by K. M. Ashman
‘Subterfuge, my lord. I took on the identity of an escaped Gallic slave and was taken into their village. That night, I killed the guards and cut through the walls of the king’s hut.’
‘He was alone?’
‘Apart from his family, yes. His arrogance brought his demise. He thought the location of his village was safety enough. He was wrong.’
‘And his family?’
‘I killed them all,’ said Cassus without any hint of compassion. ‘His line will not bother us anymore.’
‘So,’ said Vespasian, ‘you brought back his head. What happened then?’
‘When I returned, it was difficult to place me in a unit. The accusation of cowardice had preceded me and it seemed nobody wanted me. For a while I was assigned kitchen duties, but Plautius knew my skills lay elsewhere. Soon he sent me back out to infiltrate the local tribes. At first I used the cover of being an escaped slave, but soon picked up their tongue. After that it was easier. I allowed myself to become as them and now I can mix with most, albeit as a Gaul to explain my strange accent.’
‘Hence your appearance,’ said Vespasian.
Cassus lifted his hand to the large beard now hanging from his face. His hair hung about his shoulders and he looked every bit the native.
‘All part of the subterfuge,’ said Cassus.
‘Tell me, Cassus,’ said Vespasian, ‘how do you feel about another posting into enemy territory?’
Cassus shrugged his shoulders.
‘It makes no difference to me, my lord. I have a debt to fulfil to Plautius. When he feels I have proved my innocence in the slaughter of Mateus’s cohort, only then can I return to the Legion’s lines. One day I will do so and continue to serve Rome as she sees fit. One day, I hope to once more face Prydain Maecilius and plunge my Gladius deep into his heart.’
‘Hmm,’ said Vespasian. ‘What if I was to say that I can make that day come much sooner than you think?’
For the first time, Vespasian saw the glint of interest in Cassus’s eyes. He knew he had touched a nerve.
‘If that were the case, my lord, I would carry out your orders without question, or die in the process.’
‘I thought you would say that,’ said Vespasian, and turned to nod at the guard at the door. The soldier left the room but returned a few moments later followed by a simply dressed local. The strange man was clean shaven and dressed in a tunic and leggings. He strode toward the two waiting men and after a brief nod of the head toward Vespasian in recognition, stopped to stare at Cassus.
Cassus was surprised, not only at the lack of humility but at the fact that the man held a knife and was casually cutting slices from the apple in his hand. Cassus could see that the man was well built and probably from farming or warrior stock.
‘Is this him?’ asked the stranger in perfect Latin.
Again, Cassus was surprised to realise that he was Roman. What sort of man could act with such impunity in front of a Legatus?
‘It is,’ said Vespasian.
The man turned toward Cassus and spoke in fluent Briton.
‘Stand up,’ he said.
After a moment’s pause, Cassus did as he was told and faced the stranger.
The man placed the half-eaten apple on a side table and returned to face Cassus.
‘Defend yourself,’ he said and lunged forward to stab Cassus.
Cassus was unprepared but despite his shock, managed to throw himself to one side avoiding the thrust. He jumped up and spun to meet his attacker.
‘What trickery is this, my lord?’ he shouted. ‘Was I brought here to be murdered?’
Vespasian kept quiet and stepped back to watch the events unfold.
‘Shut up and fight,’ said the stranger.
Cassus knew he had no choice and adopted the defensive stance he knew so well, legs slightly apart with the left slightly in front of the other. His left hand extended out to deflect any attack and his right was held loosely at chest level, ready to take advantage of any opportunity.
Again the man attacked, but this time Cassus was ready for him. He took a pace back, but as he did he grabbed a beaker of wine from the table and threw it into his attacker’s face.
The wine caused the man to adjust his position slightly and Cassus pushed home his advantage. He picked up a stool and aimed it at the man’s head to crush his skull, but as he did, the man regained control and ducked out of the way. The chair smashed harmlessly against the wall, and though Cassus spun around as quickly as he could, it was too late. The stranger was immediately behind him and as he turned, smashed him in the jaw with his fist. Cassus crumpled against the wall and his attacker followed up with his knife. Within seconds, Cassus was still, feeling the cold steel of the attacker’s blade against his throat. Though he didn’t understand the reasons, he knew that his time had come. This was where he died.
The assailant’s face was less than a hand’s width from Cassus’s own and for an age, he stared into Cassus’s eyes, as if seeking something within. Finally, he removed the knife from Cassus’s throat and pushed himself away.
‘Well?’ asked Vespasian.
‘He’ll do,’ said the stranger, ‘those eyes have seen many men die.’
‘Good,’ said Vespasian, ‘when do you want him?’
‘Have him outside the fort gates at dawn,’ said the man and without another word, retrieved his apple from the table before leaving the room.
One of the slaves ran around picking up the broken furniture and Vespasian held out his hand to help Cassus up from the floor.
‘Who was that man?’ asked Cassus.
‘That, Cassus, was Tribune Ocelus, an officer in the Exploratores.’
‘Exploratores?’ asked Cassus.
‘Yes, are you aware of them?’
‘I came across one in the Khymru,’ said Cassus.
‘And what did he have to say for himself?’
‘Not much, really. He told us where to find Caratacus but that was about it.’
‘I’m not surprised, they keep their own counsel. A wise trait in their game, I feel.’
‘So there are more here?’
‘Yes there are more. They are currently deployed throughout Britannia and have been since long before the invasion even set sail from Gaul.’
‘I thought the scouts paved the way,’ said Cassus.
‘Indeed they did,’ said Vespasian. ‘The scouts did an excellent job clearing the signal fires from the cliffs and letting us know the strengths and weaknesses of those armies directly opposing us as our ships landed. But the Exploratores were on a different kind of mission. Claudius knew that the invasion of Britannia was unavoidable. If he wanted to keep the mantle of Emperor, the people demanded a big victory. Gaul was already ours; Germania was too dangerous and the Eastern countries were old news. What he needed was something new to raise him to the ranks of his predecessors, somewhere new and previously unconquered. Bearing in mind that the great Caesar himself had been repelled from these shores on two occasions, Britannia was the perfect target. A full year before the invasion, a unit of Exploratores were sent into Britannia to mingle with their people. They came as traders and were welcomed accordingly.’
‘Didn’t the language pose a barrier?’ asked Cassus.
‘All had received basic instruction back in Gaul,’ said Vespasian, ‘but don’t forget, this was a peaceful time and there were many such Roman traders on the roads of Britannia. During this time they were tasked with learning the language and integrating into the tribes, nothing more.’
‘To what end?’ asked Cassus.
‘Despite his apparent buffoonery, Claudius is a clever man,’ said Vespasian, pouring himself a mug of watered wine. ‘He knew that the invasion was but the first step of many. Our spies had already told him that there were many tribes in these lands and many battles lay before Rome, before she could claim these islands as hers. So he took a longer view and infiltrated the enemy. Tell me, what do you know about the Exploratores?’
/> ‘Not much,’ said Cassus, ‘just that they are an elite fighting unit that are hand-picked from the best the Legions have to offer.’
‘Hmm,’ said Vespasian. ‘Not quite right but near enough. Let me explain. As you know the scouts often hand pick their men from the best Legionaries throughout Rome’s armies. These men often have dubious backgrounds and would probably see out their lives in the salt mines had they not possessed some skill deemed desirable by the officers of the scouts. Some are fantastic riders or have particular weapons skills whilst others have been selected due to their ability to live off the land, or simply their willingness to kill at a moment’s notice. The Exploratores take these skills one step further. You cannot ask to be transferred to the Exploratores as they do not officially exist. They are hand-picked individuals who spend their lives in a solitary existence, living behind enemy lines and reporting back on the enemy’s strengths or weaknesses. Sometimes that means infiltrating their armies, fighting amongst them and killing fellow Romans to prove their allegiance. Others live in the wild, eating off the land and living wherever they can find shelter from the weather.’
‘For how long?’ asked Cassus.
‘However long it takes,’ said Vespasian. ‘Sometimes it could be a few months, other missions could take years. In Germania, I am aware of one who still reports back to the Senate after ten years in the enemy’s camps.’
‘Ten years?’ gasped Cassus.
‘He has become a member of this particularly troublesome tribe’s elder council and his word is trusted. He has even married one of their women and has children.’
‘But why so long?’ asked Cassus. ‘Surely he knows all there is about them.’
‘Perhaps so, but his position now influences the decisions of that tribe and many of our countrymen have been able to be deployed to more troublesome lands as their threat has diminished.’
‘And this is something you would have me do?’
‘Well, perhaps not to that extent but there is a task that would benefit from your particular skills and experiences.’
‘And this is?’
‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Cassus,’ said Vespasian. ‘First of all we need to see if you are as good as you make out. The little test given by Tribune Ocelus a few minutes ago was no more than an introduction. Luckily, he liked what he saw and if you are willing, he will take you under his wing and bring you up to the standards required. Now more than that, I am unable to share. So if you are willing to take this step into the unknown, then the opportunity is there.’
‘Do I have an option?’ asked Cassus.
‘Of course you do. The Exploratores want nobody in their ranks who wouldn’t die to be there. They are very secretive and look down on every other unit in the army. Often, they will be attached to home units just to keep their sword arm strong but usually they move between missions decided by none less than a Legate. When you are not deployed, you cannot share what you do with any outside of your unit. No one except your comrades will know what you do, and then only those you work closest with. Be successful and the rewards are great.’
‘And if I am unsuccessful?’
‘There is no such thing as unsuccessful Exploratore,’ said Vespasian, ‘you are either successful or dead. Take some time and report back to me with your thoughts.’
‘I need no time,’ said Cassus. ‘I accept your offer.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Vespasian. ‘You are probably signing your own death warrant.’
‘I understand what the risks are,’ said Cassus, ‘and I accept them wholeheartedly.’
Vespasian nodded quietly.
‘So be it,’ said Vespasian. ‘I will make the arrangements. Be outside the camp gates at first light. Someone will contact you directly. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a cohort to inspect.’
Cassus saluted and left the officer’s quarters to return to the barracks. This opportunity was exactly the sort of thing he relished and the chance to be part of an elite group of men who shared his values, put meaning back into his existence. As he went, Vespasian followed him out and stood in the shade of the portico. A smaller man joined him from the side of the building.
‘Well, Ocelus,’ he said, ‘do you think he’ll make the grade?’
‘He has fire in his stomach,’ said Ocelus. ‘I don’t think he realises what he is getting into but he has the raw materials. Give me a month and I will bring you either a corpse or an Exploratore.’
‘You do that, Ocelus,’ said Vespasian. ‘I have a very important mission in mind for that young man.’
Ocelus nodded and walked away without saluting. For a second Vespasian was annoyed at the seemingly blatant disregard for his authority, but he stopped himself reacting and sighed inwardly. Ocelus never showed allegiance to anybody. It was annoying, but that’s the way it was. After all, he was an Exploratore.
Chatper 5
The Lands of the Ordovices
46 AD
The village of Lanbard was situated on the side of a winding river and was the central village in the area where many local clans came to trade. As usual the gates were wide open, though flanked by a brace of guards primed to close them should any threat be detected.
The predominant tribe of the surrounding area were the Ordovices, and the main thrust of the tribe’s success was farming. The rich soil and regular rainfall ensured that crops grew in abundance and the surplus was traded with the surrounding tribes. Wheat fields were rotated religiously and after a few years production, they were left to lie fallow. In turn, herds of cattle were allowed to roam free on the natural grass, fertilising the soil with their droppings before the fields were once more planted and the cattle moved elsewhere.
The local hills had long been cleared of trees by their ancestors and shepherds watched over huge flocks of sheep, nurtured for their meat and wool. Though renowned for their farming capabilities, the Ordovices also had their own warrior caste which looked after the farmers, herdsmen and shepherds. Throughout the land the hills were dotted with smaller palisades, used in emergencies to corral the herds, should any unfriendly interlopers pass by. Though the warriors were indeed adequate to see off smaller groups of brigands, they were no match for the warrior clans of Deceangli or Silures that often rode unchallenged through their territory.
Gwydion walked up to the gates of the palisade surrounding the village. One of the guards stood up from the log he was sitting on and stepped onto the path to block his way, peering over the young man’s shoulder to check he was alone. Gwydion sighed quietly to himself as he approached the boy, as he was obviously no more than sixteen years old. It was always a nervous time when approaching a village, especially a fortified one, but when the access points were guarded by youngsters it was always a lot more stressful. These were the ones who were out to make names for themselves and though they did not trouble Gwydion, it was not in his interest to engage in argument.
‘You seem lost, stranger,’ said the guard.
‘I am fine,’ said Gwydion, coming to a halt.
The boy’s hand played about his sword hilt; an action not lost on Gwydion.
‘You dress in the way of the Deceangli,’ said the boy, walking around him, playing up to his comrades who were watching the unfolding scene in amusement.
‘You are blessed with good eyesight,’ said Gwydion, ‘as I am indeed proud to call that tribe my people.’
‘Then I was correct,’ said the boy, ‘and you are indeed lost. This is the land of Ordovices and we don’t like Deceangli around here.’
Ordinarily Gwydion would enjoy the banter, but with the death of Gwenno, he had no inclination to join in the boy’s games. He turned away and faced the three remaining men still sat on the log. Whilst two were enjoying the baiting, the third, the mature one of the group, was more composed and watched quietly. Gwydion addressed himself to him.
‘Friend,’ he said, ‘I recognise the importance of your role here, indeed all your roles, and on another day woul
d gladly clash wits with you, but not on this day.’
‘Hey,’ interrupted the young boy from behind Gwydion, ‘don’t turn your back on me, I haven’t finished with you.’
Gwydion continued addressing his words to the older man.
‘I am Deceangli in the lands of the Ordovices,’ continued Gwydion, ‘and I am at the mercy of your hospitality. I see you are a man of experience, so would ask you as an equal, please call off your pup before both he and I both suffer the consequences.’
The laughter stopped immediately and the younger men stood up, their hands firmly on the hilts of their sword. Behind him, Gwydion heard the boy’s sword being drawn.
‘Hold,’ ordered the older man and stood slowly before approaching and standing directly before Gwydion.
‘Strong words, stranger,’ he said, ‘and perhaps uttered without thought of consequence.’
‘There was thought in my words,’ said Gwydion, ‘and I stand by them.’
‘And what consequences do you envisage?’ asked the older man.
‘Both he and I will die,’ said Gwydion, ‘he by my sword and I by the hands of you and your fellows.’
‘You insult me.’ The boy’s voice came from behind and Gwydion heard the step as the boy walked forward with sword drawn.
‘Stand firm, Drew,’ shouted the older man, ‘and hold your tongue.’
Throughout, neither man’s eyes left the other. Eventually the older warrior spoke again.
‘I think your appraisal is accurate,’ he said, ‘and though my blade has tasted Deceangli blood before, it craves none today. However, I am intrigued. Why would a man whose eyes hold the memories of so much conflict risk death for the words of a boy who knows no better?’
‘It is a fair question,’ said Gwydion, ‘and deserves the truth. At this moment in time life and death holds the same attraction to me. Life so I can find the man who killed my wife and death so I can hold her once more in my arms. Either is welcome.’
‘How did this man kill your wife?’
‘With a throwing axe meant for me,’ said Gwydion. ‘She stepped into its path to save my life.’