Адриан Голдсуорти - Brigantia

Ferox feinted a high thrust, failing to draw his opponent’s guard the wrong way, so he put his shoulder behind his shield and rammed it forward again, his foot slipping on the blood-soaked grass so that there was even more force than he had intended. The warrior was barged back, but by the time Ferox recovered balance the man’s guard was up again. On his right the warrior fell with a gladius driven through his head, and the legionary let the weapon go and went over the corpse, pounding the enemy with his shield, until he was among them and a sword swung and took him behind the knee. He went down on the other leg, and they swarmed around, but he kept blocking them with his shield and the blows that got past pounded armour and helmet and did not break through. Barely conscious, somehow the legionary squatted there and defied them until he sagged.

The warrior slashed down hard, his blade striking Ferox’s shield where the edge was already broken and biting deep into the three layers of wood. It stuck fast and as the man tried to wrench it free, the centurion cut upwards, through the man’s chin and mouth. Letting go of his own sword, the man staggered. Ferox twisted the gladius free and sliced through the warrior’s neck. Blood sprayed over his face and eyes and he struggled to see. He shook his shield, but the dead man’s sword was stuck fast and weighed it down.

Caecilius was beside him, eagle in his left hand, and the lad stabbed a warrior in the stomach. A spear came from the second rank, denting one of the plates of the legionary’s armour. It had a huge head, the edge serrated like the ones heroes used in the old songs.

‘Get back, you fool!’ Ferox gasped. He cut at the spear shaft, throwing off splinters, but another man came at him from the front, and with his cumbersome shield there was only just time to block the sword as it swung down. The impact shuddered the shield and the great split in it widened. Another hard blow and the sword dropped down, but the scutum was in ruin. Ferox flung it at his opponent, and then had to slash desperately at a man coming from his right. The gladius rang as it struck the torc the warrior was wearing with such force that it snapped his neck and he dropped.

Caecilius screamed as the spear broke through the lowest plate on his cuirass and went into his stomach. The warrior twisted the weapon, not to free it but to widen the wound, and then let the spear go. Caecilius dropped his sword, and somehow drove the spike of the aquila into the ground before he collapsed. The ground was hard, and his strength ebbing away, so that the eagle-standard leaned forward at a sharp angle.

Ferox spun around, lunging to take the warrior who had killed Caecilius in the side, the point of his gladius driving deep through muscle and flesh. A Brigantian was reaching for the eagle, so the centurion ripped the blade free and slashed at him, slicing down through the man’s skull. Something hit him hard on the side of the helmet, snapping the chin strap and spinning the helmet round until it fell off. His head throbbed and there was wet blood in his hair. The gladius was stuck fast in the man he had killed, the corpse’s weight dragging him down. Ferox let go, nearly tripped on a corpse, and reached the eagle, grabbing it with both hands. There was a blow against his shoulder, where the mail doubled over to fasten, and the rings held, although he was bruised.

Horns blew, dozens and dozens of horns, but they were far away. They did not sound like army signals and Ferox wondered whether thousands more warriors were rushing out to swamp the last Romans, or did he hear the armies of the dead still fighting forgotten wars in the Otherworld?

Ferox wrenched the aquila from the ground and swung it in a great arc at the Brigantes. The gilded bird on top of the pole scarred the air, and took a man in the jaw, breaking teeth and spraying blood from a split lip. One wing bent back with the impact. He swept it round savagely and the warriors made room.

‘Come on, you mongrels!’ he screamed at them in their own language. ‘Let me feed you to the wolves and ravens!’

The horns blasted out again, closer now, and Ferox knew the end would be soon. He no longer cared or thought about anything. There was just the faces of the warriors watching him, waiting for their chance, and all that was left was hate. Let the bastards come and he would pound as many as he could into slush before they got him.

A warrior stepped forward, sword up ready for the swing, and Ferox twisted the heavy standard so that the blade hit the pole, leaving a gouge, but he twisted again and drove the long butt spike into the man’s face.

Ferox laughed like a madman, revelling in the warrior’s death.

‘Come on, you mongrels!’ If he was about to journey to the Otherworld then he would not go alone.

Again the horns called, and this time Roman trumpets answered, blaring out their own challenge.

Ferox let the body fall and swept the aquila at his enemies. They stepped back, so he turned the standard around again and went for them. He no longer felt tired and the pain did not seem to matter. With all his strength he carved the air, the bird pounding against the warriors’ shields, and still they gave way.

‘Bastards! Fight me!’ he begged, but the men took another step back.

Someone was shouting, their voice clear and high. Ferox ignored them. He swung the eagle again, sweeping it higher than before, and was rewarded because one of the warriors had turned to look behind him, so the bird slammed into his head and knocked him to the ground.

‘Stop!’ The voice was still shouting, and it was an odd sound for a battlefield, but he did not care. His enemies were running now, fleeing from him, and he hated them for their cowardice. He went to the one he had knocked down, turned the standard again and drove the spike through the warrior’s belly and into the ground. The man was pinned, badly hurt, but not dead and Ferox watched the terror and agony in his face and rejoiced in it.

‘It is over!’ The enemy had gone, at least from this part of the field. One of the signifers came up to him, and the man’s face was pale with fear.

‘Stop! It is over!’ Ahead of him, beyond the gully, was a chariot, the car painted white and the team a grey and a dark bay, both in bright red harness. A man squatted at the reins, and behind him stood a woman in gleaming white, save for the scale armour of alternate gilded and silvered plates. She carried a spear and a blue shield and had long red hair down her back.

Was this how it ended? Gannascus had once told him that goddesses came to lead the soul of a great warrior into the Otherworld.

‘Husband, it is over!’

Thought came slowly and with effort. Strength had left his limbs and he felt weary and battered. Even breathing was hard work.

‘Ferox, you fool, it is over! We have won!’ The words were in Latin.

That was Enica, and she was alive. Ferox sank to his knees beside the man pinned to the ground. Someone touched his shoulder lightly, and he saw it was the signifer, who looked as if he was afraid the centurion might attack him.

‘I’d better take this, sir.’ The standard-bearer reached for the eagle and yanked it free. The warrior clutched at his intestines as they spilled from the gaping wound in his belly.

Ferox put his hands over his face. He was alive. He did not know whether this was good or bad.

‘TODAY FOR VENGEANCE, tomorrow for mourning,’ Vindex said firmly, and drew his sword. His spear was buried in the royal guard and the shaft had broken when he tried to pull it free. The scout smiled. ‘As long as you think this is a good idea!’

Sepenestus had killed the other two, and his arrows came out much more easily. He wiped the heads on the hem of his tunic and put the arrows back in his bag.