Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

The next time the turma went forward the Britons galloped away to safety, apart from the two denser knots of men that shook themselves into rough columns and pressed on.

‘Look.’ Vindex was pointing to the enemy right, where the horsemen were also beginning to advance. It would take them a long time to move around behind the Romans, but the threat should persuade the tribune to retreat before too long.

Trumpets sounded, clear across the valley, and then the notes became ragged as Crispinus led the two formed turmae forward into a trot, then a canter, heading straight for the closest mass of enemy. Watching a cavalry battle from a distance always struck Ferox like watching flocks of birds wheeling, diving and circling. When the auxiliaries went into a gallop the Britons started to rush at them, but then slowed and the whole group seemed to quiver. Crispinus was ahead of his men by two horses’ lengths, plume streaming from his helmet, polished armour gleaming, and his sword held high. Before he reached the Britons they scattered like frightened sheep. One was too slow and fell as the tribune came past and slashed across his body. Another was hit in the back by a thrown spear, but the rest got away.

The other group of warriors had grown in size as more men joined them, including some of the retreating skirmishers. It wheeled clumsily, before heading towards Crispinus’ men. The auxiliaries were no longer in neat ranks, for galloping always broke up a formation, and the enemy were coming from their left flank. Ferox saw the tribune waving his hand around, and the men responded to the order and followed him back. The legionary horsemen under Flaccus were there for just this situation, and once the auxiliaries fled past them they could drive off the enemy charge. That would give time for Crispinus to rally and re-form his men, so that if the legionaries became ragged then they could in turn be sheltered by formed supports. It was the way cavalry fought, and there was no shame in running as long as they stopped when ordered. Regulations said that at least half of the men should be kept back as a reserve, and although Crispinus had not used so many he ought to be safe.

Flaccus began to wheel his men until they were facing towards this threat. Crispinus and the auxiliaries were galloping back towards them, scattered but jubilant. The legionary cavalry kept turning as the Britons raised a great shout, taken up by the distant masses of warriors who yelled and blew their horns.

Flaccus’ men broke. One moment there was a neat block of riders three ranks deep and the next there was only a stream of panicked men galloping to the rear. The junior tribune at their head looked around as if in surprise, and then followed. Crispinus and the auxiliaries heard the enemy cheers redouble and spurred to run as fast as they could.

‘ Stercus ,’ Ferox said. ‘You’ – he looked at Vindex – ‘stick with me. The rest of you get back if you can as fast as you can and report this rout.’

IT WAS A stampede, not a retreat. One unlucky man died when his horse stumbled and threw him, another when his gelding took him into a patch of thick mud and became stuck fast. Several more were hit by javelins, wounding their mounts or tipping them from the saddle. Ferox could see the two tribunes near the front of the main pack of riders, their expensive horses faster than the rest, so that they gained steadily on the troopers. The Britons chased them, a great scatter of individuals each going as fast as his pony could run. Their animals were small and fat-bellied from grass and they could go on all day, but they were not fast. Before long the rearmost Romans were safe from thrown missiles and the lead kept growing.

Ferox had hoped to shadow the retreat from the hills on one side, looking for an opportunity to watch the two tribunes and see whether there was anything more than folly behind this morning’s rashness, but the two men never left the main group. He and Vindex soon attracted attention from the warriors, several of whom swerved towards them.

‘Better shift,’ the Brigantian said, but Ferox was not really listening.

‘Look familiar?’ he asked, pointing some way to the rear, where an ordered group of warriors came on at a gentle trot. They were half a mile away at least and he shaded his eyes as he strained to see. The leader was a big man with a red shield.

‘Gannascus?’

‘Reckon so.’

‘Be a shame to kill him,’ Vindex said. ‘I liked that big lump.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Does it mean we’re humped?’

Ferox did not answer, but if the high king had come with any great number of his warriors then the odds shifted even more in favour of the enemy. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Nothing more for us to do out here.’

It was a mile back to the rest of the mounted vanguard and the fleeing horsemen crossed the rolling moorland quickly. The head of the main column was already visible, resting for one of the short breaks given every hour. It took longer for Ferox and Vindex to get back, and by that time the provincial legate had issued the order to retreat. The instruction was easier to issue than perform, for the unit commanders were taken by surprise. Once they were convinced that this was truly what they were being told to do, it was simple enough to about face so that each detachment was still in a great rectangle, but now facing back the way they had come. It was harder to turn around the carts and strings of pack ponies and mules and, as always with the baggage train, nothing could be done without much shouting and beating the animals with sticks.

Just before noon the army began its retreat. Ferox rode with the legate, watching as he urged the men onwards. The soldiers were not as willing as they had been even when the weather was bad. To advance was one thing, for it held the prospect of meeting and smashing the enemy, which would bring glory, rest, and hopefully plenty of hot food. No soldier liked to retreat, and what made it worse was the feeling that it was unnecessary.

‘So the cavalry got beaten?’ Ferox heard a legionary of VIIII Hispana complain as soon as the governor was out of earshot. ‘So what? Cavalry, I’ve shit ’em.’ One of his comrades nudged him to warn him that an officer was listening, but the man was unimpressed by a centurion he did not recognise. ‘Let’s push on. We’ll soon cut this daft druid down. See how brave he is when he sees his mentula on the end of a sword.’

‘Hope it’s bigger that yours or we’ll never find it!’ another man shouted.

‘They’re not happy.’ Flaccus had appeared beside him. He looked flushed, but otherwise unscathed.

‘Soldiers never are, sir,’ he said. ‘Or at least they’re never happy unless they’re bitching about something.’

‘They do not like to run away.’ The junior tribune’s horse stirred and he made this an excuse to lean against its neck and pat the beast. Ferox could see that he was embarrassed by that morning’s rout. ‘It was not my fault,’ he began, and the centurion let him talk at his own pace. After all, there was no reason for him to explain himself to a mere centurion. ‘It all happened so quickly. We were ready to charge in support, the Tribune Crispinus and his men were coming back towards us, and then suddenly a voice shouted out, “Retreat! Retreat!” The men were turning before I could say anything.’

The legionaries had marched on and there was a gap before the next cohort would come alongside them. Flaccus fussed with his horse, avoiding the centurion’s gaze. His voice was low. ‘I may be mistaken, but I believe it was Crispinus who shouted. I fear that he panicked.’

A summoning call from the legate forced Ferox to canter away, but he sensed that the tribune had said what he wanted to say. The man had done his best to look embarrassed, but could not hide his delight in the failure of a superior.