Vindolanda

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  There were no reserves. Both cohorts of VIIII Hispana had wheeled round and marched several hundred paces to form a new line facing north. The Vardulli and Tungrians had been fed into the line to reinforce the Batavians – Ferox saw the last group of auxiliaries jog forward as a centurion led them to join the fighting. He could not see the singulares and had no idea where they had gone for they were not part of the line facing north. Flaccus was with the legionaries, and he wondered what the man was doing, but then Crispinus appeared as well and he could only guess that the Legate Marcellus had ordered the redeployment.

  A couple of soldiers helped an officer back from II Augusta. The man shook them off, and Ferox recognised their senior centurion, even though his helmet was gone and a dirty bandage was wrapped around his head. There were wounds on both arms, he had lost his shield and his armour was rent and stained, but the man lurched forward, going back to the fighting, until he collapsed. Even then he tried to crawl back to his men.

  ‘Keep them busy as long as you can,’ Ferox croaked to Masclus. His throat was parched, in spite of the snow still tumbling down around them, and it seemed an age since he had had a drink. ‘You help him,’ he said as Vindex looked ready to follow him. ‘Try to hold them back as long as you can.’

  He trotted the horse towards II Augusta, jumping down beside the centurion, who was still pulling himself across the grass, leaving a trail of blood behind.

  ‘Get him away,’ he said to the soldiers. He turned to another man, a young soldier who looked to be no more than a boy. ‘Who is in charge now?’

  ‘Don’t know, sir,’ the man said, seeing Ferox’s crest. ‘Must be one of the optiones because all four centurions are down.’

  ‘Wrong answer, lad.’ Ferox grinned at the pale-faced youth. ‘I’m in charge. Now come with me.’

  XXIX

  THERE WAS NO trace left of the neat three-deep line in which the cohort had begun the battle. A lot of legionaries – Ferox guessed as many as two hundred – had drifted back so that men were scattered alone or in loose clusters as far as a bowshot behind where the line had once been. Most of these men were bloodied, and plenty of them had wounds to the legs, right arm or face, all the places a shield did little to protect. The handful of medici, the soldiers trained to deal with wounds, had long since been overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of casualties. They were doing their best to help any who could be helped on a snowy moor in the middle of a battle. Lots of other men, unscathed and reluctant, had used the excuse of helping the wounded back to slip away.

  Ferox saw a couple of legionaries leaning on their shields, their heads bowed so that they did not have to meet anyone’s eye. ‘You!’ he bellowed from a few feet away, his voice suddenly full of strength and with enough of a parade-ground tone to make their faces jerk up. ‘What are your names?’

  ‘Longus, sir,’ one answered before he could think. His comrade glanced at him, but knew that he could not refuse.

  ‘Terentius, sir.’ He was younger than the other man, probably no more than twenty, but he had the sharp features of someone who planned to grow as old and rich as possible.

  ‘Good. You are with me. Stay right behind me and if ever I lose sight of you, I’ll make sure they have the skin off your back before the week is out. Understand!’

  ‘Sir.’ The voices were weary and lacked enthusiasm, but the habit of discipline was strong and his crest marked this man out as a centurion – and his tone as a right bastard likely to remember.

  Everyone knew that the worst slaughter happened when a unit broke and fled, and as a fight drew on and on and everyone tired, they all knew, too, that the collapse could come at any moment. So men hung back and waited. No one wanted to be seen to start the panic and be blamed. No one wanted to die either, so they lurked well behind the fighting line until they could follow the lead of everyone else.

  Terentius and Longus trailed after the centurion as he went forward, ignoring men who were wounded but yelling at the rest to follow. Ferox scooped up a shield that lay on the ground, hefted it to test that the handgrip was still firmly in place and the boards solid, and pushed on. There were a dozen archers nearby, waiting and not shooting.

  ‘Running short of arrows, sir,’ the optio with them reported. ‘Down to four or five each.’

  ‘Right. Every second man gives his to the soldier next to him. Then he draws his sword and follows me. You stay with the others.’

  ‘Sir.’

  He expected more show of resentment at being asked to fight hand to hand rather than do what they were paid and trained to do, but the archers’ faces were impassive.

  Ferox ran forward. The front of the cohort was now a row of seven or eight clusters of weary men. Some of them may have started out as the centuries of the cohort, but there was little regularity any more. Legionaries still determined to fight on bunched together because that made them feel safer. Most of the clusters were ten or twelve deep and there were big gaps between them. If the Britons had been fresh and eager then they could have swarmed through the spaces and overwhelmed the remnants of the cohort, but they were just as exhausted and their line looked much the same and was no more solid.

  The six signa carried by the cohort were in the biggest group at the centre of the line and Ferox headed towards them, running through the gap to get in front. ‘Form there.’ He pointed with his sword to show that he wanted them to stand level with the standards in the space between this cluster and the next. ‘Terentius, you’re there as right marker. Longus next to you, then you and you.’ He gestured to two more men. ‘The rest in three ranks behind them. When I say go, you follow me. Understood?’

  ‘Sir.’ Terentius stamped to attention and clashed his sword against his shield. ‘We’ll be ready.’

  ‘Good.’ He turned his back on the enemy to face the other legionaries, praying that there was no one still with a missile and the energy to throw it into his back. The Britons were no more than four spear lengths away, but all looked spent – at least for the moment. Some were even on their knees or bent double as they gasped for breath. There were bodies of the dead and badly wounded strewn on the ground between the two sides. One was a Roman, just a few paces away.

  ‘Water, please, water,’ the wounded man begged.

  Ferox ignored him and shouted with all his strength. ‘Capricorns! You are Second Augusta.’ Some of the men looked up to see who it was, but some were too tired to care. He could see that only one of the signa was still carried by a signifer wearing the usual bearskin over his helmet. The other five were held by ordinary soldiers, which meant that the standard-bearers were down. Ferox could see no sign of a centurion anywhere along the front, which meant that the report must have been right. He saw a soldier by the standards. The man’s shield was gouged by two big cuts, the calfskin outer layer peeled back to show the boards underneath. The man had no staff, and his segmented armour was bent and dented on the shoulders, but a red feather stood up high on one side of his iron helmet and the stub of another showed that there had once been a second feather on the other side, marking him out as an optio.

  ‘I am Flavius Ferox, princeps posterior of the third cohort, currently on detached service, and I am taking command. Optio, report!’

  ‘Sir.’ The man straightened slightly, but did not attempt any more formal show of respect.

  ‘Water. Please, for the love of Diana, give me water,’ the wounded soldier begged. Ferox still ignored him.

  ‘Call that a salute, man!’ Ferox was trying to get their attention, and was pleased to see a brief flash of anger before the optio raised his right arm, sword still in his hand. The blade was bloody.

  ‘Sir. Beg to report—’ Before the optio said anything, Ferox saw the alarm in his face and spun around. Two warriors were coming at him, eyes wild and teeth bared, although they did not scream a war cry. The first held a broken spear with only three feet of its shaft left and he lunged it underarm. Ferox swung his shield sideways so that the edge pushed the spearhea
d aside and lunged to take the man in the throat. The dying man’s eyes widened, looking more surprised than fearful as the centurion yanked his blade free.

  The second warrior had a sword and shield and came with more care, until the wounded Roman reached out to grab his ankles. The Briton swayed, fighting for balance, looking down angrily and raising his sword to cut this nuisance down. Ferox took two paces forward and thrust his gladius into the man’s stomach.

  ‘Hoc habet,’ came a voice from behind him and there was a dull cheer from the legionaries at this cry from the arena. Ferox kept his shield towards the enemy and looked back over his shoulder.

  ‘Come on, then. That’s how to deal with these mongrels. Capricorns, follow me!’ He turned his head to the front, took a deep breath, vaulted over the wounded legionary and ran straight at the Britons. This was not what he had planned. He had wanted to get the knots of men from II Augusta, or at least the ones around the standard, to re-form into something more like a line so that they could fight better, and he had hoped to spur them to make one last effort.

  There was no time, and he just had to hope that cutting two of the enemy down would stir them to follow him even though he was a stranger. He yelled as he charged and did not look back. They would follow him or they would not, and if they did not then he would most certainly die.

  He jumped over a corpse, this time of a naked Briton with his belly slit open and steam coming off the coiling streams of innards around him. He could hear nothing apart from his own yell and it was almost as if the sound came from someone else. The enemy waited, and one or two were trying to get back out of his way. He saw a tall man with limed hair pushing through the mass towards him, and recognised the Stallion, who must have lost his headdress, and then other men jostled and were in the way so that all he could see was a raised sword. The glimpse was enough. He thought of Fortunata, of the other victims butchered by this man, and he thought of what could have happened to Sulpicia Lepidina. The raw hate gave him strength and he wanted only to kill the priest before he was himself killed. It no longer mattered whether II Augusta came with him or not.

  ‘Mongrel!’ His incoherent yell became a word, and still no one came to meet him, so he reached the line, punched with his shield, knocking down a warrior’s little buckler, hitting the man in the face. The Briton staggered and the sword drove into his belly. Ferox twisted the blade free as the man fell, screaming, and a moment later he blocked a cut with his shield and slashed open the throat of a tattooed fanatic. He pushed into the ranks, and they all seemed to be slow and sluggish while he was as fast as a hawk. He punched again with the boss, felt the man’s jaw break, and then jabbed with the pommel of his sword into the face of another because he did not have time to bring it back ready to thrust. The man reeled away. Ferox flicked the blade back down and lunged into the man behind, the long tip piercing an eye. He slammed his shield forward again, pushing into the mass, going forward, always forward, and he felt a blow strike his right shoulder and almost lost balance. His arm still worked and he was standing. He cut back, carving into a warrior’s neck, the blade grating on a bronze torc before it reached the flesh. Blood spurted over him, and he pressed on, heading towards the Stallion who was close now. Something slammed into the side of his head, denting the helmet and cutting his forehead as the iron edge was driven into his skin.

  Ferox turned, eyes blinking as he tried to stay conscious, and he lifted the shield to parry another blow from a shaven-headed fanatic wielding a thick branch as a club. A sword took the man in the side, under the armpit, blood bubbled at his lips and Terentius drew back his blade and slashed, knocking the warrior down. One of the archers came after him, using the small round shield they carried and an axe rather than a sword. Other men were appearing all around him, and the optio yelled as he stabbed low, driving into a warrior’s groin so that his high-pitched shriek mingled with the victor’s cries. Beside him a legionary took a spear thrust to the face and sank down.

  The Britons were edging back, even as the Stallion called on them to kill. Ferox saw an axe head burst through the back of his shield, throwing up jagged splinters, but the weapon stuck there and Terentius appeared and hacked again and again at the warrior’s neck until his head was left hanging by a thin sheet of skin. Longus stamped his front foot down and pounded another man with his shield, knocking him down. The Roman leaned forward, stabbed once, but his friend’s cry came too late for him to dodge the crude spear that pierced the cheek piece of his helmet and drove into the side of his mouth.

  The Stallion let the spear go and clasped one hand tightly around the wrist of his sword arm. He raised the blade high, his pale skin a network of blue woad, and he looked like a demon from stories with his spiked hair and the burning savagery of his eyes. A legionary went for him, slipped on the intestines of a dying man, dropping his guard, and the priest slashed down. There was a dull clang as the blade cut through the iron helmet and the soldier fell.

  Ferox barged Terentius aside. The priest was quick, his sword already back up, and he cut again, slicing through the bronze edging at the top of the shield and into the wood. Ferox fought for balance, saw the heavy sword going up again for the next attack, and cut wildly with his gladius. He felt the blade bite and dragged it across the priest’s chest, pushing as hard as he could. The sword cut down again, weaker this time, but enough to carve another rent in his shield.

  Men were dragging the Stallion away. With a howl one of his tattooed followers leaped up, flinging himself bodily at Ferox. The centurion felt the wind knocked from him and he was falling to the ground, the heavy weight of the man on top. He lost his sword and shield. The man’s face was inches away from his, features contorted with hate as his hands felt for the centurion’s throat. Ferox tried to roll and push the man off, but he was heavy and now the fingers closed around his windpipe. He felt for his dagger, found it and pulled it free from the scabbard, but it was getting hard to breathe as the man’s hands tightened. He stabbed once, twice, and only at the third wound did the grip slacken. Ferox gulped in air, and stabbed the man again.

  A trumpet sounded, then two more, and there were shouts. Ferox strained to slide the corpse off him. The pugio and his hand were sticky with drying blood, his mail bloodstained, but as he pushed himself up he saw that II Augusta were driving forward, killing the enemy as they ran. There were Roman cavalry riding among the Britons, the cloaks of the legate’s singulares streaming behind them. They had won on the far left, driving away the enemy horsemen after a hard fight and then they had begun to attack the flank of the infantry. The Britons held on for a long time because there were so many of them. Only slowly did they weaken, and at almost the same time the remnants of the first Roman line were going forward with their last strength and the Stallion’s great host collapsed.

  Ferox’s eyes kept closing. He was breathing deeply, but was finding it hard to stand. Nearby Terentius knelt by Longus, weeping over his dying friend, as an archer staggered past, his right arm missing below the elbow. The snow turned to sleet that somehow seemed colder and the centurion began to shiver. Most of II Augusta had stopped, exhaustion claiming them, and over their heads Ferox could see the cavalry riding among the enemy, killing at will, but there were so many thousands of Britons even after all this slaughter and the cavalry were few. He saw the tall figure of the Stallion being supported by several warriors. They were past the main crowd, and none of the cavalry seemed to have seen them. There was a chariot waiting, and a dozen horsemen, and one of them had long white hair and even though it was so far away he knew that it must be the great druid. The men lifted the priest into the chariot and it drove off, protected by the riders.

  Ferox looked around for a horse, knowing that he must chase and finish the priest off while they had the chance. He saw one, the same one he had ridden to join the cohort, and it was standing amid the corpses, cropping at a tussock of grass.

  Ferox tried to run and could not. He walked a few steps, but could not keep in a
straight line. His eyes were heavy, wanting to close. He lurched a few more paces until the darkness came and he fell.

  XXX

  THE TRAIL WAS faint, sometimes vanishing among so many other tracks of men fleeing from the defeated army, but the direction was clear and each time they lost it, Ferox was able to pick it up again. On the first day he suspected their purpose. By the second day he was sure. He had been unconscious for only a short time, before waking with a fierce headache. The medicus ordinarius, the doctor in charge of all the medical orderlies, had given him something to drink and he had slept through the night, until the legate’s men roused him before dawn.

  Neratius Marcellus was pleased with his victory, and was sensible enough to know how close they had come to disaster, and shrewd enough to write a report that would show how everything had gone to plan. They were saved by the high king, and the other princes and chieftains who had sent men to answer the Stallion’s call to arms even though they did not go in person. All of those contingents were with the northern force, and they had not hurried to join the battle, but let the Stallion and his main force win or lose on their own. Even when they came in sight of the fighting, they had tarried, and their influence made many other warriors cautious. Only the most fervent, led by the tattooed fanatics, had pressed on in spite of this. Perhaps twelve or fifteen hundred Britons had attacked the improvised Roman line, and VIIII Hispana and the others in that hasty line facing north had fought these to a standstill and were starting to drive them back when the panic spread from the rest of the army and they broke. Tincommius’ men and the other real warriors had watched from a distance.

  ‘Our embassy to Tincommius has borne splendid fruit,’ Crispinus told Ferox as they rode out on the morning after the battle. ‘The high king proved true to his pledges.’