by James Mace
Landon remained stoic, though he was moved by the beaten warrior’s words. He translated, “By the blood of my ancestors, I swear on my life that never again will my people make war against Rome.”
And though Elisedd had not asked this directly, the Brigantes man decided to ask on his behalf, “What is to become of their people?”
“War against Rome requires a measure of retribution,” Scapula explained, speaking slowly so Landon could translate. “You and your wife will be taken to Rome, where you may plead your case before the emperor. He will decide the ultimate fate of Deceangli. Your warriors, as well as their women and children, will remain hostages of Rome to ensure the good faith of your people. Understand, any further acts of violence against the empire and their lives will become forfeit.”
Frustrated that their fate remained undecided, Elisedd simply nodded as he stood. Scapula signalled to the legionaries surrounding the couple, who escorted them from the principia.
“Hostages?” Paulinus asked. “Between the warriors and the families the auxilia captured, we have over four thousand prisoners. Even with the food stores we took from their stronghold, they will starve within two weeks.”
“By which time our resupply ships will have arrived,” Scapula explained. “I directed Admiral Stoppello to bring additional rations, as well as any equipment we were unable to transport during the initial landing. He can take these…hostages… off our hands then.”
“You don’t intend to ever release them,” the legate said knowingly. “You’re going to hand them over to the slave traders.”
“And what would you do, General Paulinus, were you Governor of Britannia? Would you commit the resources to feed and house several thousand prisoners from a tribe that matters little in this war? Had we crushed the Silures and Ordovices first, the Deceangli would have capitulated without a fight. Unlucky that their homeland happened to be right in our invasion path, isn’t it?”
Paulinus bit the inside of his cheek. While their deceit was a bit troubling, he knew Scapula was right. The legate was coming to understand, should he ever wish to rise above his posting of legion commander and govern an imperial province, he would have to think beyond just winning battles. While Ostorius Scapula was scarcely an adequate military strategist, and having committed several serious diplomatic blunders early in his term as governor, he was proving to be a viable teacher to the legate when it came to dealing with newly-conquered peoples and unruly provincials. On the furthest frontiers of the empire, there was little room for clemency. For many of these people, ruthless brutality was the only form of persuasion they understood.
While Governor Scapula determined the interim fate of the Deceangli, Centurion Metellus Artorius led the Fifth Cohort, supported by two companies from Indus’ Horse, in a massed reconnaissance to the southwest. It was the direction taken by most of the fleeing Deceangli, and Scapula intended to use them to locate the barbarians’ main army. His intent was to gather as much intelligence as possible before linking up with General Paetus’ division.
Most of the actual reconnaissance was done by the cavalry; Metellus and his legionaries were simply there for support, should the horsemen run into a larger force than they could contend with. As the senior officer present, Metellus ordered the cavalry commanders to make certain they kept his legionaries in view at all times. While traversing open terrain, this meant the auxilia troopers could keep one hill or ridgeline away. Crossing the innumerable forests, the cavalry waited until the infantry was within thirty meters or less before proceeding.
Approximately four miles into their trek, they came upon a dirt trail that led in a westerly direction. The ground was saturated from the recent rains, which made tracking their quarry much easier.
“There are no recent tracks along this stretch of road, sir,” a trooper reported.
“Which means they did not come this way,” Metellus noted.
The trooper nodded and then continued, “We sent two sections to see where this leads. We haven’t seen much in the way of farmlands; however, we believe these people to be mostly sheepherders. There are plenty of signs of grazing, not to mention copious amounts of sheep shit. Any villages will be small and scattered about these grassy hills.”
The centurion sent the trooper back to his company. He continued on with his legionaries two more miles, where they came upon a small brook. “We’ll hold here until the scouts return,” he directed his men.
His centuries formed into a defensive hollow square and soldiers were sent to fill water bladders in the stream.
“I’ve counted our pace, and we’ve gone about six miles,” one of the centurions stated.
“We’ll go another four before turning back,” the pilus prior replied.
Most of the cavalrymen had also halted at the stream to water their horses and sate their own thirsts. Sections of troopers were dispatched in each direction to find some sign of the fugitives. The sun was now directly overhead, and though it shone brightly, dark clouds loomed in the west. A cool gust of wind blew over the cohort, warning of the gods’ intentions.
“Just when we got our sodden clothes dried out,” a legionary complained.
“And I thought the weather was wet and unpredictable on the rest of this isle,” another added. “It’s as if the gods are fucking with us. Give us the sun one minute, and then piss on us the next.”
“Too bad Jupiter’s piss is anything but warm,” the first soldier added.
While legionaries carped about the constant and volatile changes to the region’s weather, the sound of galloping horses alerted Metellus and his centurions to the return of the reconnaissance detachment. A cavalry centurion rode out to meet his troopers, who briefed him quickly before reporting to Metellus.
“We found a settlement about six miles to the west,” the cavalry section leader said, dismounting his horse. He used a stick to draw a crude map in the mud. “This stream meets with the road about a mile before the village. There wasn’t much there, mostly round huts and a few animal pens.”
“Any idea where they went?” a centurion asked.
“There were numerous sets of tracks, both human and animal, headed southwest. I rode to the nearest hilltop and got a good look in that direction, right where those storm clouds are coming from.”
“So at least they’re getting pissed on before us,” a centurion remarked with bitter humour.
“It’s extremely mountainous that way,” the trooper continued. “From what we’ve seen, most of this region is rolling hills and grasslands, with a number of tree groves and thick forests. But if you keep going west or southwest, the terrain becomes extremely rough and extremely rocky.”
With this fresh bit of knowledge, Metellus decided to confer with his centurions before proceeding further. The cavalry scouts had confirmed the route the refugees were taking. Was there really any point in his small taskforce advancing further? They likely had as much actionable intelligence as they were going to attain this day. It would be best to report their findings to General Paulinus as soon as possible. The discussion was brief, and with the storm clouds advancing from the southwest, the entire cohort was anxious to return to camp. Metellus was about to inform the lead centurion to screen their march back, when they heard shouting from where several men were watering their horses.
“Oi! Stop right there, you filthy bastard!”
There was a loud crashing in one of the thickets, and a tall, slender man was seen sprinting away from the contingent. Clad in only a loincloth and sandals, his skin was painted with a series of strange blue markings.
“Get that son of a whore!” a cavalry section leader shouted.
“Alive!” Metellus bellowed after the troopers. “Bring that man to me alive!”
“Think it’s a scout?” one of his centurions asked.
“If so, he’s a sloppy one,” the pilus prior grunted. “We’ll find out who he is soon enough.” He addressed his men. “Fifth Cohort, fall in! It’s only six miles back to
camp. Let’s see if we can make it back before the storm gods of this land wash us away.”
It took only minutes for a pair of troopers to track down their prey. He made no attempt to defend himself, his only weapon being a small curved sword. Riding at full speed, a mounted lancer smashed him in the back of the head with the butt of his spear. The concussed man’s hands were bound behind his back, and he was gruffly dragged back to Centurion Metellus.
“Rwy’n dod o Caratacus!” the prisoner screamed over and over, his eyes wide and mouth slobbering in rage.
He added a slew of other biting shouts that the Romans assumed were either threats or insults. Metellus surmised that the man was not of the Deceangli, for none of their warriors had been painted blue. Whoever he was, it was unlikely that he expected to find imperial soldiers in this area, or he would have been more cautious.
“A messenger probably,” a centurion surmised. “Bad spot of luck that in this whole damned region he happened to run right into us.”
“Perhaps the local gods are fucking with them as well,” another remarked. “Either that or ours are simply stronger than theirs.”
Metellus and the barbarian continued to glare at each other.
The pilus prior then said, “Whatever he is, he has information we want. Let’s get him back to General Paulinus and hope our interpreter can speak his frightful tongue.”
The constant invoking of the name ‘Caratacus’ caught the centurion’s attention; indeed, it was the only word any of the Romans understood. Scapula and Paulinus assumed it was the Catuvellauni prince who had united the mountain peoples, and it seemed their assumptions were about to be proven correct.
With the wind whipping their cloaks about, the soldiers of the Fifth Cohort marched at a quick pace, almost jogging. The enemy messenger’s hands were bound to a cavalryman’s horse. He was quick on his feet, though a trooper continued to prod him with his lance the entire trek back. An hour into their march, the skies blackened, and the heavens opened with an unholy torrent.
“Son of a whore!” a legionary grumbled.
The Romans had built their camp on a ridge overlooking the sea. The ground was much sandier than the hardened clay and soil further inland, proving fortuitous, for the drainage offered by the sloping, porous ground saved the camp from flooding. It rained often in other parts of Britannia, but nothing prepared them for the downpour they were now subjected to. Legionaries on sentry duty were soon drenched, despite having their large cloaks wrapped around them. The echoing of rain off their helmets was so loud, they could only communicate by shouting.
During this deluge, the Fifth Cohort and the reconnaissance cavalry returned. Legionaries were trying to move with haste, yet the tall grasses flattened by the rains made the ground slippery. A number of soldiers lost their footing and fell onto their backsides, much to the amusement of their mates. Once inside the large compound, Metellus tasked a squad from his own century to accompany him and their prisoner to the principia. The rest of his men were dismissed. Orders were shouted over the downpour by their respective centurions, directing them to clean and polish their armour and kit and be ready for full inspection the next day. For the soldiers in the ranks, they were only too glad to get out of the torrent, and further relieved that they were exempt from guard detail.
The prisoner had since ceased in his berating of the soldiers. His eyes were wide in awe at the formidable sight of the Roman encampment. He had never seen so many armoured fighters in his life.
At the principia, a pair of legionaries huddled beneath their cloaks outside the entrance. They came to attention and saluted the centurion, their gazes fixed on the strange barbarian. The prisoner’s blue body paint had started to wash away. The designs, meant to offer protection, were smeared across his skin, as if his gods were mocking him for his carelessness.
Inside, Governor Scapula and General Paulinus gathered around a large parchment, where the legion’s chief cartographer attempted to map out the terrain they had explored thus far. The pummelling rains echoed off the high tent roof, making it difficult to converse.
“Ah, Centurion Metellus,” Paulinus said. “And what have you brought us?”
“Either a scout or a messenger, sir,” Metellus replied. “To be honest, I’m not sure which. None of our men speak his tongue, and my guess is he doesn’t know Latin or Greek. But we did catch one name he kept saying over and over again…Caratacus.”
“I’ll be damned,” Scapula said, watching the man twitch at the mention of Caratacus’ name. “So it is him we are pursuing after all.”
“Yes, sir. The interrogators will learn what he knows soon enough.”
“Indeed they will.” He turned to Landon, who stood in the shadows. He swallowed hard, knowing this next tasking would not be pleasant. The governor addressed him and one of his scribes. “You will take this…man…to the interrogation detachment. Write down everything he tells you.”
The men nodded and followed Metellus’ legionaries back out into the storm. The pilus prior was directed to return as soon as he had his supper. The legion’s torture detachment was close by, and it was fortunate for all that the pounding rains would drown out the cries of their victim.
With the torrential storm still hammering the encampment, the skies darkened well before nightfall. Lamps were lit within the principia. All cohort commanders, centurion primus ordo, and staff tribunes joined the commanding legate and governor. Between screams of agony and curses at the Romans, the prisoner told them he was a messenger from Caratacus, sent to gather warriors from the Deceangli for the coming battle against the Roman army.
“So, Caratacus doesn’t even know we are here,” Scapula conjectured.
“Sir, this intelligence is at least a week old,” Paulinus countered. “I would say it is very likely Caratacus is now aware of our presence. Some of the refugees will have sought out his army rather than fleeing for the mountains. And besides, anyone within twenty miles would have seen the billowing columns of smoke where we torched the Deceangli stronghold.”
The governor turned to Julianus. “Is there any way you could get a message to General Paetus?”
The cavalry officer shook his head. “I doubt it. We don’t know the layout of this land, and we must assume the enemy has every passable road between here and Roman territory swarming with fighters. We’re not even sure where Paetus is. Even if I took my entire regiment, the chances of reaching him without being overtaken by Caratacus is extremely risky.”
“Then perhaps aggression will be our best course of action,” the governor reasoned. “We now know where Caratacus is, thanks to our new ‘friend’. Our division numbers ten thousand men, which should be sufficient to take the fight to them.”
“I would not recommend that, sir,” Centurion Magnus spoke up.
All eyes turned to the Norseman.
“We fought against the Silures during the invasion. Of all the tribes who dared oppose us, they were the most difficult to defeat. They are better equipped than most ‘barbarians’ and highly skilled in battle. They may not be professional soldiers, but they are the closest to it of any tribe in Britannia. Between them and the Ordovices, they likely outnumber us substantially.”
“What would you recommend, centurion?” Paulinus asked.
Magnus walked over and ran his finger in a line down the map, from their encampment to the stream Metellus’ cohort had discovered. “This area here is all open ground, ideal for rapid movement. The terrain to the south is extremely rugged, making difficult for a large army to manoeuvre. If we place ourselves here, we cut Caratacus off from his food supplies.”
“The Deceangli were providing the enemy with warriors and, more importantly, rations,” Master Centurion Tyranus added. “They have no real concept of supply lines or logistics. Hence why their campaign seasons are so short. Those abandoned sheep villages the Fifth Cohort discovered were probably supplying food and wool to Caratacus.”
“True, but we only found a couple of them,�
�� Metellus spoke up. “There could be any number out there that are not abandoned.”
“No matter,” Tyranus remarked. “If we create a blockade between Caratacus and the Deceangli lands, their army will be compelled to disperse, risk starving, or face us in battle.”
Paulinus concurred. “With suitable defences, fighting on ground of our choosing, we can negate their superior numbers.”
However strategically sound their plan may have been, Scapula’s face betrayed his lingering doubts. He frowned and slowly shook his head. “We risk spreading ourselves thin,” he said. “I would rather take a bold chance and attack Caratacus head-on. If he knows where General Paetus’ division is and knows we’re here, he will feel caught between our armies. His warriors may panic.”
“Respectfully, sir, if you think the Silures will panic, you underestimate them,” Magnus stated. “And given that they never defeated the Ordovices, who I may add we’ve never faced in battle, I suspect their valour is at least their equal.”
“Halkyn Mountain is thirty miles from here, maybe more,” Commander Julianus added. He glanced up at the ceiling of the principia tent, where incessant torrents of rain still echoed. “One can bet the ground between here and there has been churned into a bog. My cavalry will be forced to advance at a crawl.”
“It’ll take two to three days to reach the mountain,” Paulinus remarked. “We could use that time to establish our blockade, with suitable defence works…”
“Those are your orders,” the governor interrupted, not bothering to hide his growing irritation. “While I appreciate your collective skill and experience, I find it unbecoming that imperial soldiers are hesitant to take the fight to the enemy. We depart at sunrise, the rains be damned. Dismissed.”