‘Does not look very many, does it?’ Crispinus spoke softly. Ferox’s exploratores were on the right wing, but the legate had asked him to stay with him for the moment until he had to take command of his men. There was far less order among the Britons, but the numbers now seemed even greater. They lacked horsemen, with Brocchus’ men on the left flank facing barely more than their own number of mounted opponents. There were no cavalry on the other flank, at least at the moment. Instead there were men on foot, great blocks of them ten or more deep with barely a gap between each one. It was not a battle line capable of manoeuvre, but then they had no need for any subtlety.
‘“I would name the fields on which a mere handful of Romans put to flight great hosts of enemies, and the cities fortified by nature which they stormed, were it not that such a theme would lead me far away from my theme.”’ Ferox was pleased to remember the whole line.
‘Sallust again?’ Crispinus managed a nervous smile. ‘They sent him into exile for corruption, you know.’
‘He pleaded innocence.’
‘Don’t we all.’ The tribune seemed about to say more and then changed his mind. He offered the centurion his hand. ‘Just in case that old sod was wrong about the odds not mattering. My apologies, I had forgotten that you do not like swearing.’
‘Waste of good anger, my lord. And anger’s a handy thing on a day like this.’ Ferox had the odd feeling of being inside a song. In the north he could see more and more enemies appearing, but it would still be some time before they arrived. For the moment the odds were three or four to one, perhaps more, and that was enough to keep them busy. ‘Good luck, my lord. All that matters now is what happens in the next few hours, so we had better live them well.’
Crispinus gulped, his face pale. ‘Wish I could think of a joke,’ he said, but Marcellus was gesturing for Ferox to go to his men and the centurion walked his mount away. There was no point in hurrying, for the animal was tired enough as it was.
‘You do not have to come,’ he said to Vindex as the Brigantian followed him. ‘You and your men are paid to scout, not fight battles.’
‘Reckon scouting’s done for the day,’ Vindex said, rubbing his hand across the stubble on his chin. ‘But I have taken a strong dislike to the mongrels over there, and so have the lads. Keep thinking back to that poor boy they buried.’
‘Aye,’ Ferox said, and it was not just the Goat Man and his boy, but poor silly Fortunata, the slave girl left murdered in her bed, and all the others. ‘If ever people needed killing it is this Stallion and his rabble.’
A great shout went up from the enemy line and trumpets blared.
‘Must have upset ’em.’ Vindex had to shout the words.
The enemy surged forward a good hundred paces, before their spirit sagged and they slowed and then stopped. Chariots and a few horsemen went closer, the warriors screaming abuse at the Roman line, but the soldiers remained silent. It was never easy to make men charge at a waiting enemy, and Ferox had seen plenty of battles that started as gradually as this. The bands of Britons started chanting again and the trumpets still sounded, the deeper note of cow horns alongside the harsh blare of carnyxes.
Flaccus was in command of the cavalry on the Roman right, and ordered the exploratores to form up next to the cohort of II Augusta. Ferox had half his men, including all the Brigantes, back as a second line fifty paces behind the first. On his right, the decurion Masclus had two turmae of Batavians from cohors VIIII, supported by another from cohors III Batavorum in reserve. The legionary horsemen were in a third line.
For the moment most of the enemy were content to hurl defiance at the Romans. A few horsemen cantered closer to them, well within long bowshot, but for the moment the legate ordered all his men including the archers to wait. He wanted the enemy confident, wanted them to come on.
Opposite Ferox and the cavalry on the right wing were a few chariots, and some of them began to come forward as well. One, its car painted a bright green, rushed ahead of the rest, heading for the Romans, before it swerved and ran along in front of the massed warriors. The driver was small and hunched as he worked his team of a grey and a black – a combination Ferox’s people always said was unlucky. He hoped they were right, for the warrior in the back was tall and stark naked apart from a torc at his throat. His skin was covered in tattoos and he waved a stag’s head, complete with antlers, in his hand. It was the Stallion, and Ferox wished that there was time to pass the word so that one of the scorpiones could drive a bolt through the man while he was in range. The chariot drove on, sending up a spray of mud as the wheels hit a puddle, but none of the engines or archers shot and the priest drove past unscathed and was soon out of range. His followers shouted even louder, and they broke ranks and flooded forward another hundred paces before staggering to a halt again.
The Romans waited. Ferox could see the men of II Augusta as they stood in formation, shields on the ground resting against their legs, and pila held upright, butts on the ground. They had left their cloaks with the baggage, and even with breeches, tunics and padded jerkins he knew that they would be cold, for no armour, not even the banded cuirass that only legionaries wore, was ever any good at keeping out the cold. He did not know these men, for this cohort had not served in the punitive expedition, but their faces looked familiar, like so many other soldiers he had known. Today those faces were taut, for no one liked waiting, and all of them could count. He wondered how many had never fought in a battle before, and guessed that that was most of them, even among the few older faces creased by weather and suffering. One man had taken off his helmet to adjust the woollen hat he wore underneath. He had a thick beard, the dark brown mottled with grey. An optio pacing up and down behind the line bellowed at him for being improperly dressed, and the soldier glanced at him and hesitated just long enough to make a point and not quite long enough for it to be insubordination before he put his helmet back on and retied the cheek pieces.
The Britons had stopped again, no more than two hundred paces away. Ferox saw much shouting and jostling as they were pushed back into an ordered rank. Here and there were groups of true warriors, as obvious from the way they stood and their bearing as their better equipment. These men had oval shields, a spear and often a javelin or two, all backed by a sword. Quite a few had helmets and some even armour. Yet most of the front rank was made up of simply dressed men carrying every sort of weapon – proper spears and sharpened sticks, axes, hammers or long knives, with just a few swords. They were the sort of men usually found at the back of a warband when an entire tribe went to battle, and they came because their chieftains demanded it, but they were of little account. Today they looked different, filled with the passion of their leader and all his hatred for Rome.
Ferox walked his horse a few lengths ahead of his men so that he could see better and looked to the north.
‘There’s plenty of them,’ Vindex said. The closest were more than a mile away, but there were many thousand warriors coming towards them. Leading them were plenty of cavalry and more chariots than Ferox had seen earlier in the day. He guessed that there would be far more true warriors among that force, and wondered how many other kings had sent bands. Men like Gannascus might not fight unless it was clear that the Romans were losing, or the high king and others may have tricked the Romans all along, in which case, as Vindex might say, they were royally humped.