Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered (2 page)

Tyranus raised an eyebrow as he noted the centurion’s rather pained expression. “By Juno, are you alright?”

“I’ll be fine, just give me a few minutes.”

The master centurion shook his head. “
Fine
is exactly what you are not. That old wound has been giving you much grief lately.”

“It never healed properly,” Magnus confessed glumly. “Artorius suffered almost the exact same injury once; except he was twenty-two at the time and in prime health. I was more than twice that age when that filthy barbarian got lucky.”

“I remember that day well.” Tyranus removed his helmet and leaned against the stone wall, his arms folded. “They said the fortress of Mai Dun was impregnable, yet we broke it in a day…” He stopped quickly, as Magnus winced at a pain unrelated to his leg. “I am sorry, old friend. I know not all wounds are those of the flesh.”

“I stayed in the ranks to atone for my failure to save her. The pain I suffer every day is my punishment…” Magnus then shook his head quickly. “But enough of that. You didn’t come here to discuss an old centurion’s broken body and spirit. So tell me who we’re putting our training to use against.”

The primus pilus thought to express his concerns regarding Magnus’ fitness for duty, but then thought better of it. “It’s Caratacus,” he said, causing the Norseman to perk up.

“Bugger me. So our old nemesis has returned.”

“He never really left. He’s been lying dormant for some time, gathering allies. After the Battle of the Twin Rivers, all of us thought the Catuvellauni threat was no more. King Togodumnus was slain along with thousands of their warriors. Hell, they surrendered their capital stronghold without a blow being struck! But Togodumnus’ brother has always been a threat, stealing livestock, raiding border villages, kidnapping friendly nobles. That is, if the rumours are true.”

“Do you believe them?”

“Whether it is Caratacus or not is of little concern,” Tyranus stated. “What I do know is the tribes west of the Sabrina are causing havoc among our colonies. The Ordovices, Demetae, and Silures are the largest tribes in the region. They have been kept in check by constantly fighting amongst each other. However, if there is any validity to what Governor Scapula has heard, it would appear someone has brought them together.”

Two hundred miles away near the mouth of the River Deva Fluvius, a small farming community lay in ruins. Thatched roofs burned, livestock were either dead or taken, bodies of both men and women alike lay strewn about. The survivors had been taken as slaves, hands bound, and all tied together in a long line. The raiders were well-known to them. The Silures were an unpredictable and extremely violent people who preferred brute force to negotiation. King Orin’s brother, the previous king, was killed during the last war against Rome. Even now, there was only one way of dealing with his neighbours who aided the invaders.

As the shrieks of women and their children continued to echo, two warriors met near the smouldering hulk of what had once been the local chief’s hall. One wore a hooded cloak, his face hidden in the shadow lest any survivors from the village recognize him. The other was the elusive man who stalwartly continued to lead the resistance against Rome these past four years. His name was Caratacus. Standing a half-head taller than most of his warriors, he was an imposing figure. His hair, which had before been kept long and braided, was now cropped short and spikey. His long moustache was showing traces of grey, with lines showing both age and endless strain forming along his brow and around his eyes. He wore a mail shirt, similar to the lorica hamata chainmail worn by Roman auxiliaries, with a multi-coloured cloak over his left shoulder. His broadsword, which he now ran an oil rag over, had witnessed countless battles.

“The latest blow against those who have become wilful slaves of Rome,” he asserted to his companion, who nodded in concurrence. “A pity we had to slay so many of your people, but it had to be convincing.”

“These people are nothing but slaves of fear, as is the bitch who rules over them.”

Caratacus smiled appreciatively before reaching into his tunic and producing a gold torque. “A token of gratitude from King Orin.”

The other warrior took the torque and turned it over in his hands. “Gold is a rarity in these isles,” he said. “Yet the Silures possess plenty of it. Few have crossed into their lands, and these gifts of gold only add to their mystery.”

“Do not worry about where the gold comes from,” Caratacus said sternly. “Continue to show your gratitude by helping us undermine the alliance your cunt of a wife has formed with Rome.”

The hooded warrior flashed an understanding grin. His name was Venutius, consort to Queen Cartimandua of the Brigantes; the largest kingdom in all Britannia. Yet instead of joining the alliance that Caratacus’ brother, Togodumnus, had formed to repel the invaders, Cartimandua had offered her immediate submission to the armies of Caesar.

The queen’s capitulation caused numerous rifts within the people of Brigantes. Venutius had attempted to take a band of warriors to join the resistance, but was overridden by his wife; a humiliating blow to his manhood and status as a great warrior. Even those who most hated the Romans were still loyal to their queen, as they had been to her father before. Four years later, those nostalgic feelings were beginning to fade, as Venutius and his allies continued in their subtle and subversive war of public opinion against the Romans, who continued to expand their territory even further into Britannia.

Following the ignominious defeat and death of Togodumnus, along with the subjugation of his people, the Brigantes consort had also feared his friend, Caratacus, was slain. Within the last year, however, the fugitive Catuvellauni prince made his presence known once more. And Venutius was only too glad to serve as a foil against his estranged wife, for it was he who arranged for the border village to be left undefended. Caratacus and his Silures allies had been allowed to sack the settlement, sending a message to all who would bow before a foreign emperor in distant Rome.

Unconcerned by the dead, even though they were his tribesmen, Venutius observed, “By bringing the people of the western mountains together, you have succeeded where so many have failed.”

“The Silures played only a small role in the last war,” Caratacus recalled. “Though their king, and a small band of his elite fighters, did stand with us in a show of solidarity. His death, while tragic, made the Roman threat painfully clear to all the Silures.” He gave a short laugh. “Not that Orin minded becoming king after his brother’s demise. He even took his pregnant sister-in-law as his queen.”

“The Silures have a reputation for being the most fanatical fighters in all of Britannia,” Venutius concurred. “However, they are a wild people and will be very difficult to control. And their numbers alone will not be enough to defeat the Romans.”

Caratacus sheathed his sword. “Let me worry about the Silures. With my own people cowering before the Romans, Brigantes is now the largest kingdom in all the land. Only the Iceni have a comparable number of fighting men, and they have been squabbling of late with their imperial overlords.”

“These raids will show my people that the protection of Rome is useless,” Venutius surmised. Adding disdainfully, “Their queen will continue to supplicate herself before the emperor, leaving the citizens of Brigantes in want of a strong leader.”

“Cartimandua is but a woman,” Caratacus remarked, his frustration at Venutius’ inability to control his own wife was a constant source of frustration. “How can you allow her to be all that stands in the way of us uniting against the invaders?”

“Because her father, King Breogan, inexplicably named his daughter as his sole heir, that she should rule Brigantes in her own right. I loved Breogan like he was my own father, but his short-sightedness regarding the succession was unforgiveable. Our people are divided regarding the Romans. Yet so long as the warrior classes hold onto the memory of their beloved king, there is little I can do, short of leading a rebellion against my own wife and queen.”

“And that is what you may have to do.” Caratacus glared harshly at him.

Venutius gritted his teeth.

“Despite the differences between our peoples, I have always considered you a friend and brother,” he said. “Your children are as dear to me as if they were my own. And I mourned Togodumnus with you, while cursing the treason of your younger brother, Amminus. But these minor raids will not be enough to convince the people to turn against their queen. They will need to see the Romans themselves as vulnerable. We must draw them into invading the lands in the west, which they have thus far avoided. Defeat them. Win a decisive victory and my warriors will undoubtedly rise up, regardless of whether the queen is still Rome’s docile bitch.”

Chapter II: Shadows from the Past

The hill fort of Mai Dun (now known as Maiden Castle)

The echoes of battle were deafening. More than ten thousand imperial soldiers stormed the seemingly unassailable heights. The hill was steep and covered in tall grass, slick from the rains of the previous week. Catapults and ballistae bombarded the winding approach to the eastern gate of the ancient hill fort. Yet, for the vast majority of General Vespasian’s army, their assault would simply be straight up into the teeth of enemy spear and blade.

Centurions and their subordinate officers shouted orders. The soldiers pulled themselves ever upward. Sling stones, light throwing spears, and the occasional arrow bombarded them as they tried to keep behind the protection of their shields. The bodies of the less fortunate, who had been struck in the face, neck, or legs, which were unprotected by their heavy armour, lay strewn along the slopes. The more gravely wounded cried out as they clutched at shattered limbs and torn flesh.

Surging upwards, the assailants came upon a large defilade that could not be seen from below. Encircling the entire hill, soldiers had to tumble down almost twenty feet before scaling back up the hill. After another fifty-foot climb they came upon a second defilade. All the while, the barbarian skirmishers at the very top continued to bombard them relentlessly.

A centurion looked to the company of Syrian archers following his cohort. Their commander, a woman who had once fought in the arena, wordlessly nodded in agreement as the Roman officer pointed his gladius towards the heights. The cohort swarmed into this last defilade, while the Syrian archers fanned out and unleashed a salvo of arrows towards the defenders. The barbarian skirmishers began to fall, turning their attention away from the advancing legionaries and toward their immediate source of strife. Though outmatched in skill, they had the advantage of holding the high ground, as well as superior numbers. The Syrians’ mail armour offered some protection, though it palled in comparison to the heavy plate worn by legionaries. Several were struck down by arrows and sling stones to the arms, legs, face, and neck, with heavier spears rupturing the light chain mail.

The fit and nubile woman leading the Roman allies was shouting words of encouragement to her fighters, pausing to let loose a series of her own arrows in rapid succession. Time then slowed. She saw the large spear flying in a high arc from the defences. Momentarily paralyzed, she was unable to leap away. The heavy blade burst through her armour, plunging deep into her stomach. Her cry of anguish was drowned out by the deafening din of battle. She fell to her knees, clawing frantically at the spear, as blood gushed from the hideous wound. Her tear-stained eyes gazing skyward, she quietly uttered, “Our child…my love, save us…
Magnus!
”

Magnus bolted upright, his face covered in sweat and his breathing coming in rapid gasps. It was the middle of the night. Despite the cool breeze blowing through the open window, he was hot, and his skin flushed. He took a deep breath and fought back the sobs that came in the aftermath of every such nightmare. Some nights he was able to suppress his sorrows, others he was not.

The same dream continued to haunt him since that terrible day during the assault of the barbarian hill fort at Mai Dun. For the Romans, the attack had been a moment of supreme triumph. General Vespasian’s forces had broken the supposedly impenetrable stronghold in less than a day. Hundreds of slaves had been captured, with the local king slain. For his decisive victory, the legate had been awarded
triumphal regalia
by the Senate of Rome.

But for Centurion Magnus Flavianus, the death of his lover continued to plague him remorselessly. Every time the dream came, it was as if he were there, forced to watch, helpless as Achillia’s guts were ripped open, killing her and their unborn child. In reality, though both Magnus and Achillia had taken part in the assault, they had been nowhere near each other. Magnus did not know she was dead until well after the battle was over. He himself had been gravely wounded. The horrific scarring and the incessant pain in his leg were an endless reminder of that dark day. In many ways it bound him to the terrible past, never allowing him to let his pain go. He could not count the number of times he’d cursed the gods for not taking him instead. He was a soldier of Rome, and it was more fitting that he should die, rather than his lover and their son or daughter, who would have been four years old.

Knowing sleep would be impossible to come by this night, the centurion threw on his cloak and stepped out into the cool night. The cold caused his muscles to tighten up, aggravating the ache in his leg. For this reason, he always rose well before any of the other officers, allowing himself time to work out the soreness and make his leg reasonably functional. Some of the men in his century wondered if he slept at all.

“It’s been a while since we’ve been on an active campaign,” a voice said behind him. Centurion Metellus appeared to be having a sleepless night of his own, as he too was taking a night-time stroll through the camp. Metellus Artorius Posthumous was the adopted son of Magnus’ closest friend, Titus Artorius Justus. An accomplished soldier in his own right, Metellus was given command of the Fifth Cohort when Tyranus was elevated to centurion primus pilus.

“Is that why you can’t sleep?” Magnus asked.

“I suppose it is,” Metellus confessed. “Marcia worries every spring that I’ll be sent off to get disembowelled by the barbarians that infest this land. Having time to watch my boys grow has made the consequences of being sent on campaign all the more stark. When I became a father, I realized it was no longer simply about me.”

Magnus understood. The younger centurion had married a couple of years prior to the invasion of Britannia. His sons, Lucius and Gaius, were infants when the invasion force landed on these shores. They had since grown into a pair of energetic, precocious young lads.

“Marcia’s fears may be well-founded this time,” the Norseman conjectured. “It would seem some of our old enemies do not know when they’ve been conquered.”

“So I heard. We have yet to venture into the lands of the Silures, yet I think Scapula won’t have much of a choice if these raids continue. They’ve been harrying the Brigantes, hoping to goad them into breaking their alliance with us.”

“A handful of survivors have stated they were led by our old friend, Caratacus,” the older centurion recalled.

“I think they were set loose on purpose,” Metellus added. “Caratacus wants us to know he’s behind these attacks. We may have killed his brother and taken their lands, but there will never be peace in Britannia so long as he lives.”

“They want a war but on their own terms.” Magnus shook his head. “From what I understand, the lands west of the River Sabrina are extremely mountainous and full of hostile barbarians, not just the Silures. I believe this campaign will be about more than capturing or killing Caratacus. Scapula has to know that, while we have the Brigantes to the north, we must expand Roman Britannia all the way to the western sea. Otherwise, our provincials will never sleep safely at night.”

Centurion Magnus was not alone in his sleeplessness, nor was Metellus the only one concerned for his family. For Caratacus, though his people may have submitted to the emperor, he would not have his children raised as Roman slaves. It was for their freedom, and that of their future children, that he had returned to fight the imperial invaders. And on this particular night, his trepidation for his family was tempered by hatred, brought on by an old betrayal.

Unbeknownst to the Romans, the Catuvellauni prince had eyes in many corners of Britannia, especially in the south. Caratacus himself had once conquered the Kingdom of Atrebates whose king, a Roman ally, fled to Rome and begged Emperor Claudius to liberate them. Thus began the Invasion of Britannia. The imperial scum now sought to control the entire isle, while placing their own lapdog on the Atrebates throne. And it was Caratacus’ spies within the court of King Cogidubnus who brought him the hateful news regarding the return of a man he once loved.

“My brother has returned to despoil the land of our ancestors,” he said, forcing himself to contain his wrath. He ran his sharpening stone over his sword, as he did on many nights when vexations prevented sleep. His wife, Eurgain, sat beside him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

“Amminus?” she asked. “He has not been seen in these lands for ten years. I thought he was dead.”

Caratacus slowly shook his head, his gaze ever fixed on the dancing flames. “No, he ran like a whipped dog to Caesar, soon after our father removed him as ruler of the Cantiaci. He’d hoped the Romans would give him those lands back. Instead, he is little more than a courtier to that bastard, Cogidubnus, who now rules over half the lands of our people; lands which I had conquered.”

“You know this…how?”

The old war chief grinned, never averting his stare from his blade, which reflected the glowing fire light. “We lost our homes when Togodumnus gave his life for our ungrateful people, yet we still have many friends in these isles. And my scouts also tell me the Roman governor grows exasperated with the raids from our friends, the Silures. He is planning to invade the western mountains. They will swallow up his legions, and I shall avenge our family.”

“And what of our son?” Eurgain asked. “He comes of age soon. Will you allow him to stand with his father in battle?”

“Jago has proven his bravery, growing up in the shadow of the oppressors. But he is even younger than I was, when my father had this sword forged for me by our finest smiths. I would protect him from having to draw blade against the Romans, but I fear our son will have to become a man far sooner than I did.”

Eurgain clasped her husband’s forearm. “If Jago is not ready, let me take his place,” she pleaded. “It is not unheard of for the women of this land to take up arms and fight beside their men. I am skilled with both spear and sword. You
know
this! And what other duty has a mother but to protect her children?”

Caratacus finally diverted his eyes from the now-dying flames and looked into the hard gaze of his wife. “You were indeed well-named,
Eurgain—strength of the bear
. But what should happen to Jago, let alone our dearest little daughter, should both of us fall? Sorcha has scarcely seen her sixth winter, and I will not risk her losing father and mother.”

Caratacus stood and sheathed his sword. He walked quietly over to a low shelter of animal hides where both his children slept. The top of Sorcha’s head was barely visible, as she lay curled up beneath a large bear skin blanket. Jago lay on his side, his face towards the fire, snoring quietly. Though well-grown for his age, he was still a boy of twelve, a full three years younger than Caratacus when he saw his first battle. And even then, his father, King Cunobeline, had thought his middle son was too young. It had been Togodumnus who convinced their father to let Caratacus prove his worth on the battlefield.

He gritted his teeth at the memory of his dear brother. And yet if Jago were to share his uncle’s fate, so be it; all he asked of the gods was that he live to reach his full measure and fight as a true warrior of the Catuvellauni.

“Time,” Caratacus said, gazing into the star-filled heavens. “I need more time with him.”