‘It’s a trap, my lord,’ Ferox called back. Everything pointed to that, for if this was all that was left of the prince’s army and the rest had deserted then why would he have fought at all? Ferox stared behind the clusters of Britons fighting the legionaries. There was just grassland for a couple of hundred paces before the ground rose to a low ridge, but it was hard to believe that the rest of the army could be so far away as behind the heights. He looked closer, saw the grass ripple in the wind, passed on, and then brought his gaze back. There was no wind.
Someone grunted as they landed on the parapet beside him. The legate stood up, brushing himself down. ‘Go on, lads!’ he shouted, as the legionaries made another surge forward. He turned. ‘Send up the other cohort.’ The tubicen called out and the vexillum waved as a signal.
‘Wait, my lord!’ Ferox watched the grass no more than seventy paces behind the retreating Britons, before he saw a head, then another peering out. ‘Look there!’ Once he had seen it, the shadow on the land was obvious. There was a gully, running all the way across the field, invisible until you knew where to look, but big enough to hide men – lots of men.
The warriors fighting the legionaries were going back faster now, leaving a lot of dead and wounded behind them. As they pushed on behind the front ranks, Romans jabbed down with pilum or sword to kill those who still moved, for it was never wise to take a chance and spare an enemy before the battle was won. A carnyx blew, the harsh quivering call loud even above the fighting, and the Britons turned and fled. Some died because they did not turn fast enough, and then more as the legionaries streamed after them, the wounded and slow being killed first. A great cheer of victory went up from the legionaries as the enemy broke. No one shouted any orders and the two cohorts just rushed ahead, eager to finish the job.
Then the prince sprang his trap.
XXIX
THOUSANDS OF WARRIORS sprang up out of the ground, pouring over the lip of the gully and charging, and their great shout was like the crashing of waves against the shore. Many of them wore armour and helmets of army pattern, spoils from the defeat of Crassus.
‘Hercules’ balls!’ the legate gasped as he saw them.
They were not in neat ranks, but there were so many of them and they came on eagerly, Arviragus leading them with a dozen of the royal guard around him and his standard of the horse overhead. The fleeing Britons either joined them or were pushed to the ground and trampled by the oncoming horde. Legionaries halted, and those who had gone the furthest were first to die.
Trumpets sounded and the royal cohort picked up its shields and marched forward. Facing them was cohors IV Gallorum, outnumbered more than two to one. Beyond them the Brigantian cavalry started to walk their horses towards the Roman left wing
‘Form up!’ Neratius Marcellus screamed at the legionaries in front of the rampart. ‘Form ranks!’
Ferox grabbed his arm, and the legate started in surprise, eyes angry. ‘He means to sweep round through our flank while our army is split by the wall,’ he explained.
Neratius Marcellus was breathing hard, but nodded in understanding, and Ferox could see him calculating. ‘Archers, up on the wall!’ he yelled, and then grabbed the parapet to shout down orders to his staff. ‘All the archers, up here, quick as you can! Send the cohort cavalry to support Brocchus. He must stop their horse until we can win here. The Gauls to hold their place and die where they stand if need be. Tell them I am counting on them and know that they will not let me down.’ Cerialis’ men still faced the old fort and there was no need to give them fresh instructions. ‘Tell the reserve cohort of Victrix to wheel to the left, but wait for my orders!’
As the legate shouted his instructions, the legionaries were coming back, still in no sort of order, but drawn towards the wall. More warriors kept swarming up out of the gully. Ferox guessed there were five thousand or more and still men boiled over the lip. Somehow a rough line was forming, the legionaries clustered in some places and thin in others. Some eleven hundred men had broken through and were still on their feet, stretched in a ragged line across the half-mile strip of grass in front of the rampart. The Britons were close enough to stab with spears or swords and it had all happened too fast for anyone to throw javelins or pila. Behind the front ranks of warriors, all of them in mail, was a vast crowd and some of these men managed to fling a spear forward, but most were too tightly packed. Legionaries who found themselves in the front rank dropped pila if they still had them because there was so little room, and instead slid out their swords.
‘Come on!’ the legate said, and ran down the bank of the rampart, heading for the eagle. ‘Rally, boys! Rally,’ he shouted as he went. Ferox went after him, slipping on the grass so that he skidded on his backside down the ramp.
‘Don’t play the fool, man!’ the legate snarled.
The Roman line was only twenty paces or so from the wall. There were no optiones behind it, or trace of proper formation, and in places it was two deep and sometimes five or six deep. Men shouted as the Brigantes attacked, blade clashed against blade, or struck helmet, armour or shield and after a flurry of fighting the Roman line shuffled back a few more paces.
‘Steady there!’ the legate called, his trained voice booming out over the legionaries’ heads. Steady, the Boars! Steady, the Capricorns!’ Just behind the line, the aquilifer of II Augusta stood with the other standard-bearers, including two from Victrix who had found themselves here.
‘Come on!’ Ferox heard the prince yelling to his own men. ‘Let them hear you! Oh the wolf! Oh the raven!’ The singing was ragged, until more and more of the Brigantes joined in. ‘Come to me and I will give you flesh!’
‘Ferox, you take charge of Augusta. I will sort out Valeria Victrix or find someone who can.’ The legate saw the questioning look. ‘Do it, man, there’s no time for debate.’
‘Sir!’ Ferox drew his gladius. ‘Good luck, my lord.’
‘And to you, centurion.’ The legate ran off to the left. ‘Steady, lads! Hold them! Hold them!’
‘Any centurions left?’ Ferox asked the aquilifer.
‘Don’t know, sir.’ The eagle-bearer tried to smile. A javelin lobbed high above the legionaries whistled, and Ferox was lunging forward with his free hand, trying to push the man out of the way, but was too slow and the leaf-shaped point drove into his neck through the scarf he wore to stop his mail from chafing. Blood jetted out, the man’s eyes rolling up as he slumped forward. Ferox managed to catch the eagle before it fell.
A young soldier was at the back of the line and turned, staring in horror at the dying standard-bearer. He was tall, for II Augusta liked to have a first cohort of tall men, and must have had a good record otherwise he would not have been with the cohort at all.
‘You, boy, what’s your name?’
‘Caecilius, sir.’
‘Oh the raven!’
‘Let’s have your shield, Caecilius.’ Ferox thrust the precious standard towards him. ‘You are to carry this,’ he said. The boy’s eyes widened. ‘It is a sacred trust for this is the honour of our legion and we are II Augusta, the best legion in the army, and we have work to do. You follow me. All of you.’ He hefted the shield as the boy passed it over, and looked at the standard-bearers. ‘We will make this a day the legion will still be marking in two hundred years’ time.’