The legion had been marching steadily now through the thick mists for what seemed to be days, further north than any Roman had ever gone before. The land was harsh, just as Britannia was – although it seemed to be colder, and the mist that rolled over the moors gave the legionaries the uneasy feeling that Pluto was following them and shadowing their every move. Either way, the three thousand men who had been dispatched north from York upon orders from the Emperor in Rome, were to obtain information regarding the cold lands and report back to York.
So far however, the expedition was not going as planned. The cavalry that should have been with the legion had been split in two; one cavalry squadron had been sent north of the main body to scout the land ahead for any settlements, whilst the other squadron had been dispatched to the west, to deal with a group of brigands and were at least half a day's ride behind the column. In addition, the legion also had very little missile support, as the few archers that had previously accompanied the legion had recently been absorbed into another legion that was bound west to deal with a potential uprising. This had resulted in the only missile infantry being a few hundred poorly disciplined archers who had been conscripted from York. Put simply, over a third of the legion's strength was depleted. Right when it was needed the most.
Of the cavalry squadron that had rode west, just over a hundred out of the one hundred and fifty riders were riding north again. When the horsemen had been pursuing the fleeing warband of brigands through a valley, they had been ambushed by a party of spear throwing skirmishers from the hilltop. As soon as the cavalry had reacted to this threat, the brigands who had previously been fleeing turned heel and charged the horsemen who were attempting to get up the hill towards the skirmish troops. However, the spearmen were only a warband, mainly made up of farmers and peasants, none of whom had the skill or discipline to face off against the elite Roman heavy cavalry. As the remaining cavalry thundered towards them, the men had broken and began to flee towards the hills and to their homes. Knowing that the skirmish troops would make a run for the forest if they were given half the chance, the commander of the cavalry squadron directed that the squadron was to be split in two. The first half of the men under his command would chase down the routing brigands, whilst the remaining half was to charge and cut down the skirmish troops before they could escape. The second squadron was commanded by Marcus Linius, a veteran cavalryman who had served in campaigns from Thrace to Gaul over a span of nearly two decades.
Linius led his men at a brisk trot towards the hill, convinced that the skirmishers would still have a nasty surprise in store for him and his men. Experiences against other natives in the region had resulted in finding that out the hard way; therefore he wasn't surprised when the men leapt out from the grass armed with short wooden spears and rounded shields. Knowing it would be foolish to charge them head on with the horses in fear that they would not break, Linius ordered his men to dismount. He knew that dismounted heavy cavalry made for incredibly dangerous infantrymen due to the weapons that they carried, along with the armour they wore. Linius himself carried a large sica, a large, curved blade that he had taken from a Thracian rebel prince whom he had killed during battle. It was a menacing weapon, almost three times the length of his forearm, with a brutally sharpened edge. Linius and his men charged uphill towards the skirmishers, swinging the monstrous cavalry sword that he brandished in his right hand, cleaving into the ranks of the skirmishers. The blades of the cavalrymen, all of different sorts, sliced through the wooden shields with ease, shredding the flesh of the men cowering behind them. It was not long before the skirmishers also broke, and began to run towards the hills. However, they did not get very far, as the minute they were out on open ground, the squadron's commander, Antonius, appeared on the ridgeline on their right flank. With a blood curdling roar, he led his men on a charge down the slope towards the routing skirmishers, hacking and slashing at the men who were attempting to flee until not a single man was still standing. The entire skirmish was over in under ten minutes.
Not a single man had fled the field that day, resulting in over three hundred brigands being brought to justice – something that the Roman governor of York would reward Antonius for handsomely. After the two squadrons rejoined and counted their losses and wounded, Antonius took Linius to one side. "Listen Linius, I have to head to York to tell the governor about the extermination of these brigands", he gestured, indicating to a bloodied corpse that lay on the ground behind him. "We can't have any supply trains for the legion at risk of being late now, can we?" Grudgingly, Linius accepted what Antonius had to say and sent him on his way, leaving Linius with a hundred and two men and forty two men for him to bury.
Upon Antonius' departure, Linius and the men set to work on burying the deceased, paying whatever funeral rites that could be performed on the cold, barren land and prayed to Pluto for their souls' acceptance into the underworld. The few wounded were also taken care of, which did not take too long since there were few injuries, and out of those who were injured, none were life threatening. After taking care of these matters, the men set up camp a few miles away beside the river. They were to ride northeast at first light to catch up with the legion. In the meantime, Linius retired to his tent to reflect on the day, and rest for the long ride on the morrow.