by James Mace
“We thought you lot abandoned us,” the section leader said, through gritted teeth.
“Withdraw back to camp,” Magnus replied.
He and his men did not cease in their tramp through the woods. While he pitied the troopers and understood better than most what they had been through, they could not stop the advance to assist them.
“Poor bastards,” his signifier muttered. His eyes locked with those of the auxilia decanus. The signum then caught on a branch, causing the signifier to break into a fit of profanity as he wrenched the standard free.
There were similar grim discoveries made all along the legion’s frontage. A couple of pickets had been overrun completely, with only a handful of badly wounded survivors found amid the bodies. And despite their terrible sacrifice, they had failed to completely prevent the Silures from laying a series of traps and ambushes. Magnus and his soldiers could hear the sound of shouts and war cries echoing through the woods.
“Look alive, lads,” he said, drawing his gladius and hefting his shield. His timing proved fortuitous. A sling stone that should have smashed into his face instead bounced off his shield. “Down!”
A volley of throwing darts and sling bullets flew from a previously unseen defilade directly in front of them. His entire century quickly dropped to their knees, shields in the second to sixth ranks raised up to provide overhead protection. The barbarian salvo proved mostly ineffective, as the trees and brush that gave concealment also impeded many of their missiles from striking home.
“Century…up!”
Magnus’ legionaries were burning with anger. They pressed onward. As they forced their way through another thicket patch, the ground suddenly sloped downward about fifteen feet. Legionaries stumbled down through the ankle high grasses, reaching a path below. Directly to their front was a nearly impassable wall of ferns and sticker bushes.
“Oh, fuck me!” a legionary snapped. He tried to crash through with his full weight behind his shield.
“There’s nothing for it, we’ll have to go around,” Magnus admitted begrudgingly.
There were many such obstacles that broke up the formations of the Twentieth Legion. This gave the Silures the chance to bombard them further, while launching harassing attacks on the extreme flanks.
“This way, sir!” a decanus on the extreme left shouted.
The Norseman ordered his men to follow the sergeant around the mass of ferns and thickets, to where the valley opened up into a series of small, grass covered hills. At one point they almost crashed into the First Century. Master Centurion Tyranus was leading them out of a similarly thick stand of woods.
“Bugger me, but it is a fucking mess back there!” the primus pilus said. He laughed in defiance but with a trace of nervousness.
“At least we’ve found their compound,” Magnus remarked, nodding his head towards the large networks of huts and forges that dotted the hills.
“Let’s go claim it for the emperor!”
As various cohorts smashed their way out of the woods, General Paulinus was spotted off to their right, attempting to reform the legion into a more coherent assault force.
“Glad to see you still with us, sir,” Tyranus said, as the legate rode up to them.
“The flank cohorts on the right are in a nasty scrap,” Paulinus informed him. “I’ve sent Corbulo to ascertain the situation on the left. How goes it here?”
“Once we get everyone out of these damned woods, we’ll be ready to assault the stronghold,” Tyranus informed him.
Down below, they could see hundreds of Silures fighters fleeing for the perceived safety of their barricades. Their mates stood behind the crude stockades, shields and spears ready for battle. As a sign of Silures wealth, nearly half wore mail shirts belted in the middle. Though lacking the additional shoulder guards worn by Roman auxiliaries, it was still a sign of status that so many of their fighters had some form of protection.
“Let’s break these bastards,” Magnus growled.
With the blow of his whistle, the century began its methodical jog towards the defences. Enemy skirmishers continued to pelt them with the occasional missile weapon, but there was no stopping the ferocious onslaught of the Twentieth Legion. At less than thirty feet from the growing mass of enemy warriors, the Romans unleashed their own form of hell.
“Front rank…throw!”
Hundreds of javelins sailed over the Silures’ makeshift barricades, impaling many a warrior and smashing through the shields of those who managed to raise them in time.
“Second rank…throw!”
With the unleashing of a second storm of death, the Silures instinctively withdrew into the compound.
Magnus and the other centurions ordered their men to use controlled volleys with the rest of the javelins, keeping the defenders at bay, while the first two ranks assailed the stockade. Legionaries hacked through the ropes holding the stakes and sharpened poles together, creating a series of breaches in a matter of minutes.
Grinning sinisterly, Magnus looked over his shoulder and pointed his gladius to the nearest gap in the crumbling barricade. “With me, lads!” With a shout of rage, the entire Third Century swarmed into the compound, the wreckage of the stockade only breaking up their formations momentarily. As the Romans stepped on and over the fallen barbarians, the remaining Silures warriors found their courage and charged into the wall of shields and flashing blades. The Norseman rammed one assailant, heaving all of his weight behind his shield. The crash left the Silures fighter off balance, giving Magnus just enough time to plunge his gladius into the man’s guts. Though wearing a mail shirt that may have offered some protection against a barbarian spear, it proved useless against a heavy, sharpened imperial sword with a powerful Norseman behind it. The rings of the mail burst, and Magnus’ weapon plunged deep into the warrior’s guts. The stricken man howled in agony as blood spurted onto Magnus’ hand.
As more and more imperial soldiers stormed into the compound, the Silures warriors found themselves outnumbered and outmatched. If King Orin had had a week or better to muster his people, perhaps they could have made a viable stand against the Romans. Given the hellish terrain the legion had to make its way through just to reach the mines, they could have set a sizeable ambush and succeeded where Caratacus had failed. As it was, men were falling, attempting in vain to break the legionary shield wall. And while fiercely brave, the Silures were also pragmatists. There would be another time to fight the Romans, and they could always reclaim their gold another day. Within twenty minutes of the Twentieth Legion storming the barricades, the deep bellow of a war horn sounded the order for the Silures to retreat.
“They win this one,” a war chief muttered.
Chapter XV: To Tame a Land
***
The rugged terrain and dense woods prevented Paulinus’ division from completely surrounding the mines at Dolaucothi. And since the actual clash of arms was disappointingly short lived, only a few dozen Silures warriors lay dead or wounded; scarcely sufficient retribution for the Romans’ losses this day.
Magnus slowly calmed down from his rush of fury. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw his own century had escaped mostly unscathed. There were but a handful of wounded, and these were mostly minor injuries to the arms and legs.
“It’s just a flesh wound,” one legionary said dismissively, despite the copious amounts of blood that had run down his arm.
Off to the far left of the compound, Centurion Metellus and the Fifth Cohort found the prisoner stockades; large, uncovered enclaves filled with hundreds of men. All were young, for one did not grow old working in the mines. Many had vacant, distant eyes. Others clutched the bars of their prison, staring in wonder at the armoured soldiers who had driven off their hated overlords.
“Secure this compound,” Metellus ordered one of his centurions. “I don’t want this lot running off.”
Governor Scapula and General Paulinus rode over to the centurion, who saluted them. They were joined by Amminu
s and Landon, who quickly dismounted and rushed over to the stockades.
“Looking for old friends, is he?” Scapula asked.
“Silures and Brigantes have been at war since anyone can remember,” Amminus explained. “I have no doubt there are Brigantes amongst these prisoners.”
His assumptions were confirmed when Landon started speaking feverishly with a young man who sat next to the barricade, his head slumped in his lap. Landon pleaded with the man, reaching through the bars to grasp his filthy hand.
“Who is he?” Paulinus asked, kneeling next to the Brigantes man.
“An old friend. We served together as part of the queen’s guard. He disappeared, along with many of our friends, following a Silures raid soon after the war ended.” He looked to the legate, eyes wet with tears. “I doubt we’ll find many more still alive, but I must look for any of my countrymen who may be imprisoned here.”
Paulinus nodded and turned back to Scapula. “The Brigantes are among our most important allies. We should free any we find and return them to Queen Cartimandua.”
“Very well,” the governor replied. “It will be the emperor’s gift for her continued loyalty.”
“What of the rest?” Landon asked.
“What of them?” Scapula countered. “We need slaves to work these mines. Any man here who is not from Brigantes will remain.”
Landon looked at Paulinus.
“Everyone in this land own slaves, to include your own people,” the legate chastised. “These mines are of no use to us without a labour force.”
It was a harsh but accurate assessment.
Landon knew it was hypocritical for him to condemn the Romans for leaving most of the prisoners as slaves. After all, there were many a Silures captive who toiled until death in the Brigantes’ mines and stone quarries. The governor and legate left Centurion Metellus and his cohort to assist Landon in sorting his countrymen from the other prisoners. Doubtless there would be those who would claim to be from Brigantes, once they realized those men would be set free. Regardless, Scapula was still pleased to have claimed this prize for the emperor.
“Now to see the mines themselves,” he said. He kicked his horse into a trot and led his entourage to where he heard the shafts were located.
The main shaft itself was rather underwhelming. It was little more than a large tunnel in the side of a hill. Legionaries stood guard at the entrance. Others ignited torches and made ready to sweep the tunnel of any Silures fighters who might be hiding within. Centurion Furius and his century from the First Cohort were preparing to conduct the search.
“Not much to look at,” the centurion primus ordo remarked. “But, these barbarians are not very adept at harvesting resources.”
Scapula nodded and added, “If there is even a fraction of the gold we are led to believe, then we shall make this a source of wealth for both the province and empire.”
“About that, governor,” Paulinus said quietly, into Scapula’s ear. He tipped his head away from the crowd of soldiers and other officers.
The governor was irritated by the doubting tone in the legate’s voice and made certain he knew it. “Already having doubts about our victory?” he asked in exasperation.
“Not at all,” Paulinus replied. “We have captured what could potentially be a great source of wealth for the empire. My question is, how do you intend to keep it?” He paused for an answer.
Scapula stared at him, his brow creased in confusion.
The legate sighed and continued, “Governor, we are in the midst of an entirely hostile land at least two day’s trek from the coast. We don’t know the intentions of the Demetae. Some of them have come to us professing to be friends, but not their rulers. We can only hope they have not been poisoned by Caratacus’ serpent tongue. The rest of this land is entirely owned by the Silures.”
“Piss on them,” Scapula spat. “Cowardly bastards ran like a bunch of frightened old women. They have no stomach for a fight against Rome.”
“If you were to ask any of our veterans who were in the invasion, they would tell you a different tale,” Paulinus countered. “The Silures are anything but cowardly. They didn’t make a more defiant stand because they did not have the numbers. Don’t think for a moment they will allow us to keep this crown of their wealth.”
“What would you have me do, then?” Scapula was clearly frustrated.
“We should take the time to build a proper fort,” he recommended. “One that will house at least three cohorts of infantry, plus cavalry detachments.”
“It will take at least a month to build a proper fort,” the governor complained, “even with the entire Twentieth Legion here. I’ll have to send word to the other divisions so they can halt their advance.”
“Would you rather we lose the emperor’s prize before he’s seen a single piece of its gold?” Paulinus countered. “Besides, leaving a sizeable garrison here will draw many Silures away from supporting Caratacus.”
Scapula smirked at this assessment. “Of course. It will drive those bastards out of their filthy minds knowing we sit on their riches, with no way to get them back. Very well, we’ll take whatever time we need to fortify this position; even if we cannot claim its wealth for some time. We’ll detach three auxilia infantry cohorts to garrison the fort, plus a single company of cavalry. They only need enough horsemen to provide reconnaissance.”
“That should be sufficient,” Paulinus agreed. “I’ll have the legion begin harvesting timber and digging fortifications as soon as possible.”
With no small measure of difficulty, Scapula managed to get messages to his other divisions, informing them of the delay. While neither General Paetus nor Commander Julianus was happy to halt their march across the Silures Kingdom, the idea of claiming a large gold mine for the empire was too great an opportunity to squander.
It was with an added measure of relief when the Julianus arrived at the centre column’s camp, accompanied by the chief of the Demetae. Scapula had a dais erected near the site of the fort’s principia. Pillars bearing busts of the emperor and the gods, Jupiter, Mars, Victoria, and Bellona, were placed on the four corners; the additional statues having been brought with the legate’s baggage, following his spring return. All the standards, including Legio XX’s eagle, were placed behind the governor’s chair. General Paulinus and Commander Julianus were given seats on either side of the governor. The legion’s chief and staff tribunes stood behind the three. All had their armour polished and their best traveling cloaks draped over the left shoulder. A guard of honour from the First Cohort lined the path leading to the principia. All cohort commanders and centurions primus ordo gathered at the base of the dais.
The Demetae chieftain strode boldly towards Scapula with a small entourage of nobles. Landon walked beside him, acting as interpreter. The chieftain was of average height, with reddish hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a luxuriant thick moustache neatly combed off either end of his lip. He stood bare-chested with a green cloak draped over his shoulders. A large broadsword hung from his left hip. His head was adorned with a bronze circlet. He said a few words and bowed with his hand extended.
“Chief Judoc of the Demetae bids us welcome to his lands,” Landon translated for Scapula. “He thanks you for liberating his mines from the malevolent Silures.”
“Tell him I appreciate his sentiments,” the governor replied. “However, these mines now belong to the Emperor of Rome.”
As Landon translated, Scapula kept his gaze fixed on Judoc, whose face remained impassive. The governor thought the Demetae chieftain would take offence to his assertion that the mines were no longer theirs.
His expression remained emotionless. Judoc simply nodded and said a few calm words of acceptance.
“He says he understands why Caesar would claim the mines as his own. However, he also states, Caesar will need friends in the region if he is to keep them from the Silures.”
Scapula looked to Paulinus, who gave a barely perceptible nod. It surpr
ised the legate that the governor was seeking his implicit approval.
“I am certain we can come to some sort of arrangement,” he said, in a very measured tone. “But for now, tell the chief that he and his nobles are my guests, and Caesar welcomes them in friendship as allies of Rome.”
It was very presumptive of Scapula. Judoc had made no mention of forging an alliance with the empire; however, he knew that diplomatically, he’d made it difficult for the Demetae to presume otherwise. After all, though his terms were vague, Chief Judoc could assume he would be entitled to at least a portion of the gold mined in return for his allegiance to Rome. Even a paltry sum would be better than when the Silures controlled Dolaucothi. The imperial army would remain static for some time while they built up and fortified the area, so there would be opportunities for the Demetae to make the most of this proposed alliance. The high king, Caratacus, and King Orin of Silures would be incensed by this. But as long as they were distracted fighting the Romans, Judoc reckoned he had little to fear. Even if the Silures did seek retribution, the Demetae warriors would fare far better against them than against the massive horde of Caesar’s armoured soldiers.
For the high king, the Demetae were not a concern. At least, not one Caratacus wished to deal with at the time. He had just learned of the Roman attack on Dolaucothi and knew nothing of Chief Judoc’s submission to Caesar. Instead, his focus was on breaking the will of their potentially greatest ally who, thus far, had been kept in check by their weak-willed and feckless queen. If he could not gain the allegiance of the most powerful kingdom in the midlands of Britannia, then he would make them bleed for surrendering to the invaders.