by James Mace
“Thank you, Caratacus,” Cartimandua spoke up, interrupting the men. “We have much to discuss and will let you know our intentions in due course. Meantime you will remain as my guests this evening.”
“But your husband has assured me that the Brigantes will aid us,” the king said, his face twisted in puzzlement.
“A premature assurance, and one that was not his to give.”
The words clearly angered her consort, who looked down and scowled in frustration.
“But I promise you that we will bring your request to our council and then render our decision after we determine what is best for our people.”
Caratacus snorted and rose to his feet, making ready to leave. “I should have known,” he said with a trace of contempt in his voice. “King Breogan was a lapdog to the Romans, yet I had hoped his daughter was of braver stock.”
“You will have our answer in due time,” Cartimandua persisted, keeping her voice calm. “Insult my father again and you will no longer be counted among the friends of the Brigantes.”
Her words bit into her husband, though Caratacus appeared unaffected.
“Apologies,” he said. “I only hope that when the time comes, the Brigantes will recognize who their true friends are.” He then nodded to Venutius and promptly exited the hall.
“What have you done?” Venutius snapped as soon as his friend was out of earshot. “You would deny our people a chance at martial glory whilst making an enemy of one of my closest friends? We risk war with Caratacus after he deals with the Romans!”
“And what do we risk if we do join him?” Cartimandua replied smoothly. “Even if Caratacus is able to raise up half this isle to fight the Romans, does he think they’ll all willingly subjugate themselves to his command? In all of Britannia, every king and war chief’s bravery is only matched by his ego. He may be able to rally masses to fight, but he will not be able to control them. And just how long does he think he can keep such a force in the field? The Romans can simply wait them out, if they wish, and then overwhelm each tribe individually at their leisure.”
Venutius spat on the ground in contempt. “Caratacus is right. I thought I had married a warrior queen, not a Roman boot-licker!”
“You forget yourself, husband.” Cartimandua’s eyes narrowed, her patience waning. “It is I who rules Brigantes, not you, and it is I who is responsible for the welfare of our people. Never forget your place or attempt to undermine me in front of guests ever again; else I’ll divorce you and cast you out of my house!”
Venutius bowed and backed out of the hall, though his face was twisted in a defiant sneer. As soon as he left, Cartimandua found herself sweating, and she had difficulty breathing. She was startled when the outer door was opened and Alaric walked in.
“My queen,” he said, quickly noting her disturbed demeanor. “I apologize if I’ve come at a bad time.”
“Not at all,” she replied, wiping a hand over her face and quickly composing herself.
“I just came to tell you that Caratacus and his escort have been put up in a guest house, although they looked more than a little put out.”
“That’s hardly surprising,” the queen grumbled. “And I suppose most of this evening’s intended feast will go unconsumed. Those impudent bastards would lead my people to destruction and death!” She then paused and looked down momentarily. “Forgive me, brother. I know these times will not be easy for you, given your history with the Romans.”
“I finally told Landon about my past,” Alaric remarked. “He was fascinated, though I cannot say he was surprised. And as much as it pains me to say this, I think mother’s passing was in some ways a blessing. I fear what she would have done if she witnessed legionaries marching across our lands.”
“You know I have an entire kingdom to concern myself with,” Cartimandua replied. “I shall need you to be my eyes in the southeast. You and Landon will take a handful of men and ascertain the intentions of the Cantiaci. It is their kingdom where the Romans will most likely land, if and when they come.”
“Yes, my queen.”
________
Chapter Endnotes:
1 – Boulogne-sur-Mer, France
2 – Southern Wales
3 – Strasbourg, France
4 – Vienna, Austria
5 – Between Vienna and Bratislava, Austria
Chapter X: Final Preparations
Fortress of the Twentieth Legion, Cologne, Germania
February, 43 A.D.
***
For Sempronius and Artorius, and indeed for the entire Twentieth Legion, the announcement that they would be operationally falling under Vespasian during the coming campaign came as a huge relief. Though Legate Glabrio remained at the fortress, he became involved ever less and less in the daily operations of the legion and seemed to be all the gladder for it. Sempronius had given him a daily summary of the legion’s activities and orders from Plautius, yet he hardly paid them any mind. By February, the chief tribune had ceased in even doing this, with nothing ever being said. Camillus continued to work many of the daily administrative tasks, though per Artorius’ directive, he always cleared any correspondence with him before he pressed the legate’s seal into the wax. Four of the six equite tribunes had also voluntarily extended their tours, so as to take part in the invasion.
There had been great emphasis the previous summer on water training and seeing who the best swimmers within each cohort were. Over the winter months, the legion redoubled its efforts on the essential basics of close combat warfare. Artorius had also added extensive training on countering guerrilla warfare. Because the Britons were lightly equipped, faster on their feet than legionaries, and familiar with the terrain, the best the Romans could do was employ defensive measures to minimize the effects of their enemies’ attacks. This was maddeningly frustrating to the soldiers, who hated the idea of being able to do little more than hide behind their shield walls while the Britons attacked them at will with missile weapons.
“You cannot outrun them,” Centurion Metellus admonished his men during one such training session. “If you try, the formation collapses and we’re all fucking dead!”
His response was in rebuke of one of his men’s remarks about not wishing to ‘just stand here, taking it’. Soldiers were cursing under their breath as they marched in testudo formation, where legionaries in the center would hold their shields overhead, covering those in the front and sides. It required the men to get in very close and their movement slowed to a virtual crawl, but it was the best way to protect against arrows, throwing spears, and sling stones. Metellus had tasked a number of men from another century to pelt his soldiers with blunted stakes and training javelins in an attempt to get them used to facing such tactics. He quietly admitted to himself that he hated this as much as his men, especially when a training javelin skipped off the top of his shield and cracked him on the helm.
“Stay with it!” he shouted as his century continued to get pummeled; the soldiers simulating the marauding Britons laughing and shouting insults at the formation.
Artorius watched from a distance as those pelting the slowly advancing formation laughed amongst themselves. Once the century reached a point towards the end of the snow-covered drill field, Metellus barked a series of commands, his legionaries forming into battle lines in a matter of seconds. He halted the formation, addressed his men briefly, and then dismissed them. He was chuckling to himself as he walked over to his father, removing his helmet and rubbing the sore spot where the blunt training javelin had struck him.
“Hateful type of training,” Artorius observed.
“Hateful but necessary,” Metellus replied. He then looked at his helmet, which had a noticeable dent in it. His forehead was bruised, which he rubbed once more while looking at the mark on his helm. “Bugger me, they got me good out there! Had that been a real javelin, I’d probably be dead…”
“Possibly,” Artorius remarked. “At least you didn’t take one in the throat, like I did
last week. Lost my voice for a few days after that.”
“Yes, and I’ll bet the soldier who threw it was shitting himself after,” Metellus laughed.
“Undoubtedly,” Artorius grinned. “Not every day, though, that a ranker can strike his master centurion and get away with it. I saved the admonishment for myself and recommended to his centurion that he give him a day pass for such an impressive throw.”
The duty day had ended with Metellus’ century being the last on the drill field. The sun was already setting, and the two men walked across the fortress towards Artorius’ house. The streets were congested with carts and various covered pallets of supplies that would be needed once they made their final march to the coast. Since the Twentieth Legion would not be returning to Cologne, their half of the fortress would be renovated into a supply depot. For the men of the First Legion there was a sense of jealousy that they were not the ones headed for Britannia.
“Another month and we will start for the coast,” Metellus stated.
“How is Marcia taking it?” Artorius asked. While preparing his men for a lengthy campaign, not to mention permanent move, his son was also adjusting to life as a husband and father. He now had a one-year old son, Titus, and Marcia was pregnant with their second child. Though Marcia hoped for a daughter, they both felt that two children were more than enough, especially as they came very early in their marriage.
“Her greatest fear is our children having to grow up without their father, as I did,” Metellus replied. “In our profession, death in battle or any other number of nefarious ways, is always a possibility. And this is the first time I have gone to war since I’ve known Marcia. She was not in my life when we fought at Braduhenna or during our years in Judea. She also has apprehensions about coming to Britannia, should we be successful in establishing a province there.”
“It won’t be easy,” Artorius noted. “Some will welcome our presence, many will be indifferent, and still there will be others who will fight us to the death. They have the advantage of knowing the terrain, and their warriors will undoubtedly outnumber us. And as you saw, they have the ability to hit us at will with skirmishers while then fading away into the forests.”
“A damned bloody nightmare,” Metellus grunted. “And what advantages do we have? Better weapons and armor, of course; but can we get them to face us in the open?”
“That may be our greatest challenge,” the master centurion replied. “And if they do have a decided numerical superiority, then we could quite possibly lose that battle which we seek. I think this will become a campaign of logistics and diplomacy as much as brute force. Whether using skirmishers or a massed force, the Britons cannot keep their warriors on campaign for very long. As none of the kingdoms have a permanent standing army, they have no concept of maintaining warehouses of rations and equipment to be used during a protracted campaign. Like most barbarians, their wars are very short, lasting maybe three or four months. By fall, those warriors not dead or crippled return to their farms. And if the issue cannot be decided diplomatically by their leaders during the winter months, they will fight it out again in the spring. Therefore, once we establish a stronghold for operations, it will be crucial that we keep our supply lines to the continent open, while making as many friends as possible. In turn, we can march on the kingdoms one at a time as they try and conduct their harvest.”
“A substantial challenge,” Metellus remarked with a furrowed brow. He shrugged. “Well, Julius Caesar did it against the Gauls for nine years!”
“Exactly. And when Vercingetorix failed to break Caesar’s lines of logistics, he knew he was beaten. There was no beating him in open battle, and so all he could do was fall back to his stronghold at Alesia. My only hope is that it doesn’t take us nine years to break our enemies in Britannia.”
It felt strange to Artorius, leaving Cologne, this time never to return. The legion would be making its new home somewhere in Britannia. Though Diana was returning to Rome, Marcia had decided to remain in Cologne, until such time as her husband sent for her.
“There is nothing for me to return to in Rome,” the young woman had explained to Artorius. She had sought out her father-in-law, once she knew their time on the Rhine was growing very short. Though late in her pregnancy, she insisted on going for a walk, as she complained about having spent too much time lying about as it was. Diana was watching after Titus while Marcia and Artorius strolled along one of the paths near the river.
“You do know it could be a couple years until it’s safe for families to travel to Britannia,” Artorius emphasized. “I cannot fault you for not wishing to return to Rome. However, I know Diana would be more at ease if you and the children stayed with her.”
“Her offer is very kind,” Marcia replied. She grinned. “And I know it is not just she who would feel safer if I took my children and returned to Rome. But please understand, Father, my life is with Metellus, and I have to be able to stand on my own, like any good soldier’s wife. I have made friends here, and we will look after each other. After all, I am not the only one whose husband is heading off to war for Juno knows how long.” She then stopped and they turned to face each other, Marcia placing a hand on the side of his face. “You have been very kind to me, and I love you and Diana very much. But it is for us to make our own way in the world now.”
Artorius gave a sad smile and kissed her on the cheek. Though he had not been a part of Marcia’s life, he knew he had always loved her since the time he had seen her as a young child. She may not have been of his bloodline, but he felt as if she had always been his daughter.
“Your mother would be overjoyed if she were able to see you now,” he said.
“I never knew her, and yet I miss her deeply,” Marcia replied. “That sounds silly, I know.”
“Not at all,” Artorius replied, shaking his head. “There are many things we simply cannot understand, and I think the depth of bond between a mother and her child is among those. I am thankful that your children will not grow up deprived of their mother.”
Marcia kissed him on the cheek and then held him close. “Look after my husband, lest my children be deprived of their father.”
They returned to the fortress where Diana lay on a couch, baby Titus fast asleep in her arms. Marcia took the sleeping babe in her arms and kissed Artorius and Diana each on the cheek as she left to spend one last evening with Metellus.
As he reminisced about his words to his daughter-in-law, Artorius tried to remain stoic during his farewell evening with Diana. And yet it was understandably wrought with deep emotion. Both had known the risks when he returned to the legions. Little was said as Diana took him in her arms and kissed him passionately. He carried her up to their bedroom, silently hoping that this would not be the last time he made love her.
It was not just the Romans who knew where the key to their victory lay. At the heart of the former kingdom of the Atrebates, Caratacus called a meeting of the leaders who had pledged to aid him in the pending struggle against the invaders. In addition to his brother and the chief druid, Archantael, there were at least a dozen tribal kings, along with retinues of their subordinate war chiefs.
“You’ve done well,” he said to Archantael as they walked along the short rise that led to where his warriors had erected a stockade and small fort.
“Many revere our ancestors and the commonality of our gods enough to at least put their differences aside for the time being,” the druid replied. “I regret those who did not heed the call of the gods.”
“Yes,” Caratacus said quietly as they approached the throng of kings and warriors.
“Hail, Caratacus, my brother!” Togodumnus shouted, raising his great sword high.
“We will send the Romans to hell!” another man exclaimed.
The king noted the vigor of these men.
“They see you as a savior and one who can unite them,” Archantael remarked. “Give them their triumph over Rome and, I daresay, you could become king of most of the isle.”
Caratacus grinned but said no more as he led the leaders from each tribe into the meeting hall at the center of the hill fort. His staunchest allies, the Silures, were different in appearance than their fellow Britons. Possessing a darker complexion and black, curly hair, it was rumored that their ancestors had come from Hispania many generations before. Their leader was a fierce warrior named Silyen. A big man, similar in stature and build to Caratacus, his face was devoid of facial hair, though that atop of his head was thick and rather unkempt. He had several scars marring his otherwise handsome face, and his left eye was glassy and clouded.
“We are with you,” he said with a deep voice as the assembled war leaders sat at the long table. “But what of those who are absent?”
“The Cantiaci are closest to Rome,” Caratacus answered. “I have little doubt that that is where our enemies will land. They have asked to remain neutral for the time being, having few warriors and fearing what should happen if they ally themselves to the losing side. I should have taken their lands when we conquered the Atrebates.”
“Gut the cowards and take their women in retribution for their cowardice,” Silyen spat.
“And what of the Iceni?” another war chief asked. “Their lands sit just north of the Cantiaci.”
“King Prasutagus is being strangely quiet,” Togodumnus answered.
“He’s an opportunist who will try and placate the victors,” Silyen grunted. “To hell with him! My greater concern is with those north of my lands, the Brigantes. Are they with us or not?”
“Their kingdom is very large,” Caratacus observed. “It is also very much divided. From what I saw on my journey through their lands, I would say that half the warriors would readily fight for us, including the consort, Venutius. However, Queen Cartimandua has refused to commit their forces one way or the other. And despite Venutius’ protestations, their warriors remain in Brigantes. It does not matter.”
