Vindolanda

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  The Selgovae started to shout again, jeering at the enemies, but somehow it did not sound as if their hearts were in it. A few ran out in front of the mass, javelins ready in the hands. More were drifting away to the rear across the saddle and out of sight.

  Ferox joined Crispinus as he followed some twenty paces behind the Batavians. The Britons kept yelling as the Romans marched forward in silence. The first javelins were thrown. One struck a Batavian’s shield and bounced off, its force already spent. The others did not even come close. A few of the Britons out ahead of the mass became bolder and scampered nearer. The next missiles were better aimed. A Batavian was hit on the shin, the broad head of the javelin gouging flesh. He stumbled and fell flat on his face, hissing with pain.

  ‘Leave him!’ an optio yelled from his station behind the rear rank.

  Another soldier cursed as the point of a thrown spear burst through the board of his shield. ‘Bastards!’ he screamed up the slope, shaking his own spear at them.

  ‘Silence!’ the optio bellowed. ‘Keep quiet and stay in your place!’

  The Tungrians were moving as well, their slingers dropping stones on the rampart of the fort. It was awkward for the auxiliaries with the large flat oval shields to put a stone in the sling and swing it properly, so the Tungrians worked in pairs. One man covered his comrade with his shield while the other laid his shield down and lobbed missiles at the enemy. There were a few slingers among the Selgovae and stones whizzed through the air in response. They were harder to see than an arrow, let alone a javelin, which made it more difficult to dodge them. A Tungrian was down, kneecap badly bruised or broken by a stone.

  ‘Hey, reckon the legion is busy.’ Vindex was pointing past the enemy at a dark smear rising from the valley beyond. ‘There’s another,’ he added a moment later. The Legate Quadratus and his troops must be further forward than expected, already putting houses to the torch.

  ‘They’re breaking,’ Crispinus said, the words almost a question because he did not believe what he was seeing.

  The Batavians were still fifty paces from the main line of Selgovae, but that line was dissolving as more and more men streamed back across the saddle.

  The tribune slammed his spurs into the side of his horse, drawing blood and sending it shooting forward. ‘Charge, Cerialis! Charge!’

  Flavius Cerialis obviously had the same thought. ‘Charge!’ he yelled, pushed his horse through the line of his own men. ‘Charge!’ The Batavians started to yell, raising a great angry howl as they broke ranks and sprinted up the slope, spears raised ready to throw, but their targets were fleeing ahead of them. The trumpeters did their best to sound their curved cornu-horns, but the notes were ragged and thin as the men ran to keep up.

  ‘Wait,’ Ferox told Vindex. ‘If they have the men and the wits to use them, they’d have a thousand warriors crouching just beyond that crest ready to hit us.’

  Aelius Brocchus had not followed the tribune and gaped at the suggestion.

  ‘Trust a Silure to think like that,’ Vindex said.

  ‘They’re just barbarians,’ Flaccus said, but there was doubt in his eyes along with the excitement of the moment.

  They watched as the Batavians surged up the last few yards on to the crest, led by Cerialis and with Crispinus now amongst them. They did not halt, but kept going, disappearing from view.

  Aelius Brocchus let out a long breath and grinned. ‘Good job we are not still fighting the Silures. I’ll bring up my men.’ He headed down the slope.

  There was a cheer as the Tungrians charged up the slope towards the old fort, their slingers tagging along with the main column. Its defenders were running like the other warriors, but going out through another entrance and fleeing along the heights.

  Crispinus appeared back on top of the crest, beckoning to them.

  Up close Ferox saw that the young aristocrat was flushed with excitement and finding it hard to keep still, so that he kept waving his sword and twitching on the reins with his other hand. His horse fidgeted almost as much as his rider. Down in the big valley there were farms burning and strong formations of Roman soldiers advancing. Ahead of them thousands of warriors retreated, most seeking the safety of the heights, and keeping well ahead of their pursuers. There were a couple of dead warriors lying on the grass around them, men who had stumbled as they tried to escape. ‘We need Brocchus and his cavalry!’ Crispinus was shouting in his enthusiasm. ‘If he moves quickly then we will have them.’

  The side of the valley was steep, rocky and broken by plenty of little rivulets and gullies. This was the Selgovae’s own land, and the lightly clad unarmoured warriors bounded across it at great speed and were gaining ground quickly. The Batavians were already flagging, weighed down by their armour and equipment, and by that strange feeling of emptiness when a man had geared himself up to fight only to find that there was no battle. Some of the keenest were still running as fast as they could after the fleeing enemy. More were slackening pace and giving up. There was no trace of formation, just a couple of hundred panting men scattered across a hillside.

  Ferox was just about to suggest sounding the recall when Cerialis found a cornicen and ordered the man to blow the signal on his trumpet. Crispinus started in surprise, frightening his horse, so that the animal bucked and kicked out violently. The tribune’s face was angry until he mastered himself.

  ‘Yes, of course. Order is vital,’ he said, more to himself than those around him. The same sapping disappointment mingled with relief began to do its work and his shoulders sagged. He took a deep breath. ‘Ferox. Ride to my Lord Brocchus and tell him to pursue the enemy as well as he is able, but to make sure that he does it in good order and takes no risks.’

  The ala Petriana was already climbing towards the saddle, each turma in column one behind the other, so it did not take long to deliver the order.

  ‘We shall do our best,’ Brocchus said, and took his men forward. By the time Ferox rejoined the tribune, Titus Annius was there. Crispinus ordered the Tungrians to hold the fort and guard the pass. He expected that the whole column would cross and join up with the main force in the next valley, but would ride to find out the legate’s intentions. Nothing was said, but it was clear everyone expected the combined force to march back to its bases before their supplies ran out.

  ‘Ferox, come with me.’ Crispinus went to see Cerialis and told him to form his infantry on the slope and remount his cavalry. They were to wait for the rest of the column to catch up and then be ready to move at short notice. In the meantime, he was to send a messenger to Rufinus to bring the baggage and rearguard up.

  Ferox was again told to follow – something Vindex did without being asked – and Crispinus headed down into the big valley to search for the Legate Quadratus and further instructions.

  ‘I cannot help being disappointed in the courage of our opponents,’ the aristocrat said. ‘They had the advantage of ground and could have put up a stern fight.’

  ‘And been slaughtered when they were trapped by the legate’s column?’ Ferox spoke bluntly. ‘They did what anyone would do. It’s not about courage, but sense.’

  Crispinus did not appear to be listening. ‘Even so it was victory, albeit unfashionably bloodless.’

  ‘Shame we did not attack sooner,’ Flaccus said.

  When they found him, the Legate Julius Quadratus evidently felt the same way. ‘You were late,’ he said. He was a squat man with a creased forehead and the belligerent expression of a caged bear. ‘You should have come through that pass three or four hours ago.’

  ‘We would,’ Crispinus said, as a senator’s son able to speak freely to a man even of such high rank. ‘We would indeed, had we received orders to do so in time.’

  Quadratus turned to the tribune from VIIII Hispana and glared at him, his little eyes red-rimmed and angry. ‘What do you have to say, Flaccus? Was it your fault?’

  ‘I carried the message as fast as was possible. We lost one dead and another trooper wounded get
ting past the Brittunculi. I cannot carry the responsibility for other delays.’

  The legate looked at each man in turn, wondering which was most at fault. ‘Well, then. No matter. What is done is done and the world moves on. We have taught the clans not to despise our power.’ He swept his arm along the valley, showing the burning houses. ‘We will press on for another couple of miles, kill or take any we can find and then camp for the night. You, Crispinus, will bring your men to join us. Tomorrow we can start home happy with what we have achieved.’

  Ferox wondered whether the senator was already composing in his mind a heroic – perhaps even a poetic – account of the campaign. The truth was less impressive. They had burned farms, but not fought a major action, so on balance they had given the Selgovae plenty of good reasons to hate Romans and little reason to fear them. Few of the warriors had been taken or killed, and their families were safe as were their livestock. Homes could be rebuilt before the winter arrived. It would be a hard time for the clans, which would only make the tribesmen’s hatred deeper and provide fertile ground for druids preaching vengeance.

  Claudius Super was delighted with the operation, and that was yet another reason to doubt that they had achieved very much good.

  ‘They’ll not despise us again!’ he declared, his mood so ebullient that he was friendly even to Ferox. ‘My dear fellow, it is so good to see you. We must have a drink to celebrate the triumph once the camp is pitched. This is a glorious day!’ From what he said it was clear that the legate’s force had begun laying waste to the farms several days ago. ‘They did not pay their tax so have only themselves to blame. This is justice!’

  Ferox was glad to leave him when Crispinus asked him to take Vindex and his men and patrol the lands behind the column to make sure that no one tried to harass their rear as they went through the pass. For the next few hours they covered a wide area and saw plenty of warriors, all keeping their distance and tending to gather on the high ground. In the meantime the Vardulli escorted the baggage train over the saddle and down into the valley. The sun was low in the sky when they followed, so that he was all the more surprised to see the Tungrians still behind the ramparts of the old fort. Looking down from the top of the pass he could see no other Roman troops closer than a mile and a half. The camp was another mile beyond that, a dark rectangle of tents lit by lines of fires.

  ‘Something’s wrong,’ Ferox said and trotted over to the old rampart.

  Titus Annius hailed him from the gateway. ‘Do you have new orders for me, centurion?’

  Elderly gateposts stood on either side of the entrance, but the gates themselves had gone long ago. There were cattle pens inside the walls, and the daily movement of the herds to get water and food left the entrance way churned into a mire.

  ‘Afraid not, sir. To be honest we did not expect to see anyone still up here.’ Ferox was just outside the entrance to the fort, able to lower his voice.

  Titus Annius had served for many years, but for most of that time had acted under the orders of someone else. Ferox could see the doubt in his face. ‘We were told to hold up here until we were relieved or got the order to rejoin the column.’

  ‘I fear that there has been some oversight. Our own troops have joined the main army and are some way north, setting up camp. I suspect the order to recall you has been lost or forgotten.’

  It was obvious that Annius’ instincts told him the same thing. He had one century of his own men, for the other had been sent to help guide the baggage train over the pass and had left with them. There were also thirty legionaries with a couple of pack mules, who had come up to set fire to the houses in the fort. There were only half a dozen still with thatch on them, and the straw was damp, so that it had taken them a while to set the first one alight. After that it was easier, lighting torches from the blaze and holding them against the lowest parts of the roofs. As they spoke the last of the round houses caught fire, the strengthening wind blowing dense clouds of black smoke towards them.

  Ferox blinked and coughed; the heat was strong even at this distance. Little pieces of smouldering straw floated through the air. ‘How long ago did you get your last order, sir?’

  ‘Must be three or four hours ago by now. The Tribune Flaccus came up in person with orders from the legate.’ The long habit of obedience fought against Titus Annius’ instincts until his mind found a happy compromise. ‘Would you be kind enough to ride down into the valley and remind them of our presence?’

  ‘If you wish, but I do think it would be wise for you to pull out now, before it gets dark.’

  Titus Annius undid the tie on his helmet’s cheek pieces and rubbed his chin. There was a young centurion with the legionaries and he now wandered over to report.

  ‘Buildings destroyed, sir,’ he said, and then broke into a fit of coughing as he swallowed a bit of ash. The man noticed the plumed helmet slung behind his saddle, so gave an affable nod to Ferox, probably trying to work out his seniority and unit. Many officers from the legions disdained centurions from the auxilia. Titus Annius was very senior, but if he had not been a former centurion in a legion then he doubted that the man would have paid him so much respect. ‘Do we have fresh orders, sir?’

  Titus Annius shook his head. ‘Not yet.’

  Ferox swung down to the ground, boots sinking into the deep mud. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘this is certainly a mistake and you have not been left behind for a reason. There will be no blame.’ The words were out before he had thought properly and he knew that they were a mistake.

  Titus Annius’ eyes widened and he clenched his teeth for a moment. ‘Blame?’ he muttered. ‘I have orders, regionarius, and until I have new ones I shall obey them. No one will ever question the discipline of the First Cohort while I am in charge.’ A few of the auxiliaries nearby nodded with approval.

  ‘They’re coming!’ Vindex had galloped over and yelled out the warning.

  XII

  THERE WERE EIGHTY-NINE men in the century from cohors Tungrorum, along with an optio as acting commander, supported by a signifer and tesserarius. That was little more than half of the full complement for in theory the cohort had an unusual organisation, with six centuries of one hundred and forty men apiece. A decade ago they had often mustered something close to that total, before the army’s priorities changed and few recruits were sent to Britannia. The young legionary centurion had thirty men from Legio II Augusta, with carefully painted Capricorns on either side of the bosses on their rectangular red shields. Stretched all along the rampart, without keeping any reserve, that would still have meant no more than a man every three or four paces.

  Ferox grabbed Titus Annius by the arm. ‘We should go, sir!’

  The commander of the cohort shook him off. ‘I cannot,’ he said. He looked tired, the lines on his face harsh in the light from the burning houses. ‘If you can get new orders for me, then that would be different.’

  ‘I’ll do my best.’ Ferox walked a few paces away and then stopped as he made up his mind. ‘Go down to the main force,’ he shouted to Vindex. ‘Tell them what is happening and that we shall need help!’ The Brigantian waved and rode away to rejoin the other scouts.

  Ferox watched, wishing that he had gone with him and not quite sure why he had chosen to stay. ‘Hold this, lad,’ he told one of the auxiliaries, passing over the reins. Ferox stuffed his hat into a pouch on his belt and put on his helmet. At least the silhouette would mark him out as a Roman and a centurion. He checked that his gladius and his dagger slid easily from their scabbards and ran to follow Titus Annius, wondering whether he was staying simply because he liked the Tungrians’ commander.

  There were tumbled circles of stone clustered inside the ramparts, the remains of old houses, making it hard to move quickly, while the dark smoke drifted slowly across the fort and it was impossible to see very much. Two of the burning huts were at the far end, upwind in a fitful breeze that fanned the flames without being strong enough to blow the clouds away quickly. Ferox gave up tryi
ng to thread his way through the ruined huts and instead bounded on to the rampart. There were fifty or sixty warriors in a mass down the slope from him. Far more were on the top of the next peak on this long ridge. Closer still, men with slings and javelins were edging nearer to the fort.

  Ferox ran along the grassy top of the rampart. Here and there were the stumps of posts showing that there had once been a palisade to protect men on the walls. A pebble from a sling flicked through the grass just ahead of him as he ran. Another whipped past inches from his face. There was no protection for a man on the rampart any more, and the Tungrians were wisely waiting behind the wall rather than be targets on top of it. For the moment the Selgovae were only probing, unsure how many Romans were in the smoke-filled ruin, but soon they would see the defenders’ weakness.

  He ran on. There were two old gateways in the rampart. The one he had come through faced the approach to the pass, while the second was at the far end, looking towards the rest of the ridge. The wind veered and gusted, letting him glimpse the high plumes of Annius and the legionary centurion near the far gateway. Ferox hurried towards them, running down the inside slope of the rampart and scrambling over the dry stone walls of a cattle pen.

  Titus Annius saw him and looked angry. ‘Thought you had gone for orders.’

  ‘I have sent my men, but reckoned that you might need an additional officer.’

  The cohort commander shrugged, and went back to telling the legionary centurion to form his men to block the open gateway. Earlier in the day the Selgovae had pulled a cart across the gap, but when they abandoned the fort they had dragged it away and pushed it down one of the slopes. It lay there now, both wheels shattered so that they could not recover it.

  ‘You hold here, Rufus,’ Titus Annius told the centurion from II Augusta. ‘I’ll put a detachment on the other gate, and keep the rest formed up in groups of twenty ready to take anyone who comes over the walls.’