Hosker, G [Sword of Cartimandua 02] The Horsewarriors

by Griff Hosker

  Cresens fell from his chair to his knees. He began sobbing and pleading.”No, please. It was a mistake. It wasn’t me. It was that witch. I know her name. Spare me.”

  Marcus’ voiced seemed quiet and threatening after the screams of the prisoner. “What is her name?”

  “If I tell you will you let me go?”

  “If you don’t tell me you will be tortured by these men,” he gestured at the three decurions who sat stone faced.

  “You can’t.”

  “I can and I will and you know it. What is her name?”

  “It was Fainch. She is a priestess of the Druids and a witch.”

  “Carry on decurion.”

  “Have mercy!” screamed the doomed man.

  “Silence!” Decius’ voice boomed out. “All troopers who served under Ulpius Felix from a square around the prisoner.”

  Gaius took his place and was surprised at how few of them remained. There were less than twenty. He noticed that although some of the others had cudgels and stones, having anticipated the punishment some, like Decius and Marcus had bare hands.

  It was Marcus who gave the command. “Let the punishment begin.”

  As Macro watched, mesmerized, he was stunned by the cold and efficient manner they went about the task. The men with the cudgels broke every bone in his legs and feet. Others then broke his arms. His screams echoed and thundered up to the hills. The troopers with stones then hurled them at his body and even Macro winced as he heard a rib break. Finally the four decurion were left and they pummelled his body with their fists. His bloody though still heaving body lay on the ground and the final act took place. The silent soldiers used fists, feet, stones and cudgel to finally eradicate every sign of life from his body. When the panting troopers stood back all that could be seen was a bloody piece of meat.

  Decius roared, “Dismiss!”

  “Burn that.” For Marcus this would indeed see the end of an evil which had haunted him since the death of the Queen. Unconsciously he fingered the hilt of her sword, the sword he carried in honour of her and her dead lover.

  The passing of the evil Cresens seemed to mark a turning point at the fort. The recruits saw how harsh the discipline could be whilst the older troopers finally saw justice. For Marcus and the other decurions they were half way to fulfilling their promise to a dying comrade. Now that they knew her name they would seek out Fainch.

  “Next time we are in rebel lands we will have to keep a prisoner or two. At least until they tell us where she is.”

  “You never know Decius she may have left these lands.”

  “Something tells me she has not. She spent a long time close to Eboracum. I think she may be closer than we think but it doesn’t alter what we have to do with her and,“ Marcus added, waving a hand around the departing recruits, “here, to build a force ready to take on the Brigante.”

  Morbium

  The first frosts of winter had struck the northernmost fort in the Roman Empire. Most of the troopers left at the fort were new to the province and the cold hit them hard; it permeated every part of their bodies and seemed to rip into their skin. It seemed that they were never warm unless they were in their barracks. The winds during the day were harsher and colder and the sudden rainstorms seemed to tear into their flesh like whips. What exacerbated the situation was the Decurion Princeps, Fabius Demetrius. The prefect was frequently absent visiting Eboracum where the Governor was planning the invasion of the north. When he was away the newly promoted decurion took delight in engaging in the most punishing and pointless activities. He held parades where punishments were handed out to any man whose equipment failed to satisfy the incredibly high standards of Fabius Demetrius. Troopers were sent on long training runs and patrols without horse. They would have to practice charges in straight lines which the more experienced decurions realised was not the way one used auxiliary cavalry. Their best weapon was a looser and more flexible formation. What particularly annoyed and irritated the other decurions and troopers was that his turma never had to engage in any of these activities. All the difficult and arduous patrols north of the river were conducted by either Julius or Vettius both of whom, for some reason, had been selected by Fabius. Both decurions, although angry, knew they could do nothing about it and made it into a sort of ironical honour that their turmae were the only ones who could cope with the duty.

  As new recruits arrived from Derventio the ones at Morbium realised what Elysium it must be at Derventio with the healthier regime of Decius and Marcus. Fabius had his own sleeping quarters next to the prefect and at night the decurions not on duty would discuss the two different approaches. “I think there will be a problem in the spring when Marcus returns.”

  “I don’t know about that Septimus. He will be senior Decurion Princeps.”

  “But my father will still be the prefect and in any conflict who do you think he will back? My brother or Marcus?”

  “And what about the men, especially the new recruits for they will back Marcus.”

  “In that case,” put in Quintus, normally the most reflective of the decurions, “it is up to us to exert our own discipline and make sure that we obey the rules. However much we might dislike them.”

  “I wish spring were here now.”

  Julius laughed, “Metellus that is just because you hate the cold. Your homeland in Cantabria is even warmer than mine. Your legs are permanently blue.”

  The rest all laughed including Metellus who found he liked Julius almost as much as he hated his brother. “There is that but it means that we will be in action again and we will have a leader with us that we can trust.”

  “Well at least the prefect is back and that means life is just a little bit easier.”

  At that moment the prefect and his son were sharing a fine amphora of wine which the prefect had brought from Eboracum. “But father did the Governor not give you any clue as to how we might be used in the campaign?”

  The prefect scowled. “All he talks about are his legions his precious ninth and his little favourite Agricola’s twentieth. He talks of us in the same way as he talks of those damned Batavians. As if we are at all similar.”

  “Does he still blame us for their losses at Stanwyck?”

  “He always manages to make some snide comment in front of the others. I fear we will just be used as a screen for his precious legions and to protect his Batavians.”

  “While you were away I had the men practising the charge but I get little cooperation from the decurions.”

  “I think that is because their loyalty is not to you but to Decurion Marcus.”

  “That is not fair what can we do about it?”

  The prefect sipped his wine and stared into the brazier which burned brightly in the well appointed room. “Your turma, it is loyal to you?”

  “To a man.”

  “Good. We will be creating turmae thirteen and fourteen soon and we will need decurions. I am sure you have two men who could fill those posts and their replacements will then become loyal to you.”

  Fabius’s eyes glinted with excitement. “When we create the other turmae we can promote more men which means that, eventually, more of the decurions will be loyal to me.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  Brocavum

  Aed rolled over on to his side the sweat pouring off him despite the cold outside the hut. Fainch sighed with satisfaction. While she enjoyed going from one lover to the other there was no denying that the more powerful man in her life was the younger, more virile Aed. Although the older Maeve satisfied her she didn’t feel the thrill she felt when with Aed and perhaps she thought Aed would be the better leader for he had a power about him which Maeve did not..

  “I do not like sharing you with that old man.”

  “He is not that much older than you and only a little older than me. Are you calling me old?”

  “No! I do not mean that. It is just I hate the thought of sharing you with anyone but especi
ally not him.”

  “No man owns me. I choose my men. If you do not like that then that is your problem.”

  Having backed himself into a corner Aed had nowhere to go. Instead he began stroking her hair and nuzzling her ear. “Does that mean you will still visit me? Will we continue to have these times?” She remained silent but made no effort to pull away. “I will behave. I promise.”

  She rolled him over on his back and kissed him full on the lips at the same time gently running the backs of her hands down his chest towards his groin. Soon he felt himself growing again and they once again made love. This time it was more tender with a deeper climax for both of them. They both rolled on to their backs and stared at the tendrils of smoke rising into the thatched roof of Aed’s hut.

  Fainch raised herself on one elbow and ran one finger down the side of his face. “Be patient my love. One day you will lead the Brigante but first we have to defeat the Romans and we need a king to be sacrificed to make all the tribes rise against the Romans.”

  “You have a plan.”

  “I have a plan which will give you the throne not only of the land of the Brigante but the whole of this province which the Romans call Britannia.”

  “Tell me!”

  “I said that I had a plan not that we had a plan. In my experience a secret plan shared is not a secret any longer. Do not worry,” she put her hand against his lips, “you will know when the plan comes to fruition and your innocence will protect both you and me. Look like the flower but be the serpent beneath. Obey him and follow him faithfully. Make yourself indispensable to him. Take every insult with a smile for in doing this you will make the people love you and men will follow you seeing in you nobility absent in him. Keep your elite riders faithful and loyal to you.”

  “They are but they are impatient and wish to fight.”

  “Good that is how we want them keen. You can find an opportunity to fight. For the Romans are ever present.”

  “How?”

  “There is a Roman fort at Morbium with cavalry. They send patrols out in the winter. Find their pattern and then take out some of your warriors and kill them. When you return with their heads, horses and weapons it will make men love you even more and it will test your men against the Romans. Let your warriors show their bravery. Out number the Romans but not by too many for you want your warriors to know that one to one they can defeat the Romans. They must fight with discipline as the Romans do but with the hearts of the Brigante. When the other warrior see your success and when the other kings hear of it you will become the hero of the whole war host.”

  “You are as wise as you are beautiful. I will need to do this before the snows come otherwise we shall leave a trail for the Romans to follow and we know that the Romans fight in winter.”

  “Good. Now you are using your head instead of your heart. Be cold and be calculating. Remember I have cast a spell about you and you will not be defeated but you must be more careful and use your head. ”

  Morbium

  One again the prefect was absent. Like a cockerel in the farmyard Fabius strutted around the fort as though he owned it. He summoned Metellus. “Take a patrol north of the river. You know the routine.”

  Even as he replied, “Yes decurion”, and apparently accepted the injustice with resignation, Decurion Metellus was angry and frustrated. The whole fort knew that it was Fabius’s turn for patrol. Every time the prefect was absent he pulled this trick. It meant that his turma stayed in the warmth of the fort and, more importantly, did not risk running into a Brigante warband.

  Julius and the others sympathised. “It is not right,” objected Quintus Saenius. “He abuses his power.”

  Julius spoke up, “I will go and speak with him.”

  “Is that wise? You may be his brother but that does not seem to matter to him.”

  “Vettius it is my duty.”

  If he expected anger then Julius was mistaken. When he made his request that Metellus should not go as it was his turn his brother merely nodded. “You are quite right brother.” The word brother was emphasised and imbued with as much venom as he could muster. “A Demetrius should go on patrol today. Take your turma south of the river.”

  Realising that his honour demanded that he take the patrol out he nodded. “I will tell Metellus that he is to stand down.”

  “You misunderstand me decurion. Metellus will still patrol but they will be north of the river.”

  Julius had been outwitted. There was nothing he could do. The others, however, showed what they felt by what they said. “The little bastard!”

  “Quintus he will hear you.”

  “I don’t give a damn. He may be your brother but he is a bastard.”

  “Well my men may enjoy a trip south of the river. None of us have patrolled there for months. Who knows we may catch King Maeve.”

  The other decurions smiled at the young man’s attempt at humour. As much as they hated his brother, they loved Julius more for his high spirits, good humour and, above all, his honesty.

  As he left Morbium he pointedly avoided looking in the direction of the headquarters for he knew his smirking brother would be there and he did not want to give him the satisfaction of laughing at him. He could sense the resentment of his men, not resentment towards him but towards his brother. “Well lads at least we are south of the river, who knows it might be warmer.” The laughs and guffaws told him that he was not the object of their hate. “Let’s see if we can make good time. Attius! Out scouting.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Once Attius headed off into the distance Julius had time to reflect on his relationships. He found the concept hard to come to terms with but he preferred the decurions in the ala to his family. He respected Marcus more than his father! A year ago that would have been unthinkable but he had seen not only the way that Marcus ran the ala but the way the men responded to him. It was a frightening thought but he wished to be more like Marcus than his own father. He was woken from his reverie by the thunder of hooves. Attius!

  “Sir! Found tracks. Must be fifty or sixty horsemen and they are coming from the west.”

  “Brigante!”

  “Yes sir that’s what I thought.”

  “Halt! Right men. We have a force of Brigante horsemen north of the river. We are going after them.” He could sense immediately the excitement of the men. They would be going into action for the first time. This was what they wanted; the chance to fight the enemies of the Empire. It was a shame that his brother could not see it.

  Metellus hated this patrol; the same sights, the same paths, the same river the same hills. The problem was you did it so often you often saw what you expected to see. He had his scout out; it was Cassius, a recent recruit who was just like Macro but without the bulk. There was something different about this day. The birds seemed quieter although at this time of the year that could be normal as many birds seemed to leave this bleak upland area and travel further south. Perhaps it was a sixth sense but Metellus was wary. “Be on the lookout lads. I smell trouble.” The men smiled. Metellus was known for a huge nose but also the ability to smell out trouble.

  Suddenly Cassius’ empty horse thundered towards them. “Ambush!” His men quickly drew weapons and, without being ordered formed into a single line with Metellus in the front. Before they could move forward ninety mailed warriors wielding long spears hurtled towards them. “Javelins!” Forty javelins flew towards the Brigante warriors. Although ten of them struck home only four warriors were hit although six horses fell to the ground taking their riders with them. The turma drew their swords and moved forwards. It was not a charge it was a walk for they had been caught unawares and the mailed warriors crashed into them with a clash of metal and horses. The Romans were outnumbered almost two to one and the enemy had the advantage of surprise. Metellus found himself facing two warriors who hacked and slashed at his sword and shield. From the noises behind him he realised his men had the same problem. His young recruits fought as well as they could
but this was their first action. Metellus despatched one of his opponents with a slash at his head. The lucky blow caught the man on the unprotected part of his face and his mouth was ripped open. The other warrior managed to smash at Metellus’ shield and break not only the shield but also his arm. It was all he could do to slice down at this enemy’s horse’s head which collapsed, instantly dead, throwing its rider to the ground.

  Quickly looking around he saw that more than half his men were dead. He had no option. “Retreat!” Although the order was simple, the implementation was almost impossible. His men had too many opponents. They were all going to die. His young men would be spitted upon Brigante spears in their first action. Steeling himself to die with honour Metellus looked for an opponent. Suddenly he heard a Roman roar as Julius and his turma smashed into the rear of the mailed warriors. The surprise was overwhelming; the raiders had no idea that another turma would arrive and Julius’ turma had unprotected backs to attack. They instantly halted the attack. Even so it was a near run thing. The Brigante still outnumbered them. But the sudden attack had unnerved them for they knew not if this second turma was alone or perhaps part of a Roman ambush. Once again Metellus yelled, “Retreat!” and this time they managed to extricate themselves. There were so many dismounted enemy warriors and so much confusion with Julius’ turma attacking their rear that the two turmae managed to escape without further loss. By the time the raiders found out that Julius’ turma had been alone the Romans had used their head start to lose them. They only halted two miles from the action and then only because their horses were blown.

  Metellus rode next to Julius. “Decurion I owe you a debt of honour. Had you not arrived my men and I would have been dead.” Looking around Julius saw what he meant. There were only nineteen of Metellus’ turma left alive and Julius had lost four; a sorry encounter.

  “I think Metellus that, in the circumstances, we might return to the Decurion Princeps and report. But first let me splint that arm.” It took some time to bandage those who, like Metellus were wounded, and to rest the horses. They would not have enough time to build a camp and the Brigante were just too close for comfort.