by K. M. Ashman
Cradling the body of Ironbark in his arms, he walked over to where the ash stained head now lay and stood still, knowing full well he didn’t have the strength to go much further.
Without warning he heard a voice behind him and he turned slowly to see Caratacus had walked from the crowd to join him.
‘Lay him on this, Hawkwing,’ said Caratacus and rolled out a blanket in the ash. Hawkwing nodded and knelt down to lay out the corpse of his brother. Caratacus gently picked up the dead man’s head and placed it next to the body, before wrapping the blanket tightly around both. He picked up the bundle and knowing it was important that the new chieftain carried his brother from the field of conflict, placed him in Hawkwing’s arms. The young man paused for a moment before slowly walking to the edge of the arena. Every step was laboured and he staggered often, knowing it was essential the victor walked from the field unaided. He was almost there when suddenly his legs gave way and he sprawled headlong into the ashes. This time, men ran out to help their chief and he was carried away to seek the help of the Shamen.
Back in the arena, the crowd looked on, unsure of the implications. The battle had been fought as was the will of the gods but there had been no outright winner. One brother was dead and the other lay at death’s door. Caedmon’s line had been chieftain for many generations and as there were no other brothers in line, it left a gaping hole in the tribe for a leader.
Caratacus saw the opportunity and walked back into the ring. He drew his sword and turned slowly, looking at the gathering of clan chieftains.
‘Men of the Silures,’ he called, ‘hear my words. Two brave men fought for the right to call themselves chief today. A great battle was fought yet this great tribe now lies without leadership. Hawkwing’s wounds are dire and the gods argue whether to claim him for the afterlife. I see your minds are troubled and for a warrior tribe as great as the Silures, this is an abomination.
‘Despite the new fight that lies before Hawkwing, there is an even bigger battle to be won, the one against the Roman invader. As we speak, men are dying at their hand and women are raped for their amusement. Our children are sacrificed to their gods, and entire villages are wiped from our lands.
‘You may not have seen this with your own eyes but I have, as have many of my men and make no mistake the Romans have set their eyes on the lands of the Silures. We cannot afford to wait until Hawkwing recovers to deal with this threat, we have to act now. Caedmon was with me on this and only his failing health stayed his arm. We could wait until Hawkwing recovers but by then it may be too late and if he dies, what then? Stand back and watch the great Silures rip itself apart?
‘No, this is not worthy of you but there is a man who can lead this tribe to beat back the invader, not only a true leader of these lands but one who has faced them many times. That man is I, Caratacus, Chief of the Catuvellauni and true King of Britannia. Join with me and I will lead you against the Romans, pulling other tribes to our cause to eject this filth from our lands.
‘Be the first to unify the tribes and fight alongside me and my men; Silures alongside Catuvellauni as brothers, sharing bread and killing Romans. Send out a signal to other tribes that we are as one and they should rally to our call. Forget tribal argument and become a nation for make no mistake, if we fight as one, then nobody can stand in our way.’ He looked around the silent arena, waiting for someone to challenge him. Finally a man stepped forward.
‘Caratacus,’ he said, ‘your name precedes you. You are a great war leader but we are Silures not Catuvellauni. When this is done, what is to stop you crowning yourself as chief of the Silures?’
‘The answer to that is all around you,’ said Caratacus. ‘Not even I would face the Silures across the battlefield. I only offer leadership in a time of crisis. When this is done, I will return to Camulodunum and retake what is rightfully mine, the throne of Britannia. A Britannia free from the Roman heel and one that is a greater land made up of all tribes as brothers. Do this and never again will our children be thrown to the flames of our enemies.’
‘Your skills in warfare are well known and men whisper your name in fear,’ he continued. ‘My spies tell me the Romans fear only one thing and that is if the tribes unite under common purpose. I can do that with or without you – I would prefer the former. Make no mistake, brothers, your lands, your very way of life is under threat. My army leaves within days to unite the rest of the Khymru so I will ask you one more time. Will the Silures march with Caratacus to drive our enemies from the lands of our ancestors?’
Caratacus feared the worse when the crowd stayed silent and was about to leave the arena when one man stepped forward.
‘I will follow, Caratacus,’ he shouted, ‘as will my clan.’
‘The Bear clan will follow,’ shouted another man from the far side and Caratacus turned to acknowledge his support.
‘The Eagle clan will follow,’ shouted a third and gradually over half of those present stood forward to accept Caratacus’s offer. When the calls stopped coming, Caratacus realised he had the oath of over half the Silures tribe, more than he could have dreamed. He held up his hand to silence the talk of the crowd.
‘Silures, hear me,’ he called. ‘Today you have taken the first step to driving back the intruder. We do this in the name of Hawkwing and in the memory of Caedmon. Those who have decided to stay behind should strengthen their forts and ensure the safety of those families the rest leave behind. Those who have pledged their sword, be ready by dawn two days from now, for then we will march side by side as brothers and cleanse our country of Roman filth. This is my pledge.’
The whole gathering raised their weapons in salute and the surrounding hills echoed with their cheering.
Caratacus lifted his head and marched through the parting crowds. He knew this was a momentous day. Today, the fight back began.
Chatper 11
The Lands of the Durotriges
49 AD
Vespasian sat astride his horse looking toward the hill fort of the Durotriges. The Legion had made good time over the last few days and though there had been some skirmishes with patrols of Durotriges warriors, they had been but a minor inconvenience and quickly dealt with. This however was different. Below him, spreading across the open fields before the fort, hordes of warriors stood in deep defensive lines in challenge to the approaching Legion. At the moment they were relatively quiet for they couldn’t see their approaching adversaries due to the forests, but they knew they were there and waited patiently for them to arrive.
Vespasian received report after report from his scouts and knew he had to make a decision quickly. The Legion was dispersed throughout the forest to his rear, waiting for his commands. Ordinarily he would have rained fire upon the enemy lines before committing any troops, but the carts containing the Onagers and the Ballistae had got bogged down in the mud from the constant rain and were still several days away. He would normally form a containment defence, keeping the enemy corralled within the battleground until the artillery arrived, but time was not a luxury he enjoyed.
Overnight, a messenger had arrived from Plautius telling him to halt his advance southward with immediate effect and await further orders. Further questioning of the messenger had revealed little else except the news that Plautius was being recalled to Rome and replaced with a new governor, Ostorius Scapula.
At first Vespasian had thought to turn immediately and retreat his Legion to the north east where the ground was easier to defend, but to halt an attack and retreat without inflicting a single wound on the Durotriges army would be seen as a humiliating defeat, not only to the enemy, but within the ranks of his own Legion and that was a situation he would not tolerate.
‘Report,’ he ordered as one of his Tribunes rode up alongside him.
‘My lord, the men are ready and the cavalry in position.’
‘Any sign of the carts?’
‘No, my lord. They will take another three days to arrive.’
‘Make it two,’
ordered Vespasian, ‘and gather my officers. There has been enough delay; I want to get this dealt with.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said the Tribune and turned his horse to gallop away.
An hour later, eight mounted men formed a circle and faced inward for the impromptu orders from their Legatus. The group consisted of the Tribunus Laticlavius, the camp Prefect, the five Tribunes in charge of the battlefield tactics and the Primus Pilus, the senior centurion of the Legion.
‘Today, we have had news of major political change in Britannia,’ he said. ‘Plautius has been recalled to Rome and a new governor warms his arse against the fires in the fort at Londinium. The new governor’s name is Scapula and I know little of his military background. It may be that he is worthy of this post and I worry needlessly but we have received orders to hold firm and await further developments. This can mean only two things. Either he has a different plan for the Augusta and has his eyes on a different prize, or he will ask us to proceed with the colonisation of the southern tribes. Now, I may not know this man but I do know Claudius and he would not withdraw Plautius to replace him with a weaker man. Make no mistake about it, Claudius hungers for Britannia’s complete subservience and I suspect Scapula’s role is to hasten this outcome. As we have found, the southern tribes are quick to bend knee to our power and though the enemy to our front stamp their feet in defiance, they are the exception. We could do as ordered and retreat to the safety of the flatlands to our rear, but what message does this send to our men and more importantly, the enemy? They have set out a challenge and to see us retreating like frightened children would send an undesirable message throughout these lands and lend courage to those who would oppose us. In the longer term, that would cost Roman lives. So, what I intend to do is this. We will return to the lowlands as ordered but not before teaching those who stand against us a lesson. Our artillery is bogged down and we can’t afford to wait but luckily, this Eadric seems so eager to impress, he ignores our strength and has chosen a battlefield favourable to us. If he thinks he can face a Legion on open ground and emerge victorious, then he is wrong. Eadric will have his battle and when that is done, we will burn his puny fort to the ground, sending a message to what remnants of this pathetic people still remain. Prepare your men. Deploy the Sagittaria on point along with the slingers to take the sting from their tail. First to fifth cohorts will form the spearhead, flanked by the Batavians.
‘Tribune Lanatus,’ he continued, ‘order your cavalry to take that small hill to our front and defend it with the second auxiliary cohort. Take one Scorpio operator from every century and form them into a unit on the forward slope covering the approach from east. Without our artillery, they will provide some fire power. Once it is ours, withdraw the cavalry and hold them in readiness. The rest of us will form the reserve, standard operating procedure.
‘Gentlemen, it is rare that we have the opportunity to use our training field skills in a manner that favours us as much as this. You are all here because you have vast military experience and have earned your rank. I do not foresee any problems here and expect an overwhelming victory but make no mistake, these people are no pushovers. We saw that at Medway and particularly Tamesas. Your men will have to be at their best if we are to keep our casualty numbers low.
‘Centurion Barbatus, though I feel the first cohort has more than enough to prevail, I want you to blood the Ninth. They are untried in battle with many fresh from the training forts of Gaul. This will be a classic battle and an ideal opportunity to blood their Gladii.’
Barbatus acknowledged the command. As the senior centurion of the Legion, he was fully aware of the task before him. His position meant that he would lead the elite first cohort into battle and though his cohort had five centuries instead of the usual six, each was double strength and consisted of the best soldiers in the Legion. That meant he had an initial strike force of eight hundred crack troops. The Ninth cohort in comparison had four hundred and eighty men and though fully trained, few had battle experience. It was a good way to bring them on.
‘Now,’ said Vespasian, ‘are there any questions?’
The group remained silent.
‘Good. You have an hour to deploy, dismissed.’
* * *
Barbatus stood to the front of his cohort. Behind him and to either side, thousands of Legionaries had taken their positions out on the battlefield. They stood silently, waiting for the signal to advance. Each man wore their full Lorica Segmentata and held a Pilum in their right hand, the throwing spear designed to bend after impact to prevent re-use by the enemy. In their left hands they held the Scutum, the tall shields designed not just for defence against enemy weapons, but to punch into any attacker’s faces, the bronze boss at their centres perfect for inflicting devastating blows.
Every man was well drilled and knew exactly what to expect. They would obey the orders of their centurion without question, acting immediately in response and at the height of battle, when all orders would be drowned by the sounds of fighting, they would carry out the drills they had learned during their training, confident that every man alongside them was doing the exact same thing. Over and above that, the trumpeters of the Legion would convey any strategic commands over the battlefield, with each man knowing what the other meant and what to do should each signal come.
In front of them on the far side of the battlefield, row after row of Durotriges warriors stood facing them at the base of their fort. Though there was no formality in their ranks, Barbatus could see they had strength in depth and stretched far on either side. Despite this, he knew there could be only one victor. If this would-be king had possessed any sense, he would have taken his people and run to the hills. Instead, he seemed intent on pursuing the one course of action that centuries of history had proved any enemy of Rome should never do – meet them on an open battlefield.
Across the field the sound of drums emerged from the ranks of the Durotriges and Barbatus knew the moment was nigh. Up on the hill, Vespasian recognised the overtures of battle and knew that they would work themselves into a frenzy before charging across the field.
‘My lord, what is that noise?’ asked one of the newer Tribunes.
‘It is a trait of these people to build up their courage,’ said Vespasian. ‘They invoke their gods and the spirits of their ancestors before committing to the battle.’
‘How long does it go on?’ asked the Tribune.
‘Until they are ready,’ said Vespasian, ‘but I see no need to fight this battle on their terms. Give the signal.’
The Tribune turned to the man beside him and gave an order. Immediately a lone trumpeter raised his instrument and blew a long solitary note that echoed around the hills. Below, every man in the ranks straightened up and flexed his sword arm. This was it; battle was about to commence.
* * *
At the sound of the Cornicine, Barbatus drew his Gladius and raised it high above his head before bringing it down sharply to point at the floor.
‘Sagittarii ready,’ he shouted and as one, every Legionary in the front two cohorts dropped to one knee, revealing row after row of archers lifting their bows to aim high above their heads. Barbatus raised his Gladius once more.
‘Legion Secunda Augusta,’ he roared, ‘this is your time. For your country, your Emperor and your Legion; let them feel the pain of our steel.’
His hand dropped and the air was filled with hundreds of arrows flying through the air toward the enemy lines. Before the first flight landed the second was already in the air, raining a hail of death upon the Durotriges lines. Over and over the sky was darkened with their number and across the field, the enemy warriors crouched low to the floor raising their round shields above their heads. Following their orders, the Sagittarii emptied three of their four quivers before stopping the onslaught. The Legion got back to their feet and resumed their stance. Across the field the enemy lines were motionless and for a moment, Barbatus thought that the enemy had been wiped out by the arrows. That though
t was soon erased as he saw them start to rise to their feet and it was soon evident that though some had indeed died, the shields had been expertly wielded and the number of dead was relatively small.
On the far end of the battlefield, a century of cavalry burst from the treeline and rode at breakneck speed toward the solitary hill, followed by a cohort of infantry. The relatively small contingent of warrior archers encamped on its slopes were taken by surprise and quickly overrun. The Batavian infantry formed defensive lines at the base of the hill while hundreds of Scorpio operators carried their crossbows to secure positions overlooking the valley to the East.
Barbatus raised his Gladius one more time before levelling it toward the enemy’s lines.
‘Augusta, advance,’ he roared and as one, every Legionary stepped forward, each banging the hafts of their Pila against their shields in time with their pace.
Across the battlefield, the Durotriges warriors were screaming insults and started their own advance to meet the Legion head on, stepping over their dead as they went. Every man wielded their weapon of choice and the Romans could see broadswords and clubs, battle axes and spears. Their faces were painted in strange designs and their hair was spiked into random shapes with animal fats. Most were bare-chested and many had scarred their own flesh with strokes of a knife’s blade as a commitment to their gods. The overall effect was designed to strike terror into the hearts of their enemies but Barbatus was not impressed. He has seen it all before.
