by K. M. Ashman
Rufius was frantic, screaming at the men at the walls to pull them down. The front rank levered at the stones with stout poles cut especially for the task, forcing them outward while their comrades tried their best to deflect the blows from above with their Pilae.
* * *
A mile away Scapula’s auxiliary infantry were also in formation though this time in line abreast ten men deep and a hundred men across. The rocks above had been cleared of any remaining enemy and the front of the line faced downstream, at right angles to the river. They too heard the drums of Geta’s Legion and strained at the leash to be released against the enemy. The Auxiliary infantry had smaller shields and wore armour of leather as opposed to the Lorica Segmentata worn by the Roman regulars. This meant that though they were not so good in military formation, they would be much more effective in the broken ground and rocky slopes before them.
‘Gallic cohorts,’ shouted Scapula, ‘the Victrix face the enemy in a bloody confrontation with Caratacus. Before us lie the cream of the enemy and it is a task worthy of the best. I know you will not let me, your fellows or your country down. Use this day to carve your names into history.’
He drew his Gladius and held it high.
‘Gallic cohorts of the Fourteenth Gemina,’ he shouted, ‘onward into glory. Advance!’
A thousand men stepped forward in rough formation. Not the disciplined lines of their Roman comrades but two cohorts of ferocious individuals with fire in their heart and murder in their soul. For the first hundred yards they maintained their pace before gathering speed toward the rocky slopes that led to the ground between the peaks. Within moments they were running at half speed and when a few defenders appeared from their hiding places before them, a great cry arose from the Gauls and they broke into full speed to drive home their assault. Warriors appeared in their hundreds from between the rocks, hurling their missiles at the oncoming horde and the front line of the auxiliaries took the full force of the barrage, decimated by the spears and throwing axes. Row after row met similar fates but their numbers and impetus were too great and those behind the fallen descended on the warrior defenders like packs of rabid wolves.
Hand to hand fighting broke out across the slopes, spreading like a bush fire as those behind ran past those already engaged to roll the attack forward. Steel clashed on steel, but though the defenders had neither armour nor helmets they fought with animalistic ferocity. Within minutes the whole slope was a battlefield of screaming men, each in mortal combat with life the desperate prize.
* * *
Back on the slopes below the fort, Rufius heard a shout from beneath the shields of the first century as the first wall was breached and boulders rolled at the attacker’s feet. Pilae were thrust forward through the gap and the Legionaries widened the gap until three could squash through together. Their comrades piled through behind them and the Legion burst through the walls like blood from a severed limb. Around them the defenders ran forward, smashing into them in a frenzy, desperate to block the breach. Up above, Gwydion picked his targets carefully, killing the Romans one by one as they cleared the growing gaps. Men fell on men but still they came and soon breaches appeared all along the wall. Gwydion did his best to stem the tide and though every arrow found a mark, soon he was down to the last six arrows.
Wolfeye gave the order to retreat to the second hill and hundreds of warriors turned to gather on the steeper slopes.
‘After them,’ screamed Rufius, ‘don’t let them reform.’
Before them the warriors scrambled toward the safety of the second hill but before they got within a few hundred paces, lines of Gallic infantry appeared from beyond the slopes beyond.
‘Who are they?’ shouted a Legionary.
‘By the gods,’ shouted Rufius, ‘it’s the Gemina. Onward, Victrix and squeeze them between the Legions.’
* * *
With enemy before and behind them, the warrior defenders sought a way out but with an escarpment to their right and the river down below they were hemmed in with no chance of escape.
Wolfeye climbed up onto a rock and addressed the few hundred warrior survivors.
‘Now is not the time to falter,’ he screamed, ‘for every one of us who fall, three of this filth will join us on the journey to the gods and our forefathers will see we have honoured their names. Even as we die, our blood will enrich Britannic soil. The day is done, countrymen, but meet the night with sword in hand. Turn from flight and face the foe and meet our gods with honour.’
He jumped down from the rock and with hundreds of screaming men behind him, raced into the face of the oncoming Romans.
* * *
Gwydion cursed out loud. To one side he could see a huge battle breaking out between the remainder of the defenders and two different fronts of attackers. Below him the Testudos were reforming this side of what remained of the defensive walls and behind them he could see groups of men crossing the river with dozens of ladders, ready to scale the palisades. The day was lost and he knew Prydain had been right. No matter what he did now, it would have no bearing on the outcome. It was time to go but before he did, he drew the last arrow from his quiver and aimed carefully at the mass of men approaching the palisades.
* * *
The morale of Legionaries beneath the shields of the Testudo was high and they were shouting in time with their own advance. The Decurions of each unit roared their encouragement from amongst their sweating ranks and behind each unit, the centurions and Optios screamed their orders, ensuring the momentum of the assault was maintained. Still the missiles rained down from above, yet the effect was minimal against the solid walls of shields.
Rufius stayed close to the lead Centuries, ducking low behind his own Scutum and controlling the advancing lines. He needed them all to reach the walls of the palisade more or less at the same time to dilute the defender’s fire across many targets, rather than suffer intense bombardment on one or two. His shield bristled with arrow shafts, each blocked with skilful manipulation born through years of experience on battlefields throughout half the known world. He knew his solitary figure attracted the attention of the enemy but even when closing in on the fort, his defensive skills and battle awareness meant he presented a minimal target to the archers above.
Despite this, Gwydion had watched him since the Legion crossed the river, singling him out as a prominent leader and the fulcrum around which the advance revolved. The magnificent red crest sweeping across his helmet made him easy to spot amongst the chaos of the battlefield and Gwydion willed him onward, hoping he would come within range before the ladders fell against the palisade.
‘Come on,’ murmured Gwydion to himself as the attackers drew close, a few more steps. Slowly he picked up the last arrow and placed it in the bow, taking his time to ensure the bowstring fitted snuggly in the notch of the shaft.
Below the palisade, the first of the attackers reached the timber façade and lifted their shields above their heads, slamming the forward edges into the timbers. The rows behind placed their shields overlapping those in front until they had a platform stretching back ten men. The last two lines knelt down and leaned their shields forward, forming a steep ramp onto the makeshift platform. No sooner had the last shield locked into place when another line of men ran forward and leapt onto the shields of their comrades and formed a further, smaller platform reaching halfway up the palisade. Finally, under the protective barrage from the Sagittaria, hundreds of lightly armoured auxiliaries stormed forward to climb onto the ledge of shields, before leaping over the palisade and into the faces of the enemy. All across the defences the same tactic was used to propel attackers over the walls and in between, hundreds of ladders filled the gaps to be scaled by those specially trained in siege warfare.
Gwydion knew he had to move, but the situation had taken a dramatic turn. From behind the advancing army he could see the Legion’s Eagle standard appear over the attackers, closely followed by the easily recognised Roman commander. He gasped at the
audacity of the man and held his breath as Legatus Geta came into range of his one remaining arrow.
A few steps away defenders and attackers fought ferociously on the ramparts and he knew he could wait no longer. He lifted his bow slowly and aimed at the Legatus, knowing that a successful shot may not halt the attack but would strike a devastating blow against Rome. Just as his shot became clear his eyes widened as he recognised a figure running amongst the retreating warriors.
Gwydion lowered his bow momentarily as he stared at the man running to safety. He couldn’t believe it. The warrior before him had lost his helmet and as his hair fell about his terrified face, Gwydion could see the blackness was interrupted by a long streak of white.
‘Gwydion,’ screamed a voice from below, ‘the day is lost; we have to leave.’
Gwydion looked down at Prydain in the courtyard of the fort. Without answering he picked up his bow and ran along the ramparts to get a better view of the man on the hill and as he reached the corner, the running warrior looked up into his eyes.
There was no doubt in Gwydion’s mind; it was the man who had haunted his nightmares for the past five years. Below him ran the man called Badger, the brigand who had killed his woman and forced him to give up his son.
Gwydion’s heart raced. He had two targets and one arrow. The warrior in him demanded he kill the Legatus of a Legion, but he had sworn on the memory of his wife that one day he would repay her death with that of her killer.
Behind him the Roman force had taken the ramparts and were pouring over the palisade. He knew he had seconds to decide, so without any more thought he finally lifted his bow and aimed at the man he had chosen to die.
Chatper 24
Caer Caradog
50AD
Rufius climbed over the palisades and onto the ramparts, following the men who had slaughtered the remaining defenders. All along the walls his fellow Romans were pouring over the defences and dropping to the inner courtyard to continue the battle with the last stubborn defenders.
Gone were the lines of disciplined soldiers who had marched their way up the slopes and auxiliary infantry men fought alongside the heavier armoured Legionaries as they made their way toward the centre of the fort. The scene was chaos as men and boys fought frantically to save their own lives, but were no match for overwhelming power of the attackers.
Rufius watched his men advance, knowing that the next few hours would be filled with uncompromising slaughter as they took out their frustration on the enemy forces. He looked around the ramparts, littered with dozens of bodies both Britannic and Roman, and walked slowly among them, checking for friendly wounded. A man groaned and he looked to one side where a defender was trying to crawl away. Rufius bent over and grasping his hair, slit the man’s throat with his Pugio. He stood to continue his task but suddenly a movement caught his eye and he saw a warrior leaning outward over the palisade, aiming a bow toward the on-going battle on the slopes of the hill. He followed the archer’s gaze and his heart missed a beat as he saw Scapula riding his horse up the hill.
Rufius roared in anger and ran forward, drawing his Gladius as he went, hoping he had distracted the man for just enough to affect his aim. If he hadn’t, this field could see the death of a Legate and victory or not, that would be a disaster.
* * *
Gwydion heard the roar and glance sideways at the oncoming Roman, realising instantly he had but seconds to decide and if he hesitated to defend himself, the opportunity would be lost. He drew back his arm and focussing on his chosen target, let the arrow fly.
He did not know if the arrow flew true, as by the time it was halfway through the flight, the Roman fell upon him and swung his Gladius toward his face. Gwydion ducked instinctively but the blade smashed against his helmet and caused him to fall sideways off the rampart and into the fortress below.
Rufius leapt off the rampart onto the roof of a hut and then down onto the dirt of the fort, determined to finish him off. Gwydion struggled to his feet, dazed, and with his sword arm hanging uselessly at his side. He tried to stagger away but Rufius appeared before him and smashed him in the face with the hilt of his Gladius, sending him sprawling in the dust once more.
Rufius walked over and stood over the semi-conscious body of Gwydion, staring down at him with hatred.
‘Nice try, heathen,’ he said, ‘but you wasted your time. The arrow missed and Scapula still lives; you wasted your life in vain.’
Gwydion didn’t understand the Latin but gave a response of his own.
‘Do your worst, Roman,’ he said, ‘for your time in these lands is fleeting.’ He drew a breath and spat a mouthful of blood over him.
Rufius wiped a speck of bloody saliva from his face and changed the grip on his Gladius.
‘A pathetic gesture from a pathetic man,’ he said. ‘Time to die, heathen and share the fate of this godforsaken country.’ He stepped forward and, crouching low, plunged his Gladius into Gwydion’s stomach.
Gwydion gasped and his head flew backward in agony as the centurion twisted the blade in the wound.
‘If you know anything about warfare, heathen, then you will know a gut wound kills slowly and you will soon die, screaming, as will Britannia.’
Gwydion’s eyes rolled backward as the pain increased and the stench of his pierced entrails escaped the wound.
Rufius cleaned his Gladius on the dying man’s tunic before turning away to join the assault further within the fort.
* * *
Prydain appeared from around a corner, searching frantically for his friend. He had seen him fall from the ramparts but had been held up fighting a Gallic swordsman. Finally he recognised Gwydion and ran over to crouch low beside him, knowing instantly the wound was lethal. He lifted his friend’s head gently and Gwydion opened his eyes to look up at him.
‘Prydain,’ gasped Gwydion, ‘you are here, thank the gods.’
‘I am here, friend,’ said Prydain, ‘and will stay until you start the journey.’
‘No,’ gasped Gwydion, ‘you can’t. You must do something for me.’
‘Anything,’ said Prydain.
‘Then save yourself and travel north. Go to the village of Lanbard and seek the woodsman called Derwen.’
‘Why?’ asked Prydain.
‘He has a boy in his care called Taliesin,’ said Gwydion, ‘the true blood leader of his mother’s clan. He is my son, Prydain, and I entrust him into your care. Check he is well and one day take him to claim his rightful place as leader of the Blaidd.’
‘I will,’ said Prydain, ‘I swear.’
Gwydion started coughing and he gasped in pain.
‘Then go now,’ he said, ‘and save your life, if not for yourself, then for Taliesin. I am done here, Prydain, leave while you have the chance.’
Prydain knew he was right and if he was to escape the battle, he had to leave right away. He stood up before turning to his friend once more.
‘Travel well, friend,’ said Prydain, ‘and one day we will ride together in the lands of the gods.’
‘Prydain, one more thing,’ gasped Gwydion, ‘when the boy becomes a man, tell him… tell him…’
‘Tell him what?’ asked Prydain.
Gwydion’s head fell sideways and Prydain turned away, knowing that his friend would talk no more.
On the other side of the fort wall, the hill was covered with thousands of dead. Most were native to Britannia and most had the jet-black hair that was common to their tribes, but amongst their number, one body stood out. His black hair was streaked with white and deep in his heart was Gwydion’s arrow.
Chatper 25
The Lands of the Deceangli
50 AD
Prydain ran amongst the huts of the hill fort, avoiding the hordes of attackers now laying waste to the village. He scrambled over the rear wall and joined the hundreds of men fleeing for their lives down the reverse of the hill. Below he could see a disorganised battle covering the slopes, thousands of men in lethal hand to hand
combat fighting for their lives. In the distance he could see the silver gleam of another river though he knew there were no fords in this one, and it provided a massive obstacle for any men lucky enough to reach it. Down on the flood plain an Alae of cavalry was forming up to sweep along the valley and mop up the last of the escapees.
Prydain realised there was no way he could reach the river and looked around frantically for somewhere to hide, but a movement caught his eye and he noticed a lone horse standing over a dead rider. Prydain ran forward and grabbed the reins, talking quietly to calm the beast. Despite having a mount, he knew he would not get far in the face of the rapidly approaching cavalry. Finally he made his decision. He knew it was risky but there was only one option. He climbed up into the saddle and kicked his heels hard into the horse’s flanks. The beast leaped forward and responding to Prydain’s control, galloped down the slope at breakneck speed.
The smaller rocks flew about the feet of his mount and Prydain expected it to fall at any second, but they eventually reached the floodplain and turned to face the river.
Hundreds of men raced toward the water, terrified of the wall of death they knew was about to fall upon them but still they ran, desperate to reach the perceived safety of the forests on the far bank.
Prydain kicked the horse again and galloped hard toward the river, passing running boys and men, each just as desperate to reach the water. To the north he could see the dust cloud of the Alae approaching fast, almost five hundred cavalry descending on the last of Caratacus’s army to administer the final defeat.
