‘Orb!’ Ferox shouted. ‘Form an orb, two ranks deep! Move!’ It was not the order they were expecting, but long practice or instinct took over and the Tungrians in the rear rank faced about and stepped forward, the men in the middle going faster. The front ranks bent back on the flank and in a moment they formed a very rough circle. Ferox was in the middle, pulling men from the second rank to strengthen the sides and rear, shouting and shoving to get them into place. One of the auxiliaries grunted as a javelin came over the top of his shield and drove through the reinforced mail on his shoulder. Ferox pulled the man back into the middle of the formation.
The Selgovae were closer now, more and more missiles thumping into the Tungrians’ shields. One of the soldiers was hit square in the face with such force that his helmeted head snapped back as he was flung to the ground. Ferox looked down the slope and saw Rufus and his men running downhill, charging back to protect the wounded against the new threat, but more and more warriors streamed over the spur. They must have gathered there out of sight, waiting for the moment. The Romans charged in a loose swarm, all order gone, and he saw the young centurion at their head, but doubted that they could break through against such numbers. Well, there was nothing he could do to help and each group must fight its own little battle and see who lasted the longest.
Ferox pushed his way into the middle of the front rank, in time to feel his borrowed shield shudder with the strike of a javelin. ‘Right, lads. Let’s show ‘em how the best soldiers in the world fight,’ he called. ‘The poor bastards don’t know who they’re facing yet!’
‘Poor buggers,’ someone said.
‘Don’t feel sorry for them, just kill ‘em,’ he told the auxiliaries.
The Selgovae charged. They threw more javelins first, and Ferox felt his shield rock with another blow. The man next to him folded as a heavier spear smashed through the layers of wood and stuck fast in his belt. He was pulled back and another soldier stepped into his place just in time to meet the warriors.
Ferox’s world became small, for there were no more orders to give and all that mattered were the men standing alongside him and the wild-eyed men coming at him. The first was young, only a boy and eager to prove himself in battle, rushing at the enemy, his terror turning to rage. He flung himself forward, shield thrust out as Ferox raised the boss of his own big legionary scutum and put his weight behind it. A bigger man might have knocked him over, but Ferox was solid, heavy in all his armour, and he was just pushed back, boots sliding a foot down the gentle slope. He saw the boy raising his long sword to slash down and jabbed forward with his gladius, the long triangular point sliding into his armpit. The boy’s mouth opened wide although Ferox did not hear any cry amid the shouting and clash of arms, and he turned the blade to help free it as he pulled back and jabbed again, straight into the throat. Blood jetted over his shield and sprayed on to his face and he had to blink to see, but already his gladius, was back, poised to strike again.
When Ferox opened his eyes the boy had fallen and an older man jumped over him, thrusting with his spear at his head. He ducked his head out of the way, felt a heavy blow against the cheek piece of his helmet, stabbed forward, but was blocked by the man’s square shield. The soldier on his right was hit by a low slash, coming under the shield and slicing into his leg beneath the knee. He swayed, lowering his guard, and the warrior behind the one he was fighting thrust a long spear through the Tungrian’s eye. The dying auxiliary was pulled forward into the mass of the enemy, and his adversary stepped on to him. Ferox twisted a little to the left, punched hard with the boss of his shield and managed to knock the man back, but felt a hammer blow to his right chest as the warrior facing him slammed his spear forward. The tip caught on the fastening of the shoulder piece and broke off. If not for that fluke then he suspected that he would be down.
An auxiliary from the second rank pushed his way into the space and let Ferox concentrate on his own opponent. The man had a lined face and the look of someone who had fought many times. His eyes never left the Roman, and there was no warning when he flung his spear at the centurion’s face. Ferox raised his shield, saw the now blunt head punch through the wood and leather, and felt the clumsiness that came from the long-shafted spear stuck into it. He slashed down at the wood, managed to push the spear free, and by that time the warrior had drawn his long slim sword, the blade notched in several places.
Ferox brought his gladius up, elbow bent, blade at eye level ready to strike and waited for the warrior to slash at him. He was only dimly aware of men squaring off all around him. The warrior feinted a cut to the left of his head, once, twice, and then scythed the blade down. Ferox leaned down, lifting his shield, and saw the iron blade slice into the brass edging. His own gladius shot forward at the man’s face, was pushed aside by his shield and did no more than graze the warrior’s cheek. His shoulder and chest ached, and he was panting with sheer effort.
The warrior punched with his shield, but it was so much smaller than the scutum that it did not unbalance Ferox. His gladius shot forward again as the man’s head bowed a little, his right arm swinging down, and the point went through his mouth with such force that Ferox felt teeth smash and bone crack.
The Tungrians cheered, a thin, exhausted sound, but one of triumph none the less because the Selgovae were going back. They did not go far, the warriors stepping away a few paces to be out of reach of spear thrusts. Ferox lowered the dead warrior to the ground, and had to put a boot on his neck to drag his sword free. Two of the auxiliaries were dead, four more too badly wounded to stand and most of the rest were hurt, but able to fight on. All were red-faced, breathing heavily, dripping with sweat from armour and helmets that now felt as heavy as lead.
‘Well done, lads.’ Ferox gasped the words and had to make a real effort to raise his voice. ‘We’re showing them. We’ve got them worried now.’
‘Yeah, bet they’re terrified,’ one of the Tungrians said. ‘Pissing in their boots.’ The men laughed and it was a wonderful sound that made Ferox feel close to all these men he had known for just an hour or two. He glanced behind. There were dead and wounded strewn all over the grass down the slope. There were two knots of Romans surrounded by hundreds of Selgovae and he saw that the Romans were trying to push their way forward.
‘Shields up!’ he shouted, for javelins and spears were coming at them. Surely they must run out of things to throw soon. One of the auxiliaries threw his own spear up the slope, and shouted in triumph as a warrior was pitched back. A moment later he was struck on the foot and squealed like a pig until one of his comrades yelled at him to stop.
‘Shit,’ someone said. The warriors were coming forward again, slower this time, but with determination and not bothering to chant.
‘Steady, lads. We’ll show ’em!’ The fight was much like the first, men grunting like tired labourers as they thrust and hacked at each other from just a foot or two away. Ferox took a glancing cut just below the knee and was lucky that it did not do any real damage. His helmet crest took another blow, sheering almost half of it away, and he was struck twice on the shoulders and knew that he was bruised even if the blades had not penetrated. He cut his first opponent across the face and when that man slipped back and another replaced him, he unbalanced the second warrior with a strike of his shield and thrust into his belly.