‘I am not asking you to do anything,’ Crispinus said with a smile. ‘Your men have been in the field longer than us and are bound to be tired. What I suggest is that the noble Flaccus and I take the others and see if we can sting some of their horsemen. We can kill a few and that will show our men and the whole army that the enemy are not to be feared.’ He turned to stare at the enemy for a while. ‘The left looks closest so that is the place to strike. What do you say, Flaccus?’
Ferox thought he saw hesitation, doubt, and then resignation as the junior tribune agreed.
‘Good,’ Crispinus said. ‘Then let us not waste any time.’
Vindex watched them ride back and give orders to the cavalry. ‘Daft buggers. What about us?’
‘Get everyone together. We might have to get away in a hurry.’
Ferox wondered about the two tribunes, and whether this reckless aggression would save him the trouble of finding out which was the traitor. As Flaccus went past at the head of the legionary horsemen Ferox could not help viewing their ranks with distaste. It was not fair, because at most a few were involved in the murders and all of these men could be innocent.
Crispinus formed two turmae in a line three deep and sent the other ahead in a loose line ready to skirmish. There were a couple of dozen men in each unit. Flaccus stayed back with the legionary horsemen as a reserve. The deployment was sensible enough, even if the plan itself was foolishness, and there was nothing to be gained by stirring up the enemy in this way.
The Roman cavalry went forward steadily, not going too fast and keeping good formations, and as they came over the crest and into sight of the Britons some of the warriors on the far side of the valley began to stir into life. Trumpets sounded, the noise thin in the gusting wind, and men waved standards in the air. The Romans pressed on, keeping to a walk, and the distance closed to less than half a mile.
‘You have to admire brave idiots,’ Vindex said, and then repeated the joke in their own language to his scouts.
‘Why?’ one of them said.
With a low cheer, the horsemen opposite the Romans began to advance to meet them. Two tight groups of fifty or sixty trotted ahead, and as many more galloped forward as a loose swarm. Ferox did not hear the order, but the leading turma split into two lines of horsemen who cantered straight at the oncoming Britons.
‘Neat, very neat.’ The comment came from one of the troopers behind Ferox, and he had to concur. The men leading each line of horsemen suddenly swung away, rode parallel for long enough to throw a javelin and then turned back towards their supports. Each man did the same, so that a stream of missiles struck the leading enemy, dropping several horses and men. By the time the last man in each file had thrown the leader had turned again and swung back towards the Britons to repeat the drill. More warriors were hit, and so far all of the javelins flung back had missed or struck harmlessly against shields.
The next time the turma went forward the Britons galloped away to safety, apart from the two denser knots of men that shook themselves into rough columns and pressed on.
‘Look.’ Vindex was pointing to the enemy right, where the horsemen were also beginning to advance. It would take them a long time to move around behind the Romans, but the threat should persuade the tribune to retreat before too long.
Trumpets sounded, clear across the valley, and then the notes became ragged as Crispinus led the two formed turmae forward into a trot, then a canter, heading straight for the closest mass of enemy. Watching a cavalry battle from a distance always struck Ferox like watching flocks of birds wheeling, diving and circling. When the auxiliaries went into a gallop the Britons started to rush at them, but then slowed and the whole group seemed to quiver. Crispinus was ahead of his men by two horses’ lengths, plume streaming from his helmet, polished armour gleaming, and his sword held high. Before he reached the Britons they scattered like frightened sheep. One was too slow and fell as the tribune came past and slashed across his body. Another was hit in the back by a thrown spear, but the rest got away.
The other group of warriors had grown in size as more men joined them, including some of the retreating skirmishers. It wheeled clumsily, before heading towards Crispinus’ men. The auxiliaries were no longer in neat ranks, for galloping always broke up a formation, and the enemy were coming from their left flank. Ferox saw the tribune waving his hand around, and the men responded to the order and followed him back. The legionary horsemen under Flaccus were there for just this situation, and once the auxiliaries fled past them they could drive off the enemy charge. That would give time for Crispinus to rally and re-form his men, so that if the legionaries became ragged then they could in turn be sheltered by formed supports. It was the way cavalry fought, and there was no shame in running as long as they stopped when ordered. Regulations said that at least half of the men should be kept back as a reserve, and although Crispinus had not used so many he ought to be safe.
Flaccus began to wheel his men until they were facing towards this threat. Crispinus and the auxiliaries were galloping back towards them, scattered but jubilant. The legionary cavalry kept turning as the Britons raised a great shout, taken up by the distant masses of warriors who yelled and blew their horns.
Flaccus’ men broke. One moment there was a neat block of riders three ranks deep and the next there was only a stream of panicked men galloping to the rear. The junior tribune at their head looked around as if in surprise, and then followed. Crispinus and the auxiliaries heard the enemy cheers redouble and spurred to run as fast as they could.
‘Stercus,’ Ferox said. ‘You’ – he looked at Vindex – ‘stick with me. The rest of you get back if you can as fast as you can and report this rout.’
XXVII
IT WAS A stampede, not a retreat. One unlucky man died when his horse stumbled and threw him, another when his gelding took him into a patch of thick mud and became stuck fast. Several more were hit by javelins, wounding their mounts or tipping them from the saddle. Ferox could see the two tribunes near the front of the main pack of riders, their expensive horses faster than the rest, so that they gained steadily on the troopers. The Britons chased them, a great scatter of individuals each going as fast as his pony could run. Their animals were small and fat-bellied from grass and they could go on all day, but they were not fast. Before long the rearmost Romans were safe from thrown missiles and the lead kept growing.
Ferox had hoped to shadow the retreat from the hills on one side, looking for an opportunity to watch the two tribunes and see whether there was anything more than folly behind this morning’s rashness, but the two men never left the main group. He and Vindex soon attracted attention from the warriors, several of whom swerved towards them.
‘Better shift,’ the Brigantian said, but Ferox was not really listening.
‘Look familiar?’ he asked, pointing some way to the rear, where an ordered group of warriors came on at a gentle trot. They were half a mile away at least and he shaded his eyes as he strained to see. The leader was a big man with a red shield.
‘Gannascus?’
‘Reckon so.’
‘Be a shame to kill him,’ Vindex said. ‘I liked that big lump.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Does it mean we’re humped?’
Ferox did not answer, but if the high king had come with any great number of his warriors then the odds shifted even more in favour of the enemy. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. ‘Nothing more for us to do out here.’
It was a mile back to the rest of the mounted vanguard and the fleeing horsemen crossed the rolling moorland quickly. The head of the main column was already visible, resting for one of the short breaks given every hour. It took longer for Ferox and Vindex to get back, and by that time the provincial legate had issued the order to retreat. The instruction was easier to issue than perform, for the unit commanders were taken by surprise. Once they were convinced that this was truly what they were being told to do, it was simple enough to about face so that each detachment was still in a great rectangle, but now facing back the way they had come. It was harder to turn around the carts and strings of pack ponies and mules and, as always with the baggage train, nothing could be done without much shouting and beating the animals with sticks.