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

by John Salter

  Controlling his breathing he ran on until the first rays of light started to appear and his knees and ankles felt like the bones were grinding together, sweat peppered his forehead and ran down and into the already dirty stinking clothes. He stopped again and paused leaning forward, hands on his knees that now ached like nothing he had ever experienced before. Wiping at his brow he felt dried salt from sweat just below the hairline, proof if any were needed of his effort. He staggered on trying to loosen his muscles but knew he would have to stop and rest soon or he would collapse exhausted.

  He had eaten the last of his pork sometime before and was already starting to feel hungry again when he saw a glimmer of a fire in the distance up ahead at the side of the path. Drawing closer he could just make out silhouetted bodies sat, huddled around the small flames. He carefully moved into the trees that ran along the edge of the path and got closer still using the trunks as cover. As he began to smell wood smoke and the aroma of cooking meat, he heard hushed voices talking, they were Britons.

  The dark night had favoured Caratacus as he had pushed forward his attack. Under the cover of darkness he had led two thousand warriors up through the ravines of the mountain as Ardwen had done the same elsewhere hidden by trees and thick foliage. The sudden onslaught had caught the Romans by surprise and had not only overrun their defences but had rewarded them with prisoners as well. So swift and furious had been the enthusiasm to take enemy lives, that over two hundred legionaries had found themselves cut off from their comrades further up the slopes. Some who resisted were hacked to death or hit by their own arrows and javelins from above but as others realised their plight, they surrendered throwing their weapons and shields down.

  Ardwen had pushed to butcher them all, stripped naked and in full view of the survivors cowering behind their last ditch above, but Caratacus had refused vehemently. He persuaded him that the men would be taken and given to surrounding villages and tribes as slaves and proof of their own power and the Romans vulnerability. It would pave the way for more to fight against the people who had come to steal their lands and wealth. Ardwen had given in but sought re-assurance that the remainder on the summit would be slaughtered to a man, Caratacus agreed saying that this would be their grave.

  The palisade that had proved so troublesome previously now became an effective defence against arrows as they were loosed at the massing Britons baying for more blood. Some of the ramparts were destroyed in places, hacked away by large war axes as effective rough steps were gouged out and dug into the ground ready for the next assault. Warriors now sheltered below the unnatural wall waiting for the order to move again. Ardwen insisted for it to begin immediately but Caratacus was cautious and asked for patience, once again Ardwen impatiently agreed. The Silures leader knew his cousin was better placed to be in overall command and was already demonstrating his more effective leadership.

  Before the battle for the summit could begin however, Caratacus sent word of his plan, back down the mountain. A great victory was at hand over the eagle bearers and he wanted their destruction witnessed by as many tribal leaders and chieftains they could find. In the meantime, they would bring their warriors forward to feast and celebrate the victory and consolidate their position making it impossible for even one member of the depleted Legion to escape.

  Varro crept forward as close as he dared and crouched down trying to take in the words his ears were almost hearing. They struck him like mighty fists battering his weary body and soul as they shocked him to the core. He leaned with his back to the tree not twenty paces from the fire and listened as Brenna once more told of his friends death.

  “The fool died like the rest will soon enough, Vespasian and his lap dogs will never escape these valleys and mountains.”

  The crackle of the fire was the only other sound he heard now as no-one interrupted her as she repeated the story again as if to convince those sat with her around the warmth of the fire.

  “For many months now my brother and I have lived and fought amongst the invader but they never suspected we are of the Catuvellauni. He even died living this lie so we could discover their plans, killed by Silures warriors, allies to Caratacus and sworn enemy of Rome.”

  Her voice sounded different, almost feral, animal like as she spoke. He slowed his breathing not wanting to give away his position in the foliage behind the tree. Her words were like daggers stabbing at his heart, he had openly given himself to this woman and it had all been a lie.

  “I had the opportunity to kill this man and I took it.” She said, Varro was frozen with shock as she continued, “Decimus was one of the centurions and trusted scout rider of their leader Vespasian. He and his kind are the eyes and ears of their legions and I even prostituted myself to another, Varro, to gain his trust.”

  He fought the urge to vomit as the words pounded at him again striking him like cold iron. He fought the urge his rage was directing, as part of him wanted to run into the camp and tear her throat out with his blade. He knew that it would be a futile death and no-one would learn of this woman’s treachery and it would result in his own, no doubt by the hands of those she was speaking with. He turned his head carefully as she continued to talk and boast and looked around the edge of the tree, his face against rough bark. To the right of the fire impaled on a wooden stake was the head of his friend Decimus, mouth open, eyes wide in shock.

  The final ultimate victory that Caratacus had sought did not occur despite many attempts to achieve it. Time and time again his brave warriors and those of Ardwen climbed above the final rampart of compact mud and were met by a deadly hail of arrows and spears through night and day as they tried to reach the remaining soldiers to take their lives on the summit. Soon there were many dead and wounded on the mountain and he ordered that groups carry them down the slope again and again. After five full days and nights, warriors stopped returning to the summit and simply vanished into the valleys below, exhausted, wounded and mourning the dead.

  Ardwen had tried to gather his forces but only a few thousand remained as both leaders finally conceded they would have to starve the Romans out before taking their heads. They were now left with a combined army of less than four thousand strong but it was more than enough to complete the task or so they believed.

  Conditions a few hundred feet above the Britons were far more precarious than they knew or could have imagined. Of over four thousand legionaries that marched into the mountains, only four hundred and seventy now survived. They were down to their last days rations and were short on arrows and javelins as they waited for the inevitable final assault. More lay injured, unable to fight on, some dying who would never see Rome or their homeland again. The only surviving medicus had ran out of bandages, poultices, vials and herbs to treat the wounded two days before and now resorted to tearing up the tunics of the dead to staunch the flow of blood from freshly injured men. The crippled and dying had been removed to the very top of the mountain where they were afforded a little shelter by the basin at the top. The same could not be said of those who stood and waited hungry, dirty and despondent behind their barricades for the enemy to return once more.

  Soldiers half-starved by days of rationing, stared down the mountain, dirty and covered in blood and grime, exhausted by the unrelenting punishment the Britons had delivered to them. Those injured but still able to wield a blade and hold a shield, guarded the miserable peak with those who had somehow escaped injury and waited, now led by the surviving centurions. Vespasian had developed a fever as a result of his own wound three days into the siege and was barely lucid anymore as he lay with others with stab wounds, lacerations, bruises and broken bones.

  Valerius looked out glassy eyed at the view around him and breathed heavily. All day the Britons had been carrying their dead and wounded down the mountain and funeral pyres had burned for days in the valley below, the acrid stench of burning flesh wisped up into the air to fill his nose with its rank stench. He had been told that after the last senior officer had lost his life,
the centurions who remained alive were now considering suicide. The rumours had said that they refused to fall into the hands of the barbarians and would prefer to die honourably rather than await a fate worse than death if they weren’t fortunate to die in battle.

  As he sat watching the enemy lines carrying bundles of bodies file lower, he looked at the blade of his gladius and imagined the cold iron entering his stomach, pushing upward under his ribs and into his heart. He closed his eyes as tears fell and rolled down his cheeks as he realised he would never see his parents again. His father, a former optio with the Thirteenth, had been so proud of him when he had joined the legions following in his footsteps. He remembered the day he had first returned home to stand in front of both his father and mother in uniform, armour polished to perfection and shining brilliantly. He sighed rubbing at his eyes at the memory, wiping his tears away, hoping no-one had seen his weakness but then realised he didn’t care if they had. He was nineteen years of age and would never see another birthday or his family again.

  As he looked around at the men near him, battered and exhausted, red eyes staring back, he heard a sound carried on the wind and stopped breathing. His head turned in the direction he thought it came from but his eye caught more Britons scurrying down off the mountain. The breeze was strong and he knew it moved sounds playing tricks on the mind, especially at such height. He leaned forward as if a few hand widths would help and listened again.

  “If you need a shit, fuck off over there.” A legionary said sat next to him, wrapped in his cloak and jerking his head towards the holes dug in the ground for such things. He ignored him and stood up and looked at the Britons again. They weren’t just carrying their dead and wounded anymore, they were withdrawing from the mountain by the hundred and as quickly as possible. He looked beyond them into the valley but could see no reason for their obvious panic. He began to move around the edge of the wicker wall that had been his home for what seemed like an eternity.

  “You’ll get something shoved up you’re fucking arse with a barbarian holding the other end of it if you don’t get back behind this wicker you daft cunt.” He heard the man say.

  “Shut your hole for a moment will you?” He replied. “Look!” Pointing down the slope, he stood on his toes trying to try and get a better view. Cautiously the other man came out from behind the wicker and joined him.

  “If I get a fucking spear I’ll gut you with it myself before I die you little runt.” The soldier said joining him frowning. “So what’s to be seen then?”

  “Shush, shut up for the gods sakes and listen you dirty unshaven smelly whores hole.” Valerius said removing his helmet and cupping his hand to his ear leaning out. He frowned concentrating straining his ears.

  “I think you need my right boot up your sack young man, there’s nothing to hear.” The agitated soldier said but Valerius didn’t respond. He cocked his head listening. Then he heard it again and his face lit up, the distinctive blare of a Roman trumpet somewhere in the valley below. He turned and ran around the entire line of their defences shouting, almost crying with joy as the blares got gradually louder and others realised they were going to live.

  “We’re saved, we’re saved, Jupiter’s cunt we’re saved.” He shouted tearing off his armour and running round like a lunatic. The survivors of the Second Augusta jumped up and joined in to a man as they too heard the sound of rescue being carried on the breeze as the men of the Twentieth Legion with Corvus and his men marched into the mountains of the Silures.

  “Well shave my hairy ball bag and call me Emperor Titus Cock Fuck, I don’t bloody well believe it.” The previously dour soldier said and joined in the celebration hugging and kissing Valerius.

  Caratacus and Ardwen had considered ambushing the advancing legion as it marched, trumpets blaring and echoing around the valleys. They estimated their strength to be around five thousand possibly more, a fully manned legion, fit and well fed and ready to fight and more than twice the amount of men they had under their strength. As Caratacus looked down on the men of the newly arrived enemy, shining as the sun reflected off their armour, he looked to his own people and saw exhaustion and no will to fight on against the odds. They were tired, hungry and weary of death and battle after so many days fighting. He knew they were in no condition to face the new threat.

  “We’ll go north into the lands of the Ordovices and the Deceangli for the time being. They’ll swell our numbers and together we’ll crush this plague as it eats away at our land.” Ardwen smiled at his cousins words and resilience.

  “What of the injured?” He asked climbing onto his horse.

  Caratacus looked about him at the wounded lying all around, littering the floor of the valley, “If they can travel, they can come with us but any who have to be carried, they have to be left behind, we can’t afford to waste time.”

  Ardwen considered arguing but knew his cousin was right again, he kicked his horse as it reared up and shouted, “You will not be forgotten.” He then raced after Caratacus who was already galloping away into the dust ahead.

  The men of the Twentieth Legion could barley recognise the survivors of the Second Augusta as Romans when they reached the first line of palisades. They were gaunt, dirty shadows of their former selves, unshaven and unkempt. The usual inter legion rivalries were forgotten as the injured were treated and soldiers ate properly for the first time in days. Those who had passed away before rescue could arrive, were buried as words were spoken over their unmarked graves. Fit healthy legionaries helped their injured comrades off the rock and down into the valley below. The Britons main force had gone, travelling north, the worst done to defeat those who had defended the mountain.

  It took several days until the men of the Second were ready to move and only then, flanked and led by the soldiers of the Twentieth. Cavalry scouts rode ahead ensuring that the way was clear but the Britons didn’t return, they were gone as if spirited away. It took several days for the slow moving army to make its way back to Isca where Legatus Vespasian’s men could lick their wounds. Of all of them, he was one of the more fortunate, as his fever ensured he was unaware of the entire journey. He finally awoke three days after they returned, in a fresh bed wearing clean dressings and wondering what had happened on the mountain top that had haunted his feverish sleep.

  THE END

  Author’s Note

  Thank you for choosing to read Blood of Rome: Caratacus, which is my first novel. I have endeavoured to make the story as accurate as possible based upon historical fact. I chose Caratacus as one of my main characters after studying Roman Britain. I believe to this day that he is an unsung hero who has lived in the shadow of other better and widely known historical figures who have also defended the shores of the country we now know as the United Kingdom.

  Studying the events of AD 43, allowed me to discover that everything was not as black and white as it first appeared concerning the Roman invasion of Britannia or Albion as it was known by the indigenous population back then. There had been close ties between Rome and the Celtic tribes of the islands for well over a hundred years prior to the invasion, maybe longer. The landing on the southern shores actually only happened at the last minute and very nearly didn’t happen at all due to legionaries refusing to take part, which is covered in the story.

  Failure to board the ships of the invasion fleet was because even the great General Julius Caesar, had twice failed to successfully invade and conquer the lands of Albion nearly a hundred years before the events of AD 43. Troops engaged in the invasion truly believed it was not possible to defeat the tribes and had to be bribed to take part, which eventually they did. However, history has shown that they, the soldiers of the Rome were right, as Britannia was never fully conquered. I hope to tell that story through pages and the centuries of the Blood of Rome series.

  I sincerely hope that you enjoy the book, it has been a long but enjoyable journey creating it. Any mistakes you may find or grammatical errors are mine and mine alone, for an
y you discover, I apologise. Aspiring authors always encourage positive feedback for their efforts and I would kindly ask that you write a review of the book on Amazon and or other websites.

  Blood of Rome: Caratacus is dedicated to the men and women of the Ermine Street Guard, who professionally recreate Roman Military tactics, dress and deportment and have done so for the last forty years. They can be seen at major historical events and festivals around Britain today. For more information visit erminestreetguard.co.uk.

  About the Author

  John Salter has always had a major interest in Roman Britain. He was born in Chester on the English/Welsh border in the UK, Chester being the former Roman City of Deva in 1963. He joined the Royal Air Force virtually straight from school at the age of 17 and over the next 25 years travelled and served all over the world, attaining the rank of Flight Sergeant.

  During that time his interest in the subject matter grew, as well as studying historical texts, he visited as many sites related to the Roman Empire as he was able. Further inspired by authors such as Simon Scarrow, Ben Kane, Manda Scott, Anthony Riches, Ruth Downie, Douglas Jackson and many others, he decided to try and give something back in the form of his own work, which is what you hold in your hand today or see on your e-reader.

  After leaving the forces, he was finally able to settle down and concentrate on writing. Blood of Rome: Caratacus is intended to be the first book in the Blood of Rome series which will eventually cover everything concerning Roman Britain, from Caesars attempted invasions until the day the Romans withdrew from the shores of the island once known as Albion.