Porcius broke the silence. “Sounds like the work of Caratacus. It’s just like that scoundrel to spare a man to bring a message to his enemies. The tales he’ll spread about camp by nightfall is more than worth this centurion’s life to Caratacus.”
“Describe their king, Centurion,” Porcius demanded.
“Yes, sir,” Bassus answered. “He’s tall for a barbarian, well over six feet, in his early-thirties. His face is scarred and sunburned, and his muscled body riddled with tattoos. An iron helmet painted bright red covered long, brown hair. He wore a fancy scarlet and purple cloak open in front and green and gold, tartan trousers, same as the Gauls wear. His weapon was a bright, steel sword, the biggest I’ve ever seen.”
“The physical description and broken Latin fits perfectly,” Porcius said. “Few Britons speak the language at all, but Caratacus is one of them.”
“You’re a brave man, Centurion,” the general conceded. “Is there anything else?”
A frown crossed Bassus’s chapped lips, and he balled his fists. “Sir, I want revenge! I want a chance to fight them in the open. I lost too many good men today, some were friends.” He unclenched his fists. “But that’s not all. I learned a lot about the British while growing up. Begging the general’s pardon, I don’t mean to sound like a braggart, but I know more about them than most Romans.”
Porcius raised his eyebrows at that remark. A Roman who knows the Britons? This could be interesting.
“And how did you come by this store of knowledge?” the general inquired, his eyes narrowed as if skeptical of the remark.
The centurion returned Plautius’s glare. “My great-grandfather was a legionarie in the Fighting Tenth Legion, sir. He served under Julius Caesar on both his expeditions to Britannia. Stories of his adventures were passed down from his time to mine. My father was a retired centurion who settled in Placentia on the River Padus. He was a prosperous blacksmith, and I served as his apprentice. We shoed horses and repaired many wagons belonging to the traders returning from Britannia. They taught me well, for I pointed out several geographical sites, including the crossroads, to Centurion Macro when we first landed here and later during the march, which had been described to me.” He shook his head. “They didn’t lie!”
General Plautius’s apparent reserve had begun to melt, Porcius noted, though his granite face didn’t reveal it. “Thank you, Centurion.” He clapped, and a slave appeared. “Have my personal physician attend to this man’s wounds.”
After Bassus departed, Plautius spoke to Porcius. “What do you think? Is his professed knowledge of any significance?”
“Folklore and war stories, I suspect. But if channeled in the right direction, he may prove to be of some value.” Uncertain of the young officer’s knowledge or political connections, Porcius deliberately downplayed the importance of this rare find, a Roman with knowledge of Britannia.
“Was he right about the geographical locations?”
“For one who had never set foot on British shores before today, it was as if he had been bewitched.”
“Before the army moves inland, I’ll verify his report. I’m sending a detail of scouts to check the area now.” The general signaled for a runner and gave the order. After the soldier departed, he turned back to Porcius. “The legions will pass the way of the Tenth Cohort tomorrow.”
“But Caratacus may be waiting with his army.”
Plautius arched a bushy eyebrow. “No. If he’s wise, and I don’t believe he’s stupid, he’ll not want to risk a battle too soon and dispel his invincibility among our troops. But if he’s a fool … all the better. I doubt he’ll be there if what you’ve said is true. He’ll take up more defensible positions until he can regroup his forces again.”
“Yes, upon reflection, I believe he would.” Porcius pinched his thin eyebrows together.
“And I have a good idea where he’ll be. By then we’ll know if Bassus told the truth. I’m curious to see if that pile of supposed bodies is still there.”
“Caratacus won’t stay around once he has stripped all bodies of their armor and weapons.”
“Senator Porcius, you must know we landed unopposed only because Caratacus chose to fight us on his terms.”
Porcius grunted. “I had long feared otherwise. You know Caratacus can command a combined army of more than one hundred thousand men, savages, but men dedicated to die at his word.”
“And yet we may, Senator … and yet we, too, may die. Meanwhile,” the general continued, “I’ll make inquiries as to this Bassus’s background and what part, if any, he played in the mutiny.”
“You sacked the ringleaders before we sailed, and he only joined the cohort last week.”
“He could have been another troublemaker transferred to the Tenth Cohort, that’s where all of them are sent.”
“If that were the case, wouldn’t he have been broken from the rank of centurion?” Porcius asked.
“Not always,” Plautius answered. “In any event, I learned to watch my back many years ago, Senator, just like you. Otherwise, neither of us could have survived, could we?” he answered with a sinister grin.
He was right. Porcius decided to send one of his agents to Northern Italy to make discreet inquiries about the young centurion. My gut feeling tells me this young man will prove to be invaluable.
*
“Lord, you were sitting there staring blankly at the parchment for a long time. I was beginning to worry.” Cyrus twisted his fingers.
Porcius rubbed his bloodshot eyes and scratched his fleshy forehead. He looked about his well-lit tent, realizing he had dosed off while reflecting on the events leading up to the invasion and the slaughter of Centurion Bassus’s cohort.
“I was thinking about our next move against Caratacus. And more importantly, where his next attack will come. He won’t wait much longer.”
*
Caratacus, along with Clud and a small scouting party, crouched among the rocks, watched from a cliff as tens of thousands of Roman soldiers landed on Stonar Beach near the fishing village of Rutupiae about half a mile away. In the noonday sun, the glaring surface of the British Channel’s blue-green waters nearly blinded the king. Perched like a seagull on a ledge, he watched the activity with growing fascination as he contemplated his next move. Beyond the shoreline, hundreds of ships rode at anchor, rising and falling on gentle swells. Barges and lighters sailed back and forth between them and the land, bringing more troops and supplies. He feared his small triumph would only stir their anger.
“Why didn’t you come a moon ago when I had one hundred thousand men assembled, you son of a sow?” He cursed the unseen general.
“Aye, the filthy bastards,” Clud spat, sitting on his mount next to Caratacus. “Now we’ll have to wait until the rest of our warriors have been recalled, and that takes time!”
“Patience, Clud,” Caratacus said in an even tone. “We’ll drive them into the sea when the hour is right. No Roman Army will overrun my lands.”
“May the Great Teutates damn your brother, Adminios, and the traitor, Verica, for bringing the Romans to our shore!”
Chapter 3
Eleven days had passed since the Romans invaded his lands. Caratacus’s army had taken all the livestock with them, leaving a scorched path of burning crops and farmsteads as they withdrew thirty miles north from the landing site of Rutupiae to the River Medway. There he waited for the rest of the disbursed tribal armies to reassemble. In the meantime, Caratacus received reports from his scouts and spies that the Romans had not been able to forage. They were becoming more dependent on ever-lengthening supply lines and were vulnerable to attack.
On the evening of the twelfth day Caratacus and his brother, Tog, King of the Trinovantes, received word that the Second Legion had landed and was marching north to reinforce the Ninth and Twentieth Legions at Durovernum. The Cantiacian capital was now in Roman hands, plus the legion camp on the coast.
The following morning Caratacus, along with Rhian, had
seen his brother off before dawn with a force of one thousand of his best horsemen and eight thousand spike-haired infantrymen from their joint encampment. Before Tog departed the three huddled together outside the goatskin headquarters tent. Brightly colored streamers and banners representing the various tribes and clans hung limply on poles planted in the chalky ground.
“Good luck, Brother,” Caratacus said to Tog. Narrow faced and nearly as tall as Caratacus, his younger brother wore a crimson cloak. Over his wide shoulders was his best mailed armor, and a new silver helmet topped by a broad winged eagle. Besides his great longsword, Tog carried two javelins with spiked butts, and a bright, red-and-orange-striped shield with an iron center boss.
The two brothers reached across and clasped hands briefly before Tog mounted his gelding.
Rhian kissed Tog on the cheek and murmured a blessing of the gods.
“This is an opportunity I can’t afford to pass up,” Tog said. “It isn’t every day I can smash a legion.”
“Tog, we discussed that last night,” Caratacus said. “You’re to hit the center and destroy the supply wagons, not the entire legion.”
“As king, I make the final decision, Brother, and I will kill every Roman maggot crossing our lands,” the younger brother replied.
Caratacus jabbed a scarred forefinger in Tog’s direction. “Aye, you’re a king and a good one, but we must fight together as allies. Yes, butcher the Romans, but concentrate on destroying their supplies—that’s your first priority—it will set the Romans back further than slaughtering the entire legion. You must understand that allows time for our forces to reassemble.”
Tog’s face turned florid. He growled through a mouth full of crooked teeth. “I hate running and so do my men.”
“You’re not.” Caratacus shook his head. “If you engage them in a full-pitched battle, they will defeat you! You don’t have enough men to destroy them head-on. There is nothing kingly about wasting good men.”
Tog motioned to the warriors waiting a short distance from them. “We’re not cowards!”
“You have never been a coward, my brave Brother-In-Law,” Rhian said. Briefly, she placed a hand on his scarred forearm.
“Bravery has nothing to do with it,” Caratacus said. “Right now we can do more damage by wearing them down and spreading their supply lines so thin they are forced to bring replacements from Gaul. By the time those arrive, we will be ready. Patience.”
Tog crossed his brawny arms in front of his chain-mail-covered chest. For the span of ten heartbeats, he stared menacingly at Caratacus. He relaxed his arms and lowered them to his sides. He exhaled and looked toward his awaiting troops and back to Caratacus. “All right, Brother and Rhian. Farewell, pray to the gods that I return victorious.”
The younger brother mounted his horse, turned away, and signaled the trumpets to sound the order for the march.
As the warriors departed, churning up the chalky dust in the early morning light, Rhian turned to Caratacus. “My band of women riders and I will pray for Tog’s success.”
“It wouldn’t hurt, but I’m certain he will succeed.”
She sniffed. “So long as he listens to your advice.”
Caratacus tightened his lips and nodded.
*
Caratacus jabbed a finger in the direction of a clump of elms. “Not here you fool!” Caratacus ordered the young warrior driving his chariot. “Take the horses to the spring. This water is too salty, it’ll kill them!” He stepped from the car, picked up a smooth, flat stone and skimmed it part way across the muddy River Medway. A whisper of a breeze blew through the bushes lining the water’s edge.
“Clud!” he shouted.
“Aye, Great King?”
“Replace that idiot.” He motioned to the young warrior driving his car away. “Anyone who would lead my horses to salt water has no business driving my chariot.” He wiped the dust from his face then spat on the muddy embankment.
Clud raced off in the wake of the vehicle with a puzzled look on his face.
Caratacus shook his head. Not wanting to enter his stifling, hot headquarters tent, he sat on a small boulder protruding into the river, oblivious to its hard surface digging into his backside.
He had just returned from Durobrivae, the small fortress on the Medway’s west bank. After holding a morning war council with his chieftains, where he relayed information on the Roman’s weaknesses, his stomach was still in knots and his face hot. War council, indeed! I spent most of the time settling disputes about who would lead which warriors when they next fought the Romans.
Clud, who had been present, confided later what he thought of the meeting. “It was more like which fool would lead what fools upon Roman swords. They don’t come close to the warriors of the old days.”
“About some of them, you’re probably right, but there was much face-saving at stake.”
Caratacus’s scar-faced friend looked about. He slapped one of his huge thighs with an equally big hand. “Aye, but it’ll cost us a lot more lives when we face the Romans again. It could decide the fate of the kingdom.”
Caratacus glanced across the river knowing the enemy was somewhere on the other side, no doubt making plans for a crossing. A servant approached, stepped upon the big rock, stooped down, and offered a huge, earthen bowl of beer. After dismissing the man, Caratacus drank the corma and reflected on how the chieftains, in some ways, reminded him of little children with petty jealousies and swelled heads. He complimented, persuaded, and bullied them when necessary, but determined to deploy his warriors where he saw fit.
Refusing to confront General Plautius until he recalled his scattered forces, Caratacus had dispatched companies of infantry and cavalry squadrons to destroy the slow-moving, Roman supply columns, in turn bogging down their advance. He received news that Plautius was slowly advancing, consolidating his gains as he did so. Upon landing in Britannia and occupying Durovernum, capitol of the Cantiacians, Plautius had placed Adminios back on the tribal throne, no doubt with a Roman leash around his scrawny neck!
Soon Caratacus’s forces would outnumber the Romans nearly five to one. He was confident he would defeat them. He hadn’t forgotten the losses in destroying the Tenth Cohort. As he waited for enough reinforcements to drive the Romans back into the sea, he planned to change his tactics.
Now he tossed the empty bowl to the servant, who waited nearby. Another approached to remove his dusty cloak and handed him a towel. As he wiped the grime from his body, Clud returned.
“I sacked the driver with a boot in the arse, Caratacus, and replaced him with a better man.” Clud stepped upon the boulder and stooped down next to his long-time friend.
“You said that about the last one.” The king’s voice trailed off as he looked eastward across the river. He waved away a cloud of gnats swirling about his face. The sun was high, but he spied dark clouds gathering in the distance. White caps erupted on the Medway’s sluggish waters, and a cold wind reeled its way across its broad surface. In the distance, outside Caratacus’s command post, banners and streamers fluttered and snapped as the breeze gradually built to a stronger wind.
Clud peered toward the southeast, the direction Tog and his men had traveled earlier that morning. “You suppose Tog’s men have hit the Romans yet?” Clud asked.
Caratacus nodded as he ignored the breeze that tossed strands of long, sandy hair about his face. “Soon, if he hasn’t already. Surprise will be the key element.”
His friend scratched an armpit. “He’s destroyed Roman supply columns before.”
“Aye, but this time he is going after the advance elements of the Second Legion, who are escorting another pack train.” Caratacus tossed the towel to the ground and motioned to a nearby servant for two bowls of beer for Clud and himself.
“They must be desperate if they are using legionaries instead of their stinking Gallic auxiliaries as escort.”
Both men held their silence when the young slave brought their drinks and moved out of
earshot. Clud partially guzzled his.
Caratacus took a sip and continued, “That works to our advantage. They won’t expect Tog and his men to attack by way of the marshland.” Unlike the Romans, Caratacus and Tog knew the pathways through the choking, mosquito-infested area near the River Medway. The Romans were forced to stay to the area’s major trackways if they weren’t to lose their way. The plan was to hit the rear guard and then destroy the baggage train carrying vital supplies, positioned in the middle of the vanguard, before the advance units could turn about and counterattack.
“If Tog’s warriors inflict enough losses in men and material, the Romans will have to wait for reinforcements from mainland Gaul,” Clud said and finished his beer with a gulp and loud belch.
“Aye, that gives me more time to gather forces for a major confrontation with the Romans,” Caratacus answered. “Now, old friend, I need time alone to think. Keep everyone away from me unless they have news about Tog.”
Clud grinned through snaggled teeth. “I can do that.”
*
As he brooded by the river bank, Caratacus yawned, barely keeping his eyelids open. He had slept little since the beginning of the invasion. He planned to make a stand against the invaders along the twisting Medway. The king decided against holding Durovernum, because the unfortified town rested on a flat plain in the valley of the River Stour. The Medway, twenty-five miles to the west, was far easier to defend. Only one narrow rickety bridge, which he planned to burn, crossed the river.
From information gathered by his spies, Caratacus learned the main objective of the Roman Army was the capture of Camulodunum. This meant crossing the meandering Medway and the wide, swift Tamesis further north. The large Roman naval presence in the estuary posed a threat not only to his left flank, but to supplies flowing into Camulodunum by sea.
Relinquishing Durovernum had been a soul-wrenching decision but a strategic necessity. Caratacus had met fierce opposition from the chieftains, but he refused to bend, and his will triumphed. The fools would have needlessly wasted lives and met with certain defeat, leaving the road to Camulodunum wide open and certain destruction of the kingdom.
The Wolf of Britannia Part II Page 4
