Brigantia

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘Bit of a cheek,’ Brocchus said, for the wall was being raised using the army’s routine technique. Ferox could see that most of the men doing the work were the royal guard.

  Neratius Marcellus did not hurry. He let the column arrive at its own pace and when the leading auxiliary infantry arrived he formed them into a line facing west, and a good half-mile from the enemy. One of the cohorts of XX Valeria Victrix soon joined them, and then after that he set the remaining legionaries to digging the camp, which had already been marked out on the ground with flags showing where everything was to go.

  The legate sat on his horse alongside Ferox, Brocchus and other officers and scanned the enemy line.

  ‘Will they attack, sir?’ the tribune in charge of the vexillation from Legio XX asked. The enemy had made no move so far, and most of the warriors sat or wandered around, while the guardsmen toiled away to make their rampart. Arviragus was riding a grey, and was clearly visible supervising the work and watching the Romans just as they watched him.

  ‘Oh, I should not think so. After all the trouble they have gone to, making their little wall, they must be desperate to make use of it.’ The prince’s plan was obvious. He wanted the Romans to attack him. The rampart would not only make that attack harder, but it would help restrain the enthusiasm of his own warriors. Let the Romans come up the hill and be killed. In the meantime his cavalry, whose numbers looked far larger than the Romans’, would hold the right of their line, until the attack was spent or beaten back and then they and any warriors he had held back could sweep round and through the Roman left, rolling up the whole line.

  Ferox wondered whether to speak, and was prevented when Neratius Marcellus proceeded to give an almost identical summary to the narrow-stripe tribune. ‘Let him sleep thinking he has us beaten,’ the legate concluded, ‘and worrying that we will try a night attack. We will attack an hour after dawn.’

  ‘Is it worth considering the night assault, my lord?’ The tribune must have commanded an auxiliary cohort before he was given his post, but may well have seen little service. He was a pale man, with narrow lips, and darting eyes, with the air of someone trying not to be noticed.

  Neratius Marcellus smiled. ‘I could be Alexander and tell you that I will not steal a victory in that way! Or just say that I am getting old and need a good night’s sleep. The truth is that a December night is too long and too cold. The men need rest and food, and I do not want everyone blundering about in the dark. Let us do things in what passes for sunlight here in the north, and make sure that we do everything to perfection.’

  The legate expanded on the theme in his consilium that night, as he issued orders to all the senior officers and commanders of cohorts and alae in the army. There were only seventeen men all told, including Ferox and the two cornicularii who struggled to keep pace with the governor’s rapid dictation. Each officer would then take written orders and pass them on to his subordinates. The whole army would be armed and in formation in the road behind the ramparts an hour before dawn. That was normal practice, but they were to form so that they could march out and easily take up their allotted place in the battle lines.

  The night was clear and cold, the grass crunching underfoot as it froze. Men were glad whenever they could stand or sit near a fire, and listening to the low conversations Ferox felt their confidence. They wanted the campaign over so that they could get back to warm barracks and a quiet winter. No one seemed to doubt that they would win, or if they did, like good soldiers they kept it to themselves. They moaned about the food, and the cold, and bastards from the other units who did not know how to use a latrine, and all the usual things legionaries and auxiliaries liked to complain about. At the third hour of the night Ferox went to visit the picket outside the main gate. The duty fell to the Batavians that night, and he found Cerialis there. They had lit fires thirty paces beyond the picket, which meant that they would get a bit of warning of any attack. A lot of units did this, although Ferox thought it was wrong because it made it impossible to see anything beyond the fires.

  ‘Tomorrow we kill you!’ a voice yelled from the darkness.

  ‘He’s back,’ muttered one of the soldiers.

  ‘We’re going to cut off your pricks!’ This came in a deeper voice than the first.

  ‘He must have found a friend,’ one of the older soldiers said. ‘In this cold he’ll be lucky to find anything.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ another of the Batavians replied, and then raised his voice. ‘Piss off, you daft buggers!’

  ‘You are all traitors!’ Ferox thought he saw a pale shape moving in the dark and knew the voice of Arviragus. ‘Trajan is dead, and your legate a traitor who will die along with all his supporters.’

  ‘That’s nice!’ a soldier shouted back.

  ‘Tell your officers to give up,’ the prince continued.

  Cerialis took a couple of paces forward and cupped his hands to shout louder. ‘Lord prince, you are the traitor and rebel. Trajan lives and we all serve him, true to the oath you have broken. You must all lay down your arms and trust to his mercy!’

  Arviragus’ laughter was loud. ‘Will you give a message to Flavius Ferox?’

  Cerialis glanced back, wondering whether the centurion wanted to declare himself, and then nodded in understanding. ‘I will give it.’

  ‘Tell him that bitch, my sister, is dead. Tell him that. As high king I ordered her death and that of all those with her. They are all dead. Tell him that.’

  A grey horse shone as it bounded forward, the prince whirling something bulky around in his hand before he flung it forward. It bounced on the grass and rolled a little before it stopped. One of the Batavians flung a javelin, but it fell several paces short and the prince had wheeled his horse and galloped away.

  Ferox ran forward, trying to fight down his fears. He could see that the prince had thrown a head, but when he came close he saw it was large and must be a man’s. For a moment he worried that it was Gannascus, until he picked it up and saw that the hair was short and the chin clean shaven.

  ‘I do not know him,’ he said.

  ‘I do.’ Cerialis was alongside. ‘It is the prefect in command at Cataractonium.’

  XXVIII

  ‘It is rarely wise to be too clever.’ Neratius Marcellus repeated what he had said in the consilium the night before. ‘He expects us to attack him and so we shall. But in our own time and way.’

  An hour after dawn and everyone was in place. On the left, both alae formed up, each in two lines of turmae. Ala Petriana was furthest forward, with the other ala behind and to its left. They would let the enemy horsemen come to them, rather than driving too deeply forward. The Gauls stood between the cavalry and the main force of infantry. A cohort of Legio XX was on the left, formed in two lines, each six deep. Two hundred paces to their right was the first cohort of Legio II Augusta, in a matching formation, with the eagle shining in the middle of the reserve line surrounded by five signa from the centuries of the first cohort and the vexillum flag of the detachment. The gap between the legionaries was filled by ten scorpions, light artillery, firing heavy bolts with tremendous force and uncanny accuracy and some of the archers in open order. The rest of the archers formed an extra rank at the back of the leading lines of legionaries. Behind them all, the other cohort of Legio XX acted as an immediate reserve.

  ‘Silly fellows,’ the legate said to his staff. ‘Ought to have thought more about what he was doing.’ The rampart built by the enemy covered most of their front line and was continuous, without the weak spot offered by a gate. Yet that also meant that there was no easy way through for their own warriors. A shrewder commander would have had openings every few hundred paces. What this meant was that the Romans could choose where to attack and not be too worried about their flanks, at least until they had got past the rampart. Neratius Marcellus planned to attack in two places with his legionaries. At the same time Cerialis’ Batavians, supported by the Vardulli, would storm the old hill fort. The coh
ort cavalry would provide the legate with his ultimate reserve.

  Ferox was with the governor as he rode along the line of scorpions. He had asked for permission to lead some of II Augusta or anyone else in the first assault. Neratius Marcellus had refused, no doubt informed by Cerialis of what the prince had said. ‘No, I need you. I have few enough officers as it is, and none who know the tribes as well as you.’

  As Ferox watched the crew of one of the engines load a bolt and start cranking the slide back to something like full tension, he tried to fight off a black mood. He did not believe that Enica was dead. Her brother had surely lied, for otherwise he would have shown them some trophy as proof; not her head, since taking the head of any woman would have disgraced a chieftain, let alone the self-proclaimed high king, but something else.

  Enica lived, he was sure of that, just as he was sure that her life hung by a thread, and perhaps the same was true of Vindex and the others. What Ferox did today would decide her fate and theirs, and no doubt the gods would demand a heavy price. He might die today, and if that was what would happen then there was no point trying to hide, so he had asked to be at the forefront. There was no point trying to explain this to the legate or any Roman, for he could not say how he knew. Understanding had come slowly, as he’d lain awake through the last hours of the night, and in the red dawn he was certain. A man could not kill a druid and walk away. Acco was at work, or the magic the druid had unleashed, and the gods would play their games, and perhaps the chaos the old man had foretold would erupt here. If both brother and sister died then the Brigantes had no clear leader and the chiefs would fight each other. If the legate was defeated or died in the battle, the other restless and desperate leaders in other tribes might well decide to challenge Rome and the druid would prove right and flame and sword sweep through the province.

  Ferox did not fear death, and if it saved his wife then he could almost welcome it. He found it hard to worry much about all those who would perish if the rebellion begun by the prince spread throughout the lands. Instead he thought of the girl in his arms, her softness and his surprise because at first she had been so timid and nervous. Was it just another act? He did not think so, but who could say for he had been wrong before.

  It did not matter. Ferox knew that they must win and that he must accept any challenge or danger without hesitation. If death came then it came. He feared the half-death, to suffer wounds leaving him blind and crippled, eking out the long, slow years of life, dependent on the kindness of others, always knowing that his soul would carry the scars into the Otherworld. Yet if that was what the gods demanded, he would suffer it for her. Saving his wife gave Ferox’s own life purpose and meaning, and perhaps his craving for these was deeper that his newfound love.

  ‘Ready, my lord.’ A tesserarius from XX Valeria Victrix was in charge of the artillery, and now saluted the legate.

  Archers stood in pairs between and behind the scorpions, with another group formed as a reserve, and a centurion commanded them, but they were out of bowshot of the rampart. Ferox looked at the row of faces peering over the parapet. Few wore helmets, and as far as he could see all were tribesmen fighting with their own weapons. Some probably had slings, although the Brigantes were not known for their skill with slings. Perhaps one or two were bowmen. Otherwise, they would be able to do nothing to the enemy until the Romans came close enough to hit with a javelin or stone hurled by hand. At least the rampart meant that the warriors could not surge forward before Arviragus was ready, as they had done in the last battle. A standard shaped like a cockerel bobbed up and down in front of them, and beside him stood a big man with a tall helmet and armour of bronze scales.

  ‘You may begin,’ the legate told the artillerymen. ‘An aureus apiece for the crew who nail that shiny fellow and the one with the bird.’

  The tesserarius grinned, showing teeth that were yellow and broken. ‘Pick your targets!’ he shouted. ‘Shoot when you are ready.’

  The first scorpion cracked like a whip, as the metal slide slammed forward. Ferox watched as the bolt flashed through the air and whipped several feet above the men on the rampart. The crews of the neighbouring artillery pieces jeered.

  ‘Silence there! Get on with your job!’ the tesserarius bawled at them. ‘Next peep out of any of you and I’ll have the bugger flogged.’

  ‘Oh the raven! Oh the wolf!’ The tribesmen began their chant. A lone man with a tall carnyx horn blasted out a challenge.

  More of the scorpions cracked and slammed. The next two bolts drove deep into the turf of the wall.

  ‘Come to me and I will give you flesh!’

  The trumpeter blew another rousing blast, which stopped with an abrupt clang as a bolt struck the boar’s head of the carnyx, flinging it back beyond the wall and leaving the player dazed, his mouth bloody.

  ‘Stop playing games, Marcus. Kill the mongrels!’

  ‘Oh the raven!’ Ferox thought of Enica hearing her people’s old song and hating the fact that she was on the other side.

  The tall armoured chieftain took a bolt through the eye and vanished behind the parapet. His standard-bearer was leaning over him when another missile hit his neck and burst out the other side. The singing faltered. By now, the scorpions had the range, and their crews worked mechanically, cranking and loading, lining up on a target, loosing the bolt, and then doing it all over again. A few of the victims screamed, and there were jeers from the defenders whenever a man ducked in time or the bolt struck the parapet or whisked past overhead. Soon most of the shots struck a man in the shoulders or face, and more and more men bobbed down behind the parapet. No one was yelling back any more, let along chanting.

  The last men hid out of sight or were killed, but Neratius Marcellus let the scorpions shoot for a little longer, before raising his hand. ‘Archers to advance. Scorpions to follow and set up fifty paces from the rampart. You can shoot over the bowmen if any of those fools feel brave again.’ He turned to Ferox. ‘Ride to the Augusta and tell them to advance when I signal. And then come back. I need you here.’ As he rode away he heard similar orders being issued to go to XX Valeria Victrix and the auxiliaries under Cerialis.

  A warrior cautiously raised his eyes above the parapet, now that the bolts had stopped. He must have shouted something, although Ferox did not hear, for others joined him. Then the arrows started, and although no one was hit they were close enough to make everyone duck back down.

  Ferox passed on the orders and trotted back to the legate, taking his horse parallel to the rampart and within range of a well-thrown javelin. None came his way, for the defenders remained in hiding, so there was no real test of whether the gods planned to claim his life. Neratius Marcellus raised one eyebrow when he saw the centurion wheeling round to join his staff, but made no comment. The legate gestured to the tubicen who trailed behind him and the man sounded the signal for orders. Then the vexillarius dipped his square red flag, embroidered with its golden figure of Victory, three times. Cornicines in all of the leading units blew the three notes of the advance.

  They were closest to Legio XX, on its unshielded side, so Ferox saw the legionaries step out as neatly as if they were on parade, with the clinks and soft thump of soldiers on the march. A centurion ahead and to the right of the front half of the cohort was walking backwards, so that he could keep a close eye on his men. It was a gesture of contempt for the enemy, if a weak one, since the enemy remained invisible, save for the horsemen on their right and the distant figures of the men in the old fort.

  The legionaries were silent apart from the calm voices of centurions, and the sharp rebukes from the optiones following each line whenever a man spoke or wandered out of place. In the distance, Ferox just caught a low murmur as the Batavians began the barritus, the old war cry of Germanic warriors. Men in the fort answered with cheers and blasts of horns, for there were no archers over there to keep them down. On the opposite side the cavalry of each army watched each other, neither making any move, until Ferox caught a
flicker of something out of the corner of his eye and saw a chariot shoot out between two of the bands of Brigantian horsemen. The car was painted a pale blue, the team one black and one grey, and the warrior in the back wore silvered helmet and mail and carried a deep blue shield. More chariots followed, some red, some green and some white, with warriors capering as they brandished weapons and shields high. It was bad luck to drive with ponies of the same colour, or so most of the tribes believed, so Ferox was surprised to see one car painted black and pulled by black animals. Its warrior was stark naked, his body painted, and he was standing on the shaft between the ponies as the wheels thundered across the grass.

  ‘Well, there’s a sight,’ the legate said, as if commenting on a statue or painting. ‘A glimpse of Homer, perhaps! What a shame Ovidius is not here to see it.’ Ferox would have been glad to see the old fellow, and simply to know that he was well, and did not bother to remind the legate that the philosopher had seen plenty of chariots in Hibernia that summer.

  The infantry pushed on steadily.

  ‘Good boys! Keep it steady there.’ The centurion going backwards did not shout, and simply spoke very loudly, his voice carrying easily along the first line formed by the cohort.