Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered (4 page)

Of course, the emperor knew this. Were there any doubts as to Messalina’s guilt, he never would have signed the order for her execution.

“Her farce of a marriage to Silius was to humiliate and weaken you. Had they succeeded in escaping justice, your head—and mine most likely—would be on a spike. Silius would now be attempting to seize the throne for himself, under the false pretence of serving as regent for your son. It’s all there in his confession.”

“My son,” Claudius whispered, shaking his head. Given the sheer volume of Messalina’s adulteries, could he even be sure Britannicus was his son? And what of the lad’s elder sister, Octavia? Was she the emperor’s daughter or the spawn from one of her mother’s random liaisons?

A long, awkward silence followed. Narcissus sympathized deeply with Claudius, who was as much a personal friend as he was his emperor. Up until a day ago, he’d been very much in love with his young wife, not knowing she had been humiliating him openly while plotting his overthrow and death.

The sound of hobnailed sandals echoing on the floor tiles down the hall brought both men out of their contemplative reverie. They were soon joined by the praetorian prefect, Lucius Geta. He was accompanied by a centurion named Cornelius, whose blade slain the empress. Cornelius was one of the praetorians who saved Claudius’ life after the murder of his nephew, Emperor Gaius Caligula, seven years before. He also helped Claudius attain the imperial throne soon after. As such, the emperor was very fond of him. He took it as a sign of Cornelius’ devout loyalty that he was willing to kill his empress. Little did he know, Messalina was responsible for the death of the centurion’s wife. This killing was as much about vengeance as duty.

“Empress of Death,” the prefect said, breaking the silence. “At least that’s what some of the lads called her.” What he did not say was that many of his soldiers further stated she carried death both in her viper’s tongue, as well as between her legs.

“Despite her crimes, I still hoped she would have the dignity to end her own life,” the emperor mused. Now on his fifth chalice of wine, he was relaxing substantially and feeling more accepting of what he’d had to do.

“She lacked any sense of dignity, Caesar,” Cornelius said coldly. Given his history with the emperor, the centurion often spoke more candidly towards him than most men of his rank and status. “Strangulation atop the Gemonian Stairs would have been fitting.”

“We captured over two hundred people at her ‘wedding’ to Silius,” Geta added quickly, casting a glare over at his centurion. “What’s to be done with them?”

Narcissus pondered for a moment and said, “I recommend we determine which are the lowest-born and, therefore, of little to no threat. Have them exiled with all their lands and fortunes confiscated. It would look rather despotic if we spent the next week piling up the bodies on the Gemonian Stairs.”

“Agreed,” the prefect concurred. He turned to the emperor. “The people still recall the bloodbath your Uncle Tiberius left in the wake of Sejanus’ betrayal. Let them see justice, not tyranny.”

Narcissus nodded in consent. “Those closest to Messalina will have to be put to death, naturally. Thankfully, they only amount to a handful.”

“See to it,” Claudius said, dismissively waving his hand.

The men all bowed and began to leave the dining hall.

“Cornelius!” the emperor called out.

“Yes, Caesar?”

“I…if I ever decide to get married again, p…promise you’ll run me through with your sword.”

It was a rain-soaked morning when the Britannic fleet set sail from Camulodunum. Legionaries, who were mostly confined to the topside, huddled beneath their thick traveling cloaks as they were pummelled by both rain and sea spray. Despite the terrible weather, there were still plenty of ships making their way to and from the isle. The majority of merchant vessels from the continent came via a pair of ports in northern Gaul. The largest, Gesoriacum, was where the initial invasion of Britannia had been staged. Ships coming from Gesoriacum were mostly bound for the River Tamesis, which would take them to the growing city of Londinium. Doubtless the numerous merchant ships and fishing boats would spread the word of a large-scale Roman operation, once they saw the fleet of ships crammed full of legionaries and auxilia troopers. Magnus said as much to his brother as they watched a trio of fishermen staring at them wide-eyed. The wake from the large warships rocked their small boat.

“It can’t be helped,” Hansi remarked with a shrug. “By nightfall, everyone in Cantiaci and Atrebates will know we are up to something. But even if Caratacus still has friends in those regions, by the time they get word to him, you’ll have long since landed and begun slapping around the Ordovices a bit.”

“How many days did Admiral Stoppello say it would take to reach our destination?”

His brother furrowed his brow and thought for a few moments. “He wasn’t exactly sure, since none of us have ever been there. Though my best guess would be four, maybe five. We’ll reach Vectis Island before the end of the day. It will take another day to round the southwest peninsula which will take us to Silures territory. Stoppello will likely keep us just beyond sight of the shoreline, lest the Silures sound the alarm. Unfortunately, none of us have been further north than where the River Sabrina feeds into the sea.”

“So none of you have ever seen the legendary isle the locals call Hibernia?” Magnus asked.

“If only,” his brother chuckled. “Rumour has it the Brigantes control much of the eastern regions, though apparently Queen Cartimandua will neither confirm nor deny this. Hell, I’m not certain the isle even exists.”

The weather was known to change very rapidly in southern Britannia, and even more so along the channel sea. A couple of hours after their departure, the rains ceased, leaving just a light misting in the air. By late afternoon the sun shone brightly. The soldiers threw off their cloaks and enjoyed the warm summer day. As the fleet approached Vectis Island, the ships veered to the north, sailing through the waters known as
The Solent
.

“Look lads!”
the sailing master shouted from the ship’s forecastle,
“there’s home!”

“Seems like we just left,” a sailor muttered.

“Portus Adurni,” Hansi explained to his brother. “I know it’s just a collection of ramshackle buildings and a fishing village, but the natural harbour and centralized location makes it the ideal headquarters for the fleet. A pity I won’t be around to see if they ever build a decent fort here.”

As the setting sun glared in their faces, the ships anchored for the night near a rather unusual harbour. The isle seemed to end, with the exception of a long, narrow sandbar that extended a couple miles to the south, connecting to a small island. Magnus stood along the ship’s railing, staring towards the mainland.

“You know where we are?” Hansi asked.

His brother nodded.

“Achillia and I spent an evening along this sandy beach, just prior to the attack on Mai Dun.”

Though the hillfort was perhaps eight or ten miles from the shore, neither man could actually see it due to the rolling hills, high hedgerows, and large expanses of trees.

Magnus nodded towards the sandbar. “Though I did not realize it at the time, it was here that I spent the happiest night of life.”

Chapter IV: Delivered by Neptune

Halkyn Mountain, Deceangli Territory

Mid-June 48 A.D.

Roman Legionary

Though he had no knowledge of the fleet manoeuvring around the coast, word of the other Roman column’s advance across Britannia reached Caratacus within a few days. The former Catuvellauni prince summoned a meeting of his allies atop a formidable hill he was claiming as his temporary stronghold.

King Orin of the Silures came with a thousand of his best warriors. Their curled hair and darker complexion denoted their Iberian ancestry, in stark contrast to the light skinned and more fair-haired indigenous tribes. Since the Romans sullied the lands of the Catuvellauni, the Silures had become Caratacus’ closest allies. Orin often called him ‘brother’; their bond growing stronger with each battle fought against the invaders. As the king had no sons or other living male relatives, there was rumour he intended to name Caratacus as his heir. A noble gesture that would prove unlikely to ever come to fruition, as Caratacus was several years older than the Silures king.

King Seisyll of Ordovices had arrived with five hundred of his personal guardsmen. Like the Silures, the Ordovices were not native to Britannia. They emigrated from northern Germanic and Nordic lands nearly five hundred years before. They were much larger and fairer-skinned than their neighbours to the south. While they were certainly valiant in battle, they lacked the bloodthirsty, ever-supressed rage that seemed to course through the veins of every Silures warrior.

Eurgain stood with her husband, in awe that a foreign exiled prince, whose lands now belonged to the Romans, had succeeded in compelling these age-old enemies to unite.

“King Orin,” Seisyll said with a nod. “By the grace of our friend, the noble Caratacus, I bid you welcome to my people’s lands.”

“And I accept,” Orin replied, as the two clasped forearms. “Let us go forward as allies from this day against our common enemy.”

“My brothers,” Caratacus said, his arms raised high, “it is with much joy and hope for all our peoples that I see the two mightiest tribes in this land united under a common cause. Our raids have been effective in cowering the Brigantes, and the Romans have taken the bait. That simpering bitch, Cartimandua, grovels before her masters, begging them for aid.”

“They are the largest kingdom in all of Britannia, yet they cower before our warriors,” Seisyll said with a derisive grin.

“How soon until our weapons taste their flesh?” Orin asked.

“Soon,” Caratacus reassured him. “Before the next ten sunrises the armies of Caesar will cross over the River Sabrina. Their forces number no more than ten thousand fighting men; a single legion, a few cohorts of auxilia infantry, and several regiments of cavalry.”

Seisyll remarked, “They are either bold or foolish, if they think they can subdue us with such a pathetic force. My warriors alone significantly outnumber them.”

“The woods will soon devour their flesh,” Caratacus continued. “And the mountains will grind their bones into dust.”

A great feast was held that night. Copious amounts of mead and ale were consumed, with boars, deer, and other game roasted on giant spits. The warriors present were all members of the royal households, and their behaviour was measurably more subdued than that of the common rabble. However, both Silures and Ordovices alike engaged in feats of strength as well as outright brawls, while their kings looked on and enjoyed the spectacle.

“I hope they save some of their rage for the Romans,” Seisyll said to his peer from Silures.

“My people live to fight,” Orin replied. “Though I confess, it is better that their rage is focused on the imperial invaders rather than our northern neighbours.” There was a sinister trace to his words.

Seisyll paid it no mind. The Silures were an extremely aggressive and warlike race; however, this also meant they were difficult for even their beloved king to lord over. King Orin, like his brother before him, had kept their people in a constant state of conflict lest they fall into anarchy and fighting amongst each other. Only the strongest of hands could control the Silures. Yet Orin was slowly beginning to see there was one even stronger than he who could do so. As Caratacus joined the kings, he passed a jug of mead between them. The men drank to their health, to the glory of their ancestors, the valour of their collective warriors, and the obliteration of the imperial menace.

“There it is,” Stoppello said, pointing to the large river mouth several miles distant.

Neither Governor Scapula nor General Paulinus could quite see it; however, they trusted the admiral’s superior vision. The fleet had formed into a long line, with the distant shore off to their right. As the fog broke, Paulinus was able to see the large sandbar that dominated the landscape. Just beyond the beach the ground rose up to what looked like a small ridge in the distance.

“The terrain here looks relatively flat,” he observed. “It’s not as rugged and broken as the southern regions.”

“And there’s a nice beach for us,” Scapula said to Stoppello. “We’ll land here.”

Stoppello called out over his shoulder,
“Signal the fleet…action right! All assault troops make ready to debark!”

“That would be us, lads!” Master Centurion Tyranus shouted to his men. “First Cohort, up!”

Anticipating the pending debarkation, all legionaries had been ordered into their armour and kit just before dawn. Soldiers donned their helmets and stood ready, using their shields and pila to help balance themselves.

“This area appears to be deserted,” Paulinus said to his primus pilus. The ship lurched hard to the right as oarsmen cut into the waves, training the ship towards the shore. “Once off the ship, press forward to that rolling ridge. It looks to be about a mile inland and should make a good staging point.”

“Yes, sir.”

Centurion Magnus leaned against his shield, as the ship cut through the rolling surf. He tied the helmet cords beneath his chin and took a deep breath in anticipation. He clenched his fist and beat it hard against the scar on his leg, drawing a bemused stare from Optio Caelius.

“Trying to wake the damn thing up,” the Norseman explained.

“I didn’t say a thing, sir,” Caelius said with an understanding grin. The optio had his share of scars and old injuries, and could therefore sympathise with his commanding officer.

“Four fathoms!”
a sailor at the stern of the ship shouted, as he pulled in the long knotted roped used for estimating depth.

“Stand ready, lads,” Magnus said. He hefted his shield. “Just a little further.”

“The cohort will advance in column until we reach the beach!” Master Centurion Tyranus shouted. “At my signal, we will form into battle ranks!”

“Three fathoms!”

Magnus scanned the horizon, anxiously looking for enemy warriors. There was little doubt they had been spotted during the previous day’s voyage. The only question now was whether or not hostile forces would be waiting for them on the other side of the ridge.

“Two fathoms!”

“Stand by to reverse oars!” Admiral Stoppello ordered.

Magnus could now see the sandy bottom beneath the waves. He took a deep breath and slung his shield over the railing. Many of his legionaries followed suit as they prepared to jump over the side.

“One-and-a-half fathoms!”

“Reverse and withdraw oars!”

Orders were shouted below deck. With great precision the oarsmen abruptly changed the direction they were rowing, halting the ship in just a few strokes. Upon a subsequent command, they hauled their oars into the ship, preventing them being smashed by the disembarking legionaries.

Master Centurion Tyranus blew his whistle. Without further commands, Magnus stepped over the rail and leapt into the rolling waves. He kicked his legs out as soon as he hit the water, allowing himself to sink down to his bottom rather than risk injury to his ankles. He stood up with a loud splash, completely drenched and tasting the salt water on his lips. The water was cold, causing many a startled shout from plunging legionaries. Magnus hoisted his shield high out of the water and began to trek through the waist-high swells. Hundreds of legionaries were following him and the other centurions, rushing into the sea and forming into a column as they made their way towards the beach. There was little need for shouted orders from the centurions, options, or decani. The cohort was a precision machine, with each soldier knowing his place. They did not have far to go, for the tide was low and it was only about fifty meters from where they jumped to the beach. The sandbar was surprisingly firm, negating the annoying amount of sand each soldier kicked into his sandals as they jogged up the beach.

As they scrambled up towards the tall grasses at the edge of the beach, Master Centurion Tyranus blew his whistle. The aquilifer raised the legion’s eagle standard high.

“Third Century on me!” Magnus shouted, raising his gladius and blowing his whistle three times.

As chaotic as their disembarking over the sides of the ships seemed, any observers on the ridge would have marvelled at the incredible precision with which thousands of legionaries storming up the beach formed into their large battle formation. The aquilifer marched at the very head, the eagle now draped over his shoulder. Directly behind him was the centurion primus pilus. His First Century of the First Cohort occupied the very centre. Magnus’ Third Century fell in on their immediate right, the Fifth Century next to them, with the Second and Fourth Centuries on Tyranus’ left. Each century advanced as its own entity of six ranks, with standard bearers marching just behind their centurions.

All along the coastline, hosts of imperial legionaries were disembarking from their respective transports; centurions reforming their men once they reached the beach. Four additional cohorts fell in with the First, two on each side, with the remaining five cohorts forming a reserve battle line behind them. Auxilia infantrymen were establishing their formations well out to the flanks of the legion. Their light skirmishers were already making their way towards the far ridgeline. Only the cavalry still remained aboard ship. The task of getting horses off the transports was a slow and painstaking process, and they needed the landing point secured before they could disembark.

The beach soon gave way to tall grasses on firmer ground. The sun shone through white, puffy clouds, as a pleasant breeze blew in from the sea. The gusts caused the soaked legionaries to shiver, though they hoped the sun would warm them soon enough. Were they not all armed for battle, it would have been the perfect day for relaxation at the seaside. Given the utter silence, as well as the beauty of the landscape, one would never know they were on the shores of an entirely hostile land. There had been no resistance yet, but there was no mistaking this was an invasion.

As the legion continued its march, the footfalls of five thousand men sounded its cadence upon the earth. Auxilia infantry cohorts began to secure the ground just past the beach, while crewmen aboard the animal transport began the tedious task of getting the cavalry horses and pack animals off the ships. They erected a large crane which would lift each horse or mule in a sling under its belly, lowering it into the sea below, where a dozen handlers waited. The process was slow and ponderous. Several horses and a large number of pack mules panicked as they were lowered into the rolling surf. A number of men wound up with cracked ribs and various bruises from the unruly beasts.