Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered (13 page)

Magnus did not reply.

“Every soldier longs to join the elite First. When we’re at full strength, which I admit we aren’t even close to at the moment, I have four hundred and eighty legionaries and decani, plus eighteen principle officers and five centurions under my charge. You have scarcely a third of that number. Your soldiers are all elite veterans who require little to no supervision. The youngest soldier in the First is still older than over half of my legionaries. You know how many pages of disciplinary reports I go through every week?”

“A lot more than I do, I reckon.” While the First Cohort did have the occasional lapse in discipline, usually brought on by excessive drink, it was rare when compared to the rest of the legion. “So you want my billet in the First Cohort.”

Metellus furrowed his brow. His next words dripped with sarcasm. “Hmm, let’s see. Better pay, fewer soldiers to supervise, no fatigue details to oversee, plus you are all on the commanding general’s advisory staff. What’s not to like? Granted, there are no guarantees I would be next in line for elevation to the First Cohort, even if you did retire. There are other pilus priors who have seniority over me, though I hope my record will stand on its own merit. I will remain in the emperor’s service long enough to see. If I am passed over, then I will be done with the legions. To be honest, either outcome suits me.”

“Am I the only one who isn’t certain as to whether I should ever leave the ranks?” the Norseman asked rhetorically.

Metellus’ playful demeanour changed to one of seriousness. “Magnus, I have a family. Marcia never ceases worrying that I’ll either be killed in battle or succumb to any number of infectious diseases. You see this gouge in my armour? Had I not been wearing it, I would have been spitted like a wild pig.” He paused and took a deep breath. “And then there’s my boys.”

“How old are Lucius and Gaius now?”

“Seven and six, and. I feel I’ve missed too much of their lives already. I never knew my father—my real father, I mean. I was already a grown man when my Uncle Artorius adopted me.” He took a moment. “I want my sons to know me, Magnus. My hopes at promotion into the First Cohort are as much for them as for me. Centurions primus ordo are ensured elevation into the equites upon retirement. I may still have a chance, should I retire as a pilus prior; however, that will take a lot of political manoeuvring, which I am not very adept at. But, should I manage to find myself as a member of Rome’s noble order of knights, I need to make certain I have enough funds to ensure that Lucius can at least follow the career path of the equites. Marcia has already said repeatedly that gods forbid either of our sons ever joins the army.”

“Yes.” There was a long pause. Magnus pondered all the younger centurion had said. Metellus was only thirty-eight, and it would seem strange if he left the legions before Magnus.

Metellus saw the strained expression on his friend’s face and was suddenly apologetic. “Dear friend, I do apologise. You came to me needing to talk, and all I’ve done is bicker about my own petty issues. Please, tell me what vexes you.”

Magnus sat on the edge of Metellus’ camp bed and stared at the oil lamp flickering on the table. “Family,” he said quietly, almost a whisper.

“Come again?”

“It is family I feel devoid of,” Magnus explained, coming to the realization. “I should have known it when I stood beside my brother aboard his ship. We’ve only seen each other three times in the last thirty years. The legion became my family, especially those I joined the ranks with. Artorius and I were, in many ways, still children when we enlisted. Praxus, Valens, Carbo, and Decimus became our older brothers. You still have a number of mates from your early days in the legion. But even when all of them are gone, you still have Marcia and your boys. My family is gone, Metellus…all of them.”

The following day, many of the wounded who were unable to walk were loaded into supply wagons. Others had makeshift stretchers made from their cloaks with javelins used for poles. These were dragged behind their pack animals or by fellow soldiers.

Scapula first thought to crucify all of the enemy prisoners. However, with Caratacus long gone, there was no one to terrorize with the image of crucified warriors. He opted instead to have his men cut their throats and leave the carcasses to rot in the sun. The one exception was the treacherous Oelwein, who had survived an arrow to the back. The governor ordered him savagely flogged and then hung from a cross along the shoreline of the lake.

It took the better part of the day to make their way around the hills to the west following the river. They soon came to an open plane approximately two miles from the sea. The army was able to spread out into several columns, and they followed the coast another few miles before camping for the night.

Though there was at least another month of warm weather before the autumn rains, there was a sense of relief among the soldiers of Scapula’s column. Scouts reported no signs of the barbarians since the Battle of Trawsfynydd, as it was now called. The terrain along the sea was a lot more open, negating any attempt for the enemy to set an ambush.

The following day they reached a tidal river so wide they had to make their way several miles inland, hugging a range of steep hills before finding a viable fording point. Still, there was no sign of Caratacus. It would be another two days before they reached their destination. Along the way they burned two settlements, taking at least a hundred sheep and other forms of livestock.

By midday, scouts had reached another large tidal river, with a large beach and wide open hills to the east. With only grass, scrub brush, and various white and yellow flowering plants, it was the perfect place for the vast army to encamp.

“At least there won’t be any nasty surprises from Caratacus,” General Paetus observed as he, Paulinus, and Scapula sat astride their horses on a modest hill overlooking the region. The legate turned to Scapula. “Governor, are you not well? Your face is rather pale.”

“I haven’t slept in days,” he confessed. “Not since Caratacus got the jump on us. And I wasn’t resting well even before then. We’ve had no contact with the rest of the province. I fear for what may have transpired during our absence. Will the restless provincials attempt some sort of uprising, what with half our armed forces trapped within enemy territory? And what about the constant troubles in Brigantes?”

“You’ve left your deputies in command,” Paulinus reassured him. “When a province is at war, it is the governor’s duty to be with his men. That being said, it would probably be best if you returned to Camulodunum for the winter. Not much you can do from here.”

“Yes,” the governor agreed with a tired nod. “Anyone know what this river is called? Or for that matter, where in Jupiter’s name we are?”

“No idea,” Paulinus said, shaking his head. He gave a sinister grin, nodding his head towards the shoreline. “There’s a fishing village down there, perhaps we could ask one of the locals.”

Scapula elected not to destroy the fishing village. Informing the local chief that they would be spared, so long as they provided fish for the army. They also learned that the river, known to the locals as the
Dyfi
, was south-flowing and therefore a good source of fresh water.

“It is a very long river,” Landon reported to the governor. “It shares its watershed with both the Dee and Sabrina Rivers.”

The villagers, thus far oblivious to the war, were absolutely terrified at the sight of the vast imperial army. Most had never even heard of Caratacus, nor did they know he had been named high king over their own monarch, Orin.

“They say Orin is not their king,” the Brigantes interpreter added. “To the south along the peninsula is the Demetae territory. Their chief confesses he has no idea which side their king has declared for, if any.”

“That’s no surprise,” Paulinus stated. “On this remote corner of the isle, no one would bother with a small fishing village such as this.” He sniffed the air and gazed out towards the sea. “I have to say, this is quite the tranquil little corner of the empire.”

Scapula looked at him with a raised eyebrow and grinned “Of course. All the lands of Britannia should be regarded as the emperor’s. We should make sure these people are well aware of who they now serve.”

“They probably don’t give a damn one way or the other,” the legate conjectured. “It’s the same for most peasants throughout the world. A local chief or a foreign emperor, it matters not. Just as long as they are left to live their lives in peace.”

Since they would remain in camp for at least the next six months, the legates ordered their men to build semi-permanent guard towers and other structures. Legionaries would still utilize tents for their quarters. A functioning latrine was erected with a sewage line directly fed from the River Dyfi. Each legion had its own separate camp. The auxilia infantry cohorts built their own between the two larger fortresses. Cavalrymen were housed near the sea with plenty of riding and grazing land for their horses. By early September, a reconnaissance flotilla of three triremes and a quinquereme spotted the camp, their commander coming ashore to meet with Governor Scapula.

“Inform Admiral Stoppello that we are establishing the army’s winter camp here,” Scapula directed.

“Understood.”

The governor then looked to Paulinus and Paetus. “It seems I will be returning to Camulodunum a bit sooner than I originally anticipated.”

“We’ll still be here when you return, sir,” Paetus reassured him.

Scapula nodded. “Confine any wintertime operations to reconnaissance and intelligence gathering. Perhaps we can make a few friends among the Demetae.”

The weeks passed uneventfully. One afternoon, Magnus stood at the shoreline, arms folded across his chest, as he watched the approaching warships along the horizon. The Calends of November were nearly upon them, and the weather had turned decidedly cooler and wetter over the past few weeks. Though never cold enough to freeze, even during the dead of winter, the perpetual damp in the air chilled the imperial soldiers. Out upon the sea, the ships rose and fell with the tall waves. Rough surf lapped away at the beach.

“They’re a few days early,” Magnus observed.

“The seas get decidedly rough during the winter months,” Tyranus noted. “Best we get resupplied now, in case they become unnavigable. Besides, we have some passenger cargo for them to retrieve.”

“Passenger cargo? Governor Scapula left for the capital over a month ago.”

The master centurion kept his eyes fixed on the approaching ships. A smirk now creased his face. “Tell me, Magnus, when was the last time you took any leave?”

“Just prior to the invasion,” the Norseman answered. “Why do you ask?”

“Because four years is far too long without any sort of reprieve. You need to get away from here for a while, away from the army, the war, and hopefully that which deprives you so often of sleep.”

“
That
will never go away, I’m afraid,” Magnus remarked glumly.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Tyranus stated. “I do know sitting on your ass here, through the entire bloody winter, is not going to help you. I’ve already spoken with General Paulinus, and he agrees we need to place as many of our officers on leave as we can. The lads in the ranks have nowhere else to go, and so they can simply be given time away from their duties.”

Magnus understood. He knew Metellus was hoping to take leave to spend time with his family in Aqua Sulis. Perhaps he needed some time away from the legion, as well.

“You had best pack your things,” Tyranus said. “I don’t want to see you return before the Ides of February.”

Magnus returned to his tent and began sorting through his clothing and personal belongings. As he folded some spare tunics and socks into his pack, he wasn’t exactly sure where he would go. It would take at least two weeks to return by sea to Ostia, provided he could find transport. Even then, little was left for him there. He had not seen his eldest brother in more than twenty years and didn’t know if he was still alive. His grown nephews, he had never met. He supposed he could take a holiday to Malaca in southern Hispania. The weather would be warm and pleasant. As he leaned over his camp bed, packing his shaving and personal hygiene effects, the flap to his tent was flung open and a hard kick sent him sprawling onto the bed.

“By Freya’s frigged tits, are you not packed yet?”