The Broken Lance

by Jess Steven Hughes

  I don’t know why, but for some reason I found myself attracted to this comely young woman. My mind should have been on Kyar, she was the one I loved. I forced Eleyne from my mind by turning to General Sabinus and filling him in on the details of the rescue.

  By the time I finished my report, we arrived at the bridge. Eleyne’s wagon, being swiftly repaired, was parked to one side along the bank. Her maid waddled toward us as fast as her bulky frame would carry her, crying, arms flying, and squealing something in the Regni tongue. Eleyne leaned over and reassured her in a comforting voice.

  I helped Eleyne down. Now that her clothes were beginning to dry, she seemed to weigh no more than a feather.

  She addressed me in a formal voice, which I believe was for the benefit of the officers, “Thank you, Sergeant. I’m grateful to you for saving my life. May the god Lugh and the goddess of this river smile upon you.” She climbed into the wagon with her serving woman and rode across the bridge with a new driver at the reins.

  Sabinus motioned to me, and we clasped the inside of one another’s arm at the elbow in Roman fashion. “Rome does not forget her soldiers, Sergeant.”

  After releasing my grip, the general turned to Rufius. “You command a brave group of men, Decurion. You must be proud of them.”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Rome shall be duly notified in my next dispatch of Sergeant Reburrus’s brave act,” Sabinus continued.

  Once Sabinus had ridden away, Rufius and the men congratulated me. As the ancient Turdetanian saying goes, this had been the second time the general and I had crossed the path of the sun and the moon. Were our destinies intended to be intertwined? I was beginning to wonder. Then I derided myself for such superstition. All the same, it was a portent of good fortune. A man of his power and station could help my efforts to become a knight.

  But would fortune smile upon me?

  Chapter 15 - June, 44 AD

  Maugh-Dun Castle loomed ahead as our troop scouted three miles in front of the legionary forces late afternoon of the following day. Overpowering in size, the great monolith shimmering in the scorching heat crowned a long, narrow hill, surrounded by three deep, defensive ditches.

  An hour later, the forward elements of the Second Augustan Legion arrived in the area, and soldiers started building a fortified camp. Even as construction of our legion base proceeded, on a rise opposite the enemy fortress, Spanish and German Batavian cavalry patrolled the woods and surrounding countryside, making certain no enemy reinforcements slipped through.

  Later that afternoon, our cohort received word from Legion Headquarters that the hillfort population was concentrated at its east end. For reasons known only to the Durotrigians, they had abandoned the western side. Now, it was used as a cemetery. Still, the gate at that end could be used as an escape route.

  Posted primarily along the fortresses eastern perimeter, the Durotrigian guards confidently watched us from behind high stone walls and wooden battlements, yelling challenges and obscenities. But Syrian archers, strung out along the top of the third outer ditch, still in range, kept them at bay. Just before dusk, after one Celt bared his butt to our ranks and took an arrow in the cheek, their taunts dwindled sharply.

  After the troop had returned from a reconnaissance of the area and penned in the horses for the night, Rufius, now senior decurion of Cavalry Cohort Hispanorum Vettonum, gathered the men around him outside the corral. The squadron and the rest of the cohort had been billeted in a series of tents behind the Praetorium, Legion Headquarters, near the Porta Decumana, north entrance of the fortified camp.

  “There’s no telling if the Durotrigians received reinforcements before we arrived,” Rufius told us. “At least no more of the buggers will be getting through. Is that right, lads?”

  “Yes, sir!” the men responded as one.

  “Couldn’t they have hired mercenaries?” I asked. “They’re considered wealthy.” I turned my head in the direction of Maugh-Dun Castle and back to Rufius. “The fort is big enough to an army the size of a legion.”

  “That’s General Vespasian’s belief—they could have been reinforced,” Rufius said. “In fact, legionary scouts spotted a couple hundred warriors sneaking into the fort before dawn on the westside. They said the leader fit the description of Caratacus.”

  “Cartatacus?” I said. “Are they sure?”

  “As certain as they can be given the circumstances. The head man was taller than the rest of his warriors with big shoulders. He wore a bright red and gold cloak over chain mail and bright tartan breeches.”

  “He’s known to wear flashy clothing,” Crispus said. “It could be him.”

  “Last reports said he was north of the Tamesis River,” I said.

  Rufrius nodded. “We’re bound to find out sooner or later if the scouts were right. So be alert.”

  “When the savages lose this battle, and they will, they’ll use the west gate as an escape route,” I explained.

  “It’ll be our job to keep a watch and then funnel them into the trap that’s waiting for them.” Rufius explained what was in store for the enemy.

  I looked about seeing the troopers murmuring among themselves, some grinning, including Crispus.

  Rufius twisted his head toward the main part of the camp past the Praetorium where hundreds of tents were set up in grids crisscrossed by three main avenues and several narrow pathways. The camp was a hive of activity. The whinnying of horses echoed from the nearby corral, cooking fire smoke wafted on the gentle breeze, soldiers bantered, centurions barked orders, and noise from chinking armor resonated as soldiers marched into camp from patrol. The decurion turned back and surveyed the sentries moving along the ramparts, peering outward, eyes searching the perimeter for enemy infiltrators. Rufius turned back to us and spat. “We’ll see if the bloody ground pounders can wipe out those savages. It’d make our jobs easier. If not, then we’ll slice up the escaping survivors.”

  “Storming the fort is the infantry’s job anyway,” I said. “No room for maneuvering horses.”

  “Ain’t these Durotrigians supposed to be nothing more than iron makers and traders, sir?” Crispus asked Rufius. “Doesn’t sound like they’d put up much of a fight.”

  Rufius shook his head. “Don’t underestimate them, they’ll slice your guts as easy as the next savage. They’re warriors. If Caratacus is there, he’ll cut their throats if they don’t fight.”

  Crispus surveyed the fortress walls. “In other words, stay on guard and expect anything.”

  The decurion nodded. “Better chance of keeping your head.”

  Darkness fell, but all through the chilly night, batteries of Onagers catapulted weights and stones over the ramparts, while Ballistas hurled large bolted arrows and fireballs of oiled rags onto the thatch-roofed homes and shops within the fort, igniting dozens of huts. The hilltop was aglow with flames.

  *

  At first light, the army assembled into cohorts outside of the camp to the blare of the trumpeting circular cornus. In the presence of General Vespasian, the white-robed haruspice sacrificed a pure-white goat. The reader of entrails found the liver flawless and proclaimed a great victory for the general. After a brief harangue by Vespasian, in which he called the men “my brothers-in-arms,” the army cheered and advanced on the fortress.

  Using the forest as cover, Batavian and Spanish cavalry forces, including our unit, deployed along the northwestern end of the hill to cut off enemy escape. The hill sloped gently from the great hillfort into a plain, bordered on both sides by thick forests. The River Frome meandered in the distance. Deployed with Vespasian’s legionaries and other auxiliaries, Infantry Cohort First Asturum participated in the main attack.

  As our squadron perspired in the morning heat, we watched the assault from our mounts on a rise. I patted Argento on the side of his neck and shoulder calming him with soothing words. He was a little jumpy and kept swinging his head from side to side, occasionally snorting. I had ridden him in several campaigns i
n Germania and now, Britannia. No doubt he sensed the coming battle.

  Several cohorts of Roman legionaries, followed by Gallic, Pannonian, and Spanish auxiliaries, moved toward the fortress’s twin eastern portals. In unison, the troops marched up the snaking road between the three high defensive ditches, to the main gate. Locking shields tightly together to the front, the sides, and above their heads, the troops fell into the protective formation known as the turtle. Once they came into range, the barbarians found it nearly impossible to penetrate with their arrows, spears, leaden balls, and stones.

  Covering the advancing troops, barrages of iron-tipped missiles, fired by crossbows known as scorpions from small mobile platforms, whisked skyward and fell like a deadly, black cloud of locusts upon the defenders.

  On higher ground, Syrian sharpshooters sprayed a shower of arrows covering the infantry attack. Despite the hail of missiles cutting down dozens of defenders, the surviving Durotrigians hurled javelins and a murderous barrage of small, leaden balls and rocks down on the attackers as they attempted to smash through the thick, wooden gates.

  Crispus sat on his mount to my right. “The only good thing about this position is that we have a view of the battle.”

  “That’s the only advantage,” I replied. “At least we won’t get picked off like those poor bastards.” Straining my eyes, I surveyed the top of the fortress wall. Then I saw him, I thought my heart would stop.

  “Look, Crispus, it’s Caratacus.” I pointed to a warrior taller than the rest, wearing the clothing and helmet described earlier. He darted along the palisade wall ducking incoming arrows and missiles, his escorting retainers blocking them with protective shields. Handed to him by his men, he hurled several javelins down on our troops.

  “That’s him, all right, damn!” Crispus said.

  “Right in the thick of it.”

  We watched from a distance as our infantrymen reached the fortress

  “For once I pity the Romans,” Crispus said, “especially, with Caratacus on the wall, he’ll kill his share of our troops.”

  “Too bad Gallus isn’t commander of one of the infantry units, instead of ours,” I said. “I wouldn’t shed any tears if a stray enemy arrow downed him. Even better if Caratacus struck him down.”

  Crispus grinned, revealing his yellowed teeth. “Aye, you wouldn’t have to repay your loan.”

  I chuckled. “The thought entered my mind.”

  “More than once, I’d wager.” He shrugged. “You have to admit he has never shrunk from his duty.”

  I turned toward Crispus. A sneer crossed my lips. “Only because General Vespasian keeps breathing down his neck.”

  “Still, the whoreson has the luck of Castor and Pollux,” Crispus said. “I’ve seen more than a few Briton javelins fly past his ears during this campaign.”

  “Aye,” I answered grudgingly, “he’s no coward, but then, he’s no friend of the Iberians either.”

  We watched the legionaries battling their way up to the gates. Despite the continuous rain of missiles by the artillery, the Durotrigians resisted the Roman assault, relentlessly hurling rocks and javelins on the troops below. Caratacus continued to run back and forth among the enemy, hurling more spears. In the distance the sounds of battle cries reached our ears along with the gut-wrenching screams of the wounded struck down by the enemy.

  Crispus spat, “Gods, I’d give anything to kill that bastard.”

  “We can’t do anything right now,” I said to Crispus. “Our job is to block the escape of any survivors. Still, I don’t like it, sitting here while our comrades go to their deaths.”

  “They know what they’re facing,” Crispus said. “It’s the risk every infantryman takes.”

  He was right. All we could do was sit and wait and grit our teeth until the infantry breached the gate. The legionaries might be fortunate enough to kill or even capture Caratacus.

  “We’ll get our chance yet,” Crispus said, “you’ll see.”

  The battle raged. Drifting columns of smoke obscured the castle. A minor victory brought war cries from the wall. After a desperate struggle, the legionaries breached the barricade. Behind them followed the Gauls, Pannonians from the central Danubus River Region. The roar of war cries came from inside, and the clash of metal on metal and agonized screams resounded on the breeze. Because of Maugh-Dun Castle’s huge size, I wondered if our forces would capture the fortress without anyone escaping. I remembered an earlier conversation with Rufius and Crispus, be ready for anything.

  Crispus pointed to the hillfort. “Look, the Britons are deserting the wall!”

  “It’s not over yet,” I said. “This isn’t Hod Hill, I’d wager they’ve got a whole army in there.”

  “And Caratacus, their leader,” Crispus said.

  After what seemed like hours, a loud rumble erupted from the direction of the western gate. Bursting through the entrance, a large host riding small Celtic horses and pony-drawn, wicker chariots, wheels rumbling over the chalky earth, hooves clattering loudly in the direction of the River Frome.

  From the back of a sleek, gray mount, a tall, powerfully built warrior led the group, his chainmail dirty and bloody. His tarnished sunset hair streamed beneath an iron helmet topped with a silver eagle. Nearly one thousand riders followed in a cloud of swirling dust, armed women among them. I had heard said in times of crisis, Celtic women fought alongside their men.

  Immediately, my shoulders tightened, and tiny bumps rippled up my back and arms. The sun’s morning heat, which I had barely noticed, turned my mailed armor into a boiling cauldron. Perspiration poured down the side of my face and neck. I wiped sweaty hands on my breeches and shortened Argento’s reins. Pulling the staked lance from the earth next to my mount, I gripped the weapon and turned to Crispus. “Now it’s our turn.”

  Sextus Rufius raised his sword, and the signifer elevated the standard of the Roman eagle. “Get ready men, and remember your orders. On my command—now!” A trooper sounded the advance on his half-curled trumpet, the lituus. A war cry erupted from the men.

  Rufius led the troop forward at a trot, changing to a canter, and then a gallop. The cavalry pursued, but deliberately holding back, nipped at the enemy stragglers’ flanks, herding them blindly into the jaws of our trap.

  The screaming enemy horde flowed within the narrowing terrain, funneling through the banks of a wooded tree line that stood between them and the river. Chariots hurtled downward toward the muddied banks like a flash flood, with no battle order, every man for himself.

  At the last moment, the trumpeter sounded another call, and the cavalry of Batavians and Iberians veered away. The barbarians’ momentum carried them forward. We halted at a vantage point on the upper grass plains sloping towards the river.

  “Now, we’ll see if the plan works,” I said.

  Two cohorts of auxiliary infantry, the Vascones from the Pyrenees, and another of Gauls, sprang from both sides of the narrow gauntlet and formed a human dam, fifty shields across and twenty deep. One thousand spears begged for a taste of blood.

  Unable to slow the tidal wave, the Celtic horde’s main body followed the leader like a snapping whip, impaling themselves with a roaring thud on the first Vascones’ lines, followed by echoing screams of agony and dying from friend and foe alike.

  Branches of the whip drew blood of their own, gouging deep into the ranks, nearly splitting the cohort like a parting sea. Because of their Roman discipline and training, the Vascones closed the breech as Gauls from the rear quickly filled the wounded lines and hooked the interlocking flanges of their shields to their comrades.

  Nearly forty infantrymen died in those few seconds of violent turmoil. Like an undertow, the Celtic wave rushed into the gap. But a hail of javelins rained from the ranks into the turmoil of screaming horses, chariots, and maimed and dying warriors.

  The great horde spun in confusion. Dust roiled everywhere. Clots of chariots and men spun off toward the black woods, only to be pinioned by spears. A f
ew dozen Celtic footmen had survived the mass of pursuing cavalry, only to stand impotently cursing their own chariots for not giving them sanctuary.

  Death plowed the field, severed clumps of human bodies disappearing beneath trodden hooves and Roman boots. The sick-sweet stench of blood, urine, and feces drifted on the wind. Death, a certainty before the barbarians, a certainty beside them. Through us was their only hope of survival—less than five hundred Spanish and Batavian cavalries!

  Rufius motioned to the trumpeter, who sounded the charge.

  The decimated Britons banded together in a frenzy.

  We raced toward the enemy to the deafening sound of clattering hoofs and snorting horses. I readied my lance and set sight on a sweating, bare-chested, tattooed savage looming ahead. He came into range at the moment our line clashed with theirs. Bracing myself against the twin saddle horns, timing myself with Argento’s rising and falling stride, I leaned forward and hurled the missile, striking him in the stomach. Blood gushed from his mouth as he doubled over and fell from his mount. I drew my sword and hacked through several Britons, the blade almost lodging in the last victim’s spine before I pulled it free, nearly falling from my mount.

  Straight ahead rode a fiery-eyed, flaxen-haired woman wielding a long, slashing sword. She screamed like a Fury from the underworld, and rushed towards me, swinging her bloodied weapon. Her screeching rose above the din of battle, and sent chills down my neck. Initially shoving back my weapon with a loud crash, I barely parried her blow to the side. Then with a downward thrust I stabbed her through the breast, hearing the sound of crunching as my weapon pushed back towards me. For all her shrieking, she died in shocked silence. It was the first time I had killed a woman, but I didn’t have time to dwell on it.

  “Look! Rufius is surrounded!” someone shouted.

  Sextus Rufius wielded his gelding desperately, trying to defend himself against a dozen warriors. I slashed my way through more Celts and rushed to his aid. He received a blow to his shoulder by one attacker cutting through his protective chain mail. Another warrior hamstrung his black and white piebald, spilling him onto the ground. He rolled from his horse in agony. A savage was about to run him through, but I swung my weapon, nearly slicing him in half, his bones snapping and blood spattering on my mailed armor.