Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered (12 page)

As one of his warriors took a Roman spear to the ribs, King Seisyll lunged past the stricken man and plunged his sword into the auxiliary infantryman’s guts. Though lighter and allowing for greater mobility, the protection offered by hamata chainmail paled in comparison to that of segmentata plate. The king’s blade burst through links and ripped into the soldier’s stomach. He wrenched the weapon free, bringing the heavy sword down upon the shoulder armour of another trooper as he stepped back and away. Though the layered shoulder guards withstood the blow, it unbalanced the soldier enough that he was quickly skewered by several spear points. And though the auxiliaries gave as good as they took, Seisyll and his massed horde of fighters was beginning to overwhelm them.

Despite their warriors to the north having been spotted and unable to ‘close the trap’ on the Romans, they still managed to distract most of the Ninth Legion, along with a sizeable portion of the cavalry and auxilia infantry who made up the rear guard. King Seisyll, having spotted the approaching enemy forces dispatched by Scapula, ordered two thousand of his warriors to face the oncoming threat of three legionary cohorts sent to flank him. The rest of his men continued their relentless onslaught of the Roman auxilia. Caratacus had also concentrated the greatest number of his skirmishers with the Ordovices. From behind their mates, they continued to rain down sling stones and throwing spears upon the imperial soldiers.

Because of the relentless attacks from the Ordovices, and because they were unable to cohesively form their battle lines, the auxiliaries were compelled to give ground, with most cohorts abandoning the road altogether. They were now fighting a chaotic battle in the trees and undergrowth of the woods between the road and the lake. Bands of Seisyll’s men had even driven several cohorts of imperial troopers all the way back to the water’s edge. Furthermore, they had split the Roman column in two. With both legions being held in place, they were unable to come to the aid of the hard-pressed auxiliary cohorts in the centre of the column, the three cohorts from Legio IX notwithstanding.

Sensing a better opportunity for his skirmishers, the king turned to the chief leading his light fighters. “Take your men and support our warriors on the right,” he ordered. “They are facing legionaries and could use the help of your darts and sling stones.”

A shouted order, the blow of a war horn, and soon several hundred spear throwers and slingers were rushing north to support their comrades, who were being hard-pressed by the onslaught of legionaries. An imperial observer would have marvelled at the discipline and organization of these men, who were certainly more than just a rabble of ‘barbarians’.

Seisyll’s intuition proved timely. Though storms of pila had left many dead and dying, the imperial soldiers attempting to smash through their flank had been checked by the stalwart courage and tenacity of the Ordovices fighters. A steady barrage of darts and sling stones soon compelled the legionary cohorts to close ranks, hunkering low behind their shield walls. And though his warriors had pressed the auxilia cohorts towards the water’s edge, the ground here was more open, allowing them to close ranks and beat back the Ordovices’ onslaught.

Casualties were mounting, with his warriors beginning to fatigue. As he smashed his sword against an infantryman’s shield, Seisyll hoped King Orin was successful in his mission to destroy the Roman supply trains.

Patience
, Jago thought to himself as he jumped away from the legionary’s sword thrust. He kept the soldier at bay by continuously prodding with his spear. He hoped to catch his adversary in the face, but the man was too quick and skilful for him and kept knocking his spear away. Jago couldn’t compel him to break away from his mates and face him like a man, either. These damned Romans were sticklers for formation and discipline. Attempts to goad them into single combat were futile.

Filthy cowards
, the young warrior thought contemptuously.

This particular legionary was the third Jago had faced. Every few minutes, the Romans rapidly withdrew their front line replacing them with subsequent ranks. It allowed them to keep fresh troops out front while frustrating their opponents. Jago and twenty warriors had attempted to exploit the momentary gap in the lines, yet the tactic was executed with such speed and precision that the young fighter had almost been bowled over by the shield strike of a surging legionary. Two of his companions had not been so fortunate and were slain by stabs from legionary gladii.

His aggravation almost getting the best of him, Jago was worried he would have to face his father with a clean spear. He therefore decided to change his tactics. He choked up the grip on his spear and held it close to his side. Focusing his vision on the legionary, ignoring all other friends and enemies alike, Jago hunkered down and made ready to lunge. The soldier was shorter than he, and as long as he kept his shield between himself and the man’s gladius, he had a very good chance of overpowering his foe by sheer force.

Hurtling himself forward, the edge of his shield clipped that of the legionary, and with his right arm he knocked the shield away, leaving the soldier’s torso exposed. Time slowed as he grinned in victory. He thrust his spear with all his might, anticipating the feeling of guts bursting and staining the spear blade with blood…but then a jarring feeling ran up his arm. He should have aimed for the face or neck, for instead of slaying his foe, his weapon had impacted hard against the chest plates of the legionary’s armour and was deflected away.

Before he could pull his arm back, the soldier brought his gladius down in a hard chop, severing Jago’s thumb and knocking his spear to the ground. His cry of horrified pain was interrupted by the shield blow from the legionary standing to his adversary’s right. The edge of the shield caught Jago on the temple, sending him falling to the ground in a heap as he lost consciousness. He never even felt the sword thrust to the heart that ended his life.

Chapter X: To the Sea

***

Because the Romans had time to react to the botched ambush, King Orin was unable to launch his warriors’ full might against their column of supply wagons. They had managed to kill the oxen pulling a pair of wagons before being compelled to withdraw; however, this would amount to little more than a minor nuisance to the invaders. But although they failed their chief objective, much had been accomplished by the raid. They had unleashed chaos upon the otherwise disciplined imperial forces, proving that with only a portion of their warriors, they could make the invaders bleed. Seisyll’s warriors had the most success, striking the column at its most vulnerable point in the centre and inflicting hundreds of casualties upon the auxilia and allied cohorts. It was, therefore, with reluctance that the Ordovices king heeded the horn blows from Caratacus, ordering them to withdraw. The return of the Roman cavalry vanguard had necessitated this. It was only by a matter of minutes that Seisyll and his fighters escaped being cut off and surrounded by imperial horsemen. The high king and his men were able to make their way through the canals and trenches before cavalry or legionaries could conduct any sort of pursuit. Yet despite the overall success of the raid, for Caratacus there was no joy to be had that night. His son was missing.

Eurgain sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, gazing into the fire. Little Sorcha sat with her mother, her head resting on her shoulder. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she feared the worst for her big brother. The high queen found it perverse that hosts of warriors drank and celebrated, while their prince was missing and presumed dead. And what
had
happened to Jago? Several warriors said they saw the brave young fighter leap at the Roman lines, but then he seemed to disappear.

“My son is with my ancestors,” Caratacus said, with as much stoicism as he could muster.

“You don’t know that,” his wife protested.

“I doubt the Romans are taking prisoners,” he reasoned. “I know he fell bravely like a true Catuvellauni. If only our people had even a small measure of his courage…” He nearly choked on his words, sniffing hard and fighting the tears that threatened to fall. His wife and daughter embraced him as he struggled with his overwhelming sorrow. He knew he should be proud of Jago who, after four years of Roman oppression, had finally fought to liberate his people in battle. Caratacus cursed himself for not beginning the lad’s training much sooner. He should have known that the day Jago would have to face the Romans in battle would come sooner rather than later. It was his fault his son dead, and it would forever be his greatest failure.

For the Romans, there was much confusion during the battle’s aftermath. Scapula and his commanding officers grappled with the slew of conflicting reports to discern what exactly had transpired. Clearly they had been ambushed, with the centre of the column suffering the worst in terms of casualties. And yet, the barbarians failed to trap them completely, perhaps because their numbers were simply too few. Both General Paetus and Commander Julianus had cautioned against presuming Caratacus’ army was smaller than anticipated.

“The campaign season grows late, and many of their fighters may have gone home,” the cavalry officer reckoned.

Paetus nodded towards the numerous corpses that lined the northern shoreline, where the Ninth Legion had done some of its fiercest fighting. “They abandoned so many of their dead and wounded. But given the losses we sustained, can either side really call this a victory?”

Legionaries were walking along, plunging their blades into any wounded barbarian they found.

“The dead know not whether their side won or lost,” Paulinus said quietly, as he watched scores of legionaries and auxilia troopers dragging away the bodies of their fallen.

“We’ll camp here tonight,” Scapula ordered.

“Very good,” Paulinus said, with a relieved sigh. “We should also give the men a day to bid proper farewell to their fallen mates.”

The governor bobbed his head lazily in acceptance. He was clearly exhausted, both physically and emotionally. He was feeling the strain of his numerous poor decisions and hated that he had to content himself that their losses were not more severe. And though it was the enemy who had fled, he clearly did not feel as if he had won anything close to what one would consider a victory.

Just past the southern edge of the lake, Magnus and the rest of the First Cohort’s officers finished tallying their own loses. Seven were dead, another twenty-eight wounded.

“Regrettable but acceptable,” Master Centurion Tyranus acknowledged, as he read the reports from his centurions primus ordo. “We could have easily fared much worse.”

“The auxiliaries in the centre of the column took a beating,” Centurion Furius noted. “And I heard from a mate in the Ninth that they had a bastard of a time with those cock-eaters in the woods.”

Magnus concurred. “At least we were able to fight our adversaries in the open. Still, I am troubled as to why they did not press us harder. There was no manoeuver, no attempt to flank us, just a toe-to-toe battering against our shield wall.”

“They weren’t trying to defeat us,” came the voice of Legate Paulinus, as he walked over to his senior leaders.

“General, sir,” Tyranus said.

He and the rest of the centurions rose to their feet. Paulinus waved for them to sit down and set his camp stool next to them.

“What have we found out from the prisoners?” a centurion asked.

“I’ll give those bastards credit, they are difficult to break,” the legate said, avoiding the question for a moment. “Torture is tricky. One needs to get them to talk without breaking them to the point they start spouting off a bunch of shit, just to make it stop.”

The centurions chuckled grimly.

The general continued, “We believe they were after our supplies. Thankfully, our skirmishers discovered one phase of their ambush north of the lake. Had they been able to catch the army strung out in the woods, they could have very easily destroyed most of our food stores and supply wagons. A credit to the auxilia cohorts who closed ranks around our stores. They took a severe punishing, but they held.”

Tyranus remarked, “Caratacus knows his chances of besting us in battle are minimal, at least not without suffering thousands of losses. By attempting to starve us out, they minimize the risk to their warriors. He is clever, I’ll give him that.”

“He’s also been named High King of both Silures and Ordovices.”

Paulinus’ remark caused the centurions to stare at him wide-eyed.

“The barbarian prisoners were only too happy to share that little piece of information. Some even refer to him as ‘High King of Britannia’.”

“As high king, he keeps all the tribes united,” Tyranus grumbled.

“It also means they will be more likely to fracture should we capture or kill him,” Magnus observed. He looked to Paulinus. “But what happens now, sir?”

“Now, we take a day to honour our dead. The day after tomorrow, we make our way towards the sea. Scouts have returned, and it seems Caratacus has buggered off completely, putting as many miles between his ass and us as he could. With as many wounded as we’ve suffered, pursuit is impossible at this point. Wagons are overflowing, and we’re going to need to get creative in how we transport the rest.”

The legate went on to explain that the army would back-track about three miles up the road they had come down before making their way west, following the river to the sea. From there, they would march south along the coast, searching for a suitable place to camp for the winter.

“No going home for us, then,” Furius observed.

Tyranus then pronounced, “As long as we have a secure position to fortify, with supply access via the sea, we will be in good position to hit these bastards again, come spring.”

The collective mood the following day was very sombre. Outside the camp along the lakeshore were rows of pyres. The surrounding region had been scoured for dry timber, and now the bloodied corpses of the fallen were laid atop in reverence. Each fallen man’s century took the time to pay their respects, with centurions calling their names three times as their souls were sent on to Elysium.

Two of the slain were from Magnus’ century. For one of the soldiers, Optio Caelius asked that he be allowed to light the pyre.

“It was the only death he would have found acceptable,” Caelius said later, after they watched the flames take hold of the timber, crackling and billowing thick, black smoke.

“In battle, you mean,” the centurion noted.

“Twenty-seven years in the ranks, he could have retired at any time. He confessed to me not long ago that he had no idea what else to do with his life, and it would be best if the barbarians got him before the army discharged him for being too old to wield a gladius in battle. He did not want to fade away as a crippled old man.” The optio looked at Magnus with a sad half-smile. “You of all people should understand that, sir.”

It wasn’t meant to be a rebuke, though it certainly gave Magnus reason to pause. After all, the dead legionary had been a few years younger than he. And as the flames engulfed the kindling, he began to wonder what would happen should the army suddenly decide he was no longer fit to lead his men into battle. What would he do then? More than anything, he longed to find peace within his deeply troubled soul. And yet, he had no idea what would bring him solace. Perhaps it was the capturing or killing of Caratacus. He doubted it. Caratacus had not been anywhere near Mai Dun when Achillia was killed. No, this was not something as simple as a personal vendetta against the newly-proclaimed High King of western Britannia.

What Magnus did know was he missed his old mates more than ever. For more than two decades they carried each other through the harshest of conflicts and moments of unbridled sorrow. But now, every one of his closest friends in the legions was gone. Carbo and Decimus were killed at Braduhenna twenty years before. Camillus died protecting the legion’s sacred eagle during the Invasion of Britannia. Praxus and Artorius left the legions soon after Mai Dun. Valens also retired from the ranks and ran off with Magnus’ younger sister. Of all his old comrades, it was Artorius he missed the most. He had been more of a brother than friend since they joined the legion together at the age of seventeen. Artorius was gone, but there was one left. It was he the old Norseman would go see that night.

“Magnus, old man,” Metellus said, surprised to see the older centurion entering his tent. The pilus prior for the Fifth Cohort had his armour laid out on his camp table, making notes to all the damage it had suffered, while his manservant polished various pieces of his kit.

“I needed to get away from the First Cohort for a while,” Magnus explained. “Despite being in the same legion, I almost never see you anymore, old friend.”

Metellus raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “So I’m your friend in my own right now, and not just the son of your best friend?”

The men shared a laugh.

Magnus reached over and smacked the younger centurion on the shoulder. “I would say I’ve considered you my friend since Judea. By Mercury, how long has it been?”

“Eleven years,” Metellus answered quickly. “It was hot, dry, and the people were utterly insufferable…although to be fair, they really weren’t any worse than the Silures or Ordovices.”

“Difference is, I think these people will eventually be conquered. The Jews have been fighting for thousands of years. They simply refuse to acknowledge when they’ve been beaten, and I highly doubt that anyone will ever subdue them.”

“And for it all, there is still something I miss about that place,” Metellus remarked thoughtfully. “I can’t say exactly what. But never mind that. You didn’t come here to reminisce about the old days…or did you?”

Magnus smiled sadly. “I admit it hasn’t been the same since Praxus and Artorius left the legion.”

“And how long until you join them in retirement?”

“Anxious to be rid of me, are you?”

“I am, if I ever want to see one last promotion,” Metellus answered candidly.

Magnus looked at him inquiringly.

He laughed and shrugged. “Come on, old boy, you’re the oldest centurion primus ordo in the First Cohort. Hell, you’re even older than Tyranus!”