Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered

by James Mace

  “What’s that over there?” Master Centurion Tyranus asked, nodding his head towards the wisps of smoke in the west.

  “We saw flames coming from that direction last night,” the auxilia centurion explained. “The trees are thick that way. If it was a campfire, it was an awfully big one. I thought it might be a trap meant to lure us away from the camp.”

  Scapula turned to Julianus. “Take two hundred men and find the source of that smoke.”

  “I’ll go with them,” Magnus said, drawing confused stares from a handful of his peers. “I think I know what it is…and it’s not a campfire.”

  “In the meantime, we should get a little information from the Ordovices prisoners before we dispose of them,” General Paulinus remarked.

  Commander Julianus sent sections of his horsemen ahead in skirmishing formation, in case they should come across stray bands of enemy warriors. Centurion Magnus rode with him at the centre of the column.

  “What is it you suspect?” the cavalry officer asked. He had only taken over the regiment a year prior and was not as familiar with the indigenous tribes as the centurion.

  “It’s just a hunch,” Magnus replied. “The raid was not a rescue mission, since they slew some of their allied warriors. Nor did they try to overrun the garrison or attack our food stores. The Deceangli chief and his wife were taken for a reason, and it’s not because they were being rescued.” He paused as they reached the wood line. The smoke was now more noticeable. “I saw something once, during the invasion…”

  “Commander Julianus!” The trooper’s shout alerted the officers.

  They rode through the trees to where a section of horsemen gathered in a small opening in the woods. Magnus and the cavalry officer dismounted as they came upon the macabre scene.

  The bodies of Elisedd and Runa were badly charred, their faces mostly burned away and scarcely recognisable. Flies gathered around the pile of burned guts in a stone bowl on the pyre. Much of the wood was damp and unsinged.

  “They buggered off before the bodies were consumed,” a trooper stated.

  “Perhaps they wanted us to find them.” Magnus observed.

  “Is this what you expected to find?” Julianus asked.

  “It is. During the invasion our chief tribune was captured, hung upside down, and disembowelled. A sacrifice by the druids to their foul gods. Caratacus has done the same to these poor sods.”

  “And by surrendering in the hopes of saving their people, the Deceangli chief and his wife sealed their own fate.”

  Magnus and Julianus returned and gave their report to the governor, who dismissed them without a word. Scapula then sat on a camp stool, waiting for his principia tent to be erected, his chin resting in his hand. The governor of Britannia was in a vile mood. He had been duped by Caratacus, who had escaped their attempt to engage him in battle. And now their prized prisoners had been burned and gutted by druids.

  “I should have listened to you, Paulinus,” he said.

  The legate sat on a nearby stool, running a rag over his spatha.

  “To be fair, sir,” Tyranus spoke up as he joined them, “We committed a strategic error, but so too did our enemies.”

  “Explain.”

  The master centurion nodded towards the oxcarts where much of their rations were stored. “They had enough warriors that there is a chance they could have overrun the camp. Yet at no time did they attack our supplies. They could have easily set fire to the wagons and slain the oxen, leaving us critically short of food, deep in enemy territory. So fixated on avenging themselves for the perceived slight of the Deceangli surrender, they lost an opportunity to make life an even greater misery for us.”

  Though this assessment did not cheer the governor, it did bring a strong measure of relief. His face grew pale for a moment at the thought of not only losing Caratacus, but what would happen to his army if their food and supplies had been destroyed.

  Paulinus said nothing, but continued to wipe down his sword, the corner of his mouth upturned in a partial grin. There were reasons why the centurions of the First Cohort were the chief tactical and strategic advisors to the commanding general. The centurion primus pilus and his four centurions primus ordo were the most experienced soldiers in the entire legion. They understood battle tactics, large-scale strategy, and the underappreciated yet crucial logistics better than any. Both he and Scapula would do well to listen to their counsel in the future.

  It was not just the Romans who realized the opportunity lost. A day’s trek to the southwest, the Ordovices raiding party found the main army. When King Seisyll told Caratacus and King Orin of his force’s success, he was met with much derision from his fellow monarch.

  “Your men breached the Roman camp, guarded by a handful of auxiliaries, and none of you even thought to destroy their supply wagons?”

  Caratacus said nothing, though even he was flustered by Seisyll’s short-sightedness. It was anywhere from four days to a week’s march from the Roman camp to their territory. With no rations and little to forage, starvation would have weakened them considerably. Spread out along the rough mountains and dense forests, they would have been easy prey for Caratacus and his warriors. Seisyll, however, remained defiant.

  “Our mission was to exact vengeance on the Deceangli traitors,” he retorted. “The collaborators have been sacrificed, and we have the favour of the gods now.”

  The Catuvellauni prince folded his hands in his lap while the two allied kings bickered. It troubled him to see the alliance he had fought so long to forge on the verge of collapse. Relations between Ordovices and Silures had been hostile for a hundred years, and it stood to reason that each would seek any opportunity to undermine Caratacus’ trust in the other.

  Orin was right, of course. They had lost a valuable opportunity to destroy the Romans’ food stores. Starvation was a powerful weapon. And yet, Caratacus was a deeply spiritual man, who trusted in the counsel of Tathal and the other druids. If a sacrifice to Aeron was demanded, would not the god of slaughter grant them far greater victories than a few burned sacks of Roman grain?

  “Enough!” he roared, leaping to his feet. His eyes were wide, his face red with anger. “We will not lose all we have fought for over a petty squabble such as this. We may have lost an opportunity to starve our enemies, but we killed their soldiers and offered up the traitorous Elisedd and his bitch of a wife to the gods.” He then looked at the chief druid, who’d been standing by idly, leaning against his staff. “Tathal, does Aeron favour us now? Did our sacrifice please him?”

  Tathal nodded slowly. “It does, Prince of Catuvellauni. But his favour is fleeting, for he laments seeing his children torn in bitterness against each other. He would just as soon abandon us, should we not prove our worth by standing together as one.”

  “Then that is what we will do,” Caratacus said with grim determination. “If we are to defeat the Romans, our armies must not be divided by tribal or racial lines, but united under one banner.”

  “And who will lead them?” Seisyll asked. “Which of the kings is most worthy, and will the other subjugate himself to the monarch from another tribe?” His glanced over at Orin.

  “If your peoples are to be truly united,” Tathal said, “Then it should be neither Orin nor Seisyll that leads our army.”

  Orin, surprisingly docile in his response, stood and took a deep breath, knowing what must be done. He drew his broadsword and knelt before Caratacus. “Caratacus, Prince of the Catuvellauni, my brother in blood who united the peoples of this land. You truly are blessed by the gods, and I pledge my sword to your service.”

  Seisyll was caught completely off-guard by this, and he nervously turned to Tathal, who bowed his head slowly and deeply. The King of Ordovices could not help but wonder if Caratacus and Tathal had staged the whole thing. He knew the Silures were beginning to favour Caratacus, and now their king was offering his supplication before the exiled Catuvellauni prince. Whatever Seisyll’s doubts, it was he who had performed t
he sacrifice to Aeron, and with Tathal giving his blessing. He knew his only options were to submit to Caratacus or break off the alliance completely. Given that his own warriors would have his head for such blasphemy, there really was no choice at all.

  “I also pledge my life and people,” he said, drawing his blade slowly. “But I will not submit to a mere warlord or exiled prince. If Caratacus is to lead us, then he must be proclaimed High King over all our peoples.”

  The chief druid smiled broadly and proclaimed, “So let it be done.”

  Chapter VIII: Chasing Ghosts

  The Ogwen Valley

  10 August 48 A.D.

  ***

  With Caratacus having disappeared, Scapula dispatched Commander Julianus and two companies of horsemen to find General Paetus. The Twentieth Legion and the remaining auxiliaries remained in camp, waiting for Legio IX and the rest of the division to join them. The governor was beginning to regret the course he had set his army on. Their inability to draw Caratacus into a decisive engagement, the loss of their most prized prisoners, plus the delay while waiting for General Paetus had cost them. Under torture, the Ordovices raiders captured confirmed that Caratacus had taken his army to the southwest. The Romans thanked them for this intelligence by whipping each man until the flesh was practically flayed from his body. When each was a bloodied wreck within inches of death’s door, they were drug to the ridgeline overlooking the sea and crucified. A few days later, with the campaign season growing long, General Paetus and the Ninth Legion arrived. Having united their two divisions, the imperial army began the pursuit of their ever elusive foe.

  Scouts, both native allied cavalrymen as well as troopers from Indus’ Horse, provided the main reconnaissance for the army. The land was heavily forested, while what open terrain there was consisted of either rolling grasslands or farm fields. Large towns and villages were non-existent, and what settlements they did come across were hastily abandoned at the sight of the oncoming legions. In order to punish the people and deplete Caratacus of food, while supplementing his own army’s rations, Scapula ordered every settlement razed, and all grain and fresh vegetables confiscated by his troops. As it was late summer, with the harvest approaching soon, the army was ordered to trample and destroy as many crops as they could.

  During one such destructive raid, near the base of the mountains that lead into a place known as the Ogwen Valley, the governor and his legates sat astride their horses, watching as their army marched past where a single cohort set fire to the handful of huts and grain silo. Their translator, Landon, was stone-faced as he watched the settlement burn. The Silures and Ordovices were natural enemies of the Brigantes, and he found it unnatural to pity these people. Yet, he found himself stricken by pangs of guilt for the numerous women and children who would likely starve to death during the coming winter.

  “I only hope this goads Caratacus into a fight,” Paetus muttered as he spat on the ground. He turned towards Paulinus. “At least you lot got to bloody your blades a bit. We’ve done nothing except chase fucking ghosts this entire campaign.”

  For Centurion Magnus, there was a great deal of trepidation as the First Cohort passed the burning settlement and began its advance through a narrow canyon that led between two large, forested hills. The centurion primus ordo dismounted his horse and hefted his shield, keeping close to the lead element of his legionaries.

  “Expecting something bad, sir?” a soldier asked, his nervous expression telling of his own forebodings.

  “Just don’t want to make myself an easy target,” Magnus replied.

  The Ninth Legion had taken the lead, followed by several cohorts of auxilia infantry, along with attached archers. The rest of the auxilia, accompanied by most of the cavalry, followed the Twentieth Legion. The trail was very narrow, only allowing three soldiers to walk abreast. The foliage and undergrowth were thick, making it impractical to pass directly through the woods. With almost twenty-one thousand troops, plus pack animals and baggage trains, the column extended nearly ten miles from end-to-end. And with no viable intelligence as to how large Caratacus’ army was or where they might be, each crossing through the woods became a nerve-wracking ordeal. As they continued onward, not a sound was heard, aside from the tweeting of birds, crashing of an occasional deer or fox through the brush, and an unseen flowing river somewhere off to their right. Nervousness soon turned to tedium, however, with many legionaries grumbling the same sentiments as General Paetus. They would rather the barbarians attack than simply chase phantoms all over western Britannia.

  Approximately a mile into their trek, the woods opened up into a meadow where the sun was breaking through the incessant clouds. It was now late August, and though the rains had been a nuisance through the spring and early summer, they had lessoned considerably over the past month. The sun had shone its face at least every other day. When one took in the various trees, shrubberies, grasslands, rolling hills, not to mention the river which bisected the meadow, the land was actually quite beautiful. Still, Magnus was dismayed to see that the woods converged once more, less than a mile up ahead. From well within that far forest of thick trees, the sounds of war horns emanated.

  “Contact front!” the Norseman bellowed over his shoulder, as dozens of auxilia troopers near far the wood line were seen racing into the fray.

  “First Cohort, make ready!” Master Centurion Tyranus shouted, riding up on his horse.

  Packs and traveling cloaks were dropped, javelins hefted. The rest of the column halted as word passed that the auxiliaries, and possibly the Ninth Legion, were under attack. Given the thickness of the woods and undergrowth on the other side of the meadow, there simply was not enough room for the rest of the legion to manoeuvre. The First Cohort would be advancing on its own. They were in little more than a modified column, thirty men abreast and nearly as many ranks deep.

  His gladius drawn, Magnus gave the order for his century to advance. They approached the woods at the head of the column. He could hear the sound of shouted orders, as well as the occasional cry from the wounded.

  “Magnus, take your century left and clear those woods!” Tyranus shouted, practically leaping from his horse. “The Fifth Century will follow. I’ll take the rest of the cohort right, just over the river.”

  “Understood,” the Norseman acknowledged.

  Much to his dismay, it was nothing but woods of such density, with a cacophony of undergrowth and sticker bushes, that his century’s advance ground almost to a halt. Shields and javelins seemed to catch on every branch, and soldiers were unable to see more than a few feet in front of their faces. Soon any sense of formation became practically non-existent, and it was impossible to so much as see anyone on their left or right. After almost ten minutes of struggling through the brambles, with legionaries spewing forth a barrage of profanities, Magnus stumbled into an auxilia soldier. The two quickly turned to face each other, each breathing a sigh of relief laced with disappointment, at seeing they had run into their own troops.

  “The enemy’s buggered off,” an auxilia centurion said, walking over to the Norseman. “You’ll never catch them in this shit.”

  Magnus glumly turned to face his men. “Withdraw!” he shouted, blowing hard on his whistle.

  The anger and vulgar barks from his men only worsened as they worked their way back the way they had come. They emerged from the treeline just as Master Centurion Tyranus was spotted splashing his way across a shallow fording point in the river.

  “Bastards seem to have all buggered off,” Tyranus said, straining to contain his own anger and frustration at the situation. His face and hands were covered in cuts and abrasions from their futile attempt to smash their way through the woods.

  “I almost stuck one our own auxilia troopers,” Magnus added. “Their officers said the same thing; bastards have all hoofed it.”

  “I don’t get it,” Optio Caelius said, removing his helmet and pulling twigs and leaves from his bent crest. “If they had us caught in a long
column, unable to form battle lines, why did they simply piss off?”

  “The terrain works against them as much as it does us,” Magnus explained. “Caratacus knows he cannot bring his numbers to bear against us in this shit. He’s teasing us, that’s all.”

  Tyranus added, “And he doesn’t want to face us in the open, either. He knows he cannot win a pitched battle against us. He hopes these hit-and-run attacks will break our resolve and we’ll simply go home.”

  It had taken nearly half an hour for Scapula, the two legates, and the senior staff officers to negotiate their way up the narrow trail to reach the meadow. Tyranus gave them his assessment while they waited for word from the auxilia cohort commanders. The chief tribune of Legio IX made his way back to them a short time later with his report from General Paetus.

  “We lost four dead and another fifteen wounded,” he stated. “The auxiliaries were still assessing their losses when I passed by them. But from what I gathered, they lost roughly ten dead with thrice as many wounded.”

  Scapula asked his next question with gritted teeth, knowing the answer. “And what of the enemy’s losses?”

  “We couldn’t even see them, sir,” the chief tribune replied. “No idea how many there were, though it was likely in the hundreds given the number of spears and sling stones they were able to unleash in such a short time. Our men were able to form a defensive testudo, but only after the first salvo wreaked havoc on us. The auxiliaries were less fortunate.”

  “We’ve dealt with these types of attacks before,” Magnus spoke up. “In the southern and eastern reaches of Britannia. Though the woods and undergrowth there aren’t nearly as thick as this impassable shit. Still, the concept remains the same; we’ll have to detach our light auxilia and skirmishers as flank security for the column.”