by K. M. Ashman
Far to the south, Vespasian had also received the orders from Scapula and had turned his Legion northward to close Caratacus’s escape route. Though he was several days away, he knew the Silures would already have riders galloping north to warn their people of the approaching threat from the Augusta and that was exactly what he wanted.
* * *
Scapula was the closest of all and his Legion lay concealed in the forests to the east of the ridge containing Caratacus’s army. He hadn’t received word from Geta and could only hope he was in striking distance. Caratacus was exactly where they wanted him, but if he left the ridge before the arrival of any of the other Legions, then Scapula would be forced to face Caratacus on less than favourable terms, a situation he wanted to avoid at all costs. He also knew that whatever happened, the confrontation would have to be the following day. The time for waiting was over.
Chatper 21
The Plains of the Cornovii
50AD
Prydain walked from sentry to sentry along the eastern edge of the escarpment. He had been there for the last hour and had been tasked to ensure the sentries stayed alert to the possibility of a night attack. He approached two of the men sitting on a rock and talking quietly, as they blew on their hands to garner some warmth in the pre-dawn chill. Behind them, the horizon appeared slowly out of the darkness, heralding the imminent rising of the sun and the start of the army’s continued march northward.
All around he could hear the sound of warriors stirring from their sleep and rummaging in their packs for food to break their fast. Horses snorted from the lower slopes as their riders approached to prepare them for the day’s ride, and on the other hill he could see the movement of hundreds of men milling about, as the army stirred from its slumber. He turned around and looked to his front once more, knowing his stint would be over within the next half hour.
The plains below were still cloaked in darkness, and as the sun’s rays crept through the fissures of the rocks they reached into the dense darkness below, long spears of light piercing the heart of the dark enemy.
Prydain turned to walk away but something caught his eye and he spun to stare into the valley. For a second there was nothing, but within moments it happened again; a flash of light where no flash of light should be. Subconsciously he grabbed the warrior’s shoulder before him and stared into the darkness, hoping desperately he was wrong, but when it happened a third time he knew he was right – it was a reflection.
* * *
To the north, Cassus rode toward the hill in the darkness. He knew he was taking a risk but it was one he had to take. The slopes loomed high above and soon he heard the sound of a river ahead. Somewhere along the river, he knew there would be a bridge, but he could not afford to waste any time searching for it; he had to be back amongst the warriors before sunrise.
Realising there was little time, he jumped from his horse and slapped its haunches to send it back into the valley. He stripped naked and holding his clothes above his head, waded into the river, gasping as the icy water reached up to his midriff. He picked his way forward, feeling carefully with his feet for good purchase, expecting at any second to be washed away by the current.
Eventually he reached the far bank and wiped the worst of the water from his body with a handful of bracken. As he was dressing, he suddenly stopped and stood slowly upright as he felt a spear point rest lightly on the back of his neck.
‘Declare yourself, stranger,’ said a voice.
‘I am Cassus,’ he said, ‘son of Bearskin, warrior of the Catuvellauni.’
‘Why were you on the far side of the river?’ asked the voice.
‘I was sent on a special mission by Caratacus,’ said Cassus, ‘and need to reach him as soon as possible. I had no time to seek a bridge.’
‘Turn around,’ said the voice.
Cassus turned slowly and faced the warrior. He was a young man and even in the dark, Cassus could see the arrogance in his manner.
‘I too am Catuvellauni,’ said the warrior, ‘and you have an accent that is strange to me.’
‘I ride with the Deceangli,’ said Cassus, ‘or at least I did. My men are all dead, ambushed by the Romans. Only I survived and have important news for the king.’
‘How do I know you are not a Roman spy?’ asked the warrior.
‘Take me to Caratacus,’ said Cassus, ‘he will vouch for me.’
‘No, we will wait here until the next patrol passes and have you taken to be questioned by our leaders. If you are who you say you are, they will know the truth.’
Cassus thought quickly. Actually the last person he wanted to see was Caratacus as he had returned for one reason and one reason only – to kill Prydain. He turned his head quickly to look across the river.
‘What was that noise?’ he asked.
The warrior followed his gaze and Cassus took the opportunity to swipe aside the spear before plunging his knife up through the young warrior’s throat and into his brain. For a second the man’s eyes opened wide in terror before he fell silently to the floor, already dead.
Cassus withdrew his blade and wiped it on the man’s tunic before replacing the knife in his belt. He dragged the body to the river and pushed it amongst the reeds, making sure it was hidden from prying eyes, before making his way up the hill toward the ridgeline.
* * *
Caratacus and his warlords ran from their huts and over to the ramparts of the small hill fort, to witness the events unfolding on the plains below. All around the hill, his warriors were running to collect their weapons and take station at the defences.
Before him in the growing morning light, thousands of Romans manoeuvred into position on the plain. Dust clouds raised by Centuries of galloping horses cast a haze over the infantry cohorts and Caratacus gazed in awe at the precision of the military discipline. From his position he could see the different arms of the Legion ranging from the slingers, archers and spear throwers to the magnificent auxiliary cavalry and the massed array of red caped Legionaries, each moving into position.
‘How did they do this?’ snapped Caratacus. ‘How can one man move an army of thousands in the dark with no noise? It is impossible.’
Nobody answered; they were too busy staring at the army before them. Ordinarily they would not think twice about attacking an enemy head on, but the river formed an unmoveable barrier and they had been hemmed in by their own defences. Caratacus spun around.
‘The bridge,’ he called, ‘have they reached it yet?’
‘No my lord,’ answered a voice.
‘Then get down there,’ he shouted, ‘and get the cavalry across. Hurry.’
One of his warlords ran from the hill, shouting orders. Below him, men mounted their horses and galloped along the river toward the bridge, but as they drew close, they saw a horde of riders racing toward them on the other side.
‘Too late,’ shouted one of the warriors, ‘their numbers are many.’
‘Then deny them the crossing,’ shouted the warlord, ‘bring me fire.’
The riders dismounted and were joined by dozens of nearby infantry to pile bracken on the bridge.
‘My lord, they draw close,’ shouted a warrior.
‘Then buy me some time,’ shouted the warlord, ‘we cannot give them this crossing.’
The man paused for a second before remounting his horse.
‘Follow me!’ he screamed, and led his unit of fifty cavalry galloping across the bridge toward the advancing cohort.
‘Keep working,’ shouted the warlord, and quickly the bridge was filled with bracken and brushwood. Within minutes the crossing was piled high and a line of slaves ran from the camp with burning torches.
‘My lord,’ said a warrior, ‘the bridge is ready. What would you have us do?’
In the distance the warlord could see his men closing in on the much larger Roman force, and knew there would be no survivors.
‘Burn it,’ he said and turned his own horse to gallop back up the hill.
Behind hi
m the flames caught the brushwood immediately and within moments the bridge was ablaze, denying the enemy a place to cross.
* * *
Back on the summit, Caratacus was busy issuing orders. He knew he couldn’t retreat as the majority of his army were foot soldiers and the Roman army would cut them down within hours, so he had to make a stand here on the hill.
‘Get me some riders,’ he screamed and a few moments later, several men rode up in a cloud of dust.
‘You men,’ he said, ‘there is a passable ford half a day to the south. Break through their lines and then split up. Half are to head west and find the Silures, while the rest will ride north and try to reach Idwal. He is two day’s ride away but if we can hold this hill for a few days, Idwal’s men will force them to turn and protect their rear. This day is not yet lost. With the Silures warriors and Idwal’s army we can still emerge victorious. Now get moving and do not fail me.’
The riders turned their horses and galloped away.
‘The rest of you,’ he shouted, ‘build up the walls and place our spear throwers along the riverbank. If they want this victory, they will pay in blood for every step they take.’
The warlords returned to their men, and as the Legion across the river continued their manoeuvres, Caratacus’s army frantically searched for more boulders to strengthen their defences.
* * *
Two hours later, Geta sat astride his horse looking over his assembled Legion. He knew that from the hill it would look an awesome sight, yet close up he could see the exhaustion in every man’s eyes. They had marched all night and were in no fit state to fight, but it was important they portrayed an image that would make Caratacus pause for thought.
Blood had already been drawn as a unit of riders had ridden from the hill and attacked a far stronger force of his own cavalry. The skirmish had lasted only minutes and every warrior had been slaughtered mercilessly.
Reports had come back regarding the burning of a bridge, a fact that amused Geta. The burning of a single bridge would have no effect on his Legion whatsoever. If they needed bridges, his engineers would build them, dozens of them if necessary and within a matter of days. It was as simple as that. These people had no idea who they were dealing with.
Rufius approached and reined in his horse alongside the Legate.
‘My lord, the Legion is in position. What are your orders?’
Geta didn’t answer but looked around at the massed ranks.
‘They are exhausted,’ said Geta. ‘How can I ask them to fight?’
‘They are Legionaries, my lord,’ said Rufius. ‘I promised you an army and an army is what we have. Yes they are tired but one word from you and we will assault this hill with every ounce of strength we have left.’
‘To what effect?’ asked Geta.
‘Only the gods can foretell the outcome,’ said Rufius, ‘but once across the river, we will not retreat.’
‘Any sign of Scapula or Vespasian?’
‘No, my lord. We have sent out scouts but there is no sign as yet.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Geta, ‘perhaps we should wait.’
‘My lord,’ said the Primus Pilus, ‘every minute we wait, those defences get higher and our men will grow more tired. We have waited years and marched hundreds of miles to get this opportunity, the longer we wait the higher the possibility he will escape.’
‘I see the sense in your words, Rufius, but I cannot go against the orders of Scapula. He made it clear there were to be a minimum of two Legions for any assault.’
‘Then at least unleash the Onagers,’ said Rufius.
‘To what end?’ asked Geta. ‘They will not reach the fortress from down here.’
‘No, but it will at least keep their heads down and stop them building up the defences on the slopes. Scapula may be here at any moment and anything we can do to ease the assault will help.’
‘You are right of course,’ said Geta, ‘and my hesitation shames me. Give the order for the engineers to prepare the machines. Support them with archers and make sure every man in earshot knows about our intentions. Prepare to advance the Legion and let’s send this heathen king a message he will never forget.’
The orders were quickly passed down the line and within moments, ranks of Cornicines blasted out the signal. Every soldier in the Legion stood to attention and from the depths of their ranks, a squad of riders galloped out to join Geta. The front rank opened and a fully armoured Legionary rode forward draped in a lion’s skin cloak, holding up the sacred emblem of the Legion, the Aquila.
Every pair of eyes stared at the sculptured eagle perched on its golden laurel wreath, wings outstretched and grasping a thunderbolt in its talons. Geta rode up alongside the Aquilifer and together they turned to face the hill.
Geta drew his Gladius and held it high.
‘Twentieth Valeria Victrix,’ he called, ‘before us lays the king of this cursed country. Take this day and we take Britannia.’ He dropped his sword to point toward the hill. ‘For the Emperor and for Rome, advance!’
Immediately, five hundred drums beat out a march and as one, thousands of soldiers stepped forward in time to the beat, the whole plain a chequerboard of trained soldiers marching toward the ultimate battle, each one exhausted yet determined to win the day.
* * *
Yet again, Caratacus looked down in awe. The entire plain was full of manoeuvring cohorts and as one they approached the base of the hills.
‘Get more men to the river,’ he screamed, and watched as hundreds of men reinforced those already in the front line. ‘Get me archers and prepare to darken the skies.’
The hill was alive with running men, and within minutes they had each taken up their defensive positions. Along the nearest bank, a thousand warriors held spears before them, ready to repel anyone wading across the river. Behind them rows of archers waited patiently for their opportunity to release their arrows and further back stood the main bulk of the army, the experienced warriors armed with sword or axe.
Caratacus descended the hill and faced the oncoming enemy. Over the water he could see his counterpart leading the Legion toward him. Suddenly, the drums stopped and the army ground to a halt in a cloud of dust. Caratacus stared at the Romans, impatient for the battle to begin.
* * *
Across the river, Geta turned to his second in command.
‘Hold the Legion here,’ he said, ‘I will give this so-called king one more chance to save his people’s lives. Rufius, attend me. And bring an interpreter.’
With a gentle kick, he urged his horse forward in the company of his Aquilifer. Though the sun was still low in the sky, a bead of sweat ran down his cheek and dripped from his chin onto the breast plate of his gleaming bronze Lorica Segmentata. It was ceremonial armour and unwieldy in battle, but every Roman knew that image was important when dealing with barbarians. His scarlet cloak blew gently in the wind and he glanced nervously at the standard bearer at his side, slightly satisfied that he was also awash with sweat.
Centurion Rufius rode up beside them, his own scarlet cloak blowing in the wind, though his armour consisted of a leather tunic covered with a chain link over-vest. It wasn’t as ornate as the one worn by the Legate but was far more suitable for close quarter battle. When they were within shouting distance, Geta turned to his interpreter.
‘Repeat my words exactly,’ he said before facing the warriors on the far side of the river.
‘Warriors of Britannia,’ he called, ‘I am Geta, Legatus of the Twentieth Valeria Victrix. Behold our strength and witness our resolve. You have been a valiant foe and your blades are dull with blood from your campaign but your time is over. End this now and no more blood need be shed.’
Across the river Caratacus walked forward until he stood alone in front of his own army.
‘I am Caratacus,’ he called, ‘King of Britannia and leader of these men. Who are you to come into our lands and demand our servitude? By what right do you declare yourselves master
and we slaves?’
‘By the right of arms,’ shouted Geta. ‘As you once conquered enemy tribes, so we now conquer your lands. It is the way of warfare and has been so since time began. It is the way it will always be. You have run your race, Caratacus and have come up second. Show us your mettle and give your people a chance to live their lives. Cede to me and my Legion will leave this field before darkness falls, their blades un-blooded.’
‘And what of me?’ shouted Caratacus. ‘What fate awaits a king?’
‘You will be taken to Rome and answer to the Senate,’ said Geta, ‘King and Emperor face to face, talking as equals as things should be.’
‘Yet I will be vanquished and my fate will be in his hands,’ said Caratacus.
‘It is the way of the world, Caratacus. In war, there is always a victor.’
‘You are right,’ said Caratacus, ‘there is always a victor and perhaps this day he stands on this side of the river.’
Geta shook his head slowly.
‘Do not fool yourself, Caratacus. My men already have the betterment of yours. We outnumber you, are better trained and hunger for battle. We will call upon weapons you cannot even imagine, machines that will shatter your puny walls and pour fire from the heavens. We have crossbows that can carry death even unto your fort on the hill. Our numbers are endless and our resolve limitless. This alone will see us victorious but if you still doubt our ability, consider this. As we speak, there are two more Legions within an hour of this place. Each is larger than that before you, each as eager to end this today. Our numbers alone will overwhelm you.’
‘You boast of numbers,’ shouted Caratacus, ‘yet we too have armies yet uncounted who ride to aid our cause. Look to your rear for they may appear at any moment.’
Geta turned and gave a hand signal. Behind him a rider galloped forward carrying a sack and pulled up beside the Legatus.