Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

Neratius Marcellus was breathing hard, but nodded in understanding, and Ferox could see him calculating. ‘Archers, up on the wall!’ he yelled, and then grabbed the parapet to shout down orders to his staff. ‘All the archers, up here, quick as you can! Send the cohort cavalry to support Brocchus. He must stop their horse until we can win here. The Gauls to hold their place and die where they stand if need be. Tell them I am counting on them and know that they will not let me down.’ Cerialis’ men still faced the old fort and there was no need to give them fresh instructions. ‘Tell the reserve cohort of Victrix to wheel to the left, but wait for my orders!’

As the legate shouted his instructions, the legionaries were coming back, still in no sort of order, but drawn towards the wall. More warriors kept swarming up out of the gully. Ferox guessed there were five thousand or more and still men boiled over the lip. Somehow a rough line was forming, the legionaries clustered in some places and thin in others. Some eleven hundred men had broken through and were still on their feet, stretched in a ragged line across the half-mile strip of grass in front of the rampart. The Britons were close enough to stab with spears or swords and it had all happened too fast for anyone to throw javelins or pila. Behind the front ranks of warriors, all of them in mail, was a vast crowd and some of these men managed to fling a spear forward, but most were too tightly packed. Legionaries who found themselves in the front rank dropped pila if they still had them because there was so little room, and instead slid out their swords.

‘Come on!’ the legate said, and ran down the bank of the rampart, heading for the eagle. ‘Rally, boys! Rally,’ he shouted as he went. Ferox went after him, slipping on the grass so that he skidded on his backside down the ramp.

‘Don’t play the fool, man!’ the legate snarled.

The Roman line was only twenty paces or so from the wall. There were no optiones behind it, or trace of proper formation, and in places it was two deep and sometimes five or six deep. Men shouted as the Brigantes attacked, blade clashed against blade, or struck helmet, armour or shield and after a flurry of fighting the Roman line shuffled back a few more paces.

‘Steady there!’ the legate called, his trained voice booming out over the legionaries’ heads. Steady, the Boars! Steady, the Capricorns!’ Just behind the line, the aquilifer of II Augusta stood with the other standard-bearers, including two from Victrix who had found themselves here.

‘Come on!’ Ferox heard the prince yelling to his own men. ‘Let them hear you! Oh the wolf! Oh the raven!’ The singing was ragged, until more and more of the Brigantes joined in. ‘Come to me and I will give you flesh!’

‘Ferox, you take charge of Augusta. I will sort out Valeria Victrix or find someone who can.’ The legate saw the questioning look. ‘Do it, man, there’s no time for debate.’

‘Sir!’ Ferox drew his gladius. ‘Good luck, my lord.’

‘And to you, centurion.’ The legate ran off to the left. ‘Steady, lads! Hold them! Hold them!’

‘Any centurions left?’ Ferox asked the aquilifer.

‘Don’t know, sir.’ The eagle-bearer tried to smile. A javelin lobbed high above the legionaries whistled, and Ferox was lunging forward with his free hand, trying to push the man out of the way, but was too slow and the leaf-shaped point drove into his neck through the scarf he wore to stop his mail from chafing. Blood jetted out, the man’s eyes rolling up as he slumped forward. Ferox managed to catch the eagle before it fell.

A young soldier was at the back of the line and turned, staring in horror at the dying standard-bearer. He was tall, for II Augusta liked to have a first cohort of tall men, and must have had a good record otherwise he would not have been with the cohort at all.

‘You, boy, what’s your name?’

‘Caecilius, sir.’

‘Oh the raven!’

‘Let’s have your shield, Caecilius.’ Ferox thrust the precious standard towards him. ‘You are to carry this,’ he said. The boy’s eyes widened. ‘It is a sacred trust for this is the honour of our legion and we are II Augusta, the best legion in the army, and we have work to do. You follow me. All of you.’ He hefted the shield as the boy passed it over, and looked at the standard-bearers. ‘We will make this a day the legion will still be marking in two hundred years’ time.’

‘Oh the wolf!’ The singing was getting louder as the Brigantes readied themselves for a fresh charge.

Ferox had deliberately chosen a place where the line was only a few men deep. He snarled and shouted at men to let him through, and reached the front, the warriors only two spear lengths away. Facing him was a chieftain he remembered from the council, although he could not think of his name. The man was clean shaven and short-haired, with a sly face and eyes that never looked at someone when he spoke to them.

‘You!’ he said, breaking off from the war chant, although he still did not look Ferox in the face.

‘Give in. Lay down your arms and the legate will be merciful!’ Ferox had spoken in Latin out of habit, but now switched to the language of the tribes. ‘All of you, surrender now and accept the governor’s mercy!’

‘Come to me and I will give you flesh!’ The words were almost screamed at the Roman line and turned into a roar as the Brigantes surged forward. The chieftain with the sly face had a spear, a bronze helmet with an elaborate plume, mail and an oval shield. He came for Ferox, finally looking straight at him, spear over his shoulder, ready to jab down. The centurion raised his borrowed shield, felt it shudder as the iron head struck it, and swept very low with his gladius. The blade bit into something, the slim face broke into a yelp and the man staggered. Ferox flicked the sword to thrust up and the chieftain squealed as the long triangular point came under his mail and into his groin.

As the chieftain fell back, shrieking, Ferox stabbed the man standing beside him, the blade sliding past his shield and punching through the iron rings of his mail shirt. The warrior gasped, dropped his sword, and the legionary beside Ferox stamped forward and finished him with a jab through the eye. On his left, the legionary attacked with too much force, and his opponent pushed the blade aside with his shield and then slashed down, severing the Roman’s right arm. Blood pumping out, the soldier dropped his scutum and clutched at the wounded limb. The long sword slashed down again, clanging as it struck his helmet with such force that the iron broke open as the man went down. Behind him a legionary still carried his pilum and aimed carefully as he jabbed forward, the little point driving into the warrior’s eye.

The Brigantes gave way and stepped back a few paces. It was the first time that the Romans had not been the ones to retreat and that was something, even if all along the line Ferox could see many dead on the grass and the wounded being dragged back.

‘Still with me, Caecilius?’ he asked.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Good lad. Keep that eagle high.’

‘We’re holding them, boys,’ he shouted. ‘They won’t break the Capricorns.’ His back was slick with sweat and he had only fought for a short time.

Arrows whipped overhead to fall deep among the mass of warriors in front of them. He heard cries of pain, and saw men in the rear ranks raising their blue shields to meet this new attack. The Hamian archers were up on the rampart, and that would help, but the front lines were too close together for them to shoot at the enemy leaders and their boldest men. Ferox saw Arviragus some way over to his left and wished that he could get at the prince, but the legionaries were only just holding on and he did not want to try to work his way around behind the line in case they thought he was running. If the Romans broke, then most would die, because they would be trapped against the wall, and if they died then he doubted Neratius Marcellus would win his battle, even if he did not die along with them.