Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

Ferox saw them before he caught up with the governor – little clusters of horsemen over to the right. The valley was wide here, and the warriors almost a mile away, so that he could just tell that the bigger group that appeared a moment later were on foot.

Marcellus gave him a curt nod. ‘It seems that you were right. They are following like hounds on a scent. It does not look as if they fear us, so we must make sure that they keep believing we fear them.’

There were a good five hours left in the day – if you could call the short hours of these autumn days in northern lands good. The Romans pressed on, making little more than a mile in the next hour. To the west band after band of warriors appeared, still keeping their distance but steadily massing. There were not many horsemen, and even fewer chariots, some of which edged forward until they were almost within bowshot.

‘Ten or twelve thousand, I make it.’ Crispinus was riding with the legate and his immediate staff. The young tribune had nodded affably to Ferox, but not said anything about the rout of the cavalry.

Neratius Marcellus said nothing as he scanned the forming battle line. If anything, Ferox suspected that the guess was too low, for this was a bigger force than the one he had seen this morning.

‘What about to our rear?’ The legate’s question surprised him, and he glanced back. So far there were only a few hundred cavalry, the ones that had chased the Romans away this morning. Faced with the entire ala Petriana as well as supports, they proved much more wary, and Brocchus’ men were split into two halves, each one covering the other as they withdrew. Yet the warriors on foot could not be too far behind.

‘Just horsemen, so far, my lord. Be a couple of hours before the rest are any threat.’

‘Good. Then tell me, centurion, what would a wise general do now?’

Crispinus seemed surprised not to be asked, since he was senior, but made no protest.

The answer was simple, if the legate intended to follow the advice and instructions of all the emperors since Augustus. ‘Pitch camp,’ Ferox said, ‘rest up, and be ready to fight a battle tomorrow with baggage safe and the refuge of a rampart in case things go against us.’

‘“Do not go fishing with a golden hook,” the divine Augustus commanded his generals. “For you risk more than you could possibly gain.” Prudence is a virtue in a general, and what you have said is the prudent thing. Then tell me, centurion of Rome and Prince of the Silures, what would you do? What would Caratacus do? Would you gamble once more, with stakes as high as this?’

Ferox managed to stop himself from smiling when he heard the quote. He tapped the hilt of his sword. ‘I’d win, my lord, and you won’t do that by being prudent.’

‘It really is all so simple in the end, is it not? Listen to this man, Crispinus. We may have beaten his people, but that does not mean we cannot learn from them.’

‘But, sir, would it not be better to have a camp built? What if things go wrong?’

‘If they go wrong then we are all dead and no camp will save us.’ Marcellus smiled at the tribune. ‘There is nowhere to go and no one to come and help us. So we win or die. If I recollect Hannibal told his men something similar when they first saw Italy from the heights of the Alps.’

There was a low hill ahead of them, and the baggage train was sent to the top of it. Ovidius half remembered a story of a general making a simple rampart from the pack saddles and baggage, so the lixae in charge of the animals were instructed to do this. They made a ring and just managed to squeeze the animals inside, but the rampart was no more than a couple of feet high.

‘Perhaps my memory plays me false or the historian lied,’ admitted Ovidius, who was placed in charge of the rough encampment, with only the slaves under his command, for every soldier was ordered to fall in with his own unit. Ferox and Vindex rode past and saw Philo, looking pale, cold and strangely excited as he held a staff he had sharpened into a point.

‘If he doesn’t stab himself with that we can call the day a success,’ the Brigantian said.

The main line was in front of the hill, with the cohort from II Augusta as the senior unit in the place of honour on the right. Flavius Cerialis and cohors VIIII Batavorum were next to them on the left, then cohors III Batavorum and the men from XX Valeria Victrix. Each was formed just three deep, the minimum allowed by the drill book, so that the whole front line of infantry, with the gaps between the units, stretched for some eight hundred and fifty paces. The second line was smaller, with the two cohorts from VIIII Hispana on the right, and the Tungrians and Vardulli combined into one formation on the left, each stationed to cover an interval between the cohorts ahead of them. Each unit was formed six deep, and the gaps between them were far wider than those in the first line. Neratius Marcellus kept his singulares as a third line and ultimate reserve, and split the other cavalry with the ala Petriana on the left and the rest on the right. He had half a dozen scorpiones, and their crews carried these light bolt-shooters, and stationed them in pairs in the intervals between the cohorts of the first line. With them were the archers, told off to act as skirmishers.

‘Does not look very many, does it?’ Crispinus spoke softly. Ferox’s exploratores were on the right wing, but the legate had asked him to stay with him for the moment until he had to take command of his men. There was far less order among the Britons, but the numbers now seemed even greater. They lacked horsemen, with Brocchus’ men on the left flank facing barely more than their own number of mounted opponents. There were no cavalry on the other flank, at least at the moment. Instead there were men on foot, great blocks of them ten or more deep with barely a gap between each one. It was not a battle line capable of manoeuvre, but then they had no need for any subtlety.

‘“I would name the fields on which a mere handful of Romans put to flight great hosts of enemies, and the cities fortified by nature which they stormed, were it not that such a theme would lead me far away from my theme.”’ Ferox was pleased to remember the whole line.

‘Sallust again?’ Crispinus managed a nervous smile. ‘They sent him into exile for corruption, you know.’

‘He pleaded innocence.’

‘Don’t we all.’ The tribune seemed about to say more and then changed his mind. He offered the centurion his hand. ‘Just in case that old sod was wrong about the odds not mattering. My apologies, I had forgotten that you do not like swearing.’

‘Waste of good anger, my lord. And anger’s a handy thing on a day like this.’ Ferox had the odd feeling of being inside a song. In the north he could see more and more enemies appearing, but it would still be some time before they arrived. For the moment the odds were three or four to one, perhaps more, and that was enough to keep them busy. ‘Good luck, my lord. All that matters now is what happens in the next few hours, so we had better live them well.’

Crispinus gulped, his face pale. ‘Wish I could think of a joke,’ he said, but Marcellus was gesturing for Ferox to go to his men and the centurion walked his mount away. There was no point in hurrying, for the animal was tired enough as it was.

‘You do not have to come,’ he said to Vindex as the Brigantian followed him. ‘You and your men are paid to scout, not fight battles.’

‘Reckon scouting’s done for the day,’ Vindex said, rubbing his hand across the stubble on his chin. ‘But I have taken a strong dislike to the mongrels over there, and so have the lads. Keep thinking back to that poor boy they buried.’

‘Aye,’ Ferox said, and it was not just the Goat Man and his boy, but poor silly Fortunata, the slave girl left murdered in her bed, and all the others. ‘If ever people needed killing it is this Stallion and his rabble.’