Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

‘Silly fellows,’ the legate said to his staff. ‘Ought to have thought more about what he was doing.’ The rampart built by the enemy covered most of their front line and was continuous, without the weak spot offered by a gate. Yet that also meant that there was no easy way through for their own warriors. A shrewder commander would have had openings every few hundred paces. What this meant was that the Romans could choose where to attack and not be too worried about their flanks, at least until they had got past the rampart. Neratius Marcellus planned to attack in two places with his legionaries. At the same time Cerialis’ Batavians, supported by the Vardulli, would storm the old hill fort. The cohort cavalry would provide the legate with his ultimate reserve.

Ferox was with the governor as he rode along the line of scorpions. He had asked for permission to lead some of II Augusta or anyone else in the first assault. Neratius Marcellus had refused, no doubt informed by Cerialis of what the prince had said. ‘No, I need you. I have few enough officers as it is, and none who know the tribes as well as you.’

As Ferox watched the crew of one of the engines load a bolt and start cranking the slide back to something like full tension, he tried to fight off a black mood. He did not believe that Enica was dead. Her brother had surely lied, for otherwise he would have shown them some trophy as proof; not her head, since taking the head of any woman would have disgraced a chieftain, let alone the self-proclaimed high king, but something else.

Enica lived, he was sure of that, just as he was sure that her life hung by a thread, and perhaps the same was true of Vindex and the others. What Ferox did today would decide her fate and theirs, and no doubt the gods would demand a heavy price. He might die today, and if that was what would happen then there was no point trying to hide, so he had asked to be at the forefront. There was no point trying to explain this to the legate or any Roman, for he could not say how he knew. Understanding had come slowly, as he’d lain awake through the last hours of the night, and in the red dawn he was certain. A man could not kill a druid and walk away. Acco was at work, or the magic the druid had unleashed, and the gods would play their games, and perhaps the chaos the old man had foretold would erupt here. If both brother and sister died then the Brigantes had no clear leader and the chiefs would fight each other. If the legate was defeated or died in the battle, the other restless and desperate leaders in other tribes might well decide to challenge Rome and the druid would prove right and flame and sword sweep through the province.

Ferox did not fear death, and if it saved his wife then he could almost welcome it. He found it hard to worry much about all those who would perish if the rebellion begun by the prince spread throughout the lands. Instead he thought of the girl in his arms, her softness and his surprise because at first she had been so timid and nervous. Was it just another act? He did not think so, but who could say for he had been wrong before.

It did not matter. Ferox knew that they must win and that he must accept any challenge or danger without hesitation. If death came then it came. He feared the half-death, to suffer wounds leaving him blind and crippled, eking out the long, slow years of life, dependent on the kindness of others, always knowing that his soul would carry the scars into the Otherworld. Yet if that was what the gods demanded, he would suffer it for her. Saving his wife gave Ferox’s own life purpose and meaning, and perhaps his craving for these was deeper that his newfound love.

‘Ready, my lord.’ A tesserarius from XX Valeria Victrix was in charge of the artillery, and now saluted the legate.

Archers stood in pairs between and behind the scorpions, with another group formed as a reserve, and a centurion commanded them, but they were out of bowshot of the rampart. Ferox looked at the row of faces peering over the parapet. Few wore helmets, and as far as he could see all were tribesmen fighting with their own weapons. Some probably had slings, although the Brigantes were not known for their skill with slings. Perhaps one or two were bowmen. Otherwise, they would be able to do nothing to the enemy until the Romans came close enough to hit with a javelin or stone hurled by hand. At least the rampart meant that the warriors could not surge forward before Arviragus was ready, as they had done in the last battle. A standard shaped like a cockerel bobbed up and down in front of them, and beside him stood a big man with a tall helmet and armour of bronze scales.

‘You may begin,’ the legate told the artillerymen. ‘An aureus apiece for the crew who nail that shiny fellow and the one with the bird.’

The tesserarius grinned, showing teeth that were yellow and broken. ‘Pick your targets!’ he shouted. ‘Shoot when you are ready.’

The first scorpion cracked like a whip, as the metal slide slammed forward. Ferox watched as the bolt flashed through the air and whipped several feet above the men on the rampart. The crews of the neighbouring artillery pieces jeered.

‘Silence there! Get on with your job!’ the tesserarius bawled at them. ‘Next peep out of any of you and I’ll have the bugger flogged.’

‘Oh the raven! Oh the wolf!’ The tribesmen began their chant. A lone man with a tall carnyx horn blasted out a challenge.

More of the scorpions cracked and slammed. The next two bolts drove deep into the turf of the wall.

‘Come to me and I will give you flesh!’

The trumpeter blew another rousing blast, which stopped with an abrupt clang as a bolt struck the boar’s head of the carnyx, flinging it back beyond the wall and leaving the player dazed, his mouth bloody.

‘Stop playing games, Marcus. Kill the mongrels!’

‘Oh the raven!’ Ferox thought of Enica hearing her people’s old song and hating the fact that she was on the other side.

The tall armoured chieftain took a bolt through the eye and vanished behind the parapet. His standard-bearer was leaning over him when another missile hit his neck and burst out the other side. The singing faltered. By now, the scorpions had the range, and their crews worked mechanically, cranking and loading, lining up on a target, loosing the bolt, and then doing it all over again. A few of the victims screamed, and there were jeers from the defenders whenever a man ducked in time or the bolt struck the parapet or whisked past overhead. Soon most of the shots struck a man in the shoulders or face, and more and more men bobbed down behind the parapet. No one was yelling back any more, let along chanting.

The last men hid out of sight or were killed, but Neratius Marcellus let the scorpions shoot for a little longer, before raising his hand. ‘Archers to advance. Scorpions to follow and set up fifty paces from the rampart. You can shoot over the bowmen if any of those fools feel brave again.’ He turned to Ferox. ‘Ride to the Augusta and tell them to advance when I signal. And then come back. I need you here.’ As he rode away he heard similar orders being issued to go to XX Valeria Victrix and the auxiliaries under Cerialis.

A warrior cautiously raised his eyes above the parapet, now that the bolts had stopped. He must have shouted something, although Ferox did not hear, for others joined him. Then the arrows started, and although no one was hit they were close enough to make everyone duck back down.

Ferox passed on the orders and trotted back to the legate, taking his horse parallel to the rampart and within range of a well-thrown javelin. None came his way, for the defenders remained in hiding, so there was no real test of whether the gods planned to claim his life. Neratius Marcellus raised one eyebrow when he saw the centurion wheeling round to join his staff, but made no comment. The legate gestured to the tubicen who trailed behind him and the man sounded the signal for orders. Then the vexillarius dipped his square red flag, embroidered with its golden figure of Victory, three times. Cornicines in all of the leading units blew the three notes of the advance.