Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered (8 page)

The Roman auxiliaries had formed a long battle line of three ranks. Their formation was looser than that of legionaries, keeping several feet between each other. And while they were often regarded as second-rate fighters, not to mention more expendable, they were still professional soldiers with far superior training and armament than their foes. As more warriors scaled over the earthworks, the weight of the Ordovices assault drove into their thin line, with several auxilia troopers being cut down as they were driven back into the camp. The assailants outnumbered the imperial soldiers almost three-to-one, yet they failed to press their advantage. Those who tried to break the Roman lines often fell victim to the overlapping walls of spears.

A series of individual brawls broke out along the line, and despite the protection offered by both their discipline and armour, the auxiliaries were still suffering casualties. Men on both sides could expect no mercy, and yet, because their enemies failed to launch the full weight of their horde against them, the Romans were getting the better of the exchange. With the constant crashing of spears against shields, none of the auxilia officers realized that they were simply being distracted from their adversaries’ actual goal.

The attack on the prisoner stockade came from the west without war horns or battle cries. It was only when a nervous infantryman spied movement near the far embankments of the outer camp that he sounded the alarm. As the Roman officers shouted orders for their men to form battle lines, they were swarmed by nearly a thousand enemy assailants. A hundred more rushed towards the smaller, lone stockade. These men cared nothing for the Deceangli women and children, nor their cowardly warriors who had surrendered ignominiously to the Romans.

As the axes of Ordovices warriors hacked down the gate of the stockade, Elisedd thought he was being rescued by this old allies and protectors. The fierce anger in the eyes of his ‘saviours’ soon told him otherwise. Before the war chief could say a word, a spear butt was slammed into his forehead, knocking him unconscious. His wife screamed but was smashed across the face by another warrior’s fist. The two were then carried from the stockade, surrounded by a score of Ordovices warriors. As they passed the ongoing melee with the Roman auxilia, piteous cries came from the prisoners.

“Please, take us with you!”

“Our friends, do not abandon us!”

Fury overcoming them, several warriors began attacking their former allies. Twenty Deceangli prisoners were killed, with at least twice as many badly mauled before the enraged Ordovices heeded the calls of their leaders to desist.

At the eastern ramparts, the attacking warriors heard the high-pitched sound of the war horn ordering their retreat. This proved problematic for those directly engaging the Roman auxilia. As Ordovices fighters climbed over the palisade stakes and tumbled back into the trench below, the imperial troopers surged forward, intent on slaying as many as possible. Their overzealous counterattack proved costly to a handful of infantrymen, who were skewered in their unprotected regions by spears or hacked to pieces by hand axes. For the Ordovices, however, the withdrawal proved even more punishing. There was simply no way to navigate past the rows of sharp stakes without exposing themselves to thrusts from both spear and gladius. Devoid as most of the warriors were of armour, the Romans’ counter-strikes proved deadly. Then there was the matter of negotiating through the trench with all its obstacles. Numerous warriors who’d been injured during the assault were trying to climb their way back to safety. The fortunate ones were grabbed by their friends and dragged out of the ditch. Those too badly hurt to be moved were left to their fate.

A cheer erupted from the Roman camp as the auxiliary infantrymen caught their breath. Relief soon turned to anger, with several of their men plunging their weapons into the enemy wounded.

“Belay that!”
a centurion shouted, smacking the offenders with his vine stick. “These fucking pigs will not be granted a quick death. First, they will tell us everything they know and then crucifixion for the lot of them.”

It was dark when Elisedd opened his eyes. He was tied to a stake atop a pyre; his wife, Runa, was bound to a second pyre and still unconscious. A ring of torch-bearers stood in a semi-circle around them, all wearing hooded cloaks pulled over their heads. Standing in the middle was a stern-looking King Seisyll and the dreaded mystic, Tathal. The high druid was wearing his finest white robe, bound in the middle with a bronze-plated belt. His hands and face were painted with a series of patterns in blue ink, except around the eyes, which were smeared black. And though he carried his long staff, it was the bronze curved dagger in his belt that captured Elisedd’s gaze.

“You have failed us,” said King Seisyll, his arms folded, his voice like ice.

Knowing he was already condemned, Elisedd became defiant. “It is
you
who have failed! We were under your protection, yet where were the Ordovices when my people were being slaughtered?”

“Aeron, god of battle and slaughter, rewards courage,” Tathal spoke. “Had you and your warriors appeased him, you would have been welcomed into the afterlife as heroes. Instead, Aeron demands that those who cower before our enemies be sacrificed.”

“A pit of vipers fuck your mother!” Elisedd snarled.

The druid gave a short, demonic laugh and turned to the king, who nodded. Tathal drew his long dagger. Torch-bearers stepped forward to ignite the two pyres.

Runa stirred as the wood started to crackle. The Deceangli chief would accept his own fate, however painful it may be, but the thought of seeing his beloved tortured by that loathsome druid drove him beyond breaking.

“Stay away from her, you unholy bastard!”

“Not to worry,” Tathal said, a sneer crossing his face. He brandished his blade towards Runa. “It is you who have offended the gods. Your wife’s end will be quick.”

Runa’s eyes opened, and her head whipped around as she regained consciousness. She cried out before coughing violently on the thick, acrid smoke. Before the flames could completely engulf the pyre, Tathal stepped forward and slashed his dagger across her throat. Elisedd gritted his teeth, tears streaming down his face as his wife’s eyes clouded over, blood gushing down her chest.

“And now we must deal with the traitor,” the druid said, running his fingers over the bloody knife.

One of his acolytes stepped forward, carrying a stone bowl.

Torches were set in the chief’s pyre, the damp timber hissing and smoking. As Tathal stepped forward, Elisedd spat at him defiantly. The high druid smirked and plunged the point of the curved dagger into his stomach. The blade was extremely sharp. With a quick upward slash, he disembowelled his prey. Elisedd tried to gasp as his guts spilled from his torso. With a sickening splat a pile landed in the bowl, which the acolyte set to the side, allowing the flames to cook its contents. The flames started to lick higher, and a hot cloud of smoke billowed right into the chief’s face. With the last of his energy, he sucked in his final breath, searing his lungs and sending him to join his wife in the afterlife.

It was midmorning the next day when the Twentieth Legion and Indus’ Horse returned. While both Governor Scapula and General Paulinus were filled with anger and frustration at having been so easily duped by Caratacus and his allies, there was still a substantial measure of relief. Their camp still stood. The auxiliaries had lost twenty dead, with another sixty wounded. They had slain over a hundred Ordovices warriors, while taking twenty wounded prisoners. Thirty more of the enemy’s injured had succumbed to their fearful wounds, coupled by the outright refusal of the imperial soldiers to offer them aid.

The soldiers of the errant expedition set about re-establishing their tents and repairing the ramparts, while the senior officers met with the centurion who’d been left in command of the camp.

“The Deceangli chief and his wife were taken away,” he explained.

“Did they try to free any of the other prisoners?” Scapula asked.

The centurion shook his head. “No, sir. In fact, I do not think this was a rescue mission at all. We were in the midst of tearing down and moving the stockades when the attack came. The Ordovices actually attacked the Deceangli warriors, killing a dozen or so before fleeing with their quarry.”

“What’s that over there?” Master Centurion Tyranus asked, nodding his head towards the wisps of smoke in the west.

“We saw flames coming from that direction last night,” the auxilia centurion explained. “The trees are thick that way. If it was a campfire, it was an awfully big one. I thought it might be a trap meant to lure us away from the camp.”

Scapula turned to Julianus. “Take two hundred men and find the source of that smoke.”

“I’ll go with them,” Magnus said, drawing confused stares from a handful of his peers. “I think I know what it is…and it’s not a campfire.”

“In the meantime, we should get a little information from the Ordovices prisoners before we dispose of them,” General Paulinus remarked.

Commander Julianus sent sections of his horsemen ahead in skirmishing formation, in case they should come across stray bands of enemy warriors. Centurion Magnus rode with him at the centre of the column.

“What is it you suspect?” the cavalry officer asked. He had only taken over the regiment a year prior and was not as familiar with the indigenous tribes as the centurion.

“It’s just a hunch,” Magnus replied. “The raid was not a rescue mission, since they slew some of their allied warriors. Nor did they try to overrun the garrison or attack our food stores. The Deceangli chief and his wife were taken for a reason, and it’s not because they were being rescued.” He paused as they reached the wood line. The smoke was now more noticeable. “I saw something once, during the invasion…”

“Commander Julianus!”
The trooper’s shout alerted the officers.

They rode through the trees to where a section of horsemen gathered in a small opening in the woods. Magnus and the cavalry officer dismounted as they came upon the macabre scene.

The bodies of Elisedd and Runa were badly charred, their faces mostly burned away and scarcely recognisable. Flies gathered around the pile of burned guts in a stone bowl on the pyre. Much of the wood was damp and unsinged.

“They buggered off before the bodies were consumed,” a trooper stated.

“Perhaps they wanted us to find them.” Magnus observed.

“Is this what you expected to find?” Julianus asked.

“It is. During the invasion our chief tribune was captured, hung upside down, and disembowelled. A sacrifice by the druids to their foul gods. Caratacus has done the same to these poor sods.”

“And by surrendering in the hopes of saving their people, the Deceangli chief and his wife sealed their own fate.”

Magnus and Julianus returned and gave their report to the governor, who dismissed them without a word. Scapula then sat on a camp stool, waiting for his principia tent to be erected, his chin resting in his hand. The governor of Britannia was in a vile mood. He had been duped by Caratacus, who had escaped their attempt to engage him in battle. And now their prized prisoners had been burned and gutted by druids.

“I should have listened to you, Paulinus,” he said.

The legate sat on a nearby stool, running a rag over his spatha.