by Griff Hosker
“I paid for them and my son bought them at the vicus.” He pointed the finger around the table. “However I will no longer bear the burden alone. If you want your men armed and trained then you will provide the money and my son will provide the weapons and the training.” There was a buzz of conversation as pairs of the diners discussed the problem. Antoninus smiled and gave a subtle nod to Gaius who raised his beaker in a toast. When the buzz died down Antoninus looked at each man in turn as they nodded their agreement. “So we are agreed, you will each fund the training and equipping of your own men under the command of my son Gaius.”
“Agreed.”
“To help the secrecy and to give the venture a Brigante name Gaius will be known as Venutius.” This brought smiles and cheers from all those around the table. Caronwyn was puzzled. Why choose that name? Antoninus answered her as he went on, “It is right that the last free King of the Brigante, Venutius, betrayed by the wicked and traitorous whore, Cartimandua, should give his name to this enterprise which will see the land of the Brigantes returned to the Brigante people and the rightful heir to Venutius will rule.” Although they all cheered none of them could, as Caronwyn was able to do, see that the next King of the Brigante would be Gaius, the son of their host. He had made an implied connection, obviously false, to the last royal family and no-one had gainsaid him, and he would rule the north of Britannia. His ambitions ran high indeed.
Later that night Gaius came, slightly drunk, to the barn where Morag and Caronwyn slept. The witch’s daughter had been expecting the visit and went outside with him her cloak wrapped tightly around her to keep out the sharp spring air. “I saw you watching and listening, you little vixen.”
“I understood nothing.” The innocence in her voice disappointed Gaius who had hoped that she would have been impressed enough to open her legs for him.
He looked around as though expecting his father to be listening. “My father is arming the men of the vale and I am to command them. When the time is ripe the Romans will be driven from this land.” He leaned in towards her his breath heavy with the sweet, stale smell of beer and wine. “And I shall rule. Would you be my Queen?”
Still playing the part she kissed him quickly on the lips. “Be your wife! Of course! Why should we wait until you are king?”
Gaius had not thought it through; his offer was a metaphorical one. He had no intention of marrying a servant, no matter how beautiful and he began to backtrack on his words. “We would need to wait until I was king and you could be presented as a fitting Queen but before then we could…”
Caronwyn saw the pathetically clumsy attempt at seduction and played the innocent virgin well. “Oh no Gaius you would not want a Queen who was soiled. Better to have a pure Queen you could present to the Brigante. But Gaius, have you fought in a war?
“Fought in a war? Of course not; what a stupid and inane question. What has that to do with being my Queen?”
“If you have not fought in a war then how will you know how to lead an army in battle? I would not wish you to die in your first battle.” Gaius’ desires evaporated as the cold reality settled in. While he was the best warrior in the land he did not know how to fight. Caronwyn went on. “I am sure there are, what do you call them, ah yes, mercenaries who would advise you. All you would need to do would be to find one. Perhaps the place in Eboracum where you buy your weapons? They might know of someone.” She played the innocent well enough and the idea was securely planted in the young, would be Roman killer’s mind. Although he said nothing she knew that he would seek out such a man and then take the credit with his father. It mattered little to Caronwyn; Gaius was merely a piece being used in a larger game.
She decided to leave him with an enticement to do as she had bade him. She leaned in to him and touched his lips with hers, her tongue darted in like a tiny snake and Gaius became aroused. She put her hand between his legs and squeezed his enlarged member. Stepping back she said, “When you have killed your first Roman then come to me and I will reward you even more.”
******
The Fist had been one of the troopers in Livius’ ala. He, and the corrupt decurion Aelius Spartianus, had bullied and cowed the men before the arrival of Livius. Once he had seen his leader suffer death by bastinado, the huge trooper had decided that his days in the ala were numbered and he and another three or four of his ilk had deserted. Whilst they could exist in Eboracum selling stolen weapons and armour the fact was The Fist was a huge unmistakeable man. He could be recognised. In addition his bullying had meant that many men knew him and would turn him over to the authorities in an instant. So he had a solitary existence in the forests preying on those merchants heading to the coast. It was a meagre existence but occasionally his cronies from Eboracum would get wind of a merchant travelling along the Roman road and they would ambush him. The result was that they were doing quite well and certainly earning more than when they had been auxiliaries.
When Gaius had first approached them for weapons they realised that they had found a gold mine, for he paid whatever they asked of him. Now, as they met not far from the vicus, The Fist formulated his ideas. “This Brigante will keep coming for more and more weapons and eventually we will run out of the crap we have been selling him. We need a more regular supply. How about the fort? Is the Quarter master there amenable to a bribe?”
Lucius, the leader of the others shook his head. “The old one was but this new Prefect got rid of him and the current one is a list man. Always checking his inventory.”
“So we need to get weapons before they reach the fort.”
“Not so easy. They generally come in by boat up the river and guards escort the wagons into the fort.”
The Fist grinned, remembering the fort at Coriosopitum and the way the Romans had used boats to supply it there. “Then we take the boat south of Eboracum before it docks. The sailors won’t be expecting trouble so close to the port. We wait in a boat and board them.” The five others in the gang looked dubious. Robbing wagons on solid ground was one thing but hijacking a cargo on a ship was another. “Listen you spineless jackals how many men on a boat? Four maybe five. Are they warriors? No. Are they used to being robbed in a river, where they can’t run? No. All we need to do is find out when a shipment is due. Lucius, any contacts in the fort?”
“Yes there are a couple of lads who bring us stuff to sell. I should be able to find out.”
“Good and next time this Brigante comes to see you arrange for me to meet him. Tell him I am a chief or something. These barbarians are impressed by titles and fancy sounding names.”
******
Caronwyn and Morwenna would have said that The Mother had arranged the presence of The Fist and his unique knowledge of the auxilia. Livius would have just said that the Parcae were having a game. Whichever had the true version events began to move when Gaius returned to buy more weapons. He had become adept at slipping through the seedier side of the vicus and entering the hovel unseen. As on his previous visits he was made welcome. They had even taken to buying some rough wine to give a semblance of hospitality.
Gaius had no time for such pleasantries and he waved the beaker away. “I need more and better weapons. The ones we have are second rate, not as good as Roman weaponry. Can you organise that or shall I go elsewhere?”
Lucius almost laughed at the palpable bluff. There was no other game in town, if he did not get his weapons from them, he would not get any weapons. “No my lord, we can accommodate you but a larger and better order will take time and cost more.”
“That isn’t a problem. I can get the funds you require but there is one more thing, I need a warrior, a mercenary, someone who has fought with or against the Romans.” He looked at the four of them; they looked to be ex-soldiers. Perhaps they might be the ones he was seeking.
Lucius held back the smile. This was easier than he had expected. “There is someone who might be able to help but he could not meet you here.” He leaned to Gaius conspiratorially. “He is a w
anted man but he sounds just like the man you need. He fought the barbarians as a Roman and he has also fought against Romans. He is a powerful warrior. Return tomorrow at this time and we will take you to him.”
Gaius almost ran back to the farm to tell Caronwyn his news but, as he rode back, he reflected that he ought to distance himself from the serving wench. Soon he could be a Prince leading warriors into battle and he would be able to choose a partner more fitting his status. The wench would do as a toy to be played with and to amuse him. He would tell his father the news and accept the paternal approbation he knew he would receive.
Chapter 4
When Faolan met Idwal he was neither impressed nor drawn to the dour Manavian. The man wore his amulets with an arrogance which Faolan did not like. He spoke to Faolan as though he were a child, new to war. For his part Idwal resented being asked to baby mind a warrior who had yet to fight in a real war. Faolan quickly let Morwenna know that he would take her men but not her leader. Surprisingly that suited everyone for Idwal did not wish to be associated with failure and Morwenna had grown to value the safety which the powerful warrior brought with his presence. Faolan began to believe that all of his victories would be as easy.
The last words Morwenna spoke to him, as he boarded the ship which would cross the short passage of water were, aptly, prophetic. “Do not underestimate the men of the Roman cavalry who ride beneath the dragon standard and be wary of the one who wields the sword. He may appear little more than a boy but he has fought in many battles. I tell you this because I want you to succeed and you need to prepare yourself as much as you can. Do not fail me.”
After he had assured her of both his fidelity and reliability he rid himself of the island of intrigue. Now that he was within smelling distance of the Roman world he began to become excited. The men he commanded did not constitute an army; he knew that, it was a pack of wild dogs, barely controlled and certainly not on a leash. The only army he had which he could truly rely upon was his personal bodyguard, led by the invaluable and ever faithful, Loegaire. Those fifty warriors were the ones in whom he could trust but, once he was in the Roman heartland he could let loose his dogs of war. He had two aims, to gather as much treasure as he could and to secure the sword. One of Idwal’s men, Angus, had served in the land of the lakes and Faolan attached him to his bodyguard. It made sense to have as much intelligence as possible. He had been more impressed by Angus than Idwal. Firstly, because Angus was a quiet unassuming warrior, and secondly because he was older. Faolan did not feel that he had to constantly prove himself with the younger Idwal.
“There is only one fort I believe? Morwenna said there were but two centuries there.”
“Aye, a little wooden affair at the head of the lake. You could just take a different route and avoid the conflict altogether.”
Faolan looked at the gnarled warrior. He was obviously past his prime and looking for an easy life. He obviously thought that he would live longer serving with a cautious Faolan! “No I wish to fight the Romans. I understand that the soldiers have a room in the fort where they keep their coins?”
“I have heard this but as I have never captured one I cannot comment.” Angus wondered where he had gathered this intelligence. Faolan had been well briefed by the resourceful Morwenna.
“We will both find out then will we not when we have razed this little outpost to the ground?”
Once they were ashore they quickly crossed the narrow pass which led to the fertile land. The ships had been too small to take horses and Faolan told Loegaire to have his men find some at the earliest opportunity. Faolan wanted to be able to get out of trouble faster than he got into it and being mounted would certainly facilitate that. On the second day, Angus took Faolan and three of his trusted men to scout the fort. Faolan was surprised; Angus had said that it was a pitifully small affair but to Faolan it looked substantial. There was a double ditch and a rampart topped with sharp stakes. Towers flanked the four gates and the walls were manned with sentries. He could also see the deadly bolt throwers mentioned by Morwenna. As they returned to the warband Faolan asked him about other forts.
“The stone ones are much bigger than this. There is one at Morbium. I would avoid that for the garrison is experienced and it has a river as a barrier. The other one is at Cataractonium but that is only a wooden one like this one at Glanibanta.”
“And Eboracum?”
“The biggest fortress I have ever seen.” Angus wondered at the ambition of this Hibernian who did not have nearly enough men to take the mighty bastion of the north.
Faolan found himself readjusting his ideas. He might be able to take these smaller forts with a sudden night attack but Eboracum, when they came to that particular hurdle would require a different plan. He gathered the leaders of his warbands around him. He had one group led by one of Morwenna’s men, a surly silent warrior who commanded the respect of Morwenna’s five hundred men, two groups, both opportunists from other parts of Hibernia. They each had four hundred men and the bulk of his warband, the six hundred warriors from Ebdani would be led by Loegaire. “We wait until moonset and each one of you will attack your allocated side on my signal. One warband will each attack a wall.”
Angus spat, “There will be spikes, and the Romans call them lillia, in the bottom of the ditches. I would have your first men carry bundles of wood and throw them in.”
Faolan could see that Angus would be a valuable asset. “Good. See to it. Now prepare your men. Tonight we begin our quest for plunder and riches. We will see just how good these vaunted Romans are.” Morwenna’s men apart, the other Hibernian warriors were keen to test themselves against this race which had conquered their neighbours with such apparent ease.
That night, the heavily armed warriors spread through the fellside and woods which lined the fort. As they had neared it Faolan saw that those attacking from the south would have the hardest role for they would have to come through the lake which was within fifty paces of the walls. It also meant the ditch on that side was, perforce, shallow. Faolan took the northern gate, for the forest afforded the best cover. He had few archers but the ones he had were, along with the slingers evenly spread out. They needed to take out the sentries as silently as possible. Faolan nodded to Loegaire who gestured for the men to crawl on their bellies towards the ditch.
Inside the sparsely defended fort, the Gallic sentries, who were on the walls, thanked the Allfather that they had drawn this assignment; no fighting, plenty of game and fishing and local women who could not get enough of the exotic Gauls. Far better to be here, than their brothers up at Vindolanda, where the protection of your manhood was a daily event. The only drawback was the sentry duty but it was a small price to pay for this cherished posting. The sentries glanced towards the forest and saw what they expected to see, bushes moving in the slight breeze and the snort of the wild pigs their officers like to hunt. The first that they knew of an attack was when four sentries crashed to the ground; the other eight made the mistake of looking at each other and failing, for a few moments to raise the alarm. The delay cost three more their lives but at last the oldest sentry yelled, “Attack! To arms!” His warning was timely but he never lived to see the result as two arrows pierced his neck.
With a roar the Irish warriors raced forward, hurling their faggots into the ditch and then springing over the trap to the walls. The largest men in each warband put their backs to the walls and the lightest warriors leapt onto their cupped hands to be thrown over the walls. The garrison, which had just been enjoying a restful sleep, were taken aback as it appeared to rain painted howling warriors. Before they could even ascend the walls to fight the attackers, the gates were opened and the barbarians flooded in. The massacre, for it was never a battle, nor even a skirmish, lasted but a few minutes. The one hundred and sixty defenders died to a man, outnumbered as they were, by at least, ten to one.
Faolan was the last to enter as the last of the Gauls was being despatched. Loegaire came over to him. “Just two
men dead, three wounded and a couple of the boys hurt their ankles when they landed. There are horses!”
“Excellent. How many?”
“Five.”
“Good then we at least can ride.” He pulled his lieutenant to one side as the Irish stripped the bodies of anything which was of any value. “I am told that the Roman soldiers are given somewhere below ground to bury their gold. Find it and bring it to me.”
Faolan strolled through the ground which was slippery with blood and gore. The Principia was the place where the Romans would put their maps and other valuable documents. He had hated his education as a young man but now his ability to read might stand them in good stead. He hoped that there might also be lists showing where the other Roman forces were based but the Gods would have to be seriously on his side for that eventuality to happen. He sat on the only chair in the office and scanned the maps and the lists. His Latin was rudimentary but he managed to translate most of the information. By the time the door opened and Loegaire slipped in he had deduced that he already had most of the information to be garnered from the fort.
Loegaire took the amphora he had uncovered from beneath his cloak. “You were right. It was buried near the back of this room. You could see where the earth was fresh.”
“Put this in the strongbox I brought with us. Is there a cart?” The warrior nodded. “Good. Put the gold and my weapons in the cart and have two trusted men assigned as drivers. That will leave a horse for both of us and another for Angus, he seems a dependable warrior. And now I will sleep.” He nodded to the mayhem going on outside. Make sure too many of them don’t kill each other and that I am not disturbed. We leave at daybreak.”
******
Macro and Marcus sat at the heads of their turmae. Although they had been separated when Macro undertook his mission to the north this was a more permanent parting; the frontier was increasingly hazardous. Who knew when they would again share the pleasures of hunting; when would they have someone in whom they could confide anything? “Take care, brother.”