Roman

by Kevin Ashman

  Hundreds of mules carried the legion’s stores ranging from tents and heavy cooking equipment to spare weapons and food. Heavy carts drawn by teams of oxen carried sacks of grain and dried beef in case local supplies were scarce, along with hundreds of amphorae of wine, the essential ingredient of a happy legion. Cavalry protected the Romans flanks against ambush and also brought up the rear, enabling a quick reaction force to respond to any threat at a moment’s notice.

  Behind the columns came the camp followers, the traders and prostitutes who made their money from the purses of homesick legionaries. All eager to see to the every whim of any man willing to part with his hard earned coin for a reminder of their homeland, no matter how fleeting.

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  Twenty miles in front of the legion, Prydain and three of his comrades lay amongst the bracken hidden from the prying eyes of the enemy in the distance. Their horses were a mile back in the woods being looked after by the rest of the patrol. They had come upon two isolated riders on the trail, and, though at first they had been reluctant to talk, the patrol’s interpreter had explained in grisly detail what fate awaited them if they didn’t. The resulting information was exactly the sort of thing they needed to know and while four of the patrol took the riders back to the legion to see out the rest of their lives in slavery, the others moved deeper into the forest, and crawled forward to witness the scene below.

  The valley to their front was covered with conical tents and crawling with activity. Women tended cooking fires, children played in the dirt and horses were being exercised in mock charges between groups of warriors. Hundreds more were busy seeing to their own tasks for the day, whether it was sharpening their weapons or testing their strength against their comrades by trials of arms.

  This was the first substantial enemy encampment the scouts had encountered, and, though it was obviously prepared for war, Prydain was surprised to see there were no fortifications defending them, a foolish omission in his eyes.

  Centurion Scipio took in the scene with experienced eyes, mentally mapping out the strengths and weaknesses of the position. He quickly realised there was no point in attacking the barbarians in the valley as there was little room for the legion to manoeuvre their cohorts into positions of strength. His attention lingered on the lines of chariots for a long time before accepting they were too well defended for any pre-emptive strike. Each of the four scouts memorised as much of the information as they could before crawling back from the edge and making their way back to the horses and galloping back to the legion.

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  A few hours later, Plautius stood in his command tent listening carefully to Scipio’s report. When he was finished he dismissed the Centurion before sitting back on his seat and signalled for a servant to pour more wine for the three other commanders present.

  ‘This is irritating news,’ said Plautius, ‘It would seem that this group isn’t the main army but a sub group that we could well do without.’

  ‘Ignore it!’ said Vespasian, commander of the Second Augusta. ‘Pass them by and continue to Camulodunum, we can deal with them later.’

  ‘I’m not so sure,’ said Plautius, ‘We don’t want them to suddenly appear at our rear during the midst of battle.’ He turned to Nasica.’

  ‘Nasica, take the Hispana and sort out this irritation. When you have finished, continue west. Take as many prisoners as possible and find out the locations of their mines and the source of their gold.’ He looked over at the casket of bracelets and Torch’s already looted from the many villages engulfed so far on the march. ‘It would seem that they have a never ending supply and the majority of it comes from the west. When we have taken Camulodunum, I will send for you.’

  ‘Yes General,’ said Nasica.

  ‘The rest of us will find this Caratacus they speak of and send him in chains back to Rome. Tomorrow we will make our plans but tonight, we will relax and toast Nasica, for it would seem his legion is to be the first into battle on Britannia.’ He raised his silver goblet high. ‘Nasica,’ he said, ‘May you wade through streams of Celtic blood.’

  ‘Nasica!’ laughed the other officers and drank to the coming campaign.

  Nasica didn’t stay late in Plautius’s tent but he could hear the sound of revelry for a long time as he rode back towards his own legion’s lines. As he approached a voice called out in the darkness, halting the mounted party. Nasica could see dozens of helmets peering over the staked ramparts of the temporary camp.

  ‘Draw close!’ came the command and one of the guards rode up to the gate so he could be recognized in the burning torchlight and say the watchword without being overheard. The guards opened the gate and allowed the party in, saluting as the Legatus passed, secretly relieved that they had carried out their drills impeccably. Any slacking on duty incurred strict punishment ranging from loss of pay to decimation for the more serious offences. As he passed the guard commander, Nasica stopped and called out to him from his horse.

  ‘Tessarius,’ he called, ‘Find Centurion Scipio and bring him to my tent.’

  ‘Yes sir!’ answered the guard commander and ran into the darkness.

  Nasica continued between the perfectly aligned rows of tents, passing the pyramids of Pilae stacked outside each entrance flap. His legion was at full strength and was as ready as they could be. As he rode he listened to the underlying sound of the sleeping camp, the snoring from within the tents, the gentle murmur of those who could not sleep as they sat around camp fires contemplating their fate or the distant restlessness of the horses in their pen. He reached his tent and stripped his armour before donning a warm cape over his tunic. A few moments later, Scipio entered wrapped in his own cape, his eyes still red from being awoken.

  ‘Hail, Nasica,’ said Scipio.

  ‘Come in,’ said the Legatus, ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

  Scipio sat at the central table and waited patiently as Nasica poured him a glass of warm wine.

  ‘Right, Centurion,’ he said passing him the tankard, ‘About this enemy force, I want you to tell me everything about what you saw. Start from the beginning and leave nothing out.’

  By the time they were finished, the sun was halfway over the horizon and the camp was coming to life. Scipio returned to the scouts and Nasica finalized his strategy. The order was given to strike camp and the Ninth Hispana marched westward into the unknown. Behind them the ditch had been filled in and what was left of the temporary camp burned in the morning light, the black smoke reaching high into the clear sky. Marching legions left nothing behind that could be used by the enemy.

  Chapter 19

  ‘What do you mean landed?’ shouted Caratacus, ‘I gave orders that I was to be informed as soon as they were sighted.’

  ‘They killed the lookouts, sire,’ said Bragus, the clan leader who had brought the bad news, ‘By the time we knew any different their ships had landed thousands of troops along the coast and in the lagoon of Thanet.’

  ‘And why did you not strike,’ shouted Caratacus, ‘You have the men and the chariots, you should have attacked before they had time to reorganise.’

  ‘By the time we realised what had happened,’ answered Bragus, ‘They had built a palisade across the valley and dominated the high ground with archers and cavalry. ‘

  ‘A palisade, how can they build a defence in less than a day?’ asked Caratacus, ‘It is not possible.’

  ‘They brought ships loaded with prepared timbers, lord.’ said the captain, ‘An army of men dug a trench and pre-made walls were dropped into the holes. I have never seen such organisation. I watched from a nearby hill and the wall was twice the size of a man right by the time night fell.’

  ‘I care not about wooden walls,’ snarled Caratacus, ‘Wooden walls burn as easily as men bleed. We have not assembled all these clans to sit back and let the Romans walk into our lands without as much as an arrow in return.’

  ‘What would you have me do, lord?’ asked Bragus.

  ‘I’ll tell you w
hat I would have you do,’ said Caratacus, ‘First of all you will have all the families of the watchers who failed me at the signal fires killed. Throw them from the very cliffs their men failed to defend. Wipe their seed from the face of the earth.’ Caratacus turned to his brother. ‘Togodumnus, you will call the clans to gather at the Medway. I will coordinate our defence there. As for you, Bragus,’ he said turning to the warrior, ‘I trusted you with defending this island. You have failed me.’

  Bragus drew his long sword and presented it hilt first to his king before dropping to one knee.

  ‘My shame burns like fire, lord,’ he said, ‘My head is yours.’ He removed his helmet and bent his head to expose his neck, inviting the strike that would end his shame.

  Caratacus stared down at the warrior for a long time. He had been a faithful follower and a feared warrior but he had been in charge of the defences and Caratacus could not allow him to get away with failure. He placed the tip of Bragus’s sword beneath the warrior’s chin and lifted his head up to meet his gaze.

  ‘You will have the chance to rectify your failure, Bragus,’ he said, ‘You will take your chariots and your people and slow up the Roman’s advance. Gain us some time to gather our army at the Medway.’

  Bragus got to his feet, grateful for the chance he had been given.

  ‘How long do you need, lord?’ he asked.

  Caratacus stared at Bragus for a few moments.

  ‘The Druids will write your clan’s name in the standing stones of Afallon,’ he said eventually and, with a nod, dismissed the warrior without another word.

  Bragus exited the tent and paused in the open air, looking up at the stars as the devastating implications sank in. Only the names of kings, or clans long dead to the memory of the tribe were immortalised by Druidic inscriptions. He had expected to lose his own life but Caratacus’s adjudication was catastrophic to his people. The condemnation of his clan’s name to the Afallon stones meant that the king had written them off and expected every man woman and child of his clan to confront the Romans, fighting everything at their disposal. A collective suicidal mission from which there would be no return.

  It took the rest of the night for Bragus to ride back to his village, and, dismounting at the outskirts, he walked amongst the huts on the wooded slopes of the river valley, taking in the familiar evening sounds of those he knew so well. As he led his horse back to his family’s hut he received greeting after greeting from familiar faces and he felt alien pangs of emotion as he realised the respect in the eyes of those who trusted him would soon be replaced with accusation and disappointment when they found out his failure had condemned them to die at the end of a Roman blade.

  Bragus’s loyalty knew no limits and the thought of not carrying out Caratacus’s orders didn’t cross his mind. It was his fate to die in the service of his king and he accepted that it was the duty of every tribe to protect their homeland to the death, but, for the first time in his life, he doubted the king’s instructions. As a young man he would not have thought twice about leading the whole tribe into the jaws of death, but, since his wife had died in childbirth five years ago, leaving him two beautiful children, the burden of fatherhood had softened his heart and opened his eyes. He looked up at the skies as if seeking guidance from his dead wife’s spirit, his face screwing up as he remembered all the heart wrenching pain that she endured to deliver the babies, knowing full well that she would not survive to see them grow up.

  ‘Was it all in vain?’ he whispered in anguish, remembering Mira’s weak smile, the pain of her ravaged body forgotten as she held the babies for the first and last time. ‘Did the gods really want you to suffer so much to produce two beautiful children just to take them away again so soon?’ He lifted his hands to cover his face remembering the last conversation he had had with the woman who had given her life to bear him both a son and daughter.

  ‘Look after them,’ she had said weakly as her life ebbed, and, as she had died, he had made a solemn promise.

  ‘I will, Mira,’ he had vowed through his tears, ‘By the gods, I promise I will!’

  With a heavy heart, he continued to his hut to make the arrangements for his tribe to face the might of the Roman army, unaware that even as he walked, the time and place of the conflict had already been taken out of his hands by the men from across the seas.

  Chapter 20

  Gwydion sat on his horse near to the king’s tent. They had received instruction to be ready to ride at dawn and head west to the Medway river. Caratacus was livid that the choice of battlefield had been denied to him due to the surprise landings by the Romans, but had hastily reorganized his forces to best use his strengths. He needed wide open space to deploy his chariots and needed to take his army beyond the two rivers if he was to have any chance against the enemy cavalry. Subsequently over sixty thousand warriors made their way westward towards the ford across the Medway with orders to reform on the far side.

  Caratacus emerged from his tent and mounted his own horse alongside Idwal and Togodumnus. Gwydion and the rest of the king’s bodyguard followed close behind as the whole entourage headed north.

  Togodumnus rode just behind the two kings but soon dropped back amongst the following men, much happier to be amongst warriors rather than politicians. He manoeuvred his horse until he rode alongside Gwydion.

  ‘Well,’ said Togodumnus, ‘It seems that you will have to wait a while longer for your first full scale battle.’

  ‘We are patient, sire,’ said Gwydion, ‘Our weapons will be as good tomorrow as they are today.’

  ‘Ah yes, your weapons. As I recall I lost one of my best warriors over a squabble over some bow. Enlighten me why it was worth the life of a good man.’

  ‘He brought on his own death, sire, the bow was but an excuse.’

  ‘That may be so, but humour me. What is so special about this weapon you carry?’

  ‘It is a gift from my father, sire,’ said Gwydion ‘And has been in my family for countless generations.’

  ‘I understand it is a heathen bow,’ said Togodumnus.

  ‘It is in the Parthenian style, sire but was made locally by ancient artisans.’

  ‘Ancient artisans?’

  ‘Yes sire, it is said that this bow will change the course of history.’

  ‘Can I see it?’

  Gwydion considered for a moment before withdrawing the unstrung bow from its leather pouch hanging alongside his leg. Togodumnus examined the weapon with interest.

  ‘It is a beautiful piece of workmanship admittedly,’ he said, ‘But I have seen others as good. Tell me, Deceangli,’ he said, ‘What is to stop me taking this bow from you right now?’

  Gwydion stared at the king’s brother in concern.

  ‘I can’t let you do that, sire,’ he said.

  ‘And how would you stop me? You have ten men, I have sixty thousand. The odds are a little uneven, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘You would have to kill both me and my men, sire,’ said Gwydion, ‘To kill the king’s bodyguard would be seen as a great insult to our tribe and the last thing you want is a war with the Deceangli and the Romans on two different fronts.’

  Togodumnus laughed.

  ‘Fret not, Deceangli,’ he said, ‘You can keep your bow. I will stick to my broadsword.’

  He gave the weapon back and rode forward to rejoin his brother.

  That evening Gwydion and his comrades camped under a clear sky, eating the last of their food but were interrupted when Idwal approached. He joined them at the fire, refusing a share of their meagre meal.

  ‘Worrying times, sire,’ ventured Gwydion.

  ‘They are,’ said the king.

  ‘Do you think Caratacus can turn this around?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Idwal, ‘These Romans are better than I expected. Our people need to be put on a war footing in case he fails. That is why I am here. I need to return to the Cerrig to call our tribe to arms.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Gwydion, ‘O
ur worth here is limited, we need to worry about our own people.’

  ‘You are not coming, Gwydion,’ interrupted Idwal, ‘I want you to stay here and watch what unfolds.’

  ‘Stay here, sire?’ said Gwydion, ‘Surely my sword would be better off defending our own lands.’

  ‘It is just as important that we get information,’ countered Idwal, ‘You speak both the Catuvellauni tongue and that of the Romans so are the best person for the job. You and your men will stay with Caratacus as long as possible, the rest of us leave immediately.’

  ‘But, sire…’ started Gwydion.

  ‘But nothing,’ answered Idwal, ‘Avoid getting drawn in to the battle, but wait as long as possible before returning to the Khymru.’ He stood up to leave. ‘Make no mistake Gwydion, this is a very important task, I will await your report in the Cerrig.’

  ‘Yes, sire,’ said Gwydion and watched Idwal disappear into the darkness.

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  Gwydion and his men travelled with the retreating army for two days until they reached the Medway and waited patiently for the tidal river to reduce in level until their turn came to cross the ford, and over the next few days, the land between the rivers became crowded with the throng of warriors and their families. Gwydion and his troop spent most days foraging for food as they waited for instructions. Every day thousands of warriors waited for orders as news filtered through about the rearguard action being fought by Caratacus’s cavalry. Eventually the monotony was broken when a rider rode into Gwydion’s camp.

  ‘Who is the one known as Gwydion?’ asked the warrior.

  ‘I am,’ came the reply.

  ‘It is said you speak the Roman tongue.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then come with me, your services are required.’