Aelius Brocchus nodded to him as he returned to the vexillum that marked the position of the commander. No other standards were carried by the force. Crispinus decided to take the gesture as one of approval, although it was hard to tell for he could be a stern man. Lucius Ovidius showed no such restraint, and the tribune was surprised to see him there, along with others from the tower.
‘Very bold,’ the old man said cheerfully. ‘But a word of warning, though, as a man of letters – if you ever put all this to verse, I’d skip the part about the horse shit.’ Ovidius noticed that Sulpicia Lepidina was walking over, and immediately reddened, nervous that she had heard his vulgarity.
‘My lady, it is a joy to see you safe and well,’ Crispinus said, and meant it. The prefect’s wife cut an uncommonly fine figure in her simple peasant dress. Crispinus suspected that on his return to Rome in a year or so his father would insist that he marry, and at the moment he felt he could not wish for more than a younger version of this lady – or at least one from a family less heavily in debt. He was surprised that this prudent thought made him feel a pang of guilt, and decided to avoid a conversation. ‘Now, if you will forgive me, we must set to our duty. Perhaps the noble Ovidius will escort you to a place of safety?’
‘Of course,’ he said, while the lady gave a slight incline of her head.
‘My dear Brocchus, would you be kind enough to tell Cerialis that he may advance when ready.’ The prefect jogged the twenty yards to give the order, and Crispinus wondered whether he ought to have sent a simple soldier as messenger. Yet he had not thought to keep more than the trumpeter and vexillarius with him. He noticed the one-eyed Batavian and a couple of other troopers with the lady. ‘You and you.’ He pointed to the veteran and one other. ‘Come here. You will serve as runners.’
‘Sir.’ The one-eyed soldier had a hard gaze and the tribune was not sure whether the man resented being given the order. After all, they had fought and barely lived through a very tough fight in the last days, so could well feel that they had played their part. Crispinus looked around for Vindex, wanting to add him to his followers as well, but he could not see the scout so gave up the idea.
A low rumbling shout began, making the horse spin around to see what had caused it. The Batavians had begun the barritus, shields raised high in front of their mouths so that the sound reverberated. There were only eighty voices, and they began quietly, letting the sound rise like waves washing against the shore. The horse’s ears twitched, and the sound took the tribune back to the campaign against the Stallion. There was something unearthly about the noise, as it grew stronger and stronger. The Harii and Usipi were Germans as well, but no answering challenge came from the fort.
‘It’s all right, girl.’ Crispinus spoke softly to the horse as the shout reached its crescendo and ended with a bellow of sheer fury.
‘Silence!’ Flavius Crescens, the centurion leading the Batavians shouted the command in a clear voice. ‘Listen for the orders. Keep in formation. Forward march!’ Six soldiers carried each ladder, and the remaining thirty-six followed them in a column four abreast, the centurion at the head and the optio bringing up the rear. The archers scattered and jogged ahead of them. Cerialis waited for a short time, and then led his troopers in support.
There was silence apart from the rhythmical rattles and thump of armoured men marching in step. The field was flat, the thin grass short, and the men kept in their formation without difficulty. Crispinus was behind and to their right, so he could not see the red symbols on their green oval shields, but the dark hair-like moss stuck to the tops of their helmets gave the infantrymen an oddly drab look. At this distance, the bear and other animal fur glued to the helmets of the troopers looked little better.
When they were a hundred and fifty paces away, a great cheer went up from the fort. Cow horns blew and there was the shrill sound of dozens of whistles. One of the archers stopped and loosed, the arrow striking the stone parapet and bouncing back. The duplicarius in charge of the auxiliary bowmen cursed the man and told him to wait until they were closer.
Crispinus turned to Longinus. ‘Tell the fleet to attack,’ he said, and the lean veteran loped off towards the marines and sailors. They sent up a great whoop when the order came, and banged weapons against shields as they advanced. All of the marines were in a block, ten broad and four deep, and the lines were soon a little ragged in spite of the pounding of shafts against the rims of their hexagonal shields. These were painted blue, with white tridents pointing from the top and bottom edge towards the central boss. Their mail cuirasses were covered with blue-grey over-tunics, so that only their bronze helmets glinted in the sun. Sailors carried the ladders, and the teams of men with each of the hand-held bolt-shooters spread out on either side. Other men ran forward, clutching javelins.
The legionaries had not moved and stood in silence as if on parade, formed in two rectangles, the rear one echeloned back to the right. Crispinus glanced over to them, but felt no worry that they would surge into the attack before he gave the order. Tertullianus stood at the head of the leading formation, and that made the tribune wonder whether he intended to lead from the front and not stay with the reserves. After a while he decided that it was better to let the man do what he wished rather than send a fussy order to check that he understood his instructions. The burly man with the high-pitched voice had been decorated for service on the frontier in Egypt, as well as during Domitian’s wars against the Germans, so he knew what to do.
‘Hah!’ Aelius Brocchus slapped his thigh with delight, and Crispinus realised that the archers were starting to shoot. ‘Got the swine right in the face,’ the prefect explained. His relish was surprising, for he had always struck Crispinus as a calm, even mild man. Then he remembered the raid on Alauna, that these men had threatened the prefect’s family and abducted his friends. Crispinus could sense that same hatred in all ranks. It would spur them on, but he must be careful not to lose control.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s take a closer look.’ The tribune walked the horse towards the fort. It was a shame that there was no mount for Brocchus, but he could not help that and might need to move quickly from one place to another. For the moment, the ambling walk of this animal made it easy for the men on foot to keep up.
The Batavians were fifty paces from the wall. One of the men carrying the ladders dropped, an arrow in his thigh, and the five remaining men staggered as they passed him, but kept going. The auxiliary archers were shooting, and this time Crispinus was looking at the right spot when a pirate was pitched back, a shaft sprouting from his throat. The enemy had their helmets on now, and with the protection of the wall and their oval shields, nearly all of the arrows struck harmlessly.
Javelins and stones were coming from the defenders, and the men with the ladders were especially vulnerable, for it was hard to run with their burden and still keep a shield steady in the other hand. The team a man short lost another to a javelin that pinned his foot to the ground, and then a third man’s shield swayed at just the wrong moment so that a stone smashed his nose. An arrow hit the thrower at almost the same time, driving through his eye. The three men left dropped the heavy ladder, and men ran from the main group to aid them. The other team ran on unscathed, jumping down into the ditch. They waded through, ankle deep in mud. There was a dull clang as a stone hit one man on the helmet and he let go, falling to his knees in the brown water, but the others kept going and planted the ladder at the foot of the wall and began to raise it up. A pirate leaned over the parapet, javelin in hand, and then gasped as an arrow pierced his mail. He dropped rather than threw the javelin and it fell harmlessly.