‘Keep going!’ The Tungrians spilled over the crest and Ferox saw that the other half-century was waiting there, with the legionaries formed up alongside them. Rufus was in front, his white crest standing out, his sword raised high. That was not the order he had given, but perhaps the man was right to reinforce this first surprise for the enemy. Ferox glanced back over his shoulder, saw a sea of tribesmen rushing up the hill, the nearest no more than twenty paces behind. He felt the draught as a javelin hissed through the air just beside him, then was running down the far side of the crest and safe for at least a few moments.
‘Form up there! Form up down the slope!’ he yelled at the Tungrians, trying to make sure that they remembered his orders. Each group was to do a bound of one hundred paces and then turn about to face the enemy and protect the other units as they went back. He was about to join the covering party when Rufus grinned and gestured with his sword down the hillside.
‘We’ll be fine!’ he called. ‘You’re needed there.’
Ferox smiled back and kept going, his back slick with sweat from the weight of his armour and from all this running.
‘Halt!’ he yelled at the Tungrians. ‘About turn!’ The auxiliaries obeyed, even though they did not know him. For the moment it was working, but it would not take much for panic to break out and then there would just be a stream of fugitives running down the valley side, and the slow, the weak, the clumsy and the unlucky would die. Perhaps none of them would get away, for he still saw no sign of supports coming to aid them. He wondered whether Vindex had found someone senior yet, and whether they would have the sense to take the word of a Briton even though he was one of their scouts.
A warrior appeared on the crest, and in a moment there were dozens more alongside him. Rufus’ men cheered, and the Tungrians and little detachment of legionaries charged up towards them. That was always tiring, even for a short distance, but the men pounded up the hill. Ferox could not hear the order, and a shift in the wind wafted a mist of smoke over the charging Romans so that it was hard to see. There was no mistaking the ripple in the formation as the first rank threw spears or pila, then the second and then the third. Warriors fell all along the crest and then the legionaries and Tungrians ran into them, and even if they were panting, they charged with spirit.
‘Don’t wait too long,’ Ferox said softly, worrying that the young centurion would get carried away with his success. ‘Come back, back.’
He realised that he was holding his breath, so let it out and saw the ragged line of Romans turn about and march back down this side of the crest. The top of the pass was covered in bodies, and Rufus’ men had inflicted heavy losses on the boldest of their enemies. There were also two Tungrians and a legionary wounded so that they had to be carried, taking more men away from the fighting.
‘Ready, lads. Our turn next!’ Ferox told the auxiliaries. Once they were safely behind the crest, Rufus ordered his men to double down the slope. It was hard to keep at a steady pace going downhill, especially burdened with bulky shields and wearing armour and helmets, and by the time they passed Ferox and his men the legionaries and auxiliaries were half running, half stumbling along, formation ragged.
A lone warrior appeared on the crest. He was slim and tall, with mail armour, a red-and-white-striped cloak and a bronze helmet. Everything about the man seemed to glow, apart from his shield, which was drab and plain.
‘Step back five paces, slowly now.’ The Tungrians obeyed Ferox’s quiet order. ‘When the time comes, second rank to throw their spears. If I say charge we go ten paces and then stop. If I say hold we hold, and if I say run you follow me and run as if the demons of hell are behind you.’ He saw surprise on the auxiliaries’ faces, and was pleased that there were a few grins.
Britons appeared all along the crest, stepping up around the lone warrior. Tall carnyxes began to blare out their challenge.
‘Step back,’ Ferox ordered. ‘And another pace.’ He glanced behind and saw that Rufus had turned and re-formed his men, but they had gone much further than he had wanted and were a good hundred and fifty paces away. That was always the problem with a withdrawal. Men hurried back, going faster and running for longer than they were supposed to until the officers managed to stop them.
The Selgovae were walking down the slope, most of them coming in ranks, side by side, banging weapons on their little shields and chanting something that might have been a word and might have been a grunt over and over again. The warrior in the striped cloak was in the middle, and beside him was another, bare-chested man, taller and broader, with streaks of grey in his long brown hair. He carried a big rectangular shield, its battered and scarred surface still showing the thunderbolt symbols of Legio XX, but painted over with a charging boar. Just behind them someone carried a standard with a bronze cockerel at the top.
‘Steady, lads, back another step.’
A couple of Britons ran out from the front of the formation, javelins poised to throw.
‘Keep it steady, lads. Shields braced, back another pace.’ One of the auxiliaries in the third rank slipped and fell with a loud curse. Javelins thumped into the shields of the men in front, one driving through the board of the shield and sending a splinter to graze the man’s face.
Ferox glanced back. The shape of the valley side was less even than he had thought and rose behind him in a low spur, so that he could no longer see the Roman camp. He had no idea whether or not help was coming. The wounded men were being carried across a little gully just in front of the low spur. The Selgovae kept up their chant, the noise getting louder and louder, so that it almost seemed to punch at them. Ferox was about to turn back to judge whether he had time to run faster before re-forming again when there was a flicker of movement on the spur. A man appeared, almost doubled up in a crouch, spear and shield held low as he came on to the low rise. It was too far away to see, but Ferox could sense the man smile as he stood up. The warrior was naked save for a cloak, his body scored with lines and circles of blue woad, and as he brandished his spear in the air dozens and then scores of men answered his shout and poured over the spur.
‘Orb!’ Ferox shouted. ‘Form an orb, two ranks deep! Move!’ It was not the order they were expecting, but long practice or instinct took over and the Tungrians in the rear rank faced about and stepped forward, the men in the middle going faster. The front ranks bent back on the flank and in a moment they formed a very rough circle. Ferox was in the middle, pulling men from the second rank to strengthen the sides and rear, shouting and shoving to get them into place. One of the auxiliaries grunted as a javelin came over the top of his shield and drove through the reinforced mail on his shoulder. Ferox pulled the man back into the middle of the formation.
The Selgovae were closer now, more and more missiles thumping into the Tungrians’ shields. One of the soldiers was hit square in the face with such force that his helmeted head snapped back as he was flung to the ground. Ferox looked down the slope and saw Rufus and his men running downhill, charging back to protect the wounded against the new threat, but more and more warriors streamed over the spur. They must have gathered there out of sight, waiting for the moment. The Romans charged in a loose swarm, all order gone, and he saw the young centurion at their head, but doubted that they could break through against such numbers. Well, there was nothing he could do to help and each group must fight its own little battle and see who lasted the longest.
Ferox pushed his way into the middle of the front rank, in time to feel his borrowed shield shudder with the strike of a javelin. ‘Right, lads. Let’s show ‘em how the best soldiers in the world fight,’ he called. ‘The poor bastards don’t know who they’re facing yet!’
‘Poor buggers,’ someone said.
‘Don’t feel sorry for them, just kill ‘em,’ he told the auxiliaries.
The Selgovae charged. They threw more javelins first, and Ferox felt his shield rock with another blow. The man next to him folded as a heavier spear smashed through the layers of wood and
stuck fast in his belt. He was pulled back and another soldier stepped into his place just in time to meet the warriors.
Ferox’s world became small, for there were no more orders to give and all that mattered were the men standing alongside him and the wild-eyed men coming at him. The first was young, only a boy and eager to prove himself in battle, rushing at the enemy, his terror turning to rage. He flung himself forward, shield thrust out as Ferox raised the boss of his own big legionary scutum and put his weight behind it. A bigger man might have knocked him over, but Ferox was solid, heavy in all his armour, and he was just pushed back, boots sliding a foot down the gentle slope. He saw the boy raising his long sword to slash down and jabbed forward with his gladius, the long triangular point sliding into his armpit. The boy’s mouth opened wide although Ferox did not hear any cry amid the shouting and clash of arms, and he turned the blade to help free it as he pulled back and jabbed again, straight into the throat. Blood jetted over his shield and sprayed on to his face and he had to blink to see, but already his gladius, was back, poised to strike again.
When Ferox opened his eyes the boy had fallen and an older man jumped over him, thrusting with his spear at his head. He ducked his head out of the way, felt a heavy blow against the cheek piece of his helmet, stabbed forward, but was blocked by the man’s square shield. The soldier on his right was hit by a low slash, coming under the shield and slicing into his leg beneath the knee. He swayed, lowering his guard, and the warrior behind the one he was fighting thrust a long spear through the Tungrian’s eye. The dying auxiliary was pulled forward into the mass of the enemy, and his adversary stepped on to him. Ferox twisted a little to the left, punched hard with the boss of his shield and managed to knock the man back, but felt a hammer blow to his right chest as the warrior facing him slammed his spear forward. The tip caught on the fastening of the shoulder piece and broke off. If not for that fluke then he suspected that he would be down.
An auxiliary from the second rank pushed his way into the space and let Ferox concentrate on his own opponent. The man had a lined face and the look of someone who had fought many times. His eyes never left the Roman, and there was no warning when he flung his spear at the centurion’s face. Ferox raised his shield, saw the now blunt head punch through the wood and leather, and felt the clumsiness that came from the long-shafted spear stuck into it. He slashed down at the wood, managed to push the spear free, and by that time the warrior had drawn his long slim sword, the blade notched in several places.
Ferox brought his gladius up, elbow bent, blade at eye level ready to strike and waited for the warrior to slash at him. He was only dimly aware of men squaring off all around him. The warrior feinted a cut to the left of his head, once, twice, and then scythed the blade down. Ferox leaned down, lifting his shield, and saw the iron blade slice into the brass edging. His own gladius shot forward at the man’s face, was pushed aside by his shield and did no more than graze the warrior’s cheek. His shoulder and chest ached, and he was panting with sheer effort.
The warrior punched with his shield, but it was so much smaller than the scutum that it did not unbalance Ferox. His gladius shot forward again as the man’s head bowed a little, his right arm swinging down, and the point went through his mouth with such force that Ferox felt teeth smash and bone crack.
The Tungrians cheered, a thin, exhausted sound, but one of triumph none the less because the Selgovae were going back. They did not go far, the warriors stepping away a few paces to be out of reach of spear thrusts. Ferox lowered the dead warrior to the ground, and had to put a boot on his neck to drag his sword free. Two of the auxiliaries were dead, four more too badly wounded to stand and most of the rest were hurt, but able to fight on. All were red-faced, breathing heavily, dripping with sweat from armour and helmets that now felt as heavy as lead.
‘Well done, lads.’ Ferox gasped the words and had to make a real effort to raise his voice. ‘We’re showing them. We’ve got them worried now.’
‘Yeah, bet they’re terrified,’ one of the Tungrians said. ‘Pissing in their boots.’ The men laughed and it was a wonderful sound that made Ferox feel close to all these men he had known for just an hour or two. He glanced behind. There were dead and wounded strewn all over the grass down the slope. There were two knots of Romans surrounded by hundreds of Selgovae and he saw that the Romans were trying to push their way forward.
‘Shields up!’ he shouted, for javelins and spears were coming at them. Surely they must run out of things to throw soon. One of the auxiliaries threw his own spear up the slope, and shouted in triumph as a warrior was pitched back. A moment later he was struck on the foot and squealed like a pig until one of his comrades yelled at him to stop.
‘Shit,’ someone said. The warriors were coming forward again, slower this time, but with determination and not bothering to chant.
‘Steady, lads. We’ll show ’em!’ The fight was much like the first, men grunting like tired labourers as they thrust and hacked at each other from just a foot or two away. Ferox took a glancing cut just below the knee and was lucky that it did not do any real damage. His helmet crest took another blow, sheering almost half of it away, and he was struck twice on the shoulders and knew that he was bruised even if the blades had not penetrated. He cut his first opponent across the face and when that man slipped back and another replaced him, he unbalanced the second warrior with a strike of his shield and thrust into his belly.
The Tungrians did not cheer the second time that the enemy pulled away, going further back up the slope to rest and gather themselves for the last great effort. Instead the auxiliaries gulped for breath like men surfacing after time under water. Only a dozen were still on their legs and they formed a single rank, spaced wider apart than was safe and still only just managing to shelter the thirteen wounded. The rest had been dragged out of the formation by the Britons and slaughtered if they were not already dead. Several of the Selgovae waved aloft heads cut from the corpses. There were more warriors dead or crippled than Romans, but it did not matter. Ferox doubted that they would stand against another attack. Down the slope one of the groups of Romans had vanished, and the other had shrunk and was beset on all sides. He wondered what had happened to Vindex and the message and why no help had come, but it no longer really mattered, for unless they came very soon there would only be corpses to find.
Ferox sighed, breathed deeply, and stepped out of the ring of soldiers. There was one last gamble, and he might as well roll the dice, because if it did not work then they were all dead men. He raised his heavy shield and his gladius high.
‘Does any dare to fight me?’ He glared at the mass of warriors just a couple of spear lengths away. ‘I am Flavius Ferox, centurion of Rome and Lord of the Silures.’ The last was not true, but what did that matter in a man’s last moments? ‘I am a warrior and spit on you cowards who do not dare to meet me man to man.’ He spoke slowly because the local accent was so strong and he wanted them to understand. In their place, he would have lobbed a couple of spears at such a boastful idiot, but they were not Silures and Ferox relied on the tribesmen’s sense of pride and their love of a gesture fit for song.
The man carrying the Roman shield stepped forward and then turned to face the warriors, raising his spear high and roaring at them. The Selgovae cheered him, while Ferox fought back the temptation to run forward and stab the man in the back. He needed time, and that meant playing by the rules.
‘Come on, then, or do you need the shouts of others to make you brave?’ Ferox said.
The warrior ignored him, still with his bare back towards the Roman, before turning round very slowly. ‘You sound like a sparrow chirping,’ he said. He looked to be about forty, a fraction shorter than Ferox, but just as broad and with arms that looked even thicker. There was a silver torc around his neck, slim bracelets on his wrist, and a long sword at his belt. He wore plain shoes and trousers made from wool dyed in a blue, green and grey tartan. Old scars criss-crossed a chest that was fre
e of any paint or tattoo. Patches of the red-painted shield showed wood where the leather surface was torn. The man must have kept it that way deliberately, no doubt to show that he had taken it from its owner in a fierce fight.
‘You are the Silure who is a slave for the Romans.’ The man had the palest eyes Ferox had ever seen, their gaze as bright and cold as winter sun, and it was that which sparked the memory. This was Venutius himself and as well as a great thief he was known as a deadly fighter. ‘I’ll give your head to my dogs,’ he said. Close behind was the warrior in the red and white cloak, and now that he was nearer Ferox could see that he was no more than fifteen or sixteen, the few sparse hairs on his upper lip a weak attempt at a moustache. Next to him was the standard.
‘If they are like you, they’ll yap more than they bite!’
Venutius, the lord of these valleys, chuckled as if amused, then threw his spear with all his might. At this distance it would pierce the board of any shield and Ferox punched at it with the boss, felt the iron dent so hard that it pressed against his knuckles, and he slid back through the grass, struggling for balance. The chieftain had his sword out, the slim blade three feet in length, shaped into a point as well as sharpened on the edges. He surged forward at the Roman and his people cheered him on.
Ferox’s left hand stung and his arm felt numb. He raised his scutum again as the Briton slammed his own shield into it, and again Ferox went back. The long sword slashed down and the centurion felt the blow slam on to the top of his shield, bursting through the binding and cutting a slice through the three layers of wood. He jabbed forward with his gladius, but the chieftain jumped back, surprisingly nimble for so big a man, and the iron point struck only into empty air.
It was hard to breathe and he felt the strength draining from his body. He had not seen Venutius or the youngster in the fighting, and they looked fresh and strong while he was close to exhaustion. He was too tired to be afraid.
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