Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered

by James Mace

  “Sir!” The man saluted then led his section around the legionary columns.

  Just then, a Syrian archer ran back towards the column, the remainder of their men having gone into the woods ahead.

  “The barbarians have barricaded themselves in the oppida,” he reported. “Just past the trees the ground opens up and about two hundred meters on, the path veers sharply to the right, leading directly up to the stronghold.”

  “We should see this for ourselves,” Paulinus recommended. He turned to Tyranus. “Advance the legion to the wood line then stand by for further orders.”

  The legate was now taking control of the mission, something Scapula had come to accept. For though he was governor of the entire province of Britannia, he knew it best to allow his legates the freedom to utilize their troops as best they saw fit. A proud general like Suetonius Paulinus would become rather indignant, should the governor attempt to tell him how to command his legion.

  While the legionaries continued their march, the governor, legate, and their escorts followed the archer into the woods. Due to the thickness of the undergrowth, they were obliged to dismount and make their way on foot. The far edge of the wood line was sparser of trees where locals had harvested much of the old forest. The capital itself encompassed a wide, short hill. It was surrounded by a thicket of long sharpened poles, not unlike the employment of palisade stakes by the legions. Numerous thatched huts and roundhouses, very similar to those seen in Germania, covered the sides of the hill. At the very top was a large structure towering over the others. A long building sloped upward, it was the local chief’s longhouse.

  “Seems straightforward enough,” Scapula remarked. “Cut off any escape routes. Then we go knock on the door and see who is home.”

  Paulinus gave a malicious grin. “I’ll tell the lads to be on their best behaviour for our hosts.”

  “First Cohort, battle formation!”

  At the order from Tyranus, each century formed into six ranks, javelins resting over their shoulders, ready to unleash. From his position near the edge of the woods, Magnus could see several upturned wagons and carts piled in front of the entrance to the settlement. Warriors with bows and stabbing spears stood defiantly behind the defences. The rest of the legion’s cohorts surrounded the hill. The Deceangli left only one way in or out of their high chief’s stronghold, thus trapping themselves behind its wall of stakes.

  While the legionaries waited for the order to attack, the handful of scorpions brought with them were deployed to either side of the road. The much larger onagers were being wheeled into position. Having a substantially greater range than the enemy’s bowmen, they commenced unleashing their missiles without any threat of reprisal. A barbarian defender cried out when he was struck in the shoulder. The heavy bolt burst through flesh and muscle, splintering bone. Another man was hit in the stomach, doubling him over in horrifying pain as his guts were impaled. The remaining warriors hid low behind the barricades, the cries of their dying companions unnerving them.

  “Use flaming shot and concentrate on the barricades,” Paulinus ordered the catapult crews.

  It took several minutes to fill the clay pots with oil and load them into the onagers’ throwing arms. They were then ignited, and with a loud slap of the throwing arm, flung in a high arc towards the stronghold. One of the flaming projectiles smashed into the ground in front of the defences, two more sailed high and burst among the rooftops of the clustered huts. The fourth crashed into the barricades with a spray of fire, causing the enemy warriors to scramble away, where they were subjected to another barrage from the scorpions.

  The onagers fired several more salvos, and though the bombardment of flaming missiles was indeed terrifying, they were not having their intended effect. Each would shatter upon impact and burn for a few moments, but the wood and thatch was simply too damp for the flames to take hold.

  “Rains too damn much here,” a staff tribune grumbled.

  Paulinus nodded and then wordlessly drew his spatha. He raised the weapon high and brought it down in a sharp swing. The cornicen sounded the order to attack. With shouts of “Advance!” from the cohort commanders, several thousand legionaries stepped off towards the heights. They marched in close order, practically shield-to-shield, while scorpions continued to suppress the barbarians. Several more Deceangli killed or badly injured in the barrage. As the legionaries made their way up the hill, the scorpions were compelled to cease their onslaught. When the Romans were within fifty feet of the barricades the warriors rose up, unleashing a torrent of their own missiles; arrows, throwing darts, sling stones.

  “Down!” Magnus shouted.

  His men quickly dropped to one knee, hunkering low behind their shields. Those in the second to sixth ranks held their shields overhead, forming a protective shell around the entire century. The rest of the cohort was doing the same. All the while, a company of nearly a hundred Syrian archers raced forward. From behind the protection of the legionary testudos, they loosed a series of volleys at their adversaries.

  Realizing their missiles were all but useless against the legionary shield wall, the Deceangli warriors turned their attention to the archers. Arrows, spears, and stones flew over the heads of the armoured soldiers, felling several of the Syrian auxiliaries.

  “Charge!” the Norse centurion shouted, lunging to his feet.

  With a loud battle cry, the host of legionaries swarmed the defences. The archers’ diversion bought them only a few moments, yet moments were all they needed.

  The battle front of the First Cohort was very wide. Even when formed into six ranks, each century’s frontage was still twenty-six soldiers wide. Tyranus and his century stormed the barricades while Magnus and the rest of the cohort contended with the stakes and earthworks. The panicked warriors haphazardly flung what missiles they had at the charging wall of legionaries before retreating into the town. The soldiers’ armour offered excellent protection, yet one unlucky man took a throwing spear through the neck. His shield and pilum fell from his hands as he tumbled to the earth, his life’s blood gushing from the hideous wound. Another had a sling stone deflect off the cheek guard of his helmet, breaking the hinges that held it in place. His comrade next to him was not as fortunate. Another barbarian slinger found his mark, the stone smashing into the Roman’s face. The legionary screamed, hands over his face, falling to his knees in agony.

  The spikes that jutted from the defences were very large, with one row thrust straight out and the second protruding upwards at an angle. The Deceangli used larger logs for their stakes to make them appear more menacing, yet they proved easier to climb over. Magnus’ legionaries flung their javelins towards any enemy warriors they spotted, before beginning the awkward climb over the ramparts. Many dropped their shields, to better pull themselves up over the spikes, having their friends pass the shields up to them once they reached the top.

  Making certain he was one of the first over the ramparts, Magnus now stood atop the earthworks and surveyed the confusion within the settlement. Enemy fighters came from every direction, wielding mostly spears and wooden shields. A few carried hand axes or large, two-handed clubs. Only a few wielded swords, and these men also wore mail armour with bronze helmets. The wealthiest and most powerful men in this land were still less equipped than even the humblest legionary. One of these men shouted some orders and pointed towards the centurion with his longsword. Magnus reached back over the palisades to retrieve his shield, then quickly grabbed one of his legionaries by the hand and helped him over. He hefted his shield and turned to face the coming assault.

  A warrior swung his hand axe towards Magnus’ shin. The centurion quickly dropping his shield to deflect the blow. He kicked the man hard in the face with his hobnailed sandals, splitting open his forehead. The centurion leapt from the earthworks, slamming the bottom edge of his shield into the dazed warrior’s face.

  A sharp pain shot through the Norseman’s leg, an incessant reminder of his old injury. His other kne
e buckled slightly. With his blood rushing through his veins, he scarcely noticed.

  He was soon joined by growing numbers of his legionaries, forming into battle lines as more Deceangli fighters rushed into the fray. The huts and other structures within the settlement were built practically on top of each other, making for very narrow roads. The alleyways between buildings were so contracted that a single man could scarcely navigate through them. Warriors battered the shield wall with spears and axes, while legionaries punched away with their shields, seeking openings for thrusts of their gladii. The rear ranks of the cohort were now scrambling over the ramparts, and most of these men still carried their pila. From their high point on the earthworks, they flung their heavy javelins over the heads of their mates. A score of Deceangli warriors fell dead or badly wounded in the storm. The courage of the survivors momentarily wavered, giving Magnus and his soldiers the momentum needed to completely break them. Warriors who hesitated paid the price, as legionary blades plunged into their guts. Others had their arms or legs hacked when the Romans surged forward. The centurion himself thrust his gladius deep into the neck of one assailant, ripping the weapon free in a torrent of splattering blood. The will of the remaining fighters broke, and they fled for what they hoped would be sanctuary within the town.

  Magnus led his century towards the barricades where, surprisingly, Master Centurion Tyranus’ century was being hard-pressed to break through. The Deceangli had massed the largest portion of their warriors here, along with many of their skirmishers.

  “Reform!” the Norseman shouted, holding his bloodied gladius high. Streams of dark crimson ran from the pommel of his weapon down his scarred, muscular forearm.

  The open square near the barricade was filled with enemy warriors who were inexplicably oblivious to the growing mass of imperial soldiers about to flank them. Some of Magnus’ legionaries managed to form into three ranks of twenty men. The rest of the century, along with Optio Caelius, was unable to advance any further. These men proceeded to kick down the walls of several mud huts, while others found windows to breach on wooden structures.

  “Advance!”

  The legionaries marched in step, their centurion having placed himself in the very centre. When they were but twenty feet away Magnus howled in fury, sprinting the remaining distance and smashing into a barbarian fighter with all his weight behind his shield. Only a handful of the Deceangli noticed them in time to turn and face this renewed threat. Shield bosses and blows from the bottom edges of Roman shields sent a number of their adversaries sprawling onto the ground. Several more were slain by lightning quick thrusts of legionary gladii.

  As Tyranus and his century smashed their way through and over the barricade, toppling a pair of upturned oxcarts, the booming sound of a war horn came from near the high chief’s great hall. Its meaning became immediately apparent. Warriors began to throw down their weapons and raise their hands in surrender. A couple were killed by overzealous legionaries, who were quickly berated by their officers.

  “Hold fast, lads!” Tyranus bellowed as he clambered over a large broken wagon.

  Most of the Deceangli warriors stood with their heads bowed in defeat. Others tried to tend to their badly wounded friends, who lay sprawled about the battleground.

  “Do any of you speak Latin?” the master centurion asked, drawing confused stares. He shook his head in irritation and called over his shoulder, “Send our interpreter forward…and inform General Paulinus that we’ve taken the town!”

  A few minutes of awkward silence followed, with neither warrior nor legionary knowing exactly what they should do. The other cohorts from the Twentieth Legion had breached the defences with a number of troops surrounding the chief’s hall. Paulinus soon appeared at the barricade. With him was Landon, the Brigantes interpreter.

  “Well done,” the legate said approvingly. “Tyranus, take twenty of your men and come with me. The rest of you, start binding and sorting these prisoners.”

  “Yes, sir,” the primus pilus nodded.

  “Centurion Magnus, take charge of the cohort.”

  Magnus nodded and ordered his men to lead their defeated foes out of the town onto the open plain below. As they guided the prisoners down the slope, he was joined by Centurion Furius.

  He noticed Magnus was walking with a pronounced limp. “Almost sent you to Valhalla, didn’t they?”

  Magnus smiled and shook his head. “No, just the past injuries of an old man.” He winked as he looked at a rather nasty gash on Furius’ cheek. “That’s the worst shaving cut I’ve ever seen.”

  His fellow centurion primus ordo sighed and gently touched the still-bleeding wound with his fingertips. “Twenty-two years in the ranks without any visible scars and now this. It’s my own damned fault. I didn’t tie the chin cords on my helmet tight enough, and the cheek guards were flapping about. And it would seem I was slower with my shield than the cohort’s ‘old man’.”

  The two shared a laugh as their legionaries began to sort the prisoners. Their hands were bound behind their backs, and each man was tied to the warrior behind him. Their dead and maimed were left where they fell. For the Romans, it had not been a costless victory. Seven legionaries and four auxilia archers had been killed, with another forty men wounded between them. Half of these injured soldiers would likely be fit to return to duty in a few days; the rest would have to be evacuated to a hospital in Roman territory. Scapula’s intent was to have the imperial navy transport enemy prisoners and Roman wounded back to Camulodunum, when they arrived with the army’s next resupply.

  The chief of Deceangli was an older warrior named Elisedd. He was surrounded by a score of legionaries who stood close with their weapons drawn. He wore a long leather frock covered in small, rectangular bronze plates, belted in the middle. A sword baldric hung over his right shoulder. His weapon, a magnificent two-handed longsword, had been confiscated and was being held by a decanus. Standing beside him, her expression one of defiance, was his wife, Runa. She kept her plaid cloak held close around her shoulders, her auburn hair pulled back tight against her scalp.

  The chief’s brow was sweaty, his complexion red from exertion. For him, the battle had not lasted long. From his vantage point atop the hill, his stronghold swarming with imperial soldiers, he knew all was lost. He bowed to the General Paulinus as the decanus handed the chief’s sword to the legate.

  “Yr wyf yn ostyngedig yn cynnig fy ildio,” Elisedd said, in a language that Paulinus could not even begin to comprehend. “Pa tynged yn aros fy mhobl?”

  “He says he humbly offers his surrender,” Landon translated, speaking slowly, as he struggled to understand all the chief was saying, “I believe he’s asking what fate awaits his people.”

  “He and his warriors are to be taken to Governor Scapula who will decide the ultimate fate of the Deceangli.”

  Landon translated the legate’s words causing Elisedd to grimace. He had little to no faith in the honour of the imperial governor, yet sadly, he knew he was powerless. The Romans had been too numerous for his warriors to make a viable stand. The Deceangli were mostly fishermen and farmers, bullied into subjugation by the far more numerous and warlike Ordovices with the promise of ‘protection’. And with the Ordovices nowhere to be found, their protectorates were left to the mercy of their enemies.

  Chapter VI: Finding the Enemy

  Roman Camp near Kimmel Bay

  19 June 48 A.D.

  ***

  Paulinus ordered all food stores from the oppida to be taken back to camp. The stronghold was then put to the torch. It took some time for the damp timbers to ignite, and the thick columns of black smoke could be seen for twenty miles. Governor Scapula had ridden back to the Roman camp once he saw the stronghold was taken by his soldiers. His principia tent served as a tribunal in which he would meet the defeated Deceangli chieftain.

  In all, nearly three thousand prisoners were taken. Most of those captured at the stronghold were warriors. The fighting men had sent their w
omen and children away, hoping they might escape. The sight of many of their families penned up in the crude stockades told a grim tale. The captured warriors could also assume many of their loved ones had been killed. They were kept separate from the women and children, and there was no way for anyone to know who was imprisoned, dead, or managed to escape.

  Scapula made certain his armour was polished, and he draped his finest deep red cloak over his left shoulder. He sat upon a three-foot dais, just large enough for his camp chair. To his right sat a five-foot pillar with a bust of Emperor Claudius atop, to his left the eagle of the Twentieth Legion and the standards of Indus Horse and the other auxilia regiments. General Paulinus, Commander Julianus, the tribunes, First Cohort centurions, and auxilia regimental commanders stood on either side of the dais.

  Elisedd and Runa and ten of their nobles were escorted into the principia. Their hands were chained in front of them. Elisedd carried his sword, resting flat on the palms of his hands. Landon walked in front of the escorting legionaries. Once they reached the dais, the Brigantes interpreter relayed the orders he had been given earlier. Elisedd was to kneel before Scapula and plant his sword point into the earth. It was terribly degrading for the proud war chief; however, he knew the option was to watch every last one of his captured warriors be crucified. The women and children would likely be sold into slavery, regardless of what their chief did. The Romans had promised to spare Runa, however, should her husband offer total submission to the empire.

  With overwhelming feelings of both humiliation and stalwart determination, Elisedd girded his dignity and knelt in front of the dais. He thrust the sword, passed down for generations, into the earth. He fought back tears as his grip lingered on the worn handle, for what he knew to be the last time. The ancient blade was now a prize of Caesar.

  The Deceangli chief took a slow breath in and exhaled quietly, composing himself. Finally he spoke, “Trwy waed fy hynafiaid, yr wyf yn tyngu ar fy mywyd sydd byth eto bydd fy mhobl yn gwneud rhyfel yn erbyn Rhufain.”