Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered (7 page)

With the wind whipping their cloaks about, the soldiers of the Fifth Cohort marched at a quick pace, almost jogging. The enemy messenger’s hands were bound to a cavalryman’s horse. He was quick on his feet, though a trooper continued to prod him with his lance the entire trek back. An hour into their march, the skies blackened, and the heavens opened with an unholy torrent.

“Son of a whore!” a legionary grumbled.

The Romans had built their camp on a ridge overlooking the sea. The ground was much sandier than the hardened clay and soil further inland, proving fortuitous, for the drainage offered by the sloping, porous ground saved the camp from flooding. It rained often in other parts of Britannia, but nothing prepared them for the downpour they were now subjected to. Legionaries on sentry duty were soon drenched, despite having their large cloaks wrapped around them. The echoing of rain off their helmets was so loud, they could only communicate by shouting.

During this deluge, the Fifth Cohort and the reconnaissance cavalry returned. Legionaries were trying to move with haste, yet the tall grasses flattened by the rains made the ground slippery. A number of soldiers lost their footing and fell onto their backsides, much to the amusement of their mates. Once inside the large compound, Metellus tasked a squad from his own century to accompany him and their prisoner to the principia. The rest of his men were dismissed. Orders were shouted over the downpour by their respective centurions, directing them to clean and polish their armour and kit and be ready for full inspection the next day. For the soldiers in the ranks, they were only too glad to get out of the torrent, and further relieved that they were exempt from guard detail.

The prisoner had since ceased in his berating of the soldiers. His eyes were wide in awe at the formidable sight of the Roman encampment. He had never seen so many armoured fighters in his life.

At the principia, a pair of legionaries huddled beneath their cloaks outside the entrance. They came to attention and saluted the centurion, their gazes fixed on the strange barbarian. The prisoner’s blue body paint had started to wash away. The designs, meant to offer protection, were smeared across his skin, as if his gods were mocking him for his carelessness.

Inside, Governor Scapula and General Paulinus gathered around a large parchment, where the legion’s chief cartographer attempted to map out the terrain they had explored thus far. The pummelling rains echoed off the high tent roof, making it difficult to converse.

“Ah, Centurion Metellus,” Paulinus said.  “And what have you brought us?”

“Either a scout or a messenger, sir,” Metellus replied. “To be honest, I’m not sure which. None of our men speak his tongue, and my guess is he doesn’t know Latin or Greek. But we did catch one name he kept saying over and over again…Caratacus.”

“I’ll be damned,” Scapula said, watching the man twitch at the mention of Caratacus’ name. “So it is him we are pursuing after all.”

“Yes, sir. The interrogators will learn what he knows soon enough.”

“Indeed they will.” He turned to Landon, who stood in the shadows. He swallowed hard, knowing this next tasking would not be pleasant. The governor addressed him and one of his scribes. “You will take this…man…to the interrogation detachment. Write down everything he tells you.”

The men nodded and followed Metellus’ legionaries back out into the storm. The pilus prior was directed to return as soon as he had his supper. The legion’s torture detachment was close by, and it was fortunate for all that the pounding rains would drown out the cries of their victim.

With the torrential storm still hammering the encampment, the skies darkened well before nightfall. Lamps were lit within the principia. All cohort commanders, centurion primus ordo, and staff tribunes joined the commanding legate and governor. Between screams of agony and curses at the Romans, the prisoner told them he was a messenger from Caratacus, sent to gather warriors from the Deceangli for the coming battle against the Roman army.

“So, Caratacus doesn’t even know we are here,” Scapula conjectured.

“Sir, this intelligence is at least a week old,” Paulinus countered. “I would say it is very likely Caratacus is now aware of our presence. Some of the refugees will have sought out his army rather than fleeing for the mountains. And besides, anyone within twenty miles would have seen the billowing columns of smoke where we torched the Deceangli stronghold.”

The governor turned to Julianus. “Is there any way you could get a message to General Paetus?”

The cavalry officer shook his head. “I doubt it.  We don’t know the layout of this land, and we must assume the enemy has every passable road between here and Roman territory swarming with fighters. We’re not even sure where Paetus is. Even if I took my entire regiment, the chances of reaching him without being overtaken by Caratacus is extremely risky.”

“Then perhaps aggression will be our best course of action,” the governor reasoned. “We now know where Caratacus is, thanks to our new ‘friend’. Our division numbers ten thousand men, which should be sufficient to take the fight to them.”

“I would not recommend that, sir,” Centurion Magnus spoke up.

All eyes turned to the Norseman.

“We fought against the Silures during the invasion. Of all the tribes who dared oppose us, they were the most difficult to defeat. They are better equipped than most ‘barbarians’ and highly skilled in battle. They may not be professional soldiers, but they are the closest to it of any tribe in Britannia. Between them and the Ordovices, they likely outnumber us substantially.”

“What would you recommend, centurion?” Paulinus asked.

Magnus walked over and ran his finger in a line down the map, from their encampment to the stream Metellus’ cohort had discovered. “This area here is all open ground, ideal for rapid movement. The terrain to the south is extremely rugged, making difficult for a large army to manoeuvre. If we place ourselves here, we cut Caratacus off from his food supplies.”

“The Deceangli were providing the enemy with warriors and, more importantly, rations,” Master Centurion Tyranus added. “They have no real concept of supply lines or logistics. Hence why their campaign seasons are so short. Those abandoned sheep villages the Fifth Cohort discovered were probably supplying food and wool to Caratacus.”

“True, but we only found a couple of them,” Metellus spoke up. “There could be any number out there that are not abandoned.”

“No matter,” Tyranus remarked. “If we create a blockade between Caratacus and the Deceangli lands, their army will be compelled to disperse, risk starving, or face us in battle.”

Paulinus concurred. “With suitable defences, fighting on ground of our choosing, we can negate their superior numbers.”

However strategically sound their plan may have been, Scapula’s face betrayed his lingering doubts. He frowned and slowly shook his head. “We risk spreading ourselves thin,” he said. “I would rather take a bold chance and attack Caratacus head-on. If he knows where General Paetus’ division is and knows we’re here, he will feel caught between our armies. His warriors may panic.”

“Respectfully, sir, if you think the Silures will panic, you underestimate them,” Magnus stated. “And given that they never defeated the Ordovices, who I may add we’ve never faced in battle, I suspect their valour is at least their equal.”

“Halkyn Mountain is thirty miles from here, maybe more,” Commander Julianus added. He glanced up at the ceiling of the principia tent, where incessant torrents of rain still echoed. “One can bet the ground between here and there has been churned into a bog. My cavalry will be forced to advance at a crawl.”

“It’ll take two to three days to reach the mountain,” Paulinus remarked. “We could use that time to establish our blockade, with suitable defence works…”

“Those are your orders,” the governor interrupted, not bothering to hide his growing irritation. “While I appreciate your collective skill and experience, I find it unbecoming that imperial soldiers are hesitant to take the fight to the enemy. We depart at sunrise, the rains be damned.
Dismissed
.”

Chapter VII: A Sacrifice of Blood

Halkyn Mountain, Four Miles West of the River Dubr Duiu

22 June 48 A.D.

Halkyn Mountain

Scapula ordered two auxilia infantry cohorts to remain at the main camp to guard the wounded, along with the numerous prisoners. Admiral Stoppello was expected to return within the next two weeks, depending on the weather and conditions at sea. At General Paulinus’ recommendation, the onagers had been left behind, as the heavy wagons sank up to the axles in the mud. Much of the baggage, including the large principia tents, were also left at camp.

The trek to Halkyn Mountain took three days, just as General Paulinus had feared. The army crossed a seemingly endless number of rivers and creeks, which slowed their pace considerably, especially with pack animals. The rains had mercifully ceased, though the skies remained grey with dense clouds. Every step of the way was a slog through mud and slippery grass. Two companies from Indus’ Horse provided reconnaissance. As Julianus predicted, their pace was scarcely better than that of the encumbered infantrymen. It was now late morning on the third day. Every soldier in the column was concerned about when the rains would come again, when a trooper from the vanguard rode back to Governor Scapula and General Paulinus.

“The barbarians have all hoofed it, sir,” the messenger reported.

Scapula scowled. “How long ago?”

“No way of knowing. The entire mountain, along with much of the surrounding lowlands, are a trampled mess. Their army was huge.”

Scapula halted the column and rode ahead with Paulinus, Tyranus, the staff tribunes, and First Cohort centurions. The ground in and around Halkyn was churned up by thousands of feet. There was also the unmistakable stench of numerous uncovered cesspits, as well as rotted sheep and other animal carcasses from the barbarians’ meals. The senior officers met with the centurion in command of the advance guard, who sat astride his horse at the very top of the hill.

“We don’t know when they left, sir, but we do know where they’ve gone,” he reported.

“The lone benefit of the mud left by the rains,” Paulinus observed.

“Very true, sir. The vast majority of their tracks are headed due west. Since we saw no sign of them yesterday or the day before, they must have left once they knew we were in the region, and we simply missed them.”

“Meaning they are likely a week’s trek from here,” Scapula grunted.

While he shared in the governor’s frustrations, General Paulinus’ attention was not on Caratacus’ army. “What of those who did not head west?” he asked the centurion.

“There are a large number of tracks—again, hard to say just how many—that are headed north.”

“But there is nothing in that direction except the sea and the River Dubr Duiu,” Scapula noted. “And if they cross the river, they will be in Roman territory.”

Paulinus closed his eyes and tilted his head back in realization. “A raiding party,” he said quietly. He supressed the urge to vent his frustrations, knowing they had lost a great opportunity to engage Caratacus in a decisive engagement. Adding to his chagrin, the enemy tracks showed they would have run right into Centurion Magnus’ proposed blockade. Even worse now, the legate feared for their camp. The forces that headed north were likely not headed towards Roman territory, but the main camp near the sea. The prisoners and wounded, along with the two cohorts of auxilia infantry guarding them, were now in danger.

For the cohorts left at the camp, boredom seemed to be their greatest adversary. Though the legionaries and other auxilia cohorts had taken their palisade stakes with them, the earthworks had been left in place pending their return. Those left behind created a smaller set of defences within, enclosing the prisoner stockades, as well as their own tents. The food stores captured from the Deceangli were taken to this inner encampment to feed the soldiers and prisoners.

There was little to be done, other than digging a pair of long trenches, to accommodate the bodily waste of the prisoners. Three thousand warriors were crammed together into a single enclosure, with a thousand women and children in another nearby. A wretched stench blew over the camp from each, and flies began to swarm the sewage trenches.

Scapula was aware of the problem of dealing with the human waste. He’d ordered the commanding centurion to move the stockades every two to three days, burying the sewage trenches each time. It would be a hateful task for the auxilia troopers; one that compounded the frustration they felt at being left behind.

Only Chief Elisedd and his consort, Runa, were granted any measure of dignity. They were kept behind a wooden stockade, where they still had a measure of privacy. Their hands were left unbound and, per Governor Scapula’s orders, they were fed and treated with much greater respect than their enslaved people.

“I hope the fleet gets here soon,” a trooper on guard duty at the stockade said, his long scarf covering his face. “These filthy barbarians stink even worse than when we captured them.”

“Our esteemed governor should have let us slaughter the men, have our way with the women, and be done with them,” one of his companions complained. “If the fleet takes too long to pick this lot up, they’ll all be dead from disease.”

“And taking us with them, once their filthy pestilence spreads,” another added, a rag tied around his nose and mouth. “Besides, it’s not like he’ll be sharing what coin he may get from the slave traders with us.”

It was a bit of irony for an auxilia soldier to refer to the prisoners as ‘barbarians’. Most of these infantrymen came from humble villages in Gaul, Belgica, and Germania. Their native homes were not unlike the Deceangli settlements they had sacked. Yet so anxious were they to prove themselves as Romans, some became overtly disdainful towards other indigenous peoples.

Unbeknownst to the Roman auxiliaries, their troubles would soon involve more than disposing of prisoners’ shit. King Seisyll and four thousand of his best warriors lay in wait behind a series of rolling hills east of the camp.

Accompanying the king was the high druid, a tall man with white hair and long beard named Tathal. Whatever rivalries still existed between the various kingdoms in the far reaches of western Britannia, all still looked to the gods to guide them. In many ways, the druids held far greater sway over the common people than any of the kings.

“I want the traitors alive,” Tathal hissed, his eyes filled with rage. “The gods demand Elisedd pay for his blasphemy.”

While Seisyll was happy to exact revenge against his former client war chief, he understood this raid was as much about upsetting Roman morale as it was about appeasing the gods. Aeron, the god of battle, would undoubtedly be pleased with the Ordovices. On this day the king wore his ring mail armour, a skull cap helmet, and bronze bracers on his forearms. His dark-coloured tartan cloak was draped over both shoulders, pinned in place with a large copper torque on the left shoulder.

“As we suspected,” Seisyll said to his warrior captains, who laid in the tall grass next to their king, watching their enemy’s camp, “the Romans are off chasing shadows.”

“We outnumber the men they left,” one of his captains observed. “But they still possess strong defences.”

The king sneered maliciously. “We are not here to beat the Romans, only to claim our prize…which they have so carelessly left undefended.”

The timing was as catastrophic for the Roman auxilia as it was fortuitous to the Ordovices. Their commanding centurion had ordered them to break down and move the warriors’ stockade, a task which took a hundred men to perform. Four centuries of infantrymen surrounded the Deceangli fighting men, brandishing their spears. The rest of the cohort stood by with their entrenching tools, ready to fill in the putrid trenches. This left the remaining cohort of eight hundred men to defend the entire camp.

The sound of an unfamiliar war horn sent chills up the collective spine of every auxilia solider. This was followed by a lone battle cry in a language none of them understood. Their eyes grew wide, the faces of their prisoners breaking into expressions of hope, as several thousand enemy warriors appeared from behind a ridgeline less than a quarter mile east of the camp. Centurions and section leaders shouted orders for their troopers to make ready to face the coming onslaught.

With the stockade temporarily dismantled, the prisoners still required guarding. The commander of the second cohort directed all but two hundred of his men to follow him to the defences. His last orders to those remaining would serve as an ominous warning to the Deceangli, provided any of them understood Latin. “Kill any of these bastards that try to resist!” With a touch of morbid initiative, a decanus and two troopers stabbed several random prisoners, eliciting shouts of rage and horror from the rest. Since the warriors were still bond together in a series of long rows, the dead weight of any corpses would act as anchors, should they try to escape.

With few missile weapons on either side, there was little the auxiliaries could do except man the ramparts and wait for their assailants to navigate the obstacle-laden entrenchments and palisade stakes. Momentum was lost for the Ordovices, for the six-foot trench was filled with spikes, snares, and other impediments. One warrior shrieked as he stepped directly onto a hidden spike. Others found themselves tripped up, sometimes falling onto stakes and caltrops. The sandy ground was difficult for the attackers to gain purchase on as they pulled themselves up the other side. Many thrust their spears into the slope, using them for leverage. Others used the rows of palisade stakes for hand-holds. The first brave souls onto the earthworks paid dearly for their audacity. One took a spear thrust to the chest. Another into his eye socket, giving an unholy shriek as blood spurted forth, leaving him thrashing on the ground, begging for death. A third was stabbed in the groin as he leapt onto the ramparts.