Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered

by James Mace

  “Down with tyranny!” he roared, leaping from the canal, his sword held high.

  Auxilia skirmishers had indeed spotted the force of barbarians lurking in the woods along the north side of the lake. This prompted those to the east to attack well before the entire army was within the trap. Instead of facing legionaries, the Ordovices surged from the eastern woods coming face-to-face with numerous cohorts of auxilia infantry. With spears and shields together, the imperial soldiers quickly turned to face this new threat. Up the road, Governor Scapula was pointing towards the northern woods with his spatha, shouting orders to General Paetus and the Ninth Legion. The discovery of these potential ambushers allowed them to deploy into battle ranks before assaulting the wood line. Three of their cohorts were directed to the left, to hit the Ordovices in the flank.

  Meanwhile, the lead elements of Legio XX faced the enraged barbarian standing atop the canal bank. None realized this maddened berserker was the very man they had been pursuing these past months.

  “Contact left!” Master Centurion Tyranus shouted, jumping from his horse and waving the aquilifer to him. The primus pilus placed his century at the centre of the cohort, with Furius and Magnus on his right, and the remaining two centuries on his left.

  As his men dropped their packs and formed into six ranks, the Norseman spotted a large force of barbarians emerging to the Romans’ right. “Furius!” he called out. “We’re about to be flanked!”

  “Pivot your century off me!” his fellow primus ordo shouted back. “We’ll anchor this point while you secure the flank.”

  Magnus raised his gladius high. “Third Century, right wheel…march!”

  With precision brought on by many years in the ranks, the hundred and sixty legionaries of Magnus’ century pivoted backwards. Optio Caelius made certain their extreme left remained close to Furius’ right. Magnus had his men form a forty-five degree angle off their companions on the left. They only had moments to react, and the barbarians were now charging straight for them, rather than trying to manoeuver further around their flank.

  “First and second ranks…javelins, throw!”

  There was scarcely enough time for his men to unleash their heavy pila before their adversaries smashed into the shield wall. The Silures’ initial charge lost much of its momentum, as scores of fighters were struck down by the fearful missile barrage. Men screamed in agony as their guts were ruptured and limbs mangled. Splintered ribs, arm, and leg bones burst through flesh in a gory display of horror.

  Their own light spearmen unleashed a retaliatory barrage. Long throwing darts rained down upon the ranks of legionaries. Many of these deflected off shields, helmets, and segmented plate armour, yet a number of painful screams echoed from the Roman battle lines as spears plunged into the exposed faces, necks, and limbs of imperial soldiers. Fallen legionaries in the first two ranks were replaced quickly by their mates in the third and fourth. Those in the rear unleashed a second wave of javelins. With no armour and only wicker or board shields, the Silures warriors had little defence against these subsequent volleys. The first minute of battle had already been a bloody affair. The warring gods, Mars and Aeron, would be pleased.

  For Jago, the time had come to prove both his valour and manhood. He tried to pull himself from the ditch, falling onto his stomach as the handful of tall grass he’d been clutching ripped from the damp earth. In frustration, he tossed his shield over the embankment and used both hands to pull himself over. His delay proved fortuitous, as many of those warriors who’d surged ahead of him were painfully struck down by the Roman javelin barrage. Some were dead, many maimed, their screams of agony ripped into the young lad’s soul.

  The broken bodies and hundreds of expended javelins obstructed their advance. Jago regained his footing as he retrieved his shield and raced into the fray. The initial surge of warriors pulled back a few feet from the Roman shield wall, having failed to break the line, leaving even more of their companions dead or dying. A subsequent volley of javelins flew over the heads of the imperial soldiers, though these were flung in a very high arc and were easier to avoid. Jago gasped as he leapt to the right, knocking a pilum out of his way with his shield. The shock of the weapon’s weight jarred him. Thankfully, it failed to stick in his shield.

  The young warrior took a deep breath and strode forward with purpose, maintaining his composure. He was now at the front of the throng of warriors. He steeled his mind, blocking out the piteous cries of the wounded. Jago’s greatest fear was not death, but that they would be ordered to withdraw before he had the chance to kill a Roman.

  He focused his attention on a legionary directly in front of him. What baffled Jago was how old the soldier was. He had always been under the impression the Romans recruited their fighters very young, yet this man looked to be three times his age. He knew nothing of a legion’s elite First Cohort, whose soldiers were experienced, battle-hardened veterans rated the best close-combat fighters in the entire army. Had he been aware, it would have filled his heart with trepidation, or possibly excitement at the possibility of killing one of the empire’s best.

  “They’re not pressing the advantage, sir,” a decanus said to Centurion Magnus.

  As he slammed the bottom edge of his shield into the stomach of the warrior he was fighting, the Norseman took a quick moment to survey the ongoing battle. The barbarians were bravely standing their ground, refusing to yield to the imperial legions. Yet they were almost tentative in their attacks. The assailing warriors most certainly had them outnumbered, but no attempt was being made to manoeuver around the legion’s exposed flank. A few hundred warriors could easily sprint around the open meadow that lay between them and the lake, and threaten the Romans from behind. Such action would force them to break off legionaries from their rear ranks, weakening the entire formation. And yet, this bizarre stalemate continued to their front.

  “What the fuck are they playing at?” Magnus asked his signifier, ever by his side, behind the centurion’s left shoulder.

  “I don’t know,” the standard bearer said, shaking his head. “It’s as if they aren’t even trying to win.”

  “They’re simply holding us in place,” Magnus suddenly realized. He gnashed his teeth at the revelation. “This is nothing more than a bloody diversion!”

  As one of his warriors took a Roman spear to the ribs, King Seisyll lunged past the stricken man and plunged his sword into the auxiliary infantryman’s guts. Though lighter and allowing for greater mobility, the protection offered by hamata chainmail paled in comparison to that of segmentata plate. The king’s blade burst through links and ripped into the soldier’s stomach. He wrenched the weapon free, bringing the heavy sword down upon the shoulder armour of another trooper as he stepped back and away. Though the layered shoulder guards withstood the blow, it unbalanced the soldier enough that he was quickly skewered by several spear points. And though the auxiliaries gave as good as they took, Seisyll and his massed horde of fighters was beginning to overwhelm them.

  Despite their warriors to the north having been spotted and unable to ‘close the trap’ on the Romans, they still managed to distract most of the Ninth Legion, along with a sizeable portion of the cavalry and auxilia infantry who made up the rear guard. King Seisyll, having spotted the approaching enemy forces dispatched by Scapula, ordered two thousand of his warriors to face the oncoming threat of three legionary cohorts sent to flank him. The rest of his men continued their relentless onslaught of the Roman auxilia. Caratacus had also concentrated the greatest number of his skirmishers with the Ordovices. From behind their mates, they continued to rain down sling stones and throwing spears upon the imperial soldiers.

  Because of the relentless attacks from the Ordovices, and because they were unable to cohesively form their battle lines, the auxiliaries were compelled to give ground, with most cohorts abandoning the road altogether. They were now fighting a chaotic battle in the trees and undergrowth of the woods between the road and the lake. Bands of Seisyll’
s men had even driven several cohorts of imperial troopers all the way back to the water’s edge. Furthermore, they had split the Roman column in two. With both legions being held in place, they were unable to come to the aid of the hard-pressed auxiliary cohorts in the centre of the column, the three cohorts from Legio IX notwithstanding.

  Sensing a better opportunity for his skirmishers, the king turned to the chief leading his light fighters. “Take your men and support our warriors on the right,” he ordered. “They are facing legionaries and could use the help of your darts and sling stones.”

  A shouted order, the blow of a war horn, and soon several hundred spear throwers and slingers were rushing north to support their comrades, who were being hard-pressed by the onslaught of legionaries. An imperial observer would have marvelled at the discipline and organization of these men, who were certainly more than just a rabble of ‘barbarians’.

  Seisyll’s intuition proved timely. Though storms of pila had left many dead and dying, the imperial soldiers attempting to smash through their flank had been checked by the stalwart courage and tenacity of the Ordovices fighters. A steady barrage of darts and sling stones soon compelled the legionary cohorts to close ranks, hunkering low behind their shield walls. And though his warriors had pressed the auxilia cohorts towards the water’s edge, the ground here was more open, allowing them to close ranks and beat back the Ordovices’ onslaught.

  Casualties were mounting, with his warriors beginning to fatigue. As he smashed his sword against an infantryman’s shield, Seisyll hoped King Orin was successful in his mission to destroy the Roman supply trains.

  Patience, Jago thought to himself as he jumped away from the legionary’s sword thrust. He kept the soldier at bay by continuously prodding with his spear. He hoped to catch his adversary in the face, but the man was too quick and skilful for him and kept knocking his spear away. Jago couldn’t compel him to break away from his mates and face him like a man, either. These damned Romans were sticklers for formation and discipline. Attempts to goad them into single combat were futile.

  Filthy cowards, the young warrior thought contemptuously.

  This particular legionary was the third Jago had faced. Every few minutes, the Romans rapidly withdrew their front line replacing them with subsequent ranks. It allowed them to keep fresh troops out front while frustrating their opponents. Jago and twenty warriors had attempted to exploit the momentary gap in the lines, yet the tactic was executed with such speed and precision that the young fighter had almost been bowled over by the shield strike of a surging legionary. Two of his companions had not been so fortunate and were slain by stabs from legionary gladii.

  His aggravation almost getting the best of him, Jago was worried he would have to face his father with a clean spear. He therefore decided to change his tactics. He choked up the grip on his spear and held it close to his side. Focusing his vision on the legionary, ignoring all other friends and enemies alike, Jago hunkered down and made ready to lunge. The soldier was shorter than he, and as long as he kept his shield between himself and the man’s gladius, he had a very good chance of overpowering his foe by sheer force.

  Hurtling himself forward, the edge of his shield clipped that of the legionary, and with his right arm he knocked the shield away, leaving the soldier’s torso exposed. Time slowed as he grinned in victory. He thrust his spear with all his might, anticipating the feeling of guts bursting and staining the spear blade with blood…but then a jarring feeling ran up his arm. He should have aimed for the face or neck, for instead of slaying his foe, his weapon had impacted hard against the chest plates of the legionary’s armour and was deflected away.

  Before he could pull his arm back, the soldier brought his gladius down in a hard chop, severing Jago’s thumb and knocking his spear to the ground. His cry of horrified pain was interrupted by the shield blow from the legionary standing to his adversary’s right. The edge of the shield caught Jago on the temple, sending him falling to the ground in a heap as he lost consciousness. He never even felt the sword thrust to the heart that ended his life.

  Chapter X: To the Sea

  ***

  Because the Romans had time to react to the botched ambush, King Orin was unable to launch his warriors’ full might against their column of supply wagons. They had managed to kill the oxen pulling a pair of wagons before being compelled to withdraw; however, this would amount to little more than a minor nuisance to the invaders. But although they failed their chief objective, much had been accomplished by the raid. They had unleashed chaos upon the otherwise disciplined imperial forces, proving that with only a portion of their warriors, they could make the invaders bleed. Seisyll’s warriors had the most success, striking the column at its most vulnerable point in the centre and inflicting hundreds of casualties upon the auxilia and allied cohorts. It was, therefore, with reluctance that the Ordovices king heeded the horn blows from Caratacus, ordering them to withdraw. The return of the Roman cavalry vanguard had necessitated this. It was only by a matter of minutes that Seisyll and his fighters escaped being cut off and surrounded by imperial horsemen. The high king and his men were able to make their way through the canals and trenches before cavalry or legionaries could conduct any sort of pursuit. Yet despite the overall success of the raid, for Caratacus there was no joy to be had that night. His son was missing.

  Eurgain sat with her arms wrapped around her knees, gazing into the fire. Little Sorcha sat with her mother, her head resting on her shoulder. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she feared the worst for her big brother. The high queen found it perverse that hosts of warriors drank and celebrated, while their prince was missing and presumed dead. And what had happened to Jago? Several warriors said they saw the brave young fighter leap at the Roman lines, but then he seemed to disappear.

  “My son is with my ancestors,” Caratacus said, with as much stoicism as he could muster.

  “You don’t know that,” his wife protested.

  “I doubt the Romans are taking prisoners,” he reasoned. “I know he fell bravely like a true Catuvellauni. If only our people had even a small measure of his courage…” He nearly choked on his words, sniffing hard and fighting the tears that threatened to fall. His wife and daughter embraced him as he struggled with his overwhelming sorrow. He knew he should be proud of Jago who, after four years of Roman oppression, had finally fought to liberate his people in battle. Caratacus cursed himself for not beginning the lad’s training much sooner. He should have known that the day Jago would have to face the Romans in battle would come sooner rather than later. It was his fault his son dead, and it would forever be his greatest failure.

  For the Romans, there was much confusion during the battle’s aftermath. Scapula and his commanding officers grappled with the slew of conflicting reports to discern what exactly had transpired. Clearly they had been ambushed, with the centre of the column suffering the worst in terms of casualties. And yet, the barbarians failed to trap them completely, perhaps because their numbers were simply too few. Both General Paetus and Commander Julianus had cautioned against presuming Caratacus’ army was smaller than anticipated.

  “The campaign season grows late, and many of their fighters may have gone home,” the cavalry officer reckoned.

  Paetus nodded towards the numerous corpses that lined the northern shoreline, where the Ninth Legion had done some of its fiercest fighting. “They abandoned so many of their dead and wounded. But given the losses we sustained, can either side really call this a victory?”

  Legionaries were walking along, plunging their blades into any wounded barbarian they found.

  “The dead know not whether their side won or lost,” Paulinus said quietly, as he watched scores of legionaries and auxilia troopers dragging away the bodies of their fallen.

  “We’ll camp here tonight,” Scapula ordered.

  “Very good,” Paulinus said, with a relieved sigh. “We should also give the men a day to bid proper farewell to their fallen mates.”
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br />   The governor bobbed his head lazily in acceptance. He was clearly exhausted, both physically and emotionally. He was feeling the strain of his numerous poor decisions and hated that he had to content himself that their losses were not more severe. And though it was the enemy who had fled, he clearly did not feel as if he had won anything close to what one would consider a victory.

  Just past the southern edge of the lake, Magnus and the rest of the First Cohort’s officers finished tallying their own loses. Seven were dead, another twenty-eight wounded.

  “Regrettable but acceptable,” Master Centurion Tyranus acknowledged, as he read the reports from his centurions primus ordo. “We could have easily fared much worse.”

  “The auxiliaries in the centre of the column took a beating,” Centurion Furius noted. “And I heard from a mate in the Ninth that they had a bastard of a time with those cock-eaters in the woods.”

  Magnus concurred. “At least we were able to fight our adversaries in the open. Still, I am troubled as to why they did not press us harder. There was no manoeuver, no attempt to flank us, just a toe-to-toe battering against our shield wall.”

  “They weren’t trying to defeat us,” came the voice of Legate Paulinus, as he walked over to his senior leaders.

  “General, sir,” Tyranus said.

  He and the rest of the centurions rose to their feet. Paulinus waved for them to sit down and set his camp stool next to them.