by James Mace
“And what of our son?” Eurgain asked. “He comes of age soon. Will you allow him to stand with his father in battle?”
“Jago has proven his bravery, growing up in the shadow of the oppressors. But he is even younger than I was, when my father had this sword forged for me by our finest smiths. I would protect him from having to draw blade against the Romans, but I fear our son will have to become a man far sooner than I did.”
Eurgain clasped her husband’s forearm. “If Jago is not ready, let me take his place,” she pleaded. “It is not unheard of for the women of this land to take up arms and fight beside their men. I am skilled with both spear and sword. You know this! And what other duty has a mother but to protect her children?”
Caratacus finally diverted his eyes from the now-dying flames and looked into the hard gaze of his wife. “You were indeed well-named, Eurgain—strength of the bear. But what should happen to Jago, let alone our dearest little daughter, should both of us fall? Sorcha has scarcely seen her sixth winter, and I will not risk her losing father and mother.”
Caratacus stood and sheathed his sword. He walked quietly over to a low shelter of animal hides where both his children slept. The top of Sorcha’s head was barely visible, as she lay curled up beneath a large bear skin blanket. Jago lay on his side, his face towards the fire, snoring quietly. Though well-grown for his age, he was still a boy of twelve, a full three years younger than Caratacus when he saw his first battle. And even then, his father, King Cunobeline, had thought his middle son was too young. It had been Togodumnus who convinced their father to let Caratacus prove his worth on the battlefield.
He gritted his teeth at the memory of his dear brother. And yet if Jago were to share his uncle’s fate, so be it; all he asked of the gods was that he live to reach his full measure and fight as a true warrior of the Catuvellauni.
“Time,” Caratacus said, gazing into the star-filled heavens. “I need more time with him.”
The burning of villages and the slaying of her people had been deeply troubling for Queen Cartimandua. She had ordered a contingent of mounted warriors to patrol the region west of the River Sabrina. However, the terrain was far too mountainous, and they simply lacked the numbers to effectively combat the large bands of Ordovices and Silures warriors that infested the hills. The Brigantes queen had therefore dispatched one of her most trusted advisors to implore their imperial allies to come to their aid with all haste. Summer was fast approaching, and Cartimandua feared it would be almost fall by the time the legions marched across Britannia to address the raids into allied Brigantes. Though she retained her strong, stoic demeanour at court, the queen was becoming desperate. There had been whispers in all corners of the kingdom that she was weak, and the Romans were willing to let them be slaughtered. The number of dissidents was growing and becoming more vocal about their distaste for the alliance Queen Cartimandua forged with the empire.
It was unseasonably warm this spring day as Alaric, the most trusted member of the queen’s court, rode into the Roman fortress at Camulodunum. A well-built man of Germanic stock, he was now in his mid-thirties. He had also seen more of the greater world than any man in all Britannia. As a young boy in Germania, he and his mother fled across the Britannic Sea, escaping the empire’s onslaught during the wars between Arminius and the Roman imperial prince, Germanicus Caesar. Alaric had been raised in the house of Cartimandua’s father, and the future Queen of Brigantes had looked after him like an elder sister.
Years later, and with much bitter irony, Alaric became an oarsman for the imperial navy, even fighting alongside his one-time enemies during a long and rather traumatic voyage to the remote province of Judea. It was in that hot and arid land that he found it within himself to forgive the Romans. This was in no small part due to the words of a Jewish teacher, who taught that one should love their enemies as well as their friends. Though this man was later crucified by the Romans, ostensibly for causing sedition and a potential uprising, his words remained close to the heart of the young man from Germania.
Alaric finally returned to Britannia, after being gone for the better part of twenty years, just prior to the Roman invasion. Queen Cartimandua welcomed him back by making him a member of her inner council. Though she later arranged a suitable marriage for him, with his wife bearing him two fine sons and a pair of beautiful daughters, it was the queen who still held his love. He would do anything for Cartimandua, without question; and so, when she asked him to act as her emissary to Ostorius Scapula, he did not hesitate. Accompanying him was an old childhood friend named Landon, who served as a captain within the queen’s guard.
It took them several days to reach the city, which had changed drastically in appearance since being claimed as the imperial capital for Roman Britannia. The social classes and ethnicities had also started to change. Merchants and magistrates from the continent, most of whom dressed far differently than the natives, now lived side by side with the indigenous tribesmen. And even amongst the Catuvellauni, a large number of their wealthier nobles had adopted styles of Roman dress and grooming, with many of the men cutting their hair short and shaving their faces smooth.
“It is a strange thing,” Alaric said as they rode towards the gate of the walled city. “That people across the world, who bear no resemblance to Rome, yet they seek to become just like them. I have seen cities in the hot wastelands of the east, where the dark-skinned people will dress and act like Romans. To think that eight hundred years ago, they were little more than a small village, not unlike ours, nestled among a series of hills.”
“Hold!” a sentry said, interrupting their conversation and barring the way with his spear. “What brings you to Camulodunum?”
“An emissary of Queen Cartimandua with a message for the noble governor, Ostorius Scapula,” Alaric replied.
“Leave your horses and any weapons here,” the other sentry replied, taking the horse’s bridle.
The two Brigantes men gazed around the inside of the city that was once capital of the Catuvellauni. The people still went about their daily lives, the majority caring little that it was a Roman governor who now lorded over them rather than their native king. Those who were most anti-Roman had fled long before the legions arrived. And while most of the structures were the traditional huts with thatched roofs, a small number of foreign-looking buildings stood out in stark contrast. These were large tile-roofed villas, each enclosed by a brick wall, belonging to either merchants or imperial administrators. Women in sheer togas, split up the side, plied their trade just outside the brothels. There were also two massive legionary fortresses just beyond the walls of the city, and Camulodunum was crawling with soldiers. Most were either messengers or officers with business for the governor, though there were the occasional bands of armoured legionaries patrolling the streets.
The governor’s mansion and administrative building sat atop a small rise. The Catuvellauni king’s great hall had been razed to the ground, with the majestic Roman palace erected over the remains. The guards on either side of the gate wore the segmented plate armour of legionaries, as opposed to the mail shirts worn by the gruffer looking auxiliaries who’d escorted Alaric into the city.
“A messenger from Queen Cartimandua,” the trooper said.
“We’ll take him from here. Return to your post.” The decanus in charge of the palace’s front gate waved for Alaric to follow him.
A mob of administrators, local chieftains, and various magistrates stood or sat on stone benches outside the governor’s office, waiting their turn to see him. The soldiers forced their way through, causing much irritation and a few choice profanities. The squad leader knocking on the large door before opening it and peering in.
“Beg your pardon, governor, but there’s a messenger here from Queen Cartimandua.” He then looked back at Alaric and nodded his head towards the room. “You may enter.”
Ostorius Scapula sat behind a large oak desk. A pair of freedman clerks sat on either end, taking notes and kee
ping track of the various piles of reports and correspondence. Seated across from him were two men in military tunics. Alaric guessed them to be legion commanders. The governor’s eyes looked tired, as if he hadn’t slept in days. It seemed as if lording over a province, particularly one as new and volatile as Britannia, was causing him much anxiety.
“And what word from our ally, the queen?” he asked, leaning back in his chair and wiping his eyes. “More Ordovices raids from across the Sabrina?”
The two legates turned their attention towards the messenger.
“These are not simple raiding parties,” Alaric stated. “Nor is it just the Ordovices crossing into our lands. The Silures have come from the south in large numbers. My queen has sent mounted patrols across the river in an attempt to thwart further incursions, yet our enemies are simply too numerous for our warriors to contend with.”
One of the legates, Suetonius Paulinus, spoke up. “I thought the Silures and Ordovices were mortal enemies.”
“They are,” Alaric acknowledged. “Or at least they were. King Orin of the Silures has little love for his neighbours to the north, yet someone has managed to unite them.”
Scapula nodded thoughtfully. “And there is only one man, that we know of, who is charismatic enough to bring such generational rivals together to fight in a common cause.”
“Caratacus,” Paulinus said, echoing what every man in the room thought. “What of the other peoples in the region?”
“There is the Deceangli, whose territory is the strip of land along the north coast,” Alaric answered. “They are really little more than a client state under the dominion of the Ordovices. One could say the same of the Demetae and Gangani to the far west. They are mostly fishermen, who supply the Silures with most of their boats.”
“Should we have reason to fear an amphibious attack on our territories?” the legate of Legio IX, Lucius Paetus, asked.
“Fishing vessels make for poor warships,” Scapula surmised. He then waited for Alaric to continue his message from Cartimandua.
“My queen implores Rome to send reinforcements as soon as possible. There has been much strife at court between her and the consort, Venutius. This has led to instability within our kingdom, which is why she cannot do more to fight this threat from the west. The queen fears if she commits too many of our warriors to fighting against Caratacus, Venutius may cause further trouble. She fears he may one day attempt to seize the throne.”
“A family squabble within a barbarian kingdom,” Paetus muttered, his voice full of contempt.
“That ‘barbarian kingdom’ has been one of our most dependable allies,” Paulinus rebuked before the governor could respond. “They are also the largest tribal people within Britannia. Should Cartimandua be overthrown, there is no telling what mischief Venutius could cause for Rome. We have enough trouble as it is dealing with those provincials under our control. Let us not forget, this land has only been Roman for four years. And if we’re now having to deal with hostile tribes to the west, the last thing we need is a huge hostile army to the north. It would be fucking anarchy, and we would lose everything.”
Scapula ignored the disagreement between his two legates. “If these are no mere raids, then why have they not seized any territory? Why do they cross back over the Sabrina?”
“I think it is provocation,” the messenger replied. “They want a decisive battle against Rome. But they also want it on ground of their choosing.”
“Revenge,” Paulinus surmised. “The Silures may seek retribution for the death of their previous king, but the Ordovices could give a damn. After all, they took no part in the previous war. That tells me it is most likely Caratacus who has united them.”
The governor remarked, “I suspect Caratacus, or whoever is behind these raids, also has spies in every corner of Roman Britannia. We should find alternate ways of reaching Silures, rather than simply walking all the way across Britannia.”
“What do you have in mind?” Paetus asked.
Scapula grinned, his eyes still fixed on Alaric. “The Silures may not have a viable fleet readily available, but we do.”
As Alaric and Landon made ready to leave, Paulinus halted them with a question. “Do either of you speak Silures?”
Chapter III: Brothers’ Reunion and an Emperor’s Lament
Camulodunum, Roman Capital of Britannia
June, 48 A.D.
Emperor Claudius
Despite the dire plea from Queen Cartimandua, there was much speculation within the magisterial circles and local nobility, as to whether the Romans could launch a viable assault against Caratacus that year. Governor Scapula had committed two of the province’s four legions to the campaign, along with an equal number of auxilia infantrymen, plus several regiments of cavalry. The logistics involved in feeding and supplying over twenty-thousand men and all of their horses and pack animals was astronomical. The journey itself could be completed in two to three weeks; however, that still left a very short campaign season once they crossed into enemy held territory.
Scapula had sent a dispatch to Rome, making his objectives clear. His intent was not to just punish the Ordovices and Silures but to begin a fresh series of conquests, with the long-term objective of expanding Roman dominion all the way to the west coast. This had been met with great enthusiasm by Emperor Claudius as well as the consuls, Aulus Vitellius and Messalla Gallus. The Britannic fleet based out of the southern port of Portus Adurni was tasked with providing sufficient ships for his army. Legio IX, along with half the auxilia infantry and most of the cavalry, would make the journey by land. The remainder would take to the seas, sailing around southern Britannia and landing on the Deceangli coast. Scapula’s intent was to trap Caratacus between his two divisions. Failing that, both his legates advised him to wrest control of the coastal regions held by the Deceangli and establish the army’s winter camp there.
It was now mid-June. Just off the River Stour at Camulodunum, the capital of Roman Britannia, the naval assault forces began to assemble. Scapula had dispatched his land division, under the command of General Paetus, a few days prior. The governor himself would accompany General Paulinus and the Twentieth Legion. Since neither he nor any of his men had the slightest inclination what the terrain along the Deceangli coast looked like, he selected the lightest and most mobile auxilia infantry to accompany the maritime division. Due to the limited space aboard the imperial warships, he was only able to take a single regiment of cavalry. For this, he chose the venerable Indus’ Horse.
“For all we know, the north coast could be as mountainous as the rest of the region,” he said to General Paulinus as they watched the large flotilla of Roman warships make its way up the river.
Legio XX erected its temporary marching camp just off the river, with the auxilia encampments following along the Stour for several miles.
“I think we should have brought more than just a single regiment of cavalry,” the legate remarked.
“Believe me, I wanted to,” the governor replied. “However, the channel fleet only has five vessels capable of transporting horses, and two of these are in dry dock for repairs. Still, Indus’ Horse is one of the finest regiments in the whole of the empire. Their record of service during the invasion was exemplary. I know they will fight well.”
There was still much work to be done before the division could depart. The fleet admiral, Tiberius Stoppello, would need to be fully briefed on where he was expected to take such a vast portion of his ships. Contingency plans would have to be made, in case inclement weather ran the ships ashore or any changes needed to be made as to where the assault force would land. There was also the matter of making certain sufficient food stores were available and could be transported by Stoppello’s ships. Given the massed quantities of rations needed to feed and imperial army, the concept of foraging was simply not practical. Therefore, the grain stores of the legionary fortresses and auxilia forts were emptied into thousands of sacks and placed aboard wagons. The shipment of re
gular resupplies of food and needed equipment would need to be coordinated with the fleet.
Not far away, Centurion Magnus and the rest of the First Cohort watched the ships gliding up the vast inlet of the river. The Britannic fleet was large and the Norseman guessed at least twenty warships were making their way toward the rendezvous point.
He then recognized the large red standard that flew from the back of the massive flagship. “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“You recognize them?” Tyranus asked.
“That’s Admiral Stoppello’s flag,” Magnus explained. “We fought those pirates together during our journey to Judea. By Neptune, it’s been seventeen years now.”
“I remember him now,” the primus pilus recalled. “He commanded the fleet that ferried us across the sea during the invasion.”
The ships’ commanders soon came ashore, along with the fleet admiral, to meet with Governor Scapula and General Paulinus. This would be the only face-to-face meeting they would have before the landing, in addition to being the first time the naval officers heard the details as to their destination. In addition to supply issues, there was the simple matter of sorting out which units would ride aboard which ships. It was crucial to both economise space, as well as prepare for enemy resistance once they reached the Deceangli coast.
Since the First Cohort of Legio XX was by far the largest element, and given their status as the elite troops of the division, it was assumed they would ride aboard Stoppello’s flagship. Magnus walked along the shoreline, hoping to have a moment to greet the man who had shared in some of his more harrowing adventures. There were dozens of mariners mooring the ships, while their officers disembarked; however, Magnus reckoned the admiral would be easy to spot. He was very tall for a Sicilian and completely bald. The Nordic centurion’s thoughts were interrupted by a bellowing voice coming from a sailor of the second ship.
