‘We need to get on with it,’ Vindex said.
‘Stay with your men,’ Ferox told him. ‘Just for once I need you to obey orders.’
The Brigantian’s skull-like face split into a grin. ‘Well, I suppose we’re not being paid for this, so we could bend the rule just once.’
There was a sharp sound, like the crack of a whip but much deeper, and suddenly the enemy went quiet. Ferox had not seen a war engine shoot for some years, and had almost forgotten the violent force of its missiles. He saw a gap in the enemy’s front line. A warrior was down, his shield pinned to him, the bolt having driven through his mail shirt deep into his body. The blow flung him back, knocking several other men over, and Ferox watched as they staggered up. More of the scorpiones stung, the bolts flying with great accuracy as the crews picked out men from the bands facing them and killed them. The legionaries cheered when one bolt drove through a man so hard that the point came out the other side and pinned him to a second Briton. The pair staggered about, men jumping out of their way as if they had some curse, until the first man collapsed forward, pulling off the shaft of the bolt as he fell.
Archers scampered forward and began to shoot. More men dropped, for most of the Britons carried only the small square shields used by the Selgovae and the Votadini. They were handy enough, but with no room to dodge because of the press of men, they offered little protection from missiles. The front of each warband rippled as men were struck, the quiver more savage whenever a bolt from one of the engines slammed into its victim.
With a low rumble like a distant swarm of bees, the Batavians began to chant the barritus. The legionaries remained silent, and Ferox knew that to the watching enemy the Romans would seem strangely impassive, almost inhuman. The Britons were screaming again and blowing their horns. Some started forward, but others called to them to stay. Then their yelling grew so loud that it drowned out the rising chant of the Batavians and Ferox saw that the Stallion was driving along in front of his men again. A scorpio spat out its missile, but the bolt whisked past the heads of the two ponies and slammed into a man standing in the front rank. Arrows missed and the man rode on until, at a gesture, the charioteer slowed down and the naked priest jumped to the ground. As soon as he was on the grass a bolt hit his charioteer in the head and pitched him over, while a second drove deep into the black pony’s belly, so that it reared and screamed. A dozen arrows sped towards them, killing both horses, without touching the Stallion apart from one that stuck in the stag’s head. Ferox saw him spit on the arrow and then pull the headdress on. Men appeared, handing him sword and shield, which he raised high as he yelled. The words were unclear, until the whole army took up the cry.
‘Blood of king, blood of queen!’ The Britons came forward, men flooding around the priest so that he was lost from view. ‘Blood!’ came the scream from thousands of voices.
‘Silence in the ranks. Prepare to advance.’ The centurion standing a pace ahead of the cluster of standards at the centre of the cohort of II Augusta shouted clear over the din. ‘Keep in rank and follow the standards. Forward, march.’
The four cohorts in the first line stepped off, for it was always better to meet the enemy on the move. Ferox and the cavalry were ordered to hang back and protect the flank of the infantry, but he saw Masclus send one of his turmae forward to skirmish and that was the right thing.
‘Good luck, men!’ Neratius Marcellus had the rich, carrying voice of a trained orator. Ferox had not seen him come, but he was riding along behind his front rank and urging his men on.
‘Blood!’ screamed the Britons and charged.
XXVIII
IT DOES NOT take long for a running man to cover two hundred paces. Already the archers were pelting back as fast as they could to take shelter behind the cohorts, and Ferox hoped that the crews of the scorpiones were carrying the machines to safety. Ahead of him, the enemy were more cautious, not sure whether it was wise to charge horsemen. They came at a walk, hanging back, and he could see no true warriors or even the tattooed fanatics of the Stallion. Masclus’ troopers began to throw javelins into the mass and as men started to fall the Britons stuttered to a halt.
All along the rest of the front, the enemy charged as fast as they could run. They did not come in a solid line because the keenest, bravest – and the most foolish – went far faster than the rest. Knots of men, mainly the fanatics along with a few groups of true warriors, outstripped the crowd. Others swung to the side to follow their lead so that instead of one great wave it was like the fingers of an outstretched hand jabbing towards the Romans. Ferox had seen the same thing happen many times, but today the mixture of inexperience and wild enthusiasm meant that it happened a lot faster. As always the groups of bold men aimed at the heart of the nearest Roman formation.
‘Pila!’ the centurion called out to the men of II Augusta and the front rank raised their slim javelins ready to throw. Already the space between the battle lines had shrunk so that the nearest group of Britons was no more than fifty paces away. They kept coming, and even the leaders were splitting up as each ran at his own pace. Ferox could no longer hear any words in their chant, just a scream where rage mixed with terror. The gap was down to thirty paces, then twenty, and the leading Britons did not slow, but if anything went faster. They were the Stallion’s men, half of them stripped naked just like their leader, and all covered in tattoos.
Over towards the centre the Batavians’ chant surged up into a roar and Ferox could see both cohorts charging, throwing their javelins as they went. The legionaries of II Augusta still waited, the nearest Britons within ten paces, and he was afraid that their senior centurion had left it too late.
‘Now!’ The centurion swung his arm down as his men jogged three paces and the front rank threw their pila with that familiar grunt of effort. The second rank waited a couple of heartbeats and then lobbed their own missiles, and then the third rank did the same, hurling them straight forward because they could not see well past the men in front.
Three great volleys, each of more than two hundred pila, hummed as they flew through the air and then slammed into the charging Britons and it was as if they were hit by a gale blowing hard off the sea. Their small shields were little protection and men were flung back as the heavy missiles drove deep into their flesh. Ferox saw one warrior manage to catch a pilum on his shield, and watched the man stagger as the point burst through the wood, pierced his arm and stuck out for a good six inches. Then a second heavy javelin hit him in the side of the head, sticking fast even when he was pitched on to the ground.
The Britons’ wild charge had broken open their formation, and plenty of the missiles missed the mark and stuck into the grass, but dozens of men were dead, scores crippled, others wounded and all stunned. The chanting had stopped and there was no noise apart from screams of pain and moans of suffering. The charge had been broken, and the Britons reeled as they tried to recover their balance. In the centre the two Batavian cohorts had gone from a gentle jog into a flat run and hit the wavering enemy, punching with the bosses of their shields and stabbing at their opponents.
‘Swords!’ The legionaries of II Augusta reached down with their right hands, grabbed the hilts of their short swords and pushed down, sliding the blades free of their scabbards.
‘Follow me!’ The centurion started to run. ‘Charge!’ The order turned into a yell of rage and the legionaries joined in, so that they roared at the enemy as they went forward.