‘We are going forward,’ Ferox announced to the thirty or so Tungrians formed in three ranks at the top of the pass. ‘When I give the order, I want you to cheer harder than you ever have in your life. Then we march forward ten paces and keep banging your spears against your shields. Front rank will throw spears and the rest keep theirs ready. But we halt!’ He turned to stare at the faces, the usual mixture of young and old, all of them nervous, but some hiding it better than others. ‘Once we are done, you wait for the order and then we go back at the double the way we came and down the other side. Understand?’
Men nodded.
‘I can’t hear you.’
‘Sir!’ they shouted.
‘Good.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Forward, march!’ Ferox banged the blade of his gladius against the brass edging of his borrowed shield. The auxiliaries cheered and beat the shafts of their spears against their own shields as they went down the slope.
‘Come on!’ he shouted. ‘Make these scum hear you!’
The Selgovae looked up, surprised to see the Romans come on. Many hesitated, slowing down or stopping. A few chased after the fleeing remnants of the optio’s men.
‘Go to the side!’ Ferox yelled angrily at the fugitives and pointed with his sword. He was counting the paces in his head.
‘Halt! Front rank, throw!’
Moving gave force to a thrown spear, but these men had all trained to throw from the halt as well and the slope was in their favour. Eleven broad-shafted spears spun through the air, leaf-shaped heads glinting. One lucky throw hit a charging warrior squarely in the chest and burst out through the man’s back, flinging him over. Two more warriors were hit and the rest ran back a short way.
‘Back! Back!’ Ferox yelled. The Tungrians needed no urging and turned and fled, equipment banging as they jogged up the slope, barging into each other. Ferox followed. There were fresh shouts of triumph from the Selgovae and the trumpets blared again.
‘Keep going!’ The Tungrians spilled over the crest and Ferox saw that the other half-century was waiting there, with the legionaries formed up alongside them. Rufus was in front, his white crest standing out, his sword raised high. That was not the order he had given, but perhaps the man was right to reinforce this first surprise for the enemy. Ferox glanced back over his shoulder, saw a sea of tribesmen rushing up the hill, the nearest no more than twenty paces behind. He felt the draught as a javelin hissed through the air just beside him, then was running down the far side of the crest and safe for at least a few moments.
‘Form up there! Form up down the slope!’ he yelled at the Tungrians, trying to make sure that they remembered his orders. Each group was to do a bound of one hundred paces and then turn about to face the enemy and protect the other units as they went back. He was about to join the covering party when Rufus grinned and gestured with his sword down the hillside.
‘We’ll be fine!’ he called. ‘You’re needed there.’
Ferox smiled back and kept going, his back slick with sweat from the weight of his armour and from all this running.
‘Halt!’ he yelled at the Tungrians. ‘About turn!’ The auxiliaries obeyed, even though they did not know him. For the moment it was working, but it would not take much for panic to break out and then there would just be a stream of fugitives running down the valley side, and the slow, the weak, the clumsy and the unlucky would die. Perhaps none of them would get away, for he still saw no sign of supports coming to aid them. He wondered whether Vindex had found someone senior yet, and whether they would have the sense to take the word of a Briton even though he was one of their scouts.
A warrior appeared on the crest, and in a moment there were dozens more alongside him. Rufus’ men cheered, and the Tungrians and little detachment of legionaries charged up towards them. That was always tiring, even for a short distance, but the men pounded up the hill. Ferox could not hear the order, and a shift in the wind wafted a mist of smoke over the charging Romans so that it was hard to see. There was no mistaking the ripple in the formation as the first rank threw spears or pila, then the second and then the third. Warriors fell all along the crest and then the legionaries and Tungrians ran into them, and even if they were panting, they charged with spirit.
‘Don’t wait too long,’ Ferox said softly, worrying that the young centurion would get carried away with his success. ‘Come back, back.’
He realised that he was holding his breath, so let it out and saw the ragged line of Romans turn about and march back down this side of the crest. The top of the pass was covered in bodies, and Rufus’ men had inflicted heavy losses on the boldest of their enemies. There were also two Tungrians and a legionary wounded so that they had to be carried, taking more men away from the fighting.
‘Ready, lads. Our turn next!’ Ferox told the auxiliaries. Once they were safely behind the crest, Rufus ordered his men to double down the slope. It was hard to keep at a steady pace going downhill, especially burdened with bulky shields and wearing armour and helmets, and by the time they passed Ferox and his men the legionaries and auxiliaries were half running, half stumbling along, formation ragged.
A lone warrior appeared on the crest. He was slim and tall, with mail armour, a red-and-white-striped cloak and a bronze helmet. Everything about the man seemed to glow, apart from his shield, which was drab and plain.
‘Step back five paces, slowly now.’ The Tungrians obeyed Ferox’s quiet order. ‘When the time comes, second rank to throw their spears. If I say charge we go ten paces and then stop. If I say hold we hold, and if I say run you follow me and run as if the demons of hell are behind you.’ He saw surprise on the auxiliaries’ faces, and was pleased that there were a few grins.
Britons appeared all along the crest, stepping up around the lone warrior. Tall carnyxes began to blare out their challenge.
‘Step back,’ Ferox ordered. ‘And another pace.’ He glanced behind and saw that Rufus had turned and re-formed his men, but they had gone much further than he had wanted and were a good hundred and fifty paces away. That was always the problem with a withdrawal. Men hurried back, going faster and running for longer than they were supposed to until the officers managed to stop them.
The Selgovae were walking down the slope, most of them coming in ranks, side by side, banging weapons on their little shields and chanting something that might have been a word and might have been a grunt over and over again. The warrior in the striped cloak was in the middle, and beside him was another, bare-chested man, taller and broader, with streaks of grey in his long brown hair. He carried a big rectangular shield, its battered and scarred surface still showing the thunderbolt symbols of Legio XX, but painted over with a charging boar. Just behind them someone carried a standard with a bronze cockerel at the top.
‘Steady, lads, back another step.’
A couple of Britons ran out from the front of the formation, javelins poised to throw.
‘Keep it steady, lads. Shields braced, back another pace.’ One of the auxiliaries in the third rank slipped and fell with a loud curse. Javelins thumped into the shields of the men in front, one driving through the board of the shield and sending a splinter to graze the man’s face.
Ferox glanced back. The shape of the valley side was less even than he had thought and rose behind him in a low spur, so that he could no longer see the Roman camp. He had no idea whether or not help was coming. The wounded men were being carried across a little gully just in front of the low spur. The Selgovae kept up their chant, the noise getting louder and louder, so that it almost seemed to punch at them. Ferox was about to turn back to judge whether he had time to run faster before re-forming again when there was a flicker of movement on the spur. A man appeared, almost doubled up in a crouch, spear and shield held low as he came on to the low rise. It was too far away to see, but Ferox could sense the man smile as he stood up. The warrior was naked save for a cloak, his body scored with lines and circles of blue woad, and as he brandished his spear in the air dozens and then scores of men answered his shout and poured over the spur.