‘Perhaps, my lord.’
‘A prudent answer, if not helpful. Well, like Caesar I plan to take fewer tents and pack the men in, while making our camps smaller than normal. That will make them think our numbers are even fewer.’
‘Perhaps, my lord.’
Neratius Marcellus grimaced. ‘Didn’t Caratacus tell you that Silures gave nothing away?’ he shouted to Ovidius.
‘Run, my lord,’ Ferox said, and saw the legate frown. ‘What hound can resist a chase? If the right moment comes, order a retreat and they will follow. Then you can turn with the whole pack and tear them to shreds.’
‘We shall see. For the moment I am drafting an order placing you in command of the exploratores. You will be my eyes and ears.’
‘My lord.’ That was another reminder of Dacia, when he had had the same job. He clutched the bead of the necklace tightly and prayed that this army would march to better fortune. Back then no one had believed him when he had reported that the enemy had massed and was waiting in ambush. He hoped Neratius Marcellus was as shrewd as he seemed.
‘Let’s kill these bastards.’ The legate spoke with surprising vehemence. ‘The traitors and the ones who torture women to death. I hear she was a dancer.’ He shook his head. ‘Such a waste of life.’ Noticing the centurion looking at him he went on. ‘The Lady Sulpicia told me a little about the poor girl. She blames herself. Still, I think it better that the details of what happened be kept from her. At least I do not have to write a letter to my wife telling of the death of her niece. That is something. Do not blame yourself for what has happened. You saved the lady Sulpicia Lepidina and she is worth saving. No reward could be too high for that deed.’
Ferox was not sure whether there was a sparkle of amusement in the legate’s gaze.
‘Well then, get some rest and be ready to have no more for as long as this task takes.’
Ferox stood up. ‘My lord,’ he said, and saluted.
XXVI
IT TURNED COLD overnight, and the next morning the grass crunched underfoot from the heavy frost and the breath of men and beasts steamed as they tried to stamp life into their bones. That night the stars were a vast field of tiny lights, made more bright because there was no moon to challenge them. Far too many soldiers had gathered at Coria to fit into its fort, so the bulk of the army slept in a camp beyond the civilian buildings. Neratius Marcellus had concentrated almost four and a half thousand men – over five thousand including the servants – and planned to lead all save five hundred of them up the Eastern Road the next morning. That plan changed when late in the day a contingent marched up from Bremesio and reported seeing buildings burning and small groups of mounted British warriors shadowing them. Four hundred additional soldiers, half of them cavalry, were instructed to stay at Coria and be ready to confront any signs of trouble in the area in case this threatened communications with the main force.
‘The centurion in charge of the column coming up from Bremesio estimates the bands of horsemen as numbering several hundred,’ the provincial legate told Ferox late that night.
Ferox was tired, for he and Vindex had spent the day riding hard, marauding across the land, taking care to be seen on the tops of hills by the troops going up the road. The Brigantian scouts had acted the part of rebellious warriors, and the task had amused them, especially when they were told to set light to any abandoned buildings they found.
‘Imaginative fellow, that centurion,’ Ferox said. It had taken a good deal of effort to persuade the legate to release the scouts held under loose arrest at Vindolanda, but in the end he had had his way and with the other warriors who had come in time there had been twenty-three riders out in the hills. ‘Perhaps, my lord, it would be wise not to place him in charge of counting stores.’
The army marched an hour before dawn. Ferox and the advance guard of the exploratores set out two hours before that, although he left Vindex and his men behind to rest and catch up before the end of the day. The legate had given him eighty troopers detached from their units and it was a pleasant surprise to find Victor and the Thracian from his own burgus among them. They were good choices, active and intelligent, and his impression of the rest of his command was equally favourable. It seemed that Neratius Marcellus was a clever man, who liked to plan ahead and tried to prepare as well as possible. Ferox hoped that he was also lucky, for without that the odds were on a disaster and a wave of blood and ruin sweeping over the north.
Marker stones were already there warning of the approach of a large force. There were others put down by the Textoverdi, vaguer warnings of danger, and there was no hiding the wariness among the people they met. Ferox had already heard the rumours of a work of great magic made greater by the hideous sacrifice of a queen of the Romans and the killing of their king. It made little difference when he told them that neither had died, and that the actual victim was born a slave and not royal. People only shook their heads and talked of dark times and a blood-red winter.
For most of the first day Ferox stayed with his outposts. The men worked in pairs, spaced wide apart across the lands to either side of the road. He kept half a dozen troopers with him, half a mile back, and had similar groups on either flank. On the second day he was strengthened by Vindex and his men and placed patrols in the rear as well.
The army had made good progress, covering fifteen miles on the first day, helped by the frost-hardened ground and the restless energy of a provincial legate who rode up and down the columns, joking, encouraging and chivvying the men along. Nearly half the force were legionaries, and that was an unusual thing so far north. Marcellus had instructed both II Augusta and XX Valeria Victrix to provide a cohort each, led by their best centurions and reinforced with the fittest and ablest men so that each numbered over six hundred and fifty: VIIII Hispana contributed two cohorts who had spent the last year up on the frontier, but were reduced by sickness and other losses to some six hundred men between them. Marcellus told them to show the other legions what real veterans looked like, then he told the men of II Augusta that they were the emperor’s own, named by the divine Augustus, and must live up to their reputation as the finest legion anywhere, and afterwards he reminded the Victrix that they were ones who had beaten Boudicca all those years ago, and said that he expected them to win more glory in the next weeks.
Flavius Cerialis had three centuries of infantry, the same ones that had gone on the punitive expedition, but, in spite of the losses they had suffered, the rush of volunteers to avenge the attacks on the commander and his wife had boosted their numbers to some two hundred and fifty men – more than their proper compliment. Sulpicia Lepidina and the children had travelled by carriage with them as far as Coria. Ferox had not cared for the idea, but they would probably be safer there than anywhere else for the moment. There had been no chance to speak, but he had glimpsed her several times, because the legate believed it was important for her to be visible as proof of the failure of the attack. The Batavians cheered whenever they saw her, and several times he had only known she was about when he heard the great roar.
Cohors III Batavorum, their sister unit, shared their anger and longing for revenge. Whatever the Romans said, Cerialis was from their royal house, and she was his wife or queen, and they would die for them both. The cohort provided another three hundred men, formed into five centuries, and these men also began to cheer whenever the lady and her husband came in sight, swearing to make those who had threatened them pay. The mood spread. Cohors I Tungrorum had begged to be included in the expedition and made up a century of seventy men, attached for the moment to Rufinus and his Spaniards who mustered one hundred and eighty infantrymen. The Tungrians knew the lady, the Spanish knew her by reputation and they too raised a great cry when they saw her. Soon even the century of eighty archers detached from a cohort based far to the south took up the cry as well.
Ferox had spent his adult life around soldiers from all over the empire. They could be brutal, ruthless, cruel, and were capable of stealing
anything that was not nailed down – and often even that did not stop them. For all that they had a sentimental streak a mile wide and could be kind, even gentle when you least expected it. It helped that Sulpicia Lepidina was beautiful, the sort of woman a soldier dreamed about and knew that he could never have. It helped even more that she smiled at them, laughed at their jokes and even made a few in return. Ferox watched as a whole army fell in love with a woman and marvelled as the affection spread. He had left Coria long before the main force, but later he heard that she had sat on horseback to watch them go by and that rank after rank of soldiers had cheered her, legionaries and auxiliaries alike. Neratius Marcellus kissed her hand in farewell to yells of approval, and then pecked her cheek to a deafening roar of acclamation. Cerialis glowed with the reflected glory. In their few meetings Ferox did not get the impression of a man gnawed by sorrow for his murdered lover.
The army marched in high spirits, eager to smite a loathsome enemy on behalf of a beautiful woman. It was a theme fit for the bards to set to verse, but so far not even Ferox’s scouts had seen a single one of those enemies. On the second day a bitter east wind began to blow, at times knocking the breath from men as they struggled along a route that was becoming steeper. They did not set out as early, for it took longer than usual to break up camp. On Neratius Marcellus’ orders twelve were expected to sleep in tents meant for eight, and four more were expected to be on sentry duty or otherwise awake while the rest slept. He had also instructed that the roads in each night’s camp and the intervals between the tent-lines were to be made narrower than usual. This meant that the ramparts enclosed a much smaller space and helped to make the force look smaller, but it also made it harder to form up ready to march on the next morning. They made barely ten miles on the second day.
On the third day the east wind brought in thick cloud to cover the whole sky. Not long after dawn the rain came, turning to sleet and then snow as the day wore on before switching back to sleet later in the afternoon. Men’s cloaks became soaked and heavy as they plodded along. Neratius Marcellus had nearly nine hundred horsemen under his command, three hundred and fifty apiece from Aelius Brocchus’ ala Petriana and his own singulares, and the rest made up of detachments from the cohorts, a contingent of mounted legionaries and the exploratores. Then there were six hundred pack mules and ponies, and a few oxen for the handful of carts carrying essential equipment too bulky to put in a pack.
The army marched expedita, with the minimum baggage, but that still meant hundreds of tents, and hard tack, salted bacon and other food to last nine days, after which they would have to rely on replenishing supplies from the well-stocked granaries in the forts along the road. All of the cavalrymen had sacks of fodder tied behind their saddles, the big bags making the animals look clumsy and misshapen. One and a half thousand ridden or led animals and twice that number of men on foot including the slaves soon churned the roadway into mud, getting worse as more and more passed the same spot. The infantry marched in a hollow square, with the baggage train protected inside, but this just spread the trampling over a wide area either side of the road. As always the men in the back had it worst, held up the longest by any delay ahead of them, and squelching through cloying mud heavy enough to trap a boot and rip it free. The legate let them stop and camp just beyond Bremenium, and men from the fort brought out enough dry kindling and timber for fires to be lit.
The fourth day saw gaps in the cloud, with tantalising glimpses of sun, before the next shower blew in across the hills. It was mostly rain apart from an hour’s swirling snow in the middle of the day. Men slipped as they trudged up and down through the hill country, and when the legate stopped and joked with them they no longer laughed as loudly.
It was during the snowstorm that Ferox for the first time saw warriors watching them. His men had been reporting them all morning, and he did not doubt them, but the weather made it hard to see far. He was surprised that it had taken so long, and guessed that enemy scouts had been there for some time, although with the Stallion’s men it was hard to know what to expect. They had seen Votadini quite a lot, but those little groups of armed men on ponies were never shy of calling to them or coming in to talk. They were locals, wanting to assure the Romans of their friendship – and keep an eye on the army to make sure that it behaved in a friendly way. They said that Trimontium was under attack, but holding out, and that the Stallion had promised his followers a great victory in the days to come, greater than they could imagine, and that this would be just the first. The Votadini shrugged when they repeated his claims, doubtful and cautious at the moment, but not so much that they were sure such a thing could not happen.
Ferox sent regular messages back to the cavalry vanguard and on to the main force, and once a day, usually in the middle of the morning, the provincial legate rode forward to meet him in person. Neratius Marcellus had a trio of stallions, all of them tall and black, and when he was in the saddle no one noticed his small stature. As usual his questions were direct for all the florid language, but his frustration at the ever-slower progress was obvious.
The rain stopped as the army began to dig its camp for the night. That was some comfort, but the brooding red glow off the low clouds ahead of them added to the grim mood among the cold and wet men as they carved out a ditch from the rocky soil and threw up a rampart.
‘Too many fires just to be a burning fort, my lord,’ Ferox said when the legate asked his opinion. ‘Even two forts.’ There was a smaller garrison ahead of them, about a dozen miles south of Trimontium. The few locals he had found during the day said that the Roman forts held out, but that both were hard pressed. More and more warriors appeared around the army as it advanced. Several pairs of scouts were chased. Two more came back, both men on the same horse, and one with a javelin wound to the thigh.
‘You said just,’ Neratius Marcellus held his gaze.
‘Maybe they have fallen, maybe a few of the buildings have been set on fire, and all the farms for miles around. That’s still not enough fires.’
‘Then what is it?’ the legate snapped, his patience worn thin.
‘It’s an army, my lord. A big army, not far away.’
Neratius Marcellus took a long breath. He was drinking from a silver cup and now offered it to the centurion, who shook his head. ‘Tomorrow then,’ the legate said.
‘Probably, my lord. This is as good a place as any – for them as well as us.’
‘And you saw them?’ The legate’s dark eyes never left the centurion’s face.
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Only a few riders. But they are there, sir, and they are coming.’ In the late afternoon Ferox had ridden to the north-west, searching on his own for the force that he was sure planned to swing around behind them and box them in. He guessed at least half of the Stallion’s men would surround them, while the rest blocked their path. It was a guess, but it was what he would have done in the priest’s place.
‘Why are you sure?’
How could he explain the warning signs set out by the Votadini and the smoky fires men had lit, giving off thick plumes to signify danger, and expect even the sympathetic Marcellus to understand? Ferox did not need to see thousands of warriors to know that they were there.
‘They need to fight us as much as we need to fight them,’ he began, deciding that logical argument was more likely to convince this senator. For all his capability, Neratius Marcellus had never once seen battle, and up until now had spent his time on military service in the dull routines of peace. ‘His men will be running out of food by now. Faith and the promise of miracles will keep them here for a while, but not forever. Eventually empty bellies will make the warriors drift home. Before that happens he needs to work his magic and win a victory. This is where he will make it happen. All you need to do, my lord, is give him the chance.’
‘It’s a gamble.’ The legate turned away and paced up and down the small tent. Another man would have needed to duck his head under the low roof. There was silence for a long
time and he must have crossed back and forth a dozen times. His friend Ovidius sat on a folding chair and watched him, now and again rubbing his dripping nose. The old philosopher had insisted on coming, and appeared remarkably cheerful in spite of the discomfort and danger.
‘It’s a big gamble,’ Marcellus said at last.
‘I thought that was why we were here, my lord.’
Ovidius chuckled.
‘So be it.’ The governor turned to his friend. ‘Iacta alea est, as they say. It worked well enough for him.’
‘Aneristho kubos,’ the philosopher corrected him. ‘As I heard it, Caesar spoke in Greek.’
‘That must have made all the difference. Well then, I shall roll the dice and see how they fall.’ His smile was thin, his face taut in the flickering light of the lamp. ‘And what do your Silures say when they play a game?’
‘We do not think much of a man who plays, my lord,’ Ferox said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. The Romans were an emotional people, ready to weep and cry out in triumph or frustration, and so many years spent among them had weakened the calm so important to his people.
Marcellus’ face turned hard immediately.
‘We admire only the man who wins,’ Ferox told him.
‘And care little for courtesy, I see.’ The legate punched him softly on the arm. ‘Well, true enough, and I doubt Caesar thought any different. Get some rest. Tomorrow we win.’
Halfway through the night the cloud cleared and the first faint outline of the moon rose across the sky. It was cold, turning sentry duty into a numbing torment as men stared out into the night and hoped not to see anything. A heavy sun rose blood red over the hills, but the morning brought only slow relief from the chill and the reds and pinks in the sky hinted at bad weather to come. Before dawn Ferox and his exploratores went ahead. One of the auxiliaries, an easterner by the look of him, chanted a low hymn to the god of the morning as they rode, and for once the others kept silent and listened to the strange words in a tongue they did not understand. It made Ferox think of Philo, who was back in the camp having insisted on following his master. With another slave, the boy helped to look after the tent that he shared with two of the Batavian centurions.
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