Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered (6 page)

A warrior swung his hand axe towards Magnus’ shin. The centurion quickly dropping his shield to deflect the blow. He kicked the man hard in the face with his hobnailed sandals, splitting open his forehead. The centurion leapt from the earthworks, slamming the bottom edge of his shield into the dazed warrior’s face.

A sharp pain shot through the Norseman’s leg, an incessant reminder of his old injury. His other knee buckled slightly. With his blood rushing through his veins, he scarcely noticed.

He was soon joined by growing numbers of his legionaries, forming into battle lines as more Deceangli fighters rushed into the fray. The huts and other structures within the settlement were built practically on top of each other, making for very narrow roads. The alleyways between buildings were so contracted that a single man could scarcely navigate through them. Warriors battered the shield wall with spears and axes, while legionaries punched away with their shields, seeking openings for thrusts of their gladii. The rear ranks of the cohort were now scrambling over the ramparts, and most of these men still carried their pila. From their high point on the earthworks, they flung their heavy javelins over the heads of their mates. A score of Deceangli warriors fell dead or badly wounded in the storm. The courage of the survivors momentarily wavered, giving Magnus and his soldiers the momentum needed to completely break them. Warriors who hesitated paid the price, as legionary blades plunged into their guts. Others had their arms or legs hacked when the Romans surged forward. The centurion himself thrust his gladius deep into the neck of one assailant, ripping the weapon free in a torrent of splattering blood. The will of the remaining fighters broke, and they fled for what they hoped would be sanctuary within the town.

Magnus led his century towards the barricades where, surprisingly, Master Centurion Tyranus’ century was being hard-pressed to break through. The Deceangli had massed the largest portion of their warriors here, along with many of their skirmishers.

“Reform!”
the Norseman shouted, holding his bloodied gladius high. Streams of dark crimson ran from the pommel of his weapon down his scarred, muscular forearm.

The open square near the barricade was filled with enemy warriors who were inexplicably oblivious to the growing mass of imperial soldiers about to flank them. Some of Magnus’ legionaries managed to form into three ranks of twenty men. The rest of the century, along with Optio Caelius, was unable to advance any further. These men proceeded to kick down the walls of several mud huts, while others found windows to breach on wooden structures.

“Advance!”

The legionaries marched in step, their centurion having placed himself in the very centre. When they were but twenty feet away Magnus howled in fury, sprinting the remaining distance and smashing into a barbarian fighter with all his weight behind his shield. Only a handful of the Deceangli noticed them in time to turn and face this renewed threat. Shield bosses and blows from the bottom edges of Roman shields sent a number of their adversaries sprawling onto the ground. Several more were slain by lightning quick thrusts of legionary gladii.

As Tyranus and his century smashed their way through and over the barricade, toppling a pair of upturned oxcarts, the booming sound of a war horn came from near the high chief’s great hall. Its meaning became immediately apparent. Warriors began to throw down their weapons and raise their hands in surrender. A couple were killed by overzealous legionaries, who were quickly berated by their officers.

“Hold fast, lads!” Tyranus bellowed as he clambered over a large broken wagon.

Most of the Deceangli warriors stood with their heads bowed in defeat. Others tried to tend to their badly wounded friends, who lay sprawled about the battleground.

“Do any of you speak Latin?” the master centurion asked, drawing confused stares. He shook his head in irritation and called over his shoulder,
“Send our interpreter forward…and inform General Paulinus that we’ve taken the town!”

A few minutes of awkward silence followed, with neither warrior nor legionary knowing exactly what they should do. The other cohorts from the Twentieth Legion had breached the defences with a number of troops surrounding the chief’s hall. Paulinus soon appeared at the barricade. With him was Landon, the Brigantes interpreter.

“Well done,” the legate said approvingly. “Tyranus, take twenty of your men and come with me. The rest of you, start binding and sorting these prisoners.”

“Yes, sir,” the primus pilus nodded.

“Centurion Magnus, take charge of the cohort.”

Magnus nodded and ordered his men to lead their defeated foes out of the town onto the open plain below. As they guided the prisoners down the slope, he was joined by Centurion Furius.

He noticed Magnus was walking with a pronounced limp. “Almost sent you to Valhalla, didn’t they?”

Magnus smiled and shook his head. “No, just the past injuries of an old man.” He winked as he looked at a rather nasty gash on Furius’ cheek. “That’s the worst shaving cut I’ve ever seen.”

His fellow centurion primus ordo sighed and gently touched the still-bleeding wound with his fingertips. “Twenty-two years in the ranks without any visible scars and now this. It’s my own damned fault. I didn’t tie the chin cords on my helmet tight enough, and the cheek guards were flapping about. And it would seem I was slower with my shield than the cohort’s ‘old man’.”

The two shared a laugh as their legionaries began to sort the prisoners. Their hands were bound behind their backs, and each man was tied to the warrior behind him. Their dead and maimed were left where they fell. For the Romans, it had not been a costless victory. Seven legionaries and four auxilia archers had been killed, with another forty men wounded between them. Half of these injured soldiers would likely be fit to return to duty in a few days; the rest would have to be evacuated to a hospital in Roman territory. Scapula’s intent was to have the imperial navy transport enemy prisoners and Roman wounded back to Camulodunum, when they arrived with the army’s next resupply.

The chief of Deceangli was an older warrior named Elisedd. He was surrounded by a score of legionaries who stood close with their weapons drawn. He wore a long leather frock covered in small, rectangular bronze plates, belted in the middle. A sword baldric hung over his right shoulder. His weapon, a magnificent two-handed longsword, had been confiscated and was being held by a decanus. Standing beside him, her expression one of defiance, was his wife, Runa. She kept her plaid cloak held close around her shoulders, her auburn hair pulled back tight against her scalp.

The chief’s brow was sweaty, his complexion red from exertion. For him, the battle had not lasted long. From his vantage point atop the hill, his stronghold swarming with imperial soldiers, he knew all was lost. He bowed to the General Paulinus as the decanus handed the chief’s sword to the legate.

“Yr wyf yn ostyngedig yn cynnig fy ildio,”
Elisedd said, in a language that Paulinus could not even begin to comprehend. “
Pa tynged yn aros fy mhobl?”

“He says he humbly offers his surrender,” Landon translated, speaking slowly, as he struggled to understand all the chief was saying, “I believe he’s asking what fate awaits his people.”

“He and his warriors are to be taken to Governor Scapula who will decide the ultimate fate of the Deceangli.”

Landon translated the legate’s words causing Elisedd to grimace. He had little to no faith in the honour of the imperial governor, yet sadly, he knew he was powerless. The Romans had been too numerous for his warriors to make a viable stand. The Deceangli were mostly fishermen and farmers, bullied into subjugation by the far more numerous and warlike Ordovices with the promise of ‘protection’. And with the Ordovices nowhere to be found, their protectorates were left to the mercy of their enemies.

Chapter VI: Finding the Enemy

Roman Camp near Kimmel Bay

19 June 48 A.D.

***

Paulinus ordered all food stores from the oppida to be taken back to camp. The stronghold was then put to the torch. It took some time for the damp timbers to ignite, and the thick columns of black smoke could be seen for twenty miles. Governor Scapula had ridden back to the Roman camp once he saw the stronghold was taken by his soldiers. His principia tent served as a tribunal in which he would meet the defeated Deceangli chieftain.

In all, nearly three thousand prisoners were taken. Most of those captured at the stronghold were warriors. The fighting men had sent their women and children away, hoping they might escape. The sight of many of their families penned up in the crude stockades told a grim tale. The captured warriors could also assume many of their loved ones had been killed. They were kept separate from the women and children, and there was no way for anyone to know who was imprisoned, dead, or managed to escape.

Scapula made certain his armour was polished, and he draped his finest deep red cloak over his left shoulder. He sat upon a three-foot dais, just large enough for his camp chair. To his right sat a five-foot pillar with a bust of Emperor Claudius atop, to his left the eagle of the Twentieth Legion and the standards of Indus Horse and the other auxilia regiments. General Paulinus, Commander Julianus, the tribunes, First Cohort centurions, and auxilia regimental commanders stood on either side of the dais.

Elisedd and Runa and ten of their nobles were escorted into the principia. Their hands were chained in front of them. Elisedd carried his sword, resting flat on the palms of his hands. Landon walked in front of the escorting legionaries. Once they reached the dais, the Brigantes interpreter relayed the orders he had been given earlier. Elisedd was to kneel before Scapula and plant his sword point into the earth. It was terribly degrading for the proud war chief; however, he knew the option was to watch every last one of his captured warriors be crucified. The women and children would likely be sold into slavery, regardless of what their chief did. The Romans had promised to spare Runa, however, should her husband offer total submission to the empire.

With overwhelming feelings of both humiliation and stalwart determination, Elisedd girded his dignity and knelt in front of the dais. He thrust the sword, passed down for generations, into the earth. He fought back tears as his grip lingered on the worn handle, for what he knew to be the last time. The ancient blade was now a prize of Caesar.

The Deceangli chief took a slow breath in and exhaled quietly, composing himself. Finally he spoke,
“Trwy waed fy hynafiaid, yr wyf yn tyngu ar fy mywyd sydd byth eto bydd fy mhobl yn gwneud rhyfel yn erbyn Rhufain.”

Landon remained stoic, though he was moved by the beaten warrior’s words. He translated,
“By the blood of my ancestors, I swear on my life that never again will my people make war against Rome.”

And though Elisedd had not asked this directly, the Brigantes man decided to ask on his behalf, “What is to become of their people?”

“War against Rome requires a measure of retribution,” Scapula explained, speaking slowly so Landon could translate. “You and your wife will be taken to Rome, where you may plead your case before the emperor. He will decide the ultimate fate of Deceangli. Your warriors, as well as their women and children, will remain hostages of Rome to ensure the good faith of your people. Understand, any further acts of violence against the empire and their lives will become forfeit.”

Frustrated that their fate remained undecided, Elisedd simply nodded as he stood. Scapula signalled to the legionaries surrounding the couple, who escorted them from the principia.

“Hostages?” Paulinus asked. “Between the warriors and the families the auxilia captured, we have over four thousand prisoners. Even with the food stores we took from their stronghold, they will starve within two weeks.”

“By which time our resupply ships will have arrived,” Scapula explained. “I directed Admiral Stoppello to bring additional rations, as well as any equipment we were unable to transport during the initial landing. He can take these…
hostages…
off our hands then.”

“You don’t intend to ever release them,” the legate said knowingly. “You’re going to hand them over to the slave traders.”

“And what would you do, General Paulinus, were you Governor of Britannia? Would you commit the resources to feed and house several thousand prisoners from a tribe that matters little in this war? Had we crushed the Silures and Ordovices first, the Deceangli would have capitulated without a fight. Unlucky that their homeland happened to be right in our invasion path, isn’t it?”

Paulinus bit the inside of his cheek. While their deceit was a bit troubling, he knew Scapula was right. The legate was coming to understand, should he ever wish to rise above his posting of legion commander and govern an imperial province, he would have to think beyond just winning battles. While Ostorius Scapula was scarcely an adequate military strategist, and having committed several serious diplomatic blunders early in his term as governor, he was proving to be a viable teacher to the legate when it came to dealing with newly-conquered peoples and unruly provincials. On the furthest frontiers of the empire, there was little room for clemency. For many of these people, ruthless brutality was the only form of persuasion they understood.

While Governor Scapula determined the interim fate of the Deceangli, Centurion Metellus Artorius led the Fifth Cohort, supported by two companies from Indus’ Horse, in a massed reconnaissance to the southwest. It was the direction taken by most of the fleeing Deceangli, and Scapula intended to use them to locate the barbarians’ main army. His intent was to gather as much intelligence as possible before linking up with General Paetus’ division.

Most of the actual reconnaissance was done by the cavalry; Metellus and his legionaries were simply there for support, should the horsemen run into a larger force than they could contend with. As the senior officer present, Metellus ordered the cavalry commanders to make certain they kept his legionaries in view at all times. While traversing open terrain, this meant the auxilia troopers could keep one hill or ridgeline away. Crossing the innumerable forests, the cavalry waited until the infantry was within thirty meters or less before proceeding.

Approximately four miles into their trek, they came upon a dirt trail that led in a westerly direction. The ground was saturated from the recent rains, which made tracking their quarry much easier.

“There are no recent tracks along this stretch of road, sir,” a trooper reported.

“Which means they did not come this way,” Metellus noted.

The trooper nodded and then continued, “We sent two sections to see where this leads. We haven’t seen much in the way of farmlands; however, we believe these people to be mostly sheepherders. There are plenty of signs of grazing, not to mention copious amounts of sheep shit. Any villages will be small and scattered about these grassy hills.”

The centurion sent the trooper back to his company. He continued on with his legionaries two more miles, where they came upon a small brook. “We’ll hold here until the scouts return,” he directed his men.

His centuries formed into a defensive hollow square and soldiers were sent to fill water bladders in the stream.

“I’ve counted our pace, and we’ve gone about six miles,” one of the centurions stated.

“We’ll go another four before turning back,” the pilus prior replied.

Most of the cavalrymen had also halted at the stream to water their horses and sate their own thirsts. Sections of troopers were dispatched in each direction to find some sign of the fugitives. The sun was now directly overhead, and though it shone brightly, dark clouds loomed in the west. A cool gust of wind blew over the cohort, warning of the gods’ intentions.

“Just when we got our sodden clothes dried out,” a legionary complained.

“And I thought the weather was wet and unpredictable on the rest of this isle,” another added. “It’s as if the gods are fucking with us. Give us the sun one minute, and then piss on us the next.”

“Too bad Jupiter’s piss is anything but warm,” the first soldier added.

While legionaries carped about the constant and volatile changes to the region’s weather, the sound of galloping horses alerted Metellus and his centurions to the return of the reconnaissance detachment.  A cavalry centurion rode out to meet his troopers, who briefed him quickly before reporting to Metellus.

“We found a settlement about six miles to the west,” the cavalry section leader said, dismounting his horse. He used a stick to draw a crude map in the mud. “This stream meets with the road about a mile before the village. There wasn’t much there, mostly round huts and a few animal pens.”

“Any idea where they went?” a centurion asked.

“There were numerous sets of tracks, both human and animal, headed southwest. I rode to the nearest hilltop and got a good look in that direction, right where those storm clouds are coming from.”

“So at least they’re getting pissed on before us,” a centurion remarked with bitter humour.

“It’s extremely mountainous that way,” the trooper continued. “From what we’ve seen, most of this region is rolling hills and grasslands, with a number of tree groves and thick forests. But if you keep going west or southwest, the terrain becomes extremely rough and extremely rocky.”

With this fresh bit of knowledge, Metellus decided to confer with his centurions before proceeding further. The cavalry scouts had confirmed the route the refugees were taking. Was there really any point in his small taskforce advancing further? They likely had as much actionable intelligence as they were going to attain this day. It would be best to report their findings to General Paulinus as soon as possible. The discussion was brief, and with the storm clouds advancing from the southwest, the entire cohort was anxious to return to camp. Metellus was about to inform the lead centurion to screen their march back, when they heard shouting from where several men were watering their horses.

“Oi! Stop right there, you filthy bastard!”

There was a loud crashing in one of the thickets, and a tall, slender man was seen sprinting away from the contingent. Clad in only a loincloth and sandals, his skin was painted with a series of strange blue markings.

“Get that son of a whore!” a cavalry section leader shouted.

“Alive!” Metellus bellowed after the troopers. “Bring that man to me alive!”

“Think it’s a scout?” one of his centurions asked.

“If so, he’s a sloppy one,” the pilus prior grunted. “We’ll find out who he is soon enough.” He addressed his men.
“Fifth Cohort, fall in!
It’s only six miles back to camp. Let’s see if we can make it back before the storm gods of this land wash us away.”

It took only minutes for a pair of troopers to track down their prey. He made no attempt to defend himself, his only weapon being a small curved sword. Riding at full speed, a mounted lancer smashed him in the back of the head with the butt of his spear. The concussed man’s hands were bound behind his back, and he was gruffly dragged back to Centurion Metellus.

“Rwy’n dod o Caratacus!”
the prisoner screamed over and over, his eyes wide and mouth slobbering in rage.

He added a slew of other biting shouts that the Romans assumed were either threats or insults. Metellus surmised that the man was not of the Deceangli, for none of their warriors had been painted blue. Whoever he was, it was unlikely that he expected to find imperial soldiers in this area, or he would have been more cautious.

“A messenger probably,” a centurion surmised. “Bad spot of luck that in this whole damned region he happened to run right into us.”

“Perhaps the local gods are fucking with them as well,” another remarked. “Either that or ours are simply stronger than theirs.”

Metellus and the barbarian continued to glare at each other.

The pilus prior then said, “Whatever he is, he has information we want. Let’s get him back to General Paulinus and hope our interpreter can speak his frightful tongue.”

The constant invoking of the name ‘Caratacus’ caught the centurion’s attention; indeed, it was the only word any of the Romans understood. Scapula and Paulinus assumed it was the Catuvellauni prince who had united the mountain peoples, and it seemed their assumptions were about to be proven correct.