Just before noon the army began its retreat. Ferox rode with the legate, watching as he urged the men onwards. The soldiers were not as willing as they had been even when the weather was bad. To advance was one thing, for it held the prospect of meeting and smashing the enemy, which would bring glory, rest, and hopefully plenty of hot food. No soldier liked to retreat, and what made it worse was the feeling that it was unnecessary.
‘So the cavalry got beaten?’ Ferox heard a legionary of VIIII Hispana complain as soon as the governor was out of earshot. ‘So what? Cavalry, I’ve shit ’em.’ One of his comrades nudged him to warn him that an officer was listening, but the man was unimpressed by a centurion he did not recognise. ‘Let’s push on. We’ll soon cut this daft druid down. See how brave he is when he sees his mentula on the end of a sword.’
‘Hope it’s bigger that yours or we’ll never find it!’ another man shouted.
‘They’re not happy.’ Flaccus had appeared beside him. He looked flushed, but otherwise unscathed.
‘Soldiers never are, sir,’ he said. ‘Or at least they’re never happy unless they’re bitching about something.’
‘They do not like to run away.’ The junior tribune’s horse stirred and he made this an excuse to lean against its neck and pat the beast. Ferox could see that he was embarrassed by that morning’s rout. ‘It was not my fault,’ he began, and the centurion let him talk at his own pace. After all, there was no reason for him to explain himself to a mere centurion. ‘It all happened so quickly. We were ready to charge in support, the Tribune Crispinus and his men were coming back towards us, and then suddenly a voice shouted out, “Retreat! Retreat!” The men were turning before I could say anything.’
The legionaries had marched on and there was a gap before the next cohort would come alongside them. Flaccus fussed with his horse, avoiding the centurion’s gaze. His voice was low. ‘I may be mistaken, but I believe it was Crispinus who shouted. I fear that he panicked.’
A summoning call from the legate forced Ferox to canter away, but he sensed that the tribune had said what he wanted to say. The man had done his best to look embarrassed, but could not hide his delight in the failure of a superior.
Ferox saw them before he caught up with the governor – little clusters of horsemen over to the right. The valley was wide here, and the warriors almost a mile away, so that he could just tell that the bigger group that appeared a moment later were on foot.
Marcellus gave him a curt nod. ‘It seems that you were right. They are following like hounds on a scent. It does not look as if they fear us, so we must make sure that they keep believing we fear them.’
There were a good five hours left in the day – if you could call the short hours of these autumn days in northern lands good. The Romans pressed on, making little more than a mile in the next hour. To the west band after band of warriors appeared, still keeping their distance but steadily massing. There were not many horsemen, and even fewer chariots, some of which edged forward until they were almost within bowshot.
‘Ten or twelve thousand, I make it.’ Crispinus was riding with the legate and his immediate staff. The young tribune had nodded affably to Ferox, but not said anything about the rout of the cavalry.
Neratius Marcellus said nothing as he scanned the forming battle line. If anything, Ferox suspected that the guess was too low, for this was a bigger force than the one he had seen this morning.
‘What about to our rear?’ The legate’s question surprised him, and he glanced back. So far there were only a few hundred cavalry, the ones that had chased the Romans away this morning. Faced with the entire ala Petriana as well as supports, they proved much more wary, and Brocchus’ men were split into two halves, each one covering the other as they withdrew. Yet the warriors on foot could not be too far behind.
‘Just horsemen, so far, my lord. Be a couple of hours before the rest are any threat.’
‘Good. Then tell me, centurion, what would a wise general do now?’
Crispinus seemed surprised not to be asked, since he was senior, but made no protest.
The answer was simple, if the legate intended to follow the advice and instructions of all the emperors since Augustus. ‘Pitch camp,’ Ferox said, ‘rest up, and be ready to fight a battle tomorrow with baggage safe and the refuge of a rampart in case things go against us.’
‘“Do not go fishing with a golden hook,” the divine Augustus commanded his generals. “For you risk more than you could possibly gain.” Prudence is a virtue in a general, and what you have said is the prudent thing. Then tell me, centurion of Rome and Prince of the Silures, what would you do? What would Caratacus do? Would you gamble once more, with stakes as high as this?’
Ferox managed to stop himself from smiling when he heard the quote. He tapped the hilt of his sword. ‘I’d win, my lord, and you won’t do that by being prudent.’
‘It really is all so simple in the end, is it not? Listen to this man, Crispinus. We may have beaten his people, but that does not mean we cannot learn from them.’
‘But, sir, would it not be better to have a camp built? What if things go wrong?’
‘If they go wrong then we are all dead and no camp will save us.’ Marcellus smiled at the tribune. ‘There is nowhere to go and no one to come and help us. So we win or die. If I recollect Hannibal told his men something similar when they first saw Italy from the heights of the Alps.’
There was a low hill ahead of them, and the baggage train was sent to the top of it. Ovidius half remembered a story of a general making a simple rampart from the pack saddles and baggage, so the lixae in charge of the animals were instructed to do this. They made a ring and just managed to squeeze the animals inside, but the rampart was no more than a couple of feet high.
‘Perhaps my memory plays me false or the historian lied,’ admitted Ovidius, who was placed in charge of the rough encampment, with only the slaves under his command, for every soldier was ordered to fall in with his own unit. Ferox and Vindex rode past and saw Philo, looking pale, cold and strangely excited as he held a staff he had sharpened into a point.
‘If he doesn’t stab himself with that we can call the day a success,’ the Brigantian said.
The main line was in front of the hill, with the cohort from II Augusta as the senior unit in the place of honour on the right. Flavius Cerialis and cohors VIIII Batavorum were next to them on the left, then cohors III Batavorum and the men from XX Valeria Victrix. Each was formed just three deep, the minimum allowed by the drill book, so that the whole front line of infantry, with the gaps between the units, stretched for some eight hundred and fifty paces. The second line was smaller, with the two cohorts from VIIII Hispana on the right, and the Tungrians and Vardulli combined into one formation on the left, each stationed to cover an interval between the cohorts ahead of them. Each unit was formed six deep, and the gaps between them were far wider than those in the first line. Neratius Marcellus kept his singulares as a third line and ultimate reserve, and split the other cavalry with the ala Petriana on the left and the rest on the right. He had half a dozen scorpiones, and their crews carried these light bolt-shooters, and stationed them in pairs in the intervals between the cohorts of the first line. With them were the archers, told off to act as skirmishers.