Vindex saved him. The Brigantian came up from nowhere, and there were sparks and a sharp ring as his long sword met the warrior’s blade and both came to a juddering halt. Ferox parried another wild sweep from the axeman, and had time to flick his blade up and jab into the man’s throat. Blood gushed from the wound, but the tattooed man used his last strength to raise the axe again, slicing its blade across the shoulder of the centurion’s horse.
Ferox turned to see Vindex beating the warrior down, wounding him on the shoulder so that the strength left his sword arm and then hacking again and again at the man’s head. When he had finished the blade of his sword had even more notches and was bent back at a weird angle.
‘You owe me a sword!’ the Brigantian yelled, and slammed his heels against his horse’s sides to force the tall beast onwards, using its weight to barge a path because his weapon was useless. Ferox followed, attacking any man who threatened the scout. His mare was bleeding badly, and he could feel her shudder. If he did not fight his way through to the far side then she would fall and he would have no chance.
Vindex found his path blocked. He caught a spear thrust and pushed it aside with his bent sword, and Ferox reached him and hacked down, taking off the back of the warrior’s skull so that blood and brains splashed over him. The press was getting denser, but then there was a shout and Roman horsemen were charging in from the front. There were not many of them, for only half the men left behind were bold enough to charge, but it was enough to confuse the Britons. Some died because they were facing the wrong way, and the mass broke up again so that Ferox, Vindex and the others could push through and gallop free of crowd, riding for the Roman lines again. At least ten men had not made it, and half of the rest were bleeding from wounds or nursing broken bones. Ferox’s mare sank under him as soon as they were clear, but he managed to spring from the saddle before she rolled over. Victor appeared, leading a riderless horse, its side stained with the blood of its former master, and Ferox thanked the auxiliary and hauled himself up.
The cohort of II Augusta had given ground. It was just a dozen or so paces and then the two lines had parted once more, men gasping for breath and with no strength left to shout. Each time men closed and fought they spent some of their strength and will, and no one knew how big a store of either he possessed until it was all gone. Each time the fighting lines separated it took longer to persuade anyone to go forward again. It was even harder when men sensed that they were losing and being forced back.
In the centre the Batavians were just about holding their own and might even have gained a few paces. As Ferox watched, the furthest group – that must be cohors III – shuffled forward, but with none of the enthusiasm of the earlier charges. The Britons met them and held on, refusing to give way. They had numbers on their side and the hot passion of a prophet in their midst who had promised them victory. Against that the soldiers had years of training and practice, better equipment, and pride in themselves and their units.
There were no reserves. Both cohorts of VIIII Hispana had wheeled round and marched several hundred paces to form a new line facing north. The Vardulli and Tungrians had been fed into the line to reinforce the Batavians – Ferox saw the last group of auxiliaries jog forward as a centurion led them to join the fighting. He could not see the singulares and had no idea where they had gone for they were not part of the line facing north. Flaccus was with the legionaries, and he wondered what the man was doing, but then Crispinus appeared as well and he could only guess that the Legate Marcellus had ordered the redeployment.
A couple of soldiers helped an officer back from II Augusta. The man shook them off, and Ferox recognised their senior centurion, even though his helmet was gone and a dirty bandage was wrapped around his head. There were wounds on both arms, he had lost his shield and his armour was rent and stained, but the man lurched forward, going back to the fighting, until he collapsed. Even then he tried to crawl back to his men.
‘Keep them busy as long as you can,’ Ferox croaked to Masclus. His throat was parched, in spite of the snow still tumbling down around them, and it seemed an age since he had had a drink. ‘You help him,’ he said as Vindex looked ready to follow him. ‘Try to hold them back as long as you can.’
He trotted the horse towards II Augusta, jumping down beside the centurion, who was still pulling himself across the grass, leaving a trail of blood behind.
‘Get him away,’ he said to the soldiers. He turned to another man, a young soldier who looked to be no more than a boy. ‘Who is in charge now?’
‘Don’t know, sir,’ the man said, seeing Ferox’s crest. ‘Must be one of the optiones because all four centurions are down.’
‘Wrong answer, lad.’ Ferox grinned at the pale-faced youth. ‘I’m in charge. Now come with me.’
XXIX
THERE WAS NO trace left of the neat three-deep line in which the cohort had begun the battle. A lot of legionaries – Ferox guessed as many as two hundred – had drifted back so that men were scattered alone or in loose clusters as far as a bowshot behind where the line had once been. Most of these men were bloodied, and plenty of them had wounds to the legs, right arm or face, all the places a shield did little to protect. The handful of medici, the soldiers trained to deal with wounds, had long since been overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of casualties. They were doing their best to help any who could be helped on a snowy moor in the middle of a battle. Lots of other men, unscathed and reluctant, had used the excuse of helping the wounded back to slip away.
Ferox saw a couple of legionaries leaning on their shields, their heads bowed so that they did not have to meet anyone’s eye. ‘You!’ he bellowed from a few feet away, his voice suddenly full of strength and with enough of a parade-ground tone to make their faces jerk up. ‘What are your names?’
‘Longus, sir,’ one answered before he could think. His comrade glanced at him, but knew that he could not refuse.
‘Terentius, sir.’ He was younger than the other man, probably no more than twenty, but he had the sharp features of someone who planned to grow as old and rich as possible.
‘Good. You are with me. Stay right behind me and if ever I lose sight of you, I’ll make sure they have the skin off your back before the week is out. Understand!’
‘Sir.’ The voices were weary and lacked enthusiasm, but the habit of discipline was strong and his crest marked this man out as a centurion – and his tone as a right bastard likely to remember.
Everyone knew that the worst slaughter happened when a unit broke and fled, and as a fight drew on and on and everyone tired, they all knew, too, that the collapse could come at any moment. So men hung back and waited. No one wanted to be seen to start the panic and be blamed. No one wanted to die either, so they lurked well behind the fighting line until they could follow the lead of everyone else.
Terentius and Longus trailed after the centurion as he went forward, ignoring men who were wounded but yelling at the rest to follow. Ferox scooped up a shield that lay on the ground, hefted it to test that the handgrip was still firmly in place and the boards solid, and pushed on. There were a dozen archers nearby, waiting and not shooting.
‘Running short of arrows, sir,’ the optio with them reported. ‘Down to four or five each.’
‘Right. Every second man gives his to the soldier next to him. Then he draws his sword and follows me. You stay with the others.’
‘Sir.’
He expected more show of resentment at being asked to fight hand to hand rather than do what they were paid and trained to do, but the archers’ faces were impassive.