Caratacus sucked in his breath. “Not many but enough to hurt them. How many did we lose?” Caratacus asked.
“Maybe five or six,” the warrior answered.
“Even better. Where are the men now?” Caratacus asked.
“On their way back,” the rider replied. “They’ll be here soon, but so will the Romans.”
From his chariot alongside Caratacus, Clud said, “We’ve dug defensive ditches along the bottom of the slope leading up to our positions and more across the plain, that’ll bog down the Romans.”
“Aye, make the fucking Romans come to us,” Fergus added, his car next to them.
“They will,” Caratacus said. He motioned the courier to leave.
Fergus narrowed his eyes. “This better work, sire, otherwise the men will have wasted a lot of time and effort in building the defenses.”
“We have the high ground,” Caratacus said, “and the Romans have to clear or bridge the ditches before they can cross. Our sling and bowmen will make them pay for their efforts. By the time they cross, they’ll have suffered heavy losses, and our warriors can finish them off.”
Clud snorted and shook his head. “I still think our efforts would’ve been better spent defending the river crossings where they are a lot more vulnerable. It’s a fair distance across. Even if the men didn’t kill ‘em, a sudden swift tide coming in would have drown ‘em.”
“Our warriors will destroy them soon enough,” Caratacus said. “My fifty thousand will overwhelm them.”
Chapter 7
On a rise above the plain, Caratacus stood before the host in his chariot surrounded by shield bearers. Clud and Fergus accompanied him in adjoining chariots. Behind them followed Havgan, Caratacus’s arch-Druid, in his own car. Unconsciously, Caratacus wiped his sweaty hands along the side of his plaid breeches. Warriors crowded together in one boiling mass of noise, shields, and swords and swarmed around them to hear their words. Thousands gathered into loosely formed companies, their multicolored banners streaming and new trophies, human heads, sticking from the end of bloodied pikes and from the sides of chariots. The sight of these brave warriors made Caratacus proud to be their king.
Earlier, he had designated a captain from each clan or company to pass back the words of his speech and that of the Druid to the groups behind them until it reached to the last clan, so all could hear. He raised his hands, and a hush swept through the host. Caratacus motioned for Havgan to come forward.
The priest stopped in front of Caratacus, who gave him a slight bow. Stepping from the chariot, Havgan carried a ceremonial sword in a white, doe-skin-leather sheath strapped to his waist. Dressed in a long, white robe girdled with a copper belt and draped with sashes of the finest linen, he walked barefooted before the host. Pulling the weapon from his scabbard, Havgan raised it above his head.
“Mighty warriors of Britannia,” he shouted, “I foresee a great victory against the Roman invaders. For those who live, there will be many heads as trophies. But fear not those of you who fall. Paradise is assured to you as heroes in the world to come. In generations to follow, your souls shall return in earthly form to live as warriors once again.”
The commanders repeated the words to the groups behind them. Seconds later, an uproarious cry of approval met his words.
“That is not all,” Havgan continued.
The army fell silent.
“I see a great Roman leader wearing golden armor, like the golden eagle, the symbol of Rome. He, too, is a bird of prey, as is Rome, the same Rome that would crush you. This will not happen. I foresee he will be captured and sacrificed to the great Andraste, goddess of victory. Praise to you, great Andraste!”
The warriors roared their approval and pounded swords against shields, the noise echoed across the plain.
Havgan raised his hands for silence and closed with a prayer before quietly returning to his chariot. Customarily, a Druid priest walked ahead of the army and symbolically led them into battle. Being a Druid, neither side would dare harm him. Caratacus had refused Havgan’s request when he earlier tried imposing this right as chief priest, knowing the Romans hated the Druids and would slaughter him.
Caratacus drove forward and slowly scanned the gathering mass. Havgan’s prediction of victory pleased him. It would strengthen the men’s resolve to fight.
“Out there,” he cried, pointing to the west in the direction the Romans were expected to appear, “are twenty thousand Roman heads for your taking!”
As they did for the Druid, the commanders passed back the words of Caratacus to the rear ranks.
“Their heads will give you spiritual power, the likes of which none of your ancestors has known,” Caratacus said, “and bravery, which only the gods have seen. Bravery and power that ballads will be sung about and women will part their legs for!”
He paused a moment for effect. “But you can have this power only if you stop the Roman devils. If you fail, they will rape our women and overrun our lands for a thousand years. Is that what you want?”
Again, his words went through the ranks.
“No!” they roared, again thrusting swords and javelins upwards.
“If you fail to crush the Romans, they will enslave our people, put our sons in foreign armies, and burn our villages. Is that what you want?”
“No! Kill the Roman dogs! Kill! Kill! Kill!”
The frenzied response pleased Caratacus. He gestured for silence, and gradually, the roar of voices faded away. “No man,” he called out, “no warrior will tolerate Roman dogs on our lands. It’s not enough to kill Romans. They must be purged from our kingdom forever!”
In the distance came the loud chinking sound of metal on metal, a methodical cadence growing louder with every passing moment. There was no other sound like it in the world, and Caratacus knew its origin. “Chieftains! Captains! Warriors!” he barked. “Form your companies!”
He saw the approaching Roman Army, their articulated, armored vests and iron helmets glinting in the sunlight. The long, pulsating formation weaved like a giant centipede, snaking out of the forest, then forming into tightly disciplined ranks in line across the field. They formed into eight cohorts of approximately 450-480 men each and a double cohort of more than 900 men, which guarded their commanding general at the back. Four of the cohorts separated and moved forward from the rest, marching in ranks six deep—six centuries, eighty men each. The troops halted, and at a signal from a trumpet, the three rear lines stood fast, acting as relief units while the first three ranks moved out in the direction of Caratacus’s warriors. Three other cohorts marched to the rear of the first four, covering the gaps left between the formations of the front cohorts. The double cohort and the other unit held back in reserve.
The Romans stood in an opening, surrounded on three sides by trees and underbrush covering the lowlying hills of the North Downs. A thick forest provided protection for their rear. The Britons milled about in the open, eager for the taste of blood. The size of the Roman forces was smaller than Caratacus had been led to believe, perhaps ten thousand. His warriors outnumbered them four to one. He realized what the Romans were doing and was determined to wait them out.
Caratacus’s warriors jumped, banged swords against their shields, taunted, and cursed the legionaries. The Romans stayed absolutely quiet. To his men, the Romans protective formations of interlocking shields, bristling with javelins, was for cowards. They were warriors. Yet, the Romans remained silent and unmoving.
“Why don’t our cries terrify the Romans?” Clud shouted to Caratacus above the frenzied din.
“They aren’t like our other enemies. They’re demons!” Fergus said.
Caratacus sent messengers to all his chieftains and captains ordering his men to stand fast. For a while they did. But his warriors grew impatient. Dozens moved forward and then pulled back on orders by their captains. And still the Romans remained silent. How strange that this quiet resolve was more unsettling than if they bellowed and cursed back.
Trumpets sounded from behind the Roman ranks.
“Look!” Clud shouted, “they’re moving out!”
The legionaries began a slow methodical march in tight formations, javelins jutting out like arrow points all along the front line. Scarlet rectangular shields, fronts painted with golden thunderbolts, formed nearly an impenetrable wall. Syrian archers and Belaeric sling men waited in formations to their rear. Behind the sling men stood the looser-knit formations of blue-tunic-clad, chain-mailed, Gallic and Spanish auxiliary infantry. On the wings appeared the Alae, Spanish and Thracian cavalry, their dragon-headed standards and streamers at the front held by the lead riders.
As the legionaries moved forward, they stumbled upon the covered ditches. Screams erupted as dozens of Romans fell to their deaths, impaled on pointed, hardwood stakes. The Romans halted immediately, reorganizing their ranks.
Caratacus gave the signal. Out of the woods on both sides of the plain sprang hundreds of bow and sling men, who sent a volley of murderous arrows and stones showering down upon the hapless Romans. Dozens more legionaries went down before the centurions ordered their columns to form the turtle formations of shields raised above the men’s heads and around their sides.
The Romans retaliated. Hundreds of chain-mailed, allied Sarmatian archers returned fire, downing an equal number of Celts and kept up the barrage of arrows being steadily supplied from the rear.
Within a quarter of an hour, the Celtic bowmen who had survived ran out of arrows and hastily retreated to the woods while the Sarmatians continued their onslaught.
The king watched as Roman engineers, protected by the infantry, holding shields to the front and above their heads, moved forward with dozens of wooden planks and spanned the ditches.
Despite the murderous fire of arrows and slingstones, the legionaries crossed the deadly ditches. The initial trickle of soldiers turned into an unstoppable tide of legionaries and auxiliaries, who quickly reformed into close ranks once across and halted.
Appalled, Caratacus could not believe his eyes. His archers and sling men had killed dozens of Romans during the crossing, but on they came—their numbers still many.
Cries for Roman blood rumbled through the ranks.
Then it happened.
Warriors broke ranks despite threats and thrashings from company captains. First a dribble, then a stream, finally a torrent of thousands poured towards the Roman ranks. They streamed down onto the plain. The Romans closed shields together with a thunderous bang and a single guttural roar, raised javelins, and waited.
As Caratacus watched, a surge of excitement rushed through his body. “Nothing can stop our men—nothing!”
When the Britons were within fifty paces of the Romans, Sarmatian archers, who had regrouped, unleashed from behind the legionaries a shower of arrows swarming up and slamming down into the warrior host. Hundreds of Britons fell dying to the white, chalky ground, blood-spattered, writhing, their screams lost in the frenzy. Undeterred, thousands more plunged forward, trampling the wounded, wading into an ever-growing, tightening mass. Then in unison, the Romans’ first three ranks hurled hundreds of javelins; nearly all finding victims, followed by a volley of a thousand leadened stones from the sling men. The first three lines of Romans opened their ranks to let the rear three through to the front as they stepped back. They released another volley of javelins that found living targets, and hundreds more screaming warriors fell.
A loud hiss echoed down the Roman line as they in unison drew their gladius short swords from their scabbards. The legionaries held them to the side, jutting through narrow openings between their shields, pointing outward, waiting patiently for the onrushing Celts.
And onward the battle-maddened British rushed, hurling themselves against the shield wall of legionaries with a thud that echoed across the field. For a moment, the wall wavered, but the iron-disciplined Romans instantly recovered, holding fast. Behind a swath of jutting short swords and boss-smashing shields, the Romans proceeded to ply their deadly trade. Smash, jab, parry, and thrust as wave upon innumerable wave of raging barbarians threw themselves upon the Roman ranks and were slaughtered. The place was a littered nightmare of disemboweled and beheaded corpses, mixed with the odors of salty blood and the sickening smell of feces and urine. The agonizing screams of the maimed—armless and legless wounded—resounded the length of the crimson, mud-laden field.
“Are the Romans possessed?” Clud shouted over the chaos as he and Caratacus watched from a rise above the warriors. “Why aren’t they falling? Why aren’t they crumbling before us?”
“Our warriors had no room to maneuver—we are hemmed in by the defensive ditches. Why do you think I ordered the army to stand fast?” Caratacus answered. “There is no way our men can outflank them. Even if I slay half my warriors now, they wouldn’t stop!”
Caratacus controlled his own increasing urge to join in the foray. He wanted to slaughter the Romans as much as his warriors, to drive those devils across the channel all by himself! As his excitement grew, he gripped the semicircular sides of the chariot, restraining himself.
“I must be down there with my warriors, I can’t stay here. They have to know that I’m with them, and this fight is as much mine as theirs. Advance!” His chariot lurched ahead, followed by Clud and Fergus, as he rode back and forth behind his warriors in the choking dust kicked up by the commotion of battle. He shouted encouragement and searched for weaknesses in the Roman lines, but found few.
The legionaries slowly pressed inexorably forward through dirt, muddied by pools of blood. The auxiliary infantry, which had been kept in reserve, double-timed from the rear on both flanks, hacking and slashing with longswords and smashing their way into the exhausted Britons, who slowly withdrew, their fury spent.
“Why won’t the Romans center charge?” Fergus shouted. “They have the momentum.”
“They’re containing our men,” Caratacus yelled back over the noise. “They know we still outnumber them. They fear being surrounded.”
“But how long can they last?” Clud asked.
“I don’t know,” Caratacus answered. “They’ve lost many, but they keep fighting as if it were nothing. Thousands of ours died hurling themselves at the Romans, and although there are sporadic breaks in the ranks, the Roman lines are almost as tight as before the battle.”
Caratacus gripped the hilt of his sword. “Break them!”
Chapter 8
From their mounts on a low hill above the field of carnage, Porcius, General Vespasian, and his second-in-command, Senior Tribune Marcus Severus, watched the troops of the Second Legion stonewall the Britons’ mindless onslaught. Before the legionaries, bloody piles of bodies littered the ground, the odor of feces and urine, the coppery smell of blood, and screams of the maimed and dying drifted on the hot breeze. Undeterred, the warriors climbed over their dead comrades and kept slamming into the Roman columns of shields and thrusting short swords.
Porcius wondered how much longer the legion could plug their defenses without Caratacus’s warriors breaking through. Despite the deployment of Legion Twentieth Valeria, which had been hiding in the forest and now supported the Second Legion, there were still too many gaps between cohorts and centuries. Surely, the Britons will take advantage of the situation.
A ring of Praetorian Guardsmen formed a protective circle around Vespasian’s entourage, which included his staff of junior tribunes, couriers, clerical support staff, and the officers’ personal attendants. To their rear a small tent had been temporarily set up, with pennants and streamers on long poles planted in the ground, announcing it was the Second Legion’s headquarters.
The day before, Porcius had been ordered by General Plautius to report to General Vespasian, commander of the Second Augustan Legion. Since Caratacus was expected to engage his forces, Vespasian needed Porcius to identify the leader of the Britons. He realized Porcius was the only Roman who could accurately identify Caratacus.
General Plautius neither trust
ed Adminios, Caratacus’s exiled brother, nor King Verica to point him out. Besides, the general could not chance either would be killed in battle, as he needed to use both as puppet rulers once the Romans conquered the British lands.
Porcius had been reluctant to report to General Vespasian because of his harrowing experience at the Battle of Bagshot Heath years before. Despite everything that had occurred since that time, he hoped that Caratacus would survive this war. Porcius had been saved by the king. After all, he had pointed out the Celtic ruler as soon as the battle started.
Tribune Severus turned toward the battlefield. “Look!”
As if reading Porcius’s thoughts, clusters of British warriors spotted openings in the Roman ranks. Like a flooding stream, they rushed around the legionaries. Porcius watched the Fourth Cohort, commanded by Centurion Bassus and the Eighth just below him at the foot of the hill where they were held in reserve.
Porcius realized the two cohorts wouldn’t remain out of the battle for long. The legions were taking a beating; their lines fragmenting and falling apart. Where was their discipline?
A trumpet sounded, jolting him from his thoughts. The Fourth and Eighth Cohorts moved forward to plug gaps in the line. The legions desperately regrouped.
A courier riding a lathered horse pulled up before General Vespasian and saluted. “Sir, the two middle cohorts of the Second Legion have lost over three hundred legionaries, and more are being hacked apart.”
“I can see that even from here,” the general snapped. His large, peasant eyes narrowed, and he appeared to be studying the situation.
“I see a weakness,” Vespasian said a few seconds later. He turned to Tribune Severus and then Porcius. “Once they get through the gaps, the Britons scatter or cluster in little groups as they fight. We can isolate them.” He turned to a trumpeter who sat on a nearby mount. “Sound the command for the Fourth and Eighth Cohort to move forward—they know what to do.”
The trumpeter, using a straight-belled tubicen, blared a signal. Bassus and the centuries of the Fourth Cohort formed a line eighty across the front and six ranks deep. To the clanking of shields and rattling of swords and armor, the soldiers of the Eighth Cohort followed suit. Another signal and the legionaries gave a resounding battle cry and surged ahead at double-time.
The Wolf of Britannia Part II Page 8