Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

The arrows stung the Brigantes into another attack, which brought more of them closer to the legionaries again. A very tall man, a good six inches higher than him, though lean as a reed, yelled as he came at the centurion. He had an axe in his hand, the sort most men would save for chopping wood, and he tried to hook it over the top of Ferox’s shield and pull it down. Behind him a spearman as tall and rangy as the first man thrust a spear over his shoulder. They looked alike, perhaps twins, so strange with their hollow cheeks and spiked hair that they might have come from a legend.

Ferox had his sword up, elbow bent, and stabbed forward, but the tall man was too far away from him to reach. Again the axe swung, and rather than let it catch on his scutum he jerked the shield up, so that the blade sliced through the brass edging and gouged a hole in the wood. The spear thumped against it, not hard enough to penetrate, and Ferox brough his right arm low behind his shield, lunging at waist height, only to strike against the warrior’s shield.

These strange twins were dangerous, working together well. Beside him, the soldier on his right had lost his helmet and was bleeding heavily from his scalp, but managed to drive his opponent back a pace. Another legionary on his left fell, this time with his left leg almost cut through beneath the knee, and he was dragged into the enemy ranks and stabbed a dozen times before he lay still. A comrade stepped forward into the gap.

Suddenly the tall warrior sprouted an arrow from his eye, his head snapping back with the impact, and Ferox blessed the archer who had taken such a risky shot. He stamped forward, pushing the corpse with his shield, and lunged up into his twin’s neck. The legionary on Ferox’s right was struggling to see as the blood streamed down over his eyes, and he slashed wildly and so quickly that he beat his opponent’s shield down, twice struck sparks off his mail shirt without breaking the rings, and finally nicked his face. Then a spearmen behind the warrior thrust hard, bursting through where two plates of the man’s segmented cuirass met. The Roman grunted, slumping forward. A legionary standing in the next rank still had a pilum and threw it with all his strength into the warrior. The head punched through the man’s shield, the shank sliding hungrily through the hole, splitting two rings on his mail as it forced its way into his belly. He too dropped back, and it was as if that was a signal for the whole line to pull away.

‘Well done, boys, we’re holding them.’ Ferox gasped for breath. His arms and legs felt like lead, and his muscles throbbed. No one who had not fought in a battle line ever understood how quickly a man became exhausted. He knew that holding the enemy was not enough. The Romans were outnumbered and so many Britons were packed behind the leading ranks that it would be hard for any of them to turn and flee. If it came to a long slog, then the legionaries were more likely to become exhausted before the enemy.

Arrows snipped above his head, thunking into the shields the Brigantes were holding high. Ferox had no idea what was happening in the rest of the battle. Even the governor, who was probably no more than a few hundred paces away, might as easily be alive or dead, or on a journey to the moon, for all he could tell. He wished that he was up on the wall again, able to see what was going on, but he could not leave.

‘Right, boys,’ he shouted as loudly as he could, trying to sound as if victory was inevitable, but his throat was thick and all that came out was a croak. He spat to clear it.

It was not enough to hold their ground. They had to win, because if any part of the Roman army collapsed then the rest could easily follow. ‘Those bastards have killed some of our commilitones. No one does that and gets away with it. Come on, Capricorns. Follow the eagle! It’s going through those sods in front of us, so unless we want to lose it, we will have to go with it!’

He took a deep breath. ‘Caecilius.’

‘Sir.’

‘Stay behind me, boy. Every step of the way.’

He thumped the flat of his gladius against the side of his shield. ‘Let ’em hear you!’ He struck again and again. ‘Come on, Capricorns, let ’em hear us coming!’ Men copied, pounding swords or shafts of pila against the rectangular shields.

‘Charge!’ Ferox yelled, and did his best to run at the enemy, in spite of the heaviness in his legs. They were only a few paces away, but he saw the warrior opposite him, teeth bared as he grimaced over the top of his shield. The man had a legionary helmet, the top dented, and he wondered whether its previous owner was dead or had thrown it away to run faster. Ferox punched with all his weight behind the heavy scutum, the dome-like boss high to smash into the warrior’s face, breaking his nose, and if the man had been waiting he could have killed Ferox then and there, thrusting low with his sword. No blow came back, and the warrior staggered from the impact, so Ferox punched again, without the force of going forward, but savagely enough. Then his gladius was up and jerked forward, brushing the bottom cheek piece before it found the warrior’s neck. Blood spattered over Ferox’s face and shield as the Brigantian dropped.

Ferox stamped forward, boot on the man he had just killed, and the warrior behind tried to go back, but could not because of the press behind him. He beat aside a sword attempting to parry, twisting his wrist to angle the thrust down. The tip grated on a collar bone, then slid down. Gasping for breath, the warrior was finally able to step back as the men behind him reacted. He was hurt, but not fatally. Ferox had a moment of freedom and swept again back and to his right. His gladius was starting to blunt by now, so the steel cut only part way into the warrior’s neck, and his head flapped down but did not fall. Then Ferox turned back, facing ahead, and the Brigantes gave ground again, stepping back a couple of paces.

‘Still there, Caecilius?’

‘Course I am, sir.’

Ferox was panting, his mail armour like great weights pressing down onto his shoulders. On either side of him the Roman line had advanced and taken a tiny patch of ground, so that it bulged forward. Elsewhere the two sides were where they had started. He blinked because there was sweat in his eyes. Glancing up to the right, he could see Batavians and Roman standards on the grassy mound of the old wall, and the defenders still facing them. There were not many arrows overhead this time, and he guessed the Hamians must have nearly emptied their quivers. The winter sun had climbed as high as it would go, which meant that it was noon, and he tried to work out where the hours had gone.

‘Another few paces, boys!’ Ferox croaked. ‘That’s all we have to do, just drive these mongrels back a a few more paces!’ He had a vague memory of a general telling his men to give him one more step for victory. Was it a Greek?

‘Come on, boys!’ Caecilius yelled so suddenly that Ferox would have jumped if he still had the energy. The boy was waving the gilded eagle. ‘Follow the eagle! Follow the eagle.’

‘The eagle!’ one of the signifers repeated. ‘The eagle.’

Maybe it was just the men still in the rear ranks and not quite so drained, but the legionaries started to chant.

Ferox searched for Arviragus among the enemy and could no longer see him. It did not seem to matter any more.

‘The eagle!’ he screamed, and lurched forward, his legs heavier than when he strapped weights to them to make exercises harder.

The Brigantes came to meet them, and the shouts faded as the two lines of men drew on the last dregs of their strength to fight. Ferox’s shield banged hard against an opponent’s. Neither man gave way, and the warrior was in mail, with a Roman sword and a bandaged head, and he watched the centurion warily. They tested each other, each of their worlds down to just the man trying to kill him.