by M. K. Hume
He would soon discover why the fertile land supported such a small population.
Lorn had ridden out with one of his fellow Romans and a Briton in what had been a fruitless search for a farmstead, or even a source of larger game that might fill the cooking pots in the camp.
Later, when the afternoon was well advanced and the skies were darkening, Lorn thundered back into the camp. He was alone. His helmet was missing and his horse had been wounded by a shallow slice across the chest from which blood was still oozing slowly with every movement of the steed’s powerful heart.
Before he could be assisted, the warrior threw himself out of the saddle with a hurried instruction to his friends to care for the animal, before limping painfully towards Caradoc’s tent, where Maximus’s standard had been planted. The warrior’s thigh was leaking blood from a puncture wound at every step, but the weapon used must have missed the vital arteries or nerves, because Lorn was still able to walk, despite his obvious pain.
Although fear and anger spurred his feet, Lorn could only shuffle at a very slow pace. His face was pale from shock and loss of blood, but his eyes were downcast as if he was carrying a shameful secret.
Even with the horror of what he’d seen, Lorn’s sense of duty drove him to ensure that his master was made aware of the ambush into which his small patrol had blundered.
‘What the hell?’ Maximus swore, as Caradoc drew his attention to the approach of the Roman warrior. ‘He’s bleeding. We’d best call the warriors back to the bivouac until we know what’s happened.’
Now Maximus’s fears had been made tangible through Lorn’s wounding. Now he had an enemy of flesh and blood that he could confront.
One of the younger cavalrymen had started to pull a brass horn from his pack, but Caradoc dashed the lad’s hand away before he could raise the instrument to his lips.
‘No! No horns! If we’re under attack, we’d be wise to remain as quiet as possible.’
Caradoc sent one of his men to alert those warriors who were still in the vicinity of the camp, while Maximus instructed Lorn to rest on a folding camp stool.
‘Catch your breath, Lorn. No, my young fire-eater! Don’t try to explain yourself until we can make sense of what you’re trying to say.’
Panting, Lorn obeyed and accepted a measure of spirits from Maximus’s personal flask. The raw plum brandy burned Lorn’s throat and its potency took his breath away, but a little colour appeared on his face and he began to tell his commanders of the unprovoked attack that had almost cost him his life.
‘We were ambushed on the slopes of that line of hills over there. Six outlaws attacked us initially, by stretching a rope across a path that leads into the woods on the far side of the largest hill. The bastards had dug a large pit just beyond the rope that was built to trap anyone who blundered into it. I think they’re part of a large band, so they employed a series of mantraps to protect themselves from outside interference. It worked well – for them! We rode straight into the ambush.’
‘Shite, Decius! That hurts!’ Lorn yelped as Decius yanked his bloody trews away from the wound where the blood had dried on its edges. Once again, the nasty puncture wound began to flow copiously with fresh blood.
‘Don’t cry like a babe! Your wound is little more than a flea-bite, so it’s not likely to kill you. It’s a bit torn inside, so I’ll need some of your brandy, my lord.’ Decius turned to face Maximus with an enigmatic smile on his weathered face.
The tribune immediately pulled out his flask and removed the stopper.
Decius made no sound, but Lorn’s eyes grew very round as he felt himself gripped from behind by several of his comrades. Before he had time to protest, Decius poured the spirits directly into the wound, where it frothed and bubbled wickedly.
Lorn screamed over and over again, while his body writhed and bucked from the sudden assault of extreme pain.
Then, once the liquor had served its purpose and Lorn had caught his breath, Decius applied one of his soothing agents directly onto the reddening flesh.
The slice in Lorn’s thigh had been very deep and might still be a source of deadly infection.
‘What did they use on you?’ he asked the scout as he continued to peer into the puncture wound which appeared to be triangular in shape.
‘One of them had a pike, but instead of the normal spearpoint, it had been furnished with a different sort of head from any I’ve ever seen. It was barbed, so it would have been very difficult to remove from my body if it had penetrated the muscle of my thigh. I was lagging a little behind the others when we reached the mantrap, so I missed seeing the rope ahead of us. Then, by sheer chance, my stallion pulled up before I reached the concealed ditch that swallowed my companions. One of the outlaws came at me with the pike. I was lucky enough to stop the set of barbs from sinking deeply into my thigh muscles, or I would have been dragged from my horse. But it still hurt like the devil. It was a fiendish weapon, Decius, and I think it was one of the smaller barbs that tore at my leg.’
Caradoc thought briefly. ‘I think it’s a type of stabbing spear with small barbs at the point, as well as a series of larger ones that make the spearhead difficult to remove. My servants use similar weapons to catch large fish. The whole weapon must be pushed through the flesh to remove it. A warrior can be dragged off his horse, or he can be pulled out of the line in a battle if such a spear is used. You have to use it at close quarters and a strong victim can drag the man wielding the weapon off his feet. If this happens, the attacker’s advantage is lost. But why would outlaws possess such arcane weapons in these remote parts?’
Caradoc turned his attention to Maximus. ‘As for an ambush aimed at Dumnonii warriors and Roman cavalrymen, such actions and weaponry are hardly normal for outlaws at any time. Why would a six-man patrol take such a huge risk?’
‘Did you see what happened to your two companions?’ Decius asked. The decurion was applying some vile-smelling ointment to the wound before binding the sides together. ‘Don’t fuss, lad, for the evil humours are flushed out when a wound bleeds copiously. That salve has saved my life more times than I’ve had women, so you’ll survive your aches and pains. It’s time to speak to the tribune now, so he can make those buggers suffer for their attack on our men.’
‘Well, they’d dug the pit and disguised it with branches and tree litter, so I suppose we must have been close to their camp. The pit was right across the path, from side to side. It must have been there for some time, because it was quite large and it would have taken a long time to excavate. I couldn’t understand why it’s there, except for protection. Such a narrow and disused path wouldn’t be of any use, if its purpose was to trap itinerant traders or wealthy travellers who were journeying to the Durotriges or Belgae tribal areas. No, it must have been designed to protect the main base which the outlaws call home. By the gods! How many of the bastards are holed up in there? And why haven’t we heard of them?’
‘Describe the attack to me, Lorn,’ Maximus demanded. ‘You can be as detailed as you like. The more you can give me, the better I’ll like it.’
‘Ercol and Cessus were riding together and they were making jokes. I was a little behind them. The rope caught Cessus when it was pulled taut. By a miracle, he managed to keep his seat, but one of the outlaws was dragged out into the open. Then, before either of my comrades could stop their horses and turn, they fell into the bottom of the pit. They had no chance to evade the trap and tumbled in together. It was a hell of a mess with screaming horses that couldn’t climb out of the ditch. I thought Ercol would have been trampled almost immediately, but the outlaws fired arrows into the melee. I heard Cessus scream . . . Hell, I don’t know, master, for it was all so confusing. I had time to pull my shield down so their arrows failed to touch me. But before I could do anything else, that bastard caught me with the barbed pike. I remember dropping my shield and I grabbed at
the spearhead with my hand. I stopped the weapon from ramming home, but my flesh was torn when the small barbs were pulled back after my horse reared. I tried to extricate my sword with my other hand, but my stallion pulled away.
‘That’s what saved me. That and my natural caution! I’d be dead now if I’d been joking with Cessus and Ercol. Instead, I was concentrating on the woods on either side of the path, because I was hoping to see a deer or a rabbit, anything that could be tossed into the cooking pots. Perhaps I sensed danger in the woods around us. I just don’t know.’ Lorn sobbed, deep in his chest.
‘What happened to the outlaws? Did you manage to strike a blow?’ Caradoc asked.
Decius looked at him curiously, although Maximus understood the question.
‘A wounded man bleeds,’ Caradoc went on so that all were aware of his reasoning. ‘We might have been able to follow blood trails with the arrival of daylight.’
He turned back to the wounded Roman. ‘Did you have a chance to revenge yourself on your attacker?’
‘I caught the bugger with a sword swipe across the face, and I hope the bastard lost his nose,’ Lorn responded with a snarl of triumph. ‘My companions had no chance to strike a blow. They didn’t even have time to draw a weapon. That pit must have been a hellhole for them and the outlaws still fired arrows down into the trap like the cowards they are. Ambush is a coward’s way to fight a battle.’
Lorn had lapsed into painful silence, but he squealed as soon as Decius began to tie the final length of bandage with a tight knot.
‘Are you trying to kill me, Decius?’ he yelped, then blushed in embarrassment as redly as the blood that stained his scarlet cloak. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t thinking.’
Decius cuffed the young man affectionately, but still contrived to use some force.
Better that Lorn should hurt from a superficial blow from a friend than he should be permitted to blame himself for the abandonment of his fellows. Decius knew that guilt killed more soldiers than his masters would have believed, for the battlefield was an ideal place to commit suicide. But none of the decurion’s men would suffer such a fate if he could help it.
‘Now you have something to whine about,’ the decurion muttered with a slight softening in his eyes. Let the boy hate his decurion, but not himself.
‘Did you have an opportunity to learn the fate of your companions before you made good your escape?’ Maximus asked. Decius could have kicked his commander for his choice of words.
‘My horse took off and I was occupied trying to regain control over it – and myself! I’d have gone back, master, I swear, but those horses in the pit were wild with pain and they would have trampled my companions for sure. The poor beasts must have had broken legs and, in their madness, they would have been more dangerous to their riders than the outlaws. I also wanted to make sure you were warned of the danger we were in.’
‘Very well, boy. Stay with the wagon now. No! Don’t protest, Lorn, for a man with a wounded leg is no use to me in the field.’
The tribune faced Decius. ‘Inform the men what we learned, and order them to mount up. I don’t intend to ride away from these outlaws – we’ll let them to learn what happens when the foolhardy attack the might of Rome.’
Decius began barking rapid-fire orders, with one eye fixed on Lorn who was still sitting on the camp stool with his head sunk in despair.
The Dumnonii king trotted away to deliver his orders to those Britons who had already returned to the camp. When he turned to discover what Maximus was doing, Caradoc saw that the Roman had stalked off to collect his helmet and weaponry, while Decius was still speaking with some urgency to the young lad who’d revealed the details of the ambush. As the intense conversation between them continued, Lorn was shaking his head and seemed to be protesting, but the decurion slapped him lightly across the face. Although he was very busy organising his own men, Caradoc began to wonder what Decius was about.
Some sixty men were ready to ride now, so Maximus ordered Lorn to take charge of the bivouac during their absence. The young man shook himself and squared his shoulders. Those stragglers who returned after the departure of the main body were ordered to remain in the camp to guard the supply wagon.
Meanwhile, Caradoc offered Maximus the services of a lean, dark man called Raibeart, whom he described as the best hunter in the Dumnonii lands. ‘He has eyes like a fox and is well used to hunting by night.’
‘Good,’ Maximus replied grimly. ‘I also have a tracker, Eugenius, who has eyes in the back of his head. His centurion once described him as a ghost who could track a soul over the River Styx into Hades and then return to his masters with coins stolen from the Ferryman. I’ll get these bastards! And when I do, they’ll learn the error of their ways.’
‘Melodramatic,’ Caradoc whispered cynically to Trefor, but some of the other cavalrymen were in earshot, so his criticism was noted.
The hastily assembled party set off along the route followed by Lorn during his return to the bivouac area. The tracks of his horse were clear in the sod, even in the half-light.
‘You’re very quiet, Caradoc,’ the tribune observed to the Dumnonii king as they headed towards the low hills and the circlet of forest that grew around the flanks of the nearest one.
‘I don’t make threats, Maximus. My men know my expectations and my intentions.’
Then the king spurred his horse forward to follow the dark shapes of Eugenius and Raibeart who were still on horseback as they followed the general direction of Lorn’s retreat.
The ride seemed interminable, so Caradoc sighed deeply once the tree line was reached. Eugenius and Raibeart dismounted and ran like hounds, their heads close to the ground as they searched for tracks by moonlight. Fortuna must have been smiling down on the troop, for the night was cloudless with scarcely a breath of wind. The troop slowed to a crawl as the trackers sniffed at the earth to find the track that led into the forest.
One of the two trackers made the sound of a hunting owl as both men swung back into their saddles. Although the trees cut out much of the light, the barer tree branches permitted enough to illuminate a narrow track that was just wide enough for two men to ride abreast.
Decius now realised why Lorn had survived. The young scout had been riding behind his comrades because there wasn’t room on the path for all three men.
Maximus raised his hand and the troop stopped. ‘If you’re prepared to follow the track on the left side, I’ll enter the woods on the right side,’ he whispered. ‘If you come across the enemy first, use the owl call and we’ll come to your aid. You can do the same, if we find our quarry before you do.’
‘You’ll hear us because we’ll be killing them,’ Caradoc retorted. He should have been insulted by Maximus’s automatic assumption of the leadership for this attack, but kept his thoughts to himself. Any attempt to find an outlaws’ camp in the middle of the night was foolish enough, without the leaders of this debacle fighting over who held the ultimate responsibility.
As it turned out, the Britons handled the woods with more skill than the Romans, men who were unused to fighting in the darkness. Without any further reference to Maximus, Caradoc ordered his men to dismount. Then, leaving two of his men to guard their horses, he led the rest of his command, near to forty in total, into what little light existed among the trees.
Trefor, the hunt master, appeared at Caradoc’s elbow like a drift of smoke. The Briton’s superior skills shone, even among this group of superb warriors, so his feet made no sound on the sludge of dried-leaf mould and rotten branches that littered the forest floor.
‘The Romans are noisy, lord. They’re ahead of us, but they can be heard far too easily.’ Trefor hissed his warning so that his king was the only man who heard him. ‘The ambush site must be very close now. I checked the path and I could see the prints of three horses moving south, with another s
et retreating northward, in some haste. The latest spoor was driven deeply into the loose earth, because the rider had little control of his animal. There are also signs of fresh blood that has only recently dried. The leaves haven’t wilted on the broken underbrush and the sap hasn’t dried where some of the smaller branches have been broken on the edges of the forest. Any damage is recent. The disguised ditch is damned close, my lord, so we must avoid blundering into it in the darkness.’
‘I agree, my friend. The Romans seem to have ceased ploughing through the darkness, so they might have found something. Head off after them and see what they’ve got. We’ll follow behind you, but I’ll ensure our movements are slowed until you let us know what’s happening.’
Trefor slid away. Somehow, even with the moon shining cleanly through the web of tree branches, the huntsman had the capacity to evaporate like mist in a strong breeze.
Caradoc gathered his men, who then wormed their way back to the winding path. By keeping to the verge of the tree line, the Dumnonii warriors edged their way towards the noise of stamping horses and a small cone of light.
Raibeart appeared in front of his king with disconcerting abruptness. ‘We’ve found the trap, my lord, although the outlaws took the time to disguise the ditch with branches before they left the scene. I could be wrong, my lord, but I believe they expect us to come after them.’
‘What of the two missing warriors? Are they dead?’ Caradoc tried to keep his voice calm as they approached a bend in the track where the light exposed some thin shrubbery along the verge.
