Crassus was still buoyed up by the cheering. ‘Yes, I have thought the same thing,’ he replied, ‘and wondered whether anyone else would spot the danger.’
‘Perhaps if we refused our right, my lord? Then if they come at us from the wood, we can hit them hard once they are in the open.’
‘Serve ’em right too.’ Crassus smiled. ‘That is exactly what I was planning. Send orders for the cavalry and auxilia to hold back a little.’ A galloper rushed off with the message.
The Brigantes were singing, the sound still too faint to make out the words. Ferox did not recognise the tune, but beside him Enica stiffened. She reached out, clasping his wrist tightly. ‘Oh the raven! Oh the wolf.’ The words were in the language of the tribes. ‘Come to me and I will give you flesh!’ Her eyes were glassy. ‘It is the old battle song of my people. I never thought that I would hear it. Still less from an enemy.’
Ferox leaned over and kissed her, and wrapping his arm around her back held her for a little while. He was as surprised as she was, and when the moment passed they pulled apart, embarrassed.
Crassus laughed. ‘Time for that later! Ah, good, they are obeying.’ On the Roman right the cavalry halted. The auxiliary infantry went a little further and then stopped. Ferox saw an optio on the far right of Hispana’s line stand and stare at them. Crassus had not explained his plan to the rest of his force. The far end of the legionary cohort seemed to stagger, men confused and nervous, before shouts and blows got them back moving again. A moment later, the auxiliary horse and foot started advancing again, so that the right flank of the army was stepped back.
‘Come to me and I will give you flesh!’ Ferox caught the words now, for they were less than a quarter of a mile away. The Carvetii were kin to the Brigantes, but he had never heard Vindex or any of his warriors raise this chant. The tune was gentle, almost mournful, and yet the words held a deep menace. He saw a lone figure on a grey riding up and down in front of the Brigantian line. At this distance the face was unclear, and he could not hear the lone voice shouting, so imagined Arviragus bellowing at his warriors to keep in line. There were always youngsters eager to show off or too scared to wait, let alone the men drunk to the fill and brimming over with the courage it sometimes gave. If a few surged forward, more would follow, and the prince was doing everything to control his men and make them fight as one.
A narrow ditch, unseen until the last moment because of the long grass, caused confusion among the left cohort of Hispana. Some men jumped it, others slipped in or chose to wade through the foot or so of water in the bottom, and there was much shouting and jostling before the ranks were restored. The Romans marched on in silence, until some of the auxiliary infantry began their own chant. It sounded like an angry grunt, repeated over and over again.
‘Tell them to be silent and stay in their ranks,’ Crassus barked at a decurion, who rode off to give the order. ‘Discipline wins battles, not shouts and bravado.’
‘Oh the raven! Oh the wolf!’
Arviragus’ horse reared up and he flourished his sword in a great circle over his head. Ferox could see that he was wearing the helmet and armour he had brought from Mona. Perhaps he had told his men that the spirit of Venutius was with them. If so, then little of the old war leader’s cunning was on show, for the prince pointed his blade at the Romans and set his horse into a gallop straight at them.
The singing turned into a roar and the warriors followed, streaming down the slope. The royal guards hesitated for just an instant, and then they too charged, ranks quickly becoming ragged. Horsemen rapidly outpaced the men on foot.
‘No patience,’ Enica said softly.
‘Barbarians,’ Crassus said with contempt.
Hundreds of men were pouring from the woods as well, some in the full panoply of the royal cohort and even more warriors. The Roman cavalry charged to meet them, some of them whooping as loudly as their foes. Seeing them pass, the auxiliary infantry jogged forward, banging the shafts of their spears against their shields.
‘What are they doing?’ Crassus gasped. ‘Discipline.’ Kicking his horse, he galloped towards the legionaries, yelling, ‘Halt! Halt there!’ His standard-bearer and two troopers followed.
The right-hand cohort of VIIII Hispana heard first and shuddered to a halt. The other went on another twenty paces before the centurions screamed at the soldiers to stop. Optiones ran up and down behind the rear rank, shoving men back into place.
‘Pila!’ Crassus’ voice carried. The leading warriors were fifty paces from the Roman line, Arviragus riding among them. Legionaries in the front rank raised their heavy javelins, poised to throw.
‘Steady now!’ The commander almost shrieked the words, and whether his words were not clear or too many men were nervous, someone hurled his pilum, the slim shank flashing as it caught the light. The missile sailed up and then came down striking the ground and sliding through the grass some way in front of the enemy. Another pilum was thrown, then another, and whole front rank joined in.
‘Stop! Stop, you fools!’ Crassus implored them, and centurions were yelling. Most of the second rank threw before they understood. One pilum spitted a warrior as he bounded forward, shield held too wide. The impact flung him back and knocked down another man. That was the only missile to strike home and the rest pattered to earth harmlessly.
A legionary in the third rank turned and tried to run. An optio was there, blocking his path with his hastile, the staff showing his rank. Then the man next to the first fled, dodging past. More followed. The line rippled like a long ribbon blowing in the wind.
‘Go!’ Ferox told Enica. Find Vindex and the others, and I’ll find you.’
She stared, then nodded. ‘What about you?’
‘I am still bound to the fool’s sister, so will try to get him out of this. Keep her safe,’ he told the Batavians. ‘Now go!’
Ferox walked his horse over to the turma of cavalry. ‘We’re going to save the legate. Will you follow me, decurion?’
The man gulped. ‘Yes, sir.’ He looked relieved to have the decision made for him.
‘Optio.’ Ferox called to the man in charge of the veterans. ‘Form an orb. We may have to fight our way out. Right, boys,’ he said to the cavalry. ‘Follow me,’ He drew his sword.
Crassus was riding among the legionaries, calling for order. ‘Pila!’ he bellowed. Some responded. The Brigantes were close now, barely ten or twelve paces away, and the few missiles thrown punched through shields and armour into flesh. Warriors dropped, or spun around, shield pinned to their arm or body. It was not enough to check the onslaught.
The legionaries broke. One moment there were two ragged lines facing the enemy, and then there were just hundreds of men running away. Some threw down shields and raced ahead of the rest. Others were still confused, searching for someone to tell them what to do, but fleeing in the meantime because everyone else was. A few knots of men clustered together, walking backwards, still ready to fight, and in a moment they were islands washed around by a wave of enemies. Crassus and his little escort came back with the crowd.
‘Halt, damn you! Re-form!’ No one listened to the legate. On the left the auxiliary infantry charged with a shout and it was the Brigantes who gave way. The cavalry on their flank attacked alongside them, but at the last minute wheeled their horses round and fled. On the right the Roman horsemen burst into the mass of attacking warriors, cutting them down. Numbers were against them. The charge lost momentum, and the troopers were in the middle of a crowd of enemies. Horses were speared, riders dragged down and slashed as they lay.
Ferox eased his horse into a trot. The fugitives were a hundred yards away, some of the enemy among them. He could see Crassus, mouth open as he screamed at the legionaries. His vexillarius was beside him and one of the troopers. Ferox could no longer see the other one. Crassus slashed down, and he wondered whether the legate had lost his temper and was now attacking his own men. Then the vexillum fell, and the standard-bearer slumped forward onto his horse’s neck, a javelin sticking out of his back.