Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

‘Halt! Halt. Form up!’ the senior centurion of II Augusta shouted at his men. Ferox could see the high transverse crest of the officer’s helmet as he rushed up and down in front of them. The other centurions took up the cry, and after a little confusion the legionaries obeyed. Optiones in the rear helped re-form the line, and wounded men were sent back out of harm’s way, apart from a few who refused to leave the front rank.

A single big flake of snow tumbled down and landed on the mane of Ferox’s horse. It did not melt and sat there, looking very white against the rough black hair. Other flakes followed and there was a glow in the clouds that promised plenty more.

Masclus signalled to the trumpeter to recall the Batavians harassing the enemy and they took their place again in close formation beside Ferox’s men. The decurion looked around for Flaccus, but could not see him and so walked his mount over to the centurion. ‘We go on your order, sir,’ he said. ‘When they charge?’ He nodded at the cohort of legionaries.

‘We wait a little longer.’ Ferox looked to the north. It was hard to see, but as far as he could tell the enemy coming from that direction were not yet close. ‘There’s time, and if we wait a bit the mongrels have longer to worry.’

Masclus looked unconvinced, and was no doubt wondering what an infantryman knew about such things, but Ferox was a superior officer and the habit of obedience was strong. ‘The lads are doing well,’ he said instead of challenging the order.

‘They are indeed,’ Ferox agreed and gestured over towards the centre where the Batavian infantry were charging again, not bothering with the drawn-out barritus this time, but simply screaming defiance as they took their blades to the enemy.

‘Should one of us go to the Lord Flaccus?’ The decurion asked the question, his expression formal, but not quite hiding the lack of confidence in Ferox that underlay the question.

‘Come on, boys, let’s show these dogs how real soldiers fight!’ the senior centurion of II Augusta harangued his men. He began to bang the blade of his gladius against the side of his long rectangular shield. ‘Come on the Capricorns!’

The legionaries copied him, drumming the swords in time, and then marched forward. Ferox did know his own legion, but could not help feeling pride as the men stepped smartly towards the waiting enemy. Part of him – and not just the part than remained a Silurian – disliked the banging of swords on shields, for it risked blunting a blade’s edge and the noise was often less frightening than silent order.

The Britons were not cowed.

‘Blood! Blood!’ The chant was clear, and Ferox saw the Stallion near the front of this group, his headdress distinctive and a bloodied sword in one hand. There were more of his tattooed followers with him and they looked fresh as they pushed their way into the front rank. ‘Blood!’

Romans and Britons began to charge at the same moment. This time there were no pila and only a few javelins thrown by the warriors as they closed the distance. Neither side flinched, until the last moment when they slowed as the two lines met. Men yelled and hacked or stabbed, shields pounding on shields, blades striking armour or flesh and bone.

‘We go now.’ Ferox patted Masclus on the shoulder. ‘Straight at them and hope they break. Flaccus will follow if we win and cover us if we don’t.’ He hoped that was true, but there was no time to make sure, otherwise the warriors facing them might get some of their confidence back.

Ferox drew his sword and hefted the flat round shield he had borrowed from one of Vindex’s men. ‘Right, boys. We’re going straight at those mongrels and we’re not stopping. Advance at the walk!’

His horse responded readily, and he had to restrain her from rushing with a gentle tug on the reins. To the left II Augusta were still fighting and so far no one had given ground. The noise was slackening as men grew tired.

‘Trot!’ Ferox wished that he had a trumpeter to repeat each order, but none had been allocated to the exploratores.

The waiting Britons were close now, huddled together so tightly that they looked like a wall. They must have used up all their missiles against Masclus’ skirmishers because nothing was flung at Ferox and the others as they approached, by now no more than thirty paces away. Neither were the warriors shouting, and that was a mistake, because horses did not like too much noise even when they were trained to battle.

‘Charge!’ Ferox yelled and was pleased when a trumpet sounded from one of the Batavian turmae. The snow was still falling and flakes struck his face as the horse leaped forward, at last free from restraint. The auxiliaries yelled and from behind he could hear the high-pitched yip-yip-yip war cry of the Carvetii as Vindex and his men followed. He heard the heavy feet of the horses pounding on the springy turf as they closed those last few yards. The enemy were still quiet, crouching, waiting, and it could all go wrong at this moment because if the warriors held their ground then no horse would ride into what seemed like a solid block. The horses would stop short, a length or more away, the riders almost bobbing in the saddle as they tried to kick the beasts on.

One of the Britons stood up straight, mouth open wide as if to shout, but Ferox heard no sound, and his horse kept going. The warrior turned, pushing at the men behind, and suddenly the mass broke apart, men running away. A gap opened and the mare flew into it. Ferox cut down, felt a momentary jar as the sword hit bone before biting into the skull, and his gladius was almost pulled from his hand before the speed of his horse wrenched it free. A warrior came at him from the right, spear thrusting at his chest, and he beat it aside and was past, running amid a loose crowd of fleeing men. He leaned into a thrust, caught a man at the top of the spine, saw him drop and kept going. There were cavalrymen close behind and on either side, slashing more often that they stabbed.

Ferox sliced down, the man sheering away at the last minute so that the triangular tip of the centurion’s blade cut through one eye and the warrior’s cheek. The Briton clutched at the wound screaming until Victor drove his heavy spear full into the man’s back. Masclus was pushing his horse through the press, and Ferox watched as he drew level with a running man, cut back and took the warrior’s head off with a single blow. A jet of blood pumped up into the air, and horses and soldiers alike were spattered with blood, but little of it was their own.

Not all the Britons were helpless. Two men came at Ferox, one from each side, and he yanked hard on the reins and made his mare rear, front feet flailing, and one man lost his teeth when a hoof slammed into his face. The centurion hacked through the right arm of the other warrior, the hand still clutching a workman’s axe as it fell free. He raised the blade again and cut across his body at the first enemy, missing his head and biting into his neck. With the next blow blood was pumping and the man dropped.

Ferox pushed on, and the crowd was more scattered, and yet still there were ten or more Britons for every Roman riding among them. It was intoxicating to have so many enemies at your mercy so that a rider could choose which one to kill next. Alexander had led his Macedonians like this, and it was small wonder that the king soon felt himself to be a god, because there was an exultation and raw excitement about such slaughter that was like nothing else. The auxiliaries killed and killed, and there were still more enemies as the troopers grew weary, and their horses went faster than the men on foot and soon burst out of the back of the great mob of Britons. Ferox looked around him and there were no more warriors to cut down, for all had been left behind. His horse began to slow, but he forced the mare on until she was properly clear and only then halted her and turned her around.