Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

The Tungrians did not cheer the second time that the enemy pulled away, going further back up the slope to rest and gather themselves for the last great effort. Instead the auxiliaries gulped for breath like men surfacing after time under water. Only a dozen were still on their legs and they formed a single rank, spaced wider apart than was safe and still only just managing to shelter the thirteen wounded. The rest had been dragged out of the formation by the Britons and slaughtered if they were not already dead. Several of the Selgovae waved aloft heads cut from the corpses. There were more warriors dead or crippled than Romans, but it did not matter. Ferox doubted that they would stand against another attack. Down the slope one of the groups of Romans had vanished, and the other had shrunk and was beset on all sides. He wondered what had happened to Vindex and the message and why no help had come, but it no longer really mattered, for unless they came very soon there would only be corpses to find.

Ferox sighed, breathed deeply, and stepped out of the ring of soldiers. There was one last gamble, and he might as well roll the dice, because if it did not work then they were all dead men. He raised his heavy shield and his gladius high.

‘Does any dare to fight me?’ He glared at the mass of warriors just a couple of spear lengths away. ‘I am Flavius Ferox, centurion of Rome and Lord of the Silures.’ The last was not true, but what did that matter in a man’s last moments? ‘I am a warrior and spit on you cowards who do not dare to meet me man to man.’ He spoke slowly because the local accent was so strong and he wanted them to understand. In their place, he would have lobbed a couple of spears at such a boastful idiot, but they were not Silures and Ferox relied on the tribesmen’s sense of pride and their love of a gesture fit for song.

The man carrying the Roman shield stepped forward and then turned to face the warriors, raising his spear high and roaring at them. The Selgovae cheered him, while Ferox fought back the temptation to run forward and stab the man in the back. He needed time, and that meant playing by the rules.

‘Come on, then, or do you need the shouts of others to make you brave?’ Ferox said.

The warrior ignored him, still with his bare back towards the Roman, before turning round very slowly. ‘You sound like a sparrow chirping,’ he said. He looked to be about forty, a fraction shorter than Ferox, but just as broad and with arms that looked even thicker. There was a silver torc around his neck, slim bracelets on his wrist, and a long sword at his belt. He wore plain shoes and trousers made from wool dyed in a blue, green and grey tartan. Old scars criss-crossed a chest that was free of any paint or tattoo. Patches of the red-painted shield showed wood where the leather surface was torn. The man must have kept it that way deliberately, no doubt to show that he had taken it from its owner in a fierce fight.

‘You are the Silure who is a slave for the Romans.’ The man had the palest eyes Ferox had ever seen, their gaze as bright and cold as winter sun, and it was that which sparked the memory. This was Venutius himself and as well as a great thief he was known as a deadly fighter. ‘I’ll give your head to my dogs,’ he said. Close behind was the warrior in the red and white cloak, and now that he was nearer Ferox could see that he was no more than fifteen or sixteen, the few sparse hairs on his upper lip a weak attempt at a moustache. Next to him was the standard.

‘If they are like you, they’ll yap more than they bite!’

Venutius, the lord of these valleys, chuckled as if amused, then threw his spear with all his might. At this distance it would pierce the board of any shield and Ferox punched at it with the boss, felt the iron dent so hard that it pressed against his knuckles, and he slid back through the grass, struggling for balance. The chieftain had his sword out, the slim blade three feet in length, shaped into a point as well as sharpened on the edges. He surged forward at the Roman and his people cheered him on.

Ferox’s left hand stung and his arm felt numb. He raised his scutum again as the Briton slammed his own shield into it, and again Ferox went back. The long sword slashed down and the centurion felt the blow slam on to the top of his shield, bursting through the binding and cutting a slice through the three layers of wood. He jabbed forward with his gladius, but the chieftain jumped back, surprisingly nimble for so big a man, and the iron point struck only into empty air.

It was hard to breathe and he felt the strength draining from his body. He had not seen Venutius or the youngster in the fighting, and they looked fresh and strong while he was close to exhaustion. He was too tired to be afraid.

Venutius came forward, dancing as much as walking, his legs bent. He thrust with his sword and Ferox blocked it, but his own swift jab forward went over the man’s shield and broke the skin in a slash across the chieftain’s shoulder. Venutius punched with his shield, but was too close for it to have much force, and Ferox swerved out of the way, making the man turn so that now they were on the same level. The chieftain jumped back again.

Ferox made sure that his breathing was even more laboured than it needed to be. It was unnerving having his right side to rows of enemies just a few paces away, but he had to ignore them and fix his mind and spirit on his opponent.

The chieftain came on again, his sword raised high this time, ready for a great downward slash. It was the way the Britons fought, and always a risk for it left much of his body unprotected by shield. Ferox had his sword high, ready to stab at eye level, but he guessed that Venutius’ guard was a feint and so was his. The Briton wanted to draw his eyes up to the sword.

Venutius twitched his right hand as if to hack down, but checked it as the centurion raised his own blade high to parry, and instead put his weight behind his shield and punched it forward. Ferox stepped into the blow, weight behind his own scutum, feeling the terrible slam that knocked the breath from both men. It brought him close to the chieftain and he kept his gladius up, but slammed the carved wooden pommel into the man’s face. It was shaped like a globe and had a small bronze nipple on the end.

The chieftain reeled from the unexpected blow, and Ferox followed it with a second, even harder, and felt the man’s nose break. He struck again and again, aiming at the forehead, and Venutius swayed, face bloodied and cold eyes suddenly empty. Then he sank to his knees. Ferox jumped back and let the man fall.

The young warrior in the striped cloak yelled, a sound without words, and rushed at him, sword high. Ferox barely had time to raise his shield before the blade carved through the air. It hit the top of his scutum, widening the great rent torn in it by Venutius, and Ferox let it drop to the ground, because the boy’s sword was stuck in the wood. He darted his gladius at the boy, the point going between the top of his mail and the cheek pieces of his bronze helmet, the crest a raven hinged so that the wings flapped.

‘You have a lot to learn, boy, but may not get a chance.’ Ferox held the sword there, pressing hard enough so that the lad would feel it and know that only a little more force would open his throat to the bone. The young warrior gulped, and although his green eyes stared wide in terror, he did his best to look brave.

Trumpets sounded. Not the vibrating call of the carnyx, but the rasp of the army’s brass cornu-horns and iron trumpets. The Selgovae were chattering, men pointing past the centurion, but Ferox did not take his eyes from the boy.

‘You are brave,’ he said, ‘and it is no disgrace to lose to an older fighter.’

‘Get it over with.’ The lad did not sound like one of the Selgovae and had more of the lilting tone of the Caledonians of the far north. The warriors were going back up the slope, turning to run.