Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered

by James Mace

  “Form testudo!” Magnus and Furius ordered their centuries.

  Shields were linked within the front rank, while those behind provided overhead protection. Being in such close quarters required even greater discipline, and keeping in step was crucial to maintaining formation integrity.

  Arrows, throwing darts, and stones rained down upon the advancing legionaries. Just behind each century, trying to maintain a low profile as they advanced, were support companies of auxilia archers. Scapula had detached the majority in support of the Ninth Legion, who were spread out in a wide arc on either side of the path. The hundred or so who advanced in support of the Twentieth rose up, sending arrows flying back towards the scattered bands of warriors bombarding the legion. The dense foliage, uneven terrain, and scattered large boulders gave their adversaries ample cover to unleash repeatedly before being compelled to withdraw.

  Hunkered behind his shield on the right edge of the front rank, Magnus could feel his hot breath deflecting off the inside of his shield. He had just enough of a gap to allow him to see. Despite the protection offered by his shield, the legionary behind, and his helmet, there was still the fear of an enemy arrow or dart finding its way into the narrow slit where his eyes were exposed. He spotted an Ordovices archer only thirty feet away who stepped out from behind a large rock and loosed his arrow at the centurion. Magnus ducked his head and grimaced as the arrow deflected off the brow of his helmet. He heard the legionary behind him yell, ‘Fuck!’ in alarm. The centurion smiled as he saw his foe jolt backwards, an arrow from one of the auxilia archers protruding from his shoulder. There was a constant wave of arrows flying over their heads, the enemy missiles bouncing off or burying themselves in the cocoon of shields. Occasionally, Magnus would hear a yelp or cry, with no way of knowing if it was friendly archers or luckless legionaries being struck down.

  The advancing soldiers kept their pace short and quick, careful not to slip on the slick rock or trip on protruding tree roots. Magnus took a deep breath as the wall came into sight. It appeared roughly eight feet tall and was made mostly of jagged flat rocks that permeated much of the landscape.

  “First and second ranks, make ready to assault the wall. All other ranks…javelins ready!” The centurion then blew his whistle.

  Under a fresh hail of stones and throwing spears, his men sprinted the rest of the way to the wall. Centurion Furius’ century was following suit, the support archers close behind. Once there, the men in the second rank maintained their overhead cover, only now they braced their shields against the wall. Those in the front rank grounded their weapons and shields. They pulled on protruding stones, prying them loose with their pugio daggers, hoping to undermine the wall. The enemy warriors intensified their bombardment, smashing the covering shields with heavy rocks, buckling the legs of legionaries, and knocking others to their knees. Pila from their mates in the subsequent ranks were flung into the faces of their foes. Shrieks echoed as warriors were skewered by the fearful javelins. Spent pila also clattered against the wall, falling onto the protective shields of the second rank.

  The exchange between the Ordovices and their Roman enemies was becoming more frenzied, warrior and soldier alike falling in the fearful exchange of arrow and spear. The rocks from barbarian slingers were the least imposing in appearance. Yet they inflicted some of the most fearful injuries, snapping limbs and breaking facial bones. And despite their armour and training, the Romans were at a disadvantage. Their enemies held the high ground, enjoying the protection offered by their makeshift wall. This made the task of Magnus and Furius’ legionaries even more urgent.

  The Norseman wrenched a loose stone free, tossing it aside. A few near eye level he managed to jerk from the wall. He saw the lower leg of an enemy skirmisher, standing atop an improvised timber platform. Magnus picked up his gladius and thrust it with all his might into the man’s shin. The bone splintered as the sharpened point plunged deep into the limb. Magnus jerked the bloody weapon free, giving a malicious grin as the screaming warrior fell from the defences.

  “They’re pulling back, sir!” a decanus from the third rank shouted.

  Magnus quickly glanced around, taking in his surroundings. The wall was beginning to crumble off to his left. To his right, the soldiers from Centurion Furius’ century had collapsed part of the defences.

  “Alright, lads!” the Norseman bellowed. “Let’s knock the rest of this wall down!”

  Their enemies having withdrawn, legionaries in the first two ranks braced their shields against the wall and shoved with all of their combined strength. With so much of the defences already dismantled, large breaches were created as sections of the wall collapsed inside the stronghold in a series of loud crashes.

  “Century…on me!”

  Caratacus’ eyes were filled with hatred as he clutched his large broadsword in both hands. While Seisyll and the Ordovices fought to hold the ramparts on the wings, King Orin and his warriors stood near the high king, weapons banging on their shields as they worked themselves into a frenzy. Caratacus’ gaze narrowed. He became fixated on the collapsing wall not thirty feet in front of him. Finally, his sword would sate its thirst for Roman blood. At last he would avenge his people, his brother…his son. A pang of sorrow stabbed at his heart as he thought about poor Jago. This was quickly channelled into the rage of vengeance.

  “Aeron, guide my blade,” he prayed through gritted teeth. “Attack!”

  When his warriors charged, the Romans were still struggling over the crumbled remnants of the wall. This broke up their formations, preventing them from maintaining their shield wall. The force of the Silures’ onslaught was blunted momentarily by the unleashing of the lead cohort’s remaining javelins. Whether by luck or the hand of the gods, one such missile missed Caratacus’ face by a matter of inches. The nearest warrior behind him was not so fortunate. The pilum plunged into his chest, snapping ribs and ripping into his left lung.

  There would be time to mourn their fallen later. For now, Caratacus’ heart was as cold as the steel blade he wielded. With a howl of rage echoing from the bowels of the underworld, he swung his weapon with every ounce of his power. It smashed into the shield of a legionary, the sharp blade cutting deep and knocking the man backwards. With alarming speed for a man of his size, the high king brought his sword around in a backhand swing, catching the soldier on the top of his helmet. The metal split and the legionary collapsed to the ground. Whether he was dead or simply rendered unconscious, Caratacus had no time to determine. One of the soldier’s mates slammed the bottom edge of his shield into his stomach. The high king doubled over as he stumbled backwards, the wind knocked from him for a moment. He scowled in hatred, his fury coursing through his veins once more. He stormed forward with his blade held high, ready to stab, as one of his warriors attacked the soldier who’d smashed him with his shield. With the Romans scattered and struggling over the ruins, the legionary had no one on his left to protect him. This time there would be no doubt if his foe lived or died. Caratacus plunged his sword into the man’s neck in a bursting spray of blood. The soldier collapsed in a convulsing heap as his life flowed onto the broken rocks. With animalistic lust, the high king ran his tongue over the bloodied blade, savouring the taste of his slain enemy.

  Despite his triumph and brief taste of revenge, the imperial legionaries came onward. Their formations were coming together as they battled their way forward. Caratacus’ warriors engaged them with bravery worthy of their ancestors. Many were paying the ultimate price for their valour. All knew the tribute demanded by the gods this day would be high, though the Roman gods would likely exact an equal toll from the legions. And while many of their brethren lay in bloody heaps, cries of agony through clenched teeth piercing the hills, those still standing stalwartly maintained their courage. The gods of war and death embraced this field of gore and visceral destruction.

  The stubborn brawn and tenacity of the First Cohort had created the breach Scapula sought, though at a heavy price. As
the follow-on cohorts stormed into the stronghold, they stumbled over scores of dead and badly injured legionaries. The auxilia archers had suffered greatly as well. Nearly half of their soldiers were struck down. The ground was slick with blood. In many cases, it was difficult to tell the wounded from the dying. Some were attempting to crawl away from the scene of death, covered in the mingling of blood from various friends and adversaries.

  For Legate Suetonius Paulinus, the horrific carnage was the cost of his first true test as a legion commander. He dismounted his horse near the crumbled ruins of the wall and drew his spatha. Cohorts of legionaries were still clambering over the wreckage. Despite the protests of his staff officers, the commanding legate was determined to lead his men by example, rather than sitting on his horse well behind the actual fighting. To his right, he could see the cohorts from Legio IX battling their way into the stronghold. Those on the left were still struggling against the relentlessness of the barbarian defenders.

  Paulinus grabbed the nearest pilus prior by the shoulder. It was Centurion Metellus of the Fifth Cohort. “I need you to take your cohort left, along the wall, and help the Ninth Legion.”

  “Yes, sir.” Metellus stood on a pile of rocks and blew his whistle. “Fifth Cohort, action left! Battle formation on me!”

  The battle was only now beginning for most of the legion. But for Centurion Magnus and the rest of the First Cohort, it had already been an exhausting and bloody day. As he blew his whistle, signalling the next passage-of-lines, he wondered if he’d lost more men this day than at Mai Dun or the Twin Rivers. Despite his personal tragedy, Mai Dun had been a brilliant piece of tactics and relentless valour. This battle, at a remote place called Caer Caradoc, had been little more than a bloody grind, degraded even further into an uncivilized brawl once the first blow was struck. Granted, there was little, if anything, about war that one could call ‘civilized’.

  Taking a moment to catch his breath, Magnus rapidly assessed his surroundings. Master Centurion Tyranus’ century was on his immediate right, formed in a wedge that was pressing into the heart of the horde of enemy warriors. To his left, the cohort’s Fifth Century was skirmishing with several bands of fighters.

  Due to the rolling and extremely broken terrain, cohorts and even individual centuries were fighting their own battles, rather than the legion acting as a single entity. Just up ahead, about a hundred Ordovices warriors were attempting to make a stand atop a steep rock face, surrounded by an entire cohort of legionaries. Warrior and legionary were battling in a nearby ravine, while fighting continued on the upper reaches that lined the defilade. From the Norseman’s position there was no way of telling who was winning. Most of the battles appeared to be at a stalemate. All he could do now was focus on his small piece of the overall struggle.

  “Reform and advance!”

  Caratacus stood atop a high outcropping of rock and surveyed the ongoing battle. The devolving of the clash into a series of separate engagements was just as unsettling for him as it was for the Romans. Because their numbers were so evenly matched, he did not have sufficient free warriors to swarm any of the imperial formations. King Orin and his Silures warriors were making the most determined stand in the very centre, hammering away at the large contingent of Roman soldiers. Only Caratacus’ wife and daughter stood with him on the rock.

  “A beautiful death,” Eurgain said under her breath. Her face was painted with blue patterns. She carried a circular shield and a long spear. Her daughter’s hand also clutched at the weapon. The queen was determined that should their people fall, all of their fates would be settled here. Such talk unnerved Caratacus, especially in light of his wife’s refusal to find a safe shelter away from the fighting.

  Satisfied there was little he could do except re-join the fray, the high king began to climb down the slope on the back side of the rock. As he reached the base, he was startled to see King Seisyll rushing towards him. His face was flushed and sweaty, his sword streaked with blood. The Ordovices king bore numerous injuries to his face, arms, and body. There was a nasty gash in his side that was seeping blood.

  “Great king, I come to you for reinforcements!” Seisyll said urgently, his breath coming in gasps.

  “Calm yourself, my friend,” Caratacus replied, placing a hand on his shoulder to reassure him. “Tell me what has happened?”

  “The Deceangli on our right flank have fled like cowards. Every last warrior I could muster is attempting to keep the Romans at bay, but they are crushing us both in front and on the right flank. We don’t have the numbers to hold them!”

  The news unnerved the high king. He supressed showing this outwardly. The Deceangli had brought four thousand warriors, and if they fled the balance of power had shifted decisively in the Romans’ favour.

  For Ostorius Scapula, he wasn’t sure which was worse, not knowing how the battle was progressing or not being able to decide what actions he should take. The legions and auxilia cohorts had their orders. What else was he to do? He swallowed hard in trepidation as a rider from Paetus’ legion rode quickly up the path towards him. His fears soon turned to relief and hope.

  “Sir, compliments of General Paetus. He wishes to inform you that the enemy warriors on the extreme left have fled. Our soldiers are now pressing the enemy flank.”

  “Very good.” The governor made an audible sigh. He signalled for his staff officers and escorts to follow him and kicked his horse into a canter.

  He grimaced when he saw the first of the numerous bodies strewn along the road. “Send for the hospital wagons and surgeons,” he ordered one of his messengers. Scapula cursed himself for not having done this sooner.

  With Paulinus and Paetus commanding their legions, responsibility for tending to the wounded fell upon him. There were scores of maimed and injured men scattered about, most groaning or crying out piteously. Scapula knew casualties in the woods alongside the road were likely just as severe. He sent another rider back, to make certain the medics and stretcher bearers scoured the woods for fallen legionaries and archers.

  As his horse stepped carefully over the ruins of the enemy defences, Scapula saw that despite the good news he’d received from Paetus, the battle was anything but decided. The crux of the struggle appeared to be taking place to his direct front, where the largest number of combatants on both sides were mustered. Five of the cohorts from Legio XX were formed into a massive front, battering away against a similar number of enemy warriors who, the governor was surprised to see, had yet to break. He was soon joined by General Paulinus. Strangely enough the legate was on foot, covered in sweat, grime and streaks of blood soiling his otherwise ornate armour.

  “Governor, glad to have you with us.”

  “Paetus has turned the left flank,” Scapula informed him. “How are your men holding up?”

  “They’re pretty fucking spent, sir,” Paulinus replied bluntly. “But they have enough left in them to break this lot. Can’t say we’ll have much left in us for a pursuit.”

  “Winning the battle will be enough,” the governor reassured him. They looked to see that the walls of warriors and legionaries were still punishing each other, even as centurions tried to keep rotating fresh lines of troops into the fray. The governor then added with begrudging respect, “These bastards are as hard as iron.”

  Chapter XVIII: A Triumph of Steel

  ***

  Ostorius Scapula was willing to give his adversaries a certain measure of respect for their valour and tenacity, yet Caratacus felt only hatred and frustration towards his foe. Even if the Deceangli had not fled like cowards, the Roman tactics allowed them an advantage when it came to close-combat fighting. His warriors expended huge amounts of energy trying to break the legions’ shield walls. The imperial soldiers were far more measured and deliberate, though they certainly did not lack in ferocity. What gave them the advantage, besides the superior protection offered by their shields and armour, was the constant rotation of their battle lines. It was mind-numbingly frustrati
ng for his warriors to watch. Every few minutes, the enemy centurions gave the order. Their battered soldiers would withdraw to the rear of their formations and rested legionaries would smash their way into the ongoing brawl.

  With so many factors now working against his warriors, Caratacus saw that casualties were starting to mount as his exhausted fighters fell in the onslaught of legionary blades. Enemy archers were also scattered about in small bands, unleashing their arrows on exposed warriors occupying the patches of high ground. The high king understood there could be no retreat, not now. The Silures in particular would condemn him for cowardice. The bravest of all his warriors, he quietly cursed that there were not more of them on this battlefield.

  “Sire, King Orin has fallen!”

  The voice of a near panicked warrior alerted Caratacus, and he rushed over to where a dozen men carried their king away from the fighting. He had been impaled through the bowels by a legionary gladius, leaving him in hellish agony. He gritted his teeth, refusing to cry out despite the unholy pain.

  “Orin,” Caratacus said, kneeling and taking him by the hand.

  Blood and bile erupted from the Silures king’s mouth. “I am sorry,” he whispered. “Sorry that I will not be h…here to witness your victory over the Romans.”

  Caratacus patted him on the shoulder and ordered the small band of warriors, “Get him to safety, as far from here as possible.”

  “Yes, sire.”

  “We will not let the Romans take him.”

  Caratacus took a deep breath, channelling his rage once more. There was only one thing left for him to do… fight!