‘Oh the wolf!’ The singing was getting louder as the Brigantes readied themselves for a fresh charge.
Ferox had deliberately chosen a place where the line was only a few men deep. He snarled and shouted at men to let him through, and reached the front, the warriors only two spear lengths away. Facing him was a chieftain he remembered from the council, although he could not think of his name. The man was clean shaven and short-haired, with a sly face and eyes that never looked at someone when he spoke to them.
‘You!’ he said, breaking off from the war chant, although he still did not look Ferox in the face.
‘Give in. Lay down your arms and the legate will be merciful!’ Ferox had spoken in Latin out of habit, but now switched to the language of the tribes. ‘All of you, surrender now and accept the governor’s mercy!’
‘Come to me and I will give you flesh!’ The words were almost screamed at the Roman line and turned into a roar as the Brigantes surged forward. The chieftain with the sly face had a spear, a bronze helmet with an elaborate plume, mail and an oval shield. He came for Ferox, finally looking straight at him, spear over his shoulder, ready to jab down. The centurion raised his borrowed shield, felt it shudder as the iron head struck it, and swept very low with his gladius. The blade bit into something, the slim face broke into a yelp and the man staggered. Ferox flicked the sword to thrust up and the chieftain squealed as the long triangular point came under his mail and into his groin.
As the chieftain fell back, shrieking, Ferox stabbed the man standing beside him, the blade sliding past his shield and punching through the iron rings of his mail shirt. The warrior gasped, dropped his sword, and the legionary beside Ferox stamped forward and finished him with a jab through the eye. On his left, the legionary attacked with too much force, and his opponent pushed the blade aside with his shield and then slashed down, severing the Roman’s right arm. Blood pumping out, the soldier dropped his scutum and clutched at the wounded limb. The long sword slashed down again, clanging as it struck his helmet with such force that the iron broke open as the man went down. Behind him a legionary still carried his pilum and aimed carefully as he jabbed forward, the little point driving into the warrior’s eye.
The Brigantes gave way and stepped back a few paces. It was the first time that the Romans had not been the ones to retreat and that was something, even if all along the line Ferox could see many dead on the grass and the wounded being dragged back.
‘Still with me, Caecilius?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good lad. Keep that eagle high.’
‘We’re holding them, boys,’ he shouted. ‘They won’t break the Capricorns.’ His back was slick with sweat and he had only fought for a short time.
Arrows whipped overhead to fall deep among the mass of warriors in front of them. He heard cries of pain, and saw men in the rear ranks raising their blue shields to meet this new attack. The Hamian archers were up on the rampart, and that would help, but the front lines were too close together for them to shoot at the enemy leaders and their boldest men. Ferox saw Arviragus some way over to his left and wished that he could get at the prince, but the legionaries were only just holding on and he did not want to try to work his way around behind the line in case they thought he was running. If the Romans broke, then most would die, because they would be trapped against the wall, and if they died then he doubted Neratius Marcellus would win his battle, even if he did not die along with them.
The arrows stung the Brigantes into another attack, which brought more of them closer to the legionaries again. A very tall man, a good six inches higher than him, though lean as a reed, yelled as he came at the centurion. He had an axe in his hand, the sort most men would save for chopping wood, and he tried to hook it over the top of Ferox’s shield and pull it down. Behind him a spearman as tall and rangy as the first man thrust a spear over his shoulder. They looked alike, perhaps twins, so strange with their hollow cheeks and spiked hair that they might have come from a legend.
Ferox had his sword up, elbow bent, and stabbed forward, but the tall man was too far away from him to reach. Again the axe swung, and rather than let it catch on his scutum he jerked the shield up, so that the blade sliced through the brass edging and gouged a hole in the wood. The spear thumped against it, not hard enough to penetrate, and Ferox brough his right arm low behind his shield, lunging at waist height, only to strike against the warrior’s shield.
These strange twins were dangerous, working together well. Beside him, the soldier on his right had lost his helmet and was bleeding heavily from his scalp, but managed to drive his opponent back a pace. Another legionary on his left fell, this time with his left leg almost cut through beneath the knee, and he was dragged into the enemy ranks and stabbed a dozen times before he lay still. A comrade stepped forward into the gap.
Suddenly the tall warrior sprouted an arrow from his eye, his head snapping back with the impact, and Ferox blessed the archer who had taken such a risky shot. He stamped forward, pushing the corpse with his shield, and lunged up into his twin’s neck. The legionary on Ferox’s right was struggling to see as the blood streamed down over his eyes, and he slashed wildly and so quickly that he beat his opponent’s shield down, twice struck sparks off his mail shirt without breaking the rings, and finally nicked his face. Then a spearmen behind the warrior thrust hard, bursting through where two plates of the man’s segmented cuirass met. The Roman grunted, slumping forward. A legionary standing in the next rank still had a pilum and threw it with all his strength into the warrior. The head punched through the man’s shield, the shank sliding hungrily through the hole, splitting two rings on his mail as it forced its way into his belly. He too dropped back, and it was as if that was a signal for the whole line to pull away.
‘Well done, boys, we’re holding them.’ Ferox gasped for breath. His arms and legs felt like lead, and his muscles throbbed. No one who had not fought in a battle line ever understood how quickly a man became exhausted. He knew that holding the enemy was not enough. The Romans were outnumbered and so many Britons were packed behind the leading ranks that it would be hard for any of them to turn and flee. If it came to a long slog, then the legionaries were more likely to become exhausted before the enemy.
Arrows snipped above his head, thunking into the shields the Brigantes were holding high. Ferox had no idea what was happening in the rest of the battle. Even the governor, who was probably no more than a few hundred paces away, might as easily be alive or dead, or on a journey to the moon, for all he could tell. He wished that he was up on the wall again, able to see what was going on, but he could not leave.
‘Right, boys,’ he shouted as loudly as he could, trying to sound as if victory was inevitable, but his throat was thick and all that came out was a croak. He spat to clear it.
It was not enough to hold their ground. They had to win, because if any part of the Roman army collapsed then the rest could easily follow. ‘Those bastards have killed some of our commilitones. No one does that and gets away with it. Come on, Capricorns. Follow the eagle! It’s going through those sods in front of us, so unless we want to lose it, we will have to go with it!’
He took a deep breath. ‘Caecilius.’
‘Sir.’
‘Stay behind me, boy. Every step of the way.’
He thumped the flat of his gladius against the side of his shield. ‘Let ’em hear you!’ He struck again and again. ‘Come on, Capricorns, let ’em hear us coming!’ Men copied, pounding swords or shafts of pila against the rectangular shields.
‘Charge!’ Ferox yelled, and did his best to run at the enemy, in spite of the heaviness in his legs. They were only a few paces away, but he saw the warrior opposite him, teeth bared as he grimaced over the top of his shield. The man had a legionary helmet, the top dented, and he wondered whether its previous owner was dead or had thrown it away to run faster. Ferox punched with all his weight behind the heavy scutum, the dome-like boss high to smash into the warrior’s face, breaking his nose, and if the man had been waiting he could have killed Ferox then and there, thrusting low with his sword. No blow came back, and the warrior staggered from the impact, so Ferox punched again, without the force of going forward, but savagely enough. Then his gladius was up and jerked forward, brushing the bottom cheek piece before it found the warrior’s neck. Blood spattered over Ferox’s face and shield as the Brigantian dropped.