Roman

by Kevin Ashman

  ‘And what of us?’ asked Gwydion.

  ‘You are free to leave,’ said Caratacus, ‘Call it payment for your service at Medway.’

  ‘Thank you, sire,’ said Gwydion and stood up to leave, but, as they went Gwenno turned back around.

  ‘Sire,’ she said, ‘One more thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘You say you are going to join the Silures?’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘We are also going south,’ she said glancing at Gwydion, ‘Perhaps we could join you.’

  ‘Gwenno!’ interrupted Gwydion, ‘We have taken enough of the king’s hospitality, we should go.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Caratacus, ‘The girl makes sense. On your own you are easy targets. With me, at least you will have the strength of my army to protect you, modest as it is.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked Gwydion, ‘We would not want to put you out.’

  ‘You won’t be putting us out,’ said Caratacus, ‘You will hunt for yourself and look after your own horses. All I ask is that you keep away from my men.’ He glanced at Gwenno before adding, ‘They have not had the pleasure of a woman’s company for a long time. I will warn them off but give no guarantees.’

  ‘I understand,’ said Gwenno, ‘We will be no problem.’

  ‘Wait outside,’ said Caratacus, ‘I will send my servant to find a tent for you. Get some sleep for tomorrow we enter the lands of the Silures’

  Chapter 43

  The sky was still dark when the Roman attack started. It wasn’t the full frontal ranks of armoured legionaries that were so typical of Roman battles, but a silent and deadly act of subterfuge. First of all the sentries were taken one by one in silence, their throats slashed before they were lowered gently to the ground, their blood flowing through the hands of their assassins.

  Once all the outlying guards were taken, the scouts stripped them of their heavy woollen capes and donned them over their own tunics. Suitably disguised, the scouts wandered unnoticed through the encampment, taking the opportunity to kill as many men as possible without being seen.

  This was what they were good at, and they embraced their deadly role completely, seeking out the warriors who slept alone out of the reach of any camp fire light. Many Catuvellauni died where they slept without even knowing they were in danger.

  One of the scouts walked quietly amongst the smouldering camp fires, the fresh blood on his spear unnoticed in the darkness. An armed guard walking amongst the tribe at this time of the night was hardly unusual. He noticed a tent over on the edge of the camp and made his way over to see if there was a better opportunity there.

  As he approached he could see he was in luck. An older man lay wrapped in a fur cape, snoring heavily. The scout stood alongside the sleeping man and adjusted the grip on his spear before placing the point over the man’s chest, bracing to plunge the weapon deep into his heart.

  ‘Stop!’ screamed Gwydion, emerging from behind a nearby tree where he had gone to urinate, ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  The scout spun around at the shout realising that this was the point of the assault that was inevitable. Below him, the sleeping man woke up, alerted by the shouting. The scout continued to stare at Gwydion and without as much as a flinch, drove his spear down into the terrified man’s chest.

  Gwydion’s confusion lasted only seconds but was enough time to allow the assassin to withdraw his spear and hurl it at him with full force. Gwydion ducked instinctively, causing the spear to miss his head by inches. The scout disappeared into the darkness as Gwydion realised the danger.

  ‘Alarm!’ he screamed at the top of his voice waking everyone in the camp, ‘To arms!’

  The camp erupted into life as the warriors rushed to their weapons and many more lost their lives as the scouts took advantage of the confusion to inflict death in the darkness. Gwydion crouched at the speared man on the floor.

  ‘Holler,’ he said gently, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll get help.’

  ‘No!’ gasped the king’s servant weakly, ‘It’s too late, my life is done. Bury me deep Deceangli. None of this burning nonsense, I want to be wrapped in the earth’s blanket.’ He coughed violently, blood spurting from his mouth. ‘Promise me,’ he continued grabbing Gwydion’s arm, ‘A grave not a fire.’

  Gwydion stared at the dying man, realising how close he himself had come to death. Holler had given up his tent for Gwenno to have privacy and a few moments ago, Gwydion had been laying alongside the king’s servant outside her tent. If he hadn’t risen to answer the call of nature, it could be him lying there, gasping his last breath.

  ‘I promise, Holler,’ he said, ‘I will dig it myself.’

  ‘Thank you,’ whispered Holler, ‘I guess not all Deceangli are bad.’ He coughed again and with a last gasp, the light left his eyes as his body gave up its impossible struggle.

  Caratacus ran out of the darkness, carrying his broad sword.

  ‘Explain,’ he demanded coldly.

  ‘There is an assassin in the camp,’ said Gwydion, ‘Maybe more than one. I saw him kill Holler.’

  ‘Bring your weapon,’ said Caratacus, ‘Let’s find this man.’

  Gwenno crawled out of her tent, wrapped in her cape against the cold.

  ‘Gwydion,’ she called, ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Gwenno, get back inside,’ he ordered and retrieved his sword from his sheath. ’Stay hidden,’ he added, ‘I will be back as soon as I can.’ He followed Caratacus into the camp, alarmed at the sound of conflict in the darkness. It was obvious that, however many there were, they were causing havoc amongst the Catuvellauni.

  By the time the sun had risen, over thirty men lay dead or dying across the Catuvellauni camp. Four of the attackers also lay dead and were thrown in a pile outside Caratacus’s tent. The leaders of the tribe gathered around and Caratacus called for silence.

  ‘Is that the last?’ he asked.

  ‘As far as we know,’ said one of the warriors, ‘Though many escaped in the confusion.’

  ‘They wear familiar clothing,’ said Caratacus, ‘Who are they?’

  ‘They wear the cloaks of our own people,’ said the warrior, ‘Taken from their dead bodies.’

  Gwydion looked down at the bodies, noticing something familiar. He bent down and lifted one of the legs for a better look.

  ‘Caligae,’ he said simply.

  ‘What?’ asked Caratacus.

  ’Caligae.’ repeated Gwydion standing up, ‘Military sandals!’ He looked at Caratacus, ‘Roman!’

  ‘Roman?’ questioned Caratacus in astonishment, ‘How can this be?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Gwydion, ‘But there is no mistake, look at their weapons.’

  ‘They must have followed us,’ said Caratacus, ‘We can waste no more time. Gather the men, we move out immediately.’

  The leaders left to assemble the rest of the army and Caratacus turned to Gwydion.

  ‘You have my gratitude,’ he said, ‘If it wasn’t for your alarm, many more of our men would lie dead.’

  ‘Luck,’ said Gwydion, ‘I just happened to be awake at the right time.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I am grateful. Gather your things. For the rest of the journey, you and your woman will travel close to me.’

  ‘How long do we have?’ asked Gwydion.

  ‘About an hour,’ said Caratacus, ‘Why?’

  Gwydion looked across at the wrapped corpse of Holler.

  ‘I have a promise to keep,’ he said, ‘Where can I get a shovel?’

  An hour later, the remnants of Caratacus’s army were riding south into the lands of the Silures. High on a nearby hill, a lone Roman soldier pulled out a small mirror from his cape and focused the suns reflection on the raised finger of his outstretched arm, pointing its beam southward. The signal was repeated along a line of hills and within minutes, ten miles away, a runner crashed through the woods to address a waiting officer.

  ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘The signal has been received, they’
re on their way.’

  ‘Good,’ said Mateus and turned to Remus, ‘Is everything ready?’

  ‘The trap is set,’ said Remus, ‘Let them come.’

  ----

  Gwydion rode alongside Caratacus at the head of the column. They had ridden hard for an hour before easing the pace to rest the horses. Gwenno had been given Holler’s horse and rode just behind the two men.

  ‘What is your plan when you find the Silures?’ asked Gwydion.

  ‘Try to convince them to join with me to face the Romans,’ said Caratacus, ‘They have a feared reputation and shouldn’t take much convincing.’

  ‘You have to find them first,’ said Gwydion, ‘I understand they hide their villages deep in the forests and move often, depending on the season.’

  ‘They will find us,’ said Caratacus, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if we were being watched even as we speak.’ They rode for another ten minutes before the king reined in his horse and held up his hand to halt the column.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked and Gwydion stared down the valley following the kings stare. At the centre of the valley, two freshly cut tree limbs had been lashed together to form a cross over ten foot high. Suspended from the cross bar, hung a naked man, his head hanging down and his chest covered with blood. They stared in fascination and behind them Gwenno stifled a gasp of horror.

  ‘Is this the work of the Silures?’ she asked.

  ‘I have never heard of them using crucifixion as a means of execution,’ said Caratacus, ‘Only one people favour the method.’

  ‘Who?’ asked Gwenno.

  ‘Romans,’ answered Gwydion.

  ‘Who do you think it is?’ asked Gwenno.

  ‘It is one of my men,’ said Caratacus, ‘He must have been taken in the confusion last night.’

  ‘But why do this? Why didn’t they just kill him?’

  Before any of the men could answer, the crucified man raised his head and let out an unintelligible scream.

  ‘By the god’s, he’s still alive,’ said Gwenno, ‘We have to help him,’ and before anyone could stop her, she dug her heels into her horses flank.

  ‘Gwenno stop!’ called Gwydion but she was already on her way.

  ‘Leave her go,’ ordered the king sharply, ‘It may be a trap.’

  ‘I am aware of the risk,’ said Gwydion, ‘But I’ve lost her once, I won’t do so again.’ He galloped down the field to join Gwenno at the base of the cross. As he reined in his horse, he realised why the man’s chest was covered with blood. Not only had his eyes been gouged out but his nose and ears had been cut off along with his lips. The whole effect was horrific and whilst it hadn’t been fatal, the pain the mutilation had caused was obvious.

  ‘Cut him down!’ cried Gwenno.

  ‘It is too late,’ said Gwydion, ‘He is as good as dead.’

  ‘Gwydion,’ she shouted, ‘Cut him down!’

  Gwydion drew his sword and positioned his horse to catch the man’s body before cutting the bindings. He lowered him to the ground and Gwenno dismounted to comfort him.

  ‘They have torn out his tongue,’ she sobbed, ‘Oh Gwydion, what manner of beasts are these?’

  Gwydion ignored her, and stared at a deer that had bolted from the cover of the forest to race across the clearing not fifty yards away.

  ‘Gwenno get up,’ he said.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she hissed, ‘Have some pity Gwydion, give me your flask, the least we can do is give this man some water before he dies.’

  ‘Gwenno,’ said Gwydion slowly, ‘Listen very carefully. Stand up and get on your horse. We have to get out of here, right now.’

  Gwenno recognised the seriousness of his voice and stood up.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ she asked.

  ‘That tree line,’ he said, ‘There’s someone in there.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘There is no way that deer would risk passing a man unless there was a greater risk behind it.’

  ‘What sort of risk?’

  ‘The worst kind,’ he said, ‘Another man!’

  Gwenno spun around to the sound of galloping horses but was relieved to see it was just Caratacus and his warriors closing in on them.

  ‘It’s okay,’ shouted Gwydion, ‘I’ve seen it, we’re coming now.’

  ‘Too late!’ boomed Caratacus, ‘There is nowhere to go.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ asked Gwydion.

  ‘Listen!’ said Caratacus, and Gwydion strained to hear anything above the noise of the horses. Eventually he heard the sound of drums, increasing in volume as it got louder. Suddenly he span around as he realised it was coming from both ends of the valley and as he watched, three lines of Roman infantry, line abreast marched up the valley towards them, beating their swords against their shields as they marched.

  ‘That way?’ asked Gwydion pointing back the way they had come.

  ‘The valley is blocked by archers,’ said Caratacus, ‘To go that way would be suicide, the only way out is there,’ he pointed at the advancing infantry. ‘If we ride hard we can break their lines, some of us will die but many will get through.’

  Suddenly the drumming stopped and silence fell. The Roman ranks had stopped and Caratacus could see the mounted Centurion to the front of the infantry staring at him across the plain. The Centurion raised his right hand and after a few seconds, dropped it down sharply. Hundreds more infantry ran from the forest, reinforcing the Roman lines and Caratacus knew they were trapped.

  ‘Dismount!’ he roared, ‘We will make our stand here. Our swords are as keen as theirs. It will be a fair battle.’

  But Caratacus was wrong. They weren’t in the centre of a battlefield, they were in a killing zone carefully selected by Remus for maximum effect. A hundred yards away, Mateus gave his own signal and two Century’s of archers drew back their bows, aiming high into the sky.

  ‘Loose arrows!’ roared Mateus and one hundred and sixty bowstrings propelled death from the flanking hills. Even before the first volley landed, the second lethal volley was airborne. As expected, most of the warriors survived by using their round shields to protect them from the hail of death but the horses had no such protection. When Remus gave the order to stop less than a minute later, most were lying on the ground already dead or dying.

  The Centurion was satisfied. The only advantage Caratacus’s army had held over his cohort was the number of horses, and, now that threat had been eliminated, the enemy were isolated and had no choice but to face them.

  Remus dismounted and gave the reins to an auxiliary to take away. He fastened the chinstrap of his helmet before drawing his Gladius. Raising it in the air he gave the command.

  ‘Cohort ready,’ he shouted before levelling it towards the shocked Catuvellauni warriors. Advaaance!’

  ----

  ‘Are you alright?’ shouted Gwydion at Gwenno over the din.

  ‘I think so,’ said Gwenno and raised herself up from her grisly refuge. If it wasn’t for Gwydion’s horse they would be dead but the beast had taken the first hail of arrows even as they were wondering what was happening. After the initial panic the horse had collapsed in pain and as it lay dying on the floor, Gwydion had dragged Gwenno down to lie tight against its body, a still breathing shelter against the hail of death.

  Gwydion knew they had been lucky to survive. All around him men were screaming in rage and pain and responding to the Roman challenge with their own battle cries. Already some individuals had charged forward down the slope to launch a futile lone attack on the solid wall of armour approaching Caratacus’s army.

  ‘Gwydion,’ cried Gwenno, ‘What are we going to do?’

  He turned to the girl and grabbed her by the shoulders.

  ‘Gwenno, listen to me,’ he ordered, ‘Whatever happens stay close to the king, do you understand? Stay by his side at all times.’

  ‘But why?’ cried Gwenno.

  ‘There is no chance we can win this battle,’ he said, retrieving h
is shield from the dead horse. ‘Our only hope is that they will want to take Caratacus alive and will hold back from killing him when the end comes. If you are close to him, they may spare you as well.’

  ‘What about you?’ asked Gwenno grabbing his arm.

  ‘I cannot stand by while my countrymen die,’ he said, ‘I will take my place alongside them. ‘

  ‘What do you mean countrymen?’ she asked, ‘They are Catuvellauni not Deceangli.’

  ‘They are Britons,’ snapped Gwydion, ‘As are we.’

  The anger in his voice shocked her, and she released his arm.

  ‘I’m sorry, Gwenno,’ he said, ‘But there is no other way. One more sword may make all the difference. He turned away and ran to join the assembling warriors preparing to defend themselves against the approaching Romans. He barged his way through to join the front row, his voice soon joining those of his new comrades as they roared their defiance.

  Within minutes the sound of a horn sounded above the din and the marching Romans broke into a run as the final assault started. The sound of the charge was answered by the screaming of the warriors as they surged forward to meet the attack in a melee of blood, flesh and bone.

  Cassus was part of the second rank of Romans and added his weight to the man in front to repel the initial clash. For a few moments the killing stalled as body’s were rammed against each other but as was normal in these situations, the pressure inevitably eased and weapons were brought to bear. The Catuvellauni’s ferocious onslaught made some initial headway, but, despite some casualties the Romans took the initiative, stabbing at opportune moments from behind the safety of the body length shields. The relentless pressure took its toll and warriors started to fall before the Roman wall of steel.

  The legionary in front of Cassus dropped to the ground, his skull cleaved clean in two by a huge axe that had smashed through his helmet as if it was parchment. Cassus stepped over his body and drove his Gladius into the warrior’s face who had wielded the axe. The training kicked in and he joined in the advance, killing ruthlessly alongside his comrades. In the centre of the front line Centurion Remus fought like a madman. His skill with a sword was unmatched and his manic style belied the technical ability that he wielded with such lethal efficiency. A path of dead warriors fell before him and a dozen Romans joined Remus as he made his way towards Caratacus.