by Kevin Ashman
The charioteers were almost rabid in their battle fever and hacked every living thing apart until there was none left to kill. They remounted their chariots, elated at the initial success and turned their attentions to the infantry battle to their front, but, before they could move forward, a hail of crossbow bolts slammed into riders and horses alike.
The remaining chariots spun to race headlong towards the line of Scorpio operators lining the edge of the wood. One more volley hit the chariots, though this time it was not as devastating as nerves affected many operators’ aims.
‘Retreat!’ shouted the Tribune and every operator shouldered their Scorpio to run up the wooded hill as fast as their heavy weapons allowed.
Seeing their flight, the euphoric warriors dismounted from their chariots and raced after them, sensing an easy victory over the unit that had decimated their ranks. Only twenty paces lay between the labouring Roman’s and the pursuing warriors when the odds swung massively in the legion’s favour.
From behind what seemed like every tree sprung an auxiliary light infantryman, each armed with a curved sword and round shield and the whole cohort swarmed down through the forest to meet the stalled charioteers in close conflict, outnumbering their enemy two to one. Though the charioteers were fearless, they had already fought one battle and had climbed up the steep hill during the pursuit, tiring themselves out in the process. The light infantry, by comparison, were fresh, dominated the high ground and had the momentum of the downhill charge to aid the impact of their assault. There was no contest and warriors fell like hay before the scythe at the ferocity of the auxiliary assault. The few warriors that managed to regain their chariots only managed to get a few hundred yards back up the plain before they were run down by the cavalry and the last of the charioteers fell beneath Roman blades.
----
Back on the plain, Cassus gasped for breath as he recovered from his exertions. He was covered with blood and whilst most of it was Britannic, there was some of his own running down his face, the result of a glancing blow from a barbarian club. He was lucky. A full blow would have crushed his skull like an egg.
A comrade tended to his wound as he drunk deeply from his flask. The first three ranks had been withdrawn as the rear troops had come through their lines to provide fresh impetus in the battle, and, at last, the superior numbers and discipline of the legion started to take its toll on the enemy.
Bodies lay everywhere and the natural barrier of dead and dying human flesh piled high across the battlefield meant that there were lulls in the conflict as either side scrambled over the corpses to fight their opponent. Eventually the signal sounded across the valley, and the surrounding cohorts stopped the attack on the few hundred survivors that were left in the centre of the plain. Many were women and children, and they formed a screaming protective circle around their leader who lay wounded in the centre of the throng. Though the killing had stopped, stabbing Pilae were held against the outer circle to hold back the barbarians and gradually the furore died down as the tribe realised they were beaten. Translators recruited from local tribes instructed the survivors to sit down and eventually over two hundred men women and children sat or squatted on the floor in despair as they awaited their fate.
Nasica rode slowly out of the wood on his charger, dressed in full military regalia accompanied by the other officers of the legion. The ranks of the surrounding auxiliaries opened to let the group through and they stopped their horses, fifty metres from the prisoners.
‘Casualties?’ asked Nasica simply.
‘Still counting, sir,’ said the Tribune, ‘But we estimate sixty auxiliary cavalry and a dozen legionaries dead, including Centurion Scipio from the Exploratores. About twice as many wounded.’
Nasica grimaced. The casualties were higher than he had anticipated and stained the victory.
‘The blades on the chariots took us by surprise,’ said the Tribune. ‘They will not do so again.’
‘How many charioteers survived?’
‘None, sire,’ replied the Tribune, ‘Though their chief lies wounded amongst this lot!’
‘Instruct the legion to build a camp,’ continued Nasica, ‘We will stay here until our wounded are ready to march. I will send instructions as to the prisoner’s fate shortly.’ He turned and rode back to the formed up lines of the legion.
The engineers quickly identified a suitable location for the fort where the ground was dry enough to ensure suitable conditions, but soft enough to be able to dig. The fresher cohorts started to dig the ditches, using the soil to build a high bank on the inner edge and topped with the sharpened stakes that every legionary carried.
Nasica sat in his tent, receiving updates about the battle from his commanders. He sent the scout unit out to retrieve Scipio’s corpse and to burn the enemy village while a cohort of light infantry were sent into the forests to winkle out any stragglers that may have escaped. In addition, he sent messengers to General Plautius, updating him about the situation and in particular the tactics used by their enemy. This was the first pitched battle against any Britannic tribe and information regarding the way they fought was priceless, especially the chariots. When the most pressing jobs had been done, and the wounded had been tended to, he turned his attention to the fate of the prisoners.
‘We have to send a message to these heathen,’ he said to the gathered officers, ‘One that will spread like wildfire. I have made my decision. The women will be sent back to serve as slaves in Rome. The chief will join them for his fate will be decided by the senate.’
A murmur of agreement rippled through the officers. It was usual for captured chiefs to be paraded through the streets of Rome before being executed by the Praetorian Guard, usually by throttling.
‘The hags and the female children,’ continued Nasica ‘Will be released to spread the news about the folly of opposing Rome, but not before they witness the fate of the men.’ He paused, looking around the group of hardened soldiers and the lesser experienced officers. ‘At dawn tomorrow, every male barbarian will be crucified along the river bank as retribution for the casualties inflicted by their chariots. Tribune, you will make the arrangements. Ensure they are in full view of the surviving prisoners and only when the crows have plucked the eyes of the last rotting corpse will you release the hags to return to their clans.’
----
The scouts retrieved the head and corpse of their revered Centurion and built a funeral pyre on the edge of the river. Nasica had given them a frightened captive to accompany Scipio to the afterlife and Prydain had to hold back the nausea as the boy was thrown alive into the inferno, his screams and thrashing lasting only seconds before the flames took their toll. Scipio had been honoured and now his soul had a slave to see to his every need. The scouts were issued wine to celebrate the life and death of their leader, and, though they were allowed to join with the rest of the cavalry in the rape of the prisoner women, they preferred to sit around the funeral pyre, drinking themselves into oblivion. One however sat slightly separate from the rest, staring across the slow moving water to the setting sun, sipping his wine slowly as he contemplated the day’s events.
Cassus approached the Scouts camp, clutching his own flask of wine. He spotted Prydain sat leaning against the trunk of the tree.
‘Hail, Prydain,’ he said, ‘I heard you had joined the scouts. How are you?’
‘I don’t know,’ sighed Prydain, ‘Something doesn’t seem right. All this killing and raping, I just feel sick at the futility of it all.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Cassus, ‘You knew what we were letting ourselves in for when we signed up. What’s made you change your mind?’
‘It’s not the fighting I have a problem with,’ said Prydain, ‘But the aftermath. Did you hear they are going to crucify the men tomorrow?’
‘We have to lay down a marker to the barbarians,’ said Cassus, ‘By doing this we will save many Roman lives.’
‘Or cause their deaths,’ answered Prydain b
efore taking a swig from his amphora.
‘What do you mean?’ asked Cassus.
Prydain looked up.
‘Warriors expect to die in battle!’ he said, ‘We expect to die in battle. I can even understand the crucifixion of the men, but in the name of the gods Cassus, why the children?’
‘Some of those boys were armed with knives,’ said Cassus, ‘And would slit your throat given half a chance.’
‘Yes and others are only just off their mothers breast. I joined up to fight for Rome and take my chances against barbarian warriors, not to murder babies. Nasica has gone too far this time and I am beginning to wonder who the barbarians are here, us or them?’
‘You don’t mean that, Prydain,’ said Cassus, ‘It’s the wine talking. Why don’t you come with me and have some fun with some of the women? Take your mind off it for a while.’
‘These are not the willing girls of back home, or even whores who will accept your coin for their services,’ said Prydain, ‘They are mothers and wives who would rather die than give themselves to you. I know you have a lot of faults Cassus, but I never had you down as a rapist?’
‘Spoils of war, Prydain,’ said Cassus getting annoyed. ‘It is our right as conquerors.’
‘Well, don’t be surprised if you get your throat ripped out,’ snapped Prydain.
‘I’ve thought of that,’ answered Cassus, ‘I’ll pick one with a child and ensure the mother understands that if she doesn’t participate enthusiastically, then their child will join the men on the crosses.’
Prydain stared in disbelief.
‘Cassus, what have you become? Where is the compassion and the mercy?’
‘I am a legionary,’ shouted Cassus, ‘And today I fought for my life alongside my comrades. Some of them didn’t make it, Prydain, some of them will never again see the slopes of home. Where was their compassion? Where was their mercy? No, the barbarian men deserve their fate and the women are nothing more than spoils of war. The quicker you learn that the better.’ He threw down his flask in disgust and stomped away into the darkness.
‘I don’t know who you are any more, Cassus,’ shouted Prydain after the retreating figure, ‘You shame your father’s name.’
Cassus had disappeared and Prydain sat back against the tree contemplating the outburst.
‘Oh shit!’ he said eventually, realising he had over reacted. Despite his arrogance, Cassus had been in the front line, facing barbarian blades only hours before and the last thing he needed was a fellow soldier judging him on his morals. Realising he had been too harsh, Prydain followed Cassus into the darkness, walking towards the burning village.
----
There was nothing left of the barbarian encampment except for piles of glowing embers, their glow reflected in the eyes of the occasional scavenging dog skulking in the darkness. Prydain walked towards one of the fires before a sudden movement in the bushes caught his eye and he turned to face the unknown.
‘Cassus, is that you?’ he asked.
There was no answer.
‘Cassus, don’t be a prick,’ said Prydain, ‘If it’s you, say so.’
When there was still no answer, Prydain drew his Gladius and walked slowly towards the bushes. Although the auxiliaries had swept the area there was always the possibility that the odd warrior had escaped the search and lay hidden in the undergrowth. He reached the tree line and leant forward to move a suspect bush with his left hand, whilst raising his Gladius with his right, ready to strike, but stopped in surprise as he stared down at the sight before him. It wasn’t a hiding enemy warrior gazing back up at him but the wide tearful eyes of a boy and a girl, each no more than five years old, staring up at him in absolute terror and clinging tightly to each other for mutual assurance.
For what seemed an age, Prydain stared down at the children in confusion until the little girl lifted up her tiny arm, offering Prydain something she had clenched in her fist. Prydain looked at the offered gift in confusion, not realising what it was until the firelight gleamed of its surface. It was a Torc, beautifully braided from the finest golden cords and its pendant engraved with a bird of prey with tiny green stones for its eyes. It was a beautiful ornament and had obviously belonged to someone of very high status within the tribe, perhaps even the chief.
Prydain’s mind was spinning. Here he was, stood in the remnants of a burning enemy village being offered a priceless Torc by a couple of tiny children, obviously in a pathetic attempt to buy their lives from this terrifying invader. They must have been given this ornament by the owner and instructed what to do if they were found. The girl still held the ornament up and let out a quiet whimper, struggling to control her fear as she stared up at the raised sword. Prydain lowered his Gladius and took the Torc, placing it in the inner pocket of his tunic.
‘Shhh,’ he said quickly putting his finger to his lips in the universal gesture for silence and looked around to see if he was being watched. The sky was now pitch black and the two semi naked children were shivering in the biting cold of the night. Prydain undid his cape and wrapped it around them while reassuring them quietly.
‘Stay here and be quiet,’ he said, though knowing full well that they didn’t understand him. He pointed at the ground and repeated himself.
‘You stay here, understand? You must be quiet.’ He smiled gently in reassurance and placed his finger gently on either of the children’s mouths in turn indicating the need for silence. The boy nodded his understanding and mimicked the gesture with his own hand.
‘Good,’ said Prydain, and he reached inside his tunic to retrieve some Buccellatum biscuit, snapping it in half to give some to each of the twins.
He thought quickly. He should turn them in but if he did, the girl, despite her age would probably fall victim to the disgusting carnal desires of the Batavian cavalry units, while the boy’s fate surely lay on the cross.
Prydain watched the famished children devouring the hard biscuit. Whether it was the wine or his conscience kicking in, he made his decision. He may not be able to do anything for the hundred or so children whose fate had already been decided, but he could certainly save these two.
‘Stay here!’ he said for the last time and walked back out of the bushes, leaving the siblings huddled under his black cape. What he was about to do, was stupid, ill thought out and would probably cost the lives of him and the children, but his decision was made. He ran back into the darkness towards the tented camp.
Chapter 23
Whilst the Ninth were wiping out the Bragus’s clan, the three remaining legions made their way northward with ruthless efficiency. The aim was to take on the might of Caratacus and close in on Britannia’s capital, Camulodunum but though they had faced small pockets of resistance the vast bulk of the barbarian army had retreated before them in confusion. However, as they approached the Medway, it became apparent that the Catuvellauni were reorganising and making their plans to retaliate.
Plautius called a war council and was deep in conversation with a scout Centurion when the officers arrived. They waited patiently, making small talk until the Centurion finally saluted the General, and left the tent to return to his unit. The waiting officers moved out of the way as the commander approached the central table to unroll the parchment given to him by the departed Centurion, weighing each corner down with a wine tankard.
‘Right, gentlemen,’ announced Plautius, ‘We have a problem. As you are aware, the advance has stalled due to this cursed river.’ He indicated the feature on the recently drawn map. ‘Our lines are strong however this is as far as we can go at the moment. Caratacus and his barbarians are entrenched on the far side and while we listen to the taunts of his warriors, he gathers his strength.’
‘We have nothing to fear from the barbarians,’ said Vespasian, ‘They are disorganised and have presented little problem to our legions so far.’
‘That may be so,’ said Plautius, ‘But so far, we have had the advantage of surprise. They now know we are here and how
we operate. With this river holding us up, they can chose the manner and place in which to take us on.’
‘The carpenters are felling trees as we speak to make the extra boats,’ said Geta, ‘We have a hundred assault boats being brought up from the rear but they will not be enough. We need a full month before we can storm the far bank in any strength.’
‘We do not have a month,’ said Plautius, ‘We need to take them on tomorrow or the next day at the latest, while they are still disorganised and still trapped between the rivers.’
‘The river can be forded here,’ said Vespasian, ‘The bridge is burnt but a column may be able to cross at low tide.’
‘Our men would be slaughtered,’ said Plautius, ‘The far bank at that point is heavily defended.’
‘Then we must take steps to weaken that defence,’ said Vespasian, ‘My men hold no fear of these inbreeds.’
‘I have no doubt about the bravery or ability of your men, Vespasian,’ said Plautius, ‘But it’s not the spears that concern me or indeed whether we can cross, but that which awaits us on the other side.’ He went on to describe the landscape on the far side of the river that he had witnessed from a nearby hilltop earlier in the day.
‘First there is the river,’ he said, ‘The flow is fast at low tide and too deep when the tide is high. The boats will take only ten men each, a total force of just a thousand and with the bank being covered by enemy spears, our men would be sitting ducks as they founder in the mire. Even if we succeed, the ground then opens up to perfect chariot country and they have over a thousand waiting to fall on our exhausted men!’ He straightened up, and, for the next hour, the officers discussed the assault options. Finally Plautius called for quiet.
‘Okay,’ he said, ‘I have heard enough. Vespasian, I believe your Batavian cohorts have a particular skill when it comes to river crossings.’
