Vindolanda

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  Both sides shouted, no longer in any ordered way, and the sound mixed with gasps of effort and pain. There were bodies on the ground behind the Roman line, most of them Britons and many still moving. One of the optiones stationed at the rear of the formation began jabbing down with the spike on the butt of his staff of office, until another of them yelled at the man to do his job and make sure that the men stayed in formation.

  Ferox could not see the fighting clearly, just the backs of the Roman soldiers, but he could tell that they were going forward, step by step. There was a ripple as a Briton hacked down a man in the front rank and jumped into his place, so that the soldiers behind rained blows on him until he dropped. The gap was closed up as one of the men stepped forward, and the line pressed on.

  Masclus led his second turma forward as skirmishers because the first had used all their javelins. Ahead of them the Britons were bunched together, crouching in the hope of gaining more shelter from their little shields. Some threw javelins, little axes or even stones at the fast-moving horsemen, but the missiles went wide or bounced off shields and none of the auxiliaries fell.

  ‘A little more of this, and we charge, lads,’ Ferox told his men.

  ‘Better put your other hat on then,’ Vindex said, and the centurion realised that he still wore his old felt hat. He reached back and unfastened his helmet.

  ‘You go back to your men,’ he told the scout.

  There was a cheer from II Augusta as the Britons at last gave way, going back fifty paces before they stopped. Some were wounded or too slow and were cut down by the legionaries, many of whom streamed after the retreating enemy.

  All along the front the same thing was happening. The Britons had held the Roman onslaught longer than Ferox had expected, but now they went back and both sides drew breath.

  ‘Halt! Halt. Form up!’ the senior centurion of II Augusta shouted at his men. Ferox could see the high transverse crest of the officer’s helmet as he rushed up and down in front of them. The other centurions took up the cry, and after a little confusion the legionaries obeyed. Optiones in the rear helped re-form the line, and wounded men were sent back out of harm’s way, apart from a few who refused to leave the front rank.

  A single big flake of snow tumbled down and landed on the mane of Ferox’s horse. It did not melt and sat there, looking very white against the rough black hair. Other flakes followed and there was a glow in the clouds that promised plenty more.

  Masclus signalled to the trumpeter to recall the Batavians harassing the enemy and they took their place again in close formation beside Ferox’s men. The decurion looked around for Flaccus, but could not see him and so walked his mount over to the centurion. ‘We go on your order, sir,’ he said. ‘When they charge?’ He nodded at the cohort of legionaries.

  ‘We wait a little longer.’ Ferox looked to the north. It was hard to see, but as far as he could tell the enemy coming from that direction were not yet close. ‘There’s time, and if we wait a bit the mongrels have longer to worry.’

  Masclus looked unconvinced, and was no doubt wondering what an infantryman knew about such things, but Ferox was a superior officer and the habit of obedience was strong. ‘The lads are doing well,’ he said instead of challenging the order.

  ‘They are indeed,’ Ferox agreed and gestured over towards the centre where the Batavian infantry were charging again, not bothering with the drawn-out barritus this time, but simply screaming defiance as they took their blades to the enemy.

  ‘Should one of us go to the Lord Flaccus?’ The decurion asked the question, his expression formal, but not quite hiding the lack of confidence in Ferox that underlay the question.

  ‘Come on, boys, let’s show these dogs how real soldiers fight!’ the senior centurion of II Augusta harangued his men. He began to bang the blade of his gladius against the side of his long rectangular shield. ‘Come on the Capricorns!’

  The legionaries copied him, drumming the swords in time, and then marched forward. Ferox did know his own legion, but could not help feeling pride as the men stepped smartly towards the waiting enemy. Part of him – and not just the part than remained a Silurian – disliked the banging of swords on shields, for it risked blunting a blade’s edge and the noise was often less frightening than silent order.

  The Britons were not cowed.

  ‘Blood! Blood!’ The chant was clear, and Ferox saw the Stallion near the front of this group, his headdress distinctive and a bloodied sword in one hand. There were more of his tattooed followers with him and they looked fresh as they pushed their way into the front rank. ‘Blood!’

  Romans and Britons began to charge at the same moment. This time there were no pila and only a few javelins thrown by the warriors as they closed the distance. Neither side flinched, until the last moment when they slowed as the two lines met. Men yelled and hacked or stabbed, shields pounding on shields, blades striking armour or flesh and bone.

  ‘We go now.’ Ferox patted Masclus on the shoulder. ‘Straight at them and hope they break. Flaccus will follow if we win and cover us if we don’t.’ He hoped that was true, but there was no time to make sure, otherwise the warriors facing them might get some of their confidence back.

  Ferox drew his sword and hefted the flat round shield he had borrowed from one of Vindex’s men. ‘Right, boys. We’re going straight at those mongrels and we’re not stopping. Advance at the walk!’

  His horse responded readily, and he had to restrain her from rushing with a gentle tug on the reins. To the left II Augusta were still fighting and so far no one had given ground. The noise was slackening as men grew tired.

  ‘Trot!’ Ferox wished that he had a trumpeter to repeat each order, but none had been allocated to the exploratores.

  The waiting Britons were close now, huddled together so tightly that they looked like a wall. They must have used up all their missiles against Masclus’ skirmishers because nothing was flung at Ferox and the others as they approached, by now no more than thirty paces away. Neither were the warriors shouting, and that was a mistake, because horses did not like too much noise even when they were trained to battle.

  ‘Charge!’ Ferox yelled and was pleased when a trumpet sounded from one of the Batavian turmae. The snow was still falling and flakes struck his face as the horse leaped forward, at last free from restraint. The auxiliaries yelled and from behind he could hear the high-pitched yip-yip-yip war cry of the Carvetii as Vindex and his men followed. He heard the heavy feet of the horses pounding on the springy turf as they closed those last few yards. The enemy were still quiet, crouching, waiting, and it could all go wrong at this moment because if the warriors held their ground then no horse would ride into what seemed like a solid block. The horses would stop short, a length or more away, the riders almost bobbing in the saddle as they tried to kick the beasts on.

  One of the Britons stood up straight, mouth open wide as if to shout, but Ferox heard no sound, and his horse kept going. The warrior turned, pushing at the men behind, and suddenly the mass broke apart, men running away. A gap opened and the mare flew into it. Ferox cut down, felt a momentary jar as the sword hit bone before biting into the skull, and his gladius was almost pulled from his hand before the speed of his horse wrenched it free. A warrior came at him from the right, spear thrusting at his chest, and he beat it aside and was past, running amid a loose crowd of fleeing men. He leaned into a thrust, caught a man at the top of the spine, saw him drop and kept going. There were cavalrymen close behind and on either side, slashing more often that they stabbed.

  Ferox sliced down, the man sheering away at the last minute so that the triangular tip of the centurion’s blade cut through one eye and the warrior’s cheek. The Briton clutched at the wound screaming until Victor drove his heavy spear full into the man’s back. Masclus was pushing his horse through the press, and Ferox watched as he drew level with a running man, cut back and took the warrior’s head off with a single blow. A jet of blood pumped up into the air, and horses an
d soldiers alike were spattered with blood, but little of it was their own.

  Not all the Britons were helpless. Two men came at Ferox, one from each side, and he yanked hard on the reins and made his mare rear, front feet flailing, and one man lost his teeth when a hoof slammed into his face. The centurion hacked through the right arm of the other warrior, the hand still clutching a workman’s axe as it fell free. He raised the blade again and cut across his body at the first enemy, missing his head and biting into his neck. With the next blow blood was pumping and the man dropped.

  Ferox pushed on, and the crowd was more scattered, and yet still there were ten or more Britons for every Roman riding among them. It was intoxicating to have so many enemies at your mercy so that a rider could choose which one to kill next. Alexander had led his Macedonians like this, and it was small wonder that the king soon felt himself to be a god, because there was an exultation and raw excitement about such slaughter that was like nothing else. The auxiliaries killed and killed, and there were still more enemies as the troopers grew weary, and their horses went faster than the men on foot and soon burst out of the back of the great mob of Britons. Ferox looked around him and there were no more warriors to cut down, for all had been left behind. His horse began to slow, but he forced the mare on until she was properly clear and only then halted her and turned her around.

  Ferox tried to shout, but had to cough before any sound would come. His mouth was dry as dust, and his voice cracked as he called out, ‘Rally, rally on me!’ He waved his sword in the air and his arm felt like lead. Men came to join him, all wide-eyed, not quite believing what they had done. Vindex was with them, the blade of his long sword notched, and Masclus with some of his Batavians, even the fur on their helmets flecked with blood. The Thracian was there as well, and the man looked down at his thigh, puzzled because he was wounded, but not remembering how it had happened. Some forty men had made it through. Ferox did not know how many had fallen, although he could see a couple of dead horses among the crowd of enemies who now milled about, uncertain what to do. They had stopped running. Beyond them he could see a few dozen more cavalrymen, which meant that some had not broken into the enemy formation. The legionary horsemen were further back and it was hard to see them through the snow.

  He looked towards the centre and there was another lull in the fighting. It was strange to see the backs of the Britons rather than the Roman cohorts. Second Augusta did not seem to have made any ground, but they had not lost any either, and instead the two lines had fought until they were spent and then shuffled back so that they were a couple of spear lengths apart. He could see the six signa of the cohort clustered together in the centre of their line, but could not see the legionaries. The Britons were massed, fifteen, maybe twenty deep in places, and if the Stallion was still with them he would be whipping them up into a fresh frenzy. Ferox wondered whether II Augusta could hold and was pleased when he saw arrows arching high over the cohort and landing among the dense mass of enemy. Someone must have seen the danger and sent the archers to support the legionaries. In the centre the Batavians had made a little ground, but were still hugely outnumbered, and as the snow flurries became heavier he could not see the left flank and could only hope that XX Valeria Victrix and the cavalry were holding their own.

  ‘Right, lads, back we go to where we started,’ he said, running the blade of his sword through the mare’s mane to clean off the blood. ‘Go again before they start counting.’ A few of the men grinned, for there were hundreds of warriors in front of them and they were gathering together again, many of them turning to face the Romans who were now behind them. Yet if Flaccus sent the legionaries and the other horsemen charging in from the other side then they might still panic and flee.

  ‘Sir!’ Masclus pointed past the Britons to where the legionary horsemen were wheeling away to face north. For just an instant the snow slackened and Ferox glimpsed one of the cohorts of VIIII Hispana from the second line also turning away from the main battle. The reserves were shifting to meet a new threat at the very time the battle was balanced on a knife edge.

  With a dull roar the Britons facing II Augusta went forward again, forcing weary limbs and fading spirits to try one more time. Ferox hoped that the legionaries could hold, for there was now nothing behind them.

  ‘Come on, those people have lived too long already,’ Ferox called to his men, his sword pointing at the re-forming Britons. Vindex laughed, his eyes wild.

  ‘Charge!’ There was no point building up the pace gradually. Horses and men were tired and it was just a case of getting them to go at the enemy as fast as they could. His men did not cheer, saving their strength for the fight, but they followed, a ragged line two ranks deep.

  The mare jerked into a canter, stumbled, recovered and found new strength to go faster. The Britons were close, and among them were corpses, the snow settling quicker on them than it did on the damp ground so that they looked like little white mounds. Some of the Britons stood back to back, weapons ready, but Ferox ignored them and rode into the spaces where men fled from their path. The back of a warband was where the cautious and timid lurked, so there were few bold spirits and many more without the sense to realise that running was the most dangerous thing they could do. Ferox cut a man down and made for the next one, only to see the Briton fling himself flat so that he could not reach him. He hoped that someone behind him had a spear to finish the rogue off, but there was no time to worry and it was better to keep moving.

  The Romans drove into the loose crowd of warriors, stabbing and hacking, pressing on wherever there was a space or one opened up ahead of them. They wounded and killed, but there was not the same surprise and momentum as the first charge and more of the enemy fought back. A Batavian took one man in the throat with his heavy spear, while another reeled back when his horse bit the warrior’s face, leaving it a bloody ruin. Another Briton drove a sharpened stake into the animal’s belly, and it screamed as it fell, throwing its rider who hit the ground hard and was hacked to pieces in moments.

  Ferox pushed on, lunging to pierce a man’s skull just where he bore the tattoo of the horse, but another man, more of a warrior this time, was on his left, and two great blows shattered the centurion’s shield and left it weak and broken. He was about to turn and face him when another wild-eyed, tattooed man charged at him, his open mouth frothing, and it took all Ferox’s strength to block the furious blow of an axe held two-handed.

  Vindex saved him. The Brigantian came up from nowhere, and there were sparks and a sharp ring as his long sword met the warrior’s blade and both came to a juddering halt. Ferox parried another wild sweep from the axeman, and had time to flick his blade up and jab into the man’s throat. Blood gushed from the wound, but the tattooed man used his last strength to raise the axe again, slicing its blade across the shoulder of the centurion’s horse.

  Ferox turned to see Vindex beating the warrior down, wounding him on the shoulder so that the strength left his sword arm and then hacking again and again at the man’s head. When he had finished the blade of his sword had even more notches and was bent back at a weird angle.

  ‘You owe me a sword!’ the Brigantian yelled, and slammed his heels against his horse’s sides to force the tall beast onwards, using its weight to barge a path because his weapon was useless. Ferox followed, attacking any man who threatened the scout. His mare was bleeding badly, and he could feel her shudder. If he did not fight his way through to the far side then she would fall and he would have no chance.

  Vindex found his path blocked. He caught a spear thrust and pushed it aside with his bent sword, and Ferox reached him and hacked down, taking off the back of the warrior’s skull so that blood and brains splashed over him. The press was getting denser, but then there was a shout and Roman horsemen were charging in from the front. There were not many of them, for only half the men left behind were bold enough to charge, but it was enough to confuse the Britons. Some died because they were facing the wrong way, and the ma
ss broke up again so that Ferox, Vindex and the others could push through and gallop free of crowd, riding for the Roman lines again. At least ten men had not made it, and half of the rest were bleeding from wounds or nursing broken bones. Ferox’s mare sank under him as soon as they were clear, but he managed to spring from the saddle before she rolled over. Victor appeared, leading a riderless horse, its side stained with the blood of its former master, and Ferox thanked the auxiliary and hauled himself up.

  The cohort of II Augusta had given ground. It was just a dozen or so paces and then the two lines had parted once more, men gasping for breath and with no strength left to shout. Each time men closed and fought they spent some of their strength and will, and no one knew how big a store of either he possessed until it was all gone. Each time the fighting lines separated it took longer to persuade anyone to go forward again. It was even harder when men sensed that they were losing and being forced back.

  In the centre the Batavians were just about holding their own and might even have gained a few paces. As Ferox watched, the furthest group – that must be cohors III – shuffled forward, but with none of the enthusiasm of the earlier charges. The Britons met them and held on, refusing to give way. They had numbers on their side and the hot passion of a prophet in their midst who had promised them victory. Against that the soldiers had years of training and practice, better equipment, and pride in themselves and their units.