‘Perhaps.’
Half an hour later they passed Vindolanda, its buildings a dull white in the distance, and Ferox hoped that the curator was well on his way to the fort. Victor ought to have reached the tower by now, but there was no sign of the beacon’s warning smoke. Another mule convoy passed by on the road, bigger than the first, but still vulnerable to a determined band of fifty or sixty men – assuming they had not been joined by yet more warriors.
Ferox put his horse into a canter and drove the beast hard, slapping with the flat of his hand when the gelding tried to slow. They raced along, the horses’ shoulders and flanks white with sweat, eating up the miles until they could no longer see the fort, but only the thin tendrils of smoke from its fires. The gelding was breathing hard and beginning to stumble, always a sign that the animal had little more to give. Ferox slowed them back to a walk.
‘That’s where I would do it.’ He pointed ahead. The road veered a bit to the north, running along the valley side to follow a much older trackway and avoid meadows that became bogs after just a couple of days of rain. For a mile or so it was less straight, allowing wagons to negotiate a succession of little slopes and gullies. There were scattered copses and a couple of large woods, the trees big and offering plenty of cover from prying eyes. One stretch went along the bottom of a little valley and was even more secluded.
Vindex snorted with laughter. ‘Trust a Silure to pick the right spot for an ambush. Bandits the lot of you.’
‘They say I am a Roman.’
‘So they say.’
There was a murmur from the scouts, making Vindex turn in the saddle. ‘Beacon’s lit,’ he said.
Ferox was not really listening. Not far away was a herd of cattle being driven alongside the road, and a few travellers all going west. Passing them on the main track were ten or twelve cavalrymen followed by a mule-drawn carriage. It was not as large as many coaches, but such vehicles were rare in this part of the world, and the escort showed that it carried someone or something of importance.
The centurion touched the big wooden pommel of his sword, feeling the runnels carved into it. He wore his sword on the left as a mark of his rank, and also because it was an old-fashioned long blade and was easier to draw from that side.
‘I need you to take the scouts up to the top of the ridge.’ He pointed ahead, to the hilltop above the broken country. ‘The sight of you may worry them if they are waiting to strike. There are too many of them for us to take, so you watch what happens. We need to know who they are and where they’ve come from. Follow them when it’s all over. Catch one if you can, but do not take any daft risks. What you can learn is more important than anything you can do. Understand?’
Vindex nodded. ‘And what will you be doing?’
‘Taking a closer look.’
The Brigantian grunted and walked his horse over to his men. Ferox pulled off the felt hat and tossed it away. Twisting around in the saddle, he unfastened the helmet from where it was tied. As usual Philo had left the woollen hat inside. He pulled it on, put the helmet on top and tied up the leather thong to hold the ends of the cheek pieces together. It had been weeks since he had last worn it, but after thirteen years with the legions the heavy helmet still felt as naturally a part of him as his hair.
Ferox walked his horse downhill towards the road. His mind felt clear and calm, though easy because the decision was made and that was that. He had left the alarm too late, and this was his region. All his warnings in the past would not help because they could not change his mistake now. There was probably someone important in the carriage, and he could not let whoever it was die without trying to warn them. Even that might not be enough, and it would be all his superiors needed to recommend his dismissal.
His head no longer throbbed, and when he drained the last of the posca from its skin his mouth felt moist and fresh. When they had forced him awake and made him ride out he had felt as if the world was about to end. The black mood of the last days engulfed him once more and he no longer cared that much if it did. Ferox rode down the hill.
‘You forgot your hat,’ Vindex said cheerfully, coming alongside, holding the battered old hat in his hand.
‘I gave you orders.’
‘No one gives orders to the Carvetii.’
The two men kept at a steady pace.
‘It is important,’ the centurion said. ‘We will need to learn as much as we can.’
‘I told Brennus to take charge. He will do what he’s told.’
‘I thought no one gave orders to the Carvetii?’
Vindex grinned, his face more skull-like than ever. ‘Brennus’ mother is from the Parisii. Anyone can order those earth-eating buggers about.’
Ferox did not laugh, but his mood lifted a little.
They rode on. The carriage and its escort were out of sight, hidden by a grove of tall oaks.
‘Do you have a plan?’ the Brigantian asked after a while.
Ferox said nothing.
‘Well, that’s good.’ Vindex raised the wheel of Taranis to his lips and murmured a prayer.
‘No one asked you to come,’ Ferox told him.
‘I know. Some people are so unfriendly.’
For the first time the centurion looked his companion in the eye. ‘No shame in going back. It’s not too late.’
Vindex laughed. ‘Just what my uncle said to me before I took my first wife!’ The Brigantian suddenly looked grim, but then he usually did. Only men like Ferox who knew him well also knew his hidden sadness. Vindex had lost both his wives, the first to fever and the second bearing a stillborn son. The sorrow was deep, but had not dampened his enthusiasm for the pleasures of life.
Ahead of them, the escort and the little carriage emerged from behind the trees. They were close enough now for Ferox to see the cavalrymen’s green-painted oval shields, which meant that they were most likely Batavians out of Vindolanda. Their helmets looked strangely dark and only the cheek pieces gleamed in the afternoon sun. One man at the head of the little column wore brightly polished scale armour that shimmered, and there was an air of formality about the soldiers. Most men would not have bothered to take the shields out of their leather covers for an ordinary journey.
‘Maybe we were wrong?’ Vindex suggested, as the riders and carriage went briskly on their way on this warm afternoon. He reached down to swat a horse-fly settling on his mare’s neck. Now that they were lower down the insects swarmed around them, drawn by the rich smell of horse sweat.
A horn sounded, harsh and braying, and Ferox kicked his horse on savagely to draw on its last strength and lumber into a canter.
‘Oh bugger,’ Vindex said, and followed him.
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 a
nimals 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.
Vindolanda Page 4
