by M. K. Hume
‘They’re dead. They were left to rot in the hole, along with their horses. The bodies have been stripped of all their valuables and the horses have been butchered for the meat on their haunches.’
Caradoc spat with disgust, not because he wouldn’t eat horsemeat if his need was great, but because the outlaws had taken the time to select the best cuts, yet left fellow humans to rot under the bodies of the beasts.
Judging by the expression on his face and the deep creases between his eyes, Raibeart remained concerned.
‘What’s wrong, Raibeart?’ Caradoc asked.
‘Our Roman friends are far too noisy, both on foot and on horseback, so it’s almost certain we’ll be ambushed if we keep moving. It’s craziness to blunder into a trap out of anger or our lack of familiarity with the terrain. We’re announcing our intentions with every step.’
Caradoc nodded. His warrior was only voicing aloud what had become painfully obvious to all the Dumnonii cavalrymen.
The track seemed to have widened a little. Someone had lit a makeshift torch and the darkness was driven back to the verges by the feeble light. Caradoc led his men towards the mellow glow.
He stopped before the lip of the trench where Maximus was standing with his arms akimbo. The horses were stamping and whinnying, so Caradoc was certain that any advantage of surprise they might have won had vanished, because the twenty Roman horsemen had travelled so fast and so hard. Fortunately for their safety, any ambush sites prepared by the outlaws would probably be closer to the enemy camp.
‘Raibeart! Trefor! Scout ahead! We need to know where the enemy camp is, and whether they have set up an ambush to kill us,’ Caradoc instructed the scouts in a deceptively calm voice. He resisted the urge to stare into the ditch before issuing his orders, because he was familiar with this scene in all its ugliness.
As the two huntsmen vanished into the darkness, Caradoc finally stepped to the lip of a trench that was twice the depth of a standing man, and at least twice as wide and twice as long. Its sides had been reinforced with roughly shaped timber to prevent a collapse during the months of the thaw. He immediately concluded that this mantrap was a permanent defensive strategy, for no one would dig such a huge hole on the off-chance that a few British or Roman warriors might blunder into it. Almost certainly, other mantraps would have been placed between here and the site of the outlaw’s camp, since these outlaws had proved to be so cautious.
The bodies of the two horses almost filled the narrow space. They had been slashed across their exposed throats as they struggled to escape, but their contorted bodies showed that they had died in agony. The bottom of the hole, where it could be seen, was a bloody and churned mess.
Inside the trap, the two warriors had been smashed between the thrashing hooves of the horses and the deadly weight of their dying bodies. From the gashes, the arrow-wounds and their agonised faces, these two men had died hard. Their mouths gaped in silent screams and their bones had been fractured by the weight of the struggling and kicking horses so that their limbs had been twisted into unnatural angles. Steeled by years of ghastly carnage, Caradoc didn’t flinch. In fact, he burned the horror of the two bodies into his brain so he could recollect it later when he had the time to reflect on the evil enacted in these dark woodlands.
He could see that a number of boots had churned the lip of the trench at the point where the outlaws had watched the hapless warriors struggling for life below them.
Perhaps this fact, written in the damp sod and mud, was the main cause of Caradoc’s disturbed state. At least six of the outlaws had watched the dying warriors who must have pleaded for assistance. But they had been rebuffed. Perhaps the outlaws had joked as they fired arrows into the ditch, but the arrow wounds didn’t appear to have killed the suffering warriors and seemed almost to have been fired at random. Eventually the outlaws had cut the throats of the horses so they could harvest the juiciest cuts of meat, and they could have offered the blessing of death to the dying men as they did so. But the renegades had rejected all pleas for clemency. Caradoc would not forget what the footprints in the mute earth were telling him with such eloquence.
‘Fill the trench in as it stands,’ Maximus ordered in a rough voice, although Caradoc supposed that this Roman would have seen more graphic sights at any number of battles. With a fixity of purpose that Caradoc knew would be immovable, the Roman tribune was staring down into the trench with a face as stern as any granite statue.
‘The perpetrators of this ambush will pay for shedding the blood of this Roman. The outlaws who killed my soldier were aware of his status. These bastards have stolen his helmet and legionnaire regalia as trophies, so I’ll crucify every man who dared to sully the corpse. Don’t attempt to dissuade me from revenging myself on these killers, Caradoc. With you, or without you, I intend to have their bodies and what passes for their souls.’
Caradoc expelled the air from his lungs in one long exhalation. How dare this Roman threaten him?
‘Can’t you count, my lord? A Briton also lies there,’ Caradoc stated firmly. ‘He’s been stripped of all he owns, just as your man was defiled. More importantly to me and to my warriors, this man was a Dumnonii. I’ve known him from childhood. His wife will go on through life without her husband, and his children will cry for their cold hearth. You may commence your search for these murdering bastards, if so you choose, but I intend to track them down in the light of day, rather than make a hare-brained dash into a further ambush, fuelled by blind arrogance and insult. My forty men will stay here, and I will use the time to remove our dead comrades from this mantrap. I plan to cremate them at a time when we have some leisure, for the Dumnonii leave no warriors behind when they die on alien soil. You may go on if you must, Tribune Maximus, but I thought you were a sensible commander.’
Angry and frustrated, Caradoc stalked away from the torchlight, issuing orders as he went. He sent for the horses and ordered his warriors to form a defensive perimeter that encircled the area of the path and the verge of the trees. Then six brawny young men were lowered into the pit to release both bodies so they could be raised to the surface.
Meanwhile, warriors were told to secrete themselves among the tall tree trunks to act as warning piquets, while Caradoc selected an oak tree for himself that boasted a forked branch just above head height. Nimble as any boy, the king swung up into the tree to settle his length along a limb and wait for the first light of a new day.
CHAPTER VIII
DEATH IN THE MORNING
Even a god cannot change the past.
Agathon, Nicomachaean Ethics, Book 6
‘Caradoc?’ The peremptory voice cut through the king’s dreamy thoughts like an axe-blow. ‘Where the hell are you? Stop sulking and talk to me!’
The tone alone was insulting, so Maximus’s words snapped the king into full consciousness.
Refusing to hurry on principle, Caradoc stretched his cramped muscles and the slight rustle of a branch under his left foot alerted the Roman to his presence. Peering into the gloom, the Roman looked upwards until he saw a flicker of movement as Caradoc bared his cowled head.
‘Would you please come down and discuss our problems sensibly, man to man? I’ll get a crick in my neck if I have to talk up to you.’ Frustrated, the Roman scuffed and tore at the earth at the base of the tree with his booted foot.
‘Please! I’ll apologise if that’s what it takes to assuage my supposed insults to your honour. We were both angry at the fate that had befallen our men.’
‘Supposed? Sulking? You make me sound so unreasonable, Tribune.’
Maximus had seemed curt and petulant rather than apologetic, so Caradoc responded in kind. But he understood that this attempt to placate him by the Roman was probably the best penance he could expect.
Caradoc swung down from his branch and landed nimbly in the leaf mould. The cold air caused him to shi
ver, although his woollen gloves were still in place and he was wearing a knitted cap under his cowl.
‘Well then,’ Caradoc replied as he rose to his full height and stretched before wrapping himself in his cloak. ‘How much time do we have?’
‘It’s no more than three hours past moonrise, so sunrise is still some hours away.’ Maximus stamped his cold feet and blew on his fingers to warm them. His breath was steaming in the chill and the amber of the guttering fire was reflected in his feral eyes.
‘Your scouts have returned, but they will only report directly to you,’ the tribune snarled.
Caradoc could tell that Maximus was irked by this state of affairs and he swore audibly. ‘They could have reported to you, for God’s sake.’ Caradoc knew he would obviously have to start mending bridges. ‘Where are they?’
The Roman whistled softly to summon the scouts and Trefor and Raibeart appeared within seconds, sauntering along the pathway with the easy grace of athletes. When they reached the two commanders, they bowed low to both men, marks of respect that immediately mollified Maximus’s mercurial nature. Caradoc sighed with relief.
‘We did exactly as you asked, Lord Caradoc. We moved parallel to the pathway and there was no sign of activity for some distance,’ Trefor reported. ‘Then, in a small valley between two hills, we almost fell over two of their sentries. They were concealed in a hide of branches and leaves on the left side of the path, but they were fast asleep.’
‘Did they see you?’ Maximus asked crisply.
Raibeart picked up the thread of the report.
‘No, my lord. We were careful and we gave them a wide berth. We crept downwards toward the head of the valley where we could see a light and smell woodsmoke on the wind.’
‘A farmhouse?’ Caradoc asked, and Raibeart nodded.
‘We reached a low rise above the encampment, so it was easy to observe the outlaws as they carried out their various tasks,’ Raibeart continued. ‘An old farmer’s cottage and a large barn seemed to be at the heart of their hiding place. We thought that most of the outlaws were probably asleep, but we counted at least fifteen men who were awake and preparing for their departure. There were three fully loaded wagons. They didn’t have horses in the traces and the farm eventually became silent. Again, Trefor is sure that they’re loading everything they own to get away at first light. I don’t think they expect you to make an attack so soon after our scouts blundered into their ambush.’
‘We took the opportunity to find two other sentries, but we let them be in case other men are sent to relieve them during the night. If that had happened, the outlaws would have been warned that we’d found their camp,’ Trefor added. ‘I hope that decision meets with your approval, my lords?’
‘Yes! Excellent, thank you,’ Caradoc replied as his mind worked furiously.
Their report given, the scouts bowed their heads and waited for orders. Although they had spent the whole day in the saddle and half the night tracking their prey, their bright eyes and obvious enthusiasm spoke powerfully of their eagerness to see their task come to a satisfactory conclusion with a red death for the outlaws.
‘You’ll need rest,’ Caradoc advised them. ‘If you wish, you can stay here with the corpses of our dead while we deal with their killers. You’ve done more than enough in this pursuit.’
The two huntsmen blushed with pleasure at Caradoc’s praise, but they refused the offer to stay behind and catch up on their sleep. Trefor was appalled. What Briton of any mettle would sleep while his companions went into battle and risked their lives?
Caradoc had no choice other than to agree, so he ordered them to find food for themselves, water their horses and then rest until camp was broken. The two warriors obeyed without question and departed.
The night had reached that hour when dying men succumb to their fate and demons steal around cottages to bring dread to the belly and horror to the mind. Moment by moment, the mostly invisible moon was sinking lower into the sky behind the cloudy winter skies. The air was freezing and Caradoc could smell fresh snow on the breeze. He had hoped to reach Venta Belgarum before the weather turned for the worse, but the rising wind warned him that they were too late.
‘We should leave now, if those animals are planning to take to their heels,’ Maximus insisted, now that Trefor and his friend had departed to find some rations. ‘The bastards might slip away unless we attack them at first light.’
‘I agree! But any movement must be silent. I’ll leave two of my men to mount a guard on our dead, although they won’t be happy at the thought of being left behind.’
Maximus agreed, and went into action with typical Roman efficiency. Within a short period of time, the troops had wrapped their feet and their horses’ hooves in cloth to muffle some of the sounds of movement. Then the riders moved noiselessly along the narrow path like wraiths. The three scouts ranged ahead to silence all the sentries.
The moon was almost down by the time the troop reached a low rise that overlooked the outlaws’ enclave, so the cavalrymen, on foot now and leading their horses, fanned out quickly to ensure that none of the renegades could escape. Maximus and Caradoc dismounted and assessed the farmhouse and barn with cool, analytical eyes.
‘Those wagons are fully laden and they’re very close to the ground. I can almost hear the axles groaning from here,’ Caradoc hissed. ‘I don’t know what’s in those chests, but it’s heavy.’
‘I imagine these outlaws have been preying on the border towns for years. The farm is well defended and the men have dug themselves into the landscape like cattle ticks,’ Maximus whispered, as his eyes continued to range over the landscape below them.
A low stone wall had been erected across the margins of the field, close to the farmhouse, that would provide a simple line of protection for any defence of the property. Although the wall could cover archers during a skirmish, it was below waist height, so horses could jump over it with ease. Caradoc was certain that any obvious defence by the outlaws could be easily countered. He had no hesitation in sharing his thoughts with Maximus.
‘Your precious kings haven’t taken any action against these bastards, so they’ve become bold. They are so confident that they are prepared to attack a large cavalcade under Roman protection,’ Maximus replied. ‘Their arrogance has grown and grown, because they’ve been allowed to live comfortably in this remote valley for a long time.’
Maximus had a point. The defensive wall, the farmhouse and even the mantraps indicated that these outlaws had occupied this valley for years. The local kings had obviously done nothing to track down, contain or destroy these outlaws who were a clear threat to travellers and the local population.
‘Aye!’ Caradoc sighed. ‘I suspect that some of our kings have paid a tribute to these renegades to leave the farmers and traders alone and unmolested. If my suspicions are correct, those wagons will be filled with gold and treasure that’s been taken from the poor and the vulnerable, or bribes given to the outlaws by kings who should have cared for their subjects. In which case, neither the kings nor the outlaws can be trusted.’
‘We should wait until they’re ready to depart, and then fall on them from two sides. I’ll lead my men to the cottage while you attack the barn, Caradoc. Trefor believes the bulk of the outlaws will be asleep in its straw but we can change targets if you wish. It’s all the same to me!’
Caradoc was affronted. He wondered if Maximus doubted the ability of his men to mount an attack against such a large force.
‘No! My Dumnonii warriors will welcome the opportunity to burn that rats’ nest to the ground, with or without the lice that breed in it.’
Without any further chatter, the two commanders moved to join their troops. The orders were quickly passed down through the ranks so, experienced in the ways of war, the cavalrymen rested beside their horses and waited for the signal to begin the attack. Me
anwhile, the wind began to rise with sleet in its teeth.
Just then, a light bloomed within the cottage as a fire pit was lit. Several raised voices carried to the watchers on the hill, but the sense of the words was lost in the distance. Again, some activity became obvious inside the doors of the barn and a solitary figure ventured out, moved to the side of the outer wall and stood reflectively.
‘What’s he doing?’ Maximus asked.
‘He’s taking a piss. The others will join him soon. Faugh! Only the dumbest of beasts shit and piss near the place where they eat and drink.’ Caradoc was contemptuous of such foolish behaviour.
The area around the buildings began to boil with the shapes of busy men, all of whom were loading wagons, moving horses into traces or setting fire to the barn and cottage. The flames rose quickly, throwing the bodies of the outlaws into sharp relief, as those among them who were mounted on horses were forced to control terrified animals who wanted to shy away from the fire growing in intensity behind them.
‘It’s time, I believe,’ Maximus said formally as Caradoc nodded in agreement. ‘Mount up,’ he shouted. The time for subterfuge was over.
The Roman and British warriors threw themselves into their saddles with joy, for the night had been long, cold and frustrating. Finally they could see an enemy ranged before them and it was probable that the three wagons at the farmstead contained riches that all could share. Like hounds quivering with excitement as they waited for their master’s order to pursue game, the Britons and Romans held their horses in check. Their eyes were fixed on the outlaws below them who were still ignorant of their presence.
‘Form up,’ Maximus bellowed, careless of the noise. ‘Show these bastards what cataphractarii can do, even if we are few in number. Ride them down!’
Before Caradoc could issue his own orders, the tribune had led his small troop of horsemen thundering down the slope.
‘Quickly! Form into line abreast,’ Caradoc roared. ‘Let’s teach the Romans that it’s not the first to arrive on the field who go on to win the day. Kill everyone! No quarter!’
