As the chieftain fell back, shrieking, Ferox stabbed the man standing beside him, the blade sliding past his shield and punching through the iron rings of his mail shirt. The warrior gasped, dropped his sword, and the legionary beside Ferox stamped forward and finished him with a jab through the eye. On his left, the legionary attacked with too much force, and his opponent pushed the blade aside with his shield and then slashed down, severing the Roman’s right arm. Blood pumping out, the soldier dropped his scutum and clutched at the wounded limb. The long sword slashed down again, clanging as it struck his helmet with such force that the iron broke open as the man went down. Behind him a legionary still carried his pilum and aimed carefully as he jabbed forward, the little point driving into the warrior’s eye.
The Brigantes gave way and stepped back a few paces. It was the first time that the Romans had not been the ones to retreat and that was something, even if all along the line Ferox could see many dead on the grass and the wounded being dragged back.
‘Still with me, Caecilius?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good lad. Keep that eagle high.’
‘We’re holding them, boys,’ he shouted. ‘They won’t break the Capricorns.’ His back was slick with sweat and he had only fought for a short time.
Arrows whipped overhead to fall deep among the mass of warriors in front of them. He heard cries of pain, and saw men in the rear ranks raising their blue shields to meet this new attack. The Hamian archers were up on the rampart, and that would help, but the front lines were too close together for them to shoot at the enemy leaders and their boldest men. Ferox saw Arviragus some way over to his left and wished that he could get at the prince, but the legionaries were only just holding on and he did not want to try to work his way around behind the line in case they thought he was running. If the Romans broke, then most would die, because they would be trapped against the wall, and if they died then he doubted Neratius Marcellus would win his battle, even if he did not die along with them.
The arrows stung the Brigantes into another attack, which brought more of them closer to the legionaries again. A very tall man, a good six inches higher than him, though lean as a reed, yelled as he came at the centurion. He had an axe in his hand, the sort most men would save for chopping wood, and he tried to hook it over the top of Ferox’s shield and pull it down. Behind him a spearman as tall and rangy as the first man thrust a spear over his shoulder. They looked alike, perhaps twins, so strange with their hollow cheeks and spiked hair that they might have come from a legend.
Ferox had his sword up, elbow bent, and stabbed forward, but the tall man was too far away from him to reach. Again the axe swung, and rather than let it catch on his scutum he jerked the shield up, so that the blade sliced through the brass edging and gouged a hole in the wood. The spear thumped against it, not hard enough to penetrate, and Ferox brough his right arm low behind his shield, lunging at waist height, only to strike against the warrior’s shield.
These strange twins were dangerous, working together well. Beside him, the soldier on his right had lost his helmet and was bleeding heavily from his scalp, but managed to drive his opponent back a pace. Another legionary on his left fell, this time with his left leg almost cut through beneath the knee, and he was dragged into the enemy ranks and stabbed a dozen times before he lay still. A comrade stepped forward into the gap.
Suddenly the tall warrior sprouted an arrow from his eye, his head snapping back with the impact, and Ferox blessed the archer who had taken such a risky shot. He stamped forward, pushing the corpse with his shield, and lunged up into his twin’s neck. The legionary on Ferox’s right was struggling to see as the blood streamed down over his eyes, and he slashed wildly and so quickly that he beat his opponent’s shield down, twice struck sparks off his mail shirt without breaking the rings, and finally nicked his face. Then a spearmen behind the warrior thrust hard, bursting through where two plates of the man’s segmented cuirass met. The Roman grunted, slumping forward. A legionary standing in the next rank still had a pilum and threw it with all his strength into the warrior. The head punched through the man’s shield, the shank sliding hungrily through the hole, splitting two rings on his mail as it forced its way into his belly. He too dropped back, and it was as if that was a signal for the whole line to pull away.
‘Well done, boys, we’re holding them.’ Ferox gasped for breath. His arms and legs felt like lead, and his muscles throbbed. No one who had not fought in a battle line ever understood how quickly a man became exhausted. He knew that holding the enemy was not enough. The Romans were outnumbered and so many Britons were packed behind the leading ranks that it would be hard for any of them to turn and flee. If it came to a long slog, then the legionaries were more likely to become exhausted before the enemy.
Arrows snipped above his head, thunking into the shields the Brigantes were holding high. Ferox had no idea what was happening in the rest of the battle. Even the governor, who was probably no more than a few hundred paces away, might as easily be alive or dead, or on a journey to the moon, for all he could tell. He wished that he was up on the wall again, able to see what was going on, but he could not leave.
‘Right, boys,’ he shouted as loudly as he could, trying to sound as if victory was inevitable, but his throat was thick and all that came out was a croak. He spat to clear it.
It was not enough to hold their ground. They had to win, because if any part of the Roman army collapsed then the rest could easily follow. ‘Those bastards have killed some of our commilitones. No one does that and gets away with it. Come on, Capricorns. Follow the eagle! It’s going through those sods in front of us, so unless we want to lose it, we will have to go with it!’
He took a deep breath. ‘Caecilius.’
‘Sir.’
‘Stay behind me, boy. Every step of the way.’
He thumped the flat of his gladius against the side of his shield. ‘Let ’em hear you!’ He struck again and again. ‘Come on, Capricorns, let ’em hear us coming!’ Men copied, pounding swords or shafts of pila against the rectangular shields.
‘Charge!’ Ferox yelled, and did his best to run at the enemy, in spite of the heaviness in his legs. They were only a few paces away, but he saw the warrior opposite him, teeth bared as he grimaced over the top of his shield. The man had a legionary helmet, the top dented, and he wondered whether its previous owner was dead or had thrown it away to run faster. Ferox punched with all his weight behind the heavy scutum, the dome-like boss high to smash into the warrior’s face, breaking his nose, and if the man had been waiting he could have killed Ferox then and there, thrusting low with his sword. No blow came back, and the warrior staggered from the impact, so Ferox punched again, without the force of going forward, but savagely enough. Then his gladius was up and jerked forward, brushing the bottom cheek piece before it found the warrior’s neck. Blood spattered over Ferox’s face and shield as the Brigantian dropped.
Ferox stamped forward, boot on the man he had just killed, and the warrior behind tried to go back, but could not because of the press behind him. He beat aside a sword attempting to parry, twisting his wrist to angle the thrust down. The tip grated on a collar bone, then slid down. Gasping for breath, the warrior was finally able to step back as the men behind him reacted. He was hurt, but not fatally. Ferox had a moment of freedom and swept again back and to his right. His gladius was starting to blunt by now, so the steel cut only part way into the warrior’s neck, and his head flapped down but did not fall. Then Ferox turned back, facing ahead, and the Brigantes gave ground again, stepping back a couple of paces.
‘Still there, Caecilius?’
‘Course I am, sir.’
Ferox was panting, his mail armour like great weights pressing down onto his shoulders. On either side of him the Roman line had advanced and taken a tiny patch of ground, so that it bulged forward. Elsewhere the two sides were where they had started. He blinked because there was sweat in his eyes. Glancing up
to the right, he could see Batavians and Roman standards on the grassy mound of the old wall, and the defenders still facing them. There were not many arrows overhead this time, and he guessed the Hamians must have nearly emptied their quivers. The winter sun had climbed as high as it would go, which meant that it was noon, and he tried to work out where the hours had gone.
‘Another few paces, boys!’ Ferox croaked. ‘That’s all we have to do, just drive these mongrels back a a few more paces!’ He had a vague memory of a general telling his men to give him one more step for victory. Was it a Greek?
‘Come on, boys!’ Caecilius yelled so suddenly that Ferox would have jumped if he still had the energy. The boy was waving the gilded eagle. ‘Follow the eagle! Follow the eagle.’
‘The eagle!’ one of the signifers repeated. ‘The eagle.’
Maybe it was just the men still in the rear ranks and not quite so drained, but the legionaries started to chant.
Ferox searched for Arviragus among the enemy and could no longer see him. It did not seem to matter any more.
‘The eagle!’ he screamed, and lurched forward, his legs heavier than when he strapped weights to them to make exercises harder.
The Brigantes came to meet them, and the shouts faded as the two lines of men drew on the last dregs of their strength to fight. Ferox’s shield banged hard against an opponent’s. Neither man gave way, and the warrior was in mail, with a Roman sword and a bandaged head, and he watched the centurion warily. They tested each other, each of their worlds down to just the man trying to kill him.
Ferox feinted a high thrust, failing to draw his opponent’s guard the wrong way, so he put his shoulder behind his shield and rammed it forward again, his foot slipping on the blood-soaked grass so that there was even more force than he had intended. The warrior was barged back, but by the time Ferox recovered balance the man’s guard was up again. On his right the warrior fell with a gladius driven through his head, and the legionary let the weapon go and went over the corpse, pounding the enemy with his shield, until he was among them and a sword swung and took him behind the knee. He went down on the other leg, and they swarmed around, but he kept blocking them with his shield and the blows that got past pounded armour and helmet and did not break through. Barely conscious, somehow the legionary squatted there and defied them until he sagged.
The warrior slashed down hard, his blade striking Ferox’s shield where the edge was already broken and biting deep into the three layers of wood. It stuck fast and as the man tried to wrench it free, the centurion cut upwards, through the man’s chin and mouth. Letting go of his own sword, the man staggered. Ferox twisted the gladius free and sliced through the warrior’s neck. Blood sprayed over his face and eyes and he struggled to see. He shook his shield, but the dead man’s sword was stuck fast and weighed it down.
Caecilius was beside him, eagle in his left hand, and the lad stabbed a warrior in the stomach. A spear came from the second rank, denting one of the plates of the legionary’s armour. It had a huge head, the edge serrated like the ones heroes used in the old songs.
‘Get back, you fool!’ Ferox gasped. He cut at the spear shaft, throwing off splinters, but another man came at him from the front, and with his cumbersome shield there was only just time to block the sword as it swung down. The impact shuddered the shield and the great split in it widened. Another hard blow and the sword dropped down, but the scutum was in ruin. Ferox flung it at his opponent, and then had to slash desperately at a man coming from his right. The gladius rang as it struck the torc the warrior was wearing with such force that it snapped his neck and he dropped.
Caecilius screamed as the spear broke through the lowest plate on his cuirass and went into his stomach. The warrior twisted the weapon, not to free it but to widen the wound, and then let the spear go. Caecilius dropped his sword, and somehow drove the spike of the aquila into the ground before he collapsed. The ground was hard, and his strength ebbing away, so that the eagle-standard leaned forward at a sharp angle.
Ferox spun around, lunging to take the warrior who had killed Caecilius in the side, the point of his gladius driving deep through muscle and flesh. A Brigantian was reaching for the eagle, so the centurion ripped the blade free and slashed at him, slicing down through the man’s skull. Something hit him hard on the side of the helmet, snapping the chin strap and spinning the helmet round until it fell off. His head throbbed and there was wet blood in his hair. The gladius was stuck fast in the man he had killed, the corpse’s weight dragging him down. Ferox let go, nearly tripped on a corpse, and reached the eagle, grabbing it with both hands. There was a blow against his shoulder, where the mail doubled over to fasten, and the rings held, although he was bruised.
Horns blew, dozens and dozens of horns, but they were far away. They did not sound like army signals and Ferox wondered whether thousands more warriors were rushing out to swamp the last Romans, or did he hear the armies of the dead still fighting forgotten wars in the Otherworld?
Ferox wrenched the aquila from the ground and swung it in a great arc at the Brigantes. The gilded bird on top of the pole scarred the air, and took a man in the jaw, breaking teeth and spraying blood from a split lip. One wing bent back with the impact. He swept it round savagely and the warriors made room.
‘Come on, you mongrels!’ he screamed at them in their own language. ‘Let me feed you to the wolves and ravens!’
The horns blasted out again, closer now, and Ferox knew the end would be soon. He no longer cared or thought about anything. There was just the faces of the warriors watching him, waiting for their chance, and all that was left was hate. Let the bastards come and he would pound as many as he could into slush before they got him.
A warrior stepped forward, sword up ready for the swing, and Ferox twisted the heavy standard so that the blade hit the pole, leaving a gouge, but he twisted again and drove the long butt spike into the man’s face.
Ferox laughed like a madman, revelling in the warrior’s death.
‘Come on, you mongrels!’ If he was about to journey to the Otherworld then he would not go alone.
Again the horns called, and this time Roman trumpets answered, blaring out their own challenge.
Ferox let the body fall and swept the aquila at his enemies. They stepped back, so he turned the standard around again and went for them. He no longer felt tired and the pain did not seem to matter. With all his strength he carved the air, the bird pounding against the warriors’ shields, and still they gave way.
‘Bastards! Fight me!’ he begged, but the men took another step back.
Someone was shouting, their voice clear and high. Ferox ignored them. He swung the eagle again, sweeping it higher than before, and was rewarded because one of the warriors had turned to look behind him, so the bird slammed into his head and knocked him to the ground.
‘Stop!’ The voice was still shouting, and it was an odd sound for a battlefield, but he did not care. His enemies were running now, fleeing from him, and he hated them for their cowardice. He went to the one he had knocked down, turned the standard again and drove the spike through the warrior’s belly and into the ground. The man was pinned, badly hurt, but not dead and Ferox watched the terror and agony in his face and rejoiced in it.
‘It is over!’ The enemy had gone, at least from this part of the field. One of the signifers came up to him, and the man’s face was pale with fear.
‘Stop! It is over!’ Ahead of him, beyond the gully, was a chariot, the car painted white and the team a grey and a dark bay, both in bright red harness. A man squatted at the reins, and behind him stood a woman in gleaming white, save for the scale armour of alternate gilded and silvered plates. She carried a spear and a blue shield and had long red hair down her back.
Was this how it ended? Gannascus had once told him that goddesses came to lead the soul of a great warrior into the Otherworld.
‘Husband, it is over!’
Thought came slowly and with effort. Strength had le
ft his limbs and he felt weary and battered. Even breathing was hard work.
‘Ferox, you fool, it is over! We have won!’ The words were in Latin.
That was Enica, and she was alive. Ferox sank to his knees beside the man pinned to the ground. Someone touched his shoulder lightly, and he saw it was the signifer, who looked as if he was afraid the centurion might attack him.
‘I’d better take this, sir.’ The standard-bearer reached for the eagle and yanked it free. The warrior clutched at his intestines as they spilled from the gaping wound in his belly.
Ferox put his hands over his face. He was alive. He did not know whether this was good or bad.
XXX
‘Today for vengeance, tomorrow for mourning,’ Vindex said firmly, and drew his sword. His spear was buried in the royal guard and the shaft had broken when he tried to pull it free. The scout smiled. ‘As long as you think this is a good idea!’
Sepenestus had killed the other two, and his arrows came out much more easily. He wiped the heads on the hem of his tunic and put the arrows back in his bag.
‘There are nine left and the prisoner,’ Ferox said. ‘You’ve already done enough and don’t have to come.’
The archer sniffed at that and patted his sword, an army-pattern spatha. Gannascus nodded approvingly. ‘We cannot wait for more of them to arrive, so it will just have to be unfair,’ the big man rumbled, saying almost as much as he had done in the three days of pursuit.
As Enica had shouted out, the battle had been won, and a lot of the credit went to her. Cerialis had taken the old fort after a bitter struggle. The stocky little Vardulli were saying that they had rescued the Batavians and the big men from the Rhineland were denying that they needed any help. Both prefects had been wounded, but managed to stay on their feet until it was done. On the left Brocchus and the cavalry had fought a long, whirling fight, charging, driving the enemy back, before being chased in turn. Numbers were with the Brigantes, and they were on the higher ground, so that they did not break easily. Gradually, the auxiliaries made headway, until their main lines were on top of the hill. Next to them the royal cohort had met the Gauls, who had fought for a long time before weight of numbers drove them back. Somehow, Neratius Marcellus had got an order to the reserve cohort of Legio XX and the Victrix had plugged the hole in the line. Beyond the rampart, men had fought and died where they stood, and it was only Ferox and the men around him who had begun forcing that vast crowd of enemies back. Soon, someone’s will would have broken. It only took a few to turn and run and others would follow. It might have been the Romans, especially at the rampart, for there it was hard for the Britons to give way with so many men pressing behind them.
Brigantia Page 36
