Vindolanda

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  The night came alive with shrieks from down in the valley and as Ferox held the dying man up he saw a band of warriors charging at the picket outside the camp. He saw them because the men waved torches in the air and in the flickering red light forty or fifty men charged, bare flesh shining and bright weapons in their hands. Trumpets sounded the alarm, but glints along the rampart showed that it was already lined with waiting men.

  The tall man struggled violently and then went limp and heavy so that Ferox almost fell over with the corpse as it slumped down. He lowered the body to the ground and crouched beside it. No one was moving nearby or seemed to have noticed what he had done. In the valley there was a confused whirl of fighting around the picket and more of the torch-carrying warriors streaming past at the entrance to the camp. Some of them dropped, hit by javelins he could not see in the darkness. The rest kept going, swinging to the right to go through the gate. More of them fell to missiles, and the score or so of survivors met a line of waiting soldiers, shields raised. Blades glinted in the light of the last few torches.

  Ferox could see no sign of other attackers, and there was nothing he could do to help. This looked like a diversion, something to distract the men on the far ramparts before a heavier wave of warriors swarmed out of the night to overwhelm them. Yet there was no sign of anyone approaching from another direction, and what he had heard the dead man and the other warriors say suggested that this was it, and the warriors were being sacrificed in a doomed attack whose only purpose was to kill as many enemies as possible. He looked down at the body and even in this light saw a chest covered in tattoos like ivy on an old stone wall. He pulled back the headdress and there was the mark of the horse. Pressing hard at the torc he prised it open and lifted the man’s head so that he could take it off.

  Below him in the valley the fight was dying as swiftly as the attackers. A few of the dropped torches smouldered on the ground, but the only one flung across the rampart had failed to set fire to anything for there was not much in the camp to burn, given that the tents had not been set up. The fallen torches gave a little light to see the heap of naked corpses piled in the entrance. There was still a fierce struggle around the picket, a cluster of Romans standing back to back.

  Ferox picked up the man’s sword and ran his finger along the edge, finding it distressingly blunt. No doubt that was fine for a man who liked to stand back and send his warriors off to fight. It was all he had, for the knife was no good for such work, so the centurion raised it and sliced down with all the force he could muster. The blade buried itself in the man’s neck, without severing the bone. It took three more blows, using all his might and grunting with the effort, before the head came off. He drove the blunt-tipped sword as deeply into the earth as he could and balanced the headdress on top of it. It tilted to one side, but would do to mark the corpse of their priest or druid or whatever this man had claimed to be. Ferox took the head, glad that the man had hair because it was hard to carry the head of a bald man, tucked the torc into his belt and jogged at a low crouch towards the nearest gully.

  Trumpets sounded and he guessed that horsemen were charging from the entrances not attacked to go to the aid of the picket. Peering over the edge of the gully he saw the pairs of warriors still squatting along the slope and watching the last of their comrades die. He bundled the head up in his cloak, keeping his dagger low in his left hand, and set off towards them, walking down the slope, hoping that with his bare chest they would mistake him for one of their own.

  A shriek of pure horror came from behind him. It sounded like a woman and he guessed that she had discovered the headless corpse of their leader. Pale faces turned to look back, hissing questions.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Ferox called. ‘What’s happening?’

  He stopped. The warriors were getting up, coming up the slope.

  ‘Something is wrong,’ he said as the closest pair came towards him. Ferox dropped the torc, which rolled along the ground. ‘What’s that?’ he asked the nearest man.

  The Briton followed the necklace, bending down to pick it up. His companion stared at the centurion.

  ‘Who are you?’ he asked and Ferox whipped up the knife and slashed across the man’s throat, dark blood jetting out over his pale skin. He swung the bundled head like a weapon on to the back of the bending warrior’s head and knocked him down.

  Flavius Ferox ran. The time for hiding and caution was over and he sprinted down the slope towards the camp. Men shouted, but the Britons were still confused. The woman howled again and a man’s voice bellowed in anger, recognising the torc.

  Ferox did not look back or slow, but drove himself to flee, wrapped head in one hand and knife in the other. Horsemen appeared ahead of him. ‘I’m Roman,’ he yelled in Latin. ‘I’m Roman!’ One of the riders came at him, raised his spear and threw. Ferox flung himself to the side, hitting the ground hard. ‘I’m a centurion, you stupid mongrel!’

  The other rider held the man’s hand as he drew his sword. ‘I know him,’ he said. ‘He’s one of us.’ It was Crispinus, and his teeth looked white as he grinned. ‘Although the gods only know what he’s been up to! Deserting, eh?’

  ‘With all due respect, my lord,’ Ferox said, getting to his feet, ‘you should not be outside the ramparts during an attack. You are the commander of the whole column.’

  ‘Well, I am sure that is the voice of wisdom,’ he said. ‘The voice of something at any rate. Now would you care to tell the commander of the column just what in the name of all reason you have been doing?’

  XI

  ‘I AM GUESSING that they want to fight this time,’ the tribune said, looking up at the masses of warriors on the spur above them, and the shields lining the rampart of an old fort. Hardly anyone lived up there these days, and the rampart was covered in grass and the ditch half filled with rubbish. Yet several hundred warriors had gathered there and it would not be easy to storm. Many more of the Selgovae formed a rough line across the saddle to the north of the fort, the warriors sitting or standing in loose masses. They had standards topped by bronze figures of gods or animals and men blasting out calls on their tall carnyxes, each trumpet’s mouth shaped like the head of a boar. The sound reminded Ferox of the ambush on the road. A picture of Sulpicia Lepidina came to mind and he shuddered at the thought of what they had planned to do to her.

  The ground sloped up steeply to the saddle, which on the far side went down into a bigger, longer glen. If the campaign was going to plan, then the western column should be advancing up that valley towards them. Yet if they were to meet up, Crispinus’ men must force their way through this pass. The column was concentrated now, formed at the foot of the slope apart from half of the infantry of the Vardulli from Spain and all their cavalry who protected the baggage animals and watched the rear.

  ‘Despatch coming.’ Titus Annius pointed to the ridge behind them. Half a dozen cavalry were cantering down the smooth slope, led by a man with a luxuriously plumed helmet and a trooper holding his spear aloft, something flickering just below the head. As they came closer Ferox saw that it was a feather, as the commander of the Tungrians had guessed, and realised that the plumed officer was Flaccus, the junior tribune from VIIII Hispana. One of the cavalrymen in his escort had a freshly tied bandage round his thigh. They must have come from the Legate Quadratus and the main column.

  ‘We had a time of it getting through,’ the tribune said to Crispinus, before the two men moved to the side and spoke for some time.

  It was an hour before noon on the morning after the attack on their camp. There were seven wounded men back with the baggage train to add to the eight given hasty burials before they set out. All but one of the dead were from the picket, for the attackers had hacked to pieces anyone who fell. The four survivors were all wounded, but had managed to stay on their feet and close together so that they were back to back. The attackers left forty-seven corpses on the ground and few if any of them had fled. There were no prisoners.

  All of th
e dead bore the tattoos on forehead and hand and had fought with the same wild aggression as if they did not care whether they lived or died. None were skilful, and some carried woodsman’s or carpenter’s axes or just clubs rather than proper weapons. Yet they came on very fast and slashed or bludgeoned at anything within reach, keeping on striking even if they were covered with wounds. Soldiers spoke of men crawling towards them leaving the ground slick with blood, but still brandishing weapons. One of the Romans had been stabbed repeatedly when he went to check what he was sure was a corpse, given the horrible injuries to the Briton’s face, arms and chest.

  As far as Ferox could tell, few of the dead appeared to be Selgovae, and instead were from many different tribes and much further afield. Quite a few looked half starved, with little trace of the muscles on arms and legs built up by warriors who practised for war. He had told Crispinus and the other senior officers about this, but was not sure how much they understood. Romans were apt to see all barbarians as much the same.

  The man Ferox had killed was more of a puzzle. His forehead was marked with a stag, rather than a horse, and underneath were traces of an older tattoo: ten e q a ugi. It was a Roman mark in Latin, not something put on by the tribes, and Ferox’s best guess was something like tene me quia fugi – ‘Arrest me, for I have run away’. The antler-wearing priest rallying the tribes against Rome was a former slave, a man who had fled from his owner and been recaptured, then escaped again. He was a runaway slave, a fugitivus from the empire, perhaps from Britannia, although the man with the southern accent made Ferox wonder whether there were more runaways from far afield among this strange band. It helped to explain a man who used magical words of power and called on Isis and Hades and other gods not widely known among the tribes.

  Crispinus read the despatch, spoke for a while with Flaccus and then summoned his officers to a consilium to explain what they were to do. ‘The Legate Quadratus is attacking from the south, driving up the valley towards us. There are strong forces facing him, but the enemy have placed these bands here to stop us from fighting our way in behind their main force.’ He saw Ferox’s questioning expression. ‘The enemy are two chieftains. Venutius, as we expected, and his neighbour Tagax.’

  That was a surprise, since the second man had a reputation for mildness and was a frequent victim of his neighbour’s cattle rustling. ‘The legate has advanced, putting farms and villages to the torch if the people did not welcome him.’ That explained the resistance of the chieftains – push the mildest man too far and he will push back, especially if he was as proud as the leaders of the Selgovae. Ferox suspected that the clumsy hand of Claudius Super was behind the needless aggression of the Roman approach.

  ‘Our job is to storm the pass, then move through and block anyone from retreating up the valley.’ Crispinus sounded calm and confident, although Ferox noticed that he kept drumming the fingers of his right hand against his thigh. His plan was simple, but so was the problem and there was little opportunity for subtlety.

  ‘Flavius Cerialis and his Batavians will lead.’ The tribune smiled at the prefect. ‘You had better order your troopers to dismount and form with the infantry. I know that they will not like it, but the pass is not good ground for cavalry.’ Now he was looking at Brocchus, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.

  ‘Titus Annius?’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Your Tungrians will be to the left of the Batavians, held back a little. You will face the fort, but your job at first will be to guard the flank of Cerialis’ men against any charge. Once they have driven off the warriors in the pass, you will mount a combined assault on the ramparts. I shall give the order when it is time.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘The remainder of the infantry of the Vardulli along with Aelius Brocchus and the ala Petriana will act as a formed reserve, following at two hundred paces behind the main line. If we can sweep them out of this pass, then there ought to be good hunting for the cavalry. However, unless the enemy come down from their position you are not to attempt a charge without my express orders. Everyone clear about the part they are to play?’ The tribune’s fingers kept drumming against his thigh as the officers assured him that they understood. ‘Ferox, you will stay by my side as I may need you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. The Tribune Flaccus informs me that the main column will be driving up the valley, forcing the enemy towards us. That may mean that we will face very large numbers for a while, but we will be relieved.’

  ‘I must also urge haste,’ Flaccus cut in, prompting a brief flash of anger from Crispinus. ‘I fear it took me much longer to reach you than we expected. I do trust that you will attack quickly.’

  ‘We shall obey our orders and do the thing properly.’ Crispinus spoke in a clipped and dismissive tone. ‘If things have worked out, the eastern column from Coria is already further north and closing in on the enemy from that direction.’

  Ferox was dubious, and thought that the chances of the three columns meeting up on time and as planned were slim. Best to forget the eastern column. That larger force would have moved at reasonable speed along the road for some distance, but as soon as they left it to march cross-country he suspected that they would crawl along, even if there was little or no opposition. Give them another day or two and they might be coming down behind the enemy, but he doubted that they would be there any earlier. They should count themselves fortunate that Crispinus’ small force was approaching Quadratus and the main column in the west. Now all they had to do was to fight their way through to join up.

  The Batavian infantry formed up in four ranks, the three centuries abreast with only a slight gap between them. That gave a frontage of fifty men, with the vexillum carried proudly in the centre of the formation, their green shields uncovered because they were to fight. Cerialis put the cavalry on the right in a block eight men wide and eight deep. Covering their flank, Titus Annius placed his Tungrians with their yellow shields, one century behind the other, each drawn up in six ranks, apart from twenty men who carried leather slings as well as their normal weapons who formed a thin line of skirmishers.

  A bowshot behind the front line the Vardulli were stationed in a dense column, with the turmae of ala Petriana to their rear.

  ‘Some archers really would be nice,’ Crispinus said to Aelius Brocchus, as the prefect arrived to inform him that everyone was ready. ‘Soften them up a bit before we go in.’

  ‘Yes, and some scorpions.’ Light bolt-shooters or scorpiones were often taken by the legions on campaign and had the ability to pick off enemies at a range far beyond a sling or bow, but auxiliaries were rarely given them in the field.

  ‘Ah well, no use lamenting what we do not have. We shall just have to do it at close quarters.’ Crispinus was deliberately ignoring Flaccus, who kept making hints that time was passing. It had taken a good half-hour to get the units into position. Men had taken last gulps of posca, or something stronger if they had it, as the clouds blew away and a bright sun beamed down on them. Now, stripped down to their fighting gear, they carried no canteens, although some of the galearii were posted behind each formation with waterskins.

  ‘With your permission, sir,’ Ferox asked. Seeing the nod, he waved to Vindex who raised aloft a long spear topped with the head of the priest. The pair of them cantered up behind the Batavians and then walked their horses along in front of the Roman line, giving the tribesmen a good look.

  There was a roar from up the slope, turning into shouts of anger and promises of vengeance. The warriors jeered and taunted, although he was not sure whether anyone recognised the man or they simply guessed that he was one of their own. When they came in front of the fort, Vindex dipped the spear and Ferox pulled the head free. He waved it around up in the air and then flung it forward. Warriors howled at him from the fort, and he heard them assure him that soon his own head would roll in the grass and get pissed on by their women.

  ‘Time to go,’ he told Vindex. ‘You had better join the
scouts with the rearguard.’

  ‘And miss the fun?’

  The Batavians clashed the shafts of their spears against their shields three times, the pounding sound sending echoes back down the valley. Ahead of them the Britons blew their trumpets and screamed defiance. The tall auxiliaries then raised their shields over their faces and set up a low murmur.

  Vindex’s horse flinched at the unearthly sound, tugging hard on the reins and turning full circle. ‘Think he wants to change sides.’

  The murmuring slowly grew louder, the Batavians letting the sound reverberate against the boards of their green-painted shields. It built up like a tide washing ashore, the crests of the waves rising.

  ‘What is it?’ Vindex asked.

  ‘They call it the barritus,’ Ferox told him. ‘It’s a German thing. They say you can tell who will win the battle from its sound.’

  The steadily rising chant began to drown the challenging cries of the Selgovae. Warriors faltered, puzzled by a war cry that had no words, but kept getting louder.

  ‘If those boys had any sense they’d charge,’ Ferox said, looking up the hill as he and Vindex went back behind the Batavian line.

  The Selgovae did not charge as the Batavian shout reached a crescendo, but the warriors had sunk into sullen, browbeaten silence. When the auxiliaries stopped the silence was oppressive. To Ferox it looked as if the lines of warriors up on the slope were quivering. He saw a few men at the rear walking away over the saddle. He was just about to urge Cerialis to move when the prefect drew his sword.

  ‘The Ninth Cohort will advance. Forward!’

  The Batavians stepped out, left leg first so that the shield remained closest to the enemy. They were silent, eerily so, with only the clink of armour and equipment as they went at regulation pace up the slope. Cerialis rode just behind the flag in the middle of the line, a pair of picked veterans walking on either side of his horse.