But Ballan didn’t have two hours, not even one. It was well done, he had to give them that; just what he should have expected of them. They came from a fold between two flat-topped hills. A thunder of hooves masked, until the last second, by the thunder of his own. A death scream he recognized with a sundered heart, followed in quick succession by a second, louder still, as lances wielded by troops who knew how to use them twisted and bit into the spines of the last two men of his little column.
‘Turn and fight,’ he yelled, not knowing how many of them there were. It didn’t matter: the little British ponies could never outrun Roman stock. He and his scouts had survived this far by stealth. Now they would have to survive by their skill as warriors. But as soon as he hauled his pony round to face the enemy he knew no amount of skill would save them. There were twenty attackers, probably more. It was difficult to distinguish friend from foe as the melee surged and whirled around him, shouts and cries and the clash of iron echoing in the semi-darkness. A horse flashed past close on his left side and he recognized in the faint moonlight the livery of the Gaulish auxiliaries who had annihilated the foolish British attack on the Roman column.
Something twitched at the corner of his eye and he turned his pony instinctively to meet the cavalryman who had singled him out. He was coming at the charge, crouched down in the wooden saddle the Romans used. Everything about the way he rode said he was certain of an easy victory. Blond curls spilled out from beneath the sideplates of a pot-shaped helmet and Ballan could see the glint of eyes beneath the curved brim. His own gaze never deviated from the lance point. The weapon was held low and loose in the rider’s right fist, but Ballan knew that when the iron tip swept up to rip his throat or blind him the grip would tighten and the arm tense to take the shock of the blow. He counted the seconds in his head, matched time to the strides of the galloping cavalry horse and calculated the closing speed of his pony. Now! The little mare danced right, taking them down the German’s left flank, and he felt the wind as the killing blow swept over his left shoulder, the strike made awkward by the split-second change of course. As they passed, he attempted to bring his own spear across to rake the exposed flesh of the Roman’s thigh or his mount’s haunches, but the horse was gone in an instant and he was in the open again on the verge of the vicious little battle.
He circled, man and pony breathing hard. His scouts were hard-pressed. Another two were down, at least, and more wounded. He knew to return to the fight was death. But he still had his spear, and the long sword at his waist, and what was death to Ballan of the Iceni? A passing shock, a grunt of pain? Then the Otherworld. He laughed, a laugh of the pure joy of battle, and prepared to kick the pony forward.
‘Ballan!’ The shrill cry came from Cerda, the youngest of his scouts. A spear or a sword had scored the boy’s forehead and his face was a mask of blood. He was using his pony’s manoeuvrability to dodge a big trooper who was trying to finish the job. Well, there were worse ways to die than aiding a friend. He started to turn the pony. Cerda saw the movement and understood that his leader was about to ride to help him. ‘No!’ he called and his words came clear over the sound of the fighting. ‘Our honour, lord. One man can restore our honour. Ride. We will hold them. We will buy you time. Ride, to Caratacus.’
Mentally, Ballan shook his head. No. He would not do it. He would not abandon these men he had ridden with and fought beside for so long. But, in the real world, he knew Cerda was right. Caratacus must be told. He whirled the pony and galloped towards the shelter of a nearby forest. Before the trees closed in around him he turned and looked back at the little drama being played out in the silver shadow-light of a broken moon. One of the big Roman horses smashed into the flank of Cerda’s pony, pitching the boy to the ground. A spear shaft quivered as the point flashed down into the helpless body on the bloody meadow grass.
Of course, they hunted him. Hunted him and found him. The cavalrymen flushed the wood as if they were beaters flighting a covey of partridge, and this time the Gaulish troopers had been joined by the strange, green-clad archers he had noted guarding the flanks of the Roman legionary columns. He had gone less than a quarter of a mile when the arrow thudded into his back just below the left shoulder. It struck with enough force to knock the breath from him and he knew he was sore hit, perhaps even mortally. He never understood how he stayed in the saddle, but somehow he did, just long enough to force his pony through a deep thicket that let him roll from its back as the animal galloped on. He hit the ground with his right shoulder and his momentum carried him through the leaf-mould for a few feet. Heart pounding, he lay motionless for less than a second before an unthinking instinct for survival made him scramble for the concealment of the dry watercourse that split the thicket. The shaft of the arrow was still protruding from his back and he closed his eyes and reached for it, fearful of what he would find — then froze. A horse’s hooves padded by inches from his head. The low branches that concealed the rider also concealed him from his enemy. He allowed his hand to creep towards the dagger at his belt. If the horseman stopped, he would take him, whatever the risk. He held his breath and tensed, ready to make the leap, but the seconds passed and the beast continued placidly on its way.
He allowed himself to breathe, a function that caused a streak of raw pain to split his back and chest. Tentatively he reached backwards for the arrow once more. If it was buried deep, he would have to leave it. If the wound was superficial he would haul it clear. The sweat stung his eyes and he felt a wave of nausea. He knew that if he pulled the arrow from his skin and it was buried deeper than he realized there was a chance he’d bleed to death. But it was a gamble he had to take. He gripped the shaft as firmly as he was able with his hand twisted awkwardly up his back and his body pushed forward to make the arrow more accessible. One, two… three. He almost fainted with relief. The arrowhead had been fired from relatively short range with enough force to pierce the tough, half-inch-thick leather of his outer tunic, but it had barely penetrated the mail shirt he had looted from a dead Roman auxiliary. Only the point had reached his skin and the wound was barely a scratch. The pain came from his ribs, where the missile had struck with the power of a charging bullock. He winced as another bolt of pain tore his chest. One rib was broken, maybe even two, but he would live with that. If he lived at all.
XXIX
A few miles upriver, Rufus stood beside Bersheba close behind the centre of the Batavian force. Frontinus had inspected the defensive line all the way from the river to the place where the red cliffs rose, giving quiet words of encouragement to his men and directions to the two centurions and the clerk who accompanied him. When he returned, Rufus could see the frown of concentration on his face as his mind went over every challenge the day would bring and how he would meet it. Frontinus knew there would be disaster as well as triumph, and chaos amidst the carnage, for that was the way of battles. But there would be a moment — there was always a moment — when the unexpected, or perhaps a combination of unexpecteds, would bring the crisis that would win or lose the fight. Nothing he did, no amount of preparation or thought, would prevent its happening and it was the way he, Frontinus, reacted that would swing the balance one way or the other. That was why he had placed Rufus where he was.
He explained: ‘No matter how many pretty speeches I make, how brave I sound, or how much my men respect me, the only certainty is that at some point we will be outnumbered, perhaps by as many as ten to one. I must use every weapon, every stratagem at my disposal to offset that fact, and no matter what you or your friend Narcissus say, the elephant is a potential weapon. The barbarians fear her. Adminius confirmed it, and even if he had not, the reaction of his warriors would have convinced me. So I want you here, at my side, in the place of greatest danger. She may make no difference, probably will not, but I can’t take the chance of losing any advantage she might give us when the lives of my soldiers may depend upon it.’