Blood of Rome: Caratacus (The Blood of Rome Chronicles Book 1)

by John Salter

  Vespasian had sent scouts out and knew that by midday the next day he and his men would be entering the lands that had adopted Caratacus as their leader. The atmosphere around some of the campfires that night was tense. It was the first time since they had set out from Isca Dumnoniorum that men looked out of the palisades with real concern on their faces. More men were detailed for sentry and picket duty and each tent party was ordered to have a two man guard outside.

  The night passed by without event and in the dawn of a new day the men of the Second Augusta quietly prepared their kit and dismantled the camp. A few men who were in the minority were overly loud and went about their business telling their comrades how many Britons they intended to kill high in the mountains of the Silures. The more experienced amongst them knew it was probably just nerves or foolishness and that by nightfall they may have the answer to which, one thing was certain, from today they would have to have eyes everywhere.

  Miles to the north, halfway to the summit of one of the mountains, the Britons watched the Roman camp in the distance. From their vantage point they couldn’t make out specific details but the large encampment was clearly visible on the landscape. The large dark rectangular mass had never been there before and once in a while the wind would carry the sound of a trumpet to them, faintly but distinguishable from everything else on the morning breeze.

  They waited until they could see the first thin line of men leaving the safety of the temporary encampment, as they began to slowly move towards their position, weaving through the lowland countryside below.

  “Let us prepare to receive our guests.” Caratacus said as he climbed onto his horse. He took one last glance at the enemy before kicking his horse and going further up the mountain.

  By the time the legionaries felt the incline starting to burn their legs, the hills and mountains blocked out most of the sky before them. They had been ordered to wear their helmets and carry their shields for the first time on this expedition and they knew that an attack could occur at any moment.

  Varro and his party scouted ahead but at all times were ordered to stay in sight of the leading column, Vespasian didn’t want to risk losing any men in a fool hardy manner so close to the enemy. Tracks and trails were evident everywhere and ran in many different directions, it was impossible to identify specific traces that would show any real evidence of the direction of Caratacus and his warriors.

  The day wore on as the inclines got steeper and Vespasian was forced to call regular breaks for his men and animals to take on water and rest. He knew there was no point in being engaged in a battle with weary thirsty soldiers; it would be a recipe for disaster even before the first arrow took to the air or the first blow was struck.

  Even though they were climbing higher and higher all the time, there were still paths and valleys through the hills and mountains. Varro stopped looking forward to the top of the next rise because there was always another beyond that one that and he wondered if the local people were actually part goat. They had seen no settlements or roundhouses since crossing the river that divided the lands of the Dobunni and the Silures, just the occasional deer that ran as soon as it sensed the advancing column. White dots broke up the green land ahead where sheep grazed in the distance, at least food wouldn’t be hard to find here. Higher and higher and further into the valley they marched until by midday Vespasian called another halt. He had chosen a relatively flat and open area that was surrounded by thick forest and called his senior officers together to discuss what he intended to do next.

  Varro and his party it was decided, would for the first time since entering the valley and mountains, scout ahead and try and locate somewhere suitable to establish the army for the night. It was better to advance slowly and securely rather than at speed with little haste Vespasian had told them looking around the high peaks now surrounding them in every direction. It was suggested by one centurion that Varro take an entire cohort with him for safety but the Legate chose against it, deciding that a small group was less conspicuous and would be able to move more quickly in the event of an attack. He was to be back with the column well before nightfall, which would give the men time to establish a camp using the trees nearby if necessary.

  The sky was grey and cloudy as he led his squad on horseback into unchartered territory. He moved at a slow pace knowing that to go around a corner at speed could mean certain death. It meant progress was time consuming which they could ill afford but he had no choice. The ground was littered with shale and rocks, so even if they wanted to move quickly it would be virtually impossible unless they wanted to risk a horse slipping and breaking a leg. He made sure that those following were strung out in single file on their own with at least ten feet in between each rider.

  The track they were following was covered in shadow but the sun was now bright and looked warm on the mountain further up. With the shadow came the cooler air and Varro involuntarily shivered as he felt a slight breeze find its way under his tunic and chainmail, sweat trickled down his spine. He turned and saw eager expressions watching him from behind, eyes darted from him to beyond searching for any signs of movement. The hooves of the horses were quieter than usual due to their slow pace but every once in a while a hoof would strike a rock or a piece of shale and send it skipping over the ground bouncing and making noise that made them all cringe. The sound it caused echoed up around the natural walls that now seemed to envelope the scouts.

  He turned forward again and slowed Staro's pace even more as he approached a sweeping corner. There were thick trees on the slopes on either side of the worn path covering the steep banks and making it impossible to see if anything lurked in the darkness beyond. He felt his heart beating stronger, faster, pulsing blood through his veins, it almost felt like his chest was about to explode.

  From somewhere further around the corner he suddenly heard signs of movement. Something had moved, a rock or a piece of shale and he heard it bouncing over the broken surface. He swallowed and stopped his horse raising his right arm, indicating for those behind him to do the same. He didn’t dare turn around again but sat still in his saddle straining his ears moving his head from side to side listening and half closing his eyes in concentration as he sought out more information. The only thing he could hear now was his mounts tail swishing about behind him and his breathing.

  “Shhhh boy.” He whispered and very slowly lifted his leg over Staro’s rump and climbed down in one swift movement. He risked a look backward now and saw Decimus waving his hand in an upwards motion asking him to get back in the saddle. Varro put his finger to his lips warning them to be quiet as he saw those behind Decimus leaning out to see what was happening up ahead, trying to see why they had stopped. He pulled his shield from the horse and stood still listening.

  He slowly walked in front of Staro almost tip toeing trying not to make any sound on the littered surface and stood still raising his hand for him to stay where he was. The horse looked to the side at the long grass at the base of the trees and Varro nodded his head forward and down quickly in frustration frowning at his horse and raised his hand higher. Staro whipped his head up quickly and then back down again showing his disappointment at being told not to move and eat the grass. Varro didn’t truly know if that meant he understood what his master wanted from him or not and mentally tried to tell the horse to stay still, pleading in his own mind for him not to move or make a sound.

  He turned slowly and faced the corner where the track vanished from view, almost in the same movement he took a step forward, crunch, the shale noisily moved together grating as his hobnail boot compressed it down with his weight. He brought his other foot forward and then listened hovering it above the ground before he gently laid it down, it grated slightly as it landed but it was barely audible. He didn’t dare turn to look around to see if his horse was still standing still, although for a second he thought he heard his tail swishing again.

  Crunch!

  He froze, eyes flashing from left to right bringing
his shield higher and then stared at the bend in the path in front of him on the track. He felt for the hilt of his sword and slowly wrapped his fingers around the handle and pulled it slowly up trying to avoid the familiar rasp as it cleared the scabbard. Pulling it clear he took another step forward praying that his boot didn’t make too much noise, it didn’t this time, the contact was almost imperceptible with the stony surface. He took another and started to lean over to the right trying to see along the path round the bend.

  Crunch!

  He froze again and could now feel his heart pounding in his chest and a vein somewhere on his right temple pulsing so hard with pressure that he shook his head trying to clear it. Suddenly the single crunch was joined by another and then another. Something was definitely moving towards him building up speed, he crouched pointing his spatha lower, aiming its sharp tip at whatever was moving out of sight, his grip tight on the handle of the weapon. He saw a flicker of white and movement and then it came into full view. It was a lamb, a fat fluffy one. It stared at him and stood stock still as it took him in bleating loudly as if it was as shocked as he was.

  He gasped, “You fucking fat furry woolly little bastard.” Varro almost shouted in relief smiling. He turned to the others and raised his shoulders laughing quietly and then heard something else, something violent. It was the sound of branches and leaves being struck by something heavy above him and on both sides and then like the sound of heavy rain, the arrows and spears began to fall.

  Chapter Twenty

  Caratacus and Ardwen had watched and waited whilst the enemy had slowly marched up into the valleys and mountains, snaking their long column past what he hoped would be beyond any safe point of return. Caratacus had said that he wanted to wait until they were so far into the territory, that they would find it impossible for them to get out again. When that time came he intended to close off any route of escape and destroy the soldiers who had marched into this land intent on killing them.

  He had surveyed the route himself several times when it became obvious which track through the mountains they would be forced to take as there were so few now and once there, were committed. They would find a change of direction virtually impossible because there were very few and of those that existed, they twisted through the valleys for mile after mile. He believed that even if some were to escape the slaughter he planned, they would easily be hunted down. They could of course, attempt to scale up even higher slopes at either side of the long worn tracks but their horses would soon tire and falter and the result would be the same, destruction.

  After so many defeats and the enforced retreating Caratacus had at last found a place where he believed he could fight the enemy on equal terms thanks to the terrain he found himself in. The enemy had the advantage of weapons still but here that advantage would be removed by virtue of the land and twisting narrow mountain paths. This would be the first test of his beliefs where even if they were outnumbered, the valleys, hills and mountains would give him a much better chance for success. He had been pleased to see Vespasian himself riding with his soldiers, the black plume of his helmet distinct amongst the others of white and red. He would have to try and ensure that the Roman Legate was either killed or captured, he hoped the latter as he would make a good bargaining piece with Rome. His warriors were briefed accordingly but if he were to be killed, his head would make a nice trophy impaled on a spear for all to see.

  As the Romans had camped so far away from the higher ground the day before, it had given Caratacus and Ardwen time to call more warriors forward from the surrounding settlements and word had even been sent to the northern tribes. Although fairly dispersed through the valleys and mountains, there were more than enough to guarantee that they now outnumbered the advancing soldiers by at least three to one. If the Demeta, Ordives and Deceangli tribes joined them as well, they would be able to stop the invaders from gaining a foothold in this part of the world. He also had the advantage of having Ardwen and his people with him as they knew these mountains better than the goats and sheep that wandered the slopes, the enemy were at a distinct disadvantage in every sense and he hoped to make that tell.

  Caratacus had watched from thousands of feet up as the Romans had sent a scouting party into the gorge below. They were already a few hundred feet above sea level and their chance of taking a different route was narrowed with every step they took, until they were down to one. The main party had stopped and were taking a break at a fairly large clearing as the scouts entered the path below. Caratacus watched from his vantage point and began to give orders as warriors scurried down the paths carrying out his orders.

  Although he was perched watching the enemy from behind the tops of trees on the slope below him, he felt almost exposed to the dangerous beast he now saw. If only he could reach out with his hand and could grab this army and crush it in his hand and squash it like a mosquito. He stood up and scrambled down the slope through the trees holding the hilt of his sword and pushing it down so its blade faced upward at an angle and didn’t scrape along the surface and give away their position. He wanted to wait until the last possible second to spring the trap and kill as many of these intruders as possible.

  As arrows and spears began to thud into the ground and flesh alike, causing heavy impacts from their deadly rain, the cries of alarm and pain began from both human and animal alike. As Varro took two giant strides and leapt up onto Staro’s back, he saw from the corner of his vision at least two bodies falling from the horses of his own people. As he began to turn, he kicked the horse into a gallop and saw that the fat lamb that had stopped his progress a few seconds before, was now pinned to the floor, a spear impaling it through its back as its legs scrambled to try and gain some purchase on the slippery shale. Rich red blood was already vividly staining the white woollen fur, then an arrow struck it’s skull at the side and it stopped moving altogether.

  “Follow me.” He managed to shout half turning again as his horse built up speed, hooves biting into the stony floor as he ripped his up shield above his head. Arrows and spears continued to land and he heard more shrieks behind in the chaos as they attempted to escape the deadly shower, the noise was almost deafening. Staro chinked this way and that as he moved almost automatically round the tight corners with Varro clinging on for dear life with his legs leaning low.

  The first thing that Vespasian knew of the ambush was the instant red hot pain boring into his exposed flesh inside his upper leg, he felt above his right knee and almost collapsed. Crying out in agony immediately and frowning he looked down where he saw a large arrow shaft had embedded itself through his skin and out through the other side. A member of his bodyguard screamed something that he didn’t quite hear and ran over to him stopping his fall as he went to go to ground. As the soldier propped him up, other arrows zipped past his head and landed, some hitting the ground but others wounding and killing other men as they desperately looked for cover. In that second he looked up and saw his men taking both arrows and spears which meant the Britons were close, very close.

  “Come on sir we’ve got to move.” The legionnaire said half dragging and carrying his Legate up under his shoulder cursing under his breath. Another man ran over to them an optio, and got on the other side of their commander, almost instantly the first soldier was hit. Vespasian turned hearing a thump followed by a cracking sound as an arrow struck and he felt the man go suddenly slack and fall away. He saw it had pierced his face below the right eye and was inches deep into his head. Deep red blood pulsed out and down into his open mouth. The man was dead before he hit the ground his helmet falling clear and landing before he did.

  The optio screamed for help as he dragged his Legate towards a cart where the helpless mules were already being hit and injured by a number of arrows. They jerked around helplessly bellowing their anger trying to get free as men fell all around them. He saw that some had huddled together to form better protection under their shields collectively and were virtually crawling, stooped down trying to
get out of range of the deadly torrent. Someone unseen was shouting for testudos to be formed. Shrieks of pain filled the air all around him but he knew he had to take control of the madness that now surrounded his world.

  Arriving breathless at the wheel of the cart the optio didn’t wait for his commander to crawl underneath, he hurled him to the ground, the arrow breaking off in his leg as he did so, Vespasian cried out in agony and fought to get under the wooden surface, fury written over his face briefly at the optio.

  “Mars fucking hairy cunt, you fucking barbarian goat fuckers will pay for this.” He shouted grabbing at the length of arrow shaft that still remained in his leg. He tried to pull it out but it was already slick with blood. The optio took his neckerchief off and shouted, “Not like that sir, the barbs will rip your fuckin leg apart, turn over.”

  The Legate frowned but did as he was told mentally scalding himself for losing his composure, he turned his back on the optio who had wrapped the material around the wooden shaft and was wiping blood away. He smothered the deadly barbed head with the cloth and without ceremony or waiting for his commander to ready himself, yanked the arrow free. Legate Titus Vespasian blacked out and was lost to the chaos.

  ***

  Varro rode as fast as he could around the twisting curves of the track, the sound of the animal’s hooves loud in his ears. He was faintly aware of the others behind him but didn’t dare turn to look and see who was following, who was still with him. Leaning forward low over his mounts back he urged the beast on determined that they wouldn’t die in this place. On and on they rode, arrows showering the ground all around them. He knew an archer would be lucky to hit a galloping horse or its rider especially as they jinked and turned around the bends of the track but also knew that an injury out here far behind enemy lines could mean death even if it wasn’t severe. Although the odds were low on being hit, he knew that there must be dozens, hundreds of Britons firing and throwing missiles at them because the deadly storm kept coming. A thought quickly entered his head as he knew Parthians were known to smear their arrows in excrement to ensure disease even in the slightest of cuts, maybe the Britons did the same.