The Wolf of Britannia Part II

by Jess Steven Hughes

  The Fourth Cohort rushed forward to fill a huge break in the legion’s center as the Eighth headed towards the right flank, where the Britons poured between the exposed areas left open by the Romans. The rear centuries of the Second Legion’s Ninth and Tenth Cohorts struggled to close ranks.

  Bassus’s unit was less than twenty-five paces away, and Porcius knew that was close enough for the young centurion to see the enemy’s screaming faces and fury in their eyes. Again, the trumpet sounded, and the cohort suddenly halted. As one, the first two ranks raised and hurled the first of the two javelins each man carried.

  Wide-eyed and in apparent shock, hundreds of Britons fell screaming to the chalky ground. Others stopped to remove the collapsing spear shafts from wicker shields. As they struggled with the embedded weapons, they were struck by another clattering volley that killed and wounded hundreds more. Again, blades hissed as the legionaries drew their swords in unison from their scabbards.

  Undeterred, the yelling, cursing barbarians rushed onward, jumping over dead comrades, slamming into the line of Bassus’s cohort, but his men held, and the carnage began anew—metal clashing upon metal, striking bones and flesh. The cries of the wounded and dying resounded across the battlefield, as if all the dead had returned from the bowels of Hades searching for more victims to join them.

  Knowing the Britons as he did, Porcius was not surprised by their fanatical onslaught.

  Despite the deafening noise of battle that sliced through the fighting chaos like a thunderbolt from Jupiter, Porcius spotted Bassus in the roiling mass of slaughter and carnage. The young centurion’s shield and armor were drenched with blood as he sliced heads and hacked limbs off one fanatical Briton after another. Bodies piled up in front of the cohort ranks slowing down the barbarian advance, the ground turning to a slippery chaulkish pink.

  Bassus roved up and down the front line, urging, cursing, bullying his new unit to keep fighting. At several spots, where a Briton slipped through, he smashed them back with his shield. He ducked beneath the enemy’s upraised shield and shoved his sword deep into his rib cage. Time and again he personally filled the void and shoved his men together. Then came the sound of a distant trumpet. Bassus turned, as did Porcius, and watched as the rest of Legion Twentieth Valeria finally turned the enemy’s flank, linking with Legion Second Augusta.

  Thank you, Father Jupiter. Porcius breathed.

  Bassus’s men held. The junior centurion turned along with Porcius to the loud tramping of hob-nailed, sandled boots mixed with the jolting, metallic sounds of arms and armor. An auxiliary cohort of Asturians, wearing blue tunics and breeches covered by chain mail, moved in to relieve his beleaguered troops. Bassus’s cohort alternately opened and closed ranks with split-second precision, until the Asturian reliefs, equipped with longswords and protective oval shields, filled all gaps in the line. The exhausted legionaries quickly fell back until they were out of immediate danger.

  The centurion led the cohort to a rise behind the auxiliaries. They sat on the trampled ground while he poured a goatskin of water over his head.

  “He is probably too tired to care that his armor will rust, or his muscles ache,” Porcius mumbled under his breath.

  Bassus ran a sweaty hand through oily hair and shook it like a wet animal. He hailed a passing medicus and pointed to a thinly sliced wound on his arm.

  A quarter of an hour later, Bassus and his men were ready to return to the fray. He got to his feet and looked down the rise, apparently seeing General Geta and his troop of escorting Praetorians riding behind the Third Cohort near the edge of the flank.

  Porcius noticed that the Second Cohort had just been relieved, and watched as Bassus waved to its cohort commander, Centurion Lucius Flaccus. Too far away for Porcius to understand, they shouted something to one another. Flaccus bellowed a reply and pointed in the direction of General Geta, commander of the Twentieth Legion.

  At that moment, a horde of four thousand screaming Britons swarmed past the edge of the flanking cohort.

  Bassus quickly gestured a centurion to his side and gave an order. He then motioned to Flaccus, turned back, and barked a command to his men. The legionaries, with Bassus leading the way, sprang to their feet and moved out at a near run.

  *

  On the low hill above the plain, at the opposite end of the field from the Second Legion’s headquarters, Caratacus and his companions watched from their chariots as his warriors fell mindlessly upon the Romans. Appalled by his army’s losses, the sickening, sweet smell of thousands of dead bodies singed Caratacus’s nostrils.

  Clud motioned to the Romans. “I must try to kill him, High King. Look! It’s the omen! It’s the great, gold eagle of the prophecy!”

  Caratacus knew by the gold cuirass, purple cloak, and red-plumed helmet that the officer was a general, riding a dark bay gelding. An escort of scarlet-clad Praetorian Guardsman surrounded him.

  “You know the odds of getting through are against you?” Caratacus said.

  “Wasn’t it foretold that we’d capture the great eagle? One must never defy a prophecy.”

  Caratacus exhaled. He loathed the thought of sending Clud to an almost certain death, but knew he must. His close friend would be insulted if he refused him this opportunity for glory. “Very well, my friend, go. If anyone can break through, it is you.” He clasped the old iron maker’s wrists tightly. “Take whatever men you need and may Teutates be with you!”

  Clud barked commands to his men to follow him and rode into the fray.

  At fifty-one, Clud was one of the old ones. He still possessed great strength and power. What he lacked in speed, he made up in cunning. If the gods willed it would be his time to die, so be it. Caratacus had to stay out of the fighting; he must survive to lead the people. But Clud was a warrior and expected to live and die like one.

  The king watched from a distance as Clud jumped from his chariot and waded through the frenzied mob of Britons to the Roman line, hacking their way through the hundreds of Praetorian defenders, whose clumsy fighting ability astonished Caratacus. He had heard the soft-living Praetorians didn’t have the iron will of the legionaries. The rumors were right—many fell. A few moments later the Britons surrounded the officer and his Praetorians. The general was within their grasp.

  *

  Porcius watched as Bassus’s and Flaccus’s cohorts raced for the general’s standard as the barbarians engulfed General Geta’s position, the fighters yelling, weapons clashing, shields banging. Bassus bellowed to Flaccus and pointed to the general’s wavering standard. Then he brandished his weapon in a circle above his head. Porcius thought he heard him shout, “Form the turtle!” Bassus pointed to a centurion with his weapon and the First Century moved to the front.

  The troops’ outer ranks formed an oval wall of shields, and the inner ones placed shields above their heads. It became an impenetrable barrier, bristling with swords like the needles of a porcupine. They knifed through the swirling barbarian host like wolfhounds attacking a wild boar, goring the enemy with smashing iron-bossed shields and body-gutting short swords. The two cohorts sent the Britons reeling as they reached the general’s standards and redeployed.

  Porcius eyed the thick forest of warriors and marveled at the gashed roadway they’d just cut, now paved with writhing bodies. Bassus approached a blood-drenched centurion after he had positioned the last of his men on the perimeter into a protective circle. He shook the other officer’s hand and appeared to compliment him.

  Although there was a lull in the fighting, in the distance Porcius watched as the Britons slowly regrouped.

  At that moment, he heard Bassus shout an order to another junior centurion to reform the ranks of the cohort, but to leave behind one century to form a defensive perimeter around the commander’s headquarters.

  Bassus and the other centurion approached General Geta, saluted, and spoke to him. They appeared to be asking questions to which the general nodded. Geta turned to Bassus and said something that brou
ght a grin to both centurions’ faces, perhaps a compliment. The two saluted and quickly departed.

  Porcius scanned the western area of the battlefield and understood why they had left in a hurry. The Britons were about to launch another attack.

  Now we will break Caratacus once and for all!

  Chapter 9

  As the relieving cohorts surrounded the general, Caratacus watched from the rise above the battle. Clud raced toward General Geta. He hurtled over dead bodies and hacked his way through the Roman line. As he closed in on the Roman commander, Caratacus spotted the centurion he remembered. Bassus. Unlike the first day of invasion when Caratacus had spared the Roman’s life, he knew his friend was determined that Bassus wouldn’t live to see the end of this one.

  Clud sliced his way to Bassus’s position.

  Even in the noisy chaos of battle, Caratacus swore he heard Clud shout something in guttural Latin that sounded like, “Bassus! Bassus!”

  The centurion turned as they squared off. Clud swung his longsword at Bassus’s head. The weapon caught the top of Bassus’s shield and was parried away. Clud deftly jumped aside, eluding Bassus’s deadly jab to the stomach. The old warrior made a thrust for the centurion’s face and again was blocked by the shield. The Roman’s sword jabbed along the side of Clud’s waist drawing fresh blood on its blade. Clud’s oval shield blocked another flashing thrust of Bassus’s weapon and deflected it aside. Three more times they traded blow for violent blow, each caught by one another’s shields. Clud’s weapon slid past Bassus’s shield, lancing the left side of the jaw. In an instant, the iron boss of the centurion’s shield smashed into Clud’s chest, sending him staggering backwards. Another blow by the shield battered his face. Blood flowed from his mouth and nose. Before he could counterstrike, the centurion slipped his weapon below and past Clud’s shield and pierced the Briton’s abdomen. Blood spurted from his mouth. Choking and gasping, Caratacus realized Clud fought for breath, his windpipe flooded with blood. Clud crumpled to his knees, too weak to block the crashing sword that split his skull.

  Caratacus clenched the pommel of his sword tightly as his stomach churned. Even though he had been resigned to the fact that Clud would probably die in battle, he stood aghast at the sight of his friend’s death. But this was not the time or place to mourn the loss of his good friend. Outwardly, he had to remain calm.

  Clud’s attack had failed. The general’s standards had wavered but never faltered, and General Geta lived. Now both legions moved forward at a run, and a cry ran through Caratacus’s warrior host.

  “The eagle lives! The priest lied!”

  “He’s a sorcerer!” another warrior cried.

  It was as if that accusation against the prophecy by the Druid, Havgan, had squeezed the last breath out his warriors’ attack. The men turned and fled, jumped, and tripped over and around corpses, shattered armor, and weapons. At first a trickle, then a stream, and finally a flood as company after company of warriors waded through the pink-chaulkish mud, the result of the river of blood that poured from the wounded and dead. They headed up the hill through trees and brush, north for the River Tamesis, the noise from their footfalls deafening.

  Within minutes, five of Caratacus’s chieftains, led by Fergus ap Roycal, crossed the field and reined their chariots before him, their haggard, sunburned faces full of concern.

  “High King, they’ve had enough!” Fergus turned toward the fleeing host. “Despite threats and executing cowards, our warriors still flee!”

  “It’s the prophecy,” Caratacus spat in disgust. “They had more faith in the words of one man than in themselves!”

  Fergus gestured with his big hands as if it were obvious. “Whatever the reason, there’s no turning them around. What now, Great King?”

  Caratacus looked from one leader to another. “We retreat—across the Tamesis—and regroup. Now!”

  “What about our dead?” a chieftain asked. “We can’t leave them for the Romans—they’ll desecrate their souls by leaving them to rot or burn them.”

  “We have no choice,” Caratacus said. “There are too many dead. The Romans will slaughter what’s left of our forces if we stop to collect the bodies.” He turned his chariot and hurtled ahead as his shield bearers and chieftains scurried to keep pace.

  The Romans kept up the pressure, nipping at their heels.

  Five miles away, they crossed the broad, mosquito-infested marshlands of the Tamesis. The honeycomb of dense briar thickets, bogs, and quicksand rivulets swallowed men and beasts alike without a trace. Knowing the area well, Caratacus and his warriors crossed with little difficulty. Near nightfall, before the swift incoming tides filled the silting mouth of the Tamesis, all his surviving warriors had crossed the treacherous marshes. His expected victory lay in shambles. Gone were fifteen to twenty thousand warriors. And in the process, he had lost another of his best friends, Clud.

  *

  Now that Porcius had identified Caratacus in battle, General Vespasian had no further use for him, and he was sent back to the headquarters of General Plautius. Only the day before, Plautius had crossed the River Medway. Secretly, Porcius was glad that Caratacus had escaped. He had offered to negotiate the surrender of Caratacus, but Vespasian would not hear of it. If truth be known, Porcius doubted Caratacus would not have accepted anything less than complete withdrawal from Britannia by the Romans.

  If General Plautius was to conquer the Britons, he would still need Porcius’s knowledge, plus that of Caratacus’s older brother, Adminios, and that of King Verica.

  “I don’t trust either one of those barbarians,” Plautius said to Porcius. They sat facing each other across the general’s portable desk in the headquarters tent. It was almost noon, the sun broiling them. The side flaps to the tent were opened to allow in the little breeze that drifted in from the nearby River Medway. “You know this land almost as well as they do. Despite our differences, I trust your judgment in this matter. That’s why I ordered Vespasian to send you back.”

  “I was puzzled as to why I was recalled,” Porcius said.

  General Plautius snorted. He grabbed the cloth sitting on the desk, wiped his forehead, and sat it down. “Vespasian is a good general, but outside of killing the Britons, he is not one for negotiating with them. On the other hand, I wouldn’t trust either Verica or Adminios to deal with the other British kings who could become our allies. If what you told me earlier is true, the Iceni and Brigantes hate both of them.”

  “Trust me, General, they do,” Porcius said, his eyes narrowing.

  Porcius had learned from the general that Legion Fourteenth Gemina, and elements of the commander’s beloved Ninth Hispana, had crossed the River Medway north of Caratacus’s main camp. The Romans completely surprised the Britons Caratacus had left behind when he went to intercept Vespasian’s forces. The enemy made one futile counterattack and, like Caratacus’s defeated army, fled north to the River Tamesis. However, the Medway victory had not been as easy as anticipated. Of twenty thousand troops, more than one thousand legionaries died, losses Plautius could not afford. However, thousands of barbarian warriors had been captured.

  Auxiliary German cavalry units serving the Roman Army, the Batavians, had failed to find a shallow ford and swam across. Yet, he had received word Geta’s legion had crossed a bridge discovered upstream that afternoon.

  Porcius had also learned the Batavians had been bogged down on the north side of the Tamesis. They had lost more in the marshes than from the enemy, but Plautius had ordered the Ninth Legion’s commander to advance his remaining five cohorts across the Tamesis and join Geta’s legion at once.

  “I have received word that the bulk of Caratacus’s cavalry has been surrounded—trapped,” General Plautius said. “I am determined to see they don’t escape. I will join the Ninth Legion, which is in route to the area where they were last seen. In the meantime, Legate Porcius, I am ordering you to stay behind.”

  *

  Though late, Porcius was completin
g another secret report to the emperor. As he stamped the imprint of his signet ring on the hot, wax seal of the finished document, a commotion outside caught his attention. Horses trotted by his quarters and someone shouted.

  “Barbarian women in camp!”

  Porcius looked up from his desk and towards the opening to his large tent. He knew that would bring out the troops and slavers alike. So far, the only women rounded up since the invasion began had been disease-ridden, squat, camp followers and ugly, poxed village peasants. Then he heard another shout.

  “They’re Amazons!”

  If they were warrior women, perhaps one of the captives was Caratacus’s wife. When Porcius had fled from Britannia after Caratacus had driven out Adminios and Verica, the Roman knew Caratacus’s wife was commander of his female cavalry unit. No doubt she was still their leader. Like Caratacus, he hoped she had escaped. Nonetheless, his curiosity wouldn’t be satisfied until he investigated the disturbance. To Porcius, or any Roman, women who fought as warriors were considered Amazons.

  Porcius stood, his joints aching more all the time, and stepped to the entryway. He trudged out into the humid night and watched the torch-lit procession pass by. A stern-faced General Plautius led the escort of mounted Praetorians and a cohort of legionaries. He spotted fifteen women being carried on stretchers near the end of the column. In the torchlight he saw their battered, black and purple faces and bloodied bodies. Porcius gasped as he felt the pain rise in his arthritic hands. He never liked the idea of using women in combat, and this confirmed his reasons. Then he was astounded to see a line of Batavian German troopers, hands chained and necks linked by rope.

  “What in the name of Jove happened to these poor creatures?” Porcius called to an accompanying medicus.