Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

With a soft, almost gentle rumble, part of the rampart collapsed forward, the legionaries bounding back out of the way. The soldiers cheered, and a moment later more of the wall gave way to form a second breach.

‘Beware the Boars,’ the centurion who had started the advance going backwards bellowed out in triumph. Legio XX used a boar as its symbol on some of its standards, although its shield bore the device of Jupiter’s lightning bolts and the wings of thunder.

Valeria Victrix had broken the rampart before the other legion, and no doubt they would remind Augusta of this at every opportunity. Ferox imagined Tertullianus cursing in his high-pitched voice, until the wall started to crumble and their two breaches formed.

‘Capricorns!’ II Augusta had the capricorn symbol of the divine Augustus on its red shields.

As the dust cleared javelins came whipping through the breaches. Julius Tertullianus died in the moment of triumph as a spearhead struck him in the mouth and drove so deep into his head that the rear of his helmet was dented. Most of the men using the tools had laid aside their shields to work and now they paid for this, with half a dozen falling to wounds in the legs, and one whose mail failed to stop a powerful throw.

There was no check. A few men hurled pila through the gap, but most did not bother and raised the slim javelins to use as spears. Some stayed with their tools as they climbed up the slope made by the debris of the wall and charged inside. There was a dull roar of rage and an answering shout of anger from behind the wall.

‘Someone go and see what is happening!’ the legate gasped, and before he could say anything else Ferox put his horse into a run. Four mobs of legionaries attacked through the breaches. Formation was impossible and the lack of order could not be helped, but by now Ferox’s instincts were screaming even louder and he was sure that this was a trap.

He rode past the scorpions and archers, heading for the wall near one of the breaches made by II Augusta. From beyond the ramparts there were shouts, the clash of weapons, and screams of agony. More and more legionaries were pushing their way through the gaps, and behind them the reserve lines were close, ready to reinforce. The rampart was not high, so that when Ferox reined in beside it, the crest of his helmet was barely lower than the top of the parapet. There was no sign of any defenders. For a moment he wondered about trying Enica’s trick of standing on the saddle, before deciding not to risk it. This was a borrowed horse and rather skittish. Instead he jumped down and called to a couple of the archers.

‘Give me a hand.’

Putting a foot in one man’s cupped hands, he pushed up, and with a hefty shove from the over grabbed the top of the parapet and managed to get one boot on the narrow ledge in front of it.

‘Thanks, lads.’

Ferox pulled himself up, and to his relief no warrior was kneeling behind the barrier, waiting for this moment. A corpse with a bolt in its chest sprawled on the walkway, one arm hanging down, and apart from a few more dead and badly wounded warriors the wall was empty. Below there was fighting and he could see that the Romans were winning and steadily pushing forward. Dragging himself over, Ferox squatted next to the dead warrior and looked down. Most of the men from the first attacking line were already inside, in four groups in front of each of the breaches. As they cut their way forward, they spread a little with each pace gained. The reserves were starting to follow them, and he saw the eagle waving amid the other standards as the lionskin-headdressed standard-bearers advanced with their comrades.

‘What’s happening?’ Neratius Marcellus shouted from behind. The legate had come after him, too impatient to wait.

Ferox did not answer. He tried to count the warriors fighting the legionaries. They were little more than a mob, clustering around the Romans, so that the best he could get was an impression, but it was obvious that there were too few of them. Perhaps there were a few score more Brigantes than Romans, although that would soon change as the reserves caught up.

‘Damn it, Ferox, what is happening?’

He glanced to the right. The Batavians had not yet broken into the old fort and for the moment the two sides had separated and were lobbing javelins back and forth. On the left, the cavalry still waited, although from here he could see that the Britons had well over two thousand horsemen and more might be concealed by the woods. The royal cohort stood just a little back from the line of the rampart, each man with his shield resting against his legs and his spear in his hand as he waited in silence.

‘It’s a trap, my lord,’ Ferox called back. Everything pointed to that, for if this was all that was left of the prince’s army and the rest had deserted then why would he have fought at all? Ferox stared behind the clusters of Britons fighting the legionaries. There was just grassland for a couple of hundred paces before the ground rose to a low ridge, but it was hard to believe that the rest of the army could be so far away as behind the heights. He looked closer, saw the grass ripple in the wind, passed on, and then brought his gaze back. There was no wind.

Someone grunted as they landed on the parapet beside him. The legate stood up, brushing himself down. ‘Go on, lads!’ he shouted, as the legionaries made another surge forward. He turned. ‘Send up the other cohort.’ The tubicen called out and the vexillum waved as a signal.

‘Wait, my lord!’ Ferox watched the grass no more than seventy paces behind the retreating Britons, before he saw a head, then another peering out. ‘Look there!’ Once he had seen it, the shadow on the land was obvious. There was a gully, running all the way across the field, invisible until you knew where to look, but big enough to hide men – lots of men.

The warriors fighting the legionaries were going back faster now, leaving a lot of dead and wounded behind them. As they pushed on behind the front ranks, Romans jabbed down with pilum or sword to kill those who still moved, for it was never wise to take a chance and spare an enemy before the battle was won. A carnyx blew, the harsh quivering call loud even above the fighting, and the Britons turned and fled. Some died because they did not turn fast enough, and then more as the legionaries streamed after them, the wounded and slow being killed first. A great cheer of victory went up from the legionaries as the enemy broke. No one shouted any orders and the two cohorts just rushed ahead, eager to finish the job.

Then the prince sprang his trap.

THOUSANDS OF WARRIORS sprang up out of the ground, pouring over the lip of the gully and charging, and their great shout was like the crashing of waves against the shore. Many of them wore armour and helmets of army pattern, spoils from the defeat of Crassus.

‘Hercules’ balls!’ the legate gasped as he saw them.

They were not in neat ranks, but there were so many of them and they came on eagerly, Arviragus leading them with a dozen of the royal guard around him and his standard of the horse overhead. The fleeing Britons either joined them or were pushed to the ground and trampled by the oncoming horde. Legionaries halted, and those who had gone the furthest were first to die.

Trumpets sounded and the royal cohort picked up its shields and marched forward. Facing them was cohors IV Gallorum, outnumbered more than two to one. Beyond them the Brigantian cavalry started to walk their horses towards the Roman left wing

‘Form up!’ Neratius Marcellus screamed at the legionaries in front of the rampart. ‘Form ranks!’

Ferox grabbed his arm, and the legate started in surprise, eyes angry. ‘He means to sweep round through our flank while our army is split by the wall,’ he explained.