Ferox ran forward. The front of the cohort was now a row of seven or eight clusters of weary men. Some of them may have started out as the centuries of the cohort, but there was little regularity any more. Legionaries still determined to fight on bunched together because that made them feel safer. Most of the clusters were ten or twelve deep and there were big gaps between them. If the Britons had been fresh and eager then they could have swarmed through the spaces and overwhelmed the remnants of the cohort, but they were just as exhausted and their line looked much the same and was no more solid.
The six signa carried by the cohort were in the biggest group at the centre of the line and Ferox headed towards them, running through the gap to get in front. ‘Form there.’ He pointed with his sword to show that he wanted them to stand level with the standards in the space between this cluster and the next. ‘Terentius, you’re there as right marker. Longus next to you, then you and you.’ He gestured to two more men. ‘The rest in three ranks behind them. When I say go, you follow me. Understood?’
‘Sir.’ Terentius stamped to attention and clashed his sword against his shield. ‘We’ll be ready.’
‘Good.’ He turned his back on the enemy to face the other legionaries, praying that there was no one still with a missile and the energy to throw it into his back. The Britons were no more than four spear lengths away, but all looked spent – at least for the moment. Some were even on their knees or bent double as they gasped for breath. There were bodies of the dead and badly wounded strewn on the ground between the two sides. One was a Roman, just a few paces away.
‘Water, please, water,’ the wounded man begged.
Ferox ignored him and shouted with all his strength. ‘Capricorns! You are Second Augusta.’ Some of the men looked up to see who it was, but some were too tired to care. He could see that only one of the signa was still carried by a signifer wearing the usual bearskin over his helmet. The other five were held by ordinary soldiers, which meant that the standard-bearers were down. Ferox could see no sign of a centurion anywhere along the front, which meant that the report must have been right. He saw a soldier by the standards. The man’s shield was gouged by two big cuts, the calfskin outer layer peeled back to show the boards underneath. The man had no staff, and his segmented armour was bent and dented on the shoulders, but a red feather stood up high on one side of his iron helmet and the stub of another showed that there had once been a second feather on the other side, marking him out as an optio.
‘I am Flavius Ferox, princeps posterior of the third cohort, currently on detached service, and I am taking command. Optio, report!’
‘Sir.’ The man straightened slightly, but did not attempt any more formal show of respect.
‘Water. Please, for the love of Diana, give me water,’ the wounded soldier begged. Ferox still ignored him.
‘Call that a salute, man!’ Ferox was trying to get their attention, and was pleased to see a brief flash of anger before the optio raised his right arm, sword still in his hand. The blade was bloody.
‘Sir. Beg to report—’ Before the optio said anything, Ferox saw the alarm in his face and spun around. Two warriors were coming at him, eyes wild and teeth bared, although they did not scream a war cry. The first held a broken spear with only three feet of its shaft left and he lunged it underarm. Ferox swung his shield sideways so that the edge pushed the spearhead aside and lunged to take the man in the throat. The dying man’s eyes widened, looking more surprised than fearful as the centurion yanked his blade free.
The second warrior had a sword and shield and came with more care, until the wounded Roman reached out to grab his ankles. The Briton swayed, fighting for balance, looking down angrily and raising his sword to cut this nuisance down. Ferox took two paces forward and thrust his gladius into the man’s stomach.
‘Hoc habet,’ came a voice from behind him and there was a dull cheer from the legionaries at this cry from the arena. Ferox kept his shield towards the enemy and looked back over his shoulder.
‘Come on, then. That’s how to deal with these mongrels. Capricorns, follow me!’ He turned his head to the front, took a deep breath, vaulted over the wounded legionary and ran straight at the Britons. This was not what he had planned. He had wanted to get the knots of men from II Augusta, or at least the ones around the standard, to re-form into something more like a line so that they could fight better, and he had hoped to spur them to make one last effort.
There was no time, and he just had to hope that cutting two of the enemy down would stir them to follow him even though he was a stranger. He yelled as he charged and did not look back. They would follow him or they would not, and if they did not then he would most certainly die.
He jumped over a corpse, this time of a naked Briton with his belly slit open and steam coming off the coiling streams of innards around him. He could hear nothing apart from his own yell and it was almost as if the sound came from someone else. The enemy waited, and one or two were trying to get back out of his way. He saw a tall man with limed hair pushing through the mass towards him, and recognised the Stallion, who must have lost his headdress, and then other men jostled and were in the way so that all he could see was a raised sword. The glimpse was enough. He thought of Fortunata, of the other victims butchered by this man, and he thought of what could have happened to Sulpicia Lepidina. The raw hate gave him strength and he wanted only to kill the priest before he was himself killed. It no longer mattered whether II Augusta came with him or not.
‘Mongrel!’ His incoherent yell became a word, and still no one came to meet him, so he reached the line, punched with his shield, knocking down a warrior’s little buckler, hitting the man in the face. The Briton staggered and the sword drove into his belly. Ferox twisted the blade free as the man fell, screaming, and a moment later he blocked a cut with his shield and slashed open the throat of a tattooed fanatic. He pushed into the ranks, and they all seemed to be slow and sluggish while he was as fast as a hawk. He punched again with the boss, felt the man’s jaw break, and then jabbed with the pommel of his sword into the face of another because he did not have time to bring it back ready to thrust. The man reeled away. Ferox flicked the blade back down and lunged into the man behind, the long tip piercing an eye. He slammed his shield forward again, pushing into the mass, going forward, always forward, and he felt a blow strike his right shoulder and almost lost balance. His arm still worked and he was standing. He cut back, carving into a warrior’s neck, the blade grating on a bronze torc before it reached the flesh. Blood spurted over him, and he pressed on, heading towards the Stallion who was close now. Something slammed into the side of his head, denting the helmet and cutting his forehead as the iron edge was driven into his skin.
Ferox turned, eyes blinking as he tried to stay conscious, and he lifted the shield to parry another blow from a shaven-headed fanatic wielding a thick branch as a club. A sword took the man in the side, under the armpit, blood bubbled at his lips and Terentius drew back his blade and slashed, knocking the warrior down. One of the archers came after him, using the small round shield they carried and an axe rather than a sword. Other men were appearing all around him, and the optio yelled as he stabbed low, driving into a warrior’s groin so that his high-pitched shriek mingled with the victor’s cries. Beside him a legionary took a spear thrust to the face and sank down.
The Britons were edging back, even as the Stallion called on them to kill. Ferox saw an axe head burst through the back of his shield, throwing up jagged splinters, but the weapon stuck there and Terentius appeared and hacked again and again at the warrior’s neck until his head was left hanging by a thin sheet of skin. Longus stamped his front foot down and pounded another man with his shield, knocking him down. The Roman leaned forward, stabbed once, but his friend’s cry came too late for him to dodge the crude spear that pierced the cheek piece of his helmet and drove into the side of his mouth.