Adrian Goldsworthy: Vindolanda

The decurion was a good-looking man, immaculately turned out, and had not been chosen because he was especially bright. Like the others he let the warmth of the sunny afternoon and the steady rhythm of horses and the jingle of harness and equipment lull his senses. Hardly anyone spoke, and they walked along as the hours passed, conscious that a dozen picked Batavians had little to fear on a road like this.

It was the coach driver who spotted the dark smoke rising away to the west and called out. That was far behind them, which meant that turning back would probably take them towards the threat.

‘We keep going,’ the decurion said. ‘Keep your eyes open, boys.’ He sent a man to ride one hundred paces ahead and another to follow a similar distance behind the coach.

Flies continued to plague them and the steady buzzing added to the warmth of the afternoon to make them sleepy. The shade of a patch of oaks was cool and very welcome, even if it did nothing to hold back the swarms of insects. The road came out into the open, before twisting to find a gentler path down into a gully and up the other side. Beyond that it wove through a long wood, the tree branches sometimes touching as they closed over the road. The decurion knew the place well and wanted to get past it as fast as they could.

The driver was good and took the coach carefully down the slope, reining the mules back when they tried to rush up the far bank. The carriage was high, not really designed for paths like this, and it would be all too easy to tip it or break a wheel.

‘We need to be quick,’ the decurion called back to him as the driver eased the team and coach up on to the flat. The decurion could not see the man he had sent ahead, because the track turned sharply as it went into the trees.

A flick of the whip put the four mules into a trot and they hurried on. The woods were on either side, the trees a good javelin throw away from the road at this point, but pressing nearer up ahead, where the path turned again after about forty paces. There was no sign of the leading rider.

‘Bellicus!’ the decurion called out. The man was not doing much good if he could not see him.

A horn blew, a harsh, high-pitched, reverberating call unlike any army trumpet. Something whipped through the air and slammed into his right thigh, driving through muscle and flesh and into the wood of the saddle. An instant later a second arrow hit his chest, piercing one of the tinned bronze plates. He was flung back hard against the horns at the rear of his saddle, gasping as the wind was knocked from him with the force of a swung hammer. A slim shaft almost three feet in length with white feathers on the end stuck out of his chest. There was a great dark stain spreading out from the arrow in his thigh, more blood welling from the wound in his chest and seeping out between the scales, and as he tried to breathe his spittle was red. The decurion slumped forward as two more arrows sliced through the air. A horse reared, screaming in agony and hoofs thrashing. The rider alongside was hit low in the throat, the long-pointed arrow spearing into the little gap between the broad cheek pieces and the top of his mail shirt, with a force so great that it lifted him up and out of the saddle. He fell, arms spread and spear and shield dropping from lifeless hands, blood jetting in a high fountain. There was a rattle as sling stones struck, blinding one of the horses and striking another man’s helmet with a dull thud.

An old soldier, grey-bearded and with an empty eye socket covered by a leather patch, took charge.

‘Back!’ he yelled at the driver. ‘Get back across and get going. We’ll protect you!’

The coachman nodded and pulled hard on one side of the reins, flicking his whip to turn the team.

‘ Testudo! ’ the old soldier shouted. ‘Testudo on me!’

The rearing horse was down, an arrow in its belly and a front leg broken by a stone. Its rider was underneath, and he cried out as the animal rolled over him, limbs thrashing, and then went silent. The man hit on the helmet swayed, was hit by another stone, this time in the face, smashing his nose, and fell to the ground in a clatter of armour and weapons.

‘On me!’ the veteran kept yelling. He had his horse facing the woods, at an angle as if to make it a barrier, and the other six men rode to stand in a line behind him. Their long oval shields were upright, covering the rider from shoulder to below the knee and because of the angle giving some protection to their horse. It was a drill they often practised and the Batavians formed up without having to think about what they were doing.

Behind them the carriage and team were already half round and heading towards the path into the gully. Sling stones struck hard against shields. An arrow hit the old soldier’s shield and punched through the leather and three layers of wood so that the tip was just inches from his body. The arrowhead was long and narrow, tapering to a point, not like the broader heads used by the army’s archers. A second arrow flicked past his face, so close that he could feel the feathers brush him. He glanced back and saw the coach heading down into the gully.

‘Keep together, boys!’ he shouted, not because they needed the instruction but because it was good to hear a confident voice. ‘Not long now. Wait for the word and then we follow.’

A man jerked his shield forward to block an arrow aimed at his horse’s neck and almost spun with the savagery of the blow. Another Batavian was hit on the foot by a stone and spat curses in his own tongue until an arrow took him in the mouth.

The harsh trumpet blew, a deeper call repeated again and again. A horse turned away from the line, shaking its head from a brutal blow. The first arrow took it in the neck, making it fall forward, front legs buckling, and the second slammed into the cavalryman, bit through the rings on his mail shirt and went deep into his belly.

Twenty or more yelling men came streaming out of the woods on the other side of the track, behind the Batavians. They were tall barbarians, wild-haired and carrying the little square shields they liked so much.

‘Go!’ yelled the veteran. ‘Back! Back!’ He yanked on the reins, and the horse, its mouth in pain from the big army-issue bit, turned immediately and bounded back. The last five men were with him, all order gone as they galloped towards the gully. The old soldier saw the coach climbing the far bank; then it seemed to sway. Arrows ripped through the air and he saw the coachman pitch forward as one struck him squarely in the back, the shaft going so deep that little more than the feathers showed. The carriage juddered, then tipped and fell to the left, mules crying out as the weight dragged them back and over.

The screaming was all around them, and the hiss of javelins. Another Batavian went down, a thrown spear knocking him out of the saddle even though it did not pierce his mail. Britons surrounded the fallen man in a moment, hacking down with their long swords. The veteran turned and hurled his spear back, taking one of the warriors in the side as he raised his sword for another slash. Then his horse was at the lip of the gully, and suddenly the beast collapsed under him and he was flung forward through the air, until the ground slammed into him and there was only blackness.

Ferox’s gelding had always been willing, and went into a stuttering run, feet pounding across the spongy grass, its breath coming in gasps. Vindex was close behind. They saw a lone cavalryman still this side of the gully, bringing up the rear, the carriage turned frantically back and the confusion as the Batavians were shot down. Someone brought a moment of order, the troopers forming a line to protect the coach as it escaped. Ferox saw arrows skimming past them and wondered at that because bowmen were not common in Britannia, let alone here in the north, and these looked to be uncommonly good ones.