The ground sloped up steeply to the saddle, which on the far side went down into a bigger, longer glen. If the campaign was going to plan, then the western column should be advancing up that valley towards them. Yet if they were to meet up, Crispinus’ men must force their way through this pass. The column was concentrated now, formed at the foot of the slope apart from half of the infantry of the Vardulli from Spain and all their cavalry who protected the baggage animals and watched the rear.
‘Despatch coming.’ Titus Annius pointed to the ridge behind them. Half a dozen cavalry were cantering down the smooth slope, led by a man with a luxuriously plumed helmet and a trooper holding his spear aloft, something flickering just below the head. As they came closer Ferox saw that it was a feather, as the commander of the Tungrians had guessed, and realised that the plumed officer was Flaccus, the junior tribune from VIIII Hispana. One of the cavalrymen in his escort had a freshly tied bandage round his thigh. They must have come from the Legate Quadratus and the main column.
‘We had a time of it getting through,’ the tribune said to Crispinus, before the two men moved to the side and spoke for some time.
It was an hour before noon on the morning after the attack on their camp. There were seven wounded men back with the baggage train to add to the eight given hasty burials before they set out. All but one of the dead were from the picket, for the attackers had hacked to pieces anyone who fell. The four survivors were all wounded, but had managed to stay on their feet and close together so that they were back to back. The attackers left forty-seven corpses on the ground and few if any of them had fled. There were no prisoners.
All of the dead bore the tattoos on forehead and hand and had fought with the same wild aggression as if they did not care whether they lived or died. None were skilful, and some carried woodsman’s or carpenter’s axes or just clubs rather than proper weapons. Yet they came on very fast and slashed or bludgeoned at anything within reach, keeping on striking even if they were covered with wounds. Soldiers spoke of men crawling towards them leaving the ground slick with blood, but still brandishing weapons. One of the Romans had been stabbed repeatedly when he went to check what he was sure was a corpse, given the horrible injuries to the Briton’s face, arms and chest.
As far as Ferox could tell, few of the dead appeared to be Selgovae, and instead were from many different tribes and much further afield. Quite a few looked half starved, with little trace of the muscles on arms and legs built up by warriors who practised for war. He had told Crispinus and the other senior officers about this, but was not sure how much they understood. Romans were apt to see all barbarians as much the same.
The man Ferox had killed was more of a puzzle. His forehead was marked with a stag, rather than a horse, and underneath were traces of an older tattoo: ten e q a ugi. It was a Roman mark in Latin, not something put on by the tribes, and Ferox’s best guess was something like tene me quia fugi – ‘Arrest me, for I have run away’. The antler-wearing priest rallying the tribes against Rome was a former slave, a man who had fled from his owner and been recaptured, then escaped again. He was a runaway slave, a fugitivus from the empire, perhaps from Britannia, although the man with the southern accent made Ferox wonder whether there were more runaways from far afield among this strange band. It helped to explain a man who used magical words of power and called on Isis and Hades and other gods not widely known among the tribes.
Crispinus read the despatch, spoke for a while with Flaccus and then summoned his officers to a consilium to explain what they were to do. ‘The Legate Quadratus is attacking from the south, driving up the valley towards us. There are strong forces facing him, but the enemy have placed these bands here to stop us from fighting our way in behind their main force.’ He saw Ferox’s questioning expression. ‘The enemy are two chieftains. Venutius, as we expected, and his neighbour Tagax.’
That was a surprise, since the second man had a reputation for mildness and was a frequent victim of his neighbour’s cattle rustling. ‘The legate has advanced, putting farms and villages to the torch if the people did not welcome him.’ That explained the resistance of the chieftains – push the mildest man too far and he will push back, especially if he was as proud as the leaders of the Selgovae. Ferox suspected that the clumsy hand of Claudius Super was behind the needless aggression of the Roman approach.
‘Our job is to storm the pass, then move through and block anyone from retreating up the valley.’ Crispinus sounded calm and confident, although Ferox noticed that he kept drumming the fingers of his right hand against his thigh. His plan was simple, but so was the problem and there was little opportunity for subtlety.
‘Flavius Cerialis and his Batavians will lead.’ The tribune smiled at the prefect. ‘You had better order your troopers to dismount and form with the infantry. I know that they will not like it, but the pass is not good ground for cavalry.’ Now he was looking at Brocchus, who gave an almost imperceptible nod.
‘Titus Annius?’
‘Sir.’
‘Your Tungrians will be to the left of the Batavians, held back a little. You will face the fort, but your job at first will be to guard the flank of Cerialis’ men against any charge. Once they have driven off the warriors in the pass, you will mount a combined assault on the ramparts. I shall give the order when it is time.’
‘Sir.’
‘The remainder of the infantry of the Vardulli along with Aelius Brocchus and the ala Petriana will act as a formed reserve, following at two hundred paces behind the main line. If we can sweep them out of this pass, then there ought to be good hunting for the cavalry. However, unless the enemy come down from their position you are not to attempt a charge without my express orders. Everyone clear about the part they are to play?’ The tribune’s fingers kept drumming against his thigh as the officers assured him that they understood. ‘Ferox, you will stay by my side as I may need you.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. The Tribune Flaccus informs me that the main column will be driving up the valley, forcing the enemy towards us. That may mean that we will face very large numbers for a while, but we will be relieved.’
‘I must also urge haste,’ Flaccus cut in, prompting a brief flash of anger from Crispinus. ‘I fear it took me much longer to reach you than we expected. I do trust that you will attack quickly.’
‘We shall obey our orders and do the thing properly.’ Crispinus spoke in a clipped and dismissive tone. ‘If things have worked out, the eastern column from Coria is already further north and closing in on the enemy from that direction.’
Ferox was dubious, and thought that the chances of the three columns meeting up on time and as planned were slim. Best to forget the eastern column. That larger force would have moved at reasonable speed along the road for some distance, but as soon as they left it to march cross-country he suspected that they would crawl along, even if there was little or no opposition. Give them another day or two and they might be coming down behind the enemy, but he doubted that they would be there any earlier. They should count themselves fortunate that Crispinus’ small force was approaching Quadratus and the main column in the west. Now all they had to do was to fight their way through to join up.
The Batavian infantry formed up in four ranks, the three centuries abreast with only a slight gap between them. That gave a frontage of fifty men, with the vexillum carried proudly in the centre of the formation, their green shields uncovered because they were to fight. Cerialis put the cavalry on the right in a block eight men wide and eight deep. Covering their flank, Titus Annius placed his Tungrians with their yellow shields, one century behind the other, each drawn up in six ranks, apart from twenty men who carried leather slings as well as their normal weapons who formed a thin line of skirmishers.