Hosker, G [Sword of Cartimandua 09] Hero of Rome

by Griff Hosker

  Down below Conan had taken charge. The early shock at being surprised had given way to anger that no-one had thought to put sentries on the high ground. “Creagth, they are on the slope. Take half your men and go down the trail, flank them. Have the other half try to get to them. I will take the wagons and as many of the captives as I can to the coast. Join me when they are dead.”

  Creagth almost spat his reply but wisely held his counsel. There could be a thousand men up the slope. He would do as ordered but if there were too many he would join Conan. This enterprise was not as glorious as he had hoped. Leading his best men he clambered over the dead guards. The two men behind him fell to deadly arrows fired from the hillside. Shit! They were sitting targets. “Get in the lee of the hill they can’t see us there. You two crawl through the gate and try to get around the side.”

  Metellus could see what they were attempting but it did not worry him. If they tried to climb up, as he and the turmae had discovered, it required two hands and they would be easy targets while doing so. More problematic was the escape of the others. The barbarians were trying to drag the prisoners to their feet. “Shoot at the guards near the captives.”

  The captives kicked and struggled against their captors. When the barbarians trying to take them fell, they wriggled and squirmed away making it harder for the barbarians to reach them. Their leader, for Metellus recognised the torc of a chief, was busy helping his men harness their horses. He had ten of his men hold shields to protect them but in doing so it enabled the captives to begin to scramble up the slope. Conan roared his anger but the wagons began to roll west. Grabbing the nearest captives and throwing them across their saddles the thirty men of Conan’s bodyguard followed the wagons out of sight behind the cliff edge and down the other side of the pass.

  Creagth saw that he had been deserted. He was now in dire straits. He had been ordered by Faolan to defend the pass but now he did not have enough men. He chose to make a strategic withdrawal to the other side of the pass. The mysterious archers would have to come down to be able to hit them and then they could strike back. The huge Hibernian yelled out his orders and the remaining men, shields held above their heads ran back across the killing ground to safety. Over thirty of them made it but many others lay amongst the shambles of a camp.

  “Cicero!” The decurion scrambled over to Metellus. “Take your turma down the slope, mount up and man their barrier from the other side, see if you can keep their heads down.”

  “Do you want us to attack them sir? I think we outnumber them.”

  “We do but that is a narrow pass and we would lose too many men. I want you to keep their heads down so that I can get these captives to safety.”

  Cicero and his men scurried down the fell side. As dawn was breaking it was a far less hair raising journey and Metellus watched as they reached the horses. He switched his attention to the fifty or so captives cowering amongst the rocks. He could see some of them attempting to climb up the slope and he yelled down. “This is Decurion Metellus of the Second Sallustian Ala. Stay where you are! We will rescue you.” One woman raised her hand in acknowledgement and he saw her mouthing instructions. The problem the Romans had was that, although they could not fire on the raiders, the barbarians could see the captives. Metellus could only assume that, like him, they had limited ammunition and for that he was grateful.

  He heard the clatter of hooves and then saw the arrows begin to arc towards the hidden barbarians. He turned to his men. “Right. Down the slope and help the captives up here. Don’t bring too many at once. You two,” he pointed at two of the younger troopers, “you stay with me. Collect any spare arrows from the others. We will try to help Decurion Cicero.”

  The journey down was not as hazardous as it had appeared and they were safe from the barbarians until the last twenty or so paces. Metellus could see Cicero and he shouted, “Fire a volley,” he paused, “now!” As the twenty arrows flew high Metellus and his men sprinted the last few paces.

  The woman who had signalled took Metellus’ hand and kissed it. “Thank you sir.”

  “Thank me when you are safe. My men will get you up the slope in groups. Tell your people to be patient. We will get you all to safety.” Leaving his men to their task he took his two archers and found a rock behind which they could hide. They could see the edge of the barbarian line but their leader had learned that the Romans were accurate and they had shields held up to protect them. “Don’t waste arrows. If they fire, they will be shooting blind so just watch for a target and then fire.”

  It was a nerve wracking duel. The raiders shot arrows in the air but as they heard them clatter harmlessly on the rocks they soon stopped. One impatient warrior stood to get a better shot but two arrows quickly impaled him and no-one else risked that. The sun had reached its zenith before the last of the captives was helped over the top. Metellus turned to his two archers. “This is the hard part. We have to cover the killing ground to the blind spot and then climb that slope.” The two grinned. Metellus had chosen the two because they were good archers but also they were fast and he had known that this would be the difficult part. Cicero had few arrows left and could not give them a volley. Metellus and his men would have to rely on speed. “Go!”

  The three of them raced and zig zagged across the rock strewn floor. They had almost cleared the danger area when the young trooper in front of Metellus stumbled. The decurion had to stop to avoid falling himself. It was in that moment when the barbarian behind the barrier risked a shot. The arrow plunged into Metellus’ left calf and he crashed to the ground.

  ******

  Leaving the glory hunters at the river Faolan led his depleted band west. He had hoped that he might have caught up with Conan but so far there was no sign of him. Faolan was trying to keep to the same route they had taken when travelling east. It had been relatively easy and, more importantly, kept to the valley bottoms affording cover. The cart containing the gold was being driven just behind Faolan and his intimates. That was his future and he wanted it closer to him than his clothes.

  He turned to Angus, “How far to the coast?”

  Angus looked at the line of warriors spread out along the valley. “At this speed? Probably two more camps. If we pushed it we might get to your men the day after tomorrow.”

  Faolan had asked the question for confirmation of his own thoughts. He hoped that Creagth had, as ordered successfully built a barrier. If his men could delay their pursuit at the river and if they made the pass by the next day then they would have escaped. He was certain that Creagth would not have been bothered by Romans for the only ones on this side of the divide had already been slaughtered. As there was still no alarm from the river Faolan could only assume that their pursuers had not reached them. It looked like Morwenna had worked her magic with the gods, or Mother or whoever and they had returned successfully from their foray. It was with a sinking heart that he heard the sound he had not heard before he came to Britannia but which he now dreaded. It was the sound of the buccina. The Romans had found them.

  ******

  “Sir.” The excited trooper reined his horse next to Rufius.

  “Yes trooper what is it?”

  “We have found them sir. They are on the other side of the river just ahead.” He was so excited that he carried on. “Decurion Marcus halted us and, even though they were hidden, he saw them.” The hero worship dripped with every word.

  Smiling Rufius acknowledged the report and turned to the column. “Enemy ahead, form a column of fours.”

  The troopers of the eight turmae all began to check their equipment, tightening chin straps and ensuring that their shields were tightly slung. At the rear Macro was cursing that it was his brother who had stumbled upon them and not he. He loosened his sword in its scabbard for soon he would be sword to sword with those who had destroyed his home. His troopers saw the angry face and wondered at the change in their decurion. Since he had returned from the north he had become more withdrawn, more moody and far le
ss cheerful. They longed for the early days when he and Marcus had been the happy cheerful pair who could raise men’s spirits in a heartbeat. Decurion Marcus appeared to have changed little but Decurion Macro had grown older very quickly.

  Marcus met the column below the crown of the hill. “Well done decurion. How many do you estimate?”

  “They are hidden by the bank on the other side but I would think there are more than a hundred and fifty.”

  “A rearguard then?”

  Marcus shrugged, “Either that or an ambush.”

  Rufius looked at the ground around them and saw that it was not favourable for an ambush which meant that this was a rearguard operation intended to surprise and kill as many pursuers as possible whilst enabling the main party to escape. “So they want us to charge frontally across the river.”

  Marcus grinned, “It would appear so.”

  “Any crossings up or down stream.”

  “Plenty. You can tell that they are warriors on foot; it might be too deep to wade for a man but not a horse.”

  “Decurions, to me.” The decurions galloped up and formed a half circle around Rufius. “There is an ambush ahead. They are expecting us to charge across the water and be surprised when we reach the other side. We will not be obliging them.” The officers all laughed. “Macro, take Drusus and Calgus. Work down stream and cross the river. When you hear the buccina then you take them from the flank. Marcus you take Spurius and Lucius up stream and do the same. Antoninus your men are the best archers so you will be the bait for our own little trap; you will lead your men to the water and when you are midstream let your mounts drink. I will follow on with the other two turmae. If you are attacked then fire a volley and retreat otherwise I will sound the buccina for the attack and your turma will fire arrows whilst Graccus and I charge and throw javelins. Clear?”

  At the river bank the Hibernians had finished off the last of the looted spirits from Stanwyck and the farm. They were ready to fight. They had heard the sounds of the horses in the distance and knew that the Romans were close. Their leader, Torin, was a huge bully of a warrior. He had been desperate to leave Faolan since Stanwyck and he had grasped this opportunity with both hands. His part of Hibernia was poor and boggy. He had joined this venture for rewards and having seen how poorly the locals fought he intended to stay here. He was pragmatic enough to know that he would have to defeat those following him before he could desert with this warband, kindly given to him by Faolan, and head south for the ripe plums he knew would be there for the picking. He had no intention of spending too long protecting Faolan’s rear. As soon as they had driven off the first attack he and his men would depart. Had he not heard the horses he would have done it sooner but he knew that they could not outrun horses but this way they might even capture a couple of mounts for him and his fellows.

  “Try to avoid hitting the horses, boys. Torin fancies taking it easy after this on the back of one of these Roman beasts.” The men smiled, Torin was not the smallest of men and any horse would struggle to carry the weight. At that moment Antoninus and his turma stepped from the woods into the water. “Quiet now, here they come. Let them get a little closer.” The weakness of their defence, in Torin’s eyes was the lack of bows; they had slings and spears but arrows would have given them the edge. He saw the other horsemen come to the water. “This is it boys. On my command…”

  Before he could utter another word the strident notes of the buccina echoed across the water. His men were ready for action and they loosed stones and javelins at the Romans barely forty paces from the bank. Before they could loose another attack they found themselves being assaulted by arrows and javelins. The hedgerow and trees dissipated the effect of the missiles and the Hibernian shields did the rest. Torin smiled as he saw the empty saddles. He could see at least fifty horses in front of him, when their owners were dead, they could ride away on the freshly acquired mounts. “Steady now boys. Keep your lines. Wait for them to get closer.” He did not want to lose any of these notoriously reckless warriors now. Better to drive the cavalry off and then fight another day.

  The last thing they were expecting was to be attacked from their flanks but, as he heard the cries of pain and turned he saw to his horror more than a hundred and fifty cavalry hurtling towards him. He was an astute enough leader and he knew that he had the hidden stakes to protect him from the river; this new threat was the more dangerous one, but he estimated that he still outnumbered them. “Turn lads. Come on you whore sons let us be about these horse shaggers!”

  The Hibernians roared forwards. Once they left the security and safety of the trees then they became better targets for the cavalry javelins. Even though many of the barbarians used shields to protect themselves some, inevitably fell. Back in the middle of the river Rufius had ridden his men to the edge of the bank. He knew a charge would not work and, as he saw the hidden stakes, he thanked the Allfather for the protection he had afforded them. It would take time to negotiate the obstacle. “Antoninus see if your men can hit them with their arrows. We will have to get around these stakes.”

  While Antoninus and his men picked off the warriors they could see, the men led by Marcus and Macro were tearing into the raider’s hastily deployed shield wall. Although the turmae were not in one line the troopers had managed to form smaller lines of five or six troopers. Their horses were trained in combat and, hurling their javelins at the last minute, their mounts reared to crash their hooves down on the barbarian shields. The Hibernians had not fought cavalry before and they became terrified by these beasts which fought like warriors. Suddenly they heard a roar of voices, “The Sword, follow the Sword of Cartimandua!”

  Every barbarian heard it. This was the sword they had come to Britannia for, this was the mystical weapon which would capture a kingdom, this was the ultimate treasure. Torin saw the blade, gleaming from the red crested rider’s hand and he turned to his men, “Wedge! I am going to have that sword, boys!”

  The Hibernians launched themselves forward. This was how they won their battles at home, a wedge of warriors with the fiercest leading. In Hibernia no-one could stand in their way. What they had not met, however, was Marcus and his oath sworn. They too formed a wedge and Torin found himself facing tons of horseflesh and whirling steel. One of the Hibernians from the rear of the wedge had managed to consume more of the spirit than the others and, feeling emboldened yelled, “Fuck this!” and leapt forward, his double handed axe whirling above his head. Although pierced by two javelins and dead before he hit the ground , the momentum of the axe embedded itself in Marcus’ horse’s neck; killing the beast instantly.

  Marcus flew over the dying beast. He had been taught how to fall by Cato and, as the horse master of the ala, was the best rider. He rolled easily to the side as his dead mount crashed into Torin and disrupted the whole wedge. Marcus shield strap had separated and he was left with just his sword. He sensed the warrior approaching from behind and whirled around, the blade slicing through the unprotected gut of the man, his intestines oozing out.

  Torin was the first to react and he stood with his axe and shield searching for the mythical blade. As soon as he saw Marcus he leapt as him, as did two of his bodyguards. Slashing the blade in front of him, Marcus reached down to pick up the dead Hibernian’s sword. Although not as good as Macro with two blades he was competent. The first of the bodyguards was too eager to gain the sword for himself and tried to duck below Marcus’ blade. The Hibernian weapon in his left hand plunged into the unprotected neck and Marcus jumped backwards to avoid the falling body. Torin and the remaining guard were more wary and circled Marcus. They grinned in anticipation. No-one could fight front and back against two warriors. Marcus identified the bodyguard as the most dangerous as he had a sword; feinting to Torin with the Sword of Cartimandua, he rolled to the ground as the bodyguard’s blade flew harmlessly over his head. Marcus, lying on the ground stabbed upwards between the man’s legs and the blade sank deeply into the man’s body. As he fell backwar
ds the sword was torn from Marcus’ hand leaving him with just the one, the Sword of Cartimandua. Infuriated, Torin swung the axe at the recumbent Marcus who rolled out of the way. He quickly stood and noticed that the huge chief was out of breath. The longer the contest went on the more chance of success Marcus would have. The contest ended suddenly when Macro’s horse crashed into the back of the chief and he was speared to the floor by Macro’s javelin.

  Leaping from his horse he stood over the wounded chief. “Couldn’t let you have all the fun brother could I?”

  As the two brothers looked around they could see that the skirmish was over and the wounded were being despatched. Macro was about to finish off the mortally wounded chief when Rufius’ voice roared, “Wait!” The two decurions stepped back. As Rufius dismounted he said, “Let us ask him a few questions first eh? Then we can send him to the Allfather.”

  They roughly turned him over to face them. His eyes widened when he saw the Sword of Cartimandua but his eyes burned black with hate. “Coward! You needed help to finish the mighty Torin.” Marcus was about to mention the three to one odds but realised that it was pointless.

  “So we know your name. We know you are Hibernian and we know you are heading for the coast for a boat back to Manavia.” Rufius only knew some of that but when Torin did not contradict him he continued. “All we now need to know is who is your leader?”

  “Why? So that you can kill him? Fool.” His dying eyes scanned the scene. “Faolan has ten times the men you have and the Ebdani are proud warriors.” Rufius nodded with satisfaction, he had the information he needed. “But do not worry Roman, for he is coming for that sword, and he will take it.”

  They all looked at the sword in Marcus’ hand, dripping blood but still shining in the afternoon light. Coughing blood Torin grunted, “End it warrior. Kill Torin with the magical sword so that I may tell the tale in the hereafter.” Rufius nodded and Marcus slid the sharp blade through the neck of the chief; killing him instantly.