Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

‘There are worse deaths,’ Cerialis said, after receiving the warning that they would be crossing a bridge soon, so that the rearguard was to halt and wait while this brought its inevitable delays. The legate suggested that he let his men light fires and cook. The Batavians had returned to their cohort and spread the word of the death of Longinus. His true identity was a jealously guarded secret, and Ferox was one of the few outside the unit to be admitted to it. ‘In a way, I am relieved,’ the prefect said. ‘He went out bravely, and performing a good act. All his family are long gone, and he had already stayed with the cohort long after he should have retired. Where could he go?’ He reached out his hand. ‘The lads know you were not to blame. They know too that he liked you.’

Ferox shook the proffered hand. Amused tolerance was more his sense of Longinus’ feelings towards him, but perhaps he was wrong. As well as prefect, Cerialis was of the royal line of his tribe, and he spoke as both on a matter all the Batavians felt deeply.

‘No hard feelings,’ the prefect told him. ‘You did your best for him, and you brought most of the lads home.’

As Ferox rode back to the legate he found himself wishing that the prefect’s generosity extended to his affair. As far as he knew, Cerialis had not the slightest idea of any of it, and it was surely best that he never did. How could any husband forgive a man who slept with his wife and fathered a child with her?

Ferox brooded as he rode, and then as he waited for the baggage train to file slowly across the bridge, poorly greased axles screamed on the wheels of the carts. The drivers always claimed the noise warded off evil spirits and he did not know whether this was true. The galearii were slaves owned by the army, given a basic uniform and menial tasks like driving the transport. They were a strange, insubordinate bunch who kept themselves to themselves, jealous of the rare freedom they received. On one of the nearest carts a woman sat suckling a baby, and he guessed she was probably the ‘wife’ of a galearius rather than a soldier. She had a sullen expression and deeply lined face, whether from the harshness of her life in general or the more recent rigours of giving birth.

An image formed in his mind of Claudia Enica holding a newborn babe as he stared down, brimming over with love for them both. It was strange to realise that he had come to love her, even if he had not the slightest idea of when this had happened. Desire had been there from the start, but that was no more than the natural instinct of any man seeing an attractive woman. Respect had grown over time as they had travelled together, but the love he now knew was altogether different.

The woman on the cart lifted the baby and placed it on her shoulder, patting gently until it belched with surprising loudness. She glared at Ferox, perhaps thinking he was leering at her uncovered breast.

It was all a dream, for how could they have a future? He could not imagine the elegant Claudia living as the wife of a mere centurion, let alone one who had long since ruined his career and found himself on the edge of the world. Neither could he see himself as her consort, the pair of them puppet rulers of an allied tribe. The Brigantes would surely not accept him and he could not spend all his life scowling to order. That way lay only boredom, despair and drink. Enica deserved better, as the legate had said; certainly better than a man who had seduced another’s wife. She was beautiful and young, a queen now, at least assuming the legate won his battle and she survived it all. What was he? He felt the blackness grow inside him, the despair and self-pity and hate that made the oblivion of drink call out to him.

The wind picked up and as it made the covering on the cart flap noisily, he half thought he heard Acco’s laughter and his grandfather’s scorn. ‘Live with what you have done, whatever it is,’ the Lord of the Hills had said. ‘No magic in this world can change the past and wishing things were otherwise is the part of a fool and a coward.’

The cart was across, and before the oxen on the next one were goaded into lurching forward, Ferox cantered across, ignoring the protests of the weary optio guiding the traffic. Once across he left the road and gave the animal its head, pounding past the transport as the draft animals plodded along in an unearthly chorus of squeaking metal. At least the sight helped convince him that the legate was as well prepared as possible for such a hastily planned campaign. There were more than ninety carts and wagons, some of them big four-wheeled affairs pulled by a team of eight. Almost all were drawn by oxen, so that they were lucky to make ten miles in a day, but along with the hundreds of mules and ponies they carried bread, flour and salted meat. He was pleased to see that some also had bundles of firewood, for they could not be sure to find enough wood for fires along the way.

Everything about the little army was reassuring in a way so different from Crassus’ force. It was hard to believe that was only a few weeks ago. Neratius Marcellus marched with more of everything, soldiers as well as supplies, and that was part of the difference, but only part. As it went south the column torched no farms, great or small. The legate had given strict orders that no one was to be treated as an enemy unless they attacked the Romans. Even the sight of men carrying arms was not to be seen as a mark of rebellion unless they made use of them. These were the lands of allies of the Roman people, old friends to be treated with respect and courtesy, for the soldiers were here to protect them, not fight them. Anything taken from the land, from livestock, hay or food, was to be paid for in coin. Ferox wondered how many people would risk coming forward to speak to the soldiers, and was surprised when during the day several farmers appeared. The column had followed the legate’s orders since the march began and word was spreading.

He rode past the contingent of II Augusta, Julius Tertullianus waving to him as he passed. The princeps posterior commanded his own cohort, the double-strength First, its numbers topped up to almost its regulation strength of eight hundred by volunteers from the rest of the legion. They carried the eagle, but since today it was their turn to take second place to the vexillation from Legio XX Valeria Victrix, the gilded bird was concealed behind a protective leather cover.

The Victrix supplied almost as many men in two cohorts, and both contingents had spent the last year in the north, drilling and training. The governor had gathered a major force to hold manoeuvres over the summer, ready for a campaign if necessary and for grand exercises if it was not. Now they had their campaign, and Ferox had to wonder whether the legate had had this possibility in mind all those months ago. Tertullianus and some of his men had fought against the pirates during the attack on the island in the far north so had a recent victory to feed their confidence. Some of the auxiliaries were even more experienced, having fought in several campaigns. Cerialis’ Batavians and Rufinus’ Vardulli each mustered six hundred infantrymen as well as turmae of cavalry. There were two hundred and fifty more from cohors IV Gallorum, and three hundred and fifty archers, lean Syrians from cohors I Hamiorum. Supporting these were just over a thousand cavalry, drawn mainly from ala Petriana and ala I Hispanorum Asturum and the cavalry of the cohorts. It was not simply that Neratius Marcellus had more men, they all marched with an assurance and ease that had been utterly lacking in most of Crassus’ force.

On the next day the outlying cavalry patrols saw bands of horsemen watching them. There were more of them the day after, and once or twice javelins were thrown on each side, with no more result than a horse taking a graze. Neratius Marcellus had his army march in agmen quadratus , the main force moving in a long rectangle, the baggage in the centre on the road and the fighting units ready to turn outwards and face an attack from any direction. Bands of tribesmen were visible from time to time, especially on the hills to the west, watching and waiting. The legate ordered his own cavalry never to push too far away from the main force, and not to be too aggressive unless they were pressed. The warriors did not press close, so that the two sides watched each other as the Romans trudged south.