Vindolanda

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  Ferox managed to stop himself from smiling when he heard the quote. He tapped the hilt of his sword. ‘I’d win, my lord, and you won’t do that by being prudent.’

  ‘It really is all so simple in the end, is it not? Listen to this man, Crispinus. We may have beaten his people, but that does not mean we cannot learn from them.’

  ‘But, sir, would it not be better to have a camp built? What if things go wrong?’

  ‘If they go wrong then we are all dead and no camp will save us.’ Marcellus smiled at the tribune. ‘There is nowhere to go and no one to come and help us. So we win or die. If I recollect Hannibal told his men something similar when they first saw Italy from the heights of the Alps.’

  There was a low hill ahead of them, and the baggage train was sent to the top of it. Ovidius half remembered a story of a general making a simple rampart from the pack saddles and baggage, so the lixae in charge of the animals were instructed to do this. They made a ring and just managed to squeeze the animals inside, but the rampart was no more than a couple of feet high.

  ‘Perhaps my memory plays me false or the historian lied,’ admitted Ovidius, who was placed in charge of the rough encampment, with only the slaves under his command, for every soldier was ordered to fall in with his own unit. Ferox and Vindex rode past and saw Philo, looking pale, cold and strangely excited as he held a staff he had sharpened into a point.

  ‘If he doesn’t stab himself with that we can call the day a success,’ the Brigantian said.

  The main line was in front of the hill, with the cohort from II Augusta as the senior unit in the place of honour on the right. Flavius Cerialis and cohors VIIII Batavorum were next to them on the left, then cohors III Batavorum and the men from XX Valeria Victrix. Each was formed just three deep, the minimum allowed by the drill book, so that the whole front line of infantry, with the gaps between the units, stretched for some eight hundred and fifty paces. The second line was smaller, with the two cohorts from VIIII Hispana on the right, and the Tungrians and Vardulli combined into one formation on the left, each stationed to cover an interval between the cohorts ahead of them. Each unit was formed six deep, and the gaps between them were far wider than those in the first line. Neratius Marcellus kept his singulares as a third line and ultimate reserve, and split the other cavalry with the ala Petriana on the left and the rest on the right. He had half a dozen scorpiones, and their crews carried these light bolt-shooters, and stationed them in pairs in the intervals between the cohorts of the first line. With them were the archers, told off to act as skirmishers.

  ‘Does not look very many, does it?’ Crispinus spoke softly. Ferox’s exploratores were on the right wing, but the legate had asked him to stay with him for the moment until he had to take command of his men. There was far less order among the Britons, but the numbers now seemed even greater. They lacked horsemen, with Brocchus’ men on the left flank facing barely more than their own number of mounted opponents. There were no cavalry on the other flank, at least at the moment. Instead there were men on foot, great blocks of them ten or more deep with barely a gap between each one. It was not a battle line capable of manoeuvre, but then they had no need for any subtlety.

  ‘“I would name the fields on which a mere handful of Romans put to flight great hosts of enemies, and the cities fortified by nature which they stormed, were it not that such a theme would lead me far away from my theme.”’ Ferox was pleased to remember the whole line.

  ‘Sallust again?’ Crispinus managed a nervous smile. ‘They sent him into exile for corruption, you know.’

  ‘He pleaded innocence.’

  ‘Don’t we all.’ The tribune seemed about to say more and then changed his mind. He offered the centurion his hand. ‘Just in case that old sod was wrong about the odds not mattering. My apologies, I had forgotten that you do not like swearing.’

  ‘Waste of good anger, my lord. And anger’s a handy thing on a day like this.’ Ferox had the odd feeling of being inside a song. In the north he could see more and more enemies appearing, but it would still be some time before they arrived. For the moment the odds were three or four to one, perhaps more, and that was enough to keep them busy. ‘Good luck, my lord. All that matters now is what happens in the next few hours, so we had better live them well.’

  Crispinus gulped, his face pale. ‘Wish I could think of a joke,’ he said, but Marcellus was gesturing for Ferox to go to his men and the centurion walked his mount away. There was no point in hurrying, for the animal was tired enough as it was.

  ‘You do not have to come,’ he said to Vindex as the Brigantian followed him. ‘You and your men are paid to scout, not fight battles.’

  ‘Reckon scouting’s done for the day,’ Vindex said, rubbing his hand across the stubble on his chin. ‘But I have taken a strong dislike to the mongrels over there, and so have the lads. Keep thinking back to that poor boy they buried.’

  ‘Aye,’ Ferox said, and it was not just the Goat Man and his boy, but poor silly Fortunata, the slave girl left murdered in her bed, and all the others. ‘If ever people needed killing it is this Stallion and his rabble.’

  A great shout went up from the enemy line and trumpets blared.

  ‘Must have upset ’em.’ Vindex had to shout the words.

  The enemy surged forward a good hundred paces, before their spirit sagged and they slowed and then stopped. Chariots and a few horsemen went closer, the warriors screaming abuse at the Roman line, but the soldiers remained silent. It was never easy to make men charge at a waiting enemy, and Ferox had seen plenty of battles that started as gradually as this. The bands of Britons started chanting again and the trumpets still sounded, the deeper note of cow horns alongside the harsh blare of carnyxes.

  Flaccus was in command of the cavalry on the Roman right, and ordered the exploratores to form up next to the cohort of II Augusta. Ferox had half his men, including all the Brigantes, back as a second line fifty paces behind the first. On his right, the decurion Masclus had two turmae of Batavians from cohors VIIII, supported by another from cohors III Batavorum in reserve. The legionary horsemen were in a third line.

  For the moment most of the enemy were content to hurl defiance at the Romans. A few horsemen cantered closer to them, well within long bowshot, but for the moment the legate ordered all his men including the archers to wait. He wanted the enemy confident, wanted them to come on.

  Opposite Ferox and the cavalry on the right wing were a few chariots, and some of them began to come forward as well. One, its car painted a bright green, rushed ahead of the rest, heading for the Romans, before it swerved and ran along in front of the massed warriors. The driver was small and hunched as he worked his team of a grey and a black – a combination Ferox’s people always said was unlucky. He hoped they were right, for the warrior in the back was tall and stark naked apart from a torc at his throat. His skin was covered in tattoos and he waved a stag’s head, complete with antlers, in his hand. It was the Stallion, and Ferox wished that there was time to pass the word so that one of the scorpiones could drive a bolt through the man while he was in range. The chariot drove on, sending up a spray of mud as the wheels hit a puddle, but none of the engines or archers shot and the priest drove past unscathed and was soon out of range. His followers shouted even louder, and they broke ranks and flooded forward another hundred paces before staggering to a halt again.

  The Romans waited. Ferox could see the men of II Augusta as they stood in formation, shields on the ground resting against their legs, and pila held upright, butts on the ground. They had left their cloaks with the baggage, and even with breeches, tunics and padded jerkins he knew that they would be cold, for no armour, not even the banded cuirass that only legionaries wore, was ever any good at keeping out the cold. He did not know these men, for this cohort had not served in the punitive expedition, but their faces looked familiar, like so many other soldiers he had known. Today those faces were taut, for no one liked waiting, and all of them could count. He wondere
d how many had never fought in a battle before, and guessed that that was most of them, even among the few older faces creased by weather and suffering. One man had taken off his helmet to adjust the woollen hat he wore underneath. He had a thick beard, the dark brown mottled with grey. An optio pacing up and down behind the line bellowed at him for being improperly dressed, and the soldier glanced at him and hesitated just long enough to make a point and not quite long enough for it to be insubordination before he put his helmet back on and retied the cheek pieces.

  The Britons had stopped again, no more than two hundred paces away. Ferox saw much shouting and jostling as they were pushed back into an ordered rank. Here and there were groups of true warriors, as obvious from the way they stood and their bearing as their better equipment. These men had oval shields, a spear and often a javelin or two, all backed by a sword. Quite a few had helmets and some even armour. Yet most of the front rank was made up of simply dressed men carrying every sort of weapon – proper spears and sharpened sticks, axes, hammers or long knives, with just a few swords. They were the sort of men usually found at the back of a warband when an entire tribe went to battle, and they came because their chieftains demanded it, but they were of little account. Today they looked different, filled with the passion of their leader and all his hatred for Rome.

  Ferox walked his horse a few lengths ahead of his men so that he could see better and looked to the north.

  ‘There’s plenty of them,’ Vindex said. The closest were more than a mile away, but there were many thousand warriors coming towards them. Leading them were plenty of cavalry and more chariots than Ferox had seen earlier in the day. He guessed that there would be far more true warriors among that force, and wondered how many other kings had sent bands. Men like Gannascus might not fight unless it was clear that the Romans were losing, or the high king and others may have tricked the Romans all along, in which case, as Vindex might say, they were royally humped.

  ‘We need to get on with it,’ Vindex said.

  ‘Stay with your men,’ Ferox told him. ‘Just for once I need you to obey orders.’

  The Brigantian’s skull-like face split into a grin. ‘Well, I suppose we’re not being paid for this, so we could bend the rule just once.’

  There was a sharp sound, like the crack of a whip but much deeper, and suddenly the enemy went quiet. Ferox had not seen a war engine shoot for some years, and had almost forgotten the violent force of its missiles. He saw a gap in the enemy’s front line. A warrior was down, his shield pinned to him, the bolt having driven through his mail shirt deep into his body. The blow flung him back, knocking several other men over, and Ferox watched as they staggered up. More of the scorpiones stung, the bolts flying with great accuracy as the crews picked out men from the bands facing them and killed them. The legionaries cheered when one bolt drove through a man so hard that the point came out the other side and pinned him to a second Briton. The pair staggered about, men jumping out of their way as if they had some curse, until the first man collapsed forward, pulling off the shaft of the bolt as he fell.

  Archers scampered forward and began to shoot. More men dropped, for most of the Britons carried only the small square shields used by the Selgovae and the Votadini. They were handy enough, but with no room to dodge because of the press of men, they offered little protection from missiles. The front of each warband rippled as men were struck, the quiver more savage whenever a bolt from one of the engines slammed into its victim.

  With a low rumble like a distant swarm of bees, the Batavians began to chant the barritus. The legionaries remained silent, and Ferox knew that to the watching enemy the Romans would seem strangely impassive, almost inhuman. The Britons were screaming again and blowing their horns. Some started forward, but others called to them to stay. Then their yelling grew so loud that it drowned out the rising chant of the Batavians and Ferox saw that the Stallion was driving along in front of his men again. A scorpio spat out its missile, but the bolt whisked past the heads of the two ponies and slammed into a man standing in the front rank. Arrows missed and the man rode on until, at a gesture, the charioteer slowed down and the naked priest jumped to the ground. As soon as he was on the grass a bolt hit his charioteer in the head and pitched him over, while a second drove deep into the black pony’s belly, so that it reared and screamed. A dozen arrows sped towards them, killing both horses, without touching the Stallion apart from one that stuck in the stag’s head. Ferox saw him spit on the arrow and then pull the headdress on. Men appeared, handing him sword and shield, which he raised high as he yelled. The words were unclear, until the whole army took up the cry.

  ‘Blood of king, blood of queen!’ The Britons came forward, men flooding around the priest so that he was lost from view. ‘Blood!’ came the scream from thousands of voices.

  ‘Silence in the ranks. Prepare to advance.’ The centurion standing a pace ahead of the cluster of standards at the centre of the cohort of II Augusta shouted clear over the din. ‘Keep in rank and follow the standards. Forward, march.’

  The four cohorts in the first line stepped off, for it was always better to meet the enemy on the move. Ferox and the cavalry were ordered to hang back and protect the flank of the infantry, but he saw Masclus send one of his turmae forward to skirmish and that was the right thing.

  ‘Good luck, men!’ Neratius Marcellus had the rich, carrying voice of a trained orator. Ferox had not seen him come, but he was riding along behind his front rank and urging his men on.

  ‘Blood!’ screamed the Britons and charged.

  XXVIII

  IT DOES NOT take long for a running man to cover two hundred paces. Already the archers were pelting back as fast as they could to take shelter behind the cohorts, and Ferox hoped that the crews of the scorpiones were carrying the machines to safety. Ahead of him, the enemy were more cautious, not sure whether it was wise to charge horsemen. They came at a walk, hanging back, and he could see no true warriors or even the tattooed fanatics of the Stallion. Masclus’ troopers began to throw javelins into the mass and as men started to fall the Britons stuttered to a halt.

  All along the rest of the front, the enemy charged as fast as they could run. They did not come in a solid line because the keenest, bravest – and the most foolish – went far faster than the rest. Knots of men, mainly the fanatics along with a few groups of true warriors, outstripped the crowd. Others swung to the side to follow their lead so that instead of one great wave it was like the fingers of an outstretched hand jabbing towards the Romans. Ferox had seen the same thing happen many times, but today the mixture of inexperience and wild enthusiasm meant that it happened a lot faster. As always the groups of bold men aimed at the heart of the nearest Roman formation.

  ‘Pila!’ the centurion called out to the men of II Augusta and the front rank raised their slim javelins ready to throw. Already the space between the battle lines had shrunk so that the nearest group of Britons was no more than fifty paces away. They kept coming, and even the leaders were splitting up as each ran at his own pace. Ferox could no longer hear any words in their chant, just a scream where rage mixed with terror. The gap was down to thirty paces, then twenty, and the leading Britons did not slow, but if anything went faster. They were the Stallion’s men, half of them stripped naked just like their leader, and all covered in tattoos.

  Over towards the centre the Batavians’ chant surged up into a roar and Ferox could see both cohorts charging, throwing their javelins as they went. The legionaries of II Augusta still waited, the nearest Britons within ten paces, and he was afraid that their senior centurion had left it too late.

  ‘Now!’ The centurion swung his arm down as his men jogged three paces and the front rank threw their pila with that familiar grunt of effort. The second rank waited a couple of heartbeats and then lobbed their own missiles, and then the third rank did the same, hurling them straight forward because they could not see well past the men in front.

  Three great volleys, each of more tha
n two hundred pila, hummed as they flew through the air and then slammed into the charging Britons and it was as if they were hit by a gale blowing hard off the sea. Their small shields were little protection and men were flung back as the heavy missiles drove deep into their flesh. Ferox saw one warrior manage to catch a pilum on his shield, and watched the man stagger as the point burst through the wood, pierced his arm and stuck out for a good six inches. Then a second heavy javelin hit him in the side of the head, sticking fast even when he was pitched on to the ground.

  The Britons’ wild charge had broken open their formation, and plenty of the missiles missed the mark and stuck into the grass, but dozens of men were dead, scores crippled, others wounded and all stunned. The chanting had stopped and there was no noise apart from screams of pain and moans of suffering. The charge had been broken, and the Britons reeled as they tried to recover their balance. In the centre the two Batavian cohorts had gone from a gentle jog into a flat run and hit the wavering enemy, punching with the bosses of their shields and stabbing at their opponents.

  ‘Swords!’ The legionaries of II Augusta reached down with their right hands, grabbed the hilts of their short swords and pushed down, sliding the blades free of their scabbards.

  ‘Follow me!’ The centurion started to run. ‘Charge!’ The order turned into a yell of rage and the legionaries joined in, so that they roared at the enemy as they went forward.

  The Britons did not run. Many men, staggered by the volleys of pila and then faced by a rush of metal-clad, screaming soldiers, would have broken and fled. The boldest were down, for none of the men at the front remained on their feet, but the others were either too stunned or too stubborn to give way. They bunched together, a rough line forming quickly, and men raised their weapons. A few of them flung javelins and one of the legionaries was hit in the face and fell in a clatter of armour and equipment. The Romans ran at the enemy, but when they realised that the Britons were standing and waiting the legionaries slowed. Only a fool or a man too drunk to care rushed full tilt into an opposing battle line, for that was a good way to fall and a man on the ground was finished in this sort of fight. The Romans jogged into contact, although even this produced a crash like falling masonry as shield thumped into shield and blade met blade.