Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered (5 page)

At the top of the ridge Tyranus raised his hand and the cornicen blew a long note on his horn, signalling for the legion to halt. Another series of horn blasts alerted the cohort commanders, who converged on the eagle standard.

“We’ll establish camp here,” the master centurion ordered. He pointed towards a lone tree about a quarter mile away. “Post the eagle there. Have all surveyors begin laying out the camp perimeters.”

“What about reconnaissance, sir?” Centurion Metellus of the Fifth Cohort asked.

“There’s little we can do until the cavalry have their horses off the ships. Governor Scapula and General Paulinus should be coming ashore within the hour. While surveyors lay out the camp, dispatch half your men to provide security. Post pickets three hundred meters from camp. The rest can begin claiming each cohort’s baggage. Entrenching tools should have been stored at the top of the cargo holds.”

While legionaries of the First Cohort were exempt from fatigue details while in garrison, they still had to erect their own tents and entrench their section of the camp’s defences while on campaign. Magnus walked over to what would be the northern boundary of the camp and scanned the horizon.

“Nothing,” Tyranus said, as he joined him. “Not a gods-damned thing. One would think this whole region was entirely devoid of humanity.”

“Oh, they’re out there,” the Nordic centurion replied, removing his helmet and scratching away at the still-damp mop of hair. “But with no knowledge of the region, we are running blind.”

“Indus’ Horse will be kept busy, no doubt about that. I almost wish the enemy had been waiting for us on the beach instead of making us go find him.”

What neither of the centurions knew was that the ridge had not been entirely deserted. A lone rider lurked within one of the many groves of trees dotting the landscape. He’d watched the entire division disembark, doing his best to estimate the invaders’ strength. He had to warn his chieftain and, more importantly, find Caratacus!

Something else neither Scapula nor any of his soldiers knew was just how close to Caratacus they had landed. After two days of hard riding, the panic-stricken messenger from the Deceangli rode into the camp at Halkyn Mountain. The Catuvellauni Prince had only just that morning received oaths of unflinching support from his allies in the war against Rome.

“Great Caratacus, Chief of the Catuvellauni, I bring grave news!” the man said, practically falling from his horse before dropping down onto one knee. It was quite telling that he prostrated himself before Caratacus rather than King Seisyll, who was overlord of both the Ordovices the Deceangli.

“Rise, my friend,” Caratacus said, helping the man to his feet. “Now, what is this cause of distress among our friends on the northern shores?” Though his voice and demeanour remained calm, he knew the message to be grim. His fears were confirmed when the messenger spoke again.

“The Romans have landed. I saw their ships sailing past our shores, and they have a huge force encamped ten miles east of our capital at Kanovium.”

This was distressing news. The bulwark of the Silures and Ordovices armies were several days away, seeking to ambush what they thought was the entire Roman invasion force near the River Sabrina. That a second imperial division of equal size had gone around the peninsula and landed behind them meant plans would have to change quickly.

“If they sailed right past Kanovium, they must not even know that it’s there,” Seisyll reasoned.

“They’ll find it soon enough,” Caratacus conjectured. “They have no knowledge of these lands, yet they will send their scouts out in every direction.” He asked the messenger, “How many men do they have?”

“Ten thousand, at least. I saw one of their eagles and a slew of other standards.”

King Orin spoke up, his voice filled with growing anger. “And with most of our warriors several days south of here, we have not the numbers to face them.” He shook his head. “We should have launched an attack on their land division and dispersed them while they were on the march!”

While Caratacus appreciated the valour and tenacity of the Silures, he knew King Orin was prone to recklessness. “To do so would mean sending fifty thousand warriors deep into Roman lands. They would have ambushed us, as we intend to do to them.”

“Besides, your warriors lack the discipline to remain organized long enough to take part in such a vast undertaking,” Seisyll scoffed. Though allies they may have been, the old animosities between their kingdoms would not so easily die.

Caratacus took a few moments to contemplate this new threat. “Our enemy is clever, but he has also committed himself to serious risk by dividing his forces. King Orin, I would ask that you return to your army and make ready to harry and delay the Roman army in the south. I will remain here with King Seisyll. We will draw this invasion force deep into the mountains southwest of here. Once they are lost and scattered, we can converge our forces to deal with the invaders coming up from the south.”

The kings agreed. Orin, however, was beginning to feel pangs of animosity towards his blood-brother, who was now all but giving him orders. The messenger from Deceangli looked at Caratacus in horror. “But…what of us? What of our people? Who will save us?”

“Courage is your best defence this day,” King Seisyll said, almost dismissively. The Deceangli were one of his protectorates; however, they would now have to take a stand themselves, earning the protecting the Ordovices had given them all these years.

Chapter V: Slaves of Fear

Roman Camp near Kimmel Bay

***

“Sir, we’ve located a large hillfort not ten miles from here,” Commander Julianus from Indus’ Horse reported. “We believe it could be the Deceangli capital.”

“If they’re that close, then they are already aware of our presence,” Paulinus reasoned.

Julianus confirmed his assessment. “We saw large numbers of people fleeing the stronghold. They were mostly weighted down with whatever possessions they could carry. Others were leading livestock towards the southwest.”

“Dispatch your cavalry and light auxilia in pursuit,” Scapula ordered. “General Paulinus, detach six cohorts to envelop the stronghold. Two companies of archers will provide skirmishers. Unfortunately, we lack heavy siege engines, just four onagers and a dozen scorpions.”

One of the harshest realities of launching an amphibious campaign was the limitations brought on by logistics. Even with most of the Britannic fleet ferrying them around the isle, there was only so much space aboard each ship. Siege engines were large and cumbersome, and from what little intelligence the Romans had about the Silures and Ordovices, the idea of building large, fortified strongholds was unknown to them. There was also the matter of transporting the heavy weapons, especially onagers, across such rugged terrain covered with near-impassable forests.

“That should be sufficient, sir,” Julianus surmised. “The oppida is large but not well defended.”

“Just don’t get reckless, slaughtering those fleeing barbarians,” Paulinus cautioned. “The Deceangli are under the protection of the Ordovices, so they could have friends waiting for us.”

While the senior leaders made their tentative plan, word was sent to the six cohorts that would take part in the assault. The past few days had been spent fortifying their camp, while cleaning and oiling all of their weaponry and kit soaked during the landing. Punishment for allowing one’s armour and weapons to become corroded by salt water residue was severe, often resulting in a flogging with the centurion’s vine staff and a loss of pay. Having spent more than a day on their kit, each soldier was now ready to abandon the tedium of life in camp for a chance at battle and glory. There were many disgruntled mutterings, and more than a few profane curses, from the four cohorts designated to remain behind and guard the camp. Trumpets sounded as soldiers helped each other into their armour. Decani conducted quick inspections before reporting to their centurions and options.

For Centurion Magnus and his men, a benefit of being in the First Cohort was that they never got left behind on guard detail. With eight hundred elite soldiers in its ranks, the venerable First was always at the proverbial spear-point of any attack. Of course the chances of being killed or seriously injured also increased exponentially, but then, that was a risk they all willingly accepted.

Their tents were erected near the western entrance to the camp. As he buckled his sword baldric, Magnus watched scores of cavalrymen converge just beyond the ramparts and encircling trench. Commander Julianus was disseminating orders to his company commanders. Light auxilia skirmishers formed into groups of twenty to thirty, ready to accompany the horsemen in pursuit of the Deceangli fugitives. With a few last minute instructions from General Paulinus, Master Centurion Tyranus led the First Cohort out the hastily erected gate. They marched at the quick step, anxious for battle and the possibility of plunder. In addition to their weapons, General Paulinus ordered the men to bring two days’ worth of rations, in case of an unexpected stay at the hillfort. The younger legionaries in the other cohorts were particularly eager and had to be reminded by their section leaders to calm themselves. Their objective was at least half-a-day’s march from the camp, and they needed to save their strength for the coming battle.

While the Syrian archers formed a wide skirmish line approximately fifty meters forward of the main body, the aquilifer marched at the head of the legionaries, boldly carrying aloft the sacred imperial eagle. Legate Paulinus, the tribunes, and Master Centurion Tyranus rode near the aquilifer, escorted by twenty of the legion’s indigenous horsemen. With only a narrow road, which was simply a well-worn dirt path used by farmers between settlements, most of the soldiers marched on either side in a pair of columns. The ground was mostly open grassland, perfect for farming. Scapula made mention of this to Paulinus.

“All the more reason for us to eventually conquer this land,” the legate remarked. He then added an observance he’d made as a young man, while serving as chief tribune to one of the legions in Germania, “The true wealth of a land is not in its gold or jewels, but in how much of that land can be cultivated for agriculture.”

“One cannot eat gold,” Scapula added in concurrence. “Of course, I have heard rumours of there being a wealth of gold and other metals in the lands west of the Sabrina. The emperor will no doubt be pleased, should we acquire some of these riches for the empire. But the first thing we must do is destroy Caratacus and his resistance.”

It was early afternoon when they came within earshot of the Deceangli capital. The sound of panicked screams echoed from beyond a large grove of trees just north of the path. Scapula rode forward as he saw a section of ten troopers from Indus’ Horse riding towards them. They were arrayed in two files with nearly thirty oxen bearing baskets full of food stores, in addition to a score of sheep, between them.

“Commander Julianus’ compliments, sir,” a decurion said, saluting the governor. “We were ordered to take these ‘mobile rations’ back to camp.”

“What of the people you took them from?” the governor asked.

“We slew any who attempted to resist and took probably a hundred prisoners. One of the infantry cohorts is sorting them out as we speak.”

“Prisoners can be useful hostages,” Paulinus noted.

Scapula shrugged dismissively. “Or at least they’ll earn us a few denarii from the slave merchants.” He nodded to the cavalry officer. “Good work, decurion.”

“Sir!” The man saluted then led his section around the legionary columns.

Just then, a Syrian archer ran back towards the column, the remainder of their men having gone into the woods ahead.

“The barbarians have barricaded themselves in the oppida,” he reported. “Just past the trees the ground opens up and about two hundred meters on, the path veers sharply to the right, leading directly up to the stronghold.”

“We should see this for ourselves,” Paulinus recommended. He turned to Tyranus. “Advance the legion to the wood line then stand by for further orders.”

The legate was now taking control of the mission, something Scapula had come to accept. For though he was governor of the entire province of Britannia, he knew it best to allow his legates the freedom to utilize their troops as best they saw fit. A proud general like Suetonius Paulinus would become rather indignant, should the governor attempt to tell him how to command his legion.

While the legionaries continued their march, the governor, legate, and their escorts followed the archer into the woods. Due to the thickness of the undergrowth, they were obliged to dismount and make their way on foot. The far edge of the wood line was sparser of trees where locals had harvested much of the old forest. The capital itself encompassed a wide, short hill. It was surrounded by a thicket of long sharpened poles, not unlike the employment of palisade stakes by the legions. Numerous thatched huts and roundhouses, very similar to those seen in Germania, covered the sides of the hill. At the very top was a large structure towering over the others. A long building sloped upward, it was the local chief’s longhouse.

“Seems straightforward enough,” Scapula remarked. “Cut off any escape routes. Then we go knock on the door and see who is home.”

Paulinus gave a malicious grin. “I’ll tell the lads to be on their best behaviour for our hosts.”

“First Cohort, battle formation!”

At the order from Tyranus, each century formed into six ranks, javelins resting over their shoulders, ready to unleash. From his position near the edge of the woods, Magnus could see several upturned wagons and carts piled in front of the entrance to the settlement. Warriors with bows and stabbing spears stood defiantly behind the defences. The rest of the legion’s cohorts surrounded the hill. The Deceangli left only one way in or out of their high chief’s stronghold, thus trapping themselves behind its wall of stakes.

While the legionaries waited for the order to attack, the handful of scorpions brought with them were deployed to either side of the road. The much larger onagers were being wheeled into position. Having a substantially greater range than the enemy’s bowmen, they commenced unleashing their missiles without any threat of reprisal. A barbarian defender cried out when he was struck in the shoulder. The heavy bolt burst through flesh and muscle, splintering bone. Another man was hit in the stomach, doubling him over in horrifying pain as his guts were impaled. The remaining warriors hid low behind the barricades, the cries of their dying companions unnerving them.

“Use flaming shot and concentrate on the barricades,” Paulinus ordered the catapult crews.

It took several minutes to fill the clay pots with oil and load them into the onagers’ throwing arms. They were then ignited, and with a loud slap of the throwing arm, flung in a high arc towards the stronghold. One of the flaming projectiles smashed into the ground in front of the defences, two more sailed high and burst among the rooftops of the clustered huts. The fourth crashed into the barricades with a spray of fire, causing the enemy warriors to scramble away, where they were subjected to another barrage from the scorpions.

The onagers fired several more salvos, and though the bombardment of flaming missiles was indeed terrifying, they were not having their intended effect. Each would shatter upon impact and burn for a few moments, but the wood and thatch was simply too damp for the flames to take hold.

“Rains too damn much here,” a staff tribune grumbled.

Paulinus nodded and then wordlessly drew his spatha. He raised the weapon high and brought it down in a sharp swing. The cornicen sounded the order to attack. With shouts of
“Advance!”
from the cohort commanders, several thousand legionaries stepped off towards the heights. They marched in close order, practically shield-to-shield, while scorpions continued to suppress the barbarians. Several more Deceangli killed or badly injured in the barrage. As the legionaries made their way up the hill, the scorpions were compelled to cease their onslaught. When the Romans were within fifty feet of the barricades the warriors rose up, unleashing a torrent of their own missiles; arrows, throwing darts, sling stones.

“Down!”
Magnus shouted.

His men quickly dropped to one knee, hunkering low behind their shields. Those in the second to sixth ranks held their shields overhead, forming a protective shell around the entire century. The rest of the cohort was doing the same. All the while, a company of nearly a hundred Syrian archers raced forward. From behind the protection of the legionary testudos, they loosed a series of volleys at their adversaries.

Realizing their missiles were all but useless against the legionary shield wall, the Deceangli warriors turned their attention to the archers. Arrows, spears, and stones flew over the heads of the armoured soldiers, felling several of the Syrian auxiliaries.

“Charge!”
the Norse centurion shouted, lunging to his feet.

With a loud battle cry, the host of legionaries swarmed the defences. The archers’ diversion bought them only a few moments, yet moments were all they needed.

The battle front of the First Cohort was very wide. Even when formed into six ranks, each century’s frontage was still twenty-six soldiers wide. Tyranus and his century stormed the barricades while Magnus and the rest of the cohort contended with the stakes and earthworks. The panicked warriors haphazardly flung what missiles they had at the charging wall of legionaries before retreating into the town. The soldiers’ armour offered excellent protection, yet one unlucky man took a throwing spear through the neck. His shield and pilum fell from his hands as he tumbled to the earth, his life’s blood gushing from the hideous wound. Another had a sling stone deflect off the cheek guard of his helmet, breaking the hinges that held it in place. His comrade next to him was not as fortunate. Another barbarian slinger found his mark, the stone smashing into the Roman’s face. The legionary screamed, hands over his face, falling to his knees in agony.

The spikes that jutted from the defences were very large, with one row thrust straight out and the second protruding upwards at an angle. The Deceangli used larger logs for their stakes to make them appear more menacing, yet they proved easier to climb over. Magnus’ legionaries flung their javelins towards any enemy warriors they spotted, before beginning the awkward climb over the ramparts. Many dropped their shields, to better pull themselves up over the spikes, having their friends pass the shields up to them once they reached the top.

Making certain he was one of the first over the ramparts, Magnus now stood atop the earthworks and surveyed the confusion within the settlement. Enemy fighters came from every direction, wielding mostly spears and wooden shields. A few carried hand axes or large, two-handed clubs. Only a few wielded swords, and these men also wore mail armour with bronze helmets. The wealthiest and most powerful men in this land were still less equipped than even the humblest legionary. One of these men shouted some orders and pointed towards the centurion with his longsword. Magnus reached back over the palisades to retrieve his shield, then quickly grabbed one of his legionaries by the hand and helped him over. He hefted his shield and turned to face the coming assault.