The Britons did not run. Many men, staggered by the volleys of pila and then faced by a rush of metal-clad, screaming soldiers, would have broken and fled. The boldest were down, for none of the men at the front remained on their feet, but the others were either too stunned or too stubborn to give way. They bunched together, a rough line forming quickly, and men raised their weapons. A few of them flung javelins and one of the legionaries was hit in the face and fell in a clatter of armour and equipment. The Romans ran at the enemy, but when they realised that the Britons were standing and waiting the legionaries slowed. Only a fool or a man too drunk to care rushed full tilt into an opposing battle line, for that was a good way to fall and a man on the ground was finished in this sort of fight. The Romans jogged into contact, although even this produced a crash like falling masonry as shield thumped into shield and blade met blade.
Both sides shouted, no longer in any ordered way, and the sound mixed with gasps of effort and pain. There were bodies on the ground behind the Roman line, most of them Britons and many still moving. One of the optiones stationed at the rear of the formation began jabbing down with the spike on the butt of his staff of office, until another of them yelled at the man to do his job and make sure that the men stayed in formation.
Ferox could not see the fighting clearly, just the backs of the Roman soldiers, but he could tell that they were going forward, step by step. There was a ripple as a Briton hacked down a man in the front rank and jumped into his place, so that the soldiers behind rained blows on him until he dropped. The gap was closed up as one of the men stepped forward, and the line pressed on.
Masclus led his second turma forward as skirmishers because the first had used all their javelins. Ahead of them the Britons were bunched together, crouching in the hope of gaining more shelter from their little shields. Some threw javelins, little axes or even stones at the fast-moving horsemen, but the missiles went wide or bounced off shields and none of the auxiliaries fell.
‘A little more of this, and we charge, lads,’ Ferox told his men.
‘Better put your other hat on then,’ Vindex said, and the centurion realised that he still wore his old felt hat. He reached back and unfastened his helmet.
‘You go back to your men,’ he told the scout.
There was a cheer from II Augusta as the Britons at last gave way, going back fifty paces before they stopped. Some were wounded or too slow and were cut down by the legionaries, many of whom streamed after the retreating enemy.
All along the front the same thing was happening. The Britons had held the Roman onslaught longer than Ferox had expected, but now they went back and both sides drew breath.
‘Halt! Halt. Form up!’ the senior centurion of II Augusta shouted at his men. Ferox could see the high transverse crest of the officer’s helmet as he rushed up and down in front of them. The other centurions took up the cry, and after a little confusion the legionaries obeyed. Optiones in the rear helped re-form the line, and wounded men were sent back out of harm’s way, apart from a few who refused to leave the front rank.
A single big flake of snow tumbled down and landed on the mane of Ferox’s horse. It did not melt and sat there, looking very white against the rough black hair. Other flakes followed and there was a glow in the clouds that promised plenty more.
Masclus signalled to the trumpeter to recall the Batavians harassing the enemy and they took their place again in close formation beside Ferox’s men. The decurion looked around for Flaccus, but could not see him and so walked his mount over to the centurion. ‘We go on your order, sir,’ he said. ‘When they charge?’ He nodded at the cohort of legionaries.
‘We wait a little longer.’ Ferox looked to the north. It was hard to see, but as far as he could tell the enemy coming from that direction were not yet close. ‘There’s time, and if we wait a bit the mongrels have longer to worry.’
Masclus looked unconvinced, and was no doubt wondering what an infantryman knew about such things, but Ferox was a superior officer and the habit of obedience was strong. ‘The lads are doing well,’ he said instead of challenging the order.
‘They are indeed,’ Ferox agreed and gestured over towards the centre where the Batavian infantry were charging again, not bothering with the drawn-out barritus this time, but simply screaming defiance as they took their blades to the enemy.
‘Should one of us go to the Lord Flaccus?’ The decurion asked the question, his expression formal, but not quite hiding the lack of confidence in Ferox that underlay the question.
‘Come on, boys, let’s show these dogs how real soldiers fight!’ the senior centurion of II Augusta harangued his men. He began to bang the blade of his gladius against the side of his long rectangular shield. ‘Come on the Capricorns!’
The legionaries copied him, drumming the swords in time, and then marched forward. Ferox did know his own legion, but could not help feeling pride as the men stepped smartly towards the waiting enemy. Part of him – and not just the part than remained a Silurian – disliked the banging of swords on shields, for it risked blunting a blade’s edge and the noise was often less frightening than silent order.
The Britons were not cowed.
‘Blood! Blood!’ The chant was clear, and Ferox saw the Stallion near the front of this group, his headdress distinctive and a bloodied sword in one hand. There were more of his tattooed followers with him and they looked fresh as they pushed their way into the front rank. ‘Blood!’
Romans and Britons began to charge at the same moment. This time there were no pila and only a few javelins thrown by the warriors as they closed the distance. Neither side flinched, until the last moment when they slowed as the two lines met. Men yelled and hacked or stabbed, shields pounding on shields, blades striking armour or flesh and bone.
‘We go now.’ Ferox patted Masclus on the shoulder. ‘Straight at them and hope they break. Flaccus will follow if we win and cover us if we don’t.’ He hoped that was true, but there was no time to make sure, otherwise the warriors facing them might get some of their confidence back.
Ferox drew his sword and hefted the flat round shield he had borrowed from one of Vindex’s men. ‘Right, boys. We’re going straight at those mongrels and we’re not stopping. Advance at the walk!’
His horse responded readily, and he had to restrain her from rushing with a gentle tug on the reins. To the left II Augusta were still fighting and so far no one had given ground. The noise was slackening as men grew tired.
‘Trot!’ Ferox wished that he had a trumpeter to repeat each order, but none had been allocated to the exploratores.
The waiting Britons were close now, huddled together so tightly that they looked like a wall. They must have used up all their missiles against Masclus’ skirmishers because nothing was flung at Ferox and the others as they approached, by now no more than thirty paces away. Neither were the warriors shouting, and that was a mistake, because horses did not like too much noise even when they were trained to battle.
‘Charge!’ Ferox yelled and was pleased when a trumpet sounded from one of the Batavian turmae. The snow was still falling and flakes struck his face as the horse leaped forward, at last free from restraint. The auxiliaries yelled and from behind he could hear the high-pitched yip-yip-yip war cry of the Carvetii as Vindex and his men followed. He heard the heavy feet of the horses pounding on the springy turf as they closed those last few yards. The enemy were still quiet, crouching, waiting, and it could all go wrong at this moment because if the warriors held their ground then no horse would ride into what seemed like a solid block. The horses would stop short, a length or more away, the riders almost bobbing in the saddle as they tried to kick the beasts on.