‘They say they came long ago as a curse on the lands.’ The words were whispered, so that Ferox had to strain to hear them. ‘They came from the sea to kill men and eat their flesh. Now they sleep under waves, until a storm rouses them to feed again.’ At last the boy looked up, challenging him. ‘They say that it is bad luck even to mention them.’ There was a belligerence in his tone, as if he was willing the curse on the Roman.
‘Good luck, son,’ Ferox said again, and hauled himself onto Frost’s back. The seagull still watched him, and he wondered what god or spirit possessed it.
They rode along the beach, not risking going back the way they had come in case the rest of the Novantae were close. The tide was still coming in, and at times they had to go through the foamy surf, spray flying up from the feet of their horses before they reached another patch of firm sand.
Cloud came in off the sea, bringing a fine drizzle and blotting from sight the far shore. It also meant that they did not see the pillar of smoke until they were closer. The hills blocked their view, but both men knew that it came from the direction of the tower.
‘We’re humped,’ Vindex said as they rode on.
VII
THE HOUSES WERE burning, the smoke whipped by the wind towards the tower. They risked riding up onto the ridge because the only Novantae they could see were on foot. Most of the warriors were clustered in the ditch or on the slope of the earth rampart surrounding the watchtower. With so few men, it was too large a circuit for the garrison to defend against the thirty or so tribesmen attacking it. He could not see any dead or injured warriors, but at least one of the Romans was dead, lying outside the gate where he must have been surprised by the attack. There really ought to have been time for him to flee through the entrance, so Ferox wondered whether the man had frozen and been caught. That would leave just five men to hold the place, so the legionary had wisely drawn back into the tower. The warriors would have to expose themselves to javelins and other missiles if they tried to break in, but the Romans were trapped, and if the attackers could use the fire from the burning houses to set light to the tower itself, then they would be left with the choice of choking, burning, or running out to be cut down.
‘Is this where we run away, very fast?’ Vindex asked.
It was the wise thing. They had one spear between them, for the lancea’s shaft had snapped when he had tried to free it from the dead warrior. With more missiles and the speed of their horses, they might have been able to nip at the band of tribesmen, bringing one or two of them down while keeping out of harm’s way. Two of them could not hope to do much more than die with the garrison if they charged in.
‘Hello,’ the Brigantian added, a moment later, ‘he’s made good time.’ The warrior riding the captured horse came streaking across the hilltop, heading for the men clustered around the rampart of the tower. ‘This’ll make ’em angry.’
Ferox grinned. ‘You mean they weren’t already? They’re Novantae, they were born angry.’
‘Time to go, then?’
A trumpet blared and a lone horseman came up over the lip of the hill, his deep green cloak billowing behind him as the tall black horse pounded across the turf towards the fort. The high red crest of his glittering helmet rippled as he sped towards the tower, sword raised high. A moment later another man came, riding a dark bay horse, wearing a yellow-brown cloak and with a spear held underarm like a hunter. Then there were six or seven more, all galloping, and one was the tubicen, still sounding the charge, the notes on his thin bronze trumpet ragged as they surged forward. He and most of the others had green shields and the tops of their helmets were dark.
‘Heroes,’ Vindex said wearily. The leader was Crispinus, with Cerialis and his Batavians close behind. ‘I’m guessing we can’t run away any more.’ Ferox set Snow into a canter and was off. ‘No,’ the Brigantian added, ‘I guess not,’ and followed.
Snow was tired, and Ferox had to reach back and slap her to force the mare into a gallop. A few of the Novantae saw them and turned, but most were looking at the main charge. For a moment Ferox hoped that they were just the leaders, and that behind the tribune and prefect was a turma or two sent from Luguvallium. There was not, and there were only the officers and their escort. He noticed Claudius Super with the leading Batavians, the high transverse crest of his helmet marking him out as a centurion. It would have been better if the horsemen had kept their distance, using their javelins, but it was too much to expect prudence and good sense when three officers were together.
Crispinus was several lengths ahead of the others. A spear was thrown at him and passed harmlessly overhead. The tribune headed straight for the entrance to the circular rampart, hacking at a warrior as he passed, but the man flung himself to the ground before the blow struck and the young aristocrat kept going. Then Ferox saw him drop his sword and grab hold of his horse’s mane. The animal tensed and jumped and he realised that the garrison must have drawn the spiked timber barricades across the gap in the rampart. Crispinus’ black stallion seemed to sail through the air, and then vanished into the little outpost. Behind him, Cerialis had seen the danger. He leaned to the side to drive his spear into the back of the warrior on the ground, pinning him to the earth, and then put his bay at the barricade. Warriors were rushing towards him. His horse stuttered in its rhythm, and then Ferox wondered whether he had jumped too soon, before it flew up and over.
Claudius Super was not so well mounted, or as fine a horseman, or perhaps it was just that his gelding was disconcerted by the warriors swarming around him. The animal stopped, rearing as a spear was thrust into its chest, and the centurion was flung down. One of the Batavians threw his javelin and spitted the man who had wounded the animal, but he and the other troopers had all halted, milling around outside the ramparts. Another horse was struck, another rider down in the grass, and two warriors were on him in a moment, slashing with their long, blunt-tipped swords.
Ferox saw that the mounted warrior was coming for him. He nudged Snow so that the mare shifted a little to bring him up on the man’s left side. They were closing fast, but the captured horse was tired or did not trust its rider and began to swerve away. Snow barged against its rear, nearly unseating the warrior, and Ferox slashed with his gladius, opening the man’s throat.
He rode on, straight at the confused mêlée outside the entrance. The tubicen was leaning against the neck of his horse, his scale armour punctured by a spear that had driven deep into his belly. Hands reached up and pulled him down. Another Batavian’s face was a mass of blood from the blow of a sling stone. Claudius Super was on his feet, helmet gone, his back against the sloping rampart and sword flicking from one opponent to the next.
A man flung himself down in front of Ferox, spear held ready to thrust up into the horse or ram between its legs to trip it. Snow was galloping too fast to stop or avoid him, so he copied the other officers and gripped the mare’s mane, urging her into the jump. He felt that wonderful power as the horse leaped, heard a dull thump as one of her feet struck something and then she was over, running on, uninjured as far as he could tell, and there was a scream as Vindex came on slowly and speared the man as he lay stunned.
The three uninjured Batavians had all sprung down from their horses, which ran away from the noise and the fighting. They stood protectively round the blinded man, keeping the warriors at bay for the moment, until one wearing mail and a bronze helmet jumped forward, pushed a spear aside with his shield and thrust with his sword into a trooper’s face. Other warriors were scrambling up the rampart and climbing over the parapet. Someone was shouting, the words lost amid the chaos of men and horses.