Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

‘Fight me!’ Arviragus still struggled to force his way through the mass of his own men. ‘Ferox, fight me now!’

The troopers were falling back, ranks long vanished, but keeping together. Ferox was tempted to pass Crassus to another rider and meet the challenge.

‘Give me your sword,’ the legate said. ‘I’ll kill him.’

‘Don’t be an idiot, sir,’ he whispered back, and then raised his voice to shout. ‘The queen sends you her greetings! She is well, prince, and will soon lead her people!’ Ferox slapped his horse’s rump with the flat of his sword. ‘Come on, girl!’ She bucked, flinging the legate up until he came down hard against her spine, then she turned and cantered away after the turma. A javelin whizzed as it passed over Ferox’s head. Crassus had his arms around the centurion to stay on, the motion of the running horse bouncing him up and down with every step, while the rear horns of the saddle jabbed into him.

The few knots of legionaries to resist had been cut down and the survivors were still running. On the left, the auxiliary infantry gave way more slowly, the Brigantes keeping at a wary distance, until some of the mounted guards came in behind them. Someone kept the men in hand, and the auxiliaries formed into a circle, not quite as neat as the defensive orb of the drill book, but good enough. Javelins showered down on them. The entire right of the Roman force had collapsed.

Fortunately most of the Brigantes either chased the fugitives or surrounded the circle of auxiliaries. Only a few hundred, mostly from the royal cohort, were forming to advance against the veterans, and the prince was doing his best to marshal them into ranks. Ferox realised that the optio had not obeyed his order. The old soldiers were in a dense cuneus, a block ten broad and seven deep. At the order they marched forward, forcing the retreating turma to split and go on either side. The optio nodded affably to Ferox.

Arviragus was still mounted among all the men on foot. The front rank was ready, oval shields with dark blue fields almost touching, spears raised to thrust over them.

‘Come on, boys! Let them hear you!’ The Brigantes yelled defiance. The veterans ignored them, marching forward in silence apart from the bump of shields and rattle of armour and belts. Some of the Britons threw javelins. One fell short, another stuck fast in a scutum and the rest bounced off the big curving shields.

‘Pila!’ The optio had a voice as harsh as a raven’s.

‘Charge!’ Arviragus screamed, and the Brigantes joined in the shout as they rushed forward.

‘Front rank!’ the optio cawed. With a ripple ten pila were thrown, spinning through the air. One of the guardsmen was hit in the face, the small, pyramid-shaped head of the missile smashing into the bridge of his nose. Another caught the man beside him in the neck. Two more punched through shields, and slid on breaking rings on mail shirts to reach flesh.

‘Second rank!’ Ten more pila followed, devastating the ranks immediately in front of the cuneus. Arviragus’ horse fell, and he was pitched off to fall among his men. A dozen others were wounded or dead, the charge halted in its tracks and the men clustering together.

‘Third rank!’ This time the pila struck a huddle of shields, their owners packing tight and trying to shrink to make themselves as small as possible. One of the heavy javelins pierced two overlapping oval shields, pinning them together.

Ferox reined in to watch, and felt the legate’s weight slip away. ‘They’re my men,’ he said, striding away to join the cuneus.

‘Charge!’ As soon as each man had thrown his pilum, he had grasped the handle of his gladius. Pushing forward and down, the short blades slid easily from their scabbards, ready in hand as the order came to attack. The veterans broke into a run and raised a shout that drowned out all the other noise on the battlefield. Ahead of them, the huddle of shields split apart as the Brigantes ran. Not a man stayed to meet the Romans sword to sword.

‘That’s how it’s done,’ Ferox said, half to himself. He looked among the bodies and could see no sign of Arviragus, although his horse lay dead. For the moment the Britons were running in this part of the field.

‘Halt.’ The veterans stopped. ‘Retire!’ The detachment from Legio XX about faced and marched smartly back the way they had come. Crassus fell in beside the optio on the right at the end of the front rank. ‘Well done, boys. Now we shall go back a little way and then face them again. That’s if they dare.’ The veterans marched steadily on. They had done this before.

Ferox saw the Brigantes reforming two hundred paces away. There were more of them this time, although he could not see the prince. He looked behind and saw a trail of dead legionaries. Some of the horsemen had found easy pickings among the fugitives, but the ones he saw were scattered as they chased the rest. There was no sign of any group under control and likely to turn back to face the legate and his little band. Sixty auxiliaries came to join them, the only formed remnants of the whole right.

A trumpet sounded, a Roman trumpet, and although that did not mean much with the royal ala present, he was relieved to see two turmae who had rallied and now attacked the horsemen pursuing the fugitives. The Brigantes were scattered, horses weary, so were almost as helpless a prey as the panicking legionaries had been not long ago. Over on the other flank the circle of auxiliaries held out, but the organised bands of the enemy were focusing most of their attention on them and Crassus simply did not have the men to reach them. They must either fight their way free or fall where they stood, and Ferox suspected that it would be the latter.

He decided to leave. Crassus had a good chance of withdrawing with what was left of his army, for there was no sense of purpose to the enemy now. He wondered whether the prince was injured or whether he was too inexperienced to know what to do. In the centre, the main mass watched the veterans retreat without making any effort to push them. If Crassus did not do anything too foolish, then he ought to get away. He had lost his first battle and seen his dreams of glory shattered, but at least the man was acting as a senator should, refusing to give in, saving whatever men he could and preparing to fight again another day. That was what the aristocracy preached. Ferox had read that the consul Varro lost fifty thousand legionaries in an afternoon, and then got a vote of thanks from the Senate for not despairing of the republic because he refused to accept the enemy’s overtures of peace.

This was a small disaster, very small by comparison, but fortunately both commanders were almost as inept as each other. If Arviragus could have held his men in place for longer, then he would surely have rolled up the Roman line and inflicted even greater loss. Even so, it was a victory, and that was what the leader of a rebellion needed more than anything else. He had drawn first blood, facing the might of the empire and routing it. People would hear the news and wonder whether Rome was as powerful as they had thought. Only the truly desperate or determined joined a cause without hope, but as hope grew they would wonder and more and more would take the risk. News of this victory would surely at least double Arviragus’ numbers before the end of the month. If he won again, then all of the Brigantes might rise, and if they did, so would other tribes. The conspirators had spoken of indebted chieftains throughout the province, men with little left to lose. They might declare themselves for some true emperor, or speak of freedom. That did not matter, for all that it really meant was fire and sword throughout the lands. However many years it took, the Romans would win in the end, so it was really just about how many had to die.