The Stallion let the spear go and clasped one hand tightly around the wrist of his sword arm. He raised the blade high, his pale skin a network of blue woad, and he looked like a demon from stories with his spiked hair and the burning savagery of his eyes. A legionary went for him, slipped on the intestines of a dying man, dropping his guard, and the priest slashed down. There was a dull clang as the blade cut through the iron helmet and the soldier fell.
Ferox barged Terentius aside. The priest was quick, his sword already back up, and he cut again, slicing through the bronze edging at the top of the shield and into the wood. Ferox fought for balance, saw the heavy sword going up again for the next attack, and cut wildly with his gladius. He felt the blade bite and dragged it across the priest’s chest, pushing as hard as he could. The sword cut down again, weaker this time, but enough to carve another rent in his shield.
Men were dragging the Stallion away. With a howl one of his tattooed followers leaped up, flinging himself bodily at Ferox. The centurion felt the wind knocked from him and he was falling to the ground, the heavy weight of the man on top. He lost his sword and shield. The man’s face was inches away from his, features contorted with hate as his hands felt for the centurion’s throat. Ferox tried to roll and push the man off, but he was heavy and now the fingers closed around his windpipe. He felt for his dagger, found it and pulled it free from the scabbard, but it was getting hard to breathe as the man’s hands tightened. He stabbed once, twice, and only at the third wound did the grip slacken. Ferox gulped in air, and stabbed the man again.
A trumpet sounded, then two more, and there were shouts. Ferox strained to slide the corpse off him. The pugio and his hand were sticky with drying blood, his mail bloodstained, but as he pushed himself up he saw that II Augusta were driving forward, killing the enemy as they ran. There were Roman cavalry riding among the Britons, the cloaks of the legate’s singulares streaming behind them. They had won on the far left, driving away the enemy horsemen after a hard fight and then they had begun to attack the flank of the infantry. The Britons held on for a long time because there were so many of them. Only slowly did they weaken, and at almost the same time the remnants of the first Roman line were going forward with their last strength and the Stallion’s great host collapsed.
Ferox’s eyes kept closing. He was breathing deeply, but was finding it hard to stand. Nearby Terentius knelt by Longus, weeping over his dying friend, as an archer staggered past, his right arm missing below the elbow. The snow turned to sleet that somehow seemed colder and the centurion began to shiver. Most of II Augusta had stopped, exhaustion claiming them, and over their heads Ferox could see the cavalry riding among the enemy, killing at will, but there were so many thousands of Britons even after all this slaughter and the cavalry were few. He saw the tall figure of the Stallion being supported by several warriors. They were past the main crowd, and none of the cavalry seemed to have seen them. There was a chariot waiting, and a dozen horsemen, and one of them had long white hair and even though it was so far away he knew that it must be the great druid. The men lifted the priest into the chariot and it drove off, protected by the riders.
Ferox looked around for a horse, knowing that he must chase and finish the priest off while they had the chance. He saw one, the same one he had ridden to join the cohort, and it was standing amid the corpses, cropping at a tussock of grass.
Ferox tried to run and could not. He walked a few steps, but could not keep in a straight line. His eyes were heavy, wanting to close. He lurched a few more paces until the darkness came and he fell.
XXX
THE TRAIL WAS faint, sometimes vanishing among so many other tracks of men fleeing from the defeated army, but the direction was clear and each time they lost it, Ferox was able to pick it up again. On the first day he suspected their purpose. By the second day he was sure. He had been unconscious for only a short time, before waking with a fierce headache. The medicus ordinarius, the doctor in charge of all the medical orderlies, had given him something to drink and he had slept through the night, until the legate’s men roused him before dawn.
Neratius Marcellus was pleased with his victory, and was sensible enough to know how close they had come to disaster, and shrewd enough to write a report that would show how everything had gone to plan. They were saved by the high king, and the other princes and chieftains who had sent men to answer the Stallion’s call to arms even though they did not go in person. All of those contingents were with the northern force, and they had not hurried to join the battle, but let the Stallion and his main force win or lose on their own. Even when they came in sight of the fighting, they had tarried, and their influence made many other warriors cautious. Only the most fervent, led by the tattooed fanatics, had pressed on in spite of this. Perhaps twelve or fifteen hundred Britons had attacked the improvised Roman line, and VIIII Hispana and the others in that hasty line facing north had fought these to a standstill and were starting to drive them back when the panic spread from the rest of the army and they broke. Tincommius’ men and the other real warriors had watched from a distance.
‘Our embassy to Tincommius has borne splendid fruit,’ Crispinus told Ferox as they rode out on the morning after the battle. ‘The high king proved true to his pledges.’
Ferox could not help thinking that the high king had kept a foot in each camp until the very last moment. He had sent Gannascus and several hundred warriors to join the Stallion. If the Romans had blundered into that force instead of retreating when their cavalry were routed then it was hard to believe that the German and the rest would not have fought against them, especially if the Stallion’s bands had come round from behind and trapped them according to plan. The same was surely true if things had gone worse for the Romans in the battle. Tincommius’ men were cautious, but either way they would have ended up on the winning side. Ferox suspected that the legate sensed this truth, but was happy to ignore it since everything had turned out well. He was less sure that the tribune understood, for Crispinus was a harder man to read.
Neratius Marcellus had ordered Ferox to hunt down the wounded priest and bring him back as a captive or his head as a trophy. ‘Either way I want his head on a stake over the gates at Vindolanda,’ he told them. ‘That seems the right place, and it would be better if he was executed there, but it does not matter too much if you cannot bring him in alive.’ He had nodded to Flavius Cerialis, who was nursing a nasty wound to the side. The prefect winced as he smiled at the compliment.
‘The men would appreciate it, my lord. As would I.’
Ferox wondered whether the prefect was thinking about his murdered lover. Cerialis ought to recover as long as the wound did not turn bad. The centurion tried to dismiss from his mind a wild fantasy where the prefect died, leaving his widow free to remarry. It was nonsense and he knew it, for a senator’s daughter could condescend to marry an eques, but never a man of lower rank and far less means. Sulpicia Lepidina was as far beyond him as the stars in the heavens and in truth he could not really wish her husband ill. Cerialis had fought well, leading his Batavians even after he had taken the cut to his thigh and a heavy blow to the chest.