by John Salter
Caratacus watched from behind a line of heaving bodies pushing to get forward and surveyed the scene above him. The attack had stalled on the defensive line of the mountain encampment and now his people were being slaughtered, bottled up like penned sheep. He watched as a man fully aflame jumped back down from the palisade and landed on top of others who fought to push him away, punching and kicking. The Roman legionaries looked like cloaked devils as they thrust their spears downward lit up against the flaming wood. Helmets glinted and armour shone, reflecting the fires that burned before them as they went about their deadly work. He knew that to continue in this way would mean the death of more brave souls for no gain and knew he couldn’t allow that to happen.
“Withdraw,” he started to shout, “Withdraw.” He ran forward and grabbed at the backs of those crowding forward and spun them around shouting at them to retreat.
“Fucking move.” He snarled into faces that turned to see what was happening and who was shouting and what.
“Can’t you see this is pointless we’re just dying up there?” He spun one woman round and she careened backwards falling down the slope into the legs of others still clambering upward. He grabbed at others and hurled them backward until more and more realised what was happening, who was demanding the retreat. Slowly the tide began to turn and run back down the mountain followed by the occasional javelin or arrow. Those struck slumping forward onto their faces as they were hit, legs flailing into the air. Some lost their footing because of the gradient and tumbled downward screaming as they went limbs breaking. Caratacus turned and joined the retreating army as he fought to maintain his balance, the attack had been a failure and so something else was called for.
The rest of the day was spent helping those that could be helped, down from the slope, those who were dead and there were many, were left where they had fallen. There were injured still below the defensive line crying out for help but when anyone approached to try and recover them, arrows and javelins forced them back. The Romans weren’t in any mood to grant leniency even to the injured as they knew their own fate if they were to be taken, a stalemate was reached.
Caratacus withdrew to the lower valley and found Ardwen who had fared no better as he too had lost many brave souls that morning. By the late afternoon the injured that could be moved were taken away on carts heading to their villages wrapped in bandages. Those with life threatening wounds were gathered together to be administered and comforted in their final hours by those who were their kin or friends.
“We’ll try again tonight.” Ardwen said looking up to where smoke rose to the sky and bodies lay. “Under the cover of darkness, with no moon, we’ll be on top of them and inside before they know we’re there.”
Caratacus looked at him and half smiled at his determination, “Very well but if that fails, we starve them out. We can’t lose as many as we did today again. I’ve seen their iron take too many lives and I tire of the weight on my shoulders, we need the guile of the fox and the strength of the wolf if we’re to break these men.” He looked upward onto the slope and saw the dead laying strewn everywhere the eye could see, the sight replayed an image of the morning assault in his mind’s eye and it was awful.
“Go and find your family cousin, they’re camped along the track.” Ardwen pointed. “Get some rest and eat and come and find me here later as the sun begins to fall. Tonight we shall climb again and things will be different, you’ll see.”
Caratacus patted him on the shoulder, “I hope you’re right, it would be better to defeat them with swords rather than hunger but defeat them we will.” He turned and went to find his wife and family.
Varro had woken up cold and damp when the first sounds of battle had reached his ears. Lifting his head slowly he looked around trying to get his bearings and for a moment was confused. Rolling over he pushed his cloak off his head and looked around. At first he had thought he had been having a nightmare until his surroundings confirmed the reality, he really was alone and on top of a mountain miles from the men of his Legion.
He cursed himself for falling asleep for so long as he realised that dawn was breaking. Looking out over the valley he watched as the Britons had climbed up to the defended held slopes like a tide, only to be halted suddenly in it’s tracks. Tiny defenders had cascaded arrows and pila into the swarming masses of the enemy and the advantage of high ground had won them the fight. Fires burned and plumes of smoke rose high into the morning sky from fire arrows and their targets.
After the battle which had raged for a considerable time, he could see many hundreds of bodies littering the slopes left behind as the attack finally subsided and withdrew. He could also see soldiers being carried further up the mountain, obviously wounded. He wanted to be with them but could do nothing except watch as the fate of the men of the Legion was played out before him. Again it brought home his own position as he remembered his isolation but the thought of Decimus and Brenna hurrying north calmed him somewhat. He looked around again and saw hundreds of plumes of smoke from camp fires on the valley floor and suddenly realised he was hungry. He moved backward and rolled onto his back pulling his food bag around and opened it. He chewed at the salted pork slowly and decided that he couldn’t stay where he was, he would move lower as a plan began to form in his head.
It took him nearly all day to descend onto the valley floor where the smell of numerous fires was strong to his senses. Moving slowly to avoid detection the day was beginning to draw in and he could hear voices of the Britons as they prepared food. He felt his stomach rumble, the pork had staved off hunger and would continue to do so and keep him going but for now he had more serious concerns than food. He crawled into a copse at the base of the slope and stripped down to just his tunic. The rest he buried roughly only keeping his dagger to hand and then he waited.
Later as darkness covered the land, the light of the fires burned brighter and so did the noise from the Britons as they began to consume their brew before battle. Singing and laughter echoed around the hills and mountains as they celebrated the lives of those who had departed that day. Funeral pyres were lit and a solemn atmosphere enveloped those gathered around them as they paid their respects and then the singing and celebration began again. He watched on waiting for the right moment from his concealed place in the copse. As the celebrating continued, numerous warriors started to walk away towards where he lay to relieve themselves in the bushes.
Just as he was beginning to regret his idea a young man approached, shouting back to his friends and laughing. Varro watched as he pushed branches aside and made his way into the copse where he wouldn’t be seen by the others. He stopped about five feet from the covered Roman, hidden under branches and dropped his woollen trousers. Wind escaped his backside as he chuckled to himself and crouched down, starting to groan with effort.
Varro gripped the handle of his dagger and pushed himself up quickly in one fluid movement and lunged forward, the young warrior barely had time to turn his head as cold sharp iron slashed through his throat ending his short life. Varro looked down at the body and quickly dragged the clothing off. He soon realised that his victims shit had landed in the trousers and the smell made him gag. He wiped off what he could using leaves and quickly put the pants and other clothing over his tunic and the cloth cap the man had been wearing onto his head. The rich combination of sweat and shit was foul but he would have to endure the discomfort for the time being. He turned and made his way through the bushes and stooped peering out at the other side. There was another fire some distance away surrounded by more Britons, he pushed his way through the branches and emerged.
He was seen immediately by two of those sat at the fire and feigned doing up the pants, tugging at the harsh cloth. One of the men raised a hand and shouted a greeting and laughed, Varro waved back and began to walk. He was aware of eyes following him or maybe it was his imagination as he angled away from the light of the fire and made for a dark area ahead. Expecting a shouted challenge at any moment he c
arried on wanting to run but knowing he couldn’t. Reaching darkness his beating heart began to slow, when he was sure he was out of sight he turned and saw no-one was following. The smell from the soiled clothing made him cringe as he found his way onto a track and began to walk faster.
Chapter Twenty Two
As Corvus began to move forward on his stomach, he felt that his limbs were stiff from inactivity and movement was difficult. He and his men had lain unmoving in the ravine for so long, that he had fallen into a restless sleep drifting in and out of consciousness despite the circumstances surrounding them. He paused tensing and flexing the muscles in his legs and arms as he tried to get the blood flowing again and then slowly began to move off. Seven bodies then followed slowly and silently behind him as they made their way to the bottom of the huge gash in the side of the mountain where they had spent the day under cover of the trees. He paused and drank from the stream for the final time and then pushed himself up into a crouch and moved to the edge of the bushes where he surveyed the land.
The Britons had been gathering their weapons and were now moving away from their fires down one of the tracks, presumably he thought to mass before another attack. He looked around and back at his men and signalled for them to wait as he emerged from the trees. He walked slowly to the nearest fire, looked around again and then gestured for his men to follow, the way clear. Slowly they emerged from the damp shelter and searched about around the camp. They found scraps of meat left cooking over the fire and ate greedily having their fill before moving off in the opposite direction to the Britons. When they were sure they were totally out of sight, they began to jog along the edge of the track trying to stay in cover as best they could.
***
Valerius had lost count of the amount of lives his arrows had taken in the dawn attack on their position earlier that day, it was impossible to say, so crowded had the Britons been in their thirst to assault the palisades and outer defences. He had been relieved by his senior Centurion, Marus Fulvious Cortus who was co-ordinating the defences for a few hours, in order to get some food and some sleep but had spent most of the time watching as work details dug out another series of ditches halfway between his own position and the very summit on the mountain, the problem now, was that they would soon run out of space to fight. Cortus knew it meant their commander expected that the Britons would break through the outer perimeter or that it was a distinct likelihood.
In order to try and raise moral, Vespasian had briefed his officers saying that in the event that the first line of palisades were overrun, all legionaries were to fall back to the second line where their defence of the mountain would continue. The men of the Second Augusta, the centurions and soldiers were some of the finest men he had ever had the fortune to serve with and the best in the Empire and they would not fall to a bunch of half-naked savages who tried to mate with goats.
He had also said that he expected re-enforcements in a matter of days but until then they would take as many lives as were thrown against them. He refused to die on this insignificant hillock and wouldn’t allow his men to do so either. They would march out of these hills with their heads held high after stopping the assault and would one day return to wipe the scourge of Caratacus from the face of the earth. His men quiet at first had listened in silence but as the speech progressed he had rekindled their spirits, thumping a clenched fist into the air they had cheered and stood applauding the man who would lead them to salvation.
That day, the remaining trees had been felled and embedded into the new ramparts that ran all the way around the upper half of their sanctuary, the ends sharpened with axes. The men went about their business with renewed vigour after the speech by Vespasian and now looked forward to the next attack with renewed optimism. As well as forming a difficult obstacle to overcome, the lengths of timber also helped to re-enforce the ramparts themselves, some of which had been significantly damaged during the first onslaught. Everyman knew that if Caratacus and his warriors broke this second line, they would never leave this mountain alive and it would become their tomb. In order for that not to occur, every effort was to be made to repulse the enemy lower down the slopes, which was where Valerius later found himself once more.
The sky was darker than the previous night due to ominous black clouds overhead and only the light from fires provided any relief but they were not their own. Small fires twinkled in the distance down in the valley, hundreds of them but there were none where they were as Vespasian had ordered a blackout. He realised that he had to ration the remaining timber and didn’t want fires illuminating his men once the next attack was underway.
Uncomfortable and cold they maybe, but that discomfort could well be the difference between life and death as they would not silhouette themselves against the night sky. Valerius shivered as he walked out from his wicker barricade once more, a distance of ten paces, looking up he sniffed the air and suspected it was going to rain. Looking down he thought he saw movement and quickly went back to cover, he crouched, nocked an arrow and waited.
Valerio saw him dart back or did he? “It’s your imagination,” he said to himself but he stayed behind the wicker shield and looked downwards again.
“Men think they see shadows at night, there’s nothing there, besides if they try again, they’ll get so much iron pumped into them, they’ll never come back again.” He turned to look at Valerius and smiled, that instant his back arched forward and he gurgled. Horror creasing his face as blood ran from his open mouth and down his chin. Valerius tried to bring up his bow as a hairy limed head grinned out at him from behind his dying friend. Valerio was hurled to one side and over the palisade as a wet glistening sword was removed from his back.
Valerius froze for a moment, finding movement impossible as suddenly all around him the ground came alive below the palisade. A swiping blow chopped through his bow from his side, he saw Britons scrambling up over the defences by climbing onto each other’s backs.
“Alarm,” he shouted, “Alarm.” As loud as he was able and turned to run as another sword swipe crashed into his helmet slicing through the metal like wheat, lurching upward his hands touched the ground as his boots tried to grip the blackened soil. His limbs seemed alien as they betrayed his attempted escape. He was aware of the sound of breaking wood as his wicker shield was ripped from the ground. Arrows began to flash through the air from above as the men of the Second launched their response. He ran scrambling and falling forward, his life flashing before him, expecting to feel a sword or spear blink out his existence at any moment.
Figures above shouted garbled words as his fingers dug deep into the grass now clear of the soil as he pulled himself up. He could hear grunts and shouts behind him and he imagined a sword sinking into his trailing foot, Faster and faster he tried to move, panting with effort, eyes wide, mouth gasping for air. Javelins rained down and thumped, impacting into the surface all around him. He heard an anguished cry close by but didn’t dare try to look to see what had caused it.
“Run, keep going, come on you can make it.” A voice shouted from above as his helmet fell over his eyes. His legs burned from effort, his calves pumping, ankles hurting like never before as the incline took its toll. One quick push on the rim of his helmet cleared his vision as he saw a legionary shouting from above as he hurled another javelin, it landed close by somewhere behind. Twenty paces from the next ditch above the new rampart, the soldier and another linked hands as one was lowered reaching out. Arrows hammered into the ground, shouts of pain and anger rose closing in on him all around but still he ran, his lungs taking in huge gasps of oxygen.
Six feet away from the outstretched hand he leapt upward, flailing his leading hand to make contact but he fell short, weak and out of breath from his effort to get this far, he slammed into the wall of the rampart, hitting it hard with his face. He gasped again for air turning for the first time since Valerio had been killed and saw blue streaked Britons upper bodies bare, eyes large, mouths screaming, bearing down o
n him.
“Move your fucking arse soldier.” The legionary clinging onto the other man from above shouted, his other hand holding onto a post sticking out from the ground. An archer appeared at his side and fired an arrow as Valerius tried to block out the approaching barbarians in his mind. An arrow flew by his head from the archer, clearly aiming at something close. Taking a deep breath he stumbled to the outstretched arm stretching down to him and jumped up. The strong hand clamped onto his wrist and pulled his body up, feet dangling as he was hurled up and over the trench, he landed hard, gulping for air, leg muscles burning. Grunts of effort filled his ears as men all around him threw javelins at the enemy trying to scale the palisade, their last real defence against oblivion. More men re-enforced their hold on the mountain as pila and arrows were thrown and fired at the attackers who screamed in anger and agony alike as their dead grew. Those who came behind the warriors at the front piled into their backs as a killing field quickly grew and the dead mounted but on they came, fury in their eyes as they sought to take the mountain.
Varro quickened his pace and began to run slowly at first away from the sounds of battle. He knew he had to find help as quickly as possible and to do that he needed a horse. He tried to steady his pace as the incline of the valley helped propel him downward faster than was comfortable, his upper legs straining with effort. Once in a while he would get a whiff of the dead man’s shit in his new pants as he ran and decided he would have to find more clothing at the earliest opportunity. He ran on until eventually the ground began to level out, he slowed his pace and stopped catching his breath. Turning he looked back up the track at the way he had come, it snaked curving upward until his disappeared in the dark. He couldn’t see anyone following or anything beyond the winding road in the dark.