Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered (20 page)

Scores of warriors rushed beside and behind Caratacus, weapons ready to strike. The sleepy-eyed guard had only a second to realize the horror of what was happening, before the high king’s heavy blade cleaved his head from his shoulders. The man’s companion cried out in pain, as several spears were plunged into his body. Caratacus watched gleefully as the twitching corpse of his first victim fell thrashing to the ground, gouts of blood gushing from the stump where his head had once been.

A startled shout came from the defences. The attackers saw numerous torches flickering, as their bearers rushed to sound the alarm. Caratacus nodded to one of his men, who carried a war horn. The ominous blaring alerted the sleeping garrison and signalled for the assault to commence in earnest.

Ordovices fighters shouted oaths and war cries as they assailed the ramparts of the small fort. To their credit, the venerable Brigantes warriors were quick to rouse themselves and arm for battle. Two of Caratacus’ more nimble men had just enough time to be hoisted over the palisade and open the gate, before they were swarmed by their enemies, who quickly cut them down. The high king quietly promised to make an offering to Aeron after the battle, in tribute to their selfless sacrifice. With a shout of rage, he and his men stormed into the fort.

Brigantes men were scrambling to repel the overwhelming waves of attackers. Spears were plunged into numerous warriors who had not been quick enough in scrambling over the palisades, yet the resistance proved futile. Dozens of assailants exploited numerous gaps in the earthworks that were devoid of defenders. Caratacus led the charge through the gate with scores of warriors following. The situation quickly became hopeless for the Brigantes.

The high king brought his sword down with a mighty smash, breaking the skull of one hapless defender who immediately slumped to the ground. Blood, brain, and bits of bone protruded through his split scalp. His warriors overwhelmed the man’s companions with stabs of the spear, and the chopping of sword and axe.

Caratacus loathed Queen Cartimandua, but had to admire the tenacity with which her warriors fought. He hoped, one day, to call them allies. It was a shame these men would never know Caratacus as a friend. Every last one would die this night. Sword and spear sunk into flesh, shattered bone, and disembowelled the stricken in a cacophony of horror. Soon the ground was soaked in blood, made slippery in places by piles of viscera. Their huts were then set alight, while many were trapped inside and left to be slowly burned to death. The Brigantes fought valiantly, leaving many of Caratacus’ warriors dead or severely maimed. Yet, in the end, their numbers were simply too few. In less than an hour, there was not a single Brigantes warrior alive within the fort.

Caratacus stood atop the ramparts. The burning huts of the fort seemed to make him glow with an aura that mirrored his rage. He held the head of the guard he decapitated in one hand, still wielding his bloodied broadsword in the other. He raised both high, eliciting howls of triumph from his men.

“Now, my friends, the village is yours as promised! Take what you will, and kill anyone you find!”

The light from the fires alerted the few souls still awake at this late hour, and they quickly sounded the alarm within the village. Some of the men armed themselves to fight. Others fled into the woods with their families. Perhaps half of the citizens managed to escape before Caratacus’ warriors were unleashed in all their fury. There would be more blood spilled, with the women raped before they were murderously butchered.

Though barbaric, Caratacus’ methods differed very little from his Roman adversaries. Like them, he had attempted to use diplomacy to win over the Brigantes long before he resorted to brutal force. And, like the Romans, he was not afraid to use terror as the ultimate weapon of persuasion. The carnage that greeted Queen Cartimandua and the nobles of her court a few days later sickened them. Many were filled with fear, as Caratacus had hoped. The queen, however, would prove a very difficult foe to break.

It would be midsummer by the time Paulinus’ division finished with the fort at Dolaucothi. He’d been surprisingly generous to the Demetae, wishing to keep the pressure off the garrison he would be leaving behind while securing the rear of his army from attack. Chief Judoc asked that he be aided in acquiring some of the lands near the western Silures border, and his people be given a measure of independence under Rome. In return, his warriors would assist the war effort by launching raids into Silures lands, to include the acquisition of slaves to work the mines.

“They seem anxious to become our friends,” Scapula said to Paulinus as they dined one evening.

“Their chief has seen our soldiers,” the legate observed. “Every last one of our men is better armoured and equipped than even Judoc himself. I doubt his demeanour is as friendly as he tries to make it; however, he was wise enough to know the alternative to becoming our ally was facing annihilation.”

“You never cease to amaze me, General,” Scapula remarked. “You advise me to be diplomatic and civil to these barbarians, and yet, you do not hesitate to threaten them with extermination.”

“If one method of diplomacy fails, then we must be ready to use another,” Paulinus replied with cold detachment. “I may only be the legate of a legion, but if I ever intend to sit in your chair then I’d better learn to use every form of persuasion available. I must say, being posted to a very new, and mostly untamed province has been a far better tutor than I could have imagined.”

“You are midway through your three-year tour with the legion,” Scapula observed. “And yet, I suspect that after you leave, Britannia will not have seen the last of you.”

The days of waiting for the fort to be completed became an irritating grind to the governor. Despite the exceptionally large labour force available, a substantial number of his soldiers were required for security and conducting constant patrols of the region. The fort itself was large enough to house nearly two thousand imperial soldiers. There were three rows of deep trenches, lined with obstacles, dug around its ramparts. The woods within a half mile of the fort were completely deforested to provide fields of observation as well as timber for the walls, guard towers, and other structures. A large structure was built to serve as headquarters for the garrison commander, a senior ranking auxilia centurion. The soldiers would continue to live out of tents for the time being. Though they were making every effort to fortify the stronghold, Scapula was not entirely certain whether this was a temporary or permanent incursion into Silures territory. But for now, security was of greater importance than soldier comfort.

“Looks like we won’t be catching Caratacus this year after all,” Tyranus said.

He and Magnus observed the handiwork of their legionaries.

“Maybe not,” the Norseman reluctantly concurred. “Though I do believe having a Roman garrison in the middle of his united kingdoms is a grave insult. It may be just the motivation he needs to finally face us in open battle.”

There was little for the centre column except tedium on long march back to Roman territory, during what remained of the campaign season. While capturing the gold mine at Dolaucothi had been a substantial prize for the empire, securing it had cost them any chance of capturing Caratacus or engaging his army in a decisive engagement. And, it would be some time before they could make use of the mines. Though they secured an alliance with the Demetae, Governor Scapula was beginning to understand that the wealth of Dolaucothi could never be fully exploited, so long as the Silures remained a threat in the region.

Word soon reached the governor regarding the horrific attack upon the Brigantes border fort and the nearby village. Though Cartimandua was as stalwart of an ally as ever, the royal court was becoming even more divided as to who they should align themselves with. Despite the atrocities committed against their people, there were growing numbers who would have Brigantes break their alliance with Rome and join with Caratacus. For both sides, patience was running thin. As the army retired across the River Sabrina, Scapula and his legates knew the following year would see an end to the war against Caratacus, one way or the other.

Chapter XVI: Here We Will Stand

Near Caer Caradoc, west of the River Sabrina

November 49 A.D.

***
             

Autumn had come once more to Britannia. The previous campaign season was one of modest victories and great frustrations for both sides. For Caratacus, the death of his son took an immeasurable toll upon his spirit. The loss of the gold mine at Dolaucothi had been a source of great consternation for the Silures, who were now embroiled in a renewed conflict with the Demetae. Yet the Romans could scarcely claim victory. They may have captured the mines, but as long as the region was in a state of war they could make no use of them. They had committed numerous soldiers and resources just trying to keep the mine from falling back into Silures hands.

With the imperial army retired across the Sabrina, Caratacus knew it was time to prepare for the decisive battle against Rome that the people so craved. In the forested hills where the River Sabrina ambled westward, the high king met with the erstwhile high druid, Tathal. Here was a sacred shrine, though it only consisted of a natural stone altar in a small meadow surrounded by tall trees.

Caratacus knelt before the shrine. Buried deep within a nearly impassable forest, few even knew of its existence. They were just twelve miles from the Sabrina, and the far banks, his scouts had told him, were swarming with imperial soldiers. Thus far, they appeared content to fortify their encampments, waiting to see where Caratacus and his allies would appear again.

His greatest difficulty was keeping his army fed during the winter months. Unlike their Roman adversaries, none of the tribesmen had any real concept of logistics. The high king had sent over half his warriors home to tend to their crops, with the pledge they would bring a portion of the harvest to his encampment and return to fight in the spring. However, as most of the Silures were committed to their war against the Demetae, King Orin could only promise five thousand men from his elite guard, even after the frost was off the ground.

Only Seisyll and Orin accompanied him this day to the shrine. Tathal and a half-score of druids he had never seen before awaited them. Caratacus was filled with uncertainty. He needed to know if the gods favoured them in this war against the invaders.

“We bid you welcome, Caratacus, High King of Britannia,” Tathal said respectfully. “You come seeking the favour of the gods.”

“I do,” Caratacus replied. His face was hard. Before Tathal could speak further, he said, “And I do not want to hear any talk of additional sacrifice. The gods have already taken my son. If that does not appease them, then they can rot in the abyss of oblivion.”

“Calm yourself, friend,” Tathal said, holding up one hand. “If one wishes favour from the gods, it is not wise to blaspheme. Aeron is pleased with you. You have soaked the earth in the blood of traitors.”

“You mean the Brigantes?”

Tathal nodded. “They will come to you in due time, my friend. Cartimandua’s hold upon her people is weak. Yet you have come here not to fight against the defilers from Brigantes, but the invaders from the unholy empire.”

“The ground here is good,” Caratacus stated. “My men can build a great stronghold here.”

The druid closed his eyes in thought and seemed to fall into a trance for a few moments. Finally he said, “This place is called Caer Caradoc. Trust in the gods, and you will find victory.”

Three temporary legionary forces now bordered the hostile lands of westernmost Britannia. Scapula ordered Legio II, Augusta, to occupy just north of the vast southern bay of the River Sabrina. Sixty miles to the north, following the river, Legio IX, Hispania established its quarters for the coming winter. Twenty miles further, where the river turned to the west, was the camp of Legio XX, Valeria. Of all the legionary forces in Britannia, only Legio XIV, Gemina Martia Victrix, remained at the capital fortress of Camulodunum.

“Let us hope the rest of the province remains docile,” Magnus said. He stood near the bank of the river, his cloak wrapped around him.

The Sabrina forked around a large, tree covered island that extended a few hundred meters from end-to-end. Just north, the river began its meandering course to the west.

“I heard the Cornovii king has petitioned Scapula with establishing a permanent fortress here,” Tyranus remarked. “Apparently auxiliaries and their own warriors aren’t enough to save them from the terrors that lurk across the river.”

Magnus snorted at the master centurion’s contemptuous assessment. “It seems almost every tribe strong enough to stand on their own wants to pick a fight with Rome. The rest cower beneath our tunic skirts. Ah well, I say let the Fourteenth have this place, and the rest of us can go home.”

“After we’ve finished with Caratacus.”

“Do you think he finally intends to fight us?” the Norseman asked.

“According to his brother.” Tyranus shrugged. “I have no idea how he gathers his intelligence, and I’m not sure I want to.”

“His methods are likely no worse than ours,” Magnus remarked. “And if what he says is true, then Caratacus plans to make a stand against us not far from this very spot.”

“Centurion Magnus,” a voice said, behind them.

Both men turned to see a young legionary, likely an aid to the command staff.

The soldier saluted the two senior officers before continuing. “Beg your pardon, sir, but a message came through the imperial post addressed directly to you.” He handed the thick, weathered scroll to the primus ordo before saluting once more and taking his leave.

“Someone sending you love letters?” Tyranus asked, grinning.

Magnus broke open the worn seal and began to read. “It’s from my brother-in-law,” he said.

“Valens?”

The Norseman silently read through the first few lines. It was dated from several months before. Valens would’ve had to wait for a merchant vessel from the empire to reach the northlands, before he could send it on. As he read, Magnus’ face started to turn a slight shade of red, his eyes misting slightly.

Tyranus thought the news must be terrible, until Magnus’ face broke into the broadest smile the master centurion reckoned he had ever seen. “Well, what is it? Do tell!”

“I’m a father…”

Magnus, you magnificent bastard!

Let me be the first to congratulate you on giving Svetlana and I a strapping young nephew. Granted, Ana did almost all the work. She had to carry the little bastard for nine months, after you popped off back to Britannia. Not to worry, she is doing well. It would take more than the spawn of your seed to break a woman of her fortitude. Ana was uncertain as to a name. But, since his father is a Roman, she thought it only fitting to give the lad a Roman name. I suggested Titus Flavianus Spurius and did not think you would object.

Magnus smiled as he read the name. It was fitting that his son would share the given name of his lifelong friend, Titus Artorius Justus. He continued to read:

It would seem young Titus has made Ana realize what is important in life. She told me she now understands that ‘home’ is not so much a place, but the people in one’s life…at least I think it was something to that effect. You know how bloody sentimental women can be. She also said, rather forcefully I might add, that her son needed his father. It will likely be next spring before Ana is fit to travel, which will give her plenty of time to sort all her affairs here before she comes chasing after you.

I hope that Mars, Odin, or whatever damned gods may actually exist, will grant our armies victory over Caratacus. I further hope that when it’s over, your own soul will at last find peace. So do us all a favour, and don’t be getting yourself killed between now and then. And after you finally decide it’s time to leave the life of the legions behind, no dying of old age before young Titus can make you a grandfather! Oh, and your sister sends her love. Fight well, my friend, but know that there is a life worth having outside of the legions.

Your brother,

Tiberius Valens

“Ever more reason to not allow Caratacus to spill your guts, old friend,” Tyranus said, with a friendly slap on the shoulder.

Magnus grunted in reply, took a deep breath, and tried to take in what had happened. He’d given up any hope of children since Achillia’s death, and it was utterly surreal that he now had a son. He then decided, no matter what happened this coming campaign season, he was finished with the legions. The old centurion knew he’d stayed in the ranks far too long. He would help his legion attempt to settle its score with Caratacus and move on.

He returned to his tent and began to write a reply letter to Valens. Merchant ships only made their way to the Northlands three or four times a year, so it could be spring or even summer before the message reached his brother-in-law. It mattered not. He still had one more campaign season, and he knew the letter would eventually reach Ana. She would know he was ready to leave the life of the legions behind. In his letter, Magnus asked Valens to implore Ana to join him in Britannia, and from there they would begin their life anew.

“Provided I survive,” Magnus said, with a sudden feeling of foreboding. Over the years, he had seen the fates be both generous and cruel, in equal measure. Would Ana arrive in Britannia a year from now, only to find the father of her child had been slain in battle?

In Rome, the revelation that Scapula had claimed a sizeable gold mine in the mountainous reaches of western Britannia helped stem the growing criticism of his inability to bring the war against Caratacus to a decisive conclusion. Aulus Plautius, who led the imperial armies during the initial conquest and served as the first governor of Britannia, had been quick to defend his successor.

“The province is mostly volatile and untamed,” he said, during a dinner party. The former commander-in-chief, who’d been lauded with
Triumphal Regalia
following the initial conquest, was hosting several honoured guests, including one of his former legates, Flavius Vespasian. Also in attendance was the emperor’s freedman, Narcissus, whom both Plautius and Vespasian viewed as a personal friend.

“I do not envy Scapula,” the former legate remarked.

“The senate is filled with fat, pompous old fools who know nothing about conquering a new province,” Plautius continued. “They give great speeches, but when the time comes for men to bleed, they are nowhere to be found.”

“To be fair,” Vespasian spoke up, “would you really want to trust the leading of our legions in battle to the majority of our senatorial colleagues?”

“Well stated,” Narcissus remarked. He then decided to change the subject. “I hear, general, that the emperor has viewed you favourably regarding the consulship. It won’t be for the coming year, unfortunately, but for the next year…”

“You flatter me,” Vespasian replied, as he bit off a chunk of roasted chicken. “But I know the emperor. He awarded me
Triumphal Regalia
for our victories in Britannia, but he sees little use for me outside of being a soldier. If he is seriously considering nominating me for a future consulship, it is because his most trusted freedman has put the idea in his head. After all, I still believe it was you who convinced Claudius to give me command of the Second Legion during the invasion.”