Brigantia

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  Ferox eased his horse into a trot. The fugitives were a hundred yards away, some of the enemy among them. He could see Crassus, mouth open as he screamed at the legionaries. His vexillarius was beside him and one of the troopers. Ferox could no longer see the other one. Crassus slashed down, and he wondered whether the legate had lost his temper and was now attacking his own men. Then the vexillum fell, and the standard-bearer slumped forward onto his horse’s neck, a javelin sticking out of his back.

  ‘With me!’ Ferox shouted, raising his gladius. His horse stretched into a canter.

  Legionaries, faces pale and mouths open, were fleeing past them. ‘Rally on the veterans!’ Ferox yelled, without much hope that they would obey. Crassus was alone above the crowd, for the other trooper vanished.

  ‘Save the legate!’ Ferox yelled, driving his horse forward. The fugitives were splitting to run around the oncoming horsemen, and only a few came straight on, too terrified to reason. One barged into the shoulder of Ferox’s horse and was knocked down. He could see Crassus, four enemy warriors around him. Arviragus was thirty paces away, trying to reach the commander, but his own men and the fleeing Romans were in the way.

  Ferox saw a warrior raising his spear. He edged the mare to the left, pushed the shaft of the weapon aside, and was past him before there was time to cut down. Ahead of him, Crassus sliced deep into a warrior’s skull, but his blade stuck in the dead man. A spear point drove into the side of his horse, and the animal screamed, collapsing. Crassus pushed against its neck, flinging himself off, landing on one of his attackers. Both men fell, but the legate no longer had a sword. Another warrior tried to get past the thrashing hoofs of the wounded horse to stab the aristocrat in the back.

  ‘You!’ Arviragus had seen the centurion.

  Ferox ignored him. He was alongside Crassus, and cut down, slashing into a warrior’s neck. Blood spurted high as the man dropped his own sword and made a futile attempt to staunch the wound with his hands. Ferox sawed on his reins, making the mare rear. Its front hoofs knocked one man back and made the rest wary. He slashed to the other side, striking a shield with a dull thump. Then the turma arrived, spearing warriors, scattering them, driving into the crowd.

  Crassus head butted the warrior he was grappling with, leaving his forehead bloody. Ferox had not expected an aristocrat to fight in such a way and could not help grinning.

  ‘Come, my lord! Behind me.’ He switched his sword to the left hand and held out his right. Crassus was swaying, stunned. ‘Move!’ Ferox screamed, and that prompted anger and then realisation. The legate took his hand and jumped up behind him.

  ‘Retire!’ Ferox shouted the order as loud as he could. A space had cleared around the turma. Two horses were down, a trooper dead and the other jumping up behind a comrade just as the legate was doing.

  ‘Fight me!’ Arviragus still struggled to force his way through the mass of his own men. ‘Ferox, fight me now!’

  The troopers were falling back, ranks long vanished, but keeping together. Ferox was tempted to pass Crassus to another rider and meet the challenge.

  ‘Give me your sword,’ the legate said. ‘I’ll kill him.’

  ‘Don’t be an idiot, sir,’ he whispered back, and then raised his voice to shout. ‘The queen sends you her greetings! She is well, prince, and will soon lead her people!’ Ferox slapped his horse’s rump with the flat of his sword. ‘Come on, girl!’ She bucked, flinging the legate up until he came down hard against her spine, then she turned and cantered away after the turma. A javelin whizzed as it passed over Ferox’s head. Crassus had his arms around the centurion to stay on, the motion of the running horse bouncing him up and down with every step, while the rear horns of the saddle jabbed into him.

  The few knots of legionaries to resist had been cut down and the survivors were still running. On the left, the auxiliary infantry gave way more slowly, the Brigantes keeping at a wary distance, until some of the mounted guards came in behind them. Someone kept the men in hand, and the auxiliaries formed into a circle, not quite as neat as the defensive orb of the drill book, but good enough. Javelins showered down on them. The entire right of the Roman force had collapsed.

  Fortunately most of the Brigantes either chased the fugitives or surrounded the circle of auxiliaries. Only a few hundred, mostly from the royal cohort, were forming to advance against the veterans, and the prince was doing his best to marshal them into ranks. Ferox realised that the optio had not obeyed his order. The old soldiers were in a dense cuneus, a block ten broad and seven deep. At the order they marched forward, forcing the retreating turma to split and go on either side. The optio nodded affably to Ferox.

  Arviragus was still mounted among all the men on foot. The front rank was ready, oval shields with dark blue fields almost touching, spears raised to thrust over them.

  ‘Come on, boys! Let them hear you!’ The Brigantes yelled defiance. The veterans ignored them, marching forward in silence apart from the bump of shields and rattle of armour and belts. Some of the Britons threw javelins. One fell short, another stuck fast in a scutum and the rest bounced off the big curving shields.

  ‘Pila!’ The optio had a voice as harsh as a raven’s.

  ‘Charge!’ Arviragus screamed, and the Brigantes joined in the shout as they rushed forward.

  ‘Front rank!’ the optio cawed. With a ripple ten pila were thrown, spinning through the air. One of the guardsmen was hit in the face, the small, pyramid-shaped head of the missile smashing into the bridge of his nose. Another caught the man beside him in the neck. Two more punched through shields, and slid on breaking rings on mail shirts to reach flesh.

  ‘Second rank!’ Ten more pila followed, devastating the ranks immediately in front of the cuneus. Arviragus’ horse fell, and he was pitched off to fall among his men. A dozen others were wounded or dead, the charge halted in its tracks and the men clustering together.

  ‘Third rank!’ This time the pila struck a huddle of shields, their owners packing tight and trying to shrink to make themselves as small as possible. One of the heavy javelins pierced two overlapping oval shields, pinning them together.

  Ferox reined in to watch, and felt the legate’s weight slip away. ‘They’re my men,’ he said, striding away to join the cuneus.

  ‘Charge!’ As soon as each man had thrown his pilum, he had grasped the handle of his gladius. Pushing forward and down, the short blades slid easily from their scabbards, ready in hand as the order came to attack. The veterans broke into a run and raised a shout that drowned out all the other noise on the battlefield. Ahead of them, the huddle of shields split apart as the Brigantes ran. Not a man stayed to meet the Romans sword to sword.

  ‘That’s how it’s done,’ Ferox said, half to himself. He looked among the bodies and could see no sign of Arviragus, although his horse lay dead. For the moment the Britons were running in this part of the field.

  ‘Halt.’ The veterans stopped. ‘Retire!’ The detachment from Legio XX about faced and marched smartly back the way they had come. Crassus fell in beside the optio on the right at the end of the front rank. ‘Well done, boys. Now we shall go back a little way and then face them again. That’s if they dare.’ The veterans marched steadily on. They had done this before.

  Ferox saw the Brigantes reforming two hundred paces away. There were more of them this time, although he could not see the prince. He looked behind and saw a trail of dead legionaries. Some of the horsemen had found easy pickings among the fugitives, but the ones he saw were scattered as they chased the rest. There was no sign of any group under control and likely to turn back to face the legate and his little band. Sixty auxiliaries came to join them, the only formed remnants of the whole right.

  A trumpet sounded, a Roman trumpet, and although that did not mean much with the royal ala present, he was relieved to see two turmae who had rallied and now attacked the horsemen pursuing the fugitives. The Brigantes were scattered, horses weary, so were almost as helpless a prey as the panicking legion
aries had been not long ago. Over on the other flank the circle of auxiliaries held out, but the organised bands of the enemy were focusing most of their attention on them and Crassus simply did not have the men to reach them. They must either fight their way free or fall where they stood, and Ferox suspected that it would be the latter.

  He decided to leave. Crassus had a good chance of withdrawing with what was left of his army, for there was no sense of purpose to the enemy now. He wondered whether the prince was injured or whether he was too inexperienced to know what to do. In the centre, the main mass watched the veterans retreat without making any effort to push them. If Crassus did not do anything too foolish, then he ought to get away. He had lost his first battle and seen his dreams of glory shattered, but at least the man was acting as a senator should, refusing to give in, saving whatever men he could and preparing to fight again another day. That was what the aristocracy preached. Ferox had read that the consul Varro lost fifty thousand legionaries in an afternoon, and then got a vote of thanks from the Senate for not despairing of the republic because he refused to accept the enemy’s overtures of peace.

  This was a small disaster, very small by comparison, but fortunately both commanders were almost as inept as each other. If Arviragus could have held his men in place for longer, then he would surely have rolled up the Roman line and inflicted even greater loss. Even so, it was a victory, and that was what the leader of a rebellion needed more than anything else. He had drawn first blood, facing the might of the empire and routing it. People would hear the news and wonder whether Rome was as powerful as they had thought. Only the truly desperate or determined joined a cause without hope, but as hope grew they would wonder and more and more would take the risk. News of this victory would surely at least double Arviragus’ numbers before the end of the month. If he won again, then all of the Brigantes might rise, and if they did, so would other tribes. The conspirators had spoken of indebted chieftains throughout the province, men with little left to lose. They might declare themselves for some true emperor, or speak of freedom. That did not matter, for all that it really meant was fire and sword throughout the lands. However many years it took, the Romans would win in the end, so it was really just about how many had to die.

  Crassus had given Arviragus a chance, and unless he was badly hurt, the prince was the sort of man to seize it with both hands. As high king his words would carry even more weight, and there was only one thing left that stood in his way. Ferox rode off to find his wife.

  XXV

  The clans assembled at Brigantum in fields around the sacred grove of the goddess some called Brigantia, but most knew by other names never to be spoken aloud. Thirty days before the solstice, the chiefs of all the tribe and their kin were called to gather here for council, to discuss the matters of the day, reaffirm their oaths of friendship and service, and make sacrifices. In the old days, when Rome was a distant friend and not a presence in the north, the meeting went on for days, with feasts and warriors fighting duels to settle disputes that could not be agreed in any other way. Then all had come, unless too infirm to travel and then they had sent someone to speak for them. Lately so many chose not to attend that some of the chiefs there spoke on behalf of a dozen others. Usually they had little to decide, for Roman courts dealt with more and more matters each year. This time there was the question of naming a new leader for the tribe, even before Arviragus had announced that the emperor was dead and it was time to support his true successor.

  ‘They are all here,’ Vindex said wonderingly, before bowing to an old man with a thin face whose long moustache drooped far down past his chin.

  ‘I’d never realised how much you look alike.’ Ferox had never before seen the scout’s father at so close a distance. As one of the main chiefs of the Carvetii, Audagus was accompanied by a dozen warriors. Lesser men had fewer, while the heads of the main Brigantian clans each had a score or more

  ‘Always thought I was prettier.’

  ‘Prettier than what?’ Longinus wondered. The Batavian and the scout were the only escort allowed to Ferox, and Gannascus and the others were forced to camp outside the meeting place for the council. Enica was attended by thirty warriors, although Ferox could not help noticing that most of them were elderly. ‘Their words will count for more in council,’ she assured him, ‘and this is a place where wisdom matters more than swords.’ Ferox had heard similar pronouncements too often in too many places to find them very convincing. He tapped the pommel of his gladius for reassurance.

  The journey here had been difficult, dodging bands of horsemen in case they were loyal to her brother. They had gone through the hills, along paths rarely taken at this time of year, and as the days passed the rain turned to sleet, and the icy wind cut through them. They slept in shepherds’ huts abandoned for the winter and once just jammed together around a fire, sharing each other’s warmth. There were few army posts along these roads, and they avoided the ones there were in case of awkward questions. Ferox even feared a few of the garrisons might have joined the prince.

  ‘Happens quicker than you think,’ Longinus had told him one day when they rode ahead along the heights and found themselves above the dark shape of a fort. ‘Once one or two take the plunge others follow. Fools like company. I know I did.’ He gave a grim laugh. ‘You just think it’s bound to turn out all right because it’s you and you’re the hero. Then once you’ve taken that first step you cannot turn back. If I was Arviragus I’d be sending riders out to all the praesidia, telling them that Trajan really is dead and there will soon be a new emperor, but it won’t be Neratius Marcellus and anyone who obeys him will soon be in hot water. Then if he turns up with a thousand men and they get the choice between joining him and standing siege in some bleak place where help may never come, well, sacramentum or not, it’s no more than a flip of a coin. Some will spit in his eye and dare him to fight, but others will believe because they’re afraid and they’ll march out and hail him as their leader. Seen it before. In fact, I’ve done it before. They’re not joining a rebel, you see. He will be a Roman in their eyes, an eques and a former prefect, who speaks their language and knows how to flatter them.

  ‘I’m droning on. Thought all those days were a distant memory, until folk started raking it up. Now it’s like seeing it all play out again before my eyes. Actors on a stage, but real, and me in the chorus.’

  ‘Who raked it up?’

  The single eye had stared at him for a long while. ‘Does not matter now,’ Longinus said eventually.

  The veteran was silent for most of the rest of journey, saying only what was necessary. The one patrol they stumbled across late one afternoon consisted of three troopers, none of whom wanted to challenge a man who said he was a centurion. When they came closer to Brigantum, it was Enica’s name that got them through. A few of the chiefs and their warriors fell in with them, although most were reluctant to commit themselves at this stage and merely bowed and let them pass.

  ‘Pity I have been away for so many years,’ Enica said sadly, after yet another nobleman had excused himself from joining them.

  ‘Have you become too Roman?’ Ferox asked.

  ‘I fear that they have.’ The chief who had refused her was around thirty, clean shaven, with short hair, so that even though he was dressed in tartan trousers, a heavy tunic and wore a checked cloak, he looked as if he would be more comfortable in a villa or even a city than the round houses arranged in a circle outside the grove. There were twenty of them, the two in the centre facing each other much bigger than the rest. ‘Those are for the king and queen,’ she explained, and after they had dismounted she led them to the one on the south side of the circle. Inside it smelled damp and musty, for these houses were occupied only for this festival, even though the nearest tribesmen followed tradition and kept them all in good repair.

  The other large hut was empty. ‘My brother is not here yet.’ Most of the other houses were occupied, although a few clans were still arriving. The sleet had
stopped, but an icy wind buffeted them as Ferox and Vindex took a look around.

  ‘Why do this at this time of year?’ Ferox complained.

  ‘We’re northerners,’ the scout replied.

  Enica spent the rest of the day seated beside the fire, as in turn the chiefs came to greet her. ‘I wish I had the mirror,’ she said before the first arrived. For want of anything else, she was wearing the dress Crassus had given her, but had her hair unbraided so that it fell past her shoulders. A rider had come bringing her a package, and from it she had produced a slim gold torc, bracelets, and a brooch shaped like a galloping horse. There were more bulky objects wrapped in the cloth, but for the moment she left them there. The man had also brought a long sword, its handle shaped like a man and with a blunt tip. ‘Clumsy,’ Enica said as she drew it and gave a few cuts. ‘More like reaping barley.’

  ‘Have you ever done that, wife?’

  ‘Be quiet, husband. This sword was carried by my great-great-grandfather in the battle where he fell.’

  ‘Encouraging.’

  On the next day the chieftains met around a fire in the centre of the circle. Enica stayed in the house. ‘It is the tradition,’ she explained. ‘First they must decide that the tribe needs a high queen.’

  ‘Or king?’

  ‘Now why would they want that, husband?’

  ‘Romans fear powerful women, and these men grow more Roman by the day. They’ve even had latrine pits dug.’

  ‘We are not Silures,’ Enica said, wrinkling her nose, ‘and do not live like swine.’ She sighed. ‘But you are right. The old ways are dying, and the leadership of mystical women is one of the old ways. If they are good Romans they may not want a queen any more.’

  ‘The Carvetii will,’ Vindex said firmly. ‘Audagus is for you, lady, and he is a tough old bird. Not Roman where it really counts.’