by K. M. Ashman
On one flank, Cassus had been noticed by a warlord and ordered into line to face the forthcoming assault. Though he had other things on his mind, he complied, knowing that when battle was joined, he could slip away in the confusion. He knew that wherever Caratacus was, Prydain wouldn’t be far away and he would seize his chance at the first opportunity.
* * *
Geta waited for the signal. His Legionaries were ready. This time they were disciplined, battle hardened men, all veterans of many battles and he knew that whatever happened, they would not retreat. He looked up as a burning arrow sailed through the air, trailing a line of black smoke; the first signal.
‘Ballistae ready,’ he screamed. ‘Onagers ready, on my mark, fire!’
Once again, the thump of catapults filled the air and fire pots rained down on the enemy positions. Loose bundles of ten arrows at a time were shot from the Ballistae, providing a wall of death aimed randomly across the river. Slingers picked out individuals across the water, aiming their lead shot at the heads of the barbarians with surprising accuracy, while ranks of archers stood ready to add their own skills to the wall of covering fire. A Cornicine sounded across the battle front and Geta saw the cavalry ride into the river to disrupt the flow, covered from assault by the intensive bombardment from their allies.
Geta held his breath, hoping the strategy would work. He knew that one way or the other he would have to commit his men within the next minute or so.
‘Rufius,’ he shouted and the Primus Pilus turned to face him. In his left hand he held the large, oblong shaped shield with the Legion’s wild boar crest emblazoned across the front, while in his right his Gladius was already drawn. He had discarded his cloak and the faceguards of his scarlet plumed helmet were secured under his chin. On his face he wore a look of pure determination.
‘Yes, my lord,’ answered Rufius.
‘Rufius, the barbarians voice their eagerness for the fray. What say you we show them the same.’
‘Aye, my lord,’ shouted Rufius and turned to his cohort.
‘First cohort,’ he shouted, ‘we have been selected this day for glory and once more lead our Legion, nay, our Empire on the assault of a heathen king. Let these barbarians hear the sound of oncoming death.’
Six hundred voices of the first cohort filled the air, screaming their support and readiness.
‘Twentieth Valeria Victrix,’ shouted Rufius when the sound had died down, ‘your forebears led the way in Illyricum, Hispana and Germania. Pay tribute this day to their sacrifice and send a message they will hear at the tables of the gods. Join the first cohort in their defiance and make Caratacus tremble in his boots.’
Across the entire front and throughout the deep reserves, every man screamed their readiness in defiance of the enemy facing them. Geta felt his heart race with pride and as the shouting eased, their noise was replaced with a cacophony of sound from every drum and Cornicine from both Legions. He glanced down at the water and could see that though still deep, the flow had eased, broken by hundreds of horses up stream.
‘Valeria Victrix,’ roared Geta, ‘advance!’
Rufius ran to the water’s edge closely followed by over six hundred veterans. This was no time for orderly lines; they would come later. The most important thing was to get across as quickly as possible.
‘Archers,’ screamed Geta over the sound of the drums, ‘their lives lie in your hands and I will personally crucify any man who misses an easy target. Load your bows and aim true.’
Rufius waded waist deep across the river. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a man fall but as ordered, the disciplined Legionary released his shield and struck out to avoid becoming an obstacle to his comrades. If he failed to reach the far bank, the cavalry downstream were waiting to fish him out.
Along the edge of the far bank, Rufius could see dozens of frightened faces peering from their hiding places amongst the reeds, each grateful that they could soon be released from the freezing mud and threat of impeding death.
* * *
Up on the slopes, Caratacus was alert to the threat and stormed amongst his own warriors, screaming his commands and urging them to greater feats of bravery.
‘Get off your bellies,’ he screamed, ‘and let them feel the anger in our souls. Their arrows are but feathers; take the battle to the invaders.’
A thousand men raced forward to confront the Romans climbing the banks.
‘Archers, volley fire,’ and a wall of iron tipped ash flew across the river into the onrushing enemy.
Men fell in their hundreds, but their places were quickly taken by their fellow warriors as they raced to the battle. Over and over again the archers cut them down but their numbers were too many. As soon as they were in range, the warriors threw their spears and Romans fell like scythed corn on the banks of the river. Rufius crouched below his shield, frustrated that although they had bettered the current, the ferocious onslaught of arrows, spears and rocks from above meant they were finding it hard to secure a bridge head. Finally a few more men managed to crawl onto the bank and Rufius called out.
‘You men, on me,’ he screamed, ‘shield wall now.’
All five men knelt down and planted their Scuta in the damp soil. Another four joined them and stood between the first five, placing their own shields above the lower ones to provide a protective wall higher than a man. It wasn’t much but it gave a narrow channel of safety behind which men could climb from the killing zone of the river without being in line of sight of the enemy archers.
Very quickly the numbers grew, and the shield wall expanded both ways, an ever-growing barricade that fed itself, growing larger by the second as more men reached the bank. The enemy warriors were kept back by the Legion’s archers though some managed to get through the deadly storm and fall upon the shield wall with a ferocity born of frustration.
Rufius looked around in triumph. Men were pouring ashore in their hundreds and he knew he could now do what he did best.
‘You men,’ he screamed, ‘on my command, twenty paces forward and form into century level Testudo. Those to each side, close the gap and prepare to do the same. Ready; move!’
Approximately eight men ran forward as ordered and the first ten planted their shields once more in the soil before crouching low behind them. The second ten crouched behind the first and raised their shields above their heads, protecting the first ten and themselves from the constant rain of rocks and arrows. As each man arrived, they placed their shields either to a flank or above their heads depending on their location in the square and finally they had a group of eighty men, entirely encased in a protective wall of shields, the infamous tortoise defence, the Testudo.
* * *
A mile away, the barrage from the Gemina’s artillery continued, raining hell on the strong defences protecting the ford across the river. The bombardment from the fire pots of the Onagers had been so severe even the rocks seemed to be ablaze, and men were screaming in pain from the unrelenting flames as they burned to death.
In the forest behind the siege machines an entire Alae of cavalry waited patiently. The unit consisted of sixteen Turmae, each of thirty riders commanded by a Decurion, a mounted unit of four hundred and eighty men. Behind them, another four cohorts of auxiliary infantry totalling almost two thousand men waited their turn to cross the ford and assault the flank of Caratacus’s army.
‘Stand by,’ shouted Scapula, ‘Praefectus Ruga, on my command, secure me this crossing.’
‘We are ready, my lord.’
‘Cease the barrage, Ruga, make it happen, advance!’
‘Alae Fourth Claudia,’ bellowed Ruga drawing his sword, ‘no retreat, no surrender, charge!’
The entire wing of cavalry leapt forward at full gallop, almost five hundred armed men taking advantage of the confusion caused by the barrage.
Within moments they were through the river and piercing the enemy lines. Those warriors who had survived the fire-rain stumbled from their hiding places to meet th
e enemy, only to be cut down by lances or the curved blades of the riders. Within minutes the entire Alae was across, causing mayhem in the ranks of the enemy.
‘Fourteenth Gemina,’ screamed Scapula, ‘for the glory of Rome, advance!’
Two thousand infantry followed Scapula across the ford, each adding their swords to the havoc being caused by the cavalry and swarming over the slope like an army of ants. Despite their numbers, Scapula didn’t have it all his own way and a fresh impetus of Caratacus’s warriors stormed down the hill to plug the gap.
All around, man faced man in one on one combat, each fighting furiously in the knowledge that no quarter would be asked or given. For several minutes the outcome was uncertain but as more reinforcements crossed the narrow ford, the Roman numbers gradually overwhelmed the defenders and hundreds of men fell before the onslaught. Finally the remaining warriors turned and retreated up the steep slopes, climbing frantically to escape the attentions of the Batavians. Many of the Auxiliaries started to follow but were ordered back by their commanders.
Scapula rode forward and took command of the situation.
‘Ruga, gather your cavalry and protect this crossing at all costs. The infantry will form up in Cuneus formation and follow the river downstream to squeeze the enemy between us and Geta’s forces. I just hope they managed to get across.’
Chatper 23
Caer Caradog
50 AD
Caratacus was frantic. He had thrown everything he had at the defences and though their spears and arrows had accounted for hundreds of the enemy, their own casualties were horrendous and he knew that all he had left were the elite warriors kept behind above the higher lines of walls where the enemy catapults couldn’t reach. He stormed from position to position, encouraging the defenders and promising the freedom of their lands from Roman tyranny. He glared at the enemy on the lower slopes of the hills. The entire bottom half was now in the hands of the Romans and he could see them forming up into their centuries, preparing for the assault up the slopes. He climbed up onto a prominent rock and addressed the men before him.
‘Men of Britannia,’ he called, ‘do not let their numbers or meaningless drills affect the truth of your hearts. They are just men as you or I and their blood runs as red as ours. They are not invincible and they have faced defeat at our hands before. Do not forget, in the times of our grandfathers these Romans set covetous eyes on our homeland and twice came ashore with swords drawn and murder in their eyes. On both occasions our forefathers drove them away, shedding their own blood so we can sleep in our own lodges in our own lands. Do not let their sacrifice be in vain this day for make no mistake, if we fail in this task then servitude and bondage beckons. Emerge victorious and our lands will be free for another generation.’
Below him the men roared their approval and beat their weapons against their shields. Caratacus grabbed the moment, urging them to greater things and before he had finished, the slopes were alive again with the cheers and support of his army. Slowly the sounds of cheering died and they looked around, realising there was another sound vibrating through the evening air; the sound of Roman drums.
Caratacus stared down and could see the Legion was moving. Dozens of military squares, each containing eighty men marched in step across the lower slopes and up toward the higher defences, each step in time with the beat of the drums.
‘Men of Britannia,’ screamed Caratacus, ‘look to your weapons and listen to your hearts. Over the next few hours, the freedom of these lands lies in your hands.’
* * *
Cassus crouched behind one of the hastily erected walls. He had been stuck there for hours, unable to move further up the hill due to the accuracy of the Roman archers. On several occasions, one or more of the defenders had taken the chance to run between positions but every time they were struck down by arrows before they had gone more than a few paces. He knew his options were limited and the only way the archers would cease their deadly fire was when the infantry closed in on the defences.
Occasionally he saw Caratacus high above his position, out of reach of the arrows and once he was almost certain he saw Prydain at his side. That gave Cassus strength to continue. He had waited six years; he could handle a few more hours.
* * *
Gwydion and Prydain stood alongside each other on the ramparts of the fort. Gwydion looked down at the manoeuvring Centuries and turned to Prydain.
‘What do you think?’ he asked.
‘It’s not good,’ said Prydain. ‘Now they have bettered the river, they’ll revert to type and use their might to work their way upward.’
‘We still have a lot of warriors down there,’ said Gwydion, ‘they will sell themselves dearly.’
‘In the end it will make no difference,’ said Prydain, ‘they are a tide that cannot be stopped. Dam them in one place and they pour around the end. Defend that point and they will come over the top. There is no defence against them, Gwydion – this day is doomed.’
‘Caratacus thinks otherwise,’ said Gwydion, ‘his words extol victory.’
‘His words might,’ said Prydain, ‘but his actions suggest otherwise.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He keeps horses ready for a quick exit,’ said Prydain, ‘and has instructed ten of his closest advisers to stay close in case the day does not go well.’
‘He means to run?’
‘He has seen the futility of the task,’ said Prydain, ‘and only lingers in the hope that my people’s cavalry fall upon the rear of the attackers to dull their strike.’
‘Is this likely?’
Prydain shook his head.
‘I fear not,’ he said, ‘they would have been here by now and even if they were to arrive, that river is as much a barrier to them as it was to the Romans. This day is done, Gwydion. Make your plans to escape this place.’
‘You know I cannot run, Prydain. I am Britannic and our fate lies here. If I run then others will run with good reason. I am no coward, Prydain, and if I fall this day, then at least I will die defending my homeland.’
‘Gwydion, unveil your eyes,’ said Prydain. ‘Your own king has already decided the fight is over and makes plans to leave.’
‘What about the women?’ asked Gwydion. ‘There are over a hundred within the camp. Surely he doesn’t mean to leave them behind?’
‘They are already hidden in the cave on the other summit,’ said Prydain. ‘They have supplies and the entrance has been hidden with bracken. The hope is the Romans will sweep by and the women will emerge in a few days when they have gone.’
‘This is unbelievable,’ said Gwydion. ‘Facing defeat is one thing, but to extol victory to his men while preparing to flee is another.’
‘Don’t be too hard on him, Gwydion,’ said Prydain, ‘for such is the way of kings. They see themselves as above battles but winners of wars. Perhaps he is right and we need him to continue the fight on another field at a different time.’
‘Your words are wise,’ said Gwydion, ‘but yet I cannot flee and leave those I call brother to die so I may live.’
‘I understand,’ said Prydain, ‘and your honour is evident. All I am saying is if the day is lost and the lines are routed, then there is no shame in fleeing a lost cause. Do not delay just to add your name to the fallen. Live to fight another day.’
‘What about you, Prydain?’ asked Gwydion.
‘I too will stay until the last moment,’ said Prydain, ‘but will make my way back to my people if we lose the day.’
Both men jumped as a blast from the Roman trumpeters echoed across the hill and they looked down to see the Roman formations approaching the lines of loosely packed stone walls.
‘Until next we meet,’ said Prydain and grabbed Gwydion’s forearm.
‘In this life or the next,’ said Gwydion.
Prydain strode away to join Caratacus while Gwydion unwrapped Angau for what was possibly the last time. The Parthenian recurved bow had been in his family for generation
s and there was no better archer than Gwydion. He placed his two quivers of arrows on the wall to his front and loosened the straps that kept them tightly together, knowing that even if he made every one fly true, the deaths of forty Romans would have little bearing on the outcome of the day.
* * *
Rufius stood to the front of the first century leading the way up the hill, his eyes constantly scanning the slopes for the first sign of the counter assault he knew would come. Sure enough, movement caught his eye and he saw a volley of arrows fly from the higher rocks above.
‘Testudo,’ he screamed and immediately the Legion stopped to present their shields into the formation of the tortoise.
Rufius crouched down behind his own Scutum and the whole advance halted momentarily while the first volley slammed into their shields. Immediately Rufius peered over the top of his shield and took advantage of the lull between volleys.
‘Ten paces, advance,’ and each Testudo lifted their shields to run ten paces before presenting their shields once more.
Again and again the arrows fell but each time the Roman formations gained ground a few steps at a time. Their shields were bristling with arrow shafts but the advance had cost less than a dozen men from their strength, each the result of a lucky arrow finding its way through a hole or a gap between the defensive shields.
Within minutes, the first century reached the wall and while frantic defenders hammered the Testudo from above with sword and axe, the men at the front reached between their shields and pulled at the loose stones to form a breach. All across the defensive walls, other Centuries reached their objectives and the loose rocks were torn from the barricades.
