For all that, there was excitement in being with a column in the field, especially since it had been several years since he had last taken part in a campaign. Idleness did not suit Ferox, for it gave him too much time to brood and to sink into black moods, when drink seemed the only shelter. It was always better to be busy and to feel that each moment and each decision he made mattered, not least because mistakes and misjudgements could kill him and plenty of others. His life had purpose again, at least for the next few days.
The campaign began with pageantry, as they marched from Vindolanda at dawn amid the ceremony that the army could never resist. At the head of the column were the massed standards of the Batavians and Tungrians, guarded by an immaculately turned-out honour guard from the troops who were to remain in the garrison, their brightly painted shields uncovered. These marched up the via principalis, through the gate and over the causeway between the ditches, before parting to parade on each side of the road.
Crispinus and Cerialis waited until the standards were in position before mounting. They were at the head of the column, and after the trumpets sounded three times Cerialis raised his voice and shouted words Ferox did not recognise, even though he knew what they meant. The prefect was asking his soldiers in their own language whether they were ready to fight.
‘Huh!’ The Batavians bellowed a sound, half animal grunt and half shout of rage. Behind them the centurion Annius called out in Celtic asking his Tungrians whether they were ready, prompting an answering shout of ‘Yes!’ Three times he shouted and three times the cry was returned. That was the normal way, but the Batavians boasted that they only needed to be asked once if they were ready for war. At the rear because they were setting out from the base of other units, Aelius Brocchus spoke in Latin to his cavalrymen and received a whooping reply from his men.
‘Expect we’ll leave eventually,’ Vindex said to his men as they waited at the very rear, behind the baggage train. Some of the Brigantes grinned. Others, who never seen even such a small Roman force muster, just stared in wonder.
At the head Crispinus drew his sword and pointed towards the gates.
‘Forward, march!’ Cerialis shouted and they set off. The men were ready for the field, wearing dark cloaks, shields protected by drab calfskin covers, and armour and other metalwork well greased and oiled to fend off rust. Three turmae of Batavians followed the senior officers, each decurion leading two dozen men in three files so that they could get through the gate without having to slow down. They went in silence apart from the clink of harness and the dull thump of shields swinging gently against the horses’ left shoulders. Decurions had high yellow plumes running down the centre of the helmets, as well as the animal fur sported by their men. Behind came the infantry, helmets with deeper, broader neck guards and uncovered ears so that they could hear commands better. Apart from the officers and one or two men who liked to dress up, their helmets were covered with moss, which looked like fur from any distance. There were seventy-five Batavian cavalry and two hundred infantry divided into three centuries, one of them led by the optio Arcuttius as acting commander because only a pair of centurions were available. The last remaining vexillum was carried by one of the standard-bearers at the head of the infantry.
Ferox stood beside his horse watching them pass. The road was lined with well-wishers, other soldiers off duty, and scores of women and children from the camp watching their menfolk march away and not knowing whether they would ever see them again. The law said that soldiers could not marry, but many of them ignored the rule and the army turned a blind eye, content as long as they did not expect extra rations or pay. The women were a tough bunch, some from home, many more picked up wherever the unit served. If their man survived his twenty-five years of service and was honourably discharged, then as an auxiliary he would gain citizenship for himself, his wife and their children, which was fine as long as he did survive. In the meantime they lived in the barracks, making love and giving birth in the little rooms shared with the man’s comrades. The children grew up knowing the army as their only world. The boys usually enlisted when they were old enough, while many of the girls would marry soldiers. There was a tall boy of eleven or twelve not far from Ferox, standing to attention with a ferocious determination, obviously yearning to be marching with the men. Alongside was his mother, a thin pale woman with long brown hair streaked grey and moist eyes that made it clear she wished her man was not going and that they had sent someone else instead.
The families did not cheer, watching in silence as the men filed past, looking straight to the front, and yet the scene moved Ferox as it did every time he saw an army marching off. Sulpicia Lepidina was next to him, wrapped up in a heavy deep blue cloak against the chilly morning air.
‘You must stay with me and explain what is happening,’ she had told him and he had obeyed, although there was little to explain and he had not said much. The lady was silent, watching her husband as he rode at the head of the column, dressed in martial finery. Her maid was with her, as were two male slaves and the two centurions left in command of the rest of the Batavians.
The Tungrians followed the Batavians, with two of their double-sized centuries mustering a total of one hundred and eighty men. Their helmets were bare bronze, polished to a dull sheen. Titus Annius rode at their head, his transverse crest a wide spray of tall white feathers tipped red. He nodded respectfully to Sulpicia Lepidina as he passed, for he was a commander and granted more licence than the parading soldiers. Ferox noticed that the second century was also led by an optio.
Aelius Brocchus came next, with seven turmae comprising some two hundred men, so that each was close to its full strength. The ala Gallorum Petriana – until a few years ago with the additional name Domitiana, now quietly forgotten – saw themselves as the best horsemen of the army in Britain and took every opportunity to show it. Another part of the ala was serving with the column marching up the Eastern Road from Coria, and Ferox wondered whether they were as splendidly equipped and mounted as these men. The horses were excellent, bigger than those provided for the Batavians, well groomed and grouped by colour, so that there were two turmae on greys, two more on chestnuts and the rest on bays. It was an affectation only possible when active campaigning was rare. Each man carried a strong-shafted spear upright and had three lighter javelins in a long quiver hanging from the right rear horn of his saddle. They wore their long spathae on their right hips in the Gallic fashion, the weapons hanging low so that it was easier to draw them while mounted. Their helmets were iron, with brass decoration, most of them shaped to look as if the bowls were covered with locks of thick hair. Each man had a shirt of mail, split at the sides on the hips for comfort. A third of each turma, the men who would form the front rank, also had laminated guards of iron sections on their right arms, protecting them from shoulder to wrist.
After the glorious cavalry came the pack train: mules and ponies supervised by a few soldiers and around eighty personal servants and galearii, slaves owned by the army, given boots, uniform tunic and cloak, knives and old patterned helmets to wear. Behind them, at the very rear of the column, walking their horses through quite a few piles of fresh dung, came Vindex and his scouts, their numbers raised to nearly thirty by some fresh men sent by his chieftain, They sauntered along, chattering or ogling the women in the crowd. Vindex winked at the maid as he passed, prompting a burst of giggling and feigned modesty until her mistress glared at her.