‘Ferox,’ the legate said quietly. ‘Go and tell the prefect well done, but if he tries that again I’ll have him on a charge and dismissed from his post.’ He shook his head. ‘Really, a man of his years. And, Ferox?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Come straight back.’
Brocchus grinned as his men cheered him. Other warriors were on foot now, issuing their own challenges.
‘Stay in ranks!’ Brocchus shouted. ‘Keep order.’
Decurions echoed the command. ‘Stay in line, you bastards!’
The prefect nodded as he received the order. ‘Please don’t ever tell my wife,’ he added with a smile. ‘Oh well, so much for heroism, let us do this like proper soldiers.’ He ordered a turma to ride out and skirmish with the chariots.
By the time Ferox rejoined the legate, the legionaries were at the wall. Now and then a defender bobbed up, throwing a javelin or rock down. Few risked the time needed to aim properly, because the archers and scorpions were waiting. One legionary was behind the line, as a medicus tied a bandage around his bloodied head, while another lay still, a spear in his throat, but those were the only casualties. Men were working with dolabrae, using the wider head of the pickaxe to prise apart the turves in the wall. Others used crowbars or simply their hands, eating away at the hastily built rampart. Each legion was working on two breaches in the wall.
Something was wrong. Ferox’s instincts were calling to him that it was all too easy. Even with the risk from the arrows and bolts, the Brigantes seemed too cowed, as they let their defences be destroyed with no real effort to hinder the work. Ferox heard a distant roar as the barritus reached a crescendo and the Batavians charged. The defenders shouted back, hurling javelins at the auxiliaries as they scrambled up the grassy slope. Cerialis had orders not to press the attack too hard until the legionaries had crossed the wall, but such caution was all too easily forgotten in the heat of the moment.
Brocchus’ men worked in pairs, one covering the other so that they always had at least one javelin ready to throw. Two of the chariots lay as shattered ruins of men and ponies, brought down by killing one of the animals or the driver when they were going at full pelt. Three more warriors were wounded, and only one managed to get back on board and escape, and the cost was one trooper hit in the thigh and two horses wounded. Ferox did not think that Arviragus was with the chariots, although at this distance it was hard to be sure. As he watched, the naked warrior with the black chariot and team burst forward. A javelin twitched the mane of one of the ponies without doing harm, and another struck the warrior’s shield and stuck fast so that he dropped it. His own javelin hit the top of a trooper’s raised shield, but the auxiliary was slow and all he did was deflect the missile up into his face. The chariot raced past, and the warrior had his sword ready. He dodged the javelin of the trooper’s companion, and the auxiliary was still fumbling with his spatha when the chariot skimmed along past him and the long sword swept. Blood fountained high as the trooper’s head and helmet sailed through the air, and the black team was turning, galloping away to safety. Ferox could not help admiring the skill.
With a soft, almost gentle rumble, part of the rampart collapsed forward, the legionaries bounding back out of the way. The soldiers cheered, and a moment later more of the wall gave way to form a second breach.
‘Beware the Boars,’ the centurion who had started the advance going backwards bellowed out in triumph. Legio XX used a boar as its symbol on some of its standards, although its shield bore the device of Jupiter’s lightning bolts and the wings of thunder.
Valeria Victrix had broken the rampart before the other legion, and no doubt they would remind Augusta of this at every opportunity. Ferox imagined Tertullianus cursing in his high-pitched voice, until the wall started to crumble and their two breaches formed.
‘Capricorns!’ II Augusta had the capricorn symbol of the divine Augustus on its red shields.
As the dust cleared javelins came whipping through the breaches. Julius Tertullianus died in the moment of triumph as a spearhead struck him in the mouth and drove so deep into his head that the rear of his helmet was dented. Most of the men using the tools had laid aside their shields to work and now they paid for this, with half a dozen falling to wounds in the legs, and one whose mail failed to stop a powerful throw.
There was no check. A few men hurled pila through the gap, but most did not bother and raised the slim javelins to use as spears. Some stayed with their tools as they climbed up the slope made by the debris of the wall and charged inside. There was a dull roar of rage and an answering shout of anger from behind the wall.
‘Someone go and see what is happening!’ the legate gasped, and before he could say anything else Ferox put his horse into a run. Four mobs of legionaries attacked through the breaches. Formation was impossible and the lack of order could not be helped, but by now Ferox’s instincts were screaming even louder and he was sure that this was a trap.
He rode past the scorpions and archers, heading for the wall near one of the breaches made by II Augusta. From beyond the ramparts there were shouts, the clash of weapons, and screams of agony. More and more legionaries were pushing their way through the gaps, and behind them the reserve lines were close, ready to reinforce. The rampart was not high, so that when Ferox reined in beside it, the crest of his helmet was barely lower than the top of the parapet. There was no sign of any defenders. For a moment he wondered about trying Enica’s trick of standing on the saddle, before deciding not to risk it. This was a borrowed horse and rather skittish. Instead he jumped down and called to a couple of the archers.
‘Give me a hand.’
Putting a foot in one man’s cupped hands, he pushed up, and with a hefty shove from the over grabbed the top of the parapet and managed to get one boot on the narrow ledge in front of it.
‘Thanks, lads.’
Ferox pulled himself up, and to his relief no warrior was kneeling behind the barrier, waiting for this moment. A corpse with a bolt in its chest sprawled on the walkway, one arm hanging down, and apart from a few more dead and badly wounded warriors the wall was empty. Below there was fighting and he could see that the Romans were winning and steadily pushing forward. Dragging himself over, Ferox squatted next to the dead warrior and looked down. Most of the men from the first attacking line were already inside, in four groups in front of each of the breaches. As they cut their way forward, they spread a little with each pace gained. The reserves were starting to follow them, and he saw the eagle waving amid the other standards as the lionskin-headdressed standard-bearers advanced with their comrades.
‘What’s happening?’ Neratius Marcellus shouted from behind. The legate had come after him, too impatient to wait.
Ferox did not answer. He tried to count the warriors fighting the legionaries. They were little more than a mob, clustering around the Romans, so that the best he could get was an impression, but it was obvious that there were too few of them. Perhaps there were a few score more Brigantes than Romans, although that would soon change as the reserves caught up.
‘Damn it, Ferox, what is happening?’
He glanced to the right. The Batavians had not yet broken into the old fort and for the moment the two sides had separated and were lobbing javelins back and forth. On the left, the cavalry still waited, although from here he could see that the Britons had well over two thousand horsemen and more might be concealed by the woods. The royal cohort stood just a little back from the line of the rampart, each man with his shield resting against his legs and his spear in his hand as he waited in silence.