Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered (22 page)

The advancing soldiers kept their pace short and quick, careful not to slip on the slick rock or trip on protruding tree roots. Magnus took a deep breath as the wall came into sight. It appeared roughly eight feet tall and was made mostly of jagged flat rocks that permeated much of the landscape.

“First and second ranks, make ready to assault the wall. All other ranks…javelins ready!”
The centurion then blew his whistle.

Under a fresh hail of stones and throwing spears, his men sprinted the rest of the way to the wall. Centurion Furius’ century was following suit, the support archers close behind. Once there, the men in the second rank maintained their overhead cover, only now they braced their shields against the wall. Those in the front rank grounded their weapons and shields. They pulled on protruding stones, prying them loose with their pugio daggers, hoping to undermine the wall. The enemy warriors intensified their bombardment, smashing the covering shields with heavy rocks, buckling the legs of legionaries, and knocking others to their knees. Pila from their mates in the subsequent ranks were flung into the faces of their foes. Shrieks echoed as warriors were skewered by the fearful javelins. Spent pila also clattered against the wall, falling onto the protective shields of the second rank.

The exchange between the Ordovices and their Roman enemies was becoming more frenzied, warrior and soldier alike falling in the fearful exchange of arrow and spear. The rocks from barbarian slingers were the least imposing in appearance. Yet they inflicted some of the most fearful injuries, snapping limbs and breaking facial bones. And despite their armour and training, the Romans were at a disadvantage. Their enemies held the high ground, enjoying the protection offered by their makeshift wall. This made the task of Magnus and Furius’ legionaries even more urgent.

The Norseman wrenched a loose stone free, tossing it aside. A few near eye level he managed to jerk from the wall. He saw the lower leg of an enemy skirmisher, standing atop an improvised timber platform. Magnus picked up his gladius and thrust it with all his might into the man’s shin. The bone splintered as the sharpened point plunged deep into the limb. Magnus jerked the bloody weapon free, giving a malicious grin as the screaming warrior fell from the defences.

“They’re pulling back, sir!” a decanus from the third rank shouted.

Magnus quickly glanced around, taking in his surroundings. The wall was beginning to crumble off to his left. To his right, the soldiers from Centurion Furius’ century had collapsed part of the defences.

“Alright, lads!” the Norseman bellowed. “Let’s knock the rest of this wall down!”

Their enemies having withdrawn, legionaries in the first two ranks braced their shields against the wall and shoved with all of their combined strength. With so much of the defences already dismantled, large breaches were created as sections of the wall collapsed inside the stronghold in a series of loud crashes.

“Century…on me!”

Caratacus’ eyes were filled with hatred as he clutched his large broadsword in both hands. While Seisyll and the Ordovices fought to hold the ramparts on the wings, King Orin and his warriors stood near the high king, weapons banging on their shields as they worked themselves into a frenzy. Caratacus’ gaze narrowed. He became fixated on the collapsing wall not thirty feet in front of him. Finally, his sword would sate its thirst for Roman blood. At last he would avenge his people, his brother…his son. A pang of sorrow stabbed at his heart as he thought about poor Jago. This was quickly channelled into the rage of vengeance.

“Aeron, guide my blade,” he prayed through gritted teeth.
“Attack!”

When his warriors charged, the Romans were still struggling over the crumbled remnants of the wall. This broke up their formations, preventing them from maintaining their shield wall. The force of the Silures’ onslaught was blunted momentarily by the unleashing of the lead cohort’s remaining javelins. Whether by luck or the hand of the gods, one such missile missed Caratacus’ face by a matter of inches. The nearest warrior behind him was not so fortunate. The pilum plunged into his chest, snapping ribs and ripping into his left lung.

There would be time to mourn their fallen later. For now, Caratacus’ heart was as cold as the steel blade he wielded. With a howl of rage echoing from the bowels of the underworld, he swung his weapon with every ounce of his power. It smashed into the shield of a legionary, the sharp blade cutting deep and knocking the man backwards. With alarming speed for a man of his size, the high king brought his sword around in a backhand swing, catching the soldier on the top of his helmet. The metal split and the legionary collapsed to the ground. Whether he was dead or simply rendered unconscious, Caratacus had no time to determine. One of the soldier’s mates slammed the bottom edge of his shield into his stomach. The high king doubled over as he stumbled backwards, the wind knocked from him for a moment. He scowled in hatred, his fury coursing through his veins once more. He stormed forward with his blade held high, ready to stab, as one of his warriors attacked the soldier who’d smashed him with his shield. With the Romans scattered and struggling over the ruins, the legionary had no one on his left to protect him. This time there would be no doubt if his foe lived or died. Caratacus plunged his sword into the man’s neck in a bursting spray of blood. The soldier collapsed in a convulsing heap as his life flowed onto the broken rocks. With animalistic lust, the high king ran his tongue over the bloodied blade, savouring the taste of his slain enemy.

Despite his triumph and brief taste of revenge, the imperial legionaries came onward. Their formations were coming together as they battled their way forward. Caratacus’ warriors engaged them with bravery worthy of their ancestors. Many were paying the ultimate price for their valour. All knew the tribute demanded by the gods this day would be high, though the Roman gods would likely exact an equal toll from the legions. And while many of their brethren lay in bloody heaps, cries of agony through clenched teeth piercing the hills, those still standing stalwartly maintained their courage. The gods of war and death embraced this field of gore and visceral destruction.

The stubborn brawn and tenacity of the First Cohort had created the breach Scapula sought, though at a heavy price. As the follow-on cohorts stormed into the stronghold, they stumbled over scores of dead and badly injured legionaries. The auxilia archers had suffered greatly as well. Nearly half of their soldiers were struck down. The ground was slick with blood. In many cases, it was difficult to tell the wounded from the dying. Some were attempting to crawl away from the scene of death, covered in the mingling of blood from various friends and adversaries.

For Legate Suetonius Paulinus, the horrific carnage was the cost of his first true test as a legion commander. He dismounted his horse near the crumbled ruins of the wall and drew his spatha. Cohorts of legionaries were still clambering over the wreckage. Despite the protests of his staff officers, the commanding legate was determined to lead his men by example, rather than sitting on his horse well behind the actual fighting. To his right, he could see the cohorts from Legio IX battling their way into the stronghold. Those on the left were still struggling against the relentlessness of the barbarian defenders.

Paulinus grabbed the nearest pilus prior by the shoulder. It was Centurion Metellus of the Fifth Cohort. “I need you to take your cohort left, along the wall, and help the Ninth Legion.”

“Yes, sir.” Metellus stood on a pile of rocks and blew his whistle. “Fifth Cohort, action left! Battle formation on me!”

The battle was only now beginning for most of the legion. But for Centurion Magnus and the rest of the First Cohort, it had already been an exhausting and bloody day. As he blew his whistle, signalling the next
passage-of-lines
, he wondered if he’d lost more men this day than at Mai Dun or the Twin Rivers. Despite his personal tragedy, Mai Dun had been a brilliant piece of tactics and relentless valour. This battle, at a remote place called Caer Caradoc, had been little more than a bloody grind, degraded even further into an uncivilized brawl once the first blow was struck. Granted, there was little, if anything, about war that one could call ‘civilized’.

Taking a moment to catch his breath, Magnus rapidly assessed his surroundings. Master Centurion Tyranus’ century was on his immediate right, formed in a wedge that was pressing into the heart of the horde of enemy warriors. To his left, the cohort’s Fifth Century was skirmishing with several bands of fighters.

Due to the rolling and extremely broken terrain, cohorts and even individual centuries were fighting their own battles, rather than the legion acting as a single entity. Just up ahead, about a hundred Ordovices warriors were attempting to make a stand atop a steep rock face, surrounded by an entire cohort of legionaries. Warrior and legionary were battling in a nearby ravine, while fighting continued on the upper reaches that lined the defilade. From the Norseman’s position there was no way of telling who was winning. Most of the battles appeared to be at a stalemate. All he could do now was focus on his small piece of the overall struggle.

“Reform and advance!”

Caratacus stood atop a high outcropping of rock and surveyed the ongoing battle. The devolving of the clash into a series of separate engagements was just as unsettling for him as it was for the Romans. Because their numbers were so evenly matched, he did not have sufficient free warriors to swarm any of the imperial formations. King Orin and his Silures warriors were making the most determined stand in the very centre, hammering away at the large contingent of Roman soldiers. Only Caratacus’ wife and daughter stood with him on the rock.

“A beautiful death,” Eurgain said under her breath. Her face was painted with blue patterns. She carried a circular shield and a long spear. Her daughter’s hand also clutched at the weapon. The queen was determined that should their people fall, all of their fates would be settled here. Such talk unnerved Caratacus, especially in light of his wife’s refusal to find a safe shelter away from the fighting.

Satisfied there was little he could do except re-join the fray, the high king began to climb down the slope on the back side of the rock. As he reached the base, he was startled to see King Seisyll rushing towards him. His face was flushed and sweaty, his sword streaked with blood. The Ordovices king bore numerous injuries to his face, arms, and body. There was a nasty gash in his side that was seeping blood.

“Great king, I come to you for reinforcements!” Seisyll said urgently, his breath coming in gasps.