Adrian Goldsworthy - Vindolanda

Ferox tried to shout, but had to cough before any sound would come. His mouth was dry as dust, and his voice cracked as he called out, ‘Rally, rally on me!’ He waved his sword in the air and his arm felt like lead. Men came to join him, all wide-eyed, not quite believing what they had done. Vindex was with them, the blade of his long sword notched, and Masclus with some of his Batavians, even the fur on their helmets flecked with blood. The Thracian was there as well, and the man looked down at his thigh, puzzled because he was wounded, but not remembering how it had happened. Some forty men had made it through. Ferox did not know how many had fallen, although he could see a couple of dead horses among the crowd of enemies who now milled about, uncertain what to do. They had stopped running. Beyond them he could see a few dozen more cavalrymen, which meant that some had not broken into the enemy formation. The legionary horsemen were further back and it was hard to see them through the snow.

He looked towards the centre and there was another lull in the fighting. It was strange to see the backs of the Britons rather than the Roman cohorts. Second Augusta did not seem to have made any ground, but they had not lost any either, and instead the two lines had fought until they were spent and then shuffled back so that they were a couple of spear lengths apart. He could see the six signa of the cohort clustered together in the centre of their line, but could not see the legionaries. The Britons were massed, fifteen, maybe twenty deep in places, and if the Stallion was still with them he would be whipping them up into a fresh frenzy. Ferox wondered whether II Augusta could hold and was pleased when he saw arrows arching high over the cohort and landing among the dense mass of enemy. Someone must have seen the danger and sent the archers to support the legionaries. In the centre the Batavians had made a little ground, but were still hugely outnumbered, and as the snow flurries became heavier he could not see the left flank and could only hope that XX Valeria Victrix and the cavalry were holding their own.

‘Right, lads, back we go to where we started,’ he said, running the blade of his sword through the mare’s mane to clean off the blood. ‘Go again before they start counting.’ A few of the men grinned, for there were hundreds of warriors in front of them and they were gathering together again, many of them turning to face the Romans who were now behind them. Yet if Flaccus sent the legionaries and the other horsemen charging in from the other side then they might still panic and flee.

‘Sir!’ Masclus pointed past the Britons to where the legionary horsemen were wheeling away to face north. For just an instant the snow slackened and Ferox glimpsed one of the cohorts of VIIII Hispana from the second line also turning away from the main battle. The reserves were shifting to meet a new threat at the very time the battle was balanced on a knife edge.

With a dull roar the Britons facing II Augusta went forward again, forcing weary limbs and fading spirits to try one more time. Ferox hoped that the legionaries could hold, for there was now nothing behind them.

‘Come on, those people have lived too long already,’ Ferox called to his men, his sword pointing at the re-forming Britons. Vindex laughed, his eyes wild.

‘Charge!’ There was no point building up the pace gradually. Horses and men were tired and it was just a case of getting them to go at the enemy as fast as they could. His men did not cheer, saving their strength for the fight, but they followed, a ragged line two ranks deep.

The mare jerked into a canter, stumbled, recovered and found new strength to go faster. The Britons were close, and among them were corpses, the snow settling quicker on them than it did on the damp ground so that they looked like little white mounds. Some of the Britons stood back to back, weapons ready, but Ferox ignored them and rode into the spaces where men fled from their path. The back of a warband was where the cautious and timid lurked, so there were few bold spirits and many more without the sense to realise that running was the most dangerous thing they could do. Ferox cut a man down and made for the next one, only to see the Briton fling himself flat so that he could not reach him. He hoped that someone behind him had a spear to finish the rogue off, but there was no time to worry and it was better to keep moving.

The Romans drove into the loose crowd of warriors, stabbing and hacking, pressing on wherever there was a space or one opened up ahead of them. They wounded and killed, but there was not the same surprise and momentum as the first charge and more of the enemy fought back. A Batavian took one man in the throat with his heavy spear, while another reeled back when his horse bit the warrior’s face, leaving it a bloody ruin. Another Briton drove a sharpened stake into the animal’s belly, and it screamed as it fell, throwing its rider who hit the ground hard and was hacked to pieces in moments.

Ferox pushed on, lunging to pierce a man’s skull just where he bore the tattoo of the horse, but another man, more of a warrior this time, was on his left, and two great blows shattered the centurion’s shield and left it weak and broken. He was about to turn and face him when another wild-eyed, tattooed man charged at him, his open mouth frothing, and it took all Ferox’s strength to block the furious blow of an axe held two-handed.

Vindex saved him. The Brigantian came up from nowhere, and there were sparks and a sharp ring as his long sword met the warrior’s blade and both came to a juddering halt. Ferox parried another wild sweep from the axeman, and had time to flick his blade up and jab into the man’s throat. Blood gushed from the wound, but the tattooed man used his last strength to raise the axe again, slicing its blade across the shoulder of the centurion’s horse.

Ferox turned to see Vindex beating the warrior down, wounding him on the shoulder so that the strength left his sword arm and then hacking again and again at the man’s head. When he had finished the blade of his sword had even more notches and was bent back at a weird angle.

‘You owe me a sword!’ the Brigantian yelled, and slammed his heels against his horse’s sides to force the tall beast onwards, using its weight to barge a path because his weapon was useless. Ferox followed, attacking any man who threatened the scout. His mare was bleeding badly, and he could feel her shudder. If he did not fight his way through to the far side then she would fall and he would have no chance.

Vindex found his path blocked. He caught a spear thrust and pushed it aside with his bent sword, and Ferox reached him and hacked down, taking off the back of the warrior’s skull so that blood and brains splashed over him. The press was getting denser, but then there was a shout and Roman horsemen were charging in from the front. There were not many of them, for only half the men left behind were bold enough to charge, but it was enough to confuse the Britons. Some died because they were facing the wrong way, and the mass broke up again so that Ferox, Vindex and the others could push through and gallop free of crowd, riding for the Roman lines again. At least ten men had not made it, and half of the rest were bleeding from wounds or nursing broken bones. Ferox’s mare sank under him as soon as they were clear, but he managed to spring from the saddle before she rolled over. Victor appeared, leading a riderless horse, its side stained with the blood of its former master, and Ferox thanked the auxiliary and hauled himself up.

The cohort of II Augusta had given ground. It was just a dozen or so paces and then the two lines had parted once more, men gasping for breath and with no strength left to shout. Each time men closed and fought they spent some of their strength and will, and no one knew how big a store of either he possessed until it was all gone. Each time the fighting lines separated it took longer to persuade anyone to go forward again. It was even harder when men sensed that they were losing and being forced back.