Hosker, G [Sword of Cartimandua 09] Hero of Rome

by Griff Hosker

  “You too Macro, and listen,” he lowered his voice. “Don’t let her prey on your mind.”

  “Who?” Macro asked innocently but the narrowing of his eyes told Marcus that his brother was fully aware of his nemesis.

  “You know who. The witch who was your mother.”

  “My mother is your mother Marcus and she lives at home with our father Gaius.”

  Marcus looked at his brother for the hint of a lie in his eyes but he could see nothing. “Good! And try not to get yourself captured again. Metellus may not be there to save you; he will be fifty miles away.”

  “Huh! That was the one and only time. And you take care of that sword.”

  The turma heard the last statement and roared, “Sword brothers!”

  Marcus laughed. “See I have got over sixty men to protect the sword.”

  Just then they heard the sound of a buccina and every trooper went on the alert. They were close to Votadini country and who knew when a warband would raid. It was with some relief that they saw the small column of legionary cavalry trot into sight, headed by Julius Demetrius. Next to him rode Gaius Saturninus the Decurion Marcus had met when Macro was in the land of the Votadini.

  Livius rode to meet the senator and they embraced. “I am pleased that we have found you before the ala split up.”

  “Why has something happened?” Livius wondered if there had been a revolt in the southern half of the province.

  Julius laughed and Livius noted the ironical smile of the face of Gaius Saturninus. “No it is just that you may need to readjust your instructions. The Emperor has confirmed you as Prefect of this ala.”

  The decurions and troopers closest heard the Legate’s words and a huge roar erupted. As others asked what had been said the cheer rippled throughout the camp.

  “Well I …” never an ambitious man, unlike his dead brother, Livius reddened and stammered.

  “It is deserved Livius and now that you are of the noble class no-one can gainsay you. It means that you will have to have a Decurion Princeps promoted and a decurion to replace you. I am going to Coriosopitum to begin work on the limes. The other reason I came here is that the legionary vexillations will be here soon.” His voice became very serious. “The barbarians will not like the building of a solid frontier. You and your troopers can expect more action in the next few weeks.” He pointed at the fort. “A century of auxiliaries raised around Morbium are on their way here now. They were recruited from those who were unable to join the ala so they will be loyal warriors. And now I shall return to Coriosopitum,” he looked ruefully at the wooden fort, “where they do, at least, have baths and stone walls.”

  As they rode away the decurions all clambered around the new Prefect. “Thank you but I don’t think it will change the way things are run at the moment.”

  Julius, the clerk, sniffed. “That is all you know! No more gallivanting for you Prefect.”

  “And who is to be the Decurion Princeps?” As one of the youngest decurions and most recently promoted, Marcus knew that he could ask the question without prejudice and without others thinking he was seeking the post for himself.

  “Give me time to think lads.”

  From the back Metellus’ voice sounded, “What’s to think about? It is Cassius or I will show my arse in Eboracum’s Forum.”

  Everyone laughed and Livius nodded. “You could at least have allowed me to come up with that decision. Well, Decurion Princeps, if you could delay your departure for a short time we will discuss the ala. The rest of you have a mission and remember the Legate’s words. This is now a war zone. Be careful out there.”

  ******

  Tole, King of the Selgovae, was still smarting from his humiliation at the hands of the Roman auxiliaries when they had stolen away from the barbarian conclave; although his ally, Lugubelenus had suffered more loss of prestige and status, Tole was young enough and sensitive enough to feel aggrieved that Roman spies had discovered their invasion plans and caused them to be aborted. The young king had wanted a war to show off his newly acquired power and keen army; the Roman army would have made a perfect opponent, for a victory of any size would have led to an enlargement of his kingdom. He had already taken over the lands to the west and assimilated the tribes, who had lived there, within his growing kingdom. East was too problematic as Lugubelenus was a powerful and suspicious king and, more importantly, a successful leader having destroyed the Ninth some years earlier. Northwards lay painted, unpredictable and belligerent tribes who lurked dangerously behind the two mighty rivers; all of which just left Tole with the land to the south, the land of the Carvetii, Brigante and Rome. He had sent out small scouting warbands to identify the weaker parts of the frontier. He would not waste time with allies he would find a vulnerable part and take it. Already he knew that the fortress at Luguvalium was heavily defended and his scouts were now heading for the land between Luguvalium and the high land which split the country in two.

  It was one of these warbands which spotted Macro and Drusus as they headed north towards the huge forest which ran all the way to the heart of the Votadini heart land. Luarch, the leader, was wary for they were close to the disputed land between that of the Selgovae and the Votadini. Formerly Carvetii land, that buffer tribe had disappeared leaving the ownership a matter of arms. Luarch had but thirty men with him and the column was too big to take on but he was intrigued by their behaviour for they appeared to be about to camp for the night. He sent two of his men north to circle around the column while he and the bulk of his scouts watched as the Romans quickly dug a ditch and built a camp with stakes and a rudimentary gate. The barbarian was impressed. He began to fear that they had been seen when three of the Romans left the camp and rode hard west, towards their hidden position. He was relieved when they skirted the woods. He signalled for two men to follow them and then resumed his watch. The Selgovae were a patient tribe and his new king would not appreciate garbled mis-information. Better to wait and return with accurate information than risk the king’s ire.

  When the troopers returned he saw that they had been hunting and had a wild pig across the saddle. He heard the cheer from in the camp as the troopers saw Macro return with the kill and then the Selgovae scouts had to suffer the smell of roast pig wafting across the fields making their hunger even more acute. The next day the hungry and morose scouts watched the Romans. He had heard that they built and demolished their camps on a daily basis but when he watched he saw that they left the camp as it was and headed north. Waiting until they were out of sight Luarch led his men to the camp. Everything was laid out as though they intended to return. This was important news for the king. The scouts quickly ransacked the camp for anything they could take back with them. Spare javelins, shields and cloaks were all taken as well as the remains of the pig. As quickly as they had arrived the scavengers left and headed north west to report to their king.

  When Macro and Drusus returned to the wrecked and ransacked camp the two young decurions were angrier with themselves rather than the enemy. They should have left a guard and they both knew that; but hindsight is always accurate. “We have learned a lesson here, Drusus and, more importantly, discovered that we have been discovered. I will ride back to Rocky Point and report to the Prefect.”

  Drusus sighed with relief for he had been dreading the dressing down he knew would ensue. “But you will be reprimanded, Macro, will you not?”

  “I know but I feel more responsible. I have been brought up in the ways of the ala and it has been drilled into me that you either take down a camp or guard it and I did neither.” He smiled ruefully at his companion, “The next cock up and you can take the blame.”

  When Livius saw the lone rider approaching the fort, now with gates and one tower, he knew that it did not bode well. When he saw that it was Macro he knew that there would be a good reason for the journey. Livius frowned when the sentry waved him through with a smile. As Macro dismounted Livius went up to the sentry and asked, quietly, “Why did you not st
op the rider and ask his business?”

  The sentry made the mistake of grinning and then, when he saw the dark look on the Prefect’s face, stammered his answer, “Sorry sir but it is Decurion Macro. Everyone knows Decurion Macro.”

  “Even if it is the Emperor Hadrian himself, you stop them and ask their business and check the password.”

  The trooper looked confused. “But sir I don’t know the Emperor Hadrian. I have never seen him.”

  Exasperated Livius gave up. “Just ask everyone. Clear?”

  “Sir!”

  When Livius reached Macro he was not in the best of humours and Macro’s report did not improve it. “Sir. I have to report that the barbarians know we are here. They have ransacked our newly built camp.”

  “Casualties?”

  Macro looked even more uncomfortable. “Sir there was no-one in the camp. We were on patrol.”

  The silence was even more painful than a torrent of words. “So when I said the words war zone and be careful were you not listening or merely assuming that the mighty and invincible Macro would ride his luck again?” The young Decurion had the sense not to reply. “I am disappointed in you Decurion. You have been lucky. It could have been far worse and resulted in deaths. What would you have done if the barbarians had waited for you to return? You would have been ambushed in your own camp! Think on that. Now return to your command and try to find those barbarians. It would be useful to know which tribe now knows we are building up here.”

  Macro rode back to the camp with a silent anger. This was the first time he had had a dressing down from anyone and he had not enjoyed it. The fact that he knew it was deserved made it even worse. He wondered if he needed Marcus as a touch stone to keep him focussed for he knew that, had Marcus been with him, they would have left a guard. Perhaps he was too young to be a decurion and should have remained as training sergeant. He resolved to make better decisions in the future.

  ******

  “And they did not take the fort down?”

  “No sire!”

  “You have done well Luarch. Return and this time take with you eighty men. If the Romans are foolish enough to go into the forest you may be able to ambush them. When the scout had left Tole summoned his council and told them Luarch’s news. “Let us push further south. If there is one fort being built there may be others. Perhaps the Romans are coming to us.”

  “Was it just cavalry sire?”

  “This one was, about sixty men. Are they scouting or preparing an invasion? Let us assume it is the latter. Call the army to arms.”

  One of the older men, a confederate of Tole’s father, Aindreas ventured, “But sire the men are gathering in their crops. If they rot in the fields then we may starve this winter.”

  Tole was tempted to roar an answer at the whitebeard but he had learned discretion. “Make it known that the king wishes every woman, child and whitebeard to gather in the crops. All of the people will have to shoulder the burden eh? I will leave you in charge of that Steward and I know that you will work diligently so that we do not starve this winter.” The Steward walked out red faced. He had been outwitted by the young king who was rapidly learning how to get his own way in all things.

  Tole then took his lieutenant to one side. “Macklin I want you to take a mounted warband. Go to Luguvalium but do not let them see you. Ride east until you reach Luarch. Check this Stanegate of theirs and see if there is traffic upon it and any other sign of war. The Romans are up to something and I want to know what.”

  *******

  The land through which Metellus and Cicero had been assigned was not good cavalry country. The wide river which traversed it had boggy, treacherous ground on each bank and when it did become narrow, the land around it rose sharply, with savage rocks. The thick woodland had few paths and was perfect ambush country. His only consolation was that the patrol further east had even worse country with sheer cliffs and a huge stretch of water; Marcus and Livius would need their wits about them. He only had fifty men with him as he had left ten to finish the camp, prepare a meal and then guard it; his first day of patrol he wanted to see the type of country he had to deal with.

  Cicero was one of the newly promoted men. He was a little older than Macro and Marcus but had the same enthusiasm. His men, most of whom were older, looked on him fondly and gave him no trouble. Part of that stemmed from the fact that his brother had been a trooper in the ala until he had been murdered when The Fist and his companions had deserted. As The Fist had been one of the turma they had felt responsible for his death and tried to make it up by looking after his younger brother. Metellus knew that the boy had much to learn but he had the potential to be a good officer; he listened to the other decurions and carried out his orders punctiliously. When on sentry duty he ensured that none of his men were slacking. The only thing which Metellus did not know about him was how he would react in combat. Because Metellus and Macro had spent some time away from the ala they had not been there when they had fought their skirmishes with the barbarians. It was one reason why Livius had placed the calm and experienced Metellus with the younger novice.

  His experienced eye picked out the trail which skirted the thick forest to their left. The land rose steadily and was like the boss on a shield; the horizon constantly dipped away. He turned to Cicero, “You take the lead, ride in single file and I will bring up the rear.”

  The keen young officer scanned the skyline, “Do you see something?”

  “No Cicero but I do not like blind summits, you never know what is over the rise. You have keen young eyes and you may see something quicker than the older men of your turma. Be cautious and if you see anything then withdraw towards me. I will stay at the rear to make it easier to react to problems.”

  “Sir!” The keen young decurion galloped to the head of the turma, shouting orders as he did so. Metellus shook his head. He was just like Marcus and Macro when they first joined. The long line stretched out a long way once the orders had been given. Metellus was playing the percentages. If there were enemies around then they would only have the opportunity to attack a few of the troopers and Metellus would be able to react quickly. He saw the head of the column was just fifty paces or so from the summit.

  Suddenly the trooper behind Cicero pitched to the ground and even from that distance Metellus could see the arrow sticking out from his side. To his horror he saw Cicero plunge into the woods with his turma behind. Metellus roared, “Hold your positions.” Turning to the signifier he said, “Sound recall.” As the buccina’s strident notes rang out Metellus kicked his horse on, and, with sword at the ready led his turma to the body of the trooper. To Metellus’ relief he saw Cicero’s turma beginning to emerge from the woods. The empty saddles confirmed his worst fears. “Form a defensive line.” The twenty five men of his turma formed a half circle around the trooper lying on the ground as the signifier, who was also the capsarius of the turma saw to his injuries. As the survivors of the turma emerged from the woods Metellus ordered them behind his own men. He could see a mixture of anger and shame on their faces. Recriminations could come later. He turned to his chosen man, Lepidus, “Hold the men here I will take six men and seek the survivors.”

  Lepidus began to protest, “Sir!”

  Metellus was in no mood for an argument. “Obey orders Lepidus.” He angrily gestured at the wounded men being attended to by the capsarius. “This is the result of not following orders. You six,” he pointed at the nearest six men. “Dismount, swords and shields only, leave your cloaks and follow me.”

  Metellus stepped into the forest. The trees were mighty oaks and sycamores with a few elms. The trunks of some of them were large enough to hide two men and Metellus cursed the impetuous decurion who had led his men into an obvious trap. He heard a noise and held up his hand, he saw the wounded man lying on the ground. “You take this man back and then follow us.” The man’s horse had been hamstrung and was lying close by. Metellus took his sword and quickly despatched the beast. He hated the su
ffering of animals. Ahead he could here the sounds of blades clashing. He gestured his men forward. The six he had chosen were experienced men and Metellus was pleased as they readjusted their shields and tightened their grip on their swords. When he saw the flash of cloth he waved his five men left and right to surround his enemies. There was a small clearing and in the middle he saw Cicero and one of his men standing over the body of one of their companions. Eight Selgovae surrounded them advancing purposefully with axes at the ready. Their rapt attention was on these three victims and did not see the six troopers launch themselves at their unprotected backs. Metellus was in no mood for mercy and the eight of them fell to eight sword blows.

  Cicero began to speak, “Sorry sir.”

  “There is no time for that.” He turned to one of his men. “You lead the decurion and his men back to the edge of the woods. I will finish up here.”

  Without waiting to see his orders being carried out Metellus led his four men deeper into the woods. It soon became obvious that this was the furthest point the turma had reached and Metellus turned them around. By this time his eyes were accustomed to the gloom and he saw the first trooper he had sent back returning. The man held up his hand in warning and pointed north. Metellus trusted his men enough to obey the instruction and he led his patrol in the direction indicated. They found six men standing over a wounded trooper. The weapons in their hands, daggers and knives showed that they were torturing him for information. The five troopers leapt forward. One of them tripped over a branch and the Selgovae saw their opponents. The leader was a tall man who quickly picked up his axe and shield and headed for the red crested Metellus. Roaring a war cry he hurled himself at the Roman. Metellus stood his ground and watched the axe as it arced towards him. At the last minute he moved his shoulders to the side and watched the blade as it slid harmlessly off his shield to thud into the ground. The problem with axes was that their momentum always gave their opponent an opportunity to strike while the axe man was vulnerable and Metellus took his opportunity. He slashed his sword, not at the warrior’s body as he was expecting but at the back of his knees. As the tendons were ripped open the man fell to the ground and Metellus hit him hard on the back of the head with the flat of his sword. He had his prisoner. The rest were all dead and Metellus nodded his thanks to the keen eyed trooper. “Right lads. Back to the open but watch out for any others. You two bring this barbarian with us.”