The Wolf of Britannia Part II

by Jess Steven Hughes

  “Your name, centurion?” Caratacus called.

  “Marcus Valerius Bassus!” And he was gone.

  This minor victory has not been easy. More than two thousand of my warriors lie dead. Like disciplined fire ants, the Romans literally fought to the last man. This is just the beginning of a long and bitter fight.

  I won’t stop until we have wiped out every last Roman.

  Chapter 2

  The evening after the Romans landed in Britannia, Senator Porcius sat in his brightly lit tent above the rocky beach writing a secret report to the Emperor Claudius, his Persian freedman Cyrus beside him. The corpulent Roman was a self-proclaimed expert on British affairs. I may have to endure the discomforts of camp life, but I am determined to at least have well-lit quarters. My eyes deserve that. He surrounded himself with twelve candles and olive oil lamps. Although a bit smoky, the light burned to his satisfaction. In his midfifties, his eyesight was growing weaker, Porcius pushed the parchment farther away from his eyes, almost at arm’s length, as he wrote upon it. He had been writing for more than an hour before he looked up from the document and blinked. Soon, I will be forced to dictate all my correspondence to my slave-scribe. Gods, I hate the thought. There are some matters that are better left from their prying eyes. Who knows if one of them is a spy for my enemies.

  Cyrus snapped his fingers, and a slave immediately refilled Porcius’s silver cup, wine from his private stock of Sentenian.

  I’m not about to drink the vinegared swill issued to the army. He took a long swig and turned to Cyrus. “It doesn’t seem possible we have returned to Britannia after more than three years. Where has the time gone?” For a moment, he stared at his goblet.

  “Aye, Senator,” Cyrus said. “When you learned Caratacus was elected king and had deposed his father, you saw what the Jews called, the writing on the wall.”

  Porcius exhaled. “All too true.” He hated fleeing to Gaul, but knew Caratacus would invade the lands of the Atrebates ruled by King Verica, especially after Caligula and the Roman legions had withdrawn from the Gallic coast.

  “Still, you were fortunate when we arrived in Rome to escape the homicidal wrath of Emperor Caligula,” Cyrus said, interrupting Porcius’s thoughts.

  “Thank the gods,” Porcius replied. “How could I forget? I was nearby when that monster was assassinated by officers of the Praetorian Guard.”

  Cyrus smiled. “I, too, was grateful, lord, and how we drank a toast when you received the news.”

  Porcius nodded as he, too, remembered the day as if it had occurred only an hour ago. The Praetorians had killed Caligula as he strolled down a dark corridor beneath the palace on Palatine Hill the afternoon of January 24th, two years before the invasion of Britannia by Emperor Claudius, Caligula’s successor and uncle. “And it was also about the same time I came to the attention of the new emperor,” he added.

  “Events only turned for the worse, did they not, Senator?” Cyrus asked. He paced back and forth in front of Porcius’s table, shaking his head and scratching his trimmed, black beard.

  Porcius sipped from his cup. “For Caratacus, yes. He made a horrendous mistake in overrunning King Verica’s lands. Then, along with Adminios, Verica begged Claudius to invade Britannia and restore them to their rightful thrones.”

  The Roman huffed and shook his head. I still don’t understand why Claudius waited so long. He needs this campaign to strengthen his power and credibility with the army and Senate. This is no dynastic struggle between petty, barbarian kings. Caratacus and Verica are fighting for control of southern Britannia!

  He smiled as he rubbed the rim of his wine cup with his forefinger.

  “But now we are back in Britannia, sir,” Cyrus said. “You have always seemed more comfortable here than in Rome.”

  “Indeed, I am, and yet I found it puzzling that the initial landing had been unopposed. No resistance? That was strange indeed.” The commander of the Roman Expeditionary Forces, Aulus Plautius, had refused to allow him to disembark until late afternoon when the support units of the invasion force went ashore and until he was certain there was no danger from an enemy counterattack. Spurned, mind you. General Plautius had the brass balls of Jupiter to deny me anything, a Roman, advisor of British affairs to the emperor.

  After the first wave of five thousand heavily armed infantry, Legion Fourteenth Gemina, had landed in early afternoon along sandy Stonar Beach near the fishing village of Rutupiae, Gemina’s Tenth Cohort had been immediately dispatched inland to reconnoiter the countryside. Behind Fourteenth Gemina landed legions Second Augusta, Ninth Hispana, Twentieth Velaria, and a host of auxiliary support troops, forty thousand in all.

  Within three hours the Romans had established a defensible beachhead. Finally allowed to land, Porcius was oblivious to the shouts of a hundred tyrannical beachmasters directing the landing. He watched the endless streams of barges and transports sail up the doglegged channel of Portus Rutupis. They passed the treeless Isle of Tanatus and unloaded along the sandy shore. Here they disgorged thousands of troops, horses, mules, and tons of supplies, a process that would go on for days, if not weeks.

  The gods couldn’t have picked more perfect weather for the landing. A contrast to the cursed weather in reports of Julius Caesar’s landings a century before. A balm to Porcius’s painful arthritis, the warm sun hung like a blinding, gold coin high in the west. A slight breeze blew off the British Ocean barely rippling the aqua surface. Despite the present circumstances, he was happy to return to Britannia. Porcius and General Plautius, escorted by a detail of forty Praetorian Guardsmen, strolled to the huge scarlet, leather tent, Plautius’s temporary headquarters. Confusion reigned as the general’s aides directed slaves and servants in the placing of trunks, maps, and other equipment around the spacious shelter. A contubernium, squad of ten Praetorians, surrounded the tent.

  Short and compact in stature, the remaining hair on Plautius’s balding head was more gray than jet-black. Alert, lime-shaded eyes peered beyond the tumbling, wide nose, overhanging a firm mouth and strong jawline, in a weathered face. He loved the outdoors and ordered two chairs, a portable table, and a map of Britannia’s south coast set up outside near the entrance covered by a protective canopy.

  Before Porcius sat down, he scanned the ridge above the distant fishing village, straining to see if Caratacus or his warriors were watching the Roman landing. He spotted jagged dots upon the distant saw-tooth ridge, certain they were Caratacus’s horsemen, if not the king himself. Why hadn’t Plautius’s scouts discovered them?

  As Porcius was about to inform General Plautius, a trumpet signaled the approach of the rider, a centurion. He glanced toward the sea and its carpet of a thousand ships and then to the hill, now empty and smooth.

  The commander heard a noise from behind. He turned and saw one of his aides approaching at double-time.

  “Sir,” the red-faced tribune puffed, “Gemina’s Tenth Cohort has been annihilated!”

  The general winced. “Survivors?”

  “Only one, sir.”

  “Bring him at once!” Plautius ordered.

  “Four hundred eighty men dead! In the name of bloody Mars, how?” he fumed at Porcius. “Are these men demons? I’ll see what this cowardly survivor says before I plan a counterstrike.”

  He slammed his gilded helmet on the table then wiped beads of sweat from his broad forehead. He tossed his scarlet and gold-edged cloak to a servant.

  “It had to be along the trackway to Durovernum,” Porcius said. “There’s a heavy forest on the other side of that ridge.” He pointed to the unfolded parchment map on the table. “It’s thick enough to conceal an entire army.” Porcius pointed his index finger to a place in the center of the map. “It’s not marked, but there is a crossroads here, which is surrounded by a huge meadow. I’d wager a gold Aureus that is where the cohort was attacked.”

  “If we could afford to lose men, I’d say good riddance, but we can’t—not even troublemakers!”

&
nbsp; The general’s startling remarks dismayed Porcius, but he knew what Plautius meant. The cohort had been directly involved in the mutiny when the invasion forces were still assembling in Gaul. Fortunately, the uprising had failed and plans continued for the landing.

  Porcius shook his head. General Plautius had told him he would never forgive the Tenth. The general ordered Fourteenth Gemina’s commander to use them for shock troops. Besides the fact the legionaries had been mutinous, it was also appropriate. The Tenth Cohort, in all of the army’s legions, contained the newest recruits plus troublemakers reassigned from each legion’s other nine cohorts.

  The young centurion approached, halted before Plautius at attention, and saluted. His face and segmented armor were smeared with dried blood, his tunic in shreds, a dent on the side of his helmet. In his late-twenties and lanky, the Northern Italian of Ligurian stock stood well over six feet, his ruddy complected face peering out beneath thick, chestnut hair. A thin scar crossed from the base of the right ear lobe to the bottom of his squared chin.

  “Your name, Centurion,” Plautius said.

  “Marcus Valerius Bassus, sir.” He stared straight ahead.

  “Why is it that you are the cohort’s sole survivor?”

  “Because their king wanted me to give you a message, sir.”

  “And what is the message?” The general refrained briefly from asking the obvious question, noting a sword gash in the man’s iron-armored lorica.

  He must have fought like a madman to have survived, Porcius thought. There is too much blood smeared on his face and body to be his own. Despite what Plautius said earlier, this man is no coward.

  Bassus nodded. “He said to me, ‘Go and tell your general how easily I destroyed your cohort of five hundred men!’ I’m trying to remember exactly, because he was hard to understand, ‘Tell him, so will all Romans die by my hands …’” The centurion’s eyes glazed. “And, ‘… all Romans will die in my sea of warriors.’”

  Plautius stomped his foot onto the beach sand. “Arrogant bastard! We’ll deal with him, you can count on it.”

  “Did this king have a name?” Porcius asked.

  The centurion hesitated.

  “Answer Legate Porcius, he is in our confidence,” Plautius said.

  “He said his name was Caratacus, he speaks Latin.”

  Porcius exhaled as he shook his head. “I might have known. Only he would have the brass balls to challenge Rome.”

  “Now, explain the circumstances of your cohort’s slaughter, Centurion,” Plautius ordered.

  Bassus relayed the story and more. “Priscus, the senior centurion, led us into a trap, sir.” His blood-smeared hand gripped the hilt of his short sword.

  “Trap? Great gods! Give me details, Centurion,” the general ordered, impatience growing in his voice.

  “Yes, sir,” Bassus huffed. Slightly swaying from fatigue, he wiped the sweat from his bloodstained face with a calloused hand and continued his report. The day had grown hot and muggy, and Centurion Priscus, impulsive at best, had grown impatient waiting for a troop of Spanish cavalry. The unit was to accompany the infantry and reconnoiter ahead for signs of the enemy. But he ordered the troops to march without them. The other centurions, including Bassus, who had only been assigned to the cohort a week before the invasion, advised him to wait. Priscus called the officers a “bunch of cowardly bastards” and ignored their counsel. Discovering the little village of Rutupiae deserted, scouts from the Tenth found the trackway to Durovernum and continued inland. They plunged into the valley and were quickly swallowed by the choking forest.

  “And?” Porcius asked stone faced.

  Still staring straight over the head of Plautius, Bassus narrated. The cohort had been on the march for two hours when they came to a large break in the forest, a meadow with a crossroads running through its center. They halted for a brief rest, still no cavalry. Suddenly, hundreds of chariots with screaming warriors swarmed from the north, south, and west parts of the crossroads hurling spears and themselves at the force.

  The general narrowed his eyes. “Chariots?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bassus answered.

  “How many?” Plautius asked.

  “I’m not sure because of the dust they kicked up, but there must have been almost five hundred.”

  The general glanced to Porcius, who shrugged, and back to Bassus. “Continue.”

  “The legionaries instantly formed into four close-knit, shield-to-shield files forming the turtle defense. The Britons raced along both sides of the columns, hurling their spears like the furies, but failed to penetrate our defenses.” Bassus exhaled and continued. “The chariots retreated but were replaced by thousands of warriors on foot. They sprang from the underbrush and trees and charged us like demons from the underworld.”

  Standing taller than before, Bassus said in a voice full of pride, “Although badly outnumbered and with little chance of escape, we held our ground and hurled our javelins before the Celts were upon us. Through a wall of tightly packed shields, we used our swords to slaughter those undisciplined savages. It was a vicious cycle of thrusting and parrying, and we butchered warrior after warrior.

  “We didn’t retreat a foot, sir,” Bassus spoke through clenched teeth. “Hell, there wasn’t any place to withdraw. There were thousands of them. Why, there were even women cavalry!” He exhaled.

  “Women? Are you sure?” the general questioned, his thick eyebrows raised.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Plautius glanced to Porcius and back to Bassus. “I had heard stories about women fighters, but I dismissed them as tall tales. Proceed, Centurion.”

  “Yes, sir. They picked off troops at both ends of the cohort’s formation,” Bassus continued. “A few of the men hesitated at the idea of fighting women, especially when they looked so young, and some were even pretty. You could see that even through their face paint.”

  “The fools,” the general growled.

  “Not for long.” Bassus narrowed his eyes. “After a couple of our men were stabbed by their javelins, the rest didn’t have any qualms about killing those amazons. The savages pressured us where our defenses were weakest, but we kept fighting, not one of my lads gave ground.”

  Plautius nodded in approval.

  “We desperately attempted to keep a tight formation,” Bassus said, “but defenses started crumbling until finally our ranks were pressed and consumed by hordes of blood-chilling, screaming demons. I knew we would all die,” Bassus finished.

  There is no doubt in my mind, Bassus fought with the skill and cunning of a warrior in a Homeric poem.

  Porcius nodded slowly.

  Bassus wiped the sweat running down the side of his blood-smeared face and wiped it on the exposed part of his tunic beneath his segmented armor. He exhaled.

  “Don’t stop now, Centurion, continue,” the general ordered. “If he’s Caratacus as you say, why would he spare you?”

  “That’s what I’m coming to, sir. In one hellish nightmare of killing, it was over. I was surrounded by wild men—half-naked, cursing, screaming, dancing, laughing,” he said raising his voice. “At first, I thought I was just cut off from the rest of my century. Then I knew they were all dead, except me. I pulled myself closer to my shield waiting to be rushed by them. By the gods I was determined to slice up as many of the bastards I could before they killed me.” Bassus swallowed and took a deep breath. “But they halted, and this king, because that’s what he was, commanded them to stay their swords.”

  “How do you know that’s what he said?” Plautius asked.

  The centurion nodded. “I was raised in Northern Italy near Placentia, sir. A lot of Gallic people live there. I picked up many of their words from my boyhood friends.”

  “Go on,” Plautius ordered, impatience creeping into his voice.

  “Yes, sir.” Bassus explained the king had ridden his Gallic stallion forward through scores of slain Roman soldiers and British warriors.

  “As their leader
approached,” Bassus said, “I looked about and saw the carnage spread over the wide meadow on the trackway we were taking to Durovernum. We were along the edge of a thick forest about ten miles from here. Despite my wounds, I stood silent against that circle of taunting warriors. I wasn’t going to give those bloody savages the satisfaction of asking for mercy.

  “I should have died with my men,” Bassus said. “But the Britons parted as their king rode through their circle. Next to the leader rode some hulking warrior, I expected him to kill me. He drew his sword and looked to the king, who shook his head. The big man slid it back into a scabbard as the king seemed to take my measure. I believe he knew I would fight to the death. He saw the headless warriors lying at my feet. The king called out in Latin, ‘I am Caratacus.’ He slowly guided his snorting mount around me and glanced at me sideways. I wasn’t letting him out of my sight, and I turned slowly, following his movement. I was surprised to hear a barbarian speaking my tongue, although haltingly. Then he surprised me again.”

  “In what manner?” Plautius asked.

  “This Caratacus said I was free to go.”

  Porcius cricked an eyebrow. “Indeed?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bassus answered. “I could tell by their angry voices, Caratacus’s men didn’t like it a bit. But he gave the lot an ugly glance, and that shut their mouths.”

  “I believe that,” Porcius said. “He is a powerful leader. Then what happened?”

  “Caratacus motioned for a warrior to bring me a horse, which he did. He told me to saddle up. I found myself sheathing my weapon, and mounted hastily.

  “He asked me my name as I made my way through the dead bodies,” Bassus continued. “I halted beyond them and looked back, thinking it was a miracle I was still alive. Not trusting they wouldn’t come after me, I shouted my name and galloped away.”

  General Plautius stood up and, for a few seconds, studied the young centurion, his grimy face, eyes full of hate.