Adrian Goldsworthy: Vindolanda

The cavalryman acting as rearguard saw them just as the coach toppled and the little line split apart. He gaped, raising his spear, but then he hesitated when he recognised the crest of a centurion.

‘He’s with me!’ Ferox shouted in case the fool mistook Vindex for an enemy. ‘Come on!’

The centurion pressed on the last few yards towards the edge of the gully, waving to the man to follow. On the far side the first of the troopers came over the lip, horse slipping for a moment. A warrior was behind him, spear held low to thrust upwards.

‘Kill him!’ Ferox called to the Batavian left as rearguard, pointing at the Briton, and the cavalryman saw the target, reached back and threw his own spear in one smooth motion. It was a heavy weapon, designed as much for thrusting as throwing, and the distance was a good thirty paces, but the throw was good. The leaf-shaped head dug into the warrior’s leg and he screamed and fell, rolling down the bank.

Ferox urged his tired gelding straight down the slope, not bothering to follow the gentler path. He drew his sword, felt the wonderful balance and the sheer joy that came from holding a good blade. The overturned carriage was close by, lying on its side, the heavy door twitching as someone tried to push it open, but that did not matter, for all he needed was enemies to kill until he had no more strength and they killed him in turn. It would soon be over.

A scream, a long and piercing cry of sheer agony, made him hesitate for it was a woman’s cry. With the sound of great effort the door of the carriage was flung open and a woman pulled herself up with both hands and scrambled out, tearing her pale blue dress slightly on the edge of the doorframe. She was slim, with golden hair tied back into a bun and pendant earrings clinking as she moved. There was another scream as she reached down, pulling at something, and then she saw him, recognising the helmet.

‘Help me!’ she yelled. ‘She’s hurt.’

Vindex came over the lip, followed by the cavalryman, long sword drawn. There was one Batavian trooper in the bottom of the gully, waiting with spear ready to support the rest, and two spilling over the far edge, until the horse of one of them was killed and the rider flung down.

Ferox urged his horse over to the carriage to help the woman. It was narrower than he had thought, so that the side was not much higher than his chest. He sheathed his sword, feeling his anger deflate as he did so, and then he pushed off the front horns of the saddle and jumped on to the overturned coach. The fair-haired woman was struggling to lift another, younger and smaller than her, her black hair unpinned and hanging down on one side.

‘Let me.’ Ferox knelt on top of the open door as it lay flat and took the girl underneath her arms. She had delicate features, but her face was strained and as he hauled her up she hissed in agony and went limp. If she had not been so light he doubted that he could have managed it. There was a heavy gold necklace at her throat.

There were two cavalrymen still up the far bank who turned at bay and for a moment held the Britons back. The third man, and the one who had acted as rearguard, watched their flanks from the flat bottom of the gully.

‘Give her to me!’ Vindex had ridden to the far side of the coach and waited, arms raised to take the unconscious girl. The centurion passed her to him.

‘Oh bugger,’ the Brigantian said, looking back past them, the way that the two men had come.

Ferox followed his gaze and saw eight horsemen coming quickly towards the gully. Several had mail, a few helmets, but the leader wore only trousers, his broad chest covered in intricate tattoos, his hair washed in lime and combed up into spikes. They must have been hidden in the grove of oaks, waiting their moment.

‘That way!’ Ferox pointed. ‘Down the gully.’ He pointed southwards. ‘Go!’ The ground was steeper that way, turning into a little ravine, the banks above it lined with trees. They might manage to get some way down before the Britons caught them, and at least they could make it difficult for them. Apart from that, there was nowhere else to go.

‘You two!’ he shouted at the Batavians in the gully. ‘Watch your rear!’ The nearest man looked back, saw the threat and nodded. ‘Give us as long as you can, then follow.’ He pointed down the gully. One of the men up on the far bank tumbled down the side, his dying horse following.

The fair-haired woman screamed as a javelin stuck into the wood beside her, throwing up splinters. The gelding was done, its long tongue lolling out, and the centurion knew that it would be hard to ride far down the gully as after a while it turned into scree.

The lone Batavian up on the far bank was making his horse rear, almost dancing it back and forth as he drove at the warriors. Ferox heard him laugh, taunting them, and when one of the Britons came close he saw the trooper’s long spear take him in the throat, coming back bloody as the Batavian held it poised to thrust again or throw. The other two troopers urged their horses up the other bank and with a whoop charged at the oncoming horsemen.

Ferox jumped down on the far side of the carriage, his foot catching a bronze statuette of one of the Muses on the corner of the roof, so that he landed awkwardly, rolling in the mud churned by wheels and hoofs.

‘Come on, you silly girl!’ He was up again, yelling at the woman to follow him. ‘Come on!’ He lifted his hands to catch her.

She glared at him, blue eyes angry, then crouched and sprang off. The same little bronze statue snagged the hem of her blue dress and tore it again. Ferox caught a glimpse of whitened sandals, pale green stockings and smooth calves before he caught her, slipping back a little in the mud.

‘Go!’ he ordered, spinning her round and shoving her down the slope. ‘After your mistress, girl!’ He guessed that no wealthy Roman woman would wait to help her maid, so this one must be the slave of the girl Vindex was carrying, the one with the golden necklace. A spoilt attendant with ideas above her station by the look of it, for she did not run, but looked back over her shoulder as if to argue.

‘Run!’ he shouted as loud as he could and slapped her hard on the rump, making her stagger forward and at last follow her mistress. Hitching up her skirts to reveal long elegant legs, she ran.

Ferox turned, drawing his sword once more. This time he did not feel the same thrill, although it was still so very natural. The sword was at least a hundred years old, a proven blade when his grandfather had taken it from a Roman to give to him. It was longer than the sort the army issued these days, but the perfect balance showed that the smith who had made it was a man of genius.

He began to walk backwards, ready to call the Batavians to follow. He could no longer see the pair who had charged the horsemen, but so far none of those barbarians had spilled over the bank. On the other side the lone cavalryman still held most of the barbarians back, wary of his deadly spear and the thrashing hoofs of his horse. Two warriors had slipped past now that there was no one left to guard the bottom of the gully. They came on in a crouch, warily, until one saw him.

The centurion kept going back, waiting for the right moment to stop. The two Britons were barefoot and bare-chested, and had their hair washed with lime to make it stiff and white so that it stood out like a wild halo. There was something dark on the foreheads, but otherwise no sign of the painted symbols worn by many tribes. Each had a small square shield with a central dome-like boss. The first had a knife at his belt and hefted a spear. The other had a long-bladed sword, without a point, but made heavy to add weight to the edge.

The two men split, so that they could take him from two sides. Ferox kept going back. The spearman was to his left and the swordsman to his right. They came slowly at first, watching him, until without visible signal both men yelled and ran at him.