A trumpet sounded, a Roman trumpet, and although that did not mean much with the royal ala present, he was relieved to see two turmae who had rallied and now attacked the horsemen pursuing the fugitives. The Brigantes were scattered, horses weary, so were almost as helpless a prey as the panicking legionaries had been not long ago. Over on the other flank the circle of auxiliaries held out, but the organised bands of the enemy were focusing most of their attention on them and Crassus simply did not have the men to reach them. They must either fight their way free or fall where they stood, and Ferox suspected that it would be the latter.
He decided to leave. Crassus had a good chance of withdrawing with what was left of his army, for there was no sense of purpose to the enemy now. He wondered whether the prince was injured or whether he was too inexperienced to know what to do. In the centre, the main mass watched the veterans retreat without making any effort to push them. If Crassus did not do anything too foolish, then he ought to get away. He had lost his first battle and seen his dreams of glory shattered, but at least the man was acting as a senator should, refusing to give in, saving whatever men he could and preparing to fight again another day. That was what the aristocracy preached. Ferox had read that the consul Varro lost fifty thousand legionaries in an afternoon, and then got a vote of thanks from the Senate for not despairing of the republic because he refused to accept the enemy’s overtures of peace.
This was a small disaster, very small by comparison, but fortunately both commanders were almost as inept as each other. If Arviragus could have held his men in place for longer, then he would surely have rolled up the Roman line and inflicted even greater loss. Even so, it was a victory, and that was what the leader of a rebellion needed more than anything else. He had drawn first blood, facing the might of the empire and routing it. People would hear the news and wonder whether Rome was as powerful as they had thought. Only the truly desperate or determined joined a cause without hope, but as hope grew they would wonder and more and more would take the risk. News of this victory would surely at least double Arviragus’ numbers before the end of the month. If he won again, then all of the Brigantes might rise, and if they did, so would other tribes. The conspirators had spoken of indebted chieftains throughout the province, men with little left to lose. They might declare themselves for some true emperor, or speak of freedom. That did not matter, for all that it really meant was fire and sword throughout the lands. However many years it took, the Romans would win in the end, so it was really just about how many had to die.
Crassus had given Arviragus a chance, and unless he was badly hurt, the prince was the sort of man to seize it with both hands. As high king his words would carry even more weight, and there was only one thing left that stood in his way. Ferox rode off to find his wife.
XXV
THE CLANS ASSEMBLED at Brigantum in fields around the sacred grove of the goddess some called Brigantia, but most knew by other names never to be spoken aloud. Thirty days before the solstice, the chiefs of all the tribe and their kin were called to gather here for council, to discuss the matters of the day, reaffirm their oaths of friendship and service, and make sacrifices. In the old days, when Rome was a distant friend and not a presence in the north, the meeting went on for days, with feasts and warriors fighting duels to settle disputes that could not be agreed in any other way. Then all had come, unless too infirm to travel and then they had sent someone to speak for them. Lately so many chose not to attend that some of the chiefs there spoke on behalf of a dozen others. Usually they had little to decide, for Roman courts dealt with more and more matters each year. This time there was the question of naming a new leader for the tribe, even before Arviragus had announced that the emperor was dead and it was time to support his true successor.
‘They are all here,’ Vindex said wonderingly, before bowing to an old man with a thin face whose long moustache drooped far down past his chin.
‘I’d never realised how much you look alike.’ Ferox had never before seen the scout’s father at so close a distance. As one of the main chiefs of the Carvetii, Audagus was accompanied by a dozen warriors. Lesser men had fewer, while the heads of the main Brigantian clans each had a score or more
‘Always thought I was prettier.’
‘Prettier than what?’ Longinus wondered. The Batavian and the scout were the only escort allowed to Ferox, and Gannascus and the others were forced to camp outside the meeting place for the council. Enica was attended by thirty warriors, although Ferox could not help noticing that most of them were elderly. ‘Their words will count for more in council,’ she assured him, ‘and this is a place where wisdom matters more than swords.’ Ferox had heard similar pronouncements too often in too many places to find them very convincing. He tapped the pommel of his gladius for reassurance.
The journey here had been difficult, dodging bands of horsemen in case they were loyal to her brother. They had gone through the hills, along paths rarely taken at this time of year, and as the days passed the rain turned to sleet, and the icy wind cut through them. They slept in shepherds’ huts abandoned for the winter and once just jammed together around a fire, sharing each other’s warmth. There were few army posts along these roads, and they avoided the ones there were in case of awkward questions. Ferox even feared a few of the garrisons might have joined the prince.
‘Happens quicker than you think,’ Longinus had told him one day when they rode ahead along the heights and found themselves above the dark shape of a fort. ‘Once one or two take the plunge others follow. Fools like company. I know I did.’ He gave a grim laugh. ‘You just think it’s bound to turn out all right because it’s you and you’re the hero. Then once you’ve taken that first step you cannot turn back. If I was Arviragus I’d be sending riders out to all the praesidia, telling them that Trajan really is dead and there will soon be a new emperor, but it won’t be Neratius Marcellus and anyone who obeys him will soon be in hot water. Then if he turns up with a thousand men and they get the choice between joining him and standing siege in some bleak place where help may never come, well, sacramentum or not, it’s no more than a flip of a coin. Some will spit in his eye and dare him to fight, but others will believe because they’re afraid and they’ll march out and hail him as their leader. Seen it before. In fact, I’ve done it before. They’re not joining a rebel, you see. He will be a Roman in their eyes, an eques and a former prefect, who speaks their language and knows how to flatter them.
‘I’m droning on. Thought all those days were a distant memory, until folk started raking it up. Now it’s like seeing it all play out again before my eyes. Actors on a stage, but real, and me in the chorus.’
‘Who raked it up?’
The single eye had stared at him for a long while. ‘Does not matter now,’ Longinus said eventually.
The veteran was silent for most of the rest of journey, saying only what was necessary. The one patrol they stumbled across late one afternoon consisted of three troopers, none of whom wanted to challenge a man who said he was a centurion. When they came closer to Brigantum, it was Enica’s name that got them through. A few of the chiefs and their warriors fell in with them, although most were reluctant to commit themselves at this stage and merely bowed and let them pass.
‘Pity I have been away for so many years,’ Enica said sadly, after yet another nobleman had excused himself from joining them.
‘Have you become too Roman?’ Ferox asked.
‘I fear that they have.’ The chief who had refused her was around thirty, clean shaven, with short hair, so that even though he was dressed in tartan trousers, a heavy tunic and wore a checked cloak, he looked as if he would be more comfortable in a villa or even a city than the round houses arranged in a circle outside the grove. There were twenty of them, the two in the centre facing each other much bigger than the rest. ‘Those are for the king and queen,’ she explained, and after they had dismounted she led them to the one on the south side of the circle. Inside it smelled damp and musty, for these houses were occupied only for this festival, even though the nearest tribesmen followed tradition and kept them all in good repair.