Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

The army marched expedita, with the minimum baggage, but that still meant hundreds of tents, and hard tack, salted bacon and other food to last nine days, after which they would have to rely on replenishing supplies from the well-stocked granaries in the forts along the road. All of the cavalrymen had sacks of fodder tied behind their saddles, the big bags making the animals look clumsy and misshapen. One and a half thousand ridden or led animals and twice that number of men on foot including the slaves soon churned the roadway into mud, getting worse as more and more passed the same spot. The infantry marched in a hollow square, with the baggage train protected inside, but this just spread the trampling over a wide area either side of the road. As always the men in the back had it worst, held up the longest by any delay ahead of them, and squelching through cloying mud heavy enough to trap a boot and rip it free. The legate let them stop and camp just beyond Bremenium, and men from the fort brought out enough dry kindling and timber for fires to be lit.

The fourth day saw gaps in the cloud, with tantalising glimpses of sun, before the next shower blew in across the hills. It was mostly rain apart from an hour’s swirling snow in the middle of the day. Men slipped as they trudged up and down through the hill country, and when the legate stopped and joked with them they no longer laughed as loudly.

It was during the snowstorm that Ferox for the first time saw warriors watching them. His men had been reporting them all morning, and he did not doubt them, but the weather made it hard to see far. He was surprised that it had taken so long, and guessed that enemy scouts had been there for some time, although with the Stallion’s men it was hard to know what to expect. They had seen Votadini quite a lot, but those little groups of armed men on ponies were never shy of calling to them or coming in to talk. They were locals, wanting to assure the Romans of their friendship – and keep an eye on the army to make sure that it behaved in a friendly way. They said that Trimontium was under attack, but holding out, and that the Stallion had promised his followers a great victory in the days to come, greater than they could imagine, and that this would be just the first. The Votadini shrugged when they repeated his claims, doubtful and cautious at the moment, but not so much that they were sure such a thing could not happen.

Ferox sent regular messages back to the cavalry vanguard and on to the main force, and once a day, usually in the middle of the morning, the provincial legate rode forward to meet him in person. Neratius Marcellus had a trio of stallions, all of them tall and black, and when he was in the saddle no one noticed his small stature. As usual his questions were direct for all the florid language, but his frustration at the ever-slower progress was obvious.

The rain stopped as the army began to dig its camp for the night. That was some comfort, but the brooding red glow off the low clouds ahead of them added to the grim mood among the cold and wet men as they carved out a ditch from the rocky soil and threw up a rampart.

‘Too many fires just to be a burning fort, my lord,’ Ferox said when the legate asked his opinion. ‘Even two forts.’ There was a smaller garrison ahead of them, about a dozen miles south of Trimontium. The few locals he had found during the day said that the Roman forts held out, but that both were hard pressed. More and more warriors appeared around the army as it advanced. Several pairs of scouts were chased. Two more came back, both men on the same horse, and one with a javelin wound to the thigh.

‘You said just ,’ Neratius Marcellus held his gaze.

‘Maybe they have fallen, maybe a few of the buildings have been set on fire, and all the farms for miles around. That’s still not enough fires.’

‘Then what is it?’ the legate snapped, his patience worn thin.

‘It’s an army, my lord. A big army, not far away.’

Neratius Marcellus took a long breath. He was drinking from a silver cup and now offered it to the centurion, who shook his head. ‘Tomorrow then,’ the legate said.

‘Probably, my lord. This is as good a place as any – for them as well as us.’

‘And you saw them?’ The legate’s dark eyes never left the centurion’s face.

‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Only a few riders. But they are there, sir, and they are coming.’ In the late afternoon Ferox had ridden to the north-west, searching on his own for the force that he was sure planned to swing around behind them and box them in. He guessed at least half of the Stallion’s men would surround them, while the rest blocked their path. It was a guess, but it was what he would have done in the priest’s place.

‘Why are you sure?’

How could he explain the warning signs set out by the Votadini and the smoky fires men had lit, giving off thick plumes to signify danger, and expect even the sympathetic Marcellus to understand? Ferox did not need to see thousands of warriors to know that they were there.

‘They need to fight us as much as we need to fight them,’ he began, deciding that logical argument was more likely to convince this senator. For all his capability, Neratius Marcellus had never once seen battle, and up until now had spent his time on military service in the dull routines of peace. ‘His men will be running out of food by now. Faith and the promise of miracles will keep them here for a while, but not forever. Eventually empty bellies will make the warriors drift home. Before that happens he needs to work his magic and win a victory. This is where he will make it happen. All you need to do, my lord, is give him the chance.’

‘It’s a gamble.’ The legate turned away and paced up and down the small tent. Another man would have needed to duck his head under the low roof. There was silence for a long time and he must have crossed back and forth a dozen times. His friend Ovidius sat on a folding chair and watched him, now and again rubbing his dripping nose. The old philosopher had insisted on coming, and appeared remarkably cheerful in spite of the discomfort and danger.

‘It’s a big gamble,’ Marcellus said at last.

‘I thought that was why we were here, my lord.’

Ovidius chuckled.

‘So be it.’ The governor turned to his friend. ‘ Iacta alea est , as they say. It worked well enough for him.’

‘ Aneristho kubos ,’ the philosopher corrected him. ‘As I heard it, Caesar spoke in Greek.’

‘That must have made all the difference. Well then, I shall roll the dice and see how they fall.’ His smile was thin, his face taut in the flickering light of the lamp. ‘And what do your Silures say when they play a game?’

‘We do not think much of a man who plays, my lord,’ Ferox said, trying to sound more confident than he felt. The Romans were an emotional people, ready to weep and cry out in triumph or frustration, and so many years spent among them had weakened the calm so important to his people.

Marcellus’ face turned hard immediately.

‘We admire only the man who wins,’ Ferox told him.

‘And care little for courtesy, I see.’ The legate punched him softly on the arm. ‘Well, true enough, and I doubt Caesar thought any different. Get some rest. Tomorrow we win.’

Halfway through the night the cloud cleared and the first faint outline of the moon rose across the sky. It was cold, turning sentry duty into a numbing torment as men stared out into the night and hoped not to see anything. A heavy sun rose blood red over the hills, but the morning brought only slow relief from the chill and the reds and pinks in the sky hinted at bad weather to come. Before dawn Ferox and his exploratores went ahead. One of the auxiliaries, an easterner by the look of him, chanted a low hymn to the god of the morning as they rode, and for once the others kept silent and listened to the strange words in a tongue they did not understand. It made Ferox think of Philo, who was back in the camp having insisted on following his master. With another slave, the boy helped to look after the tent that he shared with two of the Batavian centurions.