by John Salter
Decimus had lost sight of the horses and the track some time ago and had stopped trying to look backwards except to make sure that no-one or nothing was behind him, which he did repeatedly. He kept having a sense that someone was following him or was about to take his head off with a sword from behind as he turned around. He imagined the hunched over giant he believed he saw earlier, swinging a double headed axe and removing his skull in one swift movement. Who would mourn for him, what would happen to his body, would anyone pray for his soul? He pulled a face, screwing his features up as he dispelled the thoughts and concentrated on the task at hand. Gripping the handle of his sword tighter he continued forward.
“Brenna.” He whispered standing still after a while but there was no reply except for the breeze. He took another step and immediately saw something move directly in front of him, it was Brenna he was certain. The shape was fleeting moving fast from left to right and just within his vision in the darkness and he was sure she was running with her sword in hand. He began to jog forward, spatha to the front in his right hand now held tighter than ever. He got to where he saw her and slowed but could see no sign of her passage, he glared at the ground but there was nothing.
Snap!
Something had broken a branch or a twig nearby and he crouched instinctively expecting an arrow. There was light in the distance flickering, a fire maybe but no arrow struck him. He walked towards the flickering flame, lurching from left to right as he went, all the time expecting attack. He was now getting angry at himself for being so scared, he was like a frightened lost child in the woods, the anger helped calm him. Fool he thought to himself, stop being such a prick. Closer and closer he moved, he could now smell wood smoke and hushed talking from around the fire where bodies sat huddled.
Fifty or so paces from them, they still hadn’t seen him, one of them looked like Brenna he was sure. He looked at the others and saw they weren’t soldiers but were dressed in the same garb as her. Quietly he approached the fire hardly breathing, he could see their faces now in the light of the fire, it was Brenna he was certain. He stood for a while trying to make out what they were saying but could only hear mumbling. As he crept closer, the breeze rustling through the trees and the crackle of the fire made it impossible to distinguish their words.
Suddenly Brenna turned her head and looked directly at him, “Decimus, thank the gods,” she said standing and walking towards him, the others all turned to look at the new arrival, “I got lost and came across these people of my tribe.” She smiled and approached him. “We were about to set off looking for you. You poor man you must be frozen, come warm yourself by the fire.”
He looked at the people sat round the flames, they were wearing swords and axes and he saw a couple of bows lying nearby, two of the men stood staring, hatred filled their eyes. He looked back to Brenna and she smiled as she suddenly whipped her hand up plunging a blade deep into his throat and ripped it through his flesh. Blood spurted out splattering her face as he fell, dead before he hit the ground.
The eight soldiers were led by Centurion Varenus Corvus a veteran of the campaigns in Gaul, four optios were also in their number, the rest were made up of legionaries. Although the night was clear and fires lit, some of the landscape around them was hard to distinguish so Corvus stuck to the natural gulley’s in the rock and knew they would be hard to spot, or so he hoped. Each man carried only one thing, a sword. They too had been dulled by caking the blades in mud so as not to give away their position as they tried to avoid detection. They moved slowly but swiftly down the slope as they made the descent. They could hear the enemy clearly all around them but would only engage those who attacked them or shouted an alarm.
Corvus had reminded them all not to look at the fires or their vision would be dulled and impaired sight could mean death. They would move and then go to ground sometimes for short periods and sometimes for longer, words would only be whispered and then only into an ear of the man next to them. They were to rely on hand gestures and were to be prepared to lay low for long periods of time even until darkness returned the following night if necessary. The final advice he had given them was the most crucial, if they were discovered and surrounded and there was no chance of escape, they were to fight to the death. By way of reasoning he had explained some of the things he had seen both in Gaul and Britannia of Roman soldiers captured by the enemy.
Crouching low Corvus surveyed the area ahead where he intended to travel. From the height they were at he had an advantage of seeing the lower ground virtually laid out before him as if it were a map, the disadvantage was that someone looking up could just as easily see him and the men unless they were very careful. They were in a slight crevice about eight feet in depth where trees and bushes grew thanks to a trickle of water from the mountain top. He had chosen this route as it ran the furthest down the slope until disappearing over an abrupt ledge somewhere hundreds feet below the palisade. The noise of the trickling water would help mask their movement and the branches would hide them from view but still he took no chances. He turned his head slowly and held out his mud covered arm and gave a signal to the man behind him to lay flat. Head first with his gladius held in his hand, he moved lower on his elbows and toes, moving inches at a time.
After travelling only about fifty normal paces and very slowly, he stopped and indicated to those behind him to rest with his hand by gently lowering it to the ground flat. Their progress would be exceptionally slow, not only because they wanted to avoid discovery but also because after a while, the muscles they were using burned like fire. After the pain had eased significantly and after regaining his breath he moved on again, the line of men moving in tandem behind him, silent and unseen.
Later as the first signs of a new day began to dawn, he had reached the drop that he had seen from a distance hours before when they were selecting which route to take. He looked up without moving his head and saw the first strands of morning in the night sky, soon it would be light and he had to make a decision. He edged forward parallel with the narrow stream and peered over the drop. He saw the trees were thicker and taller below, probably due to the shelter from the wind. He followed the waters flow and saw a camp of Britons in the distance on the flat ground through the branches. They were far enough away for little concern for the present and most of them looked as if they were sleeping. He scanned the area for any obvious guards but saw none, so sure were they of their safety.
Corvus decided on a plan of action and very slowly turned his body to the man next in line behind him and whispered his orders. They were to take cover in the trees below and rest, he considered it too much of a risk to go further with daylight fast approaching. The result of their capture or discovery was far too great for the men still above them, they would wait in the trees, try and sleep and wait until darkness came again.
Caratacus stared up at the Roman emplacement high on the mountain in frustration. They had buried themselves like a lice on a hogs arse and would take some manoeuvring and prodding to displace. Having considered all his options and looking at the defences from every conceivable angle, he had formed the opinion that he had to attack. If it failed badly and many of their people were killed trying to scale the fortifications, he would draw back his warriors from the slopes and starve the Romans out.
He and Ardwen were agreed on their course of action and spent most of the night telling their men and women where to position themselves so as to try and cut off every possible area of escape. If they could contain the enemy fully, they knew the battle was half won, the problem however, was that many of them had stopped on or near the tracks, or by streams where they had arrived at the base of the mountain and there were gaps where the Romans could force an entire Legion through, if they had one.
By the time they had done as much as they could to disperse the warriors fairly evenly, the sun was beginning to show its first glimmers in the sky. Now the problem was co-ordinating an attack with thousands camped in family groups around the base of a lar
ge mountain. They had all been told to watch for the first signs of fire around the palisades once it was a light and they would be able to approach under the cover of the smoke and push the attack forward.
Ten men had been sent up the slopes throughout the night with sacks filled with oil, six had returned. That at least meant that there were now six bags full of highly flammable liquid that would burn brightly once they were hit by an arrow bearing flame, or so he hoped. The signal for the bowmen to go forward was to be the first rays of light. Caratacus looked about him and at first saw no movement or indication that his orders were being carried out but then looking to the east, he saw the first group of bowmen scaling the mountain.
He turned to Ardwen and nodded saying, “There will be no better day than this to crush so many of our enemy.” He clasped his cousins forearm. “Good luck Ardwen of the Silures, may you take many heads.”
“And to you Caratacus of the Catuvellauni, may luck and good fortune bless you today and may our gods crush those of Rome.” Ardwen said smiling and then turned and mounted his horse and made off for his position further along the track.
Caratacus watched as the men grew smaller as they climbed the slopes, slippery with shale and morning dew, bows in hand. The first line of defences were about seven hundred feet up and the men would already be tired from their exertions, then would have to light fires before sending their arrows crashing into the palisade. His attention was drawn to a wave of warriors some few hundred feet behind the archers as they took to the slopes, their end not in sight.
Vespasian had instructed his men not to watch the eight as they tried to make their way off the mountain. A group of gawking fools stood standing and staring over the palisade would have given their position away and they would all be doomed. He had also said that if they were found, they would know soon enough, further explanation was not required. The medic had cleaned his wound again with water and applied some herbs that he was told would speed his recovery. He still couldn’t put his full weight on the leg unaided so one of his men had fashioned a crutch from a branch which in itself was difficult to use on the uneven surface of their sanctuary, but he was thankful nevertheless. With the crutch and the wooden splits either side of the wound for support, he hobbled from place to place.
He had managed to sleep briefly in between the pain of his leg and the cold disturbing his slumber together with the nightmares he foresaw of his destruction and of those around him. He was standing trying to lean on his injured leg that had stiffened somewhat during the night when the alarm sounded from somewhere below. A lone trumpet at first was quickly joined by others as men raced to put their helmets on and grab their javelins.
Roman archers were the furthest forward, positioned at the top of the defences. As soon as the first alarm was raised arrows were nocked onto draw strings as the men ducked behind the cover of wicker walls made for them to launch their arrows from. The wicker would take some impact and absorb damage but they wouldn’t last long against a hail of continued assault. The men crouched behind their small walls hoping that the trench beyond them would be enough to stop the Britons gaining access to where they were.
Legionary Titus Valerius was one such soldier, he looked to the other man, Valerio also sheltering behind the relatively small six foot wicker wall and nodded. To the side of each of them were piles of arrows ready to use against the attackers, neatly stacked and facing the same way to ease loading. The position was mirrored at intervals of fifty paces all the way around the mountain, several hundred feet from the lower ground.
Valerius peered through the small gaps in the wicker and saw movement below, a lot of movement. His fingers felt the reassuring draw string again as he edged to the side of his part of the wicker. The sight before him made him pause and shocked him to the core. There were thousands of enemy warriors struggling up the slopes towards them. A few carried torches and were surrounded by pockets of archers beyond them in the masses were blue painted warriors, men and women carrying long swords, axes and spears. Some he saw wore cloaks against the morning chill their pale skin underneath covered in woad in circular Celtic patterns.
“Fire Arrows!” Valerius bellowed as loud as he was able and drew back his bow, he knew that their own missiles would carry further than those of the Britons due to the height advantage and indeed fly faster through the air. They had to keep them as far away as possible to avoid the wood in their defences catching on fire.
“Loose. Concentrate on the bowmen.” He heard the order given from somewhere to his right and estimated the enemy were now approximately two hundred paces away and took aim. The first arrow flew straight and true and landed somewhere in the crowd of bodies eating up the ground below. The second arrow he saw clearly land as it entered the forehead of a baying woman who instantly fell backward and was lost in the crowd.
The Britons lit their arrows and launched the first wave to a sound of cheers and roars as they took to the air. Valerius watched as the bowmen gathered around those with torches lighting their deadly arrow heads coated in oil. He aimed again for the torch bearer almost directly in line with him, his arm wavered slightly as the pressure of the draw took hold. Sighting the big man along the length of the shaft he let loose allowing the barbed missile to fly free. It rose slightly on its downward path as it headed for its target but quickly dropped again arcing toward the flame.
The torch bearer didn’t see it approach as he was too busy with his task as archers fought to use his flame. The sharpened iron head penetrated his temple with a violent impact that rocked his huge head sideways as he had turned shouting at another man. It sank deep into his skull and he fell backwards but was propped up by the bodies around him, his torch disappearing from sight as others scrambled to retrieve it. Valerius turned nocked another arrow and drew back again aiming for the same spot where two men he saw were now aflame, their clothing on fire. The torch bearers flames must have ignited their cloaks.
He calmly looked down the shaft of his next arrow and considered shooting at the men screaming as their flesh burnt but instead shot to the side of them, the others could burn. As the first of the enemy arrows began to find length, they landed still on aflame embedding themselves into the wood of the defensive positions. Those that landed in the freshly dug soil of the palisade were extinguished as oxygen smothered them, others set fire to anything they hit that was combustible.
Vespasian had considered having legionaries placed at strategic intervals with the few buckets they had recovered from the spoiled wagons nearby but knew the men would have made all too easy targets. He knew they wouldn’t last long silhouetting themselves above the defensive wall but also knew they couldn’t afford to use water in such a way. He prayed his gamble would work as the barbarians drew to within a hundred paces of their line.
“Loose pila.” A centurion shouted from somewhere behind Valerius but he concentrated on his own task and continued to launch arrows. He was aware of running boots hitting the ground all around him and then a wave of javelins were launched into the air. He looked briefly and saw the soldiers returning to their stock pile for more. Turning back to the front he saw the javelins land as they buried themselves into the men and women who were intent on killing them. Dozens were felled in that first launch and fell backward onto a wave of advancing bodies. They were dragged to the side or pushed out of the way and vanished from sight almost instantly under the feet of those who came after them.
The screams of the Britons were animal like now and a lot louder as they vented their fury at those above. Some were silenced forever in the next avalanche of arrows and spears but still the mass kept advancing, seemingly undaunted. Valerius drew his gladius as the first of them reached the rampart, his face glowing from the flames of arrows burning into the wood of the palisade. He tried to run up the steeper incline of the defensive wall but slipped and fell backwards on loose soil. He took the opportunity of sinking an arrow into the soft ground as his feet scrambled for purchase and tried pullin
g himself up on its length. Anger bore into the young archer from the enemy as he realised it was useless and nocked another arrow.
“Heavy pila, loose!” Another order rang out from somewhere.
The nearest attacker was now less than fifteen feet below him and jumping to reach the sharpened stakes on the defences. The draw string was allowed to race forward freeing its arrow but in his haste Valerius jerked his arm at the last instant and missed the manic warrior who wanted to kill him. He reached for another arrow blindly, keeping his eyes on the man who was now joined by others, as they sought to gain entry to the mountain fort. Another legionary stepped forward and hurled a heavy javelin towards them, it sank deep into an exposed throat and gurgling, the man fell away.
The sound of battle was almost deafening now at such close quarters as the Britons tried repeatedly to climb the wall. Many died and more were wounded as they were repelled time and time again as they fell in their heroic but foolhardy hordes. Some climbed up onto the backs of others and grabbed for the burning stakes only to be run through by pila, heavy and light now as the men of the Second butchered away at hands, arms, heads and bodies.
So close were the enemy now that the soldiers could lean out and stab down at the brave, who threw themselves against their spears bending iron as they plunged them into the faces of the screaming few who managed to climb onto the flaming stakes. Burning or stabbed, they fell away, only to be replaced by others. Occasionally one would get over the palisade only to be chopped down by a gladius. It wasn’t all one way however, as soldiers were lanced by a thrown spear or hit by the occasional arrow when an archer could free himself from the masses to shoot. The injured men were quickly carried away from the front line and further up the slope to safety and replaced by other troops eager to kill the barbarians.