They did not see any warriors for the first hour, and that was strange, but Ferox kept his men in hand for it would be dangerous to get too far ahead of the supporting cavalry in the vanguard. The enemy were there, they were close, and he suspected that they wanted the Romans to press on. There were plenty of tracks showing where horsemen and quite a few men on foot had been on these hills before they had drawn back to the north.
The wind had dropped, otherwise they would have smelled them sooner, long before they saw them. There were plenty of piled stones warning of great danger, and it was no surprise when Vindex rode back and called to him, ‘You had better take a look.’
Ferox followed the Brigantian up the long ridge, ignoring the road, which climbed in a series of laborious bends. A pair of scouts were waiting for them on the crest, sitting impassively, spears resting on their shoulders. Neither man paid him any attention as he rode up, both just staring out at the view. He could not blame them. When it crossed the ridge the road dipped down, following the valley until it began to climb again. It was too wide to be called a pass, but on the line of hills around three-quarters of a mile away the rebels waited. Most sat or wandered about without apparent purpose. There were clusters, some very dense, and elsewhere looser swarms of men. Ferox tried to make a rough guess at numbers, and quickly reached a total of well over ten thousand. More kept strolling across the crest to join them and he guessed that there were many, many more not yet visible.
‘There’s a few of them,’ Vindex said.
‘Won’t be so many by tonight,’ Ferox replied.
‘And how many of us will there be?’
He sent a messenger back to the main force, choosing Victor from the half-dozen troopers with him because he knew and trusted the man.
The sun had gone, the sky once more an unbroken sea of dirty clouds, so that the day had become darker rather than lighter. Up on the ridge an icy wind gusted into them, making them lean into it to keep their balance.
‘Least it’s not raining,’ Ferox said to Vindex as they waited and watched the enemy.
‘Not yet.’
The Britons did not advance. Their numbers kept growing and over time the line more clearly became a row of dense masses. Even if they had answered the Stallion’s call to war, Ferox suspected that most men were seeking out their kin to stand beside if it came to a fight. He fought the urge to go forward and take a closer look, and instead remembered the provincial legate’s instructions. There were four or five hundred horsemen in plain sight on each flank, but almost everyone else was on foot. From up here he could see few chariots, which meant that not many important chieftains had joined the cause. That is if they were not simply waiting behind the ridge, ready to make a triumphant entrance just before the battle. The little he had seen of the Stallion and his followers did not suggest any great subtlety in the way the man did things, but if important leaders had joined him then he would not be in sole charge and some of them would be old and wise in war. Then there was the great druid, if he was over there somewhere, a man famed for his deceptions and magic. For the moment the Britons waited and Ferox wanted to do nothing to provoke them.
Others did not share his caution. The decurion in charge of the first turma to reach them was young and eager, and it took a direct order to stop him from riding forward on his own and challenging the enemy to single combat. Fortunately he was from the ala Petriana and Ferox knew enough about Brocchus to be confident that the prefect would frown on such glory-hunting.
Crispinus and Flaccus were another matter, and when the two tribunes rode up at the head of the main body of the vanguard, they looked like two boys who had just been told that their schoolmaster was sick and would not be back for a week.
‘We have them!’ Crispinus almost shouted the words, waving his hand along the great length of the enemy host.
‘Yes, bet we’ve got them worried,’ said Vindex under his breath.
Flaccus’ eyes betrayed a moment of anger before he made the decision not to hear anything said by so insignificant a person as a scout from one of the tribes. ‘It’s almost like an arena,’ he said. ‘Just perfect.’
In the past, Crispinus and the other tribune had treated each other with courtesy and no more, but the prospect of action appeared to have created a wave of mutual affection. ‘The legate will be delighted.’
If the fools expected Marcellus to advance and then attack straight up that slope then Ferox was not about to shatter their illusions.
‘I feel that we should keep them busy,’ Crispinus announced. ‘We have a decent number of well-mounted men, so can disengage and withdraw whenever we want.’ The two tribunes had arrived with the formed supports for the scouts. There were forty legionary cavalrymen, and three turmae, all from ala Petriana.
Ferox wished that Brocchus had come up. ‘My orders are not to look for trouble, my lord.’
‘I am not asking you to do anything,’ Crispinus said with a smile. ‘Your men have been in the field longer than us and are bound to be tired. What I suggest is that the noble Flaccus and I take the others and see if we can sting some of their horsemen. We can kill a few and that will show our men and the whole army that the enemy are not to be feared.’ He turned to stare at the enemy for a while. ‘The left looks closest so that is the place to strike. What do you say, Flaccus?’
Ferox thought he saw hesitation, doubt, and then resignation as the junior tribune agreed.
‘Good,’ Crispinus said. ‘Then let us not waste any time.’
Vindex watched them ride back and give orders to the cavalry. ‘Daft buggers. What about us?’
‘Get everyone together. We might have to get away in a hurry.’
Ferox wondered about the two tribunes, and whether this reckless aggression would save him the trouble of finding out which was the traitor. As Flaccus went past at the head of the legionary horsemen Ferox could not help viewing their ranks with distaste. It was not fair, because at most a few were involved in the murders and all of these men could be innocent.
Crispinus formed two turmae in a line three deep and sent the other ahead in a loose line ready to skirmish. There were a couple of dozen men in each unit. Flaccus stayed back with the legionary horsemen as a reserve. The deployment was sensible enough, even if the plan itself was foolishness, and there was nothing to be gained by stirring up the enemy in this way.
The Roman cavalry went forward steadily, not going too fast and keeping good formations, and as they came over the crest and into sight of the Britons some of the warriors on the far side of the valley began to stir into life. Trumpets sounded, the noise thin in the gusting wind, and men waved standards in the air. The Romans pressed on, keeping to a walk, and the distance closed to less than half a mile.
‘You have to admire brave idiots,’ Vindex said, and then repeated the joke in their own language to his scouts.
‘Why?’ one of them said.
With a low cheer, the horsemen opposite the Romans began to advance to meet them. Two tight groups of fifty or sixty trotted ahead, and as many more galloped forward as a loose swarm. Ferox did not hear the order, but the leading turma split into two lines of horsemen who cantered straight at the oncoming Britons.
‘Neat, very neat.’ The comment came from one of the troopers behind Ferox, and he had to concur. The men leading each line of horsemen suddenly swung away, rode parallel for long enough to throw a javelin and then turned back towards their supports. Each man did the same, so that a stream of missiles struck the leading enemy, dropping several horses and men. By the time the last man in each file had thrown the leader had turned again and swung back towards the Britons to repeat the drill. More warriors were hit, and so far all of the javelins flung back had missed or struck harmlessly against shields.
The next time the turma went forward the Britons galloped away to safety, apart from the two denser knots of men that shook themselves into rough columns and pressed on.
‘Look.’ Vindex was pointing to the
enemy right, where the horsemen were also beginning to advance. It would take them a long time to move around behind the Romans, but the threat should persuade the tribune to retreat before too long.
Trumpets sounded, clear across the valley, and then the notes became ragged as Crispinus led the two formed turmae forward into a trot, then a canter, heading straight for the closest mass of enemy. Watching a cavalry battle from a distance always struck Ferox like watching flocks of birds wheeling, diving and circling. When the auxiliaries went into a gallop the Britons started to rush at them, but then slowed and the whole group seemed to quiver. Crispinus was ahead of his men by two horses’ lengths, plume streaming from his helmet, polished armour gleaming, and his sword held high. Before he reached the Britons they scattered like frightened sheep. One was too slow and fell as the tribune came past and slashed across his body. Another was hit in the back by a thrown spear, but the rest got away.
The other group of warriors had grown in size as more men joined them, including some of the retreating skirmishers. It wheeled clumsily, before heading towards Crispinus’ men. The auxiliaries were no longer in neat ranks, for galloping always broke up a formation, and the enemy were coming from their left flank. Ferox saw the tribune waving his hand around, and the men responded to the order and followed him back. The legionary horsemen under Flaccus were there for just this situation, and once the auxiliaries fled past them they could drive off the enemy charge. That would give time for Crispinus to rally and re-form his men, so that if the legionaries became ragged then they could in turn be sheltered by formed supports. It was the way cavalry fought, and there was no shame in running as long as they stopped when ordered. Regulations said that at least half of the men should be kept back as a reserve, and although Crispinus had not used so many he ought to be safe.
Flaccus began to wheel his men until they were facing towards this threat. Crispinus and the auxiliaries were galloping back towards them, scattered but jubilant. The legionary cavalry kept turning as the Britons raised a great shout, taken up by the distant masses of warriors who yelled and blew their horns.
Flaccus’ men broke. One moment there was a neat block of riders three ranks deep and the next there was only a stream of panicked men galloping to the rear. The junior tribune at their head looked around as if in surprise, and then followed. Crispinus and the auxiliaries heard the enemy cheers redouble and spurred to run as fast as they could.
‘Stercus,’ Ferox said. ‘You’ – he looked at Vindex – ‘stick with me. The rest of you get back if you can as fast as you can and report this rout.’
XXVII
IT WAS A stampede, not a retreat. One unlucky man died when his horse stumbled and threw him, another when his gelding took him into a patch of thick mud and became stuck fast. Several more were hit by javelins, wounding their mounts or tipping them from the saddle. Ferox could see the two tribunes near the front of the main pack of riders, their expensive horses faster than the rest, so that they gained steadily on the troopers. The Britons chased them, a great scatter of individuals each going as fast as his pony could run. Their animals were small and fat-bellied from grass and they could go on all day, but they were not fast. Before long the rearmost Romans were safe from thrown missiles and the lead kept growing.
Ferox had hoped to shadow the retreat from the hills on one side, looking for an opportunity to watch the two tribunes and see whether there was anything more than folly behind this morning’s rashness, but the two men never left the main group. He and Vindex soon attracted attention from the warriors, several of whom swerved towards them.
‘Better shift,’ the Brigantian said, but Ferox was not really listening.
‘Look familiar?’ he asked, pointing some way to the rear, where an ordered group of warriors came on at a gentle trot. They were half a mile away at least and he shaded his eyes as he strained to see. The leader was a big man with a red shield.
‘Gannascus?’
‘Reckon so.’
‘Be a shame to kill him,’ Vindex said. ‘I liked that big lump.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Does it mean we’re humped?’
Ferox did not answer, but if the high king had come with any great number of his warriors then the odds shifted even more in favour of the enemy. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Nothing more for us to do out here.’
It was a mile back to the rest of the mounted vanguard and the fleeing horsemen crossed the rolling moorland quickly. The head of the main column was already visible, resting for one of the short breaks given every hour. It took longer for Ferox and Vindex to get back, and by that time the provincial legate had issued the order to retreat. The instruction was easier to issue than perform, for the unit commanders were taken by surprise. Once they were convinced that this was truly what they were being told to do, it was simple enough to about face so that each detachment was still in a great rectangle, but now facing back the way they had come. It was harder to turn around the carts and strings of pack ponies and mules and, as always with the baggage train, nothing could be done without much shouting and beating the animals with sticks.
Just before noon the army began its retreat. Ferox rode with the legate, watching as he urged the men onwards. The soldiers were not as willing as they had been even when the weather was bad. To advance was one thing, for it held the prospect of meeting and smashing the enemy, which would bring glory, rest, and hopefully plenty of hot food. No soldier liked to retreat, and what made it worse was the feeling that it was unnecessary.
‘So the cavalry got beaten?’ Ferox heard a legionary of VIIII Hispana complain as soon as the governor was out of earshot. ‘So what? Cavalry, I’ve shit ’em.’ One of his comrades nudged him to warn him that an officer was listening, but the man was unimpressed by a centurion he did not recognise. ‘Let’s push on. We’ll soon cut this daft druid down. See how brave he is when he sees his mentula on the end of a sword.’
‘Hope it’s bigger that yours or we’ll never find it!’ another man shouted.
‘They’re not happy.’ Flaccus had appeared beside him. He looked flushed, but otherwise unscathed.
‘Soldiers never are, sir,’ he said. ‘Or at least they’re never happy unless they’re bitching about something.’
‘They do not like to run away.’ The junior tribune’s horse stirred and he made this an excuse to lean against its neck and pat the beast. Ferox could see that he was embarrassed by that morning’s rout. ‘It was not my fault,’ he began, and the centurion let him talk at his own pace. After all, there was no reason for him to explain himself to a mere centurion. ‘It all happened so quickly. We were ready to charge in support, the Tribune Crispinus and his men were coming back towards us, and then suddenly a voice shouted out, “Retreat! Retreat!” The men were turning before I could say anything.’
The legionaries had marched on and there was a gap before the next cohort would come alongside them. Flaccus fussed with his horse, avoiding the centurion’s gaze. His voice was low. ‘I may be mistaken, but I believe it was Crispinus who shouted. I fear that he panicked.’
A summoning call from the legate forced Ferox to canter away, but he sensed that the tribune had said what he wanted to say. The man had done his best to look embarrassed, but could not hide his delight in the failure of a superior.
Ferox saw them before he caught up with the governor – little clusters of horsemen over to the right. The valley was wide here, and the warriors almost a mile away, so that he could just tell that the bigger group that appeared a moment later were on foot.
Marcellus gave him a curt nod. ‘It seems that you were right. They are following like hounds on a scent. It does not look as if they fear us, so we must make sure that they keep believing we fear them.’
There were a good five hours left in the day – if you could call the short hours of these autumn days in northern lands good. The Romans pressed on, making little more than a mile in the next hour. To the west band after band of warriors appeared, still keeping their dis
tance but steadily massing. There were not many horsemen, and even fewer chariots, some of which edged forward until they were almost within bowshot.
‘Ten or twelve thousand, I make it.’ Crispinus was riding with the legate and his immediate staff. The young tribune had nodded affably to Ferox, but not said anything about the rout of the cavalry.
Neratius Marcellus said nothing as he scanned the forming battle line. If anything, Ferox suspected that the guess was too low, for this was a bigger force than the one he had seen this morning.
‘What about to our rear?’ The legate’s question surprised him, and he glanced back. So far there were only a few hundred cavalry, the ones that had chased the Romans away this morning. Faced with the entire ala Petriana as well as supports, they proved much more wary, and Brocchus’ men were split into two halves, each one covering the other as they withdrew. Yet the warriors on foot could not be too far behind.
‘Just horsemen, so far, my lord. Be a couple of hours before the rest are any threat.’
‘Good. Then tell me, centurion, what would a wise general do now?’
Crispinus seemed surprised not to be asked, since he was senior, but made no protest.
The answer was simple, if the legate intended to follow the advice and instructions of all the emperors since Augustus. ‘Pitch camp,’ Ferox said, ‘rest up, and be ready to fight a battle tomorrow with baggage safe and the refuge of a rampart in case things go against us.’
‘“Do not go fishing with a golden hook,” the divine Augustus commanded his generals. “For you risk more than you could possibly gain.” Prudence is a virtue in a general, and what you have said is the prudent thing. Then tell me, centurion of Rome and Prince of the Silures, what would you do? What would Caratacus do? Would you gamble once more, with stakes as high as this?’
Vindolanda Page 36