‘You may begin,’ the legate told the artillerymen. ‘An aureus apiece for the crew who nail that shiny fellow and the one with the bird.’
The tesserarius grinned, showing teeth that were yellow and broken. ‘Pick your targets!’ he shouted. ‘Shoot when you are ready.’
The first scorpion cracked like a whip, as the metal slide slammed forward. Ferox watched as the bolt flashed through the air and whipped several feet above the men on the rampart. The crews of the neighbouring artillery pieces jeered.
‘Silence there! Get on with your job!’ the tesserarius bawled at them. ‘Next peep out of any of you and I’ll have the bugger flogged.’
‘Oh the raven! Oh the wolf!’ The tribesmen began their chant. A lone man with a tall carnyx horn blasted out a challenge.
More of the scorpions cracked and slammed. The next two bolts drove deep into the turf of the wall.
‘Come to me and I will give you flesh!’
The trumpeter blew another rousing blast, which stopped with an abrupt clang as a bolt struck the boar’s head of the carnyx, flinging it back beyond the wall and leaving the player dazed, his mouth bloody.
‘Stop playing games, Marcus. Kill the mongrels!’
‘Oh the raven!’ Ferox thought of Enica hearing her people’s old song and hating the fact that she was on the other side.
The tall armoured chieftain took a bolt through the eye and vanished behind the parapet. His standard-bearer was leaning over him when another missile hit his neck and burst out the other side. The singing faltered. By now, the scorpions had the range, and their crews worked mechanically, cranking and loading, lining up on a target, loosing the bolt, and then doing it all over again. A few of the victims screamed, and there were jeers from the defenders whenever a man ducked in time or the bolt struck the parapet or whisked past overhead. Soon most of the shots struck a man in the shoulders or face, and more and more men bobbed down behind the parapet. No one was yelling back any more, let along chanting.
The last men hid out of sight or were killed, but Neratius Marcellus let the scorpions shoot for a little longer, before raising his hand. ‘Archers to advance. Scorpions to follow and set up fifty paces from the rampart. You can shoot over the bowmen if any of those fools feel brave again.’ He turned to Ferox. ‘Ride to the Augusta and tell them to advance when I signal. And then come back. I need you here.’ As he rode away he heard similar orders being issued to go to XX Valeria Victrix and the auxiliaries under Cerialis.
A warrior cautiously raised his eyes above the parapet, now that the bolts had stopped. He must have shouted something, although Ferox did not hear, for others joined him. Then the arrows started, and although no one was hit they were close enough to make everyone duck back down.
Ferox passed on the orders and trotted back to the legate, taking his horse parallel to the rampart and within range of a well-thrown javelin. None came his way, for the defenders remained in hiding, so there was no real test of whether the gods planned to claim his life. Neratius Marcellus raised one eyebrow when he saw the centurion wheeling round to join his staff, but made no comment. The legate gestured to the tubicen who trailed behind him and the man sounded the signal for orders. Then the vexillarius dipped his square red flag, embroidered with its golden figure of Victory, three times. Cornicines in all of the leading units blew the three notes of the advance.
They were closest to Legio XX, on its unshielded side, so Ferox saw the legionaries step out as neatly as if they were on parade, with the clinks and soft thump of soldiers on the march. A centurion ahead and to the right of the front half of the cohort was walking backwards, so that he could keep a close eye on his men. It was a gesture of contempt for the enemy, if a weak one, since the enemy remained invisible, save for the horsemen on their right and the distant figures of the men in the old fort.
The legionaries were silent apart from the calm voices of centurions, and the sharp rebukes from the optiones following each line whenever a man spoke or wandered out of place. In the distance, Ferox just caught a low murmur as the Batavians began the barritus, the old war cry of Germanic warriors. Men in the fort answered with cheers and blasts of horns, for there were no archers over there to keep them down. On the opposite side the cavalry of each army watched each other, neither making any move, until Ferox caught a flicker of something out of the corner of his eye and saw a chariot shoot out between two of the bands of Brigantian horsemen. The car was painted a pale blue, the team one black and one grey, and the warrior in the back wore silvered helmet and mail and carried a deep blue shield. More chariots followed, some red, some green and some white, with warriors capering as they brandished weapons and shields high. It was bad luck to drive with ponies of the same colour, or so most of the tribes believed, so Ferox was surprised to see one car painted black and pulled by black animals. Its warrior was stark naked, his body painted, and he was standing on the shaft between the ponies as the wheels thundered across the grass.
‘Well, there’s a sight,’ the legate said, as if commenting on a statue or painting. ‘A glimpse of Homer, perhaps! What a shame Ovidius is not here to see it.’ Ferox would have been glad to see the old fellow, and simply to know that he was well, and did not bother to remind the legate that the philosopher had seen plenty of chariots in Hibernia that summer.
The infantry pushed on steadily.
‘Good boys! Keep it steady there.’ The centurion going backwards did not shout, and simply spoke very loudly, his voice carrying easily along the first line formed by the cohort.
The chariots did not advance too far from their own cavalry, and then turned sharply, riding back and forth as the warriors showed off. Ferox saw ripples in the front rank of ala Petriana. He doubted the horses had ever seen or heard something like this, and more than a few were spooked by the flashes of metal and the spinning wheels as they crunched across the frosty grass. One beast turned and tried to push past the horses behind, its rider tugging desperately at the reins to stop it. At last he managed to drag his mount back around. Fortunately the Britons had not charged, for even a little bit of confusion could easily turn into panic. Ferox suspected that no one had seen the opportunity.
‘Pity we did not put some archers over there with the cavalry,’ the legate said wistfully. He glanced at the scorpions, but all were between the two leading formations of legionaries, and it would take time to bring a couple back so that they could see the chariots.
One of the warriors leaped down from his chariot and strode towards the Roman horsemen. Ferox could imagine him calling out his name and lineage and asking for a fitting opponent to face him in single combat. He wondered whether a few months ago the same man had been dressing in a toga and taking pride in speaking Latin, or whether this was one of those noblemen who had clung tightly to the old ways.
Aelius Brocchus galloped out from his station at the head of ala Petriana straight at the warrior, yellow-brown cloak billowing behind.
‘Damned fool,’ the legate muttered, half admiringly.
The Briton threw a javelin and the prefect deflected it with his shield. Brocchus had his own spear low down, and he urged his horse to go even faster, as the warrior drew his sword. The prefect leaned low and to the right, shield held up to protect his horse’s head, the reins hanging free as he steered the animal with his knees. The Brigantian raised his long sword, but before he could sweep down, the spear point drove into his stomach and through his body, lifting him off his feet. Brocchus struggled with the weight, for he was not a big man, and after a moment gave up and dropped both spear and the writhing warrior impaled on it.