Blood of Rome: Caratacus (The Blood of Rome Chronicles Book 1)

by John Salter

  Varro halted his men, who waited a few steps behind him, Veranius and Decimus trotted forward, the three men listened taking in their surroundings. Everything seemed natural, birds sang in the trees and bushes moved normally with the slight breeze as hares nibbled on grass a few hundred feet away, near to the safety of the undergrowth of the trees.

  “I’ll go in with Decimus and have a look?” Volunteered Veranius, steadying his horse and pointing to the track, his mount seemed nervous about the trees ahead. Decimus gave him a scolding look, as the horse whinnied and dragged its right hoof across the dirt under him.

  “Animals sense things that we can’t see my friend. You’re horse doesn’t seem very happy.” Varro said as he looked to the tree tops. “All manner of things can lurk and conceal themselves in such places, be careful and do not go too far. Stay in sight of each other and out of javelin range of the trees, the rest of us will follow.”

  Veranius and Decimus acknowledged the order that seemed more like a warning with a nod as they pushed their horses forward. Veranius was a trusted friend of Varro as well as the other members of the small reconnaissance troop albeit a subordinate. They had formed friendships over years of campaigning together and were considered to be a very tight close knit unit within the legion and vital to its overall success.

  As the two began to move forward, Decimus said quietly to Veranius, “Thank you so much for volunteering me my friend.” He peered into the undergrowth. “Remind me to return the compliment one day.”

  Veranius smiled and replied, “Your horse was getting impatient and doesn’t like the trees so we’ll show him he’s safe.”

  “This fool spooks at sticks and twigs,” Decimus said looking down at the horses ears. “Never mind the trees but knowing our luck this time there will be something there. He threw me once on a windy day when a leaf blew across his path and swirled about in the air near his face.” Decimus replied.

  Veranius laughed. He was the only member of the party that was shorter in height than Varro but he too had trained continually and had developed arms that were now the size of small tree trunks and were literally wider than his head at the bicep. He had three passions, fighting, wine and food, the latter normally provided for by utilising his hunting skills.

  He had grown up near Venusia on his father’s farm in the south of their country. His family had a military background and it had seemed a natural step to join the army, His father had retired from the legions as a centurion in the infantry and had returned to Venusia, where he too had grown up, to start a family after twenty five years service which was the maximum permitted time. With the spoils of war and his military pension earned by his father, Veranius had a relatively comfortable upbringing.

  With most of his modest military pay saved over the years and a generous wagon full of plunder, Veranius’ father had bought the small farm where he grew grapes on the vine that were sold at local markets. In the second year of civilian life he had met his wife and soon-after Veranius was born, another soldier of the empire.

  Decimus was the youngest member of the group of scouts and was a joker, tall and rangy, he went out of his way to find female companionship whenever he could. He had looked forward to introducing himself to the females of Britannia and had boasted, ‘They will tell their children and their children’s children, that they are descended from the great Decimus, ruler and Emperor of Rome.’ He had often said usually followed by roars of laughter, from his friends. He was convinced that his charm alone would prevent any conflict once the women had let him entertain them. He was from the north east fishing village of Aquileia, situated on the coast of the Adriatic Sea. He had been with the legion eight years and had transferred from the infantry a year before joining the reconnaissance troop.

  Varro dismounted from his horse and took off his helmet, sweat matted his short hair. He removed his water skin from Staro’s side and drank, pouring water over his head when he was finished. He checked his saddle, stroking the animal’s flanks as he made sure the cloth underneath the wood and leather was flat so as not to cause blistering. Hours in the saddle could cause all manner of problems for the horse where the hard wood of the saddle rubbed against the skin through the leather. It could cause a calloused area on the flesh to well up which would affect the animal, it was not something a rider wanted if they were trying to escape a horde of barbarian sword wielding madmen. Experience had shown him that if his horse was injured or wounded, then effectively so was he and he couldn’t afford that in a hostile land.

  “Check you horses.” He ordered as the remaining soldiers jumped from their mounts. Regular cavalry units wore heavy armour a tactic that had come into being after the Roman army had come into contact with a Sarmation tribe called the Roxolina. The Roxolina had used the cataphracti armour, when going into battle, the legions had been so impressed with their equipment, armour and horsemanship that they had created their own. It demonstrated a respect for people and cultures outside the Empire and had proven invaluable in preserving soldiers and horses lives and of course helped in winning battles and ultimately wars.

  Varro and his men had virtually the same equipment as the men in the ranks of the legions but didn’t have the same heavy solid body armour because their task was to cover large areas of land in as short a space of time as possible and the armour of the heavy infantry would have slowed them and their horses down. Instead they had chainmail linked armour that covered their torsos and their horses had a hardened leather equivalent of the regular cavalry that covered vulnerable areas against sword or spear thrusts. It wouldn’t stop a direct assault but many a horse’s life had been saved by the thick leather armour.

  He made sure the bridle constructed of an iron curb that made up the bit in the mouth wasn’t causing any problems. The curbs had been designed to get an instant response for Cavalry and had a bar in the mouth and one under the animals chin. He ran his hand along the nose band over the horse’s muzzle and under its chin. Staro showed no sign of it being uncomfortable, his large brown eyes watching Varro, everything seemed to be in order.

  The horse’s kit had been checked before departing Gaul but there had been no time to properly check the equipment immediately after they had got off the ship as more troops had piled ashore behind them and it had been tactically astute to move off the beach as soon as possible. This was their first opportunity to make sure everything was in working order in what looked to be a safe area. They were in a clearing and out of range of any weapons that could be lurking in the nearby woodland or so they hoped.

  As the sound of bird song in the trees grew louder, Veranius and Decimus approached a shaded area of grass before the woodland. They could see only large tree trunks, branches and leaves before them rustling in a slight breeze. Veranius had led them to the track on the left side of the clearing. He had decided that if an ambush party were waiting for them, they didn’t want to be riding towards its centre where they could be quickly encircled and trapped.

  His hands moved over the chainmail covering his chest, he pulled on the links at his sides to make it more comfortable. When the linked vests were first put on, they felt very heavy but the cavalry soon got used to them, when they were in the correct position, they hardly knew they were wearing them. He looked around, his hand dropped to the hilt of his sword as the cool of the shade engulfed him.

  Decimus followed at a distance behind. In the event of attack, both horses would need at least two lengths to turn and gallop to safety. It would be pointless just the two of them trying to fight if they got into trouble with another group after finding themselves outnumbered. Their task was to ensure the way was clear and report back in the event of trouble, not to take on enemy forces, in that event they would return to the clearing at speed.

  Decimus adjusted his helmet so he could see up into the tree tops. The unit had been issued with standard cavalry helmets with only the eyes, nose and mouth visible. Decimus turned his head fully, watching for anything that might be a threa
t.

  The woodland seemed vast and full of small wildlife, all of which could be heard but not seen. Along the worn paths they wound their way through the trees like small streams disappearing and re-appearing in the walls of leaves and branches. He checked the two small throwing spears tied to his horse, they were only about four feet in length so they could be carried at the side of the animal and not wound others because they were too long, especially if they were riding in formation. All the men that served under Varro were proficient throwers of the pilum and could accurately hit a target some distance away.

  The air was full of differing scents from the plentiful plant life around them, it seemed almost serene. They knew that the land they were now on was split into different tribal areas just like Gaul had been. Over twenty main tribes were known to inhabit this vast island and they were now in the area known to be dominated by the tribe known as the Cantiaci, one of the tribes heavily influenced by Caratacus of the Catuvellauni and his brother who were both vehement opponents of Rome. The Catuvellauni were a large tribe, said to be the second largest in all Britannia. Varro and his men were not there to confront them if they found them but were to scout for their presence along the coastal routes as the main force came ashore.

  Three other large tribes were known to inhabit the southern shores of the island and they were sure they would come into contact with all of them at some point, hopefully one tribe at a time. The Atrebates and the Durotriges were known to live in the centre of the southern shoreline and the Dumnonii dominated the south west. Numbers amongst the tribes were invariably inconsistent and depended on who you spoke to and where the intelligence had come from but it was known that each tribe could call many thousands of warriors to their banner. The majority of these people however, were not professional fighters but farmers who answered the call to arms when required from their chieftains.

  After a short time Veranius and Decimus reached a clearing where they could once again feel the warmth of the sun on their skin.

  “Go back and get the others, tell Varro the area is clear.” Veranius instructed Decimus. He didn’t reply but just nodded and turning trotted off back down the track. Veranius searched the trees around the clearing and moved forward, he didn’t see or sense any movement. A little further into the ground that was clear of trees he found a small brook where clear water ran. He led his horse to it and the animal drank, ears twitching. Veranius got off and removed his helmet and scooped water up into his cupped hands. It was cool to the touch and refreshing when he splashed it over his face and rubbed his neck.

  “That's nice hey boy?” He said to the horse that turned and looked at him and then returned to the water for another drink.

  “This place isn’t so bad is it? It’s even warm and sunny, those fools back in Rome said it was freezing here and animal skins and fur had to be worn to keep out the cold.” He sat on a large rock, “Maybe it was winter when they came eh?”

  He took out his dagger, a weapon nearly a foot long and known as a pugio or pugiones dependant on which region of the empire the soldier came from. The bone handle was smooth and comfortable in his hand with its T-shaped pommel at the base. The blade was made of cold sharp iron and slightly stretched in a triangular shaped wedge. Almost day dreaming in the warm sunlight, he suddenly had a vivid image of the last time he had used it in combat. Under normal circumstances it would have been his sword that was used but in a battle against a Germanic tribe he had dropped his spatha as his legions flank was outnumbered and overrun, their shield wall shattered. Colliding against the side of another horseman he had found it impossible to keep a grip of his spatha’s hilt and it was knocked from his hand.

  The ferocity and speed of the savages had been so shocking that they had almost overwhelmed the three lines of well trained and disciplined soldiers. They immediately began to collapse with the weight of the huge fur clad tribesmen lashing and screaming at them with axes and huge swords. He remembered back to a loud drumming sound that intruded upon the madness, it came from somewhere behind them but was drowned out by the wild cries of their attackers and clashing weapons.

  The next recollection Veranius had was of landing on his back with his horse falling beside him, a violent impact, the air was instantly knocked out of his lungs and he struggled to breath, gasping for air. The small cavalry detachment had been behind the thin ranks of infantry awaiting the trumpet call to outflank the barbarians on their right side when the attack had caught them by surprise. The Germanic tribe seemed to fall out of the trees and mist from nowhere and were upon them before they could react.

  His horse was quickest to it’s feet and fled galloping to the rear of the Roman lines vanishing into other advancing columns without it’s mount. He had stood shaking his head trying to make the stars dancing before his eyes vanish as metal clashed against metal near him, ringing in his ears. Instinctively he had drawn his dagger from his right side and almost fell backwards as infantry retreated all around him taking him along with the weight and strength of their numbers.

  Something had struck him against his armoured shoulder with such power he buckled at an angle, his knees bending automatically, almost taking him back to the muddy surface. He turned to see a huge hairy face grimacing next to his own. It was so close he could smell the acrid stench of the animal like being wielding the sword that had hit his chainmail. Insane, crazed eyes stared, battle madness displayed on them as the near toothless male struggled to get the large sword up again for another strike.

  An overwhelming weight hit Veranius from the left from something unseen before he hit the ground again he realised it was another horse shrieking as it was impaled through the chest by one of the attackers. He was as powerless as the horse in that moment. As the animal shrieked louder and kicked its legs trying to get to its feet, its rider was dispatched by an axe blow that struck the unfortunate soldier on the neck above the folds of his armoured vest. His head was almost cut from his body, dead eyes stared out unseeing. Blood jetted from the wound and hit Veranius in the face and mouth, warm and wet, tasting foul. In that instant the fluid was down his throat and in his eyes, he choked for breath, scraping with fingers for better vision with both hands, his sword he realised had landed somewhere at his feet, unseen as he panicked to clear his eyes.

  He was aware of cries of agony as iron and bronze weapons clashed all around him and those that didn’t, sliced and cut into human or animal flesh. The horses made dreadful sounds, worse than the men as barbarians thrust their weapons into their bodies, seeking out arteries, bone or major organs to terrify the riders and bring them down. The soldiers on foot were furiously thrusting and stabbing their short swords into and through the fur covered attackers that were intent on killing or mortally wounding them. They peered from behind or over their shields as they put into practise their well rehearsed training and tactics of stab, thrust and withdraw. He heard feet scrambling for purchase on the muddy surface as the retreating soldiers were pushed back by the horde attacking them.

  He knew if he didn’t get back to his feet quickly he wouldn’t leave this field alive, his remains would be ripped apart if the Germanic tribe won the day and his severed head would end up on a spear or stake. He also knew that would only happen if he was fortunate enough to die straight away. Captured troops were made the play things for the women of the Germanic tribes, who would torture them sometimes for days on end. This was usually done by women who had lost their men, brothers or sons to the invading force. Their limbs would be broken with wooden logs, their fingers cut off and fed to packs of dogs or pigs and their organs cut out while their host took its last breath in this life. It was a vile way to die and no way for a soldier to meet his end.

  He leapt up frantically searching for the large barbarian whose rank breath had almost made him retch. He had blurred vision through one eye, his right smeared with blood from the axed soldier, his left eye useless entirely. Figures blurred around him, the noise of battle overwhelming, the smell of blood, th
e metallic aroma disgusting and repugnant. He whirled blinking unsure who or what was around or near him. Dabbing at his right eye furiously, from nowhere animal fur brushed against his face, moving violently. He thrust the blade into what he thought must be the midriff of the tribal barbarian who had to be by his side. He heard a gasp as he ripped the blade up holding the handle now with two hands. Planting his feet for purchase on the ground, he gulped in air as he pulled the blade up with all his strength slicing through skin and muscle.

  As his eyes began to clear, he heard a grinding sound, as the blade so easily cutting through flesh suddenly stopped, grating as it caught against something solid maybe bone or cartilage. Warm liquid gushed out onto his hands and wrists, making them sticky and hard to manoeuvre. He felt the weight of his opponent fall against him as he pulled on the dagger trying to free the weapon from the other living bone, its metal had cut into.

  As he struggled to clear the large dagger and get it free, something hit the fur clad enemy pushing him rapidly backwards. It was the booted sandal of another soldier, as he kicked him away the dagger was instantly free. In that moment, Veranius thrust it forward again, slicing the sharp blade into the right side of his enemies face near the eye. The tribesman was still fighting struggling and gurgling against his impending death. He adjusted the blade and forced it into the barbarian’s eye, it popped a dull but satisfying sound to Veranius as he fought for his very existence. Pushing forward with all his weight he saw through blurred vision as his blade caused irreparable damage as it was forced fully into the eye socket.