of the second rank threw before they understood. One pilum spitted a warrior as he bounded forward, shield held too wide. The impact flung him back and knocked down another man. That was the only missile to strike home and the rest pattered to earth harmlessly.

  A legionary in the third rank turned and tried to run. An optio was there, blocking his path with his hastile, the staff showing his rank. Then the man next to the first fled, dodging past. More followed. The line rippled like a long ribbon blowing in the wind.

  ‘Go!’ Ferox told Enica. Find Vindex and the others, and I’ll find you.’

  She stared, t
hen nodded. ‘What about you?’

  ‘I am still bound to the fool’s sister, so will try to get him out of this. Keep her safe,’ he told the Batavians. ‘Now go!’

  Ferox walked his horse over to the turma of cavalry. ‘We’re going to save the legate. Will you follow me, decurion?’

  The man gulped. ‘Yes, sir.’ He looked relieved to have the decision made for him.

  ‘Optio.’ Ferox called to the man in charge of the veterans. ‘Form an orb. We may have to fight our way out. Right, boys,’ he said to the cavalry. ‘Follow me,’ He drew his sword.

  Crassus was riding among the legionaries, calling for order. ‘Pila!’ he bellowed. Some responded. The Brigantes were close now, barely ten or twelve paces away, and the few missiles thrown punched through shields and armour into flesh. Warriors dropped, or spun around, shield pinned to their arm or body. It was not enough to check the onslaught.

  The legionaries broke. One moment there were two ragged lines facing the enemy, and then there were just hundreds of men running away. Some threw down shields and raced ahead of the rest. Others were still confused, searching for someone to tell them what to do, but fleeing in the meantime because everyone else was. A few knots of men clustered together, walking backwards, still ready to fight, and in a moment they were islands washed around by a wave of enemies. Crassus and his little escort came back with the crowd.

  ‘Halt, damn you! Re-form!’ No one listened to the legate. On the left the auxiliary infantry charged with a shout and it was the Brigantes who gave way. The cavalry on their flank attacked alongside them, but at the last minute wheeled their horses round and fled. On the right the Roman horsemen burst into the mass of attacking warriors, cutting them down. Numbers were against them. The charge lost momentum, and the troopers were in the middle of a crowd of enemies. Horses were speared, riders dragged down and slashed as they lay.