Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

‘Tell them to be silent and stay in their ranks,’ Crassus barked at a decurion, who rode off to give the order. ‘Discipline wins battles, not shouts and bravado.’

‘Oh the raven! Oh the wolf!’

Arviragus’ horse reared up and he flourished his sword in a great circle over his head. Ferox could see that he was wearing the helmet and armour he had brought from Mona. Perhaps he had told his men that the spirit of Venutius was with them. If so, then little of the old war leader’s cunning was on show, for the prince pointed his blade at the Romans and set his horse into a gallop straight at them.

The singing turned into a roar and the warriors followed, streaming down the slope. The royal guards hesitated for just an instant, and then they too charged, ranks quickly becoming ragged. Horsemen rapidly outpaced the men on foot.

‘No patience,’ Enica said softly.

‘Barbarians,’ Crassus said with contempt.

Hundreds of men were pouring from the woods as well, some in the full panoply of the royal cohort and even more warriors. The Roman cavalry charged to meet them, some of them whooping as loudly as their foes. Seeing them pass, the auxiliary infantry jogged forward, banging the shafts of their spears against their shields.

‘What are they doing?’ Crassus gasped. ‘Discipline.’ Kicking his horse, he galloped towards the legionaries, yelling, ‘Halt! Halt there!’ His standard-bearer and two troopers followed.

The right-hand cohort of VIIII Hispana heard first and shuddered to a halt. The other went on another twenty paces before the centurions screamed at the soldiers to stop. Optiones ran up and down behind the rear rank, shoving men back into place.

‘Pila!’ Crassus’ voice carried. The leading warriors were fifty paces from the Roman line, Arviragus riding among them. Legionaries in the front rank raised their heavy javelins, poised to throw.

‘Steady now!’ The commander almost shrieked the words, and whether his words were not clear or too many men were nervous, someone hurled his pilum, the slim shank flashing as it caught the light. The missile sailed up and then came down striking the ground and sliding through the grass some way in front of the enemy. Another pilum was thrown, then another, and whole front rank joined in.

‘Stop! Stop, you fools!’ Crassus implored them, and centurions were yelling. Most of the second rank threw before they understood. One pilum spitted a warrior as he bounded forward, shield held too wide. The impact flung him back and knocked down another man. That was the only missile to strike home and the rest pattered to earth harmlessly.

A legionary in the third rank turned and tried to run. An optio was there, blocking his path with his hastile , the staff showing his rank. Then the man next to the first fled, dodging past. More followed. The line rippled like a long ribbon blowing in the wind.

‘Go!’ Ferox told Enica. Find Vindex and the others, and I’ll find you.’

She stared, then nodded. ‘What about you?’

‘I am still bound to the fool’s sister, so will try to get him out of this. Keep her safe,’ he told the Batavians. ‘Now go!’

Ferox walked his horse over to the turma of cavalry. ‘We’re going to save the legate. Will you follow me, decurion?’

The man gulped. ‘Yes, sir.’ He looked relieved to have the decision made for him.

‘Optio.’ Ferox called to the man in charge of the veterans. ‘Form an orb. We may have to fight our way out. Right, boys,’ he said to the cavalry. ‘Follow me,’ He drew his sword.

Crassus was riding among the legionaries, calling for order. ‘Pila!’ he bellowed. Some responded. The Brigantes were close now, barely ten or twelve paces away, and the few missiles thrown punched through shields and armour into flesh. Warriors dropped, or spun around, shield pinned to their arm or body. It was not enough to check the onslaught.

The legionaries broke. One moment there were two ragged lines facing the enemy, and then there were just hundreds of men running away. Some threw down shields and raced ahead of the rest. Others were still confused, searching for someone to tell them what to do, but fleeing in the meantime because everyone else was. A few knots of men clustered together, walking backwards, still ready to fight, and in a moment they were islands washed around by a wave of enemies. Crassus and his little escort came back with the crowd.

‘Halt, damn you! Re-form!’ No one listened to the legate. On the left the auxiliary infantry charged with a shout and it was the Brigantes who gave way. The cavalry on their flank attacked alongside them, but at the last minute wheeled their horses round and fled. On the right the Roman horsemen burst into the mass of attacking warriors, cutting them down. Numbers were against them. The charge lost momentum, and the troopers were in the middle of a crowd of enemies. Horses were speared, riders dragged down and slashed as they lay.

Ferox eased his horse into a trot. The fugitives were a hundred yards away, some of the enemy among them. He could see Crassus, mouth open as he screamed at the legionaries. His vexillarius was beside him and one of the troopers. Ferox could no longer see the other one. Crassus slashed down, and he wondered whether the legate had lost his temper and was now attacking his own men. Then the vexillum fell, and the standard-bearer slumped forward onto his horse’s neck, a javelin sticking out of his back.

‘With me!’ Ferox shouted, raising his gladius. His horse stretched into a canter.

Legionaries, faces pale and mouths open, were fleeing past them. ‘Rally on the veterans!’ Ferox yelled, without much hope that they would obey. Crassus was alone above the crowd, for the other trooper vanished.

‘Save the legate!’ Ferox yelled, driving his horse forward. The fugitives were splitting to run around the oncoming horsemen, and only a few came straight on, too terrified to reason. One barged into the shoulder of Ferox’s horse and was knocked down. He could see Crassus, four enemy warriors around him. Arviragus was thirty paces away, trying to reach the commander, but his own men and the fleeing Romans were in the way.

Ferox saw a warrior raising his spear. He edged the mare to the left, pushed the shaft of the weapon aside, and was past him before there was time to cut down. Ahead of him, Crassus sliced deep into a warrior’s skull, but his blade stuck in the dead man. A spear point drove into the side of his horse, and the animal screamed, collapsing. Crassus pushed against its neck, flinging himself off, landing on one of his attackers. Both men fell, but the legate no longer had a sword. Another warrior tried to get past the thrashing hoofs of the wounded horse to stab the aristocrat in the back.

‘You!’ Arviragus had seen the centurion.

Ferox ignored him. He was alongside Crassus, and cut down, slashing into a warrior’s neck. Blood spurted high as the man dropped his own sword and made a futile attempt to staunch the wound with his hands. Ferox sawed on his reins, making the mare rear. Its front hoofs knocked one man back and made the rest wary. He slashed to the other side, striking a shield with a dull thump. Then the turma arrived, spearing warriors, scattering them, driving into the crowd.

Crassus head butted the warrior he was grappling with, leaving his forehead bloody. Ferox had not expected an aristocrat to fight in such a way and could not help grinning.

‘Come, my lord! Behind me.’ He switched his sword to the left hand and held out his right. Crassus was swaying, stunned. ‘Move!’ Ferox screamed, and that prompted anger and then realisation. The legate took his hand and jumped up behind him.

‘Retire!’ Ferox shouted the order as loud as he could. A space had cleared around the turma. Two horses were down, a trooper dead and the other jumping up behind a comrade just as the legate was doing.