by K. M. Ashman
* * *
By the time night fell, the battle was over. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and Durotriges lay dead throughout the fort and on the surrounding hill like autumn leaves on a forest floor. A group of a hundred or so prisoners crouched miserably on the floor of the battlefield, each with their hands tied behind their backs. One man in particular was kept separate and guarded by a circle of Legionaries who took great pleasure in taunting him.
Vespasian rode down from his command tent with his usual unit of mounted bodyguards.
‘Tribune Natta,’ he said as he approached the prisoners, ‘report.’
‘These are the only survivors,’ said Natta. ‘Most are wounded so could not offer resistance at the end. Their lives were spared.’
‘Why?’
‘The battle was over, my lord. We saw no further need for killing.’
‘That is my decision, not yours,’ said Vespasian. ‘Did you find the body of their leader?’
‘We did better than that, my lord, we found him alive hiding like a child within the rubble of a hut.’
‘Where is he?’ asked Vespasian.
‘Over there,’ said Natta and pointed to the miserable figure separated from the rest.
Vespasian dismounted and walked over to the leader and stared down at him in disgust.
‘Get me a translator,’ he shouted and Natta called over a nearby slave.
‘Repeat my words,’ said Vespasian and the slave nodded in fright, careful not to meet the eyes of the Legatus.
‘Tell him to look at me,’ said Vespasian. ‘Tell him to gaze into the eyes of the man who has wiped his clan from the face of the earth.’
The defeated chief lifted his face to look at the general.
‘So, you are the man who had the audacity to challenge the might of Rome,’ he said, ‘the sole reason I have lost over a hundred of my men. How does that feel, Eadric, how does it feel to be the man who single handedly caused the annihilation of his entire clan?’
‘It was the will of the gods,’ said Eadric. ‘They frowned on me today but there are a thousand others waiting to take my place. Do your worst, Roman, for my blood will nourish the soil that sustains my people. Eventually we will prevail. This year, next year or a thousand years from now, your ships will take you crawling back to Rome. I am just one of many, Roman; the first to have the bravery to face you down.’
‘That wasn’t bravery,’ sneered Vespasian, ‘that was stupidity. Your ego cost the lives of your people, and whatever heathen God it is that you worship will surely hold you to account in the afterlife.’
‘I will stand in honour before my gods,’ said Eadric, ‘so take my head, Roman. I do not fear death.’
‘No, I’m sure you don’t,’ said Vespasian, ‘and I understand that every warrior craves death in battle. But what warrior hides while his men die?’
‘The gods told me to save myself for further battles,’ said Eadric. ‘My men were expendable but I am meant for greater things. You are looking at a future King of Britannia, Roman. Send message to the chief of the Durotriges and they will pay good ransom for my return.’
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Vespasian, ‘the time for negotiation is done. My men build a pyre for our fallen and you are responsible. For that you will pay.’ He turned and called to his second in command. ‘Natta!’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘Execute the prisoners.’
‘Yes, my lord. Crucifixion?’
‘No, they fought well. Give them the death they crave. Take their heads.’
‘And this one?’ asked Natta.
‘Guard him well,’ said Vespasian, ‘I have other plans for him.’ Vespasian turned to face the chief for the last time. ‘I gift you twelve more hours of life, Eadric. I suggest you plead for mercy from your gods.’ He walked away from the defeated chief for the last time and summoned his second in command to join him.
‘Natta, attend me,’ he called and the Tribunus Laticlavius trotted over to join him as he walked across the battlefield. All around, scores of fires lit the looming darkness, and those who had fought sat around the fires tending their wounds or sharpening their weapons. Vespasian ordered his bodyguards to withdraw while he and Natta walked amongst their men offering encouragement and support. Anyone trying to stand to show respect was ordered back at ease and both officers crouched occasionally to chat quietly with the combatants.
Any with serious injuries had been taken by the orderlies to the Medicus tents back in the woods whilst those with minor wounds were tended by their comrades within their own Contubernium. Extra rations were being distributed by the Legion’s slaves as well as skins of watered wine. Vespasian knew it was important to let the men unwind and enjoy the victory yet they couldn’t totally relax until they were within the walls of a Legionary fortress. They were still in enemy territory and could face attack at any time, so those units who hadn’t fought that day were deployed in a wider perimeter guard over a two-mile radius allowing the combatants to recover from the battle. As they walked, Vespasian could see all the other officers carrying out the same task as indeed did the centurions. It was an important gesture and one that engendered comradeship and respect between the men and their leaders. Vespasian took his time and tried to visit as many of the fires as he could, listening patently to the stories of their individual battles. Every man had a story to tell and every one was important to them.
Finally he came to a fire with only five men sitting around the flames. In the firelight he could see Barbatus sat amongst them, passing around the wine skin and sharing the stew now bubbling nicely in the communal pot on the fire. The men didn’t notice his arrival until the last moment and Barbatus called them to attention.
‘As you were,’ said Vespasian and looked around the smaller group. Contubernia were made up of eight men and this was almost half the size.
‘Barbatus, the Contubernium is light on numbers,’ he said, ‘where are the others?’
‘All are dead,’ said Barbatus, standing up, ‘as indeed are the rest of their Centuries. Apart from one other with the Medicus, these are all that remain of the condemned men.’
Understanding dawned and Vespasian realised these were the sole survivors of the men who had led the assault up the ladders.
‘You fought well,’ acknowledged Vespasian. ‘Your losses are heavy but were the price to be paid. I am aware that without your ferocity at the cusp, the breach may not have been made. Consider the debt paid and your honour restored. Centurion Barbatus will arrange redeployment when your wounds are healed but until then, consider yourself Immunes.’
The men looked around each other in surprise. As Immunes, they would be exempt the more menial tasks of the Legion and would not be selected to fight any forthcoming battles.
‘Thank you, my lord,’ they murmured.
‘It has been earned,’ said Vespasian before turning to Barbatus. ‘Join us for a few moments,’ he said, ‘I have news.’
Barbatus joined the two officers a few steps away and they talked quietly amongst themselves.
‘As you know, Governor Plautius has been replaced,’ he said. ‘During the battle I had a message from Londinium; Scapula wants us to move north as soon as possible.’
‘North,’ said Natta, ‘but we haven’t finished down here.’
‘The intelligence is that the Durotriges chiefs intend to send representation to Scapula and will bend knee to Rome. We are to leave the rest of the task to politicians and traders.’
‘What is so important in the North that demands the recall of an entire Legion?’ asked Barbatus.
‘The threat is many fold,’ said Vespasian, ‘but in particular, Caratacus has raised his head once more and raids our positions unchallenged.’
‘Which tribe?’ asked Barbatus.
‘Our Exploratores say he now leads the Silures,’ said Vespasian, ‘and our role is to strike deep into their territory and seek him out.’
‘The killing of a king
is indeed a task worthy of a Legion,’ said Barbatus.
‘It is,’ said Vespasian, ‘but that is for the morrow. Give our men this night to let off steam but pass word we move out at midday. I want to be crossing the Sabrina River within ten days. Dismissed.’
Barbatus returned to the campfire to retrieve his helmet before disappearing into the dark to spread the word. Natta returned to the officers’ tents to make the arrangements for the move. The logistics of moving a Legion were huge, especially when on campaign and he knew he would be awake all night making the arrangements for the enormous range of support needed by the Legion, ranging from medical support to spare equipment and food. Luckily, they already had established supply lines but he would still need to send a stream of messengers to ensure any supplies en-route met them at agreed places along the way. It was going to be a long night.
* * *
The following afternoon the entire Legion was formed up on the battlefield for the last time. Before them, their dead comrades were stacked neatly on the top of a huge bonfire, each wrapped in the blood red cloaks of their Legion. A cohort of men formed a guard of honour and encircled the funeral pyre with heads bowed. The silence was profound and eventually an officer approached and gave Vespasian a burning torch. Reverently he walked over to the pyre and without a word, lit the kindling at its base. The flames licked upward and soon the fire became an inferno. The honour guard could feel the heat at their back and the Legion looked on with heavy hearts as they bid farewell to their fallen comrades.
When it was fully ablaze Vespasian gave a signal, and within moments, the assembled Legion heard a commotion to the far end of the field. One by one, every soldier present turned to see the source of the disturbance and were surprised to see a mounted centurion leading a tethered man toward the centre. It soon became clear that the prisoner was none other than Eadric himself, struggling with all his might to escape his bonds as well as cursing his captors and invoking the wrath of his gods against his enemies.
The horse came to a halt and Eadric picked himself up from the dust where he had fallen. Vespasian ignored him and turned to face his Legion.
‘Men of the Augusta,’ he roared, ‘we are Legionaries and are prepared to die in the service of Rome. We go in peace but those who oppose us feel the wrath of Rome. No man wants to die but sometimes the decision is not ours. Sometimes it is taken by great men, like Plautius or Claudius but sometimes that decision is taken by lesser men, men not worthy to carry your shields. Before you stands one such man. He is Eadric of the Durotriges, leader of this hill fort and pretender to the Kingship of Britannia. This man alone is responsible for the death of your comrades and has requested he be ransomed back to his tribe. If we do this there will be bounty for all, but that decision is not mine. His life is yours to grant or deny, so, men of the Augusta, what say you? Do you grant this man his life?’
The Legion’s response was deafening and exploded in deafening shouts of ‘nay, kill the scum,’ or ‘death to the Durotriges’. Vespasian turned slowly on the spot, looking at the angry faces of his men and finally held up his hand for silence. When he could be heard once more, he turned to speak to Eadric.
‘The men of the Augusta have spoken, Eadric,’ he said, ‘you have been judged by your betters.’
‘But I am a king,’ said Eadric, his voice breaking. ‘I am worth a hundred of your men, a thousand even. Sell me to my people and you will be a rich man, you all will. There is gold enough for all.’
‘We are not interested in your gold, Eadric,’ said Vespasian, ‘it will be ours soon enough. What we are interested in is making sure those who have fallen are served in the afterlife in the manner which they deserve.’ His voice lowered and became little more than a growl. ‘They will need a servant, Eadric; one to cook for them, to clean their armour and to see to their every whim until the end of time. They were great men who deserve the best and who better to serve them than a warrior king?’
Eadric’s face fell and he looked over at the fire with terror on his face.
‘No,’ he groaned, ‘not that. Take my head if you must but not the fire. Please, I implore you, not the fire.’
‘Enough,’ shouted Vespasian. ‘Silence your cowardly tongue and face death like a man. Centurion, throw him to the flames.’
‘No,’ moaned Eadric, ‘please no.’
Four Legionaries approached and untied his bonds before dragging him toward the fire.
‘No,’ wailed Eadric, ‘please no.’
The four soldiers ran forward and threw the screaming prisoner into the flames before retiring quickly away from the heat. For a few second the massed ranks heard him scream in pain as he thrashed futilely in the flames, but slowly the screaming stopped and his body slumped into the base of the fire.
Vespasian turned and raised his Gladius.
‘Men of the Augusta,’ he roared, ‘our men are avenged and our time here is done. We move onward to greater things. Legio Augusta, advance!’
The hills echoed to the sound of a hundred horns and thousands of men marched across the plain before the roaring funeral pyre. The enemy bodies had been left where they fell and many were already suffering the attentions of the crows and magpies. That night beasts of a different kind would soon arrive and wolf packs from miles around would have full stomachs for a long time.
As the columns passed the fire every man saluted in deference to their dead comrades. The guard of honour remained on station and would do so until the remains of their dead comrades had been entirely consumed by the flames. After that, they would bring up the rear of the Legion on their long march northward to confront the Silures. The phoney war was over – the real struggle was about to begin.
Chatper 16
The Lands of the Silures
50AD
Caratacus led his men through the forests of the Khymru. He had waited years for this moment and his army numbered over ten thousand strong. Half of those were the survivors from the battle of Tamesas who had found their way south, but the rest were made up of the clans of the Silures, who had agreed to ride under his banner.
Since they had left Llanmelin a year earlier, his army had harassed the Romans all along the borders of the Khymru and deep into the lands of the Dobunii, proving a thorn in the side of the enemy Legion based there. The Valeria Victrix had been sent to oppose him and had established a permanent fortress on the far side of the great river separating the Khymru from the rest of the country and though Caratacus felt he was now strong enough to take on a Legion, he had learned from his defeat at Tamesas and held back from confronting them on the open battle field.
Instead he adopted the hit and run tactics of the Silures and wreaked havoc on the supply lines of the Romans. Cavalry were often sent out in response to Caratacus’s attacks but by the time they arrived, the Silures were nowhere to be seen.
As well as the Roman supply lines, Caratacus preyed on the clans of the Dobunii and lost no sleep in killing his countrymen. They had bent the knee to the invaders and deserved everything they got but more than that, as a client clan of the Romans they were entitled to the invaders protection and soon there were so many clans begging for their aid, Geta’s Legion were unable to patrol aggressively and had become static along the banks of the river.
The incoming governor had seen the threat and had redeployed Vespasian’s Second Augusta to drive into the Silures heartland, endeavouring to kill the troublesome king. But the continued hit and run warfare meant that Vespasian’s men hardly caught sight of their enemy, let alone engaged them in battle. For a year the Augusta chased shadows around the southern hills of the Silures so in response, Caratacus had led his army north into mountains of the Ordovices, avoiding the attentions of the Romans by staying constantly on the move. All the Khymric tribes were supportive and for two years Caratacus proved an astute and successful leader, inflicting loss after loss on the Romans. Finally Scapula had enough and called a briefing of all the Legates to meet him at the Legionary fortre
ss in Londinium, the first time he had met the Legates of all Legions in one place. All four left their Legions in the hands of their junior officers and travelled for days cross country with their respective cohorts of bodyguards. Finally they reached Londinium, where they were summoned to the quarters of Scapula himself.
Vespasian was the last to arrive having had the furthest to travel and had only been in Londinium for a matter of hours. He entered the officers’ quarters and looked around with interest. Since his last visit the timber buildings had been replaced by stone and the city outside the fortress sprawled for miles in each direction.
The other Legates were already there and turned to greet him as he entered.
‘Hail Vespasian,’ said Geta.
‘Gentlemen, good to see you all again,’ said Vespasian. ‘I wish it could be in different circumstances.’
‘Indeed,’ said Geta, ‘this Caratacus turns out to be an itch that refuses to be scratched.’
Nasica handed Vespasian a goblet of wine and for the next half hour they all discussed their relative campaigns of the last two years. Finally the door opened and Governor Scapula walked in. He threw his cloak to one side and demanded wine from a nearby servant.
‘Gentleman, thank you for coming,’ said Scapula. ‘I know you yearn to return to your Legions but this matter will not wait.’ He sat back in his chair and took the proffered wine from the slave. ‘Leave us,’ he said and the woman left the officers alone in the room. Scapula drank deeply before refilling his own goblet from the nearby amphorae. ‘Please sit,’ he said waving toward the chairs situated around the table. ‘So,’ he said eventually, ‘let’s get straight to the point. This so-called King of Britannia, somebody tell me why he still lives.’
The assembled generals looked around in surprise. The demand was curt and the governor was obviously annoyed.