The Wolf of Britannia Part II

by Jess Steven Hughes

  Porcius cleared his throat. “If that were the case, I would still be in Rome and not in Britannia. Believe me, I would much rather be working at home in the garden, when my knees allow it, than here on a wretched, mosquito-ridden campaign where I am risking my life.”

  “Your risk is no greater than the rest of us. If anything, it is less. You won’t be fighting in the ranks.”

  The general raised a silver cup of wine from the portable table and swilled its contents. He slammed down the cup.

  Porcius winced.

  “Nevertheless,” Porcius said, “the emperor has commanded me to observe all battles that will take place on your forthcoming campaign against Caratacus. It may require that I observe the fighting at close range. In that event, I will need an escort of your Praetorians to protect me and the secretaries who will ride at my side. After all, they will need to write down notes as I dictate them during the heat of battle.”

  That hadn’t sat well with Scapula, but Porcius knew the general had little choice. He had done the same thing years ago at the Battle of Bagshot Heath when the army of Caratacus’s uncle, Epaticcos, had fought the warriors of Verica. Of course, Porcius had been kidnapped and most likely would have been killed if Caratacus hadn’t saved his life. Porcius wasn’t about to mention that to Scapula.

  Porcius hated having to travel with the legion on campaign, but as long as he could bring along a few luxuries, slaves, and freemen to make his life a little more comfortable, he would tolerate the inconveniences that went along being on march.

  *

  At about noon, Porcius and Bassus watched Scapula as he paced back and forth along the Sabrina’s sandy bank. The general gazed at the sight of Caratacus’s defensive position, with its dark, overhanging cliffs across the river. He dropped to one knee and scooped up a clump of earth in his right hand. For a moment, he examined it as if he would an expensive piece of jewelry. He opened his fingers, letting the soil sift through them, and stood looking about. Scapula motioned to his orderly to fetch a cup of dark wine undiluted by water. As he gulped it down, he studied Caersws’ defensive positions.

  “Jupiter’s balls,” the general said, “the walls are nearly impregnable. I never encountered positions this strong in Germania.”

  “His Roman deserters built the walls and lined the ditch with defensive stakes, sir,” Figulus, the brawny, pig-faced tribune in charge of engineers, said in a droning voice.

  The general glared at Figulus. He glanced to Porcius and Bassus and back to the tribune. “Don’t underestimate the abilities of any barbarian,” Scapula counseled. “They’re not stupid, we have the losses to prove it.”

  Porcius and Bassus grinned. The centurion nodded with the other cohort commanders.

  Figulus is a fool, Porcius thought. The young officer had recently arrived in Britannia and had a great deal to learn about the Britons.

  Scapula motioned to the burly Primus Pilus, the legion’s senior centurion and second in command. “Send out cavalry patrols on both flanks. See if there is another way the infantry can bypass those walls.”

  *

  Two hours passed before the patrols returned. They reined up their mounts in front of the headquarters tent. Scapula and his staff were underneath the outside canopy looking over a map of the area. The squadron commander dismounted and reported that his riders found no other approaches to the citadel.

  Scapula dismissed the commander and turned to Figulus. “Are you certain we have to bridge the river?” Scapula inquired. “It doesn’t appear that deep.”

  “The bottom is too unstable,” Figulus answered. “We need the bridge in order to bring artillery across, they are out of range. That along with men and horse alike will be hopelessly mired without bridging, sir. I’d stake my reputation on it.”

  Scapula sneered. “You mean your rich senator-father’s reputation. If it weren’t for his influence, you wouldn’t be in charge of my engineers. I should have given the order earlier to your second-in-command to go ahead with the bridging instead of listening to you.”

  “Figulus is an idiot,” Bassus whispered to Porcius.

  “Just like his father,” Porcius said.

  “I have an idea,” Bassus said to Porcius.

  Bassus stepped in Scapula’s direction. “General, may I make a suggestion, sir?”

  Scapula eyed Bassus and then Porcius. He raised an eyebrow, and Porcius nodded. The general turned to Figulus, and then again to Bassus. “By all means, Centurion. At least you’re a man of common sense.”

  Bassus motioned toward the stream. “Send an auxiliary cavalryman across. The combined weight of horse and a fully armed trooper is a good test for the bottom and the depth and current.”

  Bassus ignored Figulus’s piercing glare.

  Porcius smiled at the young tribune.

  The commander crinkled his eyebrows together as he glanced to the engineer. “It’s so obvious, why didn’t you think of it?” Then he snapped, “Never mind!” before the engineer could answer. Scapula summoned a runner and sent him to the nearby Thracian cohort. Moments later a trooper wearing overlapping, fish-plated armor and riding a bay gelding appeared and was ordered to cross the river.

  The Romans watched the javelin-wielding soldier carefully ford the Sabrina. Mid-channel, the water reached no higher than the lower part of the animal’s chest before he bounded to the far bank.

  “Send across a couple of auxiliary infantrymen,” Scapula ordered. A nearby centurion motioned to a courier and gave him the order.

  Minutes later, two chain-mailed Vascones arrived. Holding their shields and weapons above their heads, they waded into the stream. Although the current was swift, they managed to keep their balance and completed the crossing.

  Porcius slapped Bassus on the shoulder and grinned.

  “Well done!” Scapula shouted. He turned to Bassus and the other officers. “Centurions, return to your cohorts. We cross the Sabrina.”

  “But what about the artillery? Figulus asked.

  “Damn the artillery!” Scapula snapped. “We don’t have time to waste on building a bridge. We’ll take the bloody fortress without it!”

  Chapter 19

  “What in Teutates’s name?” Fergus ap Roycal blurted. “They’re crossing the river!”

  “Man the walls!” Caratacus ordered.

  Wolf-headed trumpets blared raspy warnings, and within minutes warriors covered the barricades, all carrying extra javelins, slings, and stones. Emerging from behind every rock and boulder and along the ramparts, they brandished weapons, whooped, and shouted profanities at the oncoming Romans.

  Caratacus stood on the parapet with his chieftains, Fergus ap Roycal and Venutios. All of them wore tartan tunics and breeches, covered by protective chain mail. Each carried an oval shield with an iron-center boss and a longsword hooked to a chain-link belt. Except for his long, drooping moustache with flecks of gray, Caratacus’s scarred face was clean shaven. An iron helmet with wide cheek guards crowned his head of shoulder-length hair. Behind his leaders stood a dozen retainers, trumpeters, and a standard bearer holding upright a wooden pole bearing the image of a wolf made of brass that shimmered in the sunlight.

  The king searched the far side of the river and caught a glint of golden light reflecting from the Roman horseman’s armor who rode along its bank followed by an escort of Praetorian Guardsmen. Although several hundred yards away, he knew it was General Scapula. The cavalry rode small barbs and Spanish nags. Only the general rode a huge, black Zeeland from German Batavia. Over a white, linen tunic, the general’s golden cuirass, trimmed with a wide, red stripe, gleamed in the bright sun.

  “Who is that fat Roman riding next to the general on the undersized horse?” Venutios asked.

  Caratacus squinted. “By Teutates, even at this distance, I recognize Porcius. Gods, he has put on weight—he is punishing that poor horse.”

  “If I have my way, that poor nag won’t be carrying that shit-eater for long,” Fergus said.


  “The question is, why is he here?” Caratacus said, more to himself than to the others. “He is not a soldier.” Porcius had stirred up a lot of trouble among the tribes, but he had cautioned the Romans against invasion. He knew how costly it would be. I’m not sure if I want to see him die. Caratacus frowned. Gods, am I growing sentimental?

  The legions massed along the opposite bank, divided into dozens of cohorts, each containing nearly five hundred men. Legionaries formed centuries, their lines eighty men long and six deep, into protective, interlocking walls of shields. Their iron-tipped javelins, short swords, and segmented armor glistened in the morning sun, nearly blinding the defenders. Chain-mail-clad auxiliary troops from Spain and Gaul, wearing knee-length breeches and carrying oval shields and longswords, formed several cohorts in front of the Romans.

  In the distance, from behind the troop’s ranks, trumpets blared, signaling the advance. Scapula remained on the other side with the reserve forces.

  Raising their shields and weapons above their heads to keep dry, the auxiliaries, including archers, followed by the legionaries, forded the Sabrina en masse. As they noisily splashed across to the snarling curses of their centurions, soldiers churned and muddied its clear waters, crossing without incident. Forming a shield wall to their front, the Spaniards from Asturia moved forward with drawn swords. They clattered them methodically against the metal edges of their shields as they climbed over and moved down the weed-covered defensive berm and crossed the ditch that encircled the fort. Behind them came a century of their comrades carrying dozens of scaling ladders protected by a shield-carrying escort.

  A line of Syrian archers, wearing ankle-length tunics and conical helmets, moved to the top of the first berm. A century of Spaniards followed and stepped between the ranks of the bowmen and placed protective shields to the front.

  Caratacus spotted them as they appeared on the berm’s summit. He turned to Venutios. “Get your men here, now! They have to protect our bowmen with their shields.”

  Venutios shouted an order to one of his captains on the wall. They raised their shields above the bowmen, and together they kneeled and hunkered down against the base of the wall.

  The Syrians drew back the arrows along the edge of their bows, raising and pointing them skyward. On the command of their Roman centurion, they shot a murderous barrage of arrows over the troops and down onto the wall of defenders. The rain of arrows, which filled the sky like a black cloud, arced and fell back on the defenders.

  Caratacus’s retainers had formed a protective covering of shields above and around him and the other chieftains. Arrows whistled and crashed upon the Britons like a massive wave on a shoreline. The deadly missiles slammed into shields, bodies, and exposed limbs. Screams and shrills of agony and death rippled along the catwalk like a rushing tide. Caratacus hunkered down as arrows slammed through the shield’s leather-covered planks of oak with loud thuds, knocking him back upon the wooden catwalk. Two more arrow points sliced within inches of his eyes and face. His muscles tensed, and sweat poured from every pore as fear pervaded his body, not so much for himself, but concern for his companions and warriors. How many have died? How many survived! What about my leaders? He sneaked a look beneath the edge of his shield. Another arrow struck his shield, shoving it down upon him within a hair above his chest

  Minutes later the barrage halted. Caratacus stepped out from under his shield and peeked over the wall. Despite the injuries, many more waves of arrows flew over and beyond the wall, harmlessly striking the hard-packed dirt parapet that curved down and away from the stockade.

  He looked for Fiona, who slipped out from beneath her captured Roman shield about ten paces away. Head protected by a conical helmet, she wore a shirt of ringed chain mail over her striped tunic and breeches. Her armor had been recovered from a dead Gaul’s body in an early skirmish.

  “Captain!” Caratacus shouted. “Get your bowmen up and wait for my command.”

  “Yes, sire.” She turned and gave the order, which was passed along the parapet. Her archers grabbed their weapons and stood at the ready. Most of the warriors had also been protected by battered shields stripped from the bodies of dead Romans and auxiliary troops.

  “Sire, the enemy is in range,” Fiona shouted over the screaming warriors who once again taunted the oncoming Romans. “We’ll cut them down like wheat in the field.”

  In the glaring sun, he surveyed the line of archers, men and women of his own people, and the rest, Roman deserters and foreigners from Germania. They were equipped with an array of captured armor and weapons. Some of the ex-Romans still wore segmented armor, now burnished and dirty. Their bows of yew were knocked with arrows pulled back to their ears. He glanced to the right and left checking the bundles of arrows, stones, and spears stacked on the wooden walkway every twenty paces, along with barrels of water for drinking and dousing fires. He turned about and quickly focused beyond the hard-packed, dirt ramp way toward the black smith’s forge near the granary and storage pits. He spotted the stacks of spare swords and shields, many of them captured, in reserve. Satisfied, he turned toward Fiona.

  “Wait for my command.”

  The short, scar-faced woman nodded, her lips pressed together in a thin line. A few steps away a bowman fidgeted nervously for what must have seemed an eternity.

  Grim-faced, the front auxiliary ranks, their hob-nailed sandals clattering on the rocky slope like galloping horses, raced toward the main wall and threw up a line of shields at its base and raised them high above their heads. The ladder men ran forward, and with escorting troops on both sides using shields to protect them, they slammed ladders against the wall with an echoing thud.

  Caratacus pointed his right hand toward Fiona. “Captain, when I give the signal, your bowmen are to clear that ridge of the enemy archers.” He turned to Venutios and Fergus ap Roycal. “At the moment I give Fiona the command, your men are to concentrate on the infantry with spears and stones.” The three left the king and raced toward their warriors standing behind the bowmen the length of the wall.

  The king nodded to the trumpeter a few paces away, who blared a raspy tune from his upright, wolf-headed carnyx. Signal torches were raised at intervals along the ramparts. “On my command!” he cried. “Now!” He dropped his arm, and the torches followed.

  Fiona’s bowmen and women fired a murderous stream of arrows straight into the line of Syrian archers. The rest flung an avalanche of javelins, small boulders, and slingstones onto the advancing cohorts of Gauls and Spaniards. The crashing impact echoed through the valley as they decimated ranks of Spaniards and Syrians alike. Seconds later the air resounded with the screams of wounded and dying. The barren soil turned dark from the spilled blood of troops. Fallen bodies lay strewn at the bottom of the ditch and ridge top in a contorted disarray, riddled with arrows and spears. The surviving soldiers raised shields above their heads but wavered and halted. Up and down the ramparts a victorious cheer erupted among the Britons.

  Caratacus grinned. No soldier in his right mind would advance further into that storm of death. Again, he signaled for another volley of arrows. “No time to celebrate!” he shouted to his warriors. “Keep up the pressure, wipe them out!”

  *

  Porcius, along with his retinue, including Cyrus, sat on their mounts behind a cohort of infantrymen as they waited with Legion Twentieth Velaria for their turn to cross the river. Although he watched from a distance of nearly five hundred yards, the devastating rain of arrows, spears, and slingstones that poured down on the ranks of the auxiliaries left him aghast. The assault had been so intense that more than fifty of the Syrian archers had been downed by enemy arrows. The Spanish cohorts who were climbing the ladders, had been cut down, rolling back on the advancing ranks. Although he could not directly see it, Porcius saw in his mind’s eye the dead and dying, shields and bodies, splattered with blood at the bottom of the ditch. He looked about and noticed the pale and cringing looks of his freedmen and slaves. Porcius shrugged.
He was just as frightened as the rest of his entourage, but he couldn’t let his people see that. He had to keep a sober face.

  Earlier, before the troops began their assault, Porcius had been present when General Scapula gave Bassus’s cohort the order to carry small picks and shovels tied to their waistbands. In case the auxiliaries failed to reach the top, they would mine the fortress wall. So far, they had failed.

  He prayed Bassus’s unit would succeed as they moved at the double-quick toward the decimated troops.

  Then Porcius saw Bassus raise his vine cane and shout something he couldn’t hear because of the noise of battle. The order became apparent when the soldiers formed into the turtle formation.

  *

  Caratacus and his warriors had killed the last of those few Spaniards who had managed to climb over the battlement, and shoved the remaining ladders crashing to the ground. Fiona’s archers had slain most of the Syrian bowmen.

  Sweating and thirsty, Caratacus’s mouth felt as if it was full of sand. His muscles and arms ached from the fighting, his face and armor covered in blood. He looked about, seeing his own wounded and dying leaning against the wall or lying on the deck. Most of the injuries had been inflicted by the few surviving auxiliaries who had made it over the barrier. He ordered his warriors to throw the dead Spaniards down the dirt ramp to the back. Other warriors carried their injured to a dressing hut at the rear of the fort, manned by the Crone and her assistants. Caratacus stepped to a nearby barrel and drank water from a ladle attached to the side. Although tepid, it satisfied his thirst.

  “More Romans are coming!” someone shouted.

  Caratacus moved to the wall and saw the approaching cohort of legionaries snaking over the first berm behind the downed Spaniards. Seconds later, they changed from a standard skirmish formation six deep to the oval turtle. He knew the tactic well. It had been used during the River Medway battle to rescue the Roman general Geta. Soldiers raised shields, banged them together above to protect their heads. The outer ranks placed there’s along the sides to cover their bodies. Moving forward again, a rhythmic clanking sound echoed off the battlement’s walls as shields clattered against one another