Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered

by James Mace

  “I am honoured to have you within my walls,” Seisyll emphasised, as he and Caratacus stood atop the barricaded hill that served as the Ordovices capital. “Until such time as you can raise your own stronghold on the ashes of Roman ruins.”

  “Their destruction cannot come soon enough,” Caratacus muttered. “They have twenty thousand men encamped along the western shores, yet there is little we can do until they are on the move.” He noted the look of concern on Seisyll’s face.

  “I worry about our supposed allies,” the Ordovices king explained. “My people and the Silures have never been on the best of terms. In fact, we have fought more bloody wars against them than any other kingdom in these lands. It is you who brought us together against a common enemy. And I fear King Orin may not be able to control his warriors. Many of them would just as soon put a spear in my guts as they would a Roman.”

  “The Silures are a proud people,” Caratacus said reassuringly, though even he was having doubts as to their commitment to the war against the empire. “They will fight, even if it is in their own way. When I next speak with Orin, I will stress the need for his warriors to continue harrying the imperial army, especially after they have left their winter quarters.”

  “We will still need more fighters. The Demetae fled the Field of Sorrow without striking a single blow, and I suspect they may be waiting to strike a deal with the Romans. Our protectorates, the Deceangli, learned their lesson after we made an example of their cowardly chief. However, their total number of warriors is very few, no more than four or five thousand.”

  Caratacus leaned against a tall pillar of the great hall and stared into the distance contemplatively. “We must gather what allies we have while making life a terrible misery for the Romans and those who would prostrate themselves at the feet of Caesar.”

  Chapter XIV: Valley of Riches

  Roman Encampment, near the mouth of the Dyfi River

  15 March 49 A.D.

  Entrance to an ancient gold mine at Dolaucothi

  It was now the Ides of March, that fateful day when Julius Caesar was murdered on the steps of the senate. Governor Scapula and his legates had also returned. A sizeable entourage accompanied Governor Scapula and General Paulinus as they returned to the army’s camp. Among them Magnus recognized Queen Cartimandua’s courtier, Alaric. But it was the man walking beside the governor and legate that caught the centurion’s attention. He was half a head taller than even Paulinus, dressed in an earth coloured toga, with a tartan cloak over his left shoulder. His face was clean shaven, though he had a thick mop of curly black hair atop his head. A wide-bladed broadsword in an ornate scabbard was strapped to his hip.

  “Gentlemen, may I present Amminus, son of Cunobeline,” Scapula said, introducing the man to his senior officers.

  “Son of Cunobeline?” Tyranus asked. His eyes widened in realization. “By Victoria, he’s Caratacus’ brother!”

  “An unfortunate circumstance of birth,” Amminus said. The corner of his mouth twisted up slightly. His Latin was flawless, and he exuded only a trace of an accent. “I have lived in exile these past eight years. The divine Emperor Claudius has been very kind to me, and his charity has left me with a moral debt to Rome. When I heard my vile brother returned to cause mischief, I felt compelled to offer my services to the empire.”

  “For starters, you can tell us what your brother looks like,” the chief tribune spoke up. “For all we know, he could be dead already.”

  “No, my brother is anything but dead. You must understand, Caratacus has a viper’s tongue that poisons the minds of even great kings. Were he dead, the alliance between the Ordovices and Silures would collapse. They are age-old enemies. That they have named him high king over their own rulers, tells us all we need to know about his powers of persuasion. But worry not, noble tribune, you shall have a detailed description of the serpent. I shall also accompany the governor and will be ready to identify him for your soldiers.”

  “We depart in three days,” Scapula stated. “But before we pursue Caratacus, our newly won friends among the Demetae have promised to show us the way to a ‘treasure trove’, as they put it.”

  “I know that of which they speak,” Amminus added. “I’ve never seen it personally but have heard talk, of a vast gold mine on the border of the Demetae and Silures kingdoms. Given the wealth exhibited by King Orin and his ilk, I suspect the rumours may prove true.”

  Before the trek south could begin, the army had to travel several miles east, in order to find a viable fording point across the River Dyfi. They followed the coast, maintaining a robust advance guard of cavalry, with dispersed cohorts of light auxilia infantry scouring the woods on their flanks. The nimble troopers of these regiments were slowed considerably by the dense woods and undergrowth, the army even more so.

  It took the better part of five days to make the fifty mile journey south. Having learned from his mistakes the previous year, Scapula divided his army into three divisions. Legio IX provided the bulwark for the northern column, along with several cohorts of auxilia infantry and one quarter of the cavalry. Legio XX led the centre column, with an equal number of auxilia infantry and cavalry in support. This left half the cavalry and roughly five thousand auxilia infantrymen to make up the southernmost column.

  The legionary legates commanded their respective divisions with Governor Scapula accompanying the centre column. Commander Julianus was assigned to lead the auxilia division. They would be skirting the lands of the Demetae, and Scapula needed to ascertain their intentions. Would they offer their spears for Rome, attempt to remain neutral, or were they already under Caratacus’ control? The Romans had struggled to tell the various tribes apart, especially during the heat of battle, and could not tell a Demetae from an Ordovices. Only the Silures, with their dark, curly hair and olive skin stood out amongst the various tribes. None of them knew that Demetae warriors had, in fact, been with Caratacus during the last battle, but had balked and fled without taking any part in the fighting.

  General Paetus’ division skirted a mountain range to the north. Governor Scapula and General Paulinus made their way through a large valley dotted with forests and grass fields. While most of Britannia was lush with vegetation, this was the greenest place Centurion Magnus could recall. He voiced his observation of the land.

  “There’s some lavender, sir,” Optio Caelius pointed out.

  “This is ideal grazing country for sheep and cattle,” the Norseman added. There were, indeed, scattered groups of sheep and various other animals; however, no people could be seen.

  “The people knew we were coming,” Magnus remarked.

  “They’ve gone into hiding.” his optio concurred.

  Due to the openness of the terrain, Paulinus ordered the legion to advance in a series of cohort columns, with the baggage train kept towards the centre, guarded by two cohorts of auxilia infantry. The legion’s indigenous cavalry screened the flanks while auxilia horsemen scouted ahead. The governor and legionary command staff rode just behind the First Cohort, accompanied by Amminus. Alaric, who had thus far kept a distance from the exiled Catuvellauni prince, rode with General Paetus. Landon accompanied the auxilia division.

  “If my intuition is correct,” Amminus said, “we are not far from ‘The Valley of Riches’.”

  “How will we know?” Scapula was sceptical. “It’s not as if the Silures have gilded cities or anything remotely resembling civilization.”

  “I think we’ll know when they decide to bid us welcome,” Paulinus conjectured.

  This drew a knowing grin from Amminus.

  “The mines are thought to be little more than a myth to many of the peoples in eastern and northern Britannia. The torques of gold worn by many of their warriors tell me it is no fable. The Silures may not be as well armed as your soldiers; however, one is much more likely to see swords and mail armour among them than any other tribe.”

  Scapula pondered this for a moment then gave his assessment. “If they were
n’t such an unorganized rabble, they could be a rich and powerful adversary.”

  “They are already powerful,” Paulinus remarked. “But I agree, we should be thankful they haven’t used their potential wealth to field a well-equipped, professional army.”

  “Some say the gold is cursed,” Amminus added. “This is nonsense. It is a matter of the mines being in close proximity to both Silures and Demetae lands. These hills and valleys have been the grave of many warriors who died trying to claim the treasures as their own.”

  “My king, the Romans are near Dolaucothi,” a scout reported to King Orin.

  While this caused much consternation amongst the elders and chief warriors, it was the opportunity he had been waiting for. His warlords had been in such constant dispute as to how to deal with the invaders, that it left him unable to marshal a sizeable force. If he could not control his own warriors, what hope was there to maintain the alliance with the Ordovices under Caratacus?

  “Does their entire army approach?” he asked.

  “No,” the man said, shaking his head. “We saw but one eagle standard and only a few thousand other troops.”

  “Meaning they’ve divided their forces,” one of the elders noted.

  Orin nodded. “They’ve learned their lessons from the previous year. Send scouts to find the remainder of their fighters. If one legion approaches the Valley of Riches, the rest cannot be far away.”

  While glad for a chance to spill copious amounts of Roman blood, the king was feeling the constrictions of both time and distance. With his warriors still scattered to their homes and the imperial army fast approaching the precious mines, there was not enough time to rally his entire army to face them. Caratacus would have to be informed at once, though his army with King Seisyll was even further afield than the majority of the Silures warriors.

  “Muster every fighter within twenty miles,” he ordered. “The mines must not fall into Roman hands!”

  The Silures had been given a brief, unexpected reprieve, as Paulinus’ division unwittingly encamped only five miles from the mines. Had they known how close they were, and that the valley was only modestly defended, they may have launched their assault right away. As it was, the thick woods impeded their reconnaissance cavalry from scouting too far ahead. It was only when the late afternoon sun began to slowly dip into the west that reports came back, informing them the legendary mines were found.

  “Well, bugger it,” Paulinus sighed with mild frustration. “We could have slaughtered the bastards and camped there tonight.”

  “I left several of my men to keep an eye on the complex,” the scout section leader reported. “There was a lot of activity within. It appears they are mustering warriors from all over the region.”

  “Which means they know we’re here,” Scapula muttered.

  “We need to deploy pickets well ahead of the army,” Paulinus recommended. “Otherwise, these bastards may have a slew of surprises waiting for us.”

  “I have to agree, General,” Amminus concurred. “The Silures are known for laying traps and ambushes. They will likely try to soften up your forces before they reach the mines.”

  The scout had taken a long stick and drawn a crude sketch in the dirt. “It is a large complex, sirs,” he said. “There are plenty of stockades for slaves near the mine shafts, with what can best be described as a barracks for guards.”

  “How many guards?” General Paulinus asked.

  “It’s hard to say, sir. We got as close as we could, but they have pickets posted well beyond the compound. The woods on the surrounding hills are very thick. I would hazard several hundred warriors, at least, though they could soon be reinforced by an entire army.”

  “I cannot see Caratacus leaving this place undefended,” Amminus remarked. “Even if he felt it unimportant, there is no way King Orin would let his greatest source of wealth fall into our hands without a fight.”

  “A pity we didn’t bring any artillery,” Scapula grumbled.

  “Do you want to drag onagers and ammunition wagons through this shit?” Paulinus countered. “We’d still be fifty miles from here if we’d tried bringing them with us.”

  “Enough,” Scapula interrupted with irritation. He’d grown tired of his legates constantly undermining him, when they weren’t squabbling with each other. What troubled him more was that despite his age and position as governor-general of the province, he possessed neither the innate skill nor battle experience of either Paetus or Paulinus. He was compelled to rely on both men, and as often as not, their ideas for dealing with the insurrection varied greatly.

  “Whether we should have brought the siege trains with us or not is irrelevant,” he said forcefully. He broke into a coughing fit, quietly cursing his lungs for still bothering him, even after taking time to convalesce during the winter months. He took a deep breath and continued, “We will simply have to overwhelm them with what forces we have available.”

  It would prove to be a long night for both Romans and Silures. Paulinus ordered the auxilia infantry cohorts to post the picket outposts in the woods leading to the mines, with the cavalry kept in ready reserve. This upset many of the commanders as well as their troopers. They perceived the legion as being left safe within its fortified camp, while they battled the ‘night demons of these woods’. Scapula had berated the men, telling them to follow orders, while Paulinus made it known that Legio XX would be handling the brunt of the assault in the morning. No one slept that night, as the cries of men and sounds of skirmishing echoed throughout the forests and across the valley. It was a confusing frenzy. In the utter blackness of the thick woods, it was impossible to tell friend from foe.

  “Must be hell for those poor bastards,” Centurion Furius said as he joined Magnus near the eastern ramparts.

  It was nearly midnight.

  “They’re doing their job whether they realize it or not,” Magnus observed. “Hopefully, we won’t have too many surprises waiting for us in the morning.”

  Dawn came at last. While decani conducted final inspections of their men, General Paulinus called a meeting of all cohort commanders and First Cohort centurions.

  “I’ve received word from the auxilia cohort commanders,” the legate said. “A lot of their boys took a beating last night.”

  “How bad was it, sir?” Tyranus asked.

  “Some of them didn’t get hit at all. Other groups were almost completely annihilated. It’s still fairly dark in the woods. But, I imagine they gave as well as they took. No doubt the Silures did not expect us to have troops waiting for them out there. A pity we didn’t have time to set proper counter-ambushes.” His voice was filled with regret. The auxiliaries were not his men, but they were still soldiers of Rome and had died in service to the empire.

  “We’re sending cavalry to the hills north and south of the complex,” Paulinus continued. “Cohorts Seven and Eight will swing wide to the left, approaching from the northwest. Cohorts Nine and Ten will attack from the south and southwest. The rest of the legion will conduct a broad assault straight up the centre.”

  “We’ll be passing the auxilia pickets,” Tyranus noted, “So be sure to let the auxiliaries know you’re friendly forces. There won’t be any subtleties about this attack. The Silures know we’re coming.”

  After answering a few more questions, Paulinus dismissed his commanders back to their units. Magnus made his way back to the First Cohort’s Third Century to where Optio Caelius and the tesserarius were finishing up the inspection of their legionaries.

  “What are the orders, sir?” Caelius asked.

  Magnus replied with a question of his own. “Are we ready to pound these fucks into oblivion?”

  “That we are, sir.”

  “Then let’s go give these bastards a Roman-style thrashing!”

  Magnus’ last words elicited a loud ovation from his men. They were inspired by this newly found energy and aggression coming from their centurion. Indeed, Magnus felt as if he were ten years younger. He
was filled with the burning anticipation of battle that had been dormant within him for far too long.

  The cornicens sounded the call to arms. General Paulinus and the staff tribunes rode to where the aquilifer stood with the eagle standard held high.

  “Twentieth Legion!” the legate shouted, raising his spatha. “To the eagle!”

  Wordlessly, nearly five thousand imperial legionaries rushed to their place on the massive battle line. The designated wing cohorts followed a handful of guides from the legion’s indigenous cavalry. The main assault force dressed their ranks and made ready to advance. Once all cohorts were in position, the eagle was raised up and then dipped forward, signalling the advance. Eyes were wide as they proceeded through the dense woods. It was a slow and somewhat awkward trek. Soldiers stepped on or tripped over fallen logs, with javelins, shields, and helmets snagging low hanging branches and undergrowth.

  It was only an hour after dawn. The sun’s rays had yet to fully illuminate the darkness. Because of their impeded vision, officers were ordered to call out the watchword of ‘Germanicus’ to alert the battered and exhausted auxiliaries who’d been through a hellish night. Centurion Magnus would see just how harrowing their ordeal was when he called out the watchword.

  “Britannicus! Britannicus!” A near-panicked voice shouted from less than thirty feet away.

  Magnus pulled a large thicket aside to see the battered remains of a twenty-man picket crouching together behind their shields. Seven of their number were dead, covered in blood with their entrails split open. Two were missing arms. A third slain trooper had his lower leg severed. Almost all who survived were covered in injuries. The decanus in command had his right arm in a makeshift sling made from shreds of a cloak. His face was covered in blood and filth, like most of his men, and his eyes were wide with terror, exhaustion, and now relief. Around their position lay nearly a score of Silures corpses. Those wounded and not saved by their companions had had their throats cut by the maddened auxiliaries.