Ferox had spent his adult life around soldiers from all over the empire. They could be brutal, ruthless, cruel, and were capable of stealing anything that was not nailed down – and often even that did not stop them. For all that they had a sentimental streak a mile wide and could be kind, even gentle when you least expected it. It helped that Sulpicia Lepidina was beautiful, the sort of woman a soldier dreamed about and knew that he could never have. It helped even more that she smiled at them, laughed at their jokes and even made a few in return. Ferox watched as a whole army fell in love with a woman and marvelled as the affection spread. He had left Coria long before the main force, but later he heard that she had sat on horseback to watch them go by and that rank after rank of soldiers had cheered her, legionaries and auxiliaries alike. Neratius Marcellus kissed her hand in farewell to yells of approval, and then pecked her cheek to a deafening roar of acclamation. Cerialis glowed with the reflected glory. In their few meetings Ferox did not get the impression of a man gnawed by sorrow for his murdered lover.
The army marched in high spirits, eager to smite a loathsome enemy on behalf of a beautiful woman. It was a theme fit for the bards to set to verse, but so far not even Ferox’s scouts had seen a single one of those enemies. On the second day a bitter east wind began to blow, at times knocking the breath from men as they struggled along a route that was becoming steeper. They did not set out as early, for it took longer than usual to break up camp. On Neratius Marcellus’ orders twelve were expected to sleep in tents meant for eight, and four more were expected to be on sentry duty or otherwise awake while the rest slept. He had also instructed that the roads in each night’s camp and the intervals between the tent-lines were to be made narrower than usual. This meant that the ramparts enclosed a much smaller space and helped to make the force look smaller, but it also made it harder to form up ready to march on the next morning. They made barely ten miles on the second day.
On the third day the east wind brought in thick cloud to cover the whole sky. Not long after dawn the rain came, turning to sleet and then snow as the day wore on before switching back to sleet later in the afternoon. Men’s cloaks became soaked and heavy as they plodded along. Neratius Marcellus had nearly nine hundred horsemen under his command, three hundred and fifty apiece from Aelius Brocchus’ ala Petriana and his own singulares, and the rest made up of detachments from the cohorts, a contingent of mounted legionaries and the exploratores. Then there were six hundred pack mules and ponies, and a few oxen for the handful of carts carrying essential equipment too bulky to put in a pack.
The army marched expedita, with the minimum baggage, but that still meant hundreds of tents, and hard tack, salted bacon and other food to last nine days, after which they would have to rely on replenishing supplies from the well-stocked granaries in the forts along the road. All of the cavalrymen had sacks of fodder tied behind their saddles, the big bags making the animals look clumsy and misshapen. One and a half thousand ridden or led animals and twice that number of men on foot including the slaves soon churned the roadway into mud, getting worse as more and more passed the same spot. The infantry marched in a hollow square, with the baggage train protected inside, but this just spread the trampling over a wide area either side of the road. As always the men in the back had it worst, held up the longest by any delay ahead of them, and squelching through cloying mud heavy enough to trap a boot and rip it free. The legate let them stop and camp just beyond Bremenium, and men from the fort brought out enough dry kindling and timber for fires to be lit.
The fourth day saw gaps in the cloud, with tantalising glimpses of sun, before the next shower blew in across the hills. It was mostly rain apart from an hour’s swirling snow in the middle of the day. Men slipped as they trudged up and down through the hill country, and when the legate stopped and joked with them they no longer laughed as loudly.
It was during the snowstorm that Ferox for the first time saw warriors watching them. His men had been reporting them all morning, and he did not doubt them, but the weather made it hard to see far. He was surprised that it had taken so long, and guessed that enemy scouts had been there for some time, although with the Stallion’s men it was hard to know what to expect. They had seen Votadini quite a lot, but those little groups of armed men on ponies were never shy of calling to them or coming in to talk. They were locals, wanting to assure the Romans of their friendship – and keep an eye on the army to make sure that it behaved in a friendly way. They said that Trimontium was under attack, but holding out, and that the Stallion had promised his followers a great victory in the days to come, greater than they could imagine, and that this would be just the first. The Votadini shrugged when they repeated his claims, doubtful and cautious at the moment, but not so much that they were sure such a thing could not happen.
Ferox sent regular messages back to the cavalry vanguard and on to the main force, and once a day, usually in the middle of the morning, the provincial legate rode forward to meet him in person. Neratius Marcellus had a trio of stallions, all of them tall and black, and when he was in the saddle no one noticed his small stature. As usual his questions were direct for all the florid language, but his frustration at the ever-slower progress was obvious.
The rain stopped as the army began to dig its camp for the night. That was some comfort, but the brooding red glow off the low clouds ahead of them added to the grim mood among the cold and wet men as they carved out a ditch from the rocky soil and threw up a rampart.
‘Too many fires just to be a burning fort, my lord,’ Ferox said when the legate asked his opinion. ‘Even two forts.’ There was a smaller garrison ahead of them, about a dozen miles south of Trimontium. The few locals he had found during the day said that the Roman forts held out, but that both were hard pressed. More and more warriors appeared around the army as it advanced. Several pairs of scouts were chased. Two more came back, both men on the same horse, and one with a javelin wound to the thigh.
‘You said just,’ Neratius Marcellus held his gaze.
‘Maybe they have fallen, maybe a few of the buildings have been set on fire, and all the farms for miles around. That’s still not enough fires.’
‘Then what is it?’ the legate snapped, his patience worn thin.
‘It’s an army, my lord. A big army, not far away.’
Neratius Marcellus took a long breath. He was drinking from a silver cup and now offered it to the centurion, who shook his head. ‘Tomorrow then,’ the legate said.
‘Probably, my lord. This is as good a place as any – for them as well as us.’
‘And you saw them?’ The legate’s dark eyes never left the centurion’s face.
‘No,’ he admitted. ‘Only a few riders. But they are there, sir, and they are coming.’ In the late afternoon Ferox had ridden to the north-west, searching on his own for the force that he was sure planned to swing around behind them and box them in. He guessed at least half of the Stallion’s men would surround them, while the rest blocked their path. It was a guess, but it was what he would have done in the priest’s place.
‘Why are you sure?’
How could he explain the warning signs set out by the Votadini and the smoky fires men had lit, giving off thick plumes to signify danger, and expect even the sympathetic Marcellus to understand? Ferox did not need to see thousands of warriors to know that they were there.
‘They need to fight us as much as we need to fight them,’ he began, deciding that logical argument was more likely to convince this senator. For all his capability, Neratius Marcellus had never once seen battle, and up until now had spent his time on military service in the dull routines of peace. ‘His men will be running out of food by now. Faith and the promise of miracles will keep them here for a while, but not forever. Eventually empty bellies will make the warriors drift home. Before that happens he needs to work his magic and win a victory. This is where he will make it happen. All you need to do, my lord, is give him the chance.’