Brigantia

by Adrian Goldsworthy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Yes, my lord.’

  ‘Come straight back.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  ‘Give me a hand.’

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

  ‘Thanks, lads.’

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

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

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

  ‘Damn it, Ferox, what is happening?’

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

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

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

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

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

  Then the prince sprang his trap.

  XXIX

  Thousands of warriors sprang up out of the ground, pouring over the lip of the gully and charging, and their great shout was like the crashing of waves against the shore. Many of them wore armour and helmets of army pattern, spoils from the defeat of Crassus.

  ‘Hercules’ balls!’ the legate gasped as he saw them.

  They were not in neat ranks, but there were so many of them and they came on eagerly, Arviragus leading them with a dozen of the royal guard around him and his standard of the horse overhead. The fleeing Britons either joined them or were pushed to the ground and trampled by the oncoming horde. Legionaries halted, and those who had gone the furthest were first to die.

  Trumpets sounded and the royal cohort picked up its shields and marched forward. Facing them was cohors IV Gallorum, outnumbered more than two to one. Beyond them the Brigantian cavalry started to walk their horses towards the Roman left wing

  ‘Form up!’ Neratius Marcellus screamed at the legionaries in front of the rampart. ‘Form ranks!’

  Ferox grabbed his arm, and the legate started in surprise, eyes angry. ‘He means to sweep round through our flank while our army is split by the wall,’ he explained.

  Neratius Marcellus was breathing hard, but nodded in understanding, and Ferox could see him calculating. ‘Archers, up on the wall!’ he yelled, and then grabbed the parapet to shout down orders to his staff. ‘All the archers, up here, quick as you can! Send the cohort cavalry to support Brocchus. He must stop their horse until we can win here. The Gauls to hold their place and die where they stand if need be. Tell them I am counting on them and know that they will not let me down.’ Cerialis’ men still faced the old fort and there was no need to give them fresh instructions. ‘Tell the reserve cohort of Victrix to wheel to the left, but wait for my orders!’

  As the legate shouted his instructions, the legionaries were coming back, still in no sort of order, but drawn towards the wall. More warriors kept swarming up out of the gully. Ferox guessed there were five thousand or more and still men boiled over the lip. Somehow a rough line was forming, the legionaries clustered in some places and thin in others. Some eleven hundred men had broken through and were still on their feet, stretched in a ragged line across the half-mile strip of grass in front of the rampart. The Britons were close enough to stab with spears or swords and it had all happened too fast for anyone to throw javelins or pila. Behind the front ranks of warriors, all of them in mail, was a vast crowd and some of these men managed to fling a spear forward, but most were too tightly packed. Legionaries who found themselves in the front rank dropped pila if they still had them because there was so little room, and instead slid out their swords.

  ‘Come on!’ the legate said, and ran down the bank of the rampart, heading for the eagle. ‘Rally, boys! Rally,’ he shouted as he went. Ferox went after him, slipping on the grass so that he skidded on his backside down the ramp.

  ‘Don’t play the fool, man!’ the legate snarled.

  The Roman line was only twenty paces or so from the wall. There were no optiones behind it, or trace of proper formation, and in places it was two deep and sometimes five or six deep. Men shouted as the Brigantes attacked, blade clashed against blade, or struck helmet, armour or shield and after a flurry of fighting the Roman line shuffled back a few more paces.

  ‘Steady there!’ the legate called, his trained voice booming out over the legionaries’ heads. Steady, the Boars! Steady, the Capricorns!’ Just behind the line, the aquilifer of II Augusta stood with the other standard-bearers, including two from Victrix who had found themselves here.

  ‘Come on!’ Ferox heard the prince yelling to his own men. ‘Let them hear you! Oh the wolf! Oh the raven!’ The singing was ragged, until more and more of the Brigantes joined in. ‘Come to me and I will give you flesh!’

  ‘Ferox, you take charge of Augusta. I will sort out Valeria Victrix or find someone who can.’ The legate saw the questioning look. ‘Do it, man, there’s no time for debate.’

  ‘Sir!’ Ferox drew his gladius. ‘Good luck, my lord.’

  ‘And to you, centurion.’ The legate ran off to the left. ‘Steady, lads! Hold them! Hold them!’

  ‘Any centurions left?’ Ferox asked the aquilifer.

  ‘Don’t know, sir.’ The eagle-bearer tried to smile. A javelin lobbed high above the legionaries whistled, and Ferox was lunging forward with his free hand, trying to push the man out of the way, but was too slow and the leaf-shaped point drove into his n
eck through the scarf he wore to stop his mail from chafing. Blood jetted out, the man’s eyes rolling up as he slumped forward. Ferox managed to catch the eagle before it fell.

  A young soldier was at the back of the line and turned, staring in horror at the dying standard-bearer. He was tall, for II Augusta liked to have a first cohort of tall men, and must have had a good record otherwise he would not have been with the cohort at all.

  ‘You, boy, what’s your name?’

  ‘Caecilius, sir.’

  ‘Oh the raven!’

  ‘Let’s have your shield, Caecilius.’ Ferox thrust the precious standard towards him. ‘You are to carry this,’ he said. The boy’s eyes widened. ‘It is a sacred trust for this is the honour of our legion and we are II Augusta, the best legion in the army, and we have work to do. You follow me. All of you.’ He hefted the shield as the boy passed it over, and looked at the standard-bearers. ‘We will make this a day the legion will still be marking in two hundred years’ time.’

  ‘Oh the wolf!’ The singing was getting louder as the Brigantes readied themselves for a fresh charge.

  Ferox had deliberately chosen a place where the line was only a few men deep. He snarled and shouted at men to let him through, and reached the front, the warriors only two spear lengths away. Facing him was a chieftain he remembered from the council, although he could not think of his name. The man was clean shaven and short-haired, with a sly face and eyes that never looked at someone when he spoke to them.

  ‘You!’ he said, breaking off from the war chant, although he still did not look Ferox in the face.

  ‘Give in. Lay down your arms and the legate will be merciful!’ Ferox had spoken in Latin out of habit, but now switched to the language of the tribes. ‘All of you, surrender now and accept the governor’s mercy!’

  ‘Come to me and I will give you flesh!’ The words were almost screamed at the Roman line and turned into a roar as the Brigantes surged forward. The chieftain with the sly face had a spear, a bronze helmet with an elaborate plume, mail and an oval shield. He came for Ferox, finally looking straight at him, spear over his shoulder, ready to jab down. The centurion raised his borrowed shield, felt it shudder as the iron head struck it, and swept very low with his gladius. The blade bit into something, the slim face broke into a yelp and the man staggered. Ferox flicked the sword to thrust up and the chieftain squealed as the long triangular point came under his mail and into his groin.