by James Mace
“The terrain here looks relatively flat,” he observed. “It’s not as rugged and broken as the southern regions.”
“And there’s a nice beach for us,” Scapula said to Stoppello. “We’ll land here.”
Stoppello called out over his shoulder, “Signal the fleet…action right! All assault troops make ready to debark!”
“That would be us, lads!” Master Centurion Tyranus shouted to his men. “First Cohort, up!”
Anticipating the pending debarkation, all legionaries had been ordered into their armour and kit just before dawn. Soldiers donned their helmets and stood ready, using their shields and pila to help balance themselves.
“This area appears to be deserted,” Paulinus said to his primus pilus. The ship lurched hard to the right as oarsmen cut into the waves, training the ship towards the shore. “Once off the ship, press forward to that rolling ridge. It looks to be about a mile inland and should make a good staging point.”
“Yes, sir.”
Centurion Magnus leaned against his shield, as the ship cut through the rolling surf. He tied the helmet cords beneath his chin and took a deep breath in anticipation. He clenched his fist and beat it hard against the scar on his leg, drawing a bemused stare from Optio Caelius.
“Trying to wake the damn thing up,” the Norseman explained.
“I didn’t say a thing, sir,” Caelius said with an understanding grin. The optio had his share of scars and old injuries, and could therefore sympathise with his commanding officer.
“Four fathoms!” a sailor at the stern of the ship shouted, as he pulled in the long knotted roped used for estimating depth.
“Stand ready, lads,” Magnus said. He hefted his shield. “Just a little further.”
“The cohort will advance in column until we reach the beach!” Master Centurion Tyranus shouted. “At my signal, we will form into battle ranks!”
“Three fathoms!”
Magnus scanned the horizon, anxiously looking for enemy warriors. There was little doubt they had been spotted during the previous day’s voyage. The only question now was whether or not hostile forces would be waiting for them on the other side of the ridge.
“Two fathoms!”
“Stand by to reverse oars!” Admiral Stoppello ordered.
Magnus could now see the sandy bottom beneath the waves. He took a deep breath and slung his shield over the railing. Many of his legionaries followed suit as they prepared to jump over the side.
“One-and-a-half fathoms!”
“Reverse and withdraw oars!”
Orders were shouted below deck. With great precision the oarsmen abruptly changed the direction they were rowing, halting the ship in just a few strokes. Upon a subsequent command, they hauled their oars into the ship, preventing them being smashed by the disembarking legionaries.
Master Centurion Tyranus blew his whistle. Without further commands, Magnus stepped over the rail and leapt into the rolling waves. He kicked his legs out as soon as he hit the water, allowing himself to sink down to his bottom rather than risk injury to his ankles. He stood up with a loud splash, completely drenched and tasting the salt water on his lips. The water was cold, causing many a startled shout from plunging legionaries. Magnus hoisted his shield high out of the water and began to trek through the waist-high swells. Hundreds of legionaries were following him and the other centurions, rushing into the sea and forming into a column as they made their way towards the beach. There was little need for shouted orders from the centurions, options, or decani. The cohort was a precision machine, with each soldier knowing his place. They did not have far to go, for the tide was low and it was only about fifty meters from where they jumped to the beach. The sandbar was surprisingly firm, negating the annoying amount of sand each soldier kicked into his sandals as they jogged up the beach.
As they scrambled up towards the tall grasses at the edge of the beach, Master Centurion Tyranus blew his whistle. The aquilifer raised the legion’s eagle standard high.
“Third Century on me!” Magnus shouted, raising his gladius and blowing his whistle three times.
As chaotic as their disembarking over the sides of the ships seemed, any observers on the ridge would have marvelled at the incredible precision with which thousands of legionaries storming up the beach formed into their large battle formation. The aquilifer marched at the very head, the eagle now draped over his shoulder. Directly behind him was the centurion primus pilus. His First Century of the First Cohort occupied the very centre. Magnus’ Third Century fell in on their immediate right, the Fifth Century next to them, with the Second and Fourth Centuries on Tyranus’ left. Each century advanced as its own entity of six ranks, with standard bearers marching just behind their centurions.
All along the coastline, hosts of imperial legionaries were disembarking from their respective transports; centurions reforming their men once they reached the beach. Four additional cohorts fell in with the First, two on each side, with the remaining five cohorts forming a reserve battle line behind them. Auxilia infantrymen were establishing their formations well out to the flanks of the legion. Their light skirmishers were already making their way towards the far ridgeline. Only the cavalry still remained aboard ship. The task of getting horses off the transports was a slow and painstaking process, and they needed the landing point secured before they could disembark.
The beach soon gave way to tall grasses on firmer ground. The sun shone through white, puffy clouds, as a pleasant breeze blew in from the sea. The gusts caused the soaked legionaries to shiver, though they hoped the sun would warm them soon enough. Were they not all armed for battle, it would have been the perfect day for relaxation at the seaside. Given the utter silence, as well as the beauty of the landscape, one would never know they were on the shores of an entirely hostile land. There had been no resistance yet, but there was no mistaking this was an invasion.
As the legion continued its march, the footfalls of five thousand men sounded its cadence upon the earth. Auxilia infantry cohorts began to secure the ground just past the beach, while crewmen aboard the animal transport began the tedious task of getting the cavalry horses and pack animals off the ships. They erected a large crane which would lift each horse or mule in a sling under its belly, lowering it into the sea below, where a dozen handlers waited. The process was slow and ponderous. Several horses and a large number of pack mules panicked as they were lowered into the rolling surf. A number of men wound up with cracked ribs and various bruises from the unruly beasts.
At the top of the ridge Tyranus raised his hand and the cornicen blew a long note on his horn, signalling for the legion to halt. Another series of horn blasts alerted the cohort commanders, who converged on the eagle standard.
“We’ll establish camp here,” the master centurion ordered. He pointed towards a lone tree about a quarter mile away. “Post the eagle there. Have all surveyors begin laying out the camp perimeters.”
“What about reconnaissance, sir?” Centurion Metellus of the Fifth Cohort asked.
“There’s little we can do until the cavalry have their horses off the ships. Governor Scapula and General Paulinus should be coming ashore within the hour. While surveyors lay out the camp, dispatch half your men to provide security. Post pickets three hundred meters from camp. The rest can begin claiming each cohort’s baggage. Entrenching tools should have been stored at the top of the cargo holds.”
While legionaries of the First Cohort were exempt from fatigue details while in garrison, they still had to erect their own tents and entrench their section of the camp’s defences while on campaign. Magnus walked over to what would be the northern boundary of the camp and scanned the horizon.
“Nothing,” Tyranus said, as he joined him. “Not a gods-damned thing. One would think this whole region was entirely devoid of humanity.”
“Oh, they’re out there,” the Nordic centurion replied, removing his helmet and scratching away at the still-damp mop of hair. “But with no knowledge of the region, we are
running blind.”
“Indus’ Horse will be kept busy, no doubt about that. I almost wish the enemy had been waiting for us on the beach instead of making us go find him.”
What neither of the centurions knew was that the ridge had not been entirely deserted. A lone rider lurked within one of the many groves of trees dotting the landscape. He’d watched the entire division disembark, doing his best to estimate the invaders’ strength. He had to warn his chieftain and, more importantly, find Caratacus!
Something else neither Scapula nor any of his soldiers knew was just how close to Caratacus they had landed. After two days of hard riding, the panic-stricken messenger from the Deceangli rode into the camp at Halkyn Mountain. The Catuvellauni Prince had only just that morning received oaths of unflinching support from his allies in the war against Rome.
“Great Caratacus, Chief of the Catuvellauni, I bring grave news!” the man said, practically falling from his horse before dropping down onto one knee. It was quite telling that he prostrated himself before Caratacus rather than King Seisyll, who was overlord of both the Ordovices the Deceangli.
“Rise, my friend,” Caratacus said, helping the man to his feet. “Now, what is this cause of distress among our friends on the northern shores?” Though his voice and demeanour remained calm, he knew the message to be grim. His fears were confirmed when the messenger spoke again.
“The Romans have landed. I saw their ships sailing past our shores, and they have a huge force encamped ten miles east of our capital at Kanovium.”
This was distressing news. The bulwark of the Silures and Ordovices armies were several days away, seeking to ambush what they thought was the entire Roman invasion force near the River Sabrina. That a second imperial division of equal size had gone around the peninsula and landed behind them meant plans would have to change quickly.
“If they sailed right past Kanovium, they must not even know that it’s there,” Seisyll reasoned.
“They’ll find it soon enough,” Caratacus conjectured. “They have no knowledge of these lands, yet they will send their scouts out in every direction.” He asked the messenger, “How many men do they have?”
“Ten thousand, at least. I saw one of their eagles and a slew of other standards.”
King Orin spoke up, his voice filled with growing anger. “And with most of our warriors several days south of here, we have not the numbers to face them.” He shook his head. “We should have launched an attack on their land division and dispersed them while they were on the march!”
While Caratacus appreciated the valour and tenacity of the Silures, he knew King Orin was prone to recklessness. “To do so would mean sending fifty thousand warriors deep into Roman lands. They would have ambushed us, as we intend to do to them.”
“Besides, your warriors lack the discipline to remain organized long enough to take part in such a vast undertaking,” Seisyll scoffed. Though allies they may have been, the old animosities between their kingdoms would not so easily die.
Caratacus took a few moments to contemplate this new threat. “Our enemy is clever, but he has also committed himself to serious risk by dividing his forces. King Orin, I would ask that you return to your army and make ready to harry and delay the Roman army in the south. I will remain here with King Seisyll. We will draw this invasion force deep into the mountains southwest of here. Once they are lost and scattered, we can converge our forces to deal with the invaders coming up from the south.”
The kings agreed. Orin, however, was beginning to feel pangs of animosity towards his blood-brother, who was now all but giving him orders. The messenger from Deceangli looked at Caratacus in horror. “But…what of us? What of our people? Who will save us?”
“Courage is your best defence this day,” King Seisyll said, almost dismissively. The Deceangli were one of his protectorates; however, they would now have to take a stand themselves, earning the protecting the Ordovices had given them all these years.
Chapter V: Slaves of Fear
Roman Camp near Kimmel Bay
***
“Sir, we’ve located a large hillfort not ten miles from here,” Commander Julianus from Indus’ Horse reported. “We believe it could be the Deceangli capital.”
“If they’re that close, then they are already aware of our presence,” Paulinus reasoned.
Julianus confirmed his assessment. “We saw large numbers of people fleeing the stronghold. They were mostly weighted down with whatever possessions they could carry. Others were leading livestock towards the southwest.”
“Dispatch your cavalry and light auxilia in pursuit,” Scapula ordered. “General Paulinus, detach six cohorts to envelop the stronghold. Two companies of archers will provide skirmishers. Unfortunately, we lack heavy siege engines, just four onagers and a dozen scorpions.”
One of the harshest realities of launching an amphibious campaign was the limitations brought on by logistics. Even with most of the Britannic fleet ferrying them around the isle, there was only so much space aboard each ship. Siege engines were large and cumbersome, and from what little intelligence the Romans had about the Silures and Ordovices, the idea of building large, fortified strongholds was unknown to them. There was also the matter of transporting the heavy weapons, especially onagers, across such rugged terrain covered with near-impassable forests.
“That should be sufficient, sir,” Julianus surmised. “The oppida is large but not well defended.”
“Just don’t get reckless, slaughtering those fleeing barbarians,” Paulinus cautioned. “The Deceangli are under the protection of the Ordovices, so they could have friends waiting for us.”
While the senior leaders made their tentative plan, word was sent to the six cohorts that would take part in the assault. The past few days had been spent fortifying their camp, while cleaning and oiling all of their weaponry and kit soaked during the landing. Punishment for allowing one’s armour and weapons to become corroded by salt water residue was severe, often resulting in a flogging with the centurion’s vine staff and a loss of pay. Having spent more than a day on their kit, each soldier was now ready to abandon the tedium of life in camp for a chance at battle and glory. There were many disgruntled mutterings, and more than a few profane curses, from the four cohorts designated to remain behind and guard the camp. Trumpets sounded as soldiers helped each other into their armour. Decani conducted quick inspections before reporting to their centurions and options.
For Centurion Magnus and his men, a benefit of being in the First Cohort was that they never got left behind on guard detail. With eight hundred elite soldiers in its ranks, the venerable First was always at the proverbial spear-point of any attack. Of course the chances of being killed or seriously injured also increased exponentially, but then, that was a risk they all willingly accepted.
Their tents were erected near the western entrance to the camp. As he buckled his sword baldric, Magnus watched scores of cavalrymen converge just beyond the ramparts and encircling trench. Commander Julianus was disseminating orders to his company commanders. Light auxilia skirmishers formed into groups of twenty to thirty, ready to accompany the horsemen in pursuit of the Deceangli fugitives. With a few last minute instructions from General Paulinus, Master Centurion Tyranus led the First Cohort out the hastily erected gate. They marched at the quick step, anxious for battle and the possibility of plunder. In addition to their weapons, General Paulinus ordered the men to bring two days’ worth of rations, in case of an unexpected stay at the hillfort. The younger legionaries in the other cohorts were particularly eager and had to be reminded by their section leaders to calm themselves. Their objective was at least half-a-day’s march from the camp, and they needed to save their strength for the coming battle.
While the Syrian archers formed a wide skirmish line approximately fifty meters forward of the main body, the aquilifer marched at the head of the legionaries, boldly carrying aloft the sacred imperial eagle. Legate Paulinus, the tribunes, and Master Centurion Tyranus
rode near the aquilifer, escorted by twenty of the legion’s indigenous horsemen. With only a narrow road, which was simply a well-worn dirt path used by farmers between settlements, most of the soldiers marched on either side in a pair of columns. The ground was mostly open grassland, perfect for farming. Scapula made mention of this to Paulinus.
“All the more reason for us to eventually conquer this land,” the legate remarked. He then added an observance he’d made as a young man, while serving as chief tribune to one of the legions in Germania, “The true wealth of a land is not in its gold or jewels, but in how much of that land can be cultivated for agriculture.”
“One cannot eat gold,” Scapula added in concurrence. “Of course, I have heard rumours of there being a wealth of gold and other metals in the lands west of the Sabrina. The emperor will no doubt be pleased, should we acquire some of these riches for the empire. But the first thing we must do is destroy Caratacus and his resistance.”
It was early afternoon when they came within earshot of the Deceangli capital. The sound of panicked screams echoed from beyond a large grove of trees just north of the path. Scapula rode forward as he saw a section of ten troopers from Indus’ Horse riding towards them. They were arrayed in two files with nearly thirty oxen bearing baskets full of food stores, in addition to a score of sheep, between them.
“Commander Julianus’ compliments, sir,” a decurion said, saluting the governor. “We were ordered to take these ‘mobile rations’ back to camp.”
“What of the people you took them from?” the governor asked.
“We slew any who attempted to resist and took probably a hundred prisoners. One of the infantry cohorts is sorting them out as we speak.”
“Prisoners can be useful hostages,” Paulinus noted.
Scapula shrugged dismissively. “Or at least they’ll earn us a few denarii from the slave merchants.” He nodded to the cavalry officer. “Good work, decurion.”