“Ha! They don’t have any ladders like the Spaniards,” Fergus said. He had reported back to Caratacus after deploying his men. “What do they expect to accomplish with that maneuver?”
“The ramparts are too steep, and so far we have killed every man reaching the top,” Donn said.
“They have more than one flea in their ears,” Caratacus replied. “They’re planning something.” He motioned to Donn and Venutios. “Get your best spear and bowmen and concentrate them against that formation.” He turned to Fergus. “Bring your sling men over here and another supply of rocks.” He motioned to the foot of the rampart. “Smash it!”
*
As Porcius watched from the back of his horse, the cohort stepped over and around dozens of broken bodies at the top of the ridge. The stench of expelled bodily fluids from the dead drifted on a hot breeze. Carrion birds drifted in circles overhead. He spotted the turtle formation, commanded by Bassus, moving out of the ditch between the berm and fortress wall and climbing to its base under another barrage of missiles. Although he couldn’t understand the muffled sounds being shouted from within the closed formation, Porcius believed he heard the words, “Closer!” being shouted. They pushed further up the rocky, weed-covered berm at the wall’s base.
“What are they doing?” Cyrus asked as he sat on a mule next to Porcius.
“Centurion Bassus must have given his cohort an order to break from the turtle formation and form into ranks six deep,” Porcius said.
Quickly, the front three lines raised their shields high over their heads, and the last three ranks went down on their knees and crawled between their legs.
“Why are they doing that?” Cyrus asked.
“They are mining the wall with their picks and shovels, the purpose is to bring it down.”
“That could take hours while we suffer in this miserable heat,” Cyrus said. He wiped his dark, bearded face with a scented handkerchief before placing it back in his waist belt.
“I couldn’t agree with you more, my Persian friend.”
From then on, at fifteen minute intervals, the front bottom ranks of legionaries, who were digging, would be relieved, and as they backed out, this allowed the rearmost ranks to move forward under the protective shields, to continue the mining.
The wall must be breached!
Chapter 20
After elements of Legion Twentieth Velaria had finished fording the river, Porcius received the order to cross. “It’s about time,” he said. Hot and sweating, Porcius took a drink of water from the canteen handed to him by Cyrus. When finished, he returned to the Persian and motioned for his retinue to follow him as he forded the Sabrina.
“Perhaps the wall will collapse before we near it,” Cyrus said as he rode along Porcius’s side.
Porcius sniffed. “No matter, we’ll stay out of range of Caratacus’s bowmen until then. I’m in no hurry to die.”
The deafening noise from the shouts and screams and metallic banging of sword against sword, the thudding of arrows and stones against the fortress wall, and troops’ shields grew louder as Porcius and his retinue neared the battle. The salty smell of blood mixed with the sickening odor of filth seemed to swirl about him and his retinue. He pulled a perfumed handkerchief hidden in the sash that girdled his large waist and, for a moment, covered his nose. Porcius looked back across to where the formation of three legionarie cohorts stood in reserve. He regretted that he and his people couldn’t have stayed with the reserves. But the emperor required an unbiased eyewitness account of the battle. Porcius had no choice but to risk his life. Still he had no intention of getting closer than need be even if it meant stretching the truth about Rome’s forthcoming glorious victory. If Bassus survived this battle, he would get a firsthand account from him.
*
Caratacus hurried to Fiona’s side as she urged her people to keep up the barrage of arrows.
“Fiona!” he shouted above the noisy din, “tell all your bowman to turn their attention to the approaching Romans on the berm. Cut them down. Leave the spearmen and rock throwers to kill the Romans below.”
Fiona nodded. “Yes, sire!”
“See what they’re doing?” Fergus called to Caratacus, his position further down the wall. He pointed to the soldiers at the wall’s base as he hiked toward the king.
Caratacus had been pacing back and forth on the rampart, urging his warriors to keep up the fight. Fiona’s men and women continued firing arrow upon arrow at the wall of shields only to watch them careen away with a thud. Thrown by Fergus and Venutios’s warriors, they kept hurling large rocks and small boulders as they attempted to smash through the shield barrier, but to no avail. The Roman wall held. Another century of Syrian archers mounted the outer berm and fired a murderous volley of arrows at the wall top, disregarding the Romans below. Again, Caratacus’s warriors had to shield themselves from the torrent of arrows plunging down upon them. British losses started to mount. One by one his warriors were struck down by the deadly rain of arrows.
“Can the Romans undermine the wall?” Fergus looked from under his shield toward Caratacus, who squatted beneath his and those offered by his retainers.
“The foundation is deep enough, but the Romans are well disciplined,” Caratacus said. “They can do it if they have the heart and drive. That’s why they must be halted—now!”
The Britons continued the intensive barrage, but the Roman formation held. Six legionarie cohorts, almost three thousand soldiers, joined in extending the excavation along a forty-foot section of a wall near one side of the gate. Those who did not have digging equipment resorted to using daggers and swords. Despite the furious onslaught of British weaponry, thousands of Roman hands continued digging at its base for the next couple of hours.
*
“Caratacus, the rampart!” motioned Venutios with a javelin. “A huge section is giving way!” Twenty yards to the right, choking dust shot up into the sky followed by screams of those caught by the crushing fortress stones below and above.
Thirsty, Caratacus licked his lips and wiped the sweat from his face. His stomach knotted, and he gritted his teeth. Damn the Romans; will nothing stop them? “Withdraw to the hilltop.”
“Caratacus,” Fergus said, “I have enough men to give you plenty of time to retreat. Why don’t you do that? We can hold them while you lead the rest of the forces.”
“But I need both of you,” Caratacus said.
“Pah!” Fergus spat. “You’ve got Venutios and Fiona. I’ve lived a long time. I’m ready to go to Teutates as a warrior should.”
“He’s right,” Venutios insisted. “Don’t stay here. Leave the fortress
“Don’t waste the army here,” Fergus pleaded. “The Ordovicians want you in the north. Caratacus, for the sake of an old friend, take your warriors and go!”
“Aye, and when the Romans reach the top,” Venutios interjected, “we’ll be gone like a spirit in the night.”
Caratacus swallowed the lump rising in his throat. He attempted to smile, but only shook his head. “Even the God Teutates could find no warriors more loyal than you, my friends. I won’t forget this.” Caratacus turned and headed for the hilltop at the rear of the citadel.
*
Porcius and his retinue reached the summit of the outer berm just as the defensive wall crumbled away. An echoing roar raced along the front wall, followed by the tumbling center layer of crushed gravel and the collapse of the inner protective wall. A blinding cloud of dust shot up more than thirty feet, following on the heels of falling rock. Legionaries scattered to avoid the path of the choking grime and crushing stones. A forty-foot-long section tumbled down the steep hillside leaving a gaping fissure.
He spotted Bassus motioning with his short sword where he stood on a small rise near the collapsed wall’s opening and shouted an order Porcius couldn’t hear. The remnants of six centuries reacted instantly amidst the clanking of armor and jostling of legionaries for position and forming ranks of about sixty to
seventy men across and six deep. Behind his cohort, another one had reformed. Bassus raised his sword and shouted another order and ran forward, the cohorts followed. The Vascones, who had been on Porcius’s left flank, moved out in front of the Roman at the double-quick, along with other fast-moving auxiliaries on the wings. They flooded through the other openings in the wall, while Bassus’s cohort led the legion’s advance.
Perspiring, Porcius sat in his saddle, his large bottom sore from the long wait. His protective scarf didn’t prevent the chafing of his neck from his hot, brass cuirass. Cautiously, Porcius motioned his people to follow him. He kicked the side of his mount and rode forward to the squeaking of saddle leather and jingling of brass pendants hanging across the horse’s chest. He had ridden far enough that from his saddle he looked over the heads of the auxiliary troops in front of him and watched as the defending Britons hurtled themselves against the moving barrier of Roman shields and short swords inside the wall’s opening. The bloody fighting raged at a furious pace. Screams of the wounded and dying echoed across the valley, and the gore of body parts and unholy fluids slimed shields, armor, and faces of Celts and Romans alike. More legionaries died, but nothing halted them. He could not see every detail, but his imagination would later fill in the rest if Bassus did not survive.
At that instant, Porcius watched Bassus slay a huge, craggy-faced, heavily armored warrior. The centurion’s blood-splattered face glanced to the right and left flanks.
Porcius realized the real fighting still loomed at the hilltop where Bassus might encounter Caratacus. If so, it would be a horrendous fight to the death. True, Caratacus had spared his life on the first day of invasion seven years before. But Porcius knew that Bassus understood. He would do his duty as a Roman soldier.
*
Sweat-stained and dirty, Caratacus had moved to the top of the hill with Venutios and their retainers. One of his men handed him a goatskin full of water, which he drained before handing back. He watched from the hilltop at the fortress’s rear as the Romans burst through the first battlements below. In spite of the savage fighting before them, the Romans slowly advanced across the long, wide slope. They wavered here and there, adjusted the lines where necessary, but continually moved forward.
More than a thousand Britons lay butchered in their wake. And yet their comrades rallied again and again, exacting vengeance upon the legionaries.
Bodies choked their advance, and the Roman line broke. A horde of warriors in purple tattoos swarmed forward, exacting a deadly price for discipline’s failure and, in turn, died.
Torn between rejoining his men, where he knew he would meet certain death, Caratacus realized he must flee as Fergus ap Roycal had urged. His warriors would continue to fight to the death if he allowed it. But Fergus was right. There was nothing left to prove. He looked about and saw that hundreds more warriors had fallen. The Romans steadily moved forward, advancing up the slope. Uncertainty rose within Caratacus. He longed to follow his instinct to charge and follow his brother kings to the world beyond.
“Venutios,” Caratacus said, “if meaning is to be given to this battle, you must take the bulk of our forces north. You’ll be welcomed by the Ordovician king.”
Venutios turned his head. “Aren’t you coming with us?”
“I will later, after I go to Eburacum.”
Venutios’s eyes widened. “Don’t be a fool, Caratacus! Cartimandua will hand you over to the Romans.”
Caratacus bristled, his muscles tightened. “She promised to side with us. I’ll convince her the time is now. With her support, we can still drive the Romans out of Britannia. From what my spies and the Druids tell me, the people hate the Romans, especially her chieftains.” Gods, I hope that is true.
Venutios gestured wildly toward him. “Impossible! She’s bought and paid for with Roman gold, like the whore she is.”
“If that is true, then I will kill her. Her chieftains don’t want to be Roman lapdogs.”
Venutios exhaled and shook his head. “Her shield bearers won’t let you close enough to her.”
The king looked at Venutios then down the hill toward the Romans. “I’ll find a way. I know at one time she wanted me for her consort. Maybe I can persuade her that I want to be one now.”
“That is a big risk. Do you think she will believe that? So long as you are married to Dana, I doubt she will. Cartimandua loves Roman gold and herself too much for you to take a chance.”
“I’ll speak before the council and persuade them to follow me.”
“If you went to her victorious from today … maybe. But in flight? Whatever happens, I wish you good luck, Cousin.”
“I know.”
They clasped one another’s right forearms in friendship and farewell.
“Should anything happen,” Venutios added, “know this, I will continue the fight. I refuse to give in to these dogs.”
“Sire!” a bloodstained Fiona exclaimed as she approached the leaders. “Fergus was slaughtered by the first Roman through the wall, a filthy centurion.”
Caratacus clenched the hilt of his sword. His face tightened. “Shit! A warrior’s death is what he wanted, but I still don’t have to like it. Damn!”
“My warriors and I will hold the Romans here while you make good your escape,” Fiona said. “Then we’ll follow.”
Caratacus’s eyes held Fiona, both knew it would likely be the last time they would meet. “May Andraste and Teutates be with you.”
He faced Venutios. “Withdraw your men and go to our Ordovician allies.” The king turned his horse away from the battle.
*
It was late afternoon. Porcius had waited just inside the fortress walls as the Romans were mopping up the last resistance by the Britons when Scapula rode up with his escorting Praetorians. Bassus, smeared with blood and covered in dust, trotted back down the hill from the far side of the bastion to make his report.
“They’ve vanished, sir,” Bassus said to Scapula.
“Impossible!”
“It’s true. Gone,” Bassus said and motioned back toward the slope. “We fought our way to the top, but by the time we got inside, most of Caratacus’s forces had scattered. They escaped through a hidden gate and underground passageway at the rear of the fortress.”
“How can more than ten thousand men escape?” the general spat. Scapula surveyed the area seeing the bodies strewn about the ramparts and defensive perimeter.
“By the looks of their clothing, most of the dead are German mercenaries and Roman deserters,” Scapula commented. “Good riddance to the lot!”
Dark clouds of buzzing flies gorged upon the torn and gutted corpses. Already the sweltering heat reeked of bloating and decaying flesh, the earth a muddied pinkish-brown.
“We’ve found tracks indicating the direction of the enemies’ travel.” Bassus pointed to the mountains beyond the hillfort.
Scapula paused and walked away from his commanders. Porcius, Bassus, and the other commanders stood by uneasily as they always did when awaiting orders from him. His heavy drinking and frequent drunkenness made the general moody and unpredictable. Sometimes brilliant, but often erratic, they never knew what to expect from him.
Scapula turned and faced the officers. “These barbarians’ tracks lead us where?” he asked as if addressing himself. “Into ambush? Or is it what it appears to be, a simple rout?”
“No, sir,” Bassus answered. “Caratacus is too cunning. He must have known we would prevail against him.”
“If that’s true, then what do you think his next move is?” Scapula asked.
“He’s leading us away from their women and children,” Bassus said. “They must be hidden somewhere nearby.”
“Search for them.” Scapula turned his head for a moment and viewed the mountain behind the fortress. “The question is,” he continued throwing another look at Porcius and the other officers, “should we find and enslave them? Would that provoke his return to a final fight?”
“That’
d bring ‘em back sure as I’m standing here,” the chief centurion commented. “I’d like to finish off the bastard once and for all.”
“NO!” Scapula exclaimed. “That would be our worst mistake. There are too many details over which we have no control. They would surely fight like demons to the death and perhaps win. Better to let them run with their tails tucked.”
“As long as they flee, sir,” Bassus interjected, “they run from us in defeat.”
“Defeat, Centurion? That bastard broke our advance as clearly as if we were all slaughtered.” Seeing his puzzled look, the general explained further. “Look, we no longer can advance blindly into his traps. We need reinforcements. It takes time to bring up men to fill our ranks. Our supply lines are still spread too thin, and he has destroyed them time and again. And time is what can finish us here. I hope Caratacus believes he was defeated today.”
“It’s when they turn upon us unified, as only rescuing their families can provoke them, that we could lose,” Bassus said.
Scapula smiled, apparently pleased that his lesson sank in. “Yes! Centurion Bassus is right. Their families can wait. However,” Scapula paused and turned to one of his tribunes, “I don’t want him escaping our grasp. Dispatch cavalry patrols immediately. There must be a pass he’s following through that range. Find it! I can’t have them rebuilding their forces.”
*
Dusk had fallen before Bassus finished a detailed report to General Scapula. The general glanced up from the wax tablet. Porcius, who had been present, had also read the document. “Do you realize that you are eligible for the Palisade Crown?”
“I never gave it a thought, sir,” Bassus said. “You don’t think about heroics in the middle of battle. You simply do your duty.”
“Nevertheless, Bassus, as the first centurion over, or in this case, through the rampart, you are entitled to it.”
The Wolf of Britannia Part II Page 21
