by James Mace
“If we do that,” Scapula protested, “we’ll be lucky to march five miles a day!”
“It’s either that or our pace is slowed by having to constantly bury imperial soldiers,” General Paulinus surmised. “To say nothing of what it will do to the morale of the army.”
“Fortunately, sir,” the chief tribune remarked, “past the woods the ground opens up. The mountains are full of shrubs and grass, but little to no trees. It’s simply too rocky.”
This came as a relief to the assembled officers. Scapula ordered the rest of the column to push through with all speed. Though the army abandoned most of its artillery, Paulinus had convinced the governor to take a handful of empty wagons in order to transport any wounded who were unable to walk.
It took most of the remaining day to get the army through the woods, while recovering their dead and wounded. The absence of incessant rain had dried much of the wood, making the construction of funeral pyres much easier. Approximately three miles from where the ground opened up, following along the river, was a small village. What surprised the Romans was this one was not deserted, nor were the people running in terror. Cavalrymen screened the surrounding hills, while infantrymen surrounded the village itself. The governor, legates, and other senior officers rode forward to meet the local chief, who sat astride a tall mare. He was a middle-aged man with greying hair and beard. He wore a broadsword on his hip. Three pairs of spearmen dressed in mail shirts accompanied him.
The chief bowed to Scapula before speaking very slowly in his foreign tongue. It took Landon a minute to translate the words in his head. “He bids us welcome, but asks what brings the armies of the empire to his lands.”
“Ask him first if he is not a member of the Silures, and why he and his warriors aren’t with their king.”
The chief puffed his chest slightly as Landon spoke to him. His reply was one of defiance and scorn. “He says Orin is no king to him. His people are neither Silures nor Ordovices…”
“The hell they aren’t,” General Paetus interrupted. “They have the same curly hair and darker skin.”
Scapula raised his hand, silencing the legate, allowing Landon to continue.
“He pays King Orin a small tribute to keep his warriors away from these lands, an agreement the Silures broke recently.”
“So they have come through here,” Scapula emphasized.
The chief spoke some more, waving his hand towards the canyon to the south.
“Six days ago. Thousands of warriors. A rear guard of several hundred was left behind.”
“That would be the lot who hit us,” the governor grumbled.
Landon continued, “They said they were making for the peninsula to the southwest; however, the local chief’s scouts reported they were heading due south, towards the sea river called Mawddach.”
There was a pause as Commander Julianus rode up to the men. His troopers were scouring the hills for any sign of Caratacus’ army.
“Have your men seen anything to corroborate this?” Scapula asked, after relaying to the cavalry officer what the local chief had said.
“That’s what I came to report to you, sir,” Julianus replied. “The ground here is so damn rocky, we have no idea which way they’ve gone. These hills are nothing but rock and scrub brush. They could have gone north, south, or west for all we know.”
“Then we have no choice but to take this chieftain at his word,” the governor said reluctantly.
Paulinus spoke up. “All the same, governor, we should take the chief, or perhaps one of his children, as a hostage. You know we cannot trust anyone in this cursed land.”
Scapula glared at the chieftain who remained impassive. The governor pointed to him and spoke to Landon. “Tell the chief he is coming with us. If this is some sort of ruse, I will have his ass nailed to a cross, after we’ve burned his village to the ground.”
Night came, and all was silent within the massive Roman encampment. Sentries paced the earthen ramparts under torchlight, while a cool breeze blew over the otherwise hushed camp. Most of the army slumbered. But in one centurion’s tent, all was anything but peaceful.
Magnus bolted upright, nearly throwing off the heavy blankets on his camp bed. He was drenched in sweat, panting as if he’d just sprinted four miles. He sat on the edge of the short bed, his elbows on his knees, head resting in his hands, while his fingers gripped his matted hair. On these nights, he felt as if he were suffocating within the confines of his tent. He threw on his cloak and wandered out into the night.
It was past midnight, and a decanus was supervising a changing of the guard. New sentries had just been posted. The outgoing squad marched back to their tent, anxious to catch a few hours of sleep before the dawn. For Centurion Magnus Flavianus, sleep would once again be elusive this night.
Cloud cover prevented the moon or stars from illuminating the ground, and outside the glow of the sentries’ torches, all was completely black. Magnus kept his cloak close around him as he stood with one foot resting on the mound of freshly dug earth. A pacing sentry stopped well short of him, and with a quiet, ‘Evening, sir’, the young soldier turned about and began his walk back to his post. The centurion’s sleepless nights were no secret to anyone. Many legionaries had spotted him standing alone on the ramparts on nights when sleep escaped him.
“What can I do?” he asked quietly into the blackness. Despite being in a huge camp with over twenty thousand imperial soldiers, Magnus felt very much alone. And on nights where the darkness threatened to swallow them up, it felt as if the gods themselves had abandoned them. He shook his head slowly in frustration, uncertain as to how he could end his torment. He spoke to the night. “What will happen should I catch Caratacus, that ghost of my past? Or have I simply become a slave to fear…”
Chapter IX: Field of Sorrow
Near Lake Trawsfynydd
15 August 48 A.D.
Britannic Warrior
The chieftain accompanying the Roman army, whose name was Oelwein, knew well which direction Caratacus and his army had taken. The deception of compelling the village to remain occupied was part of a plan put forth by King Orin. Caratacus understood the Roman methods of terror and intimidation, and knew the people would face severe retribution should his warriors fail to utterly defeat them. Hence, he was reluctant to agree to Orin’s plan of allowing one of his villages to, essentially, be sacrificed to the invaders.
“Oelwein fancies himself a nobleman,” the Silures king explained. “But he is nothing more than a peasant farmer with a sword. By guiding the Romans into our trap, he hopes to win himself a place on the high ruling council.”
“Yet knowing the Romans, they will take him or his family hostage,” Caratacus countered. “Once they smell treachery, they will kill him and send troops to wipe out his village.”
“A necessary loss,” Orin replied, with a dismissive shrug.
Seisyll scowled at him in disgust. “Such a contemptuous attitude towards one’s own subjects,” he rebuked. “Let his handful of warriors die in battle, certainly. But to betray his women and children to extermination is an act of villainy.” He then looked to Caratacus. “And as our newly proclaimed high king, these are your people, too.”
“Calm yourself, old friend. I have personally left a pair of guides with Oelwein’s people. The only one who will be sacrificed is the chief himself. For his sake, his skill with a blade had best be equal to his pride and ambition. If he should survive, I may give him a place on my ruling council.”
The Romans were getting close. Within a day, maybe two, the imperial army would be walking into a trap. Caratacus had been reluctant to engage the Romans in a decisive engagement, as so many of his warriors had already been compelled to return home for the coming harvest. However, the longer they waited, the more indignant his fighters became. While there had been universal acclamation at his being hailed High King of Silures and Ordovices, many of his fighters were beginning to doubt he had the same tenacity and fortitude of his sl
ain brother, Togodumnus. His intention of beating the Romans down with a series of ambushes, while waiting for the following spring to face them in a decisive battle, had been met with much opposition. What pained Caratacus most, was hearing these same words of doubt coming from his own son. It was why he had finally relented, offering up a compromise that would allow his men to bloody their weapons without risking being enveloped and destroyed by the imperial army.
That evening, the high king found Jago sitting on a fallen log, well away from the camp. The lad had grown tall, strong, and had a sense of bull-headed determination that unfortunately reminded Caratacus of his youngest brother, Amminus. Yet at twelve years of age, he was still a boy, not quite grown to manhood.
“Will we fight the Romans now or do we continue to run?” the lad asked, as his father approached.
“We?” Caratacus asked in return, taking a seat next to his son.
Jago’s gaze was fixed on the far horizon. “So many of our warriors have gone home, but what of those who remain? What of Mother and Sorcha? Is it not both our duties to protect them? What would you have me do, Father? Though I am not grown to my full measure, I am stronger than any Roman.”
“If strength alone were all that was needed, we would have driven the Romans into the sea years ago. I doubt neither your strength nor your courage.”
“Then let me stand and fight with you!” Jago pleaded, facing his father. “Let me earn the right to be not just a man, but a warrior of our people. They have made you high king, and as your son and heir I must earn their fealty.”
Caratacus was filled with conflicting feelings; fear that his son was not yet ready to face their enemies, yet also immeasurable pride at the lad’s bravery. “I think it is time for both of us to earn our adopted people’s trust and fidelity.”
There had been no sign of the enemy since departing the farming village, and Scapula was beginning to wonder if they had been duped. The local chief, whose name he learned was Oelwein, had sworn repeatedly that he’d seen Caratacus’ army heading south. As the army reached the wooded grasslands further south, they saw few, if any, signs of a large force advancing this way.
“Why do they keep running?” Scapula asked in irritation, his gloomy demeanour contrasting with the sun-filled afternoon.
“Gathering allies, perhaps,” Paulinus conjectured. While not as outwardly flustered as Scapula, the legate felt the same frustrations as every soldier in the army. He then reasoned, “As much as our food stores have been taxed, their situation must be even direr. These barbarians have no concept of logistics, and their campaign season grows late.”
“Perhaps they are avoiding any sort of conflict at all this year,” his chief tribune spoke up.
“That could be,” his legate said. “However, I would bet a talent of gold that they will attempt to make a token stand against us this before going to ground for the winter.”
Master Centurion Tyranus added, “If I may, sir, Caratacus does not believe in token resistance. They mean to bleed us; he’s just waiting for the right moment.”
Oelwein was kept close to the command staff along with Landon. Both men maintained their silence for the most part. The chief viewed Landon as not only an enemy Brigantes, but a hated Roman collaborator. Fear had gripped him when his king demanded he allow himself to be captured by the Romans; however, as great as the risks were, it also offered him the very opportunity he had been waiting for. A pile of legionary corpses, with the imperial army in flight, would secure his place among their people. Perhaps even Caratacus, named high king of all lands west of the River Sabrina, would reward him for leading the Roman army to its doom.
The ponderous army was now in a low valley with cavalry scattered along the ridges. The low lying track was the only place where the heavy baggage carts could navigate without being heaved over heavy stones every few feet.
“There is a river just beyond those hills to the south,” a scout reported to Scapula.
“That is the River Dwyryd,” Landon translated for Oelwein. The chief spoke some more and the Brigantes man added, “He says there is a very large lake called Trawsfynydd a few miles beyond.”
No one noticed the sudden perspiration forming on the chief’s brow. They were getting close…
The Britannic high king paced behind a line of warriors hidden in the dense undergrowth. The time for battle was almost upon them. His people needed a victory, and he would not send them home to the harvest empty handed. Their hands would bathe in Roman blood this day! Though this was more of a large-scale ambush rather than a decisive engagement, Caratacus had still committed thousands of men to bloodying up their enemies. Taking the route through the western peninsula had completely thrown their enemies off their scent. While the remainder of his army would be dispersing within a month, the Demetae tribe from the southwest had sent a contingent of over a thousand warriors to aid Caratacus, and to acknowledge their acceptance of him as their high king. The fealty of another, albeit much smaller, tribal kingdom was a boon to morale as well as Caratacus’ standing.
The attack would be executed by three wings of fighters. The first would come from the woods along the north side of the lake and attack the column from the rear. The second, from the woods to the east, assailing the middle of the Roman column. Furthest south, using a series of deep irrigation ditches for cover, was the largest number of warriors. Their purpose would be to fix the legions in place, thereby giving their lighter troops time to destroy the enemy supply trains. And because this part of the plan involved the greatest risk, it is where Caratacus placed himself. It was also where his son would earn his place as both man and warrior.
Jago stood tall and proud, bare-chested, while his mother applied the blue dye in various patterns around his torso and on his face and arms. He carried a wicker shield in his left hand and his father presented him with a long spear.
“The greatest of warriors must earn the right to carry a sword in battle,” Caratacus explained. “Return with the blood of a Roman on this spear, and the greatest smiths will forge you a magnificent blade.”
“I will earn my place as a warrior and as your son,” Jago said, snatching the spear from his father’s hands.
Perhaps it was the blue paint or maybe a deliberate attempt to alter his voice but, to Caratacus, the young lad seemed somehow older. And though he may have lacked in years, the suffering, bloodshed, and courage shown this day would age him immensely.
The Twentieth Legion led the advance through the vale, and Governor Scapula ordered Paulinus to see if the lake would make a viable place to camp. They were about thirteen miles from the coast, and if Caratacus continued to elude them, they would have to soon camp for the winter. Would they return via ship, or fortify within hostile territory? Either would require much in the way of preparation and logistics.
Combining his two divisions would give them an advantage if or when it came to open battle, but for the laborious march across the forests and mountains, it was proving to be a burden. It was not just the sheer numbers of soldiers, but the scores of oxen-led wagons carrying food stores, thousands of pack mules bearing legionary tents and camp equipment, as well as several thousand horses for the cavalry regiments and senior officers’. All had to be fed and provided for each day. On many days, the entire column stretched ten miles or greater from end to end. Scapula mentally cursed his lack of foresight. He realized now that his army would have been better utilized, not to mention far more mobile, had he divided them into two or three divisions advancing along a similar axis but covering a much wider swath of terrain. As it was, they were simply walking in a massive line, waiting for Caratacus to get the jump on them.
The senior ranking centurions made more than the occasional mention of the poor execution of their advance. While they had sacked the occasional small village or farming settlement, there could be countless others hidden behind the hills and forests they passed. Troubling as it was to Centurion Magnus, with the vanguard approaching the lake, his
focus was on the task at hand. There was a vast forest to the right, which was now being scoured by auxilia light infantry. Two cavalry regiments rode ahead to screen the army’s approach, while the men of Legio XX advanced on the road leading through a small strand of trees off the northeast corner of the lake.
In the eastern woods, Seisyll held his breath in anticipation. He watched the long column of imperial soldiers marching briskly along. He kept his warriors about two hundred meters away from the path behind a long defilade. The grove was not very large, perhaps a hundred meters from end-to-end, and the Romans likely didn’t think it was occupied. At least, that is what the Ordovices king suspected, for not a single legionary or auxilia trooper was seen crawling through the woods to check for enemy fighters.
Further south, Caratacus and his bands of Silures warriors laid low in the deep trenches. Most were up to their chests in water as they hugged the grassy embankment. With the reeds and tall grasses covering much of the landscape, it was difficult to tell the canals were there at all. The high king looked to his right and saw his son up to his waist in slow-flowing water, clutching his spear as well as a handful of turf to pull himself out of the trench. Jago’s eyes were closed. He was breathing slowly and deeply through his nose. He accepted that death was a possibility this day; his only concern now was fighting bravely, proving to his father and fellow warriors that he was worthy of being counted as one of them.
The Roman cavalry had ridden well ahead of the main column and were now out of sight. This made Caratacus a bit nervous. He quietly passed word to his war leaders to keep a watchful eye, in case they returned. The lead cohort of legionaries was just passing Caratacus’ position, completely oblivious to his presence. A foreign war horn sounded to the north. The high king gritted his teeth in frustration. King Orin’s forces, north of the lake, had either launched their attack too soon, or were discovered by imperial scouts. Whatever the cause, he knew he needed to spring the remainder of the trap now.