Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

They did not see any warriors for the first hour, and that was strange, but Ferox kept his men in hand for it would be dangerous to get too far ahead of the supporting cavalry in the vanguard. The enemy were there, they were close, and he suspected that they wanted the Romans to press on. There were plenty of tracks showing where horsemen and quite a few men on foot had been on these hills before they had drawn back to the north.

The wind had dropped, otherwise they would have smelled them sooner, long before they saw them. There were plenty of piled stones warning of great danger, and it was no surprise when Vindex rode back and called to him, ‘You had better take a look.’

Ferox followed the Brigantian up the long ridge, ignoring the road, which climbed in a series of laborious bends. A pair of scouts were waiting for them on the crest, sitting impassively, spears resting on their shoulders. Neither man paid him any attention as he rode up, both just staring out at the view. He could not blame them. When it crossed the ridge the road dipped down, following the valley until it began to climb again. It was too wide to be called a pass, but on the line of hills around three-quarters of a mile away the rebels waited. Most sat or wandered about without apparent purpose. There were clusters, some very dense, and elsewhere looser swarms of men. Ferox tried to make a rough guess at numbers, and quickly reached a total of well over ten thousand. More kept strolling across the crest to join them and he guessed that there were many, many more not yet visible.

‘There’s a few of them,’ Vindex said.

‘Won’t be so many by tonight,’ Ferox replied.

‘And how many of us will there be?’

He sent a messenger back to the main force, choosing Victor from the half-dozen troopers with him because he knew and trusted the man.

The sun had gone, the sky once more an unbroken sea of dirty clouds, so that the day had become darker rather than lighter. Up on the ridge an icy wind gusted into them, making them lean into it to keep their balance.

‘Least it’s not raining,’ Ferox said to Vindex as they waited and watched the enemy.

‘Not yet.’

The Britons did not advance. Their numbers kept growing and over time the line more clearly became a row of dense masses. Even if they had answered the Stallion’s call to war, Ferox suspected that most men were seeking out their kin to stand beside if it came to a fight. He fought the urge to go forward and take a closer look, and instead remembered the provincial legate’s instructions. There were four or five hundred horsemen in plain sight on each flank, but almost everyone else was on foot. From up here he could see few chariots, which meant that not many important chieftains had joined the cause. That is if they were not simply waiting behind the ridge, ready to make a triumphant entrance just before the battle. The little he had seen of the Stallion and his followers did not suggest any great subtlety in the way the man did things, but if important leaders had joined him then he would not be in sole charge and some of them would be old and wise in war. Then there was the great druid, if he was over there somewhere, a man famed for his deceptions and magic. For the moment the Britons waited and Ferox wanted to do nothing to provoke them.

Others did not share his caution. The decurion in charge of the first turma to reach them was young and eager, and it took a direct order to stop him from riding forward on his own and challenging the enemy to single combat. Fortunately he was from the ala Petriana and Ferox knew enough about Brocchus to be confident that the prefect would frown on such glory-hunting.

Crispinus and Flaccus were another matter, and when the two tribunes rode up at the head of the main body of the vanguard, they looked like two boys who had just been told that their schoolmaster was sick and would not be back for a week.

‘We have them!’ Crispinus almost shouted the words, waving his hand along the great length of the enemy host.

‘Yes, bet we’ve got them worried,’ said Vindex under his breath.

Flaccus’ eyes betrayed a moment of anger before he made the decision not to hear anything said by so insignificant a person as a scout from one of the tribes. ‘It’s almost like an arena,’ he said. ‘Just perfect.’

In the past, Crispinus and the other tribune had treated each other with courtesy and no more, but the prospect of action appeared to have created a wave of mutual affection. ‘The legate will be delighted.’

If the fools expected Marcellus to advance and then attack straight up that slope then Ferox was not about to shatter their illusions.

‘I feel that we should keep them busy,’ Crispinus announced. ‘We have a decent number of well-mounted men, so can disengage and withdraw whenever we want.’ The two tribunes had arrived with the formed supports for the scouts. There were forty legionary cavalrymen, and three turmae, all from ala Petriana.

Ferox wished that Brocchus had come up. ‘My orders are not to look for trouble, my lord.’

‘I am not asking you to do anything,’ Crispinus said with a smile. ‘Your men have been in the field longer than us and are bound to be tired. What I suggest is that the noble Flaccus and I take the others and see if we can sting some of their horsemen. We can kill a few and that will show our men and the whole army that the enemy are not to be feared.’ He turned to stare at the enemy for a while. ‘The left looks closest so that is the place to strike. What do you say, Flaccus?’

Ferox thought he saw hesitation, doubt, and then resignation as the junior tribune agreed.

‘Good,’ Crispinus said. ‘Then let us not waste any time.’

Vindex watched them ride back and give orders to the cavalry. ‘Daft buggers. What about us?’

‘Get everyone together. We might have to get away in a hurry.’

Ferox wondered about the two tribunes, and whether this reckless aggression would save him the trouble of finding out which was the traitor. As Flaccus went past at the head of the legionary horsemen Ferox could not help viewing their ranks with distaste. It was not fair, because at most a few were involved in the murders and all of these men could be innocent.

Crispinus formed two turmae in a line three deep and sent the other ahead in a loose line ready to skirmish. There were a couple of dozen men in each unit. Flaccus stayed back with the legionary horsemen as a reserve. The deployment was sensible enough, even if the plan itself was foolishness, and there was nothing to be gained by stirring up the enemy in this way.

The Roman cavalry went forward steadily, not going too fast and keeping good formations, and as they came over the crest and into sight of the Britons some of the warriors on the far side of the valley began to stir into life. Trumpets sounded, the noise thin in the gusting wind, and men waved standards in the air. The Romans pressed on, keeping to a walk, and the distance closed to less than half a mile.

‘You have to admire brave idiots,’ Vindex said, and then repeated the joke in their own language to his scouts.

‘Why?’ one of them said.

With a low cheer, the horsemen opposite the Romans began to advance to meet them. Two tight groups of fifty or sixty trotted ahead, and as many more galloped forward as a loose swarm. Ferox did not hear the order, but the leading turma split into two lines of horsemen who cantered straight at the oncoming Britons.

‘Neat, very neat.’ The comment came from one of the troopers behind Ferox, and he had to concur. The men leading each line of horsemen suddenly swung away, rode parallel for long enough to throw a javelin and then turned back towards their supports. Each man did the same, so that a stream of missiles struck the leading enemy, dropping several horses and men. By the time the last man in each file had thrown the leader had turned again and swung back towards the Britons to repeat the drill. More warriors were hit, and so far all of the javelins flung back had missed or struck harmlessly against shields.