by James Mace
Magnus slammed his shield boss into the face of an exhausted enemy warrior before stabbing the man in the guts. As spent as he and his men were, fatigue was an even more critical factor for their enemies. The Silures were some of the bravest adversaries he had ever faced, yet even they were being compelled to give ground against the legion’s relentless assault. Bodies of the fallen were becoming a hazardous and ever-growing obstacle, as legionary and warrior fell in the frenzy of blood and steel. The legion continued its methodical advance. Soldiers in the subsequent ranks stabbed the enemy fallen, ensuring they were dead.
“Onward, lads!” Magnus shouted, as much for his own benefit as his soldiers’. “They’re breaking!”
Governor Scapula rode down the vast battle front. He saw, in addition to Paetus’ men folding in the extreme flank of their enemy, individual cohort battles were slowly being decided. Warriors on the numerous knolls and outcroppings were wearing down under the constant attack of legionaries, while being harried by volleys of arrows. Small bands of Ordovices warriors began to break and run, then larger groups. Scapula kicked his horse into a gallop, to see what was happening on the right of the battle line. It seemed the entire enemy force was now in full flight. There had been no one decisive moment when their will shattered; the Romans had simply ground them into submission through brute force. Only the valiant Silures continued to battle, but even they could not hold for much longer.
“General Paulinus!” Scapula shouted to the legate who appeared to be engaging the enemy alongside his First Cohort.
“Sir?” Paulinus asked, sprinting back to the governor. Despite his exhaustion, he was grinning from ear-to-ear. The thrill of battle had, for the moment, overwhelmed any sense of revulsion at the terrible carnage.
“The Ordovices are on the run; the Ninth Legion is driving them from the field. Send all cohorts that are not directly engaged to hit the Silures on the flanks.”
Paulinus waved for his servant to bring his horse. He quickly surveyed the scene before sending two of his staff tribunes with orders to the outermost cohorts.
Centurion Metellus Artorius and the Fifth Cohort found themselves on the extreme left of the legion, following their clearing of the ramparts in support of the Ninth Legion. The small hills and rock outcroppings made it impossible for him to see what was transpiring off to the right. For him and his legionaries, the battle was still a chaotic mess, albeit one with far fewer enemies to face them now.
“Centurion Metellus!” the staff tribune called to him.
Too tired to salute, Metellus nodded in acknowledgment.
“Orders from General Paulinus. You’re to take your men and swing around the flank of the centre Silures force. They are all that remains on the field.”
“Excellent,” the centurion replied, with a tired smile. “My compliments to the legate. Tell him we’re on our way and will hit these bastards from the flank and behind.” He turned to face his men. “Fifth Cohort, reform battle lines! On my command…at the double-time…march!”
Caratacus continued to swing his sword against the Roman shield wall, yet his blows lacked the speed or intensity of his earlier strikes. He had succeeded in felling a legionary with a blow to the crown of his helmet, but he and his surviving warriors were fast succumbing to the wall of steel. His fighters were falling at a rapid rate, fatigue muffling their screams through the constant stabbing of legionary blades. The high king stumbled backwards up the gentle slope and gazed over his shoulder, his eyes widening in horror. With their flank support gone, his wife and daughter were now under assault from a swarm of legionaries. Eurgain wielded her spear with bravery and skill. Yet, it was only a matter of moments before the bottom edge of a shield was slammed into her forehead, splitting her scalp and dropping her to her knees. Young Sorcha had been kicked hard in the stomach by one of those vile creatures. Caratacus’ greatest fears were unfolding before his eyes.
“No!” he screamed.
At that moment, what little resolve remained among the Silures shattered.
An organized pursuit was proving impossible. Paulinus suspected as much, for the legions were too exhausted to commit to chasing down the hordes of fleeing enemy warriors. And while the light auxilia were scattered about the woods and hills, they were too few in number to capture or kill more than a handful of enemies. What mattered now to Scapula and his legates was finding Caratacus.
“Stop!” Amminus shouted.
He rushed over to the legionary who smashed Eurgain with his shield. The soldier had his gladius raised high, ready to plunge the blade into the woman’s neck.
“What the fuck do you care?” the soldier spat.
“This is Caratacus’ wife. She is worth more to us alive than dead.” Amminus knelt and raised the chin of sister-in-law he had not seen in many years. He reckoned the terrified little girl clutching Eurgain’s hand was his niece, whom he had never even met. “Hello, sister,” he said in their native tongue.
Eurgain spat onto the ground. Her left eye was closed, her face and forehead covered in blood. “Our traitorous kinsman has returned to us.”
“Come, dear sister.” Amminus stood and offered her his hand. “Let us fight no more.”
Eurgain looked around her and saw nothing but growing numbers of Roman soldiers. Were it not for her daughter, she would have attacked her brother-in-law with her bare hands and made the Romans kill her. She did not know if her husband was dead, captured, or fled. All she knew in that moment was Sorcha needed her mother. She reluctantly accepted Amminus’ outstretched hand, allowing him to pull her to her feet. She swooned for a moment, the effects of her injury nearly overwhelming her.
“Come, I’ve got you,” Amminus said, placing an arm around her shoulder.
“Don’t think this lessons the hate I feel for you.”
“Who is he, Mother?” Sorcha asked, clutching her frock and staring nervously at the strange man, eyes wide.
Before Eurgain could answer, Amminus said, “I am your uncle, dear child. And I have come to take you away from this place of misery and pain.”
They were escorted across the expanse of broken bodies and gory aftermath of battle to where Scapula, his legates, and their senior officers were gathering.
“Noble Governor,” Amminus announced. “I have brought you Caratacus’ wife and daughter. I ask that you see to my sister-in-law’s injuries and take care of them. Though her husband may be our enemy, these two are still my kin.”
“Of course,” Scapula said. He pointed to one of the staff officers. “Have the medics see to her injuries then escort them to my tent. Amminus, tell them they will be my guests, and will be treated with respect.”
Amminus translated the message. Eurgain’s loathing for the Romans was in no way dissipated, but she took some solace in knowing her daughter would be safe.
Despite his injuries and roving patrols of Roman auxiliaries, King Seisyll had little difficulty navigating through the woods to safety. The imperial cavalry was concentrated mostly northeast of the River Sabrina. Yet to the northwest it was relatively quiet. A small footbridge spanned the river, concealed by a thick grove of trees. It appeared to be unknown to the Romans. On the other side, he found the remnants of a band of Silures. They were gathered protectively around a makeshift litter, upon which lay the mortally wounded King Orin. The battered warriors bowed their heads in respect as Seisyll walked through their circle and knelt next to his fellow king.
“My friend,” he said, placing a hand on Orin’s arm.
His skin was cold and clammy. Given the severity of his hideous wound, it was no small wonder he was still alive.
“Seisyll.” His voice was scarcely more than a whisper. “The battle…was it…”
The Ordovices king was tempted to reassure Orin that the battle had been won, but knew better than to treat him with such disrespect. “I am sorry,” he replied. “Even Caratacus could not withstand the Romans.”
“I thought not.” Orin swallowed hard. It pained hi
m to do so. His lips were covered in spittle and dried bile which had run down his chin. “I fear what will happen to our peoples.” His strength failing, he extended his hand upwards.
Seisyll clasped it firmly.
“I go now to stand before the gods. I hope they will find favour in the manner of my death. I ask your pardon for any wrongs I have committed in this life, so we may depart as friends.”
“Of course.” Seisyll fought back tears. His sorrow for their fallen comrades now beginning to overwhelm him. Orin had been his rival and one time enemy. Through Caratacus he had come to view the Silures king as a noble and worthy friend. His dignity and the manner of his pending death endeared him to the Ordovices king.
“Promise me one thing,” Orin whispered. He fought to delay his passing for just a moment longer. “Promise you will never stop fighting, not until Silures and Ordovices are free.”
“I promise.” Seisyll hoping to reassure his fellow king.
Orin gave a short cough, his final breath sputtering past his lips, and his hand fell limp from Seisyll’s grasp.
“Rest well, brave son of Silures.” With a last show of respect, he kissed the slain king upon the forehead and then stood. Though determined to keep his promise, he was at a complete loss as to what to do.
Caratacus was missing. If he were slain or captured, the alliance between Silures and Ordovices would crumble. Seisyll feared it may be doomed anyway. His surviving warriors would blame their southern neighbours for this defeat. He felt the same as he gazed upon the sullen faces of Orin’s defeated bodyguards. Had the Silures war chiefs not been so reluctant to face the Romans in open battle, had they committed as strongly as his own Ordovices, they could have overwhelmed the invaders by sheer force of numbers. The Battle of Caer Caradoc had not been determined by skill or bravery, but by which force was able to grind the other down first. With an additional ten thousand Silures warriors, it would have been the Romans who broke this day!
Seisyll took a deep breath and shook his head. He knew it was pointless to speculate on what might have been. He had to face reality. The Silures had not stood with them against the Romans. Their king was now dead, and the high king likely captured or killed. Seisyll then decided he would return to his great hall, rally his people in defence of their own lands, and by their strength alone would continue to battle against the invaders.
For Magnus it was a strange feeling, the aftermath of this battle. There was the contrasting amalgamation of triumph and sorrow; and yet there was something else he could not quite explain. A sense of closure came over him, like his very soul knew this was his final battle. He closed his eyes. A gentle breeze blew over his face. As he raised his head towards the heavens, he swore he could hear a woman’s voice on the wind.
Well done, my love. Now be at peace, Soldier of Rome.
Chapter XIX: Freedom or Slavery
Kingdom of the Brigantes
30 May 50 A.D.
***
For Caratacus, the days following the battle were a blur filled with sorrow, anger, hunger, and exhaustion. It was eighty miles to his destination, and he was devoid of a horse. He knew time was against him. He had to reach Venutius as soon as possible. He kept to the woods, following the narrow and rarely used paths of huntsmen, only sleeping when he collapsed and could go no further. The only food he ate consisted of berries and unripe fruit. On the second night of his trek, he managed to snare a hare. With a lack of implements to make fire he was forced to consume his meal raw. It did little to ease his hunger pangs, and instead made him ill. He pressed on, intent on reaching the Kingdom of Brigantes. He loathed the thought of asking that bitch, Cartimandua, for aid. But, it was the only hope he had for Eurgain and Sorcha. In his tired and desperate mind, he hoped Venutius had finally compelled his wife to come to her senses regarding the Roman scourge.
Far from compelling his wife, the queen, to stand against the Romans, the relations between Cartimandua and her consort had become even more strained. They rarely spoke anymore. However, there would be plenty of words exchanged the day Caratacus boldly came into their great hall at the royal court. They had been discussing a land dispute with a pair of farmers. All was immediately forgotten as the doors were flung open.
“It cannot be,” the queen said with quiet apprehension.
Venutius smiled, glad to see his friend especially after receiving news of his terrible defeat.
Caratacus had taken the time to wash the blood and filth from his face and body, yet there was no mistaking his tired and haggard appearance. He walked confidently, his head held high, to the queen and her consort.
Venutius rose from his seat and bowed. “We welcome you, Caratacus, High King of Catuvellauni, Silures, and Ordovices.”
“Sit down, husband,” Cartimandua ordered him, her voice cool with a trace of bitterness. She gazed at their unexpected guest. “Caratacus is not King of Catuvellauni, though I will not dispute his titles from across the Sabrina. However, I do know he is both murderer and inciter of war. So tell me, Caratacus, son of Cunobeline, why do you enter my hall?”
“To plead for your help, my lady,” Caratacus bowed humbly. While he found it degrading, he knew Cartimandua was his only chance at salvation.
“And we should give it to you,” Venutius spoke up quickly.
He drew an icy glare from his wife, meeting her gaze with a scornful scowl of his own.
“Caratacus shares the blood of all our ancestors. The Romans have left desolation in the lands west of the Sabrina. We must offer him our aid and protection.”
“The west of the Sabrina belongs to the Silures and Ordovices,” Cartimandua reminded him. “These people have burned our farms and murdered our people. Caratacus has sought to compel us through terror. While I admire his determination and courage, I think there is someone he should speak with first.” She signalled to one of her guardsmen. He beat the butt of his spear against the ground three times. Venutius and Caratacus were horrified to see Amminus enter the hall, accompanied by a dozen Roman cavalry soldiers.
“Brother,” he said, his face tight with strain.
“What is the meaning of this?” Venutius demanded. “Why is he here?”
“Why, indeed.” Caratacus closed his eyes in resignation. When he opened them again, they were filled with rage. “Wicked bitch!”
Before he could draw his blade, troopers surrounded him. It took two men to hold each arm, and another to seize his weapon.
“What are you doing?” Venutius stood, his face red with anger. “You don’t mean to let the Romans have him?”
Cartimandua glanced at him for a moment before turning to her guard’s captain. “Take him away and chain him…and have my husband escorted from the hall. He is not well and needs his rest.”
Venutius spat at her feet. A guard placed a hand on his shoulder, only to have the consort smack it away. His expression turned to one of sadness as he and Caratacus locked eyes for a brief moment.
“I am sorry, my friend.”
As Caratacus was led away, shouting curses at his brother and Cartimandua, Amminus could clearly see the signs of strain on the queen’s face. Still a very striking woman, lines had begun to form prematurely around her eyes and across her brow. Her face seemed in pain from constant the tightness in her jaw.
“You realize what a predicament this puts me in,” she said. “We may be in an alliance with Rome, but many of my people revere Caratacus as a hero and fighter for liberty. And as you saw, my husband considers your brother to be a very close friend.”
“Too close,” Amminus reasoned.
“And that is why you have put me in a very precarious position. By Freya, you knew Caratacus was coming this way! Why did you not intercept him with cavalry?”
“I sympathize with you. However, we had to be certain to capturing him and not let him slip away. Had he seen a regiment of imperial horsemen waiting for him, he would have disappeared. Like he’s done numerous times already. Whatever your internal politic
al difficulties, giving the Romans their most sought-after prize will make you the most powerful client monarch in all Britannia. Emperor Claudius is both wise and generous; that you give him Caratacus rather than being coerced by his serpent’s tongue will be met with much generosity.”
The queen reluctantly understood. Despite the promises of wealth and aid from the Romans, it would amount to little if she were usurped by her own disaffected nobles. Amminus recognized this and could not help but goad Cartimandua further.
“Learn to control your people, especially that barbarian you call ‘husband’. You have the chance to become Caesar’s strongest ally in these lands. It would be a shame to lose it all.”
Cartimandua’s gaze narrowed, her voice like ice. “Do not threaten me, Amminus. You are foolish, indeed, if you think the Romans would ever place you upon the throne of any kingdom within Britannia, least of all mine. I have made good on my promises to the emperor, and you have your prize. Leave now, and do not return.”
“Apologies, my lady,” Amminus said, with a short, patronizing bow. “I meant no offence. I know I don’t need to tell you that your safety, and that of your kingdom, depend on you keeping your consort and his barbaric dogs in check.”
“I understand far more than you realize.” The queen’s voice had softened. She was willing to give Amminus the benefit of the doubt. Surely he could not be so foolish as to infer that the Romans would ever consider him a viable ruler of the Brigantes. No, the real threat to her kingdom came not from Rome nor from a disgraced former Catuvellauni prince. And though she loathed to admit it, Amminus was right; the imperial governors would only go so far to keep her secure upon the Brigantes throne. She knew she needed to deal with Venutius sooner rather than later.