‘Tomorrow we kill you!’ a voice yelled from the darkness.
‘He’s back,’ muttered one of the soldiers.
‘We’re going to cut off your pricks!’ This came in a deeper voice than the first.
‘He must have found a friend,’ one of the older soldiers said. ‘In this cold he’ll be lucky to find anything.’
‘Speak for yourself,’ another of the Batavians replied, and then raised his voice. ‘Piss off, you daft buggers!’
‘You are all traitors!’ Ferox thought he saw a pale shape moving in the dark and knew the voice of Arviragus. ‘Trajan is dead, and your legate a traitor who will die along with all his supporters.’
‘That’s nice!’ a soldier shouted back.
‘Tell your officers to give up,’ the prince continued.
Cerialis took a couple of paces forward and cupped his hands to shout louder. ‘Lord prince, you are the traitor and rebel. Trajan lives and we all serve him, true to the oath you have broken. You must all lay down your arms and trust to his mercy!’
Arviragus’ laughter was loud. ‘Will you give a message to Flavius Ferox?’
Cerialis glanced back, wondering whether the centurion wanted to declare himself, and then nodded in understanding. ‘I will give it.’
‘Tell him that bitch, my sister, is dead. Tell him that. As high king I ordered her death and that of all those with her. They are all dead. Tell him that.’
A grey horse shone as it bounded forward, the prince whirling something bulky around in his hand before he flung it forward. It bounced on the grass and rolled a little before it stopped. One of the Batavians flung a javelin, but it fell several paces short and the prince had wheeled his horse and galloped away.
Ferox ran forward, trying to fight down his fears. He could see that the prince had thrown a head, but when he came close he saw it was large and must be a man’s. For a moment he worried that it was Gannascus, until he picked it up and saw that the hair was short and the chin clean shaven.
‘I do not know him,’ he said.
‘I do.’ Cerialis was alongside. ‘It is the prefect in command at Cataractonium.’
XXVIII
‘It is rarely wise to be too clever.’ Neratius Marcellus repeated what he had said in the consilium the night before. ‘He expects us to attack him and so we shall. But in our own time and way.’
An hour after dawn and everyone was in place. On the left, both alae formed up, each in two lines of turmae. Ala Petriana was furthest forward, with the other ala behind and to its left. They would let the enemy horsemen come to them, rather than driving too deeply forward. The Gauls stood between the cavalry and the main force of infantry. A cohort of Legio XX was on the left, formed in two lines, each six deep. Two hundred paces to their right was the first cohort of Legio II Augusta, in a matching formation, with the eagle shining in the middle of the reserve line surrounded by five signa from the centuries of the first cohort and the vexillum flag of the detachment. The gap between the legionaries was filled by ten scorpions, light artillery, firing heavy bolts with tremendous force and uncanny accuracy and some of the archers in open order. The rest of the archers formed an extra rank at the back of the leading lines of legionaries. Behind them all, the other cohort of Legio XX acted as an immediate reserve.
‘Silly fellows,’ the legate said to his staff. ‘Ought to have thought more about what he was doing.’ The rampart built by the enemy covered most of their front line and was continuous, without the weak spot offered by a gate. Yet that also meant that there was no easy way through for their own warriors. A shrewder commander would have had openings every few hundred paces. What this meant was that the Romans could choose where to attack and not be too worried about their flanks, at least until they had got past the rampart. Neratius Marcellus planned to attack in two places with his legionaries. At the same time Cerialis’ Batavians, supported by the Vardulli, would storm the old hill fort. The cohort cavalry would provide the legate with his ultimate reserve.
Ferox was with the governor as he rode along the line of scorpions. He had asked for permission to lead some of II Augusta or anyone else in the first assault. Neratius Marcellus had refused, no doubt informed by Cerialis of what the prince had said. ‘No, I need you. I have few enough officers as it is, and none who know the tribes as well as you.’
As Ferox watched the crew of one of the engines load a bolt and start cranking the slide back to something like full tension, he tried to fight off a black mood. He did not believe that Enica was dead. Her brother had surely lied, for otherwise he would have shown them some trophy as proof; not her head, since taking the head of any woman would have disgraced a chieftain, let alone the self-proclaimed high king, but something else.
Enica lived, he was sure of that, just as he was sure that her life hung by a thread, and perhaps the same was true of Vindex and the others. What Ferox did today would decide her fate and theirs, and no doubt the gods would demand a heavy price. He might die today, and if that was what would happen then there was no point trying to hide, so he had asked to be at the forefront. There was no point trying to explain this to the legate or any Roman, for he could not say how he knew. Understanding had come slowly, as he’d lain awake through the last hours of the night, and in the red dawn he was certain. A man could not kill a druid and walk away. Acco was at work, or the magic the druid had unleashed, and the gods would play their games, and perhaps the chaos the old man had foretold would erupt here. If both brother and sister died then the Brigantes had no clear leader and the chiefs would fight each other. If the legate was defeated or died in the battle, the other restless and desperate leaders in other tribes might well decide to challenge Rome and the druid would prove right and flame and sword sweep through the province.
Ferox did not fear death, and if it saved his wife then he could almost welcome it. He found it hard to worry much about all those who would perish if the rebellion begun by the prince spread throughout the lands. Instead he thought of the girl in his arms, her softness and his surprise because at first she had been so timid and nervous. Was it just another act? He did not think so, but who could say for he had been wrong before.
It did not matter. Ferox knew that they must win and that he must accept any challenge or danger without hesitation. If death came then it came. He feared the half-death, to suffer wounds leaving him blind and crippled, eking out the long, slow years of life, dependent on the kindness of others, always knowing that his soul would carry the scars into the Otherworld. Yet if that was what the gods demanded, he would suffer it for her. Saving his wife gave Ferox’s own life purpose and meaning, and perhaps his craving for these was deeper that his newfound love.
‘Ready, my lord.’ A tesserarius from XX Valeria Victrix was in charge of the artillery, and now saluted the legate.
Archers stood in pairs between and behind the scorpions, with another group formed as a reserve, and a centurion commanded them, but they were out of bowshot of the rampart. Ferox looked at the row of faces peering over the parapet. Few wore helmets, and as far as he could see all were tribesmen fighting with their own weapons. Some probably had slings, although the Brigantes were not known for their skill with slings. Perhaps one or two were bowmen. Otherwise, they would be able to do nothing to the enemy until the Romans came close enough to hit with a javelin or stone hurled by hand. At least the rampart meant that the warriors could not surge forward before Arviragus was ready, as they had done in the last battle. A standard shaped like a cockerel bobbed up and down in front of them, and beside him stood a big man with a tall helmet and armour of bronze scales.