by John Salter
After the attack during the morning he had ordered two cohorts of cavalry to patrol along their lines on opposite sides of the column and travelling in opposite directions at all times. One century of heavy infantry now walked with and guarded the rear flank at all times to try and ensure a repeat of the mornings attack didn’t occur again.
As the men released their heavy back packs and put their equipment down, the wagons containing the sharpened timber spikes were brought to them at intervals of fifty paces and unloaded. The sound of digging commenced as men bit into the previously un-dug surface with their shovels and the preparations began to complete their temporary home once more.
Some distance away, keen eyes watched the invaders digging their earth. They had seen the precautions the Romans had taken and knew they couldn’t risk attacking the column with two cohorts of cavalry ready to come to the defence of any area they believed right to take advantage of and so they waited.
“A wolf can stalk their prey for days until the right moment presents itself.” Caratacus said. “Patience is always rewarded in time as we will be when we destroy these men that hide themselves in metal and iron.” His accomplices nodded in agreement as they backed away from the trees and bushes they had used to help conceal themselves with.
After dark had fallen and the defences were in place, fires lit up small groups of Roman soldiers sat around fires. Sentries were silhouetted as they moved along the perimeter. Lines of brown tents were visible, set up in neat rows and safely behind their fortified position. Wolf mouths lay in the dug trenches, the small spikes embedded as a horrible surprise for any wood-be attacker, they could maim or entangle anyone or anything before a pilum was hurled at the unfortunate individual or animal to put them out of their misery. Animals caught by the devices would usually find themselves being slaughtered and then cooked the next day.
Some of the soldiers relaxed in their tents talking or playing dice or betting on the outcome as old rivalries were re-ignited, others decided to get some sleep as early as possible because they knew that come the morning they would be expected to march between twenty five and thirty miles once again.
The first of the Britons reached the pit and straining his eyes in the half light, saw some of the sharpened spikes below. He turned and whispered to the man coming up behind him, giving him instructions to take back to their leader. The man wheeled quietly around on his stomach hardly making a noise and went back in the direction it had taken so long to cover.
Sometime later, much later and with the stars sparkling like diamonds in the night sky, he returned but was not alone. Other warriors struggled with thin branches and logs cut from trees far away, they had dragged them forward as other men struggled to get them across the pits. One man stood on a particularly small spike that he hadn’t seen in the dim light and the iron pierced his foot. He almost screamed out in agony but stopped himself as he pulled his foot free of the sharp metal. He scrambled back up the bank and crawled towards the trees and safety, there would be no Roman heads for him this night.
The sleeping soldiers had no warning of the attack nor did the sentries except for the fizz of fire arrows as they pierced tents and set fire to others. Some landed harmlessly on the grass and burnt out straight away. In the same instant from nowhere, Britons appeared inside the perimeter moving with stealth, silently moving towards the enemy. High on aggression and incensed with fury, the warriors crashed into the tents some jumping onto them and preventing the occupants from escaping, hacking and slashing their large swords two handed into the struggling heads and limbs trying to get free of the material inside.
As a trumpet further down the line signalled the alert, it was already too late for many of the men of the Second Augusta. Most didn’t even get free of their tents, some half asleep, half dressed and some even fell half naked outside wherever they could and were hacked to death with no mercy.
“Alarm, alarm! To arms!” Shouted a sentry some hundred yards away, now running towards the burning tents, “What the fucks going on? How did those blue bastards get inside?” He cried out to no-one in particular as he ran and was joined by others as men leapt from their own tents as he passed.
The Britons were already pulling back and were now running towards the cover of the trees as some were still struggling free of the pit. The advancing Romans were too far away to reach them however and the fastest hurled their pilums at the retreating Britons, the first of which were now already entering the tree line. The furthest pilum landed feet behind the last Briton.
The Romans that got to the attacked position first, found garrotted sentries and dead and dying soldiers. Logs and branches covered the pits where they had made their escape. The Britons had somehow out thought them and had got through the defences without the alarm being sounded. Enraged a Centurion ran through the large almost vertical spikes before the pit and over the logs, waving for the following men to continue with him, they did.
Some distance away, Vespasian watched from his area of the perimeter and suddenly ordered the trumpeter to sound the retreat suspecting what was about to happen. He screamed for his men to withdraw whilst officers gathered around staring at him in disbelief as he ran forward but it was too late.
As the legionaries got to within twenty paces of the retreating Britons, the trees seemed to come to life with movement, branches swaying. The leading soldiers realised too late that they had fought their last battle as chariots raced out of the wood towards them. They carried at least three lime covered warriors at either side of the vehicles and within no time, encircled them. All but one Briton jumped off every chariot and then immediately ran at the isolated soldiers who were already weary from the chase.
Vespasian watched helplessly as at least twenty more Roman lives were lost to the blades of the frenzied madmen and women that were hacking at them. Screams disturbed the night as flaming shadows danced over the horrifying scene beyond, reflected off the trees and faces of the Britons.
Finally the screams ended but some soldiers, at least four were dragged up, put onto chariots and driven off. Vespasian looked on and realised that they must still live. He stared straining to see properly and observed one Briton standing alone, staring back at him. He was fully clothed and was wearing an enormous double plumed helmet, Caratacus! As another native approached him, Caratacus raised a large sword and pointed it at the Roman General, he stood for several moments, then turned and walked slowly into the cover of the trees and vanished from sight.
Chapter Six
With dawn came the reality of the atrocities carried out the night before. Bodies were strewn around the valley floor of the former resting place. The army in its marching line was now divided, its middle segregated where the enemy had attacked. Scorched and with some wagons still burning, it was testament to the stealth and brutality of the plan carried out by Caratacus. Vespasian had decided to isolate the ravaged land where his men had died and had reinforced the defences facing each other in the two camps running through the valley’s track.
Smoke still smouldered from burnt out tents, wagons and material and even flesh, the smell was overwhelming as men moved in to clear away their fallen comrades and bury their corpses. Water was used to douse burning flames as men passed buckets from one to another from a nearby stream.
The General’s anger hadn’t subsided as he once again walked amongst his dead. His hands trembled with fury as he covered his mouth with one hand, the stench almost making him empty his bowels and spill its contents over the smouldering earth. Soldiers searched nearby woods where the last of the slaughter had taken place, brave men that had tried to pursue the murderers from the night before. Their corpses lay at awkward angles, limbs bent where they had fallen. Some still wore their helmets and armour but they had still died vastly outnumbered and isolated, where they had been cut to pieces.
Their only saving grace was that they had died relatively quickly and hadn’t burnt to death like the poor bastards that had gone to their gods in thei
r tents, victims of the fire arrows or hacks to the head or body by large swords and axes. The smoke from the devastating attack could be seen from some miles away as Varro and his small band approached on their horses cautiously entering the clearing from the west.
“I don’t think that’s smoke from the columns camp fires for some reason, it looks different, too black, it doesn’t look normal.” Marcus remarked.
“I think you’re right.” Varro replied looking at the dark plumes rising into the sky above them in the clear blue air as they drew closer.
“Maybe they caught the butchering bastards and set them on fire.” Veranius remarked.
“I very much doubt it Veranius, crucified them maybe but I wouldn’t have thought the General would stoop to their barbaric levels.” Varro said.
They continued on, watching all around them, their imaginations producing huge men with axes in the woods waiting for the right moment to attack. Varro knew that the approach to the column was always the most dangerous. Whilst they were so close to safety and security they knew nothing of the enemy positions and so could walk directly into a trap at any moment. If the Britons had been massing for a large attack they would be close and it would be virtually impossible to get to the main force.
Eventually the fortified positions came into view and they could see soldiers moving about in camp and outside the boundaries. Dark smoke was billowing from somewhere in the centre of the position and horsemen galloped here and there no doubt carrying out different orders.
“This doesn’t look good.” Varro said to no-one in particular as riders came out to challenge the approaching men.
Some hours later, the dead buried and with preparations to move forward taking place, Varro made his report to Vespasian who was sat reading reports from other scouts. The tent was modest by a General’s standards, a bust of the Emperor Claudius and the Legions eagle standard, the only sign of grandeur. A large map of the land was spread out on a table.
“We came across a hunting party of no-more than twelve men General. They were two days ride further west. They attempted to engage us armed with spears and swords.” Varro pointed to relevant areas on the map laid out on the table before him. “Other than that we saw no large force or organised resistance. There were a few settlements, one where druids were performing some bizarre ritual and actually burned a young boy to death in a large wooden frame.” He paused. “We found another band after rescuing another lad, they were friendly and were led by a man called Tevelgus and his sister Brenna. They gave us food, shelter and rest and let us stay at their settlement.”
The General rose from his seat after listening to his verbal report. “The druids have been sacrificing the lives of their people to appease their gods for decades maybe longer, we will need the location of their settlement exactly so we can make an example out of them. I wouldn’t want our men blundering into any potential allies like this Tevelgus and blood being spilt. Our previous expeditionary forces have confirmed that the druids are the spiritual leaders of many of the tribal regions and although some have their differences and boundaries, the druids remain consistent throughout. Superstition and fear are used to control their people, anyone found not complying or living outside their rules are persuaded to change their attitude shall we say. If they don’t abide by the druids decisions or orders they are either sacrificed and thrown into a peat bog or something else equally awful.
The druids don’t exactly rule the people of this land in the usual sense but they are very influential in various ways and hold a lot of power. It’s been that way for centuries, always behind a veil of secrecy and tribal elders, offering suggestions and ensuring their own way is abided by one way or another. They are said to have a large island called Mona somewhere to the north-west just off the coast where their spiritual emissaries receive their own instructions in order to control the tribes. It is one of our objectives in time and this infestation we will destroy along with any other impediment that tries to resist us.” He looked up.
“Centurion Varro you have done well to find this information, it is essential we form alliances with this Tevelgus and people like him, he will also have information about the druids local to the area and other regions. We march again soon but you and your men can get some rest and re-supply. If you find any sign of this Caratacus I want to know immediately, I vow that he will pay for the lives he’s taken.”
The General thanked Varro again before he left the tent, his men were waiting nearby, sitting on storage sacks, their horses feeding from nose bags. He explained the situation and their orders, “I suggest we get some sleep on the sentry wagon before we ride out again.” He looked up at the valley around them. “Things are going to get interesting around here.”
On horseback hidden under trees, scouts sent out by Caratacus watched as the Roman war machine packed up all its equipment and began to move forward, once again moving west like some enormous metal covered snake. A golden eagle glinted near the front of the line carried by one man, reflecting the day’s bright sunshine off it as did other objects; a boar was one of many carried throughout their column. One of the watching men eagerly observing their number was not a warrior but druid. He spoke to himself in whispers, almost trance like as two other men turned to look at him. They both respected and feared the man who wore no colouring to his skin or lime in his hair. He was thin with straggling hair and a long grey beard. As one, the group turned and encouraged their horses to walk away leaving the druid watching the Romans below.
After some rest aboard one of the rattling, bumpy carts, Varro led his men along the column. He never ceased to be impressed at the uniform patterns as the legions marched, Centurions with their traverse crests in front of them or to the side, shouting at any man who fell out of line even by the smallest margin. The standard bearers carried the various unit insignia just behind the Centurion so orders could be relayed quickly to the marching troops behind them. Optio’s further back were keeping an eye on the men and the ground all around them. An almost rhythmic crunch, crunch reverberated along with the soldiers as their boots hit the ground. With the mornings sun shining off their armour and helmets he wondered how anyone could fail to be overawed by their presence and fear their power. One someone however, was this Caratacus and the Britons who accompanied him. They were clearly un-impressed and weren’t afraid but so far they hadn’t faced them properly, army to army. Instead they had nibbled away at the legions men, tactically winning minor victories and then vanishing into the surrounding countryside, which he hoped was about to change.
As Varro and his men drew level with the leading elements of the enormous convoy of men, wagons and horses, he saluted the Generals standard, brought Staro up onto his hind legs and then galloped away, Veranius and the others following. They slowed to a canter after a while to preserve the animal’s energy.
“If they find Brenna’s settlement again we’ll try to forge an alliance and also try to find out what they know about Caratacus and his war band.” Varro said.
“Do you really think after just one night of passion, she’ll be willing to turn on her own people Varro? Your cock must have extra special seed inside it if that’s what you believe.” Veranius commented as he trotted alongside smirking at his superior.
“You are obviously underestimating my passion my friend,” he replied smiling, “I’m sure if it had been you, she’d be ready to fight alongside that barbarian right now. Fortunately it wasn’t however and I’m certain she’ll be willing to accommodate me again and not just inside her bed.” He laughed out loud tipping his head back as he had the last laugh and had embarrassed his second in command with the others listening and laughing along with him.
The humour was brought to an abrupt halt as they rode around the next curve on the track into a vast clearing. They stopped instantly as they stared at the lines of Britons arranged in front of them…..there were thousands of them.
“Veranius take Lucius and ride back to the General as quickly as your
horses will allow, he has to be warned.” Varro ordered quickly.
“Sir.” Was all they both said as they turned and galloped away the way they had come.
“Gods, there are thousands of them.” Marcus said studying their lines. “They have horse, chariots and light infantry.” He studied their formation, “There has to be an entire legions strength out there.”
“But they have no heavy infantry or artillery by the look of it. They’ve probably got slingers hidden somewhere though I should think but I can’t see any at the moment.” Varro replied looking at the army arrayed before them some hundred paces distant. They must have been hoping to catch the column cold as it turned along the clearing, he thanked the gods they had gone on ahead. Following a roar of voices, arrows were launched from somewhere to the rear of the Britons. Varro watched as they gained height.
“Archers.” He shouted turning Staro to the right. “Make for the woods men, now!” They all turned and were some two hundred paces from the safety of the trees when the arrows began landing harmlessly in the grass behind them. Varro saw Britons furiously waving battle axes and swords as their jeers grew at them as they entered the safe shadows of the branches.
“Those bastards have archers hidden behind their ranks. Decimus take your horse and inform the General. Marcus and I will stay here and try to keep an eye on their movements. If anything else occurs, Marcus will bring the message back, tell Veranius where we are and tell him to avoid any contact with the Britons at all costs.” Decimus nodded with determination and fear imprinted across his face.
It was now noon and the sun was high in the sky but Varro and Marcus were relatively cool in the woods. They had tied their horses up some fifty paces into the woodland and had returned to the edge of the trees to observe the Britons.
