by John Salter
***
The rain of arrows and spears began to falter as the men of the Second retreated back into the pass leaving some dead or seriously injured men behind in the dust. The slingers who Caratacus wanted so desperately to join the battle were caught with the same problem and most of their missiles now just bounced off the re-enforced shields. The Britons in their eagerness to draw blood were too crowded on the slopes and too few of them could get close enough to hurl their spears. Likewise only the bowmen close enough to the pass, could get a clear shot, loosed an arrow. Most of the men lying crippled and injured were quickly finished off by warriors as they swarmed over their broken and shattered bodies. Heads and limbs were hacked off, some still with their helmets on to be used as trophies later. A few men were dragged away kicking and screaming, their fate uncertain but not envious.
With the testudo still formed at the battlefront of the retreating lines, those clear of the pass now broke off and started to gain ground running up hill to the attacking Britons on the orders of their centurions. There were no defences except for the trees and the men of the Legion formed their own testudos in century groups until they reached them. Once there they were ordered to break free and engage the enemy. The fighting was fierce and casualties were taken on both sides but in time the men behind the large shields began to get the better of their opponents and pushed the Britons back over the summit. With the advantage of height, pila were passed forward and hurled at the retreating warriors, which helped speed them on their way.
The respite that the Britons had tried not to give the Romans was now a reality and they now held the higher ground on this particular peak. Those who were in the pass quickly began to make their way up the slope and before the rest were safe, the sound of trees being felled could be heard. Rations and weapons were taken from the carts and hurried upward to the top. Ever organised the soldiers of the Roman army began to build a fortified position which would secure them further, for the time being at least.
Vespasian was carried up to the top where rock provided a natural basin of flat land where they could survey the ground below. Medics and surgeons were brought forward to treat the injured and any supplies that could be carried, were taken from the carts in the valley. With all the animals dead, the remaining wagons were set on fire so they couldn’t be used by the enemy. As the daylight began to give way a base camp of sorts was already nearly set up and was preparing for the next attack.
Despite his injury, Vespasian was on his feet as soon as possible against his doctor’s advice. With thick padding over the puncture wounds and bandages strapped round his limb, wooden splits supporting his leg either side of the injury, he hobbled around speaking to his men reassuring them that they could hold the Britons off for days if need be. Each man had left Isca Dumnoniorum with enough rations for seven days but they had managed to salvage more from the carts below. He assured them that they were secure enough and would take this opportunity to draw the Britons in and kill as many as possible, all was not lost.
The faces looking back at him told the reality of the matter however, they were cut off and surrounded in enemy territory with limited resources and weapons and had already suffered many dead and injured. He knew he wasn’t convincing anyone but to give up now would mean certain death for them all and whilst there was still a chance of survival, he would take it.
He walked to the edge of the rocky outcrop on one part of the peak and looked down, he swallowed heavily. Massing below in the valley were thousands of enemy warriors, swarming like insects in the failing light. They looted what was left on some of the carts his men could not reach and stood shouting up at the Romans, waving spears, bows, swords and axes.
“Mighty Mithras help us.” He whispered to himself. Turning he called a centurion over and gave out orders for the defences further down the slope. They would make their mountain fort as impenetrable as they could by angling chopped tree trunks downward but beyond the reach of a standing man, sharpened stakes impossible to climb. Below that would be a ditch dug eight feet deep all around their encampment. Another vertical wall would be built behind the first defence. Pila would be piled at strategic intervals along the line behind the walls, archers behind them would pick off any who got through the walls further up on the land cleared of trees and if all that failed they would defend their land hand to hand until the last man.
As darkness began to fall the chopping of trees and digging continued and once in a while an archer would fire an arrow downward at any Briton that strayed into range, for now the accuracy kept the rest clear as men were speared by the deadly small missiles.
Caratacus and Ardwen watched from the safety of another mountain top close by as the Romans in the distance, the size of peas, toiled at their defences, chopping down trees and digging ditches.
“You have to admire them,” Ardwen said, “they took a good beating today and many of them lay dead but still they prepare for more.” He bit into a piece of meat as he watched and chewed.
“We too lost men and women but not nearly as many as our friends on the mountain top over there, besides what choice do they have? We should have foreseen this, their retreat, and had enough warriors to stop them gaining purchase over there.” Caratacus said in reply.
“If we had that many up there, they would have been seen as they approached and the trap wouldn’t have been sprung. Now we can pick away at them at our pleasure, their weapons won’t last and nor will their food, it’s only a matter of time.” Ardwen said looking down at his warriors below them.
“We’ll wait until its dark and fire the defences, night arrows should burn the wood quickly enough once we’ve put oil to them. We’ll ask for volunteers to go forward and soak the timber. If they’re careful and quiet, they won’t even know we’ve done it until we’ve launched our burning shafts skyward.” Caratacus said, turning to Ardwen he added, “Send some scouts to the local settlements and tell them of our victory today. Tell them we have more Romans trapped and that if they get here quickly enough, they can witness their destruction.”
Ardwen turned to do as he was asked, before Caratacus stopped him grabbing his arm saying, “I want warriors here not old men and women. When we destroy these men,” he said pointing at the peak opposite, “more will realise that these invaders can be beaten and we can remove them from our shores. Old women looking to slice off dead men’s cocks will only get in the way.”
Ardwen smiled and summoned a few men who were used as scouts, their short stocky ponies behind them and gave them their orders. He called for more food and retook his place next to Caratacus, “Well we may as well get comfortable, have some food, relax and wait until our guests are settled.” Both men looked to the enemy still busy forming their defensive lines.
Brenna and Decimus rode slowly at first their mounts trotting along the mountain paths. They didn’t want to draw attention to themselves and the surface was too dangerous to go any faster. The dark night had enveloped the peaks quickly once the daylight began to recede and the paths were difficult to see. They had searched for what seemed like ages looking for a single track that led them lower and eventually they had found one.
“It’s going to take forever to get down from here.” Decimus said quietly. Brenna ignored his comment at first and concentrated on guiding her mount with Staro trotting behind, tied off.
“We’re already a lot lower now and just have to keep going north.” She concentrated her eyes, believing she had just seen something ahead, Decimus saw that she was distracted.
“What is it, what do you see?” He asked looking forward in the direction of her gaze.
“I’m not sure. I thought I saw movement up ahead.” She replied slowing her horse to a walk. “Did you see anything?”
He stopped and peered into the darkness, “I can’t see anything are you sure? It’s probably the dark playing tricks on you.” She stopped by his side and got off her horse.
“Up there by those bushes.” She said pointing along
the path they were following. Decimus looked forward straining his eyes and turning his head slightly from side to side, ears listening favouring his left.
“I can’t see or hear a fucking thing.” He turned to look at her.
“Stay here with the horses,” She said, “if I’m not back in a short time, turn around and find another way.” She began to walk along the path.
“Wait, wait a moment, let’s see if anything moves first, be sure.” He said but she held a hand out backwards and continued walking slowly. Decimus got down from his horse and muttered, “Stupid bitch, she’ll get us all killed.” He said talking to the horses.
Chapter Twenty One
Decimus watched her walk away from him until the darkness swallowed her form, enveloping her completely and waited, and waited, He heard nothing except the breeze and saw nothing except for the darkness all around him. After a while he decided that she had been gone far longer already than the short time she had suggested or he had imagined. He looked around into the dark, cold night and at the landscape around him, he walked along the track ten paces and then back again to where the horses stood. He patted each of them in turn and spoke to them but there was still no sign of Brenna.
“Fucking cunting fuck cakes.” He said to no-one in particular under his breath, it was frustration as he realised for the first time he was alone, miles from any friendly faces and surrounded by hostile barbarians for miles around. He looked at the horses who just stared back at him and then at the grass at the side of the track.
“Go on then.” He said and let them wander to the side, letting them eat the long green grass. He turned back to where Brenna had disappeared and then turned looking in the direction they had come from, back down the track. They both looked the same, both directions, cold, dark, empty and uninviting.
“Well if you think I’m staying here all on my own you’ve got another thing coming lady.” He said to himself and slowly drew his sword as it quietly whispered out of the sheath. He frowned concentrating and walked slowly along the track in the same direction as Brenna, sword facing forward. For the first time he realised how cold it was despite them now being a lot lower in altitude than they were earlier that day where the danger, real danger was, he thought to himself, danger that he could at least see. He had an ironic grimace on his face as he continued forward grinding his teeth.
“Where in Hades are you Brenna?” He whispered and then he saw movement and stopped dead, standing perfectly still, a shiver went down his spine but not from the cold. Something had crossed his path but it was too far distant for him to see clearly, it looked like a large Briton hunched over clasping his stomach. His senses were stretched to the limit as he tried to pick something up but staring into the darkness he saw nothing. He considered shouting out to Brenna in full voice but knew that if there were Britons nearby, they would be alerted to his position and would descend on him like a pack of wolves. He moved to the side of the track, off the gravel and onto the soft grass verge where he moved more quickly straining his eyes into the dark, every sense heightened.
“Brenna!” He called quietly almost whispering but there was no response, he knew there wouldn’t be because she would have had to have been standing right next to him to hear his voice.
“Fucking thunder cunt!” He whispered to himself, now he was scared. The pattern of the track in front of him changed, curving to the left and downwards. At the arc of the curve there were dark trees, many dark trees. He squinted trying to see what lay beneath them but could only make out the nearest low branches with blackness beyond, he turned again and looked back at the horses, they were still happily munching away on the grass oblivious to what was going on around them. He wished he was a horse he decided, they would be looked after by whoever had them unless they were desperately hungry at least. He considered going back to them and riding off but he couldn’t leave Brenna alone in the middle of this barren place, could he?
Varro scrambled up a steep slope as he thought about Decimus and Brenna and where they were and if they were safe. The night was cold now and a slight breeze blew down the valley but the sky was clear which at least allowed him to see from his elevated position with the stars shining brightly above. With the help of the gods they would be miles away from this place by now and galloping towards help, somewhere in the lowlands, ‘Mithras, make it so’ he thought, praying mentally. From somewhere below he suddenly heard noises from the valley over the crest in front of him, blown on the wind. Staying low he reached nearer to the edge and got down on his stomach, the grass was cold but not yet full with nightly dew, something unpleasant to look forward to later no doubt.
He crawled over the ground and could see Britons moving along the track below, tiny from this distance they were so tightly packed, they looked like a human river as they moved through the gorge like valley carrying torches. He followed their direction with his eyes and saw numerous mountains tops and hills in the distance where fires burned. One of them, the tallest peak was especially bright and he could make out the distinct features of a Roman defensive position around its middle.
“Thank Mithras.” He said, his voice the first he had heard in hours, it sounded strange, isolated, alone. He removed his helmet placing it down and leaving it behind and edged further forward to get a better view. The last thing he wanted was for his helmet to glint and give his position away. He wouldn’t last anytime at all if the Britons saw him and wouldn’t be able to get away once they scaled his lofty perch, which wouldn’t take long. He looked out over the valley and saw that his Legion or what was left of it, the survivors, had dug palisades and built defences. A swathe of land was bare where they had chopped down trees to build their temporary fortification and he could see a great many men moving about on guard, the size of ants from this distance.
It looked as if they had been forced to use every piece of land available to them right up to the peak where more fires burned. There were no tents erected which could only mean that they were either in enemy hands or had been abandoned, left where they were ambushed. If that was the situation, he wondered how much food and water they had remaining. These were questions he couldn’t answer but assumed that if Vespasian were still alive, they would have as many provisions as physically possible as well as weapons. He could make out a line of archers beyond the cleared land and some patrolling the perimeter where he could also see what he presumed was a stock of javelins.
Looking down again at the river of bodies he knew it would be suicide to try and get to the men of the Second from where he was. The other peaks nearby were covered sporadically with their own fires which he assumed were ringed by Britons warming themselves against the night air. Every so often he heard singing carried on the breeze as if in celebration and saw that the Britons on one mountaintop were dancing around a fire, which could only mean that they had already killed many of his comrades.
He lay there feeling helpless, cold, frustrated and hungry and tried to think of something positive he could do to help. He felt his eyes growing heavy as he lay there and tried to shake off the tiredness by blinking his eyes but he knew he was no good to anyone exhausted. He retreated from the edge, wrapped himself in his cloak and curled up in a scoop in the ground out of the wind and allowed himself to fall into a disturbed sleep.
Not too far away on the Roman held mountain, eight legionaries slipped through the defensive perimeter one at a time. A centurion patted each of them on the back and quietly wished them good fortune as they crawled by him on their stomachs. They had removed their armour and blackened their tunics and skin as much as possible using spit and mud dug up from the ditch in the palisade. Vespasian had asked only for men who were willing to volunteer to go on a mission that in all probability would end in all their deaths but he was desperate, as were they all. The eight men were the first to volunteer although there were others. One said he preferred to do something other than sit and wait for a guaranteed death if they did nothing at all.
Vespasian kn
ew that the rations and weapons could only last a certain amount of time, that said, they were now all of them, on half rations which meant they could survive longer. That in itself created problems because as the days went by they would get gradually weaker but it was a chance he had to take, he had to use every ounce of experience now if they were to survive. He actually hoped that the Britons would attack in force and break themselves against his defences and eventually withdraw but knew the odds were against it.
There were three realistic possibilities as he saw things; the first and most probable being the all-out attack with little regard to tactics by the enemy, in which case his men would send as many of them to their gods as possible. As a result of seeing many hundreds of their own warriors die they may withdraw and go home. He knew the Gaul’s in particular had such a habit of doing just that when the blood started to flow and they took severe losses but would this enemy be the same? Second and the worst case as he considered it, was that the Britons sat back and waited for their foe to run out of food and water and either become so weak they couldn’t defend themselves and were easily overrun or lastly they made one heroic charge down the slopes and onto the waiting spears below.
All scenarios he had considered fully and discussed with his senior officers and the general opinion was that tonight they should defend the mountain and see what it brings. In the meantime, the eight men would try to get down from the mountain undetected and attempt to get help. With no sign of their scouts, who he presumed were dead, the eight men were the only hope.
Once more he looked out at the fires on the peaks surrounding his own and wished that he could reach out and crush them, so tiny they looked from his position. All he could do in reality now was wait, wait and see what Caratacus did, he didn’t have long to sit and wonder.