by John Salter
“That has to be Caratacus there.” Varro said pointing to the Chieftain at the front of the group, another man was standing with him. “That’s probably his brother Togodunmus or whatever name he calls himself. If I had a bow I could kill one of them from here, maybe both of them.” He judged the distance to be between one hundred and fifty to two hundred paces from where they were, it would have been within reach of a bow and a skilled eye.
The two soldiers watched the Britons from cover with their helmets off until the first rumbling sign of the Roman force approached. It was a cavalry cohort who had been sent forward to reconnaissance the enemies lines, four hundred of them. They had been sent ahead in force in case of ambush but they stopped in virtually the same spot as Varro and his men had as arrows were launched into the air towards them. They turned and forced their animals into a gallop as they retreated returning the same way they had come.
“Well that didn’t last long.” Varro said. “Those fools,” he said looking at the Britons, “don’t know what they’ve got coming their way.”
Arrows fell to the ground all around them as they retreated, one hit the rump of the last horse, it shrieked and darted to the left kicking out with its hind legs so quickly it looked unnatural as the rider struggled to get it under control, the arrow lodged into its flesh waving around, blood staining its back.
“Those fuckers are going to pay for that Marcus, I fucking guarantee it.” Varro said as the two of them watched the retreating cohort charge by and then saw a large testudo of a marching legionnaires slowly approaching the Britons. At least eighty soldiers made up the front wedge of the attack, their large shields covering them from a frontal assault, the second ranks shields over their heads and so it went on until the rear of the line. Soon the Britons would be faced by thousands. Soldiers at the sides left and right held their shields to the side of the formation, the whole image looking and sounding like an enormous creature. Varro wondered how the Britons would react to the sight and then the sound of the unit of troops as it engaged them.
“Those fuckers will pay for it now Marcus.” He said as the testudo cleared the corner and came into full view of the enemy. An order must have been given as the giant tortoise formation came to a halt but he didn’t hear it above the clump of the boots. The Britons were quiet now and stared at them in silence seemingly unmoved by the monstrosity they saw before them.
The cavalry came to a halt behind the huge square and to its sides, it was followed by heavy infantry, three huge squares filled the enormous gap between the trees of the empty ground. Behind them three centuries of auxiliary archers Syrians, made up the next line of attack. More were assembling beyond them but Varro couldn’t see what tactical formation it was. An eerie silence settled over the battlefield until a single trumpet blare eventually shattered the peace.
A dip formed in the centre of the testudo at the front and a Centurion’s helmet appeared along with his sword as it was thrust skyward and then forward, “Advance.” He screamed out and the formation slowly marched, the soldiers beginning to bang their short swords against their shields, the noise was almost overwhelming as they advanced, boots hitting the earth.
The Britons leader instantly ordered his chariots forward as they raced to meet the Romans around the flanks of their warriors, the faint sound of trumpets could be heard somewhere behind the Roman forces but was swallowed up by the sounds reverberating around the tree trunks. The testudo continued forward slowly, swords banging on shields then the foot soldiers of the Britons ran forward wielding swords and axes screaming like demented devils. To Varro everything seemed to slow as suddenly the front ranks of the testudo dropped down onto one knee, behind them somewhere, four rows back, the soldiers in that line hurled their pilums. That was quickly followed by the next row. Arrows were launched from behind the Britons running towards the wall of shields in front of them.
As the chariots got to within twenty paces, the pilums began to land some finding their targets of flesh and bone of man, woman and horse alike. The horses made ungodly noises as the weapons embedded themselves through their flesh, into chests, necks and heads. The men guiding them towards the invaders were generally fortunate in comparison but one Varro saw was hit somewhere in the upper chest and it took him off the back off his chariot, tumbling head over heal, breaking his arms and legs at awful unnatural angles.
The arrows of the Britons landed harmlessly on the raised shields of the testudo. Just before the remaining chariots reached the shield wall, other pilum were thrust forward horizontally between the front ranks. The horses that were not wounded or killed by the first onslaught were viciously stabbed now running onto the deadly weapons, the spears ends breaking off or bending in their chests as the animals went wild trying to turn and flee the pain, some still impaled. Chariot riders were thrown to the ground their vehicles bounced and turned and some flew apart sending large wooden splitters in all directions impaling men and women alike. As those who still lived managed to turn, they were met by other screaming warriors, half naked from the waist up, men and women alike, hair limed outward and upward, blue streaks over their bare flesh and through their hair, teeth showing as they screamed and shouted toward their enemy.
Another avalanche of Roman spears rose from inside the testudo and then fell into the attacker’s ranks as they became a tangled mass of arms, legs and horses struggling for freedom, to escape this madness, this certain death. The Romans continued to advance slowly their short swords now doing the cutting and stabbing. As the square came to an ordered halt at the sound of a trumpet, the front ranks turned and were replaced by fresh troops who took over the butcher’s role neutralising the enemy.
The metallic stench of blood was everywhere as the grass ran red and became slippery underfoot for the barefooted warriors. They were being annihilated by the professional soldiers who were seeking to rule the land and at the same time were being taught a harsh lesson in battlefield warfare. Caratacus watched in horror as his men and women were butchered. Those not close to the Roman front line were struggling to get to it, pinning and pushing those at the front onto swords. Those who had seen the horrors it held were trying desperately to get away but were trapped by their own people and they died in masses.
“Archers, slingers, fire over our people, keep the heads of the enemy down.” A shouted order was heard over the din. Within seconds the weapons launched their missiles but had little effect that Varro could see. Arrows either bounced off hardened armour or shields and the rocks flung by the slingshots had little to no effect at all and were ricocheting off targets.
The Roman wall advanced again, the iron of their swords could be seen pumping forward from behind the shields, stabbing out at the helpless attacking and trapped warriors. The rotations of the front ranks came more often now as the arms were exhausted from the thrusts and expenditure of the lives they had taken, it was hard work cutting down fellow human beings, even if they were barbarians.
A ripple went along the centre of the testudo as soldiers climbed over the bodies of their fallen enemies, once in a while the end of a spear could be seen stabbing downward as it was used to end the life of a fallen Briton somewhere in the melee.
Caratacus waved forward his next line of women and men who sprinted forward as eagerly as those who had been killed already. He believed that the Romans couldn’t continue their success but was dismayed to see that his fresh forces were relieved of their lives blood as easily as the first wave.
“It’s a fucking massacre sir.” Marcus commented from the safety of the trees.
“It’s what these dumb sub human bastards needed Marcus, a fucking good shafting and General Vespasian is just the man to fuck them good and hard.”
Through the slaughter that continued on the open ground before them, the testudo suddenly stopped advancing and its men turned and quickly marched back towards the rear, still covered by their shields.
Caratacus smiled to his brother. “See Togodumnus these metal covere
d pigs haven’t got the stomach for a real fight. We’ll slaughter them as they retreat.” He quickly ran to a waiting tribal chief and shouted instructions to him, he in turn ran and jumped onto a horse. The retreating metal square had now cleared all the dead bodies lying prone on the ground. Caratacus frowned as he began to realise the cost of this battle.
“Brother, we should withdraw now,” Togodumnus pleaded, “we can’t give them anymore of our people.”
“They are cowards,” he began, “and we’ll smash them into the ground, look at them falling back. They haven’t got an ounce of bravery compared to our men and women. We’ve got to take advantage of their weakness.” As his words ended more warriors ran towards the enemy being overtaken by more chariots, as dust clouds swirled all around.
Togodumnus shook his head in disbelief. “I know that’s what you want brother and I pray you’re right but if this fails we have to withdraw, agreed?”
Caratacus looked at his older brother sweat dripping down his temples, “Agreed.”
As the soldiers of the testudo got to their own lines their shields were taken down revealing the men behind them, sweating and exhausted but very few of them were missing littering the battlefield, a cheer went up celebrating their success.
Caratacus watched as another three lines of formations of soldiers advanced towards him. They were five men wide but this time they advanced their faces showing above their shields, these men were not hiding behind their shield wall as the others had, they were heavy infantry.
Caratacus held his breath as the two opposing armies came together with a horrendous crunch of weapons and bone. His warrior’s battle frenzy was heightened like never before after the slaughter they had witnessed and he saw them hack and swing with their axes and swords as Roman soldiers finally began to fall. For a brief moment he dared to think that victory against these invaders was possible as his people continued their grim task. With a sudden jolting realisation he watched on as he realised what was occurring. Two Roman oblongs on the edge of their flanks began to wheel around as if one, the ends moving quicker than those towards the centre were advancing.
Within minutes the battling Britons were all but sealed in from the front and both sides and there was now no escape as the marching squares closed in. Cavalry now raced past the battle in the centre outflanking the chaos that continued on the field of battle as distant trumpet calls ordered them into the fray. Realisation dawned on Caratacus instantly that there would be no victory for him here today. He exchanged a look with his brother and turned away from the premeditated butchering of his people as a lucky few ran back escaping the enclosing wall of horses. The rest were sealed in as cavalrymen used their shortened spears and spathas to stab at the still struggling warriors hemmed in against their ranks. Togodumnus mounted his horse following his brother as they gave the order to retreat. He saw the horror in their remaining forces as they too realised there was nothing they could do for their trapped kinsmen and women.
As Caratacus began a large scale retreat, huge spears thumped into warriors around him. He turned and saw the enemy had brought forward machines on carts and they were now firing enormous arrows from a distance of some three hundred paces. The arrows ripped through horses, chariots and men and women alike, pinning them to each other as they withdrew. Some punched through individuals, sailing through flesh and embedding themselves into others through their retreating backs.
Varro and Marcus began to get up, watching as the large weapons pounded into the enemy, their crews working furiously charging the ballista again and again without mercy. The fighting battlefield grew smaller as life was snuffed out of the remaining trapped Britons. The soldiers on the periphery began to sheath their swords turning towards the retreating Britons instead who were already some distance away.
General Vespasian trotted to the rear of his heavy infantry surrounded by a cohort of cavalry and was already congratulating his men as they began to withdraw. The sound of fighting, swords clashing and screams of agony began to die away as the men in the middle finished their deadly work. The battle was won and the Britons had paid a heavy price for their bravery, but naivety had cost them many hundreds of lives as their retreating people vanished from view.
That night many miles from the blood shedding of the day, around a sombre fire, Caratacus stared into the flames still disbelieving what he had witnessed. Many hundreds of his people had lost their lives that day on the battlefield for little life in return, those missing or known to have died was nearly a thousand. He estimated that less than fifty of the enemy had died, hiding behind their large shields. He cursed the gods for allowing this defeat, where were they, why had they allowed this destruction he asked himself. Were his people so unworthy that these invaders should rout them, slaughtering them on their own ground like animals. He held his head in his hands as visions of the days hell returned again and again.
The almost drum like beat of the Roman swords clashing against their shield’s as they had slowly advanced, the harsh trumpets cutting through the air, men and women screaming and horses whinnying. The smell of victim’s blood, shit and dust, all these memories brought back flashes of the day, as he shook his head at the images burned deep into his mind, his soul. They would haunt him for rest of his life.
Shock was etched on the faces around him, women cried rocking where they sat, men cursed or sat clearly devastated and mute. Muttered conversations, whispers, told tales of the horrors of the day. As a few lucky but wounded warriors were treated, shrill screams broke the quiet of the night around them as their wounds were cauterised with hot iron, bandaged or poultices applied. Less than two hundred had escaped the enclosure of the Romans. They had suffered even more wounded from the huge arrows that were rapidly propelled through their ranks as they tried to escape. Gaping open wounds still bled freely where the weapons had punched through flesh. Those whose internal organs were ruptured had died virtually instantly or were disabled enough not to be able to escape, They were later put to death as the enemy swept through the field checking for those that still held breath. They would have died horribly in agony, maybe taking weeks to die in the aftermath but as the Romans checked for survivors, they were quickly expelled and sent to the afterlife.
“We can’t afford another defeat like that brother.” Togodumnus remarked. “These Romans have ways of defeating us that we have never encountered before.” Caratacus didn’t answer he looked away from his brother back to the flames.
“We have to find another way to drive them away from our lands, if we had more numbers and the ground of our choosing we could defeat such battle lines but not like today, trapped between two lines of trees and then enclosed like the jaws of a giant beast.”
Caratacus sighed. “I don’t want to talk of this anymore brother. My mind keeps showing me the disaster that befell us today, that’s bad enough. I don’t need to be told by you like an old pestering woman reminding me, pecking me to a certain death. I’m sorry brother but now isn’t the time for this. Tomorrow we move north away from them, we’ll stay within our territory for the day and then head back to the east and regroup our people. At the same time we’ll send messengers to our neighbours telling them of this disease that’s eating into our land. They have to be persuaded that alone we cannot push them from our lands but together we could number many thousands and together we can crush these Romans.”
Togodumnus agreed with his brother as another cry of agony came from one of the injured where many more lay amongst far too many other wounded warriors, a lot of whom would never walk, let alone fight again.
Early the next morning soldiers from the Second Augusta checked the battlefield again. After the previous days fighting and the last Briton had been taken from the life it had so easily given, General Vespasian had ordered them back to their defensive positions. As sentries were trebled around the perimeter, quiet celebrations were allowed amongst his men although excessive wine was not permitted. There was still a possibility of a counter
attack but as time went on, it was reduced with each passing moment.
As the suns warmth began to burn away the night’s dew, soldiers walked slowly across the battlefield with pilums ready or swords drawn. They had only lost eighteen men with thirty six wounded, three seriously who weren’t expected to recover. It was never a good thing to lose valuable, able and well trained men but at the return they had yesterday, it was hundreds to every one of their own. The Britons had suffered a crippling and humiliating defeat, they scattered the ground as the soldiers continued their grim task looking for any who may have survived the carnage and had not been found clinging to life the night before.
Once the field had been checked Vespasian ordered that large burial pits were dug. The half-naked bodies that had sustained inhuman damage were dragged and thrown into heaps on wagons and driven to the ten large holes and thrown in. Soldiers wore cloth over their faces, torn from sacks to limit the stench of death as they toiled throughout the morning to complete the task.
Chapter Seven
Varro and his small group of reconnaissance riders rode out again the next morning. They almost expected to round a corner and find thousands of Britons waiting for them but today it was not to be. The enemy were crawling away somewhere and licking their wounds after the devastating defeat the day before. Every now and again they would come across a hurriedly dug small burial mound where they had buried corpses which showed they were in a hurry as they normally burnt their warriors on funeral pyres. Some of the mounds they found were bigger than others where presumably more than one body was buried. The Romans were curious as to how the Britons had continued to move so quickly and bury their dead but eventually they stopped finding them so the subject became irrelevant.
