The Rise of Caratacus

by K. M. Ashman

  Two minutes later the drumbeats stopped and the disgraced men stood silently around their dead comrades. Some were in tears at the brutality they had just administered on those they once called friend, but others were just relieved it wasn’t them laying in the dust, bodies broken and soaked in their own blood.

  ‘Fall back in,’ roared a centurion and each survivor shuffled back into line, thinking their punishment was over but Vespasian had other ideas.

  ‘Let this be a lesson to all,’ he shouted. ‘We will not tolerate cowardice in this Legion. These men who have suffered decimation paid the ultimate price but their death does not pardon your disgrace. You survivors should give thanks for their sacrifice, for their deaths will enable you to redeem yourselves in the eyes of your Legion. In two days’ time we will take this fort that looms above us. We will go straight up the slopes and show these heathen their puny fortifications are but nothing to us. We will show them the might of the Roman army and henceforth these lands will tremble in fear at the sounds of our marching feet. There will be no retreat, there will be no mercy and we will take no prisoners.’ Vespasian paused and looked back at the two disgraced centuries. ‘You men,’ he continued, ‘you who brought shame on yourselves and caused the death of your comrades will have the chance to redeem yourselves. You will lead the assault on the walls and it is you who will secure the breach we need. This is your chance to regain your units. Most of you will die but secure the breach and those who still live will re-join their cohorts with honour restored.’

  He turned to the trumpeter at his side.

  ‘Give the signal,’ he said and seconds later the blast from the signaller echoed across the plain. Up above on the hill, a hundred Cornicines joined in the fanfare. Ranks of drummers beat out a marching pace and columns of carts emerged from the forest edge and out onto the plain. Rows of oxen pulled giant wheeled Onagers through the blood-stained soil to take up position in front of the fortress. Huge Ballistae lined up alongside them and the gathered soldiers watched in awe as cart after cart unloaded their cargo of missiles to feed the ever-hungry siege engines.

  The drums and fanfares continued while the positioning took place and Tribunes shouted their orders above the din, deploying their cohorts around the fort. Thousands of fully armoured soldiers marched in perfect unison to their positions and no man in the fort above could fail to be impressed by the military accuracy of the manoeuvres.

  Finally, at a given signal every sound stopped and over six thousand armed men encircled the fort in total silence. The artillery weren’t aiming at the gate for Vespasian knew it would have extra fortifications, instead they were focussed on the timber palisade wall to one side. Every man held his breath as they awaited the final command for the assault to begin.

  Vespasian rode his horse slowly toward the largest Onager in the line and spoke to the Decurion in charge of the giant catapult.

  ‘Have the arrangements been made?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said the Decurion and nodded his head toward the adjacent cart covered with a hessian sheet. Vespasian nodded but forced himself to avoid having any reaction to the smell emanating from the cart. ‘Then make ready,’ he said, ‘and send these heathen a message they will never forget.’

  * * *

  Up in the fort, hundreds of warriors lined the palisades, each armed with a variety of weapons from swords to bows, and each waiting for the onslaught they knew would surely come. Heaps of small stones suitable for slings lay piled against the ramparts and though the Durotriges army had some archers, their strength lay in their courage and skill in hand to hand fighting. Behind them in the village, hundreds of women and children crouched in the dust, looking nervously up at their men, confident in their ability yet apprehensive about the battle they knew was coming.

  The whole clan had believed the promises of their young chieftain Eadric. For the past two years he had led them against other clans of their tribe and they had emerged undefeated against every one, gaining strength and tribute from those they dominated with their ferocity. Village after village had followed his call and when he had heard the Romans had invaded their lands, he had promised to swipe them as he did a fly. The tribe had followed him blindly and fully expected him to deliver a crushing blow on the invaders, but when they had been humiliated on the battlefield days earlier, they knew that this was no ordinary enemy.

  Eadric strutted along the ramparts, staring at the deployment of the Roman army. Never had he seen such organisation. Hundreds of men marched as one, each giant square flowing across the field like rivers of blood as their red cloaks blew in the wind. Each side of the fort was surrounded by troops as every avenue of escape was closed and Eadric knew this was going to be a battle to the last. Despite this, his arrogance knew no bounds and he saw no other outcome except a glorious and bloody victory, raising him up as the true chieftain of the Durotriges. He also knew that a triumph over the Romans here would add argument to the need of one chieftain to rule all the tribes and who better than the one who defeated them here.

  ‘Look at them,’ he sneered to one of the men at the palisade. ‘Prancing around like women in their solstice robes. Let them have their moments of pathetic ceremony. Their posturing fills me with mirth, not fear and I grow impatient for their attack. Despite their number these walls have never been breached since the time of my grandfather’s grandfather.’

  The old man at his side stayed silent; he knew better than to offer conflicting viewpoint to Eadric – his ears were closed to any but his favoured advisors who shared the benefits of youthful leadership.

  ‘Look at the machines they have brought,’ continued Eadric. ‘What honour is there in fighting from afar? Where is their courage to meet us man on man? I’ll tell you where, they have left it in that far off place they call Rome. Well they can fire their arrows if they like for our walls are made of stout oak, not horse flesh. Let them stud the palisade with arrows and when they are done, we will raise our heads to show them our steel.’

  ‘They are not crossbows,’ said the man quietly, no longer able to hold his tongue.

  ‘What?’ snapped Eadric.

  ‘My lord, I have seen their like once before as a boy in Gaul. Those machines are not the Scorpions who lay waste to our chariots but Onagers capable of throwing missiles over our walls.’

  Eadric stared at the strange machines.

  ‘Like catapults?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said the man.

  ‘Catapults cannot reach up here,’ said Eadric but his voice betrayed his doubt.

  ‘These are much stronger,’ said the old man. ‘The other machines are Ballistae, similar to the Scorpion crossbows but much bigger.’

  ‘Why fire bigger arrows?’ asked Eadric. ‘One arrow can kill but one man no matter what the size. It is a folly.’

  ‘Perhaps so,’ said the man, ‘but knowing the Romans, I think perhaps they have other uses in mind.’

  ‘Time will tell, old man,’ said Eadric, the arrogance returning to his voice. ‘Let them send their worst for when it is over, our steel awaits.’

  The old man nodded silently. He had tried to offer advice but Eadric had already made up his mind. He watched the leader walk away along the rampart before fingering the tiny idol of a bull in his pocket. Somehow, he knew he would not survive this day.

  * * *

  Vespasian looked around the battlefield. Hundreds of small fires had been set before the ranks and groups of archers stood waiting at each fire. The Onagers were similarly primed and the large leather slings were soaking in buckets of water, ready to be loaded with their terrifying projectiles. Carts of clay pots lay alongside each Onager as well as small mountains of rounded river rocks, hewn into shape by an army of slaves back in the forests. Every Ballista was primed and loaded with their strange ammunition designed not to kill or maim but instil fear and terror in the enemy.

  Finally he knew they were ready and nodded to the Tribune in charge. Without any further ceremo
ny, fifty sets of twisted ropes released their stored tension as the giant crossbows fired their strange missiles high above the walls of the fort to reach deep inside. There was no damage nor any casualties caused, though the Legatus knew the impact would be just as great. Over and over the Ballistae sent up their strange missiles until finally they fell quiet as the ammunition ran out.

  * * *

  Inside the fort, the men on the palisades instinctively crouched as the missiles sailed silently over their heads to land amongst the village and they all turned to see what damage would be caused but were confused when the projectiles just landed amongst the huts and rolled harmlessly along the floor.

  ‘What trickery is this?’ growled Eadric. ‘But before he could say anything else, a woman screamed as a child picked up one of the missiles and held it up for all to see.

  ‘By the gods,’ gasped Eadric, and a collective cry arose from the gathered families as they realised they had been bombarded by the heads of the men who had been killed in the battle days earlier. Children started screaming and women crying as they realised what was happening and even Eadric swallowed hard as he realised the implications. Though the dead men had fallen in battle, without their heads, their spirits would be denied access to the afterlife.

  He realised this could have a devastating effect on his men and turned to face the warriors on the ramparts.

  ‘Ignore the insult,’ he screamed. ‘Our men died a glorious death and those who desecrate their memory will pay for this sacrilege. Face your fronts and show them their pathetic gestures are not recognised by Britannic warriors. Men of the Durotriges, let them hear your answer.’

  As one, hundreds of warriors roared their defiance from the ramparts, waving their weapons aloft and screaming insults at the Romans. Down below, Vespasian smiled and turned to the Tribune at his side.

  ‘That woke them up,’ he said, ‘are you ready?’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said the Tribune.

  ‘Then prepare to let them feel the heat of my wrath,’ said Vespasian and rode out to face his Legion.

  ‘Men of Rome,’ he shouted, ‘before you is the lair of the devils responsible for the deaths of your comrades. These are the men who would have feasted on your hearts given the chance. They think their evil ways are better than the civilisation we offer. These are the people who see rape as a God given right and child sacrifice a way of life. They see our ways as weak and belittle our culture. Well, today we will show them who are the weak ones and send them a message this land will never forget. Place steel in hand and harden your gaze for today we make our mark.’

  He drew his sword and held it high.

  ‘Onagers ready,’ he screamed.

  Behind him men placed large pots of oil into the sodden leather slings and lit the woollen wicks sticking out of the necks. The Ballistae that had just sent human heads over the walls were loaded with rocks of a similar size and every man braced for the order.

  ‘People of the Durotriges,’ he screamed, ‘prepare to die, for we are the Legion Secunda Augusta, and we are Roman.’

  His sword arm dropped sharply and immediately hundreds of missiles flew through the air toward the fort above. Vespasian stared in satisfaction as volley after volley flew over his head, and though the adrenaline coursed through his veins, he knew he would have to be patient if he was to be successful. He could not afford to get this wrong.

  * * *

  For an hour the barrage continued and as each cart was emptied of rocks, another immediately took its place, maintaining a constant supply of ammunition for the machines. Occasionally an Onager or Ballista was withdrawn from the line to have its ropes changed or sling replaced but when it was, one of the many in reserve was hauled forward to take its place.

  Inside the fort, hundreds of huts were ablaze, their dry roofs of willow and thatch feeding the hungry flames. People panicked and tried to avoid the searing heat of the inferno, but the rocks breaking down the walls of the huts meant the whole fort was in chaos and a maelstrom of fire and flying missiles. Hundreds of fire pots fell from the sky and as they smashed on the floor, the burning oil within threw its clinging death over building and human alike.

  On the ramparts Eadric and his warriors watched in horror as the enemy artillery ignored the defences and concentrated their fire on their families and homes within the fort. The slaughter was devastating and when the hail of death finally eased off, the village within the fort was nothing more than a burning mountain of crumpled wood, thatch and human flesh.

  Visibly shaken he turned again to look down at the enemy below. He could see more carts being brought up to the machines, each no doubt full of fresh missiles ready for the next attack to begin.

  * * *

  Vespasian watched the next phase unfold. He knew he had shattered the enemy’s confidence; now it was time to shatter their defences. A specialist Architecti led a team of Immunes to manoeuvre a giant Onager to the front of the ranks and secured it down with piles of rocks and stakes driven into the ground. A cart reversed up to the machine and the Immunes rolled a large boulder off the end and into the double strength sling.

  The Architecti watched as his men wound the winch to stretch the double ropes made from horse sinews and when the arm of the catapult had reached a pre-marked notch in the frame, one man drove a block through a preformed hole to hold the arm in place. Finally he looked up at the Legatus in anticipation.

  ‘Ready, my lord,’ he shouted.

  ‘Then do your work, Darrius,’ shouted Vespasian. ‘Give me a gate in their walls.’

  The Architecti saluted and turned to his men.

  ‘On my mark,’ he shouted. ‘Ready, fire!’

  A soldier swung an enormous hammer and knocked the retaining block out of the frame, releasing the tension of the ropes, causing the giant arm to rotate on the fulcrum and send the rock flying toward the wall.

  Every man in the Legion watched in anticipation but let out a collective groan as the rock fell short and bounced harmlessly against the wooden walls. Up above the warriors jeered but Vespasian was unmoved.

  ‘I’ll give you that one, Darrius,’ he said. ‘Make the next one count or you will be replaced.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said the Architecti and turned to his men. ‘Reload,’ he shouted. ‘Three more notches on the winch.’ The process was repeated though this time the arm was visibly lower in its frame.

  ‘Ready,’ shouted Darrius. ‘Fire!’

  Once more a boulder flew through the air and this time the massed Roman infantry cheered wildly as the rock not only found its target but smashed right through it, causing several defending warriors to fall to their deaths on the rocks below.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ said Vespasian. ‘Make sure all your shots are as accurate. I want a breach wide enough for fifty men marching line abreast by midday.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said the Architecti and turned to focus on the task.

  ‘You heard the Legatus,’ he growled, ‘let me down and you will form the point of the infantry assault, now bend your backs into it.’

  Vespasian turned to the Tribune in charge.

  ‘Stand down half the men,’ he said, ‘every other cohort to get fed and rested. Let me know when the breach is complete, I will be in the command tent.’ As he rode away, he heard the crash of the second boulder as it smashed through another part of the wall. As well as the giant Onager, dozens of smaller ones added their power to the assault and slowly but surely, the wooden palisade that had stood for decades fell in smithereens to the rocks below.

  Chatper 14

  The Lands of the Deceangli

  49 AD

  Cassus spent the next ten days in the men’s hut of the farmstead and every day Heulwen attended him to dress his wounds and apply different pastes from the leaves of the forest. Gradually his strength returned and he was able to help out around the farm, even spending some days out alongside Madoc with the flocks. Over time he became accepted by the family and spent many h
appy days alongside them yet, beneath it all, he always remembered the reason he was here in the first place. One evening he returned to the huts and as he was about to go in, a voice called from the treeline.

  He wandered over thinking it was one of the other farmers but when he reached the edge of the forest, there was no one to be seen. Nervously he felt for his knife in his belt but paused in disbelief as he recognised a design, freshly carved into a tree. The sign of a Pugio.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he asked nervously.

  ‘My name is irrelevant,’ said a voice. ‘I have a message – listen carefully. You are to infiltrate the ranks of Idwal, King of the Deceangli. There are plans afoot to come this way and we would know his strengths.’

  Cassus nodded.

  ‘And how will I relay this information?’ he asked.

  ‘You will be contacted on the first night of the solstice celebrations,’ said the voice. ‘Ensure you are alone and bring what information you can.’

  ‘How do I gain this trust?’ asked Cassus, but there was no answer. The man had gone. Cassus returned to the hut and ate his meal alongside the other men in silence.

  ‘Does your wound cause you pain?’ asked Madoc.

  ‘No,’ said Cassus, ‘I am almost as strong as I ever was. Why do you ask?’

  ‘You are very quiet,’ said Madoc, ‘and your face betrays your concern.’

  ‘You are a visionary man,’ said Cassus, ‘and indeed you are correct. I am very happy here but my heart demands I seek my fate elsewhere.’

  ‘But why?’ asked Madoc. ‘Are you not warm at night and fed good mutton?’

  ‘I am,’ said Cassus, ‘but a man needs more than meat and warmth.’