Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

They were closest to Legio XX, on its unshielded side, so Ferox saw the legionaries step out as neatly as if they were on parade, with the clinks and soft thump of soldiers on the march. A centurion ahead and to the right of the front half of the cohort was walking backwards, so that he could keep a close eye on his men. It was a gesture of contempt for the enemy, if a weak one, since the enemy remained invisible, save for the horsemen on their right and the distant figures of the men in the old fort.

The legionaries were silent apart from the calm voices of centurions, and the sharp rebukes from the optiones following each line whenever a man spoke or wandered out of place. In the distance, Ferox just caught a low murmur as the Batavians began the barritus, the old war cry of Germanic warriors. Men in the fort answered with cheers and blasts of horns, for there were no archers over there to keep them down. On the opposite side the cavalry of each army watched each other, neither making any move, until Ferox caught a flicker of something out of the corner of his eye and saw a chariot shoot out between two of the bands of Brigantian horsemen. The car was painted a pale blue, the team one black and one grey, and the warrior in the back wore silvered helmet and mail and carried a deep blue shield. More chariots followed, some red, some green and some white, with warriors capering as they brandished weapons and shields high. It was bad luck to drive with ponies of the same colour, or so most of the tribes believed, so Ferox was surprised to see one car painted black and pulled by black animals. Its warrior was stark naked, his body painted, and he was standing on the shaft between the ponies as the wheels thundered across the grass.

‘Well, there’s a sight,’ the legate said, as if commenting on a statue or painting. ‘A glimpse of Homer, perhaps! What a shame Ovidius is not here to see it.’ Ferox would have been glad to see the old fellow, and simply to know that he was well, and did not bother to remind the legate that the philosopher had seen plenty of chariots in Hibernia that summer.

The infantry pushed on steadily.

‘Good boys! Keep it steady there.’ The centurion going backwards did not shout, and simply spoke very loudly, his voice carrying easily along the first line formed by the cohort.

The chariots did not advance too far from their own cavalry, and then turned sharply, riding back and forth as the warriors showed off. Ferox saw ripples in the front rank of ala Petriana. He doubted the horses had ever seen or heard something like this, and more than a few were spooked by the flashes of metal and the spinning wheels as they crunched across the frosty grass. One beast turned and tried to push past the horses behind, its rider tugging desperately at the reins to stop it. At last he managed to drag his mount back around. Fortunately the Britons had not charged, for even a little bit of confusion could easily turn into panic. Ferox suspected that no one had seen the opportunity.

‘Pity we did not put some archers over there with the cavalry,’ the legate said wistfully. He glanced at the scorpions, but all were between the two leading formations of legionaries, and it would take time to bring a couple back so that they could see the chariots.

One of the warriors leaped down from his chariot and strode towards the Roman horsemen. Ferox could imagine him calling out his name and lineage and asking for a fitting opponent to face him in single combat. He wondered whether a few months ago the same man had been dressing in a toga and taking pride in speaking Latin, or whether this was one of those noblemen who had clung tightly to the old ways.

Aelius Brocchus galloped out from his station at the head of ala Petriana straight at the warrior, yellow-brown cloak billowing behind.

‘Damned fool,’ the legate muttered, half admiringly.

The Briton threw a javelin and the prefect deflected it with his shield. Brocchus had his own spear low down, and he urged his horse to go even faster, as the warrior drew his sword. The prefect leaned low and to the right, shield held up to protect his horse’s head, the reins hanging free as he steered the animal with his knees. The Brigantian raised his long sword, but before he could sweep down, the spear point drove into his stomach and through his body, lifting him off his feet. Brocchus struggled with the weight, for he was not a big man, and after a moment gave up and dropped both spear and the writhing warrior impaled on it.

‘Ferox,’ the legate said quietly. ‘Go and tell the prefect well done, but if he tries that again I’ll have him on a charge and dismissed from his post.’ He shook his head. ‘Really, a man of his years. And, Ferox?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Come straight back.’

Brocchus grinned as his men cheered him. Other warriors were on foot now, issuing their own challenges.

‘Stay in ranks!’ Brocchus shouted. ‘Keep order.’

Decurions echoed the command. ‘Stay in line, you bastards!’

The prefect nodded as he received the order. ‘Please don’t ever tell my wife,’ he added with a smile. ‘Oh well, so much for heroism, let us do this like proper soldiers.’ He ordered a turma to ride out and skirmish with the chariots.

By the time Ferox rejoined the legate, the legionaries were at the wall. Now and then a defender bobbed up, throwing a javelin or rock down. Few risked the time needed to aim properly, because the archers and scorpions were waiting. One legionary was behind the line, as a medicus tied a bandage around his bloodied head, while another lay still, a spear in his throat, but those were the only casualties. Men were working with dolabrae, using the wider head of the pickaxe to prise apart the turves in the wall. Others used crowbars or simply their hands, eating away at the hastily built rampart. Each legion was working on two breaches in the wall.

Something was wrong. Ferox’s instincts were calling to him that it was all too easy. Even with the risk from the arrows and bolts, the Brigantes seemed too cowed, as they let their defences be destroyed with no real effort to hinder the work. Ferox heard a distant roar as the barritus reached a crescendo and the Batavians charged. The defenders shouted back, hurling javelins at the auxiliaries as they scrambled up the grassy slope. Cerialis had orders not to press the attack too hard until the legionaries had crossed the wall, but such caution was all too easily forgotten in the heat of the moment.

Brocchus’ men worked in pairs, one covering the other so that they always had at least one javelin ready to throw. Two of the chariots lay as shattered ruins of men and ponies, brought down by killing one of the animals or the driver when they were going at full pelt. Three more warriors were wounded, and only one managed to get back on board and escape, and the cost was one trooper hit in the thigh and two horses wounded. Ferox did not think that Arviragus was with the chariots, although at this distance it was hard to be sure. As he watched, the naked warrior with the black chariot and team burst forward. A javelin twitched the mane of one of the ponies without doing harm, and another struck the warrior’s shield and stuck fast so that he dropped it. His own javelin hit the top of a trooper’s raised shield, but the auxiliary was slow and all he did was deflect the missile up into his face. The chariot raced past, and the warrior had his sword ready. He dodged the javelin of the trooper’s companion, and the auxiliary was still fumbling with his spatha when the chariot skimmed along past him and the long sword swept. Blood fountained high as the trooper’s head and helmet sailed through the air, and the black team was turning, galloping away to safety. Ferox could not help admiring the skill.