Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

A bowshot behind the front line the Vardulli were stationed in a dense column, with the turmae of ala Petriana to their rear.

‘Some archers really would be nice,’ Crispinus said to Aelius Brocchus, as the prefect arrived to inform him that everyone was ready. ‘Soften them up a bit before we go in.’

‘Yes, and some scorpions.’ Light bolt-shooters or scorpiones were often taken by the legions on campaign and had the ability to pick off enemies at a range far beyond a sling or bow, but auxiliaries were rarely given them in the field.

‘Ah well, no use lamenting what we do not have. We shall just have to do it at close quarters.’ Crispinus was deliberately ignoring Flaccus, who kept making hints that time was passing. It had taken a good half-hour to get the units into position. Men had taken last gulps of posca, or something stronger if they had it, as the clouds blew away and a bright sun beamed down on them. Now, stripped down to their fighting gear, they carried no canteens, although some of the galearii were posted behind each formation with waterskins.

‘With your permission, sir,’ Ferox asked. Seeing the nod, he waved to Vindex who raised aloft a long spear topped with the head of the priest. The pair of them cantered up behind the Batavians and then walked their horses along in front of the Roman line, giving the tribesmen a good look.

There was a roar from up the slope, turning into shouts of anger and promises of vengeance. The warriors jeered and taunted, although he was not sure whether anyone recognised the man or they simply guessed that he was one of their own. When they came in front of the fort, Vindex dipped the spear and Ferox pulled the head free. He waved it around up in the air and then flung it forward. Warriors howled at him from the fort, and he heard them assure him that soon his own head would roll in the grass and get pissed on by their women.

‘Time to go,’ he told Vindex. ‘You had better join the scouts with the rearguard.’

‘And miss the fun?’

The Batavians clashed the shafts of their spears against their shields three times, the pounding sound sending echoes back down the valley. Ahead of them the Britons blew their trumpets and screamed defiance. The tall auxiliaries then raised their shields over their faces and set up a low murmur.

Vindex’s horse flinched at the unearthly sound, tugging hard on the reins and turning full circle. ‘Think he wants to change sides.’

The murmuring slowly grew louder, the Batavians letting the sound reverberate against the boards of their green-painted shields. It built up like a tide washing ashore, the crests of the waves rising.

‘What is it?’ Vindex asked.

‘They call it the barritus ,’ Ferox told him. ‘It’s a German thing. They say you can tell who will win the battle from its sound.’

The steadily rising chant began to drown the challenging cries of the Selgovae. Warriors faltered, puzzled by a war cry that had no words, but kept getting louder.

‘If those boys had any sense they’d charge,’ Ferox said, looking up the hill as he and Vindex went back behind the Batavian line.

The Selgovae did not charge as the Batavian shout reached a crescendo, but the warriors had sunk into sullen, browbeaten silence. When the auxiliaries stopped the silence was oppressive. To Ferox it looked as if the lines of warriors up on the slope were quivering. He saw a few men at the rear walking away over the saddle. He was just about to urge Cerialis to move when the prefect drew his sword.

‘The Ninth Cohort will advance. Forward!’

The Batavians stepped out, left leg first so that the shield remained closest to the enemy. They were silent, eerily so, with only the clink of armour and equipment as they went at regulation pace up the slope. Cerialis rode just behind the flag in the middle of the line, a pair of picked veterans walking on either side of his horse.

The Selgovae started to shout again, jeering at the enemies, but somehow it did not sound as if their hearts were in it. A few ran out in front of the mass, javelins ready in the hands. More were drifting away to the rear across the saddle and out of sight.

Ferox joined Crispinus as he followed some twenty paces behind the Batavians. The Britons kept yelling as the Romans marched forward in silence. The first javelins were thrown. One struck a Batavian’s shield and bounced off, its force already spent. The others did not even come close. A few of the Britons out ahead of the mass became bolder and scampered nearer. The next missiles were better aimed. A Batavian was hit on the shin, the broad head of the javelin gouging flesh. He stumbled and fell flat on his face, hissing with pain.

‘Leave him!’ an optio yelled from his station behind the rear rank.

Another soldier cursed as the point of a thrown spear burst through the board of his shield. ‘Bastards!’ he screamed up the slope, shaking his own spear at them.

‘Silence!’ the optio bellowed. ‘Keep quiet and stay in your place!’

The Tungrians were moving as well, their slingers dropping stones on the rampart of the fort. It was awkward for the auxiliaries with the large flat oval shields to put a stone in the sling and swing it properly, so the Tungrians worked in pairs. One man covered his comrade with his shield while the other laid his shield down and lobbed missiles at the enemy. There were a few slingers among the Selgovae and stones whizzed through the air in response. They were harder to see than an arrow, let alone a javelin, which made it more difficult to dodge them. A Tungrian was down, kneecap badly bruised or broken by a stone.

‘Hey, reckon the legion is busy.’ Vindex was pointing past the enemy at a dark smear rising from the valley beyond. ‘There’s another,’ he added a moment later. The Legate Quadratus and his troops must be further forward than expected, already putting houses to the torch.

‘They’re breaking,’ Crispinus said, the words almost a question because he did not believe what he was seeing.

The Batavians were still fifty paces from the main line of Selgovae, but that line was dissolving as more and more men streamed back across the saddle.

The tribune slammed his spurs into the side of his horse, drawing blood and sending it shooting forward. ‘Charge, Cerialis! Charge!’

Flavius Cerialis obviously had the same thought. ‘Charge!’ he yelled, pushed his horse through the line of his own men. ‘Charge!’ The Batavians started to yell, raising a great angry howl as they broke ranks and sprinted up the slope, spears raised ready to throw, but their targets were fleeing ahead of them. The trumpeters did their best to sound their curved cornu -horns, but the notes were ragged and thin as the men ran to keep up.

‘Wait,’ Ferox told Vindex. ‘If they have the men and the wits to use them, they’d have a thousand warriors crouching just beyond that crest ready to hit us.’

Aelius Brocchus had not followed the tribune and gaped at the suggestion.

‘Trust a Silure to think like that,’ Vindex said.

‘They’re just barbarians,’ Flaccus said, but there was doubt in his eyes along with the excitement of the moment.

They watched as the Batavians surged up the last few yards on to the crest, led by Cerialis and with Crispinus now amongst them. They did not halt, but kept going, disappearing from view.

Aelius Brocchus let out a long breath and grinned. ‘Good job we are not still fighting the Silures. I’ll bring up my men.’ He headed down the slope.

There was a cheer as the Tungrians charged up the slope towards the old fort, their slingers tagging along with the main column. Its defenders were running like the other warriors, but going out through another entrance and fleeing along the heights.