Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered

by James Mace

  Chapter VII: A Sacrifice of Blood

  Halkyn Mountain, Four Miles West of the River Dubr Duiu

  22 June 48 A.D.

  Halkyn Mountain

  Scapula ordered two auxilia infantry cohorts to remain at the main camp to guard the wounded, along with the numerous prisoners. Admiral Stoppello was expected to return within the next two weeks, depending on the weather and conditions at sea. At General Paulinus’ recommendation, the onagers had been left behind, as the heavy wagons sank up to the axles in the mud. Much of the baggage, including the large principia tents, were also left at camp.

  The trek to Halkyn Mountain took three days, just as General Paulinus had feared. The army crossed a seemingly endless number of rivers and creeks, which slowed their pace considerably, especially with pack animals. The rains had mercifully ceased, though the skies remained grey with dense clouds. Every step of the way was a slog through mud and slippery grass. Two companies from Indus’ Horse provided reconnaissance. As Julianus predicted, their pace was scarcely better than that of the encumbered infantrymen. It was now late morning on the third day. Every soldier in the column was concerned about when the rains would come again, when a trooper from the vanguard rode back to Governor Scapula and General Paulinus.

  “The barbarians have all hoofed it, sir,” the messenger reported.

  Scapula scowled. “How long ago?”

  “No way of knowing. The entire mountain, along with much of the surrounding lowlands, are a trampled mess. Their army was huge.”

  Scapula halted the column and rode ahead with Paulinus, Tyranus, the staff tribunes, and First Cohort centurions. The ground in and around Halkyn was churned up by thousands of feet. There was also the unmistakable stench of numerous uncovered cesspits, as well as rotted sheep and other animal carcasses from the barbarians’ meals. The senior officers met with the centurion in command of the advance guard, who sat astride his horse at the very top of the hill.

  “We don’t know when they left, sir, but we do know where they’ve gone,” he reported.

  “The lone benefit of the mud left by the rains,” Paulinus observed.

  “Very true, sir. The vast majority of their tracks are headed due west. Since we saw no sign of them yesterday or the day before, they must have left once they knew we were in the region, and we simply missed them.”

  “Meaning they are likely a week’s trek from here,” Scapula grunted.

  While he shared in the governor’s frustrations, General Paulinus’ attention was not on Caratacus’ army. “What of those who did not head west?” he asked the centurion.

  “There are a large number of tracks—again, hard to say just how many—that are headed north.”

  “But there is nothing in that direction except the sea and the River Dubr Duiu,” Scapula noted. “And if they cross the river, they will be in Roman territory.”

  Paulinus closed his eyes and tilted his head back in realization. “A raiding party,” he said quietly. He supressed the urge to vent his frustrations, knowing they had lost a great opportunity to engage Caratacus in a decisive engagement. Adding to his chagrin, the enemy tracks showed they would have run right into Centurion Magnus’ proposed blockade. Even worse now, the legate feared for their camp. The forces that headed north were likely not headed towards Roman territory, but the main camp near the sea. The prisoners and wounded, along with the two cohorts of auxilia infantry guarding them, were now in danger.

  For the cohorts left at the camp, boredom seemed to be their greatest adversary. Though the legionaries and other auxilia cohorts had taken their palisade stakes with them, the earthworks had been left in place pending their return. Those left behind created a smaller set of defences within, enclosing the prisoner stockades, as well as their own tents. The food stores captured from the Deceangli were taken to this inner encampment to feed the soldiers and prisoners.

  There was little to be done, other than digging a pair of long trenches, to accommodate the bodily waste of the prisoners. Three thousand warriors were crammed together into a single enclosure, with a thousand women and children in another nearby. A wretched stench blew over the camp from each, and flies began to swarm the sewage trenches.

  Scapula was aware of the problem of dealing with the human waste. He’d ordered the commanding centurion to move the stockades every two to three days, burying the sewage trenches each time. It would be a hateful task for the auxilia troopers; one that compounded the frustration they felt at being left behind.

  Only Chief Elisedd and his consort, Runa, were granted any measure of dignity. They were kept behind a wooden stockade, where they still had a measure of privacy. Their hands were left unbound and, per Governor Scapula’s orders, they were fed and treated with much greater respect than their enslaved people.

  “I hope the fleet gets here soon,” a trooper on guard duty at the stockade said, his long scarf covering his face. “These filthy barbarians stink even worse than when we captured them.”

  “Our esteemed governor should have let us slaughter the men, have our way with the women, and be done with them,” one of his companions complained. “If the fleet takes too long to pick this lot up, they’ll all be dead from disease.”

  “And taking us with them, once their filthy pestilence spreads,” another added, a rag tied around his nose and mouth. “Besides, it’s not like he’ll be sharing what coin he may get from the slave traders with us.”

  It was a bit of irony for an auxilia soldier to refer to the prisoners as ‘barbarians’. Most of these infantrymen came from humble villages in Gaul, Belgica, and Germania. Their native homes were not unlike the Deceangli settlements they had sacked. Yet so anxious were they to prove themselves as Romans, some became overtly disdainful towards other indigenous peoples.

  Unbeknownst to the Roman auxiliaries, their troubles would soon involve more than disposing of prisoners’ shit. King Seisyll and four thousand of his best warriors lay in wait behind a series of rolling hills east of the camp.

  Accompanying the king was the high druid, a tall man with white hair and long beard named Tathal. Whatever rivalries still existed between the various kingdoms in the far reaches of western Britannia, all still looked to the gods to guide them. In many ways, the druids held far greater sway over the common people than any of the kings.

  “I want the traitors alive,” Tathal hissed, his eyes filled with rage. “The gods demand Elisedd pay for his blasphemy.”

  While Seisyll was happy to exact revenge against his former client war chief, he understood this raid was as much about upsetting Roman morale as it was about appeasing the gods. Aeron, the god of battle, would undoubtedly be pleased with the Ordovices. On this day the king wore his ring mail armour, a skull cap helmet, and bronze bracers on his forearms. His dark-coloured tartan cloak was draped over both shoulders, pinned in place with a large copper torque on the left shoulder.

  “As we suspected,” Seisyll said to his warrior captains, who laid in the tall grass next to their king, watching their enemy’s camp, “the Romans are off chasing shadows.”

  “We outnumber the men they left,” one of his captains observed. “But they still possess strong defences.”

  The king sneered maliciously. “We are not here to beat the Romans, only to claim our prize…which they have so carelessly left undefended.”

  The timing was as catastrophic for the Roman auxilia as it was fortuitous to the Ordovices. Their commanding centurion had ordered them to break down and move the warriors’ stockade, a task which took a hundred men to perform. Four centuries of infantrymen surrounded the Deceangli fighting men, brandishing their spears. The rest of the cohort stood by with their entrenching tools, ready to fill in the putrid trenches. This left the remaining cohort of eight hundred men to defend the entire camp.

  The sound of an unfamiliar war horn sent chills up the collective spine of every auxilia solider. This was followed by a lone battle cry in a language none of them understood. Their eyes grew wide,
the faces of their prisoners breaking into expressions of hope, as several thousand enemy warriors appeared from behind a ridgeline less than a quarter mile east of the camp. Centurions and section leaders shouted orders for their troopers to make ready to face the coming onslaught.

  With the stockade temporarily dismantled, the prisoners still required guarding. The commander of the second cohort directed all but two hundred of his men to follow him to the defences. His last orders to those remaining would serve as an ominous warning to the Deceangli, provided any of them understood Latin. “Kill any of these bastards that try to resist!” With a touch of morbid initiative, a decanus and two troopers stabbed several random prisoners, eliciting shouts of rage and horror from the rest. Since the warriors were still bond together in a series of long rows, the dead weight of any corpses would act as anchors, should they try to escape.

  With few missile weapons on either side, there was little the auxiliaries could do except man the ramparts and wait for their assailants to navigate the obstacle-laden entrenchments and palisade stakes. Momentum was lost for the Ordovices, for the six-foot trench was filled with spikes, snares, and other impediments. One warrior shrieked as he stepped directly onto a hidden spike. Others found themselves tripped up, sometimes falling onto stakes and caltrops. The sandy ground was difficult for the attackers to gain purchase on as they pulled themselves up the other side. Many thrust their spears into the slope, using them for leverage. Others used the rows of palisade stakes for hand-holds. The first brave souls onto the earthworks paid dearly for their audacity. One took a spear thrust to the chest. Another into his eye socket, giving an unholy shriek as blood spurted forth, leaving him thrashing on the ground, begging for death. A third was stabbed in the groin as he leapt onto the ramparts.

  The Roman auxiliaries had formed a long battle line of three ranks. Their formation was looser than that of legionaries, keeping several feet between each other. And while they were often regarded as second-rate fighters, not to mention more expendable, they were still professional soldiers with far superior training and armament than their foes. As more warriors scaled over the earthworks, the weight of the Ordovices assault drove into their thin line, with several auxilia troopers being cut down as they were driven back into the camp. The assailants outnumbered the imperial soldiers almost three-to-one, yet they failed to press their advantage. Those who tried to break the Roman lines often fell victim to the overlapping walls of spears.

  A series of individual brawls broke out along the line, and despite the protection offered by both their discipline and armour, the auxiliaries were still suffering casualties. Men on both sides could expect no mercy, and yet, because their enemies failed to launch the full weight of their horde against them, the Romans were getting the better of the exchange. With the constant crashing of spears against shields, none of the auxilia officers realized that they were simply being distracted from their adversaries’ actual goal.

  The attack on the prisoner stockade came from the west without war horns or battle cries. It was only when a nervous infantryman spied movement near the far embankments of the outer camp that he sounded the alarm. As the Roman officers shouted orders for their men to form battle lines, they were swarmed by nearly a thousand enemy assailants. A hundred more rushed towards the smaller, lone stockade. These men cared nothing for the Deceangli women and children, nor their cowardly warriors who had surrendered ignominiously to the Romans.

  As the axes of Ordovices warriors hacked down the gate of the stockade, Elisedd thought he was being rescued by this old allies and protectors. The fierce anger in the eyes of his ‘saviours’ soon told him otherwise. Before the war chief could say a word, a spear butt was slammed into his forehead, knocking him unconscious. His wife screamed but was smashed across the face by another warrior’s fist. The two were then carried from the stockade, surrounded by a score of Ordovices warriors. As they passed the ongoing melee with the Roman auxilia, piteous cries came from the prisoners.

  “Please, take us with you!”

  “Our friends, do not abandon us!”

  Fury overcoming them, several warriors began attacking their former allies. Twenty Deceangli prisoners were killed, with at least twice as many badly mauled before the enraged Ordovices heeded the calls of their leaders to desist.

  At the eastern ramparts, the attacking warriors heard the high-pitched sound of the war horn ordering their retreat. This proved problematic for those directly engaging the Roman auxilia. As Ordovices fighters climbed over the palisade stakes and tumbled back into the trench below, the imperial troopers surged forward, intent on slaying as many as possible. Their overzealous counterattack proved costly to a handful of infantrymen, who were skewered in their unprotected regions by spears or hacked to pieces by hand axes. For the Ordovices, however, the withdrawal proved even more punishing. There was simply no way to navigate past the rows of sharp stakes without exposing themselves to thrusts from both spear and gladius. Devoid as most of the warriors were of armour, the Romans’ counter-strikes proved deadly. Then there was the matter of negotiating through the trench with all its obstacles. Numerous warriors who’d been injured during the assault were trying to climb their way back to safety. The fortunate ones were grabbed by their friends and dragged out of the ditch. Those too badly hurt to be moved were left to their fate.

  A cheer erupted from the Roman camp as the auxiliary infantrymen caught their breath. Relief soon turned to anger, with several of their men plunging their weapons into the enemy wounded.

  “Belay that!” a centurion shouted, smacking the offenders with his vine stick. “These fucking pigs will not be granted a quick death. First, they will tell us everything they know and then crucifixion for the lot of them.”

  It was dark when Elisedd opened his eyes. He was tied to a stake atop a pyre; his wife, Runa, was bound to a second pyre and still unconscious. A ring of torch-bearers stood in a semi-circle around them, all wearing hooded cloaks pulled over their heads. Standing in the middle was a stern-looking King Seisyll and the dreaded mystic, Tathal. The high druid was wearing his finest white robe, bound in the middle with a bronze-plated belt. His hands and face were painted with a series of patterns in blue ink, except around the eyes, which were smeared black. And though he carried his long staff, it was the bronze curved dagger in his belt that captured Elisedd’s gaze.

  “You have failed us,” said King Seisyll, his arms folded, his voice like ice.

  Knowing he was already condemned, Elisedd became defiant. “It is you who have failed! We were under your protection, yet where were the Ordovices when my people were being slaughtered?”

  “Aeron, god of battle and slaughter, rewards courage,” Tathal spoke. “Had you and your warriors appeased him, you would have been welcomed into the afterlife as heroes. Instead, Aeron demands that those who cower before our enemies be sacrificed.”

  “A pit of vipers fuck your mother!” Elisedd snarled.

  The druid gave a short, demonic laugh and turned to the king, who nodded. Tathal drew his long dagger. Torch-bearers stepped forward to ignite the two pyres.

  Runa stirred as the wood started to crackle. The Deceangli chief would accept his own fate, however painful it may be, but the thought of seeing his beloved tortured by that loathsome druid drove him beyond breaking.

  “Stay away from her, you unholy bastard!”

  “Not to worry,” Tathal said, a sneer crossing his face. He brandished his blade towards Runa. “It is you who have offended the gods. Your wife’s end will be quick.”

  Runa’s eyes opened, and her head whipped around as she regained consciousness. She cried out before coughing violently on the thick, acrid smoke. Before the flames could completely engulf the pyre, Tathal stepped forward and slashed his dagger across her throat. Elisedd gritted his teeth, tears streaming down his face as his wife’s eyes clouded over, blood gushing down her chest.

  “And now we must deal with the traitor,” the druid said, running his fin
gers over the bloody knife.

  One of his acolytes stepped forward, carrying a stone bowl.

  Torches were set in the chief’s pyre, the damp timber hissing and smoking. As Tathal stepped forward, Elisedd spat at him defiantly. The high druid smirked and plunged the point of the curved dagger into his stomach. The blade was extremely sharp. With a quick upward slash, he disembowelled his prey. Elisedd tried to gasp as his guts spilled from his torso. With a sickening splat a pile landed in the bowl, which the acolyte set to the side, allowing the flames to cook its contents. The flames started to lick higher, and a hot cloud of smoke billowed right into the chief’s face. With the last of his energy, he sucked in his final breath, searing his lungs and sending him to join his wife in the afterlife.

  It was midmorning the next day when the Twentieth Legion and Indus’ Horse returned. While both Governor Scapula and General Paulinus were filled with anger and frustration at having been so easily duped by Caratacus and his allies, there was still a substantial measure of relief. Their camp still stood. The auxiliaries had lost twenty dead, with another sixty wounded. They had slain over a hundred Ordovices warriors, while taking twenty wounded prisoners. Thirty more of the enemy’s injured had succumbed to their fearful wounds, coupled by the outright refusal of the imperial soldiers to offer them aid.

  The soldiers of the errant expedition set about re-establishing their tents and repairing the ramparts, while the senior officers met with the centurion who’d been left in command of the camp.

  “The Deceangli chief and his wife were taken away,” he explained.

  “Did they try to free any of the other prisoners?” Scapula asked.

  The centurion shook his head. “No, sir. In fact, I do not think this was a rescue mission at all. We were in the midst of tearing down and moving the stockades when the attack came. The Ordovices actually attacked the Deceangli warriors, killing a dozen or so before fleeing with their quarry.”