‘Get it over with.’ The lad did not sound like one of the Selgovae and had more of the lilting tone of the Caledonians of the far north. The warriors were going back up the slope, turning to run.
Ferox pressed just a little harder. The boy closed his eyes, but did not flinch. The centurion held the sword there before pulling it back.
The boy opened one eye and then the other.
‘Go!’ Ferox told him. ‘Take him with you.’ He pointed with his sword at the groaning Venutius. ‘Get away if you can and go with honour as brave men who met other brave men. Let us hope that next time we meet in friendship.’ The boy was gaping, so he thought one of Vindex’s favourite expressions might help. ‘Piss off!’ he told him.
The young warrior laughed and leaned down to help the chieftain up. Venutius was bruised, his nose smashed, but he looked at the centurion and gave a gentle nod of his head.
Ferox turned away from them to look at the battered remnants of the Tungrians as they stood, leaning on their shields and panting, struggling to understand that they had survived. Down the slope he saw Cerialis and Brocchus leading turmae of their horsemen over the low spur. They cut some of the Britons down, but the rest were running and most would get away because the horses could not go fast on this ground. There were legionaries behind them, but he doubted that the heavily laden soldiers would catch many of the nimble warriors.
‘Well done, lads,’ he said to the Tungrians, but could find neither the words nor the energy to say more.
XIII
‘THE LEGATE IS delighted, truly delighted.’ Crispinus leaned forward to scratch his horse’s ears. ‘And he is especially pleased with your conduct. Claudius Super assures him that you are one of his best men – at least when you are sober.’
Ferox did not share the tribune’s enthusiasm and made no reply. Twenty-nine Tungrians and fourteen legionaries had died during the retreat from the old fort, and almost as many were badly wounded. The few survivors left on their feet at the end were all grazed or bruised. Ferox’s right shoulder ached and was stiff, but he knew that he had got off lightly. Rufus was dead, his head taken by the enemy, and Titus Annius had been stabbed as he lay on his stretcher and the surgeons held out little hope for him. The four auxiliaries carrying him had all died defending their commander. They and many of the other corpses had been mutilated after they had fallen. Men spoke of warriors tattooed with animals on their foreheads as the most vicious of the enemy, and there had been a lot of them as well as ordinary Selgovae in the group that overran the party carrying the injured.
‘I have spoken to Vindex the Brigantian and he is even more fulsome in his praise.’
Ferox stared at him sceptically.
‘Well, what he actually said was, “He’s a hard, clever bastard, and one you want on your side.” I am pretty sure those were his words, although sometimes his accent baffles me – as does his directness. It’s as if the man has no manners, but perhaps that is just the way among his people.’
The centurion shrugged, but said nothing.
‘He also told me a lot about you. From all that I have heard I do not believe that you are truly the drunken fool described by Claudius Super. You are sober most of the time, but now and again you brood and feel sorry for yourself and drink yourself senseless. Vindex reckons that you are so fond of being miserable because it makes you feel important. I suspect that he is right.’
‘I cannot help what you believe, my lord.’
‘Well, believe this at the very least. This is a victory,’ Crispinus assured him, letting go of the reins and spreading his arms wide. His weight did not shift in the saddle and the horse did not stir and just plodded on. The centurion had to concede that the aristocrat knew how to ride.
‘Some might not call it that,’ Ferox replied.
‘Perhaps.’ Crispinus sniffed his fingers and wrinkled his nose at the strong scent of horse. ‘But the only thing that matters is the report Quadratus is writing, which will say that we won a great victory and punished the tribes for refusing to pay their taxes and daring to oppose the might of Rome.’
Ferox said nothing. If the reinforcements had not arrived when they had, then he doubted that anyone would have survived. Vindex had reached the main force quickly, but had trouble finding a senior officer or anyone who knew where the legate or Crispinus were. In the end he met the junior tribune Flaccus, who told him to wait while he reported to Quadratus. The Brigantian waited a long time, until Crispinus appeared and expressed surprise at his presence. By that time Ferox had started to retreat, and it was only the urgent demands of the tribune that gathered enough men and got them moving in time to save the survivors.
‘I shall take your silence as agreement with my fine argument,’ the tribune said. ‘The story will be told of success and we shall all share in the rewards of victory. I do not think that I am breaking any great confidence if I tell you that your name is on the list of those recommended for dona.’
‘I already have plenty of decorations.’ The day after the fight the two chieftains had sent messengers to say that they were willing to make their peace. There was too little food left for the columns to remain in the field, and on top of that the Legate Quadratus wanted to declare victory in the neat little campaign he had been so keen to fight. In the afternoon he met with Tagax and Venutius. The latter was badly bruised and had a bandage tied around his face, but greeted Ferox with great warmth.
‘We met yesterday as enemies, let us talk now as friends,’ the old horse thief declared. ‘I come now because you fought as a man and I can trust you as one brave warrior to another.’ The chieftain’s voice boomed out as he spoke, and Ferox suspected that the words were intended as much for his own warriors as anyone else. This was a good, honourable way to end the fighting. Both chieftains promised to pay all their taxes within ten days, including an additional levy of grain and cattle demanded as the price for peace, and to give hostages from their families as a pledge of their firm alliance with Rome.
‘Be a lean winter for their people,’ Vindex had muttered when the terms were agreed by both sides.
‘Even tougher for Venutius’ neighbours. That rogue will rob them blind to find the cattle he is supposed to give us. I’ll bet Tagax’s folk will lose more than a few over the next few nights.’
It was over, and Ferox wondered whether Crispinus, let alone the legate, realised that the Selgovae would not feel beaten. They had stood up like men to the great empire and had inflicted some losses and proved their courage. The tribesmen would remember the burning farms, and they would also remember cutting up the Tungrians and legionaries as they retreated and a few other sharp skirmishes where they had taken heads. Their courage was proved by the plain facts that the Romans had withdrawn from their lands, and had had to talk to them to end the fighting. The soldiers of the emperor had gone and they were still the Selgovae, ‘the brave ones’ as they called themselves, warriors to be feared and respected by all their neighbours, including the Romans.
Ferox still felt that the campaign was a foolish waste of everyone’s time and too many lives. He remembered reading that the Emperor Augustus described fighting a needless war as like a man fishing with a golden hook, where no possible gain justified the risk.
‘Our luck held,’ Crispinus said. ‘Only just, but it held. If over a hundred men had been massacred then the story would no doubt have grown with the telling and brought delight to the emperor’s rivals. But that did not happen and Trajan has a victory. Some of you survived, which means that the fallen are heroes who helped us to win.’