by Griff Hosker
As soon as the angry warband saw how few there were they launched themselves at the turmae. “Retreat!” His men needed no further urging as two hundred warriors chased them. The turmae headed north towards the deeper river. At the rear Cassius launched his attack as soon as he saw the warband hurrying to their comrade’s aid. With more men than Rufius he caused even more casualties but he too withdrew in good time.
By the time Angus had reorganised his men he saw that over sixty men had died and many others were wounded. Those too wounded to walk were despatched by their comrades and the warband trudged westwards, once more flicking their eyes behind them for the phantom horsemen.
Faolan had a rude shock as he and his horses reined in and looked up at the pass for they could see the red crests which identified the defenders not as the men of the warband but Romans. Loegaire sent four of the younger warriors forwards. “They have better eyes. They can count the enemy.”
Faolan shook his head. “We chose the path because it could be defended by a small number of men. That works as well for the Romans as us.”
“Then how did Creagth manage to become dislodged?”
“I am learning Loegaire that these Romans are neither as effete nor as rigid as we were led to believe. They are resourceful, clever and brave. I think our men will report thirty warriors holding the pass.”
Loegaire made the sign against evil. “Are you bewitched, do you have second sight?”
Faolan laughed. “No I am using one of the tricks of the Red Witch, I am using my mind. There are thirty men in each group of horsemen. In that the Romans are predictable.”
The returning scouts confirmed Faolan’s judgement. He had a problem now for his local knowledge was with his warriors far to the east. He knew that there would be another pass to the coast, either north or south of the present one but he could not risk wasting time finding out. “We will have to see if we can dislodge them ourselves. Do you notice Loegaire that they are facing west? They are there not to stop us leaving but to face an enemy we cannot see.”
“Creagth!”
“Exactly. And hopefully he will have some of Conan’s men with him.”
“Not all of them?”
“No, for Conan would have obeyed orders. I told him to get the captives and plunder to Manavia and he will have done that but I can hope that he has left some men there.”
“Let us ride closer and see what they do. I have seen that they can shoot arrows from long distances but we should be able to get closer to them.” They nervously trotted forwards. They knew that there were about fifty men trailing them, keeping a judicious distance away. Faolan did not want to be caught between the pursuing cavalry and those on the pass but he did not want to lose lives needlessly when he was so close that he could actually smell the sea. The steep path twisted and turned but the defenders had chosen a site from which they could see a long way down.
Up on the pass Creagth had also seen his leader. He had the same number of men as the Romans but he knew that, in a combat situation, they would be hampered by the captives. He turned to his men. “When the Roman warrior’s attention is on Prince Faolan I want one last charge, let us see if we can dislodge them from their rocky perch.” His men were eager for battle, still smarting from not having come to close combat with this elusive enemy who liked to fight from a distance.
As Faolan came closer to the Roman lines, so the tired sentries nervously looked over their shoulders at the advancing line. Creagth judged the time right and yelled his battle cry. The sixty warriors raced the fifty paces to the crude stone barrier fired up by the desire to sink their blades into enemy flesh and knowing that their oath sworn prince was but a few paces away. Faolan heard the cry and yelled, “It is Creagth! Charge!”
The men at the wall were attacked from two sides simultaneously. They were between a rock and an even bigger rock. On the hillside Metellus was waiting with his reserve turma, their horses and the captives having been moved further along the ridge to a safer location. But should Metellus lose then the brave women would once again be in Faolan’s clutches. His only hope was the two turmae he could see in the distance who were now galloping to attack the dismounted warriors; if they could reach the skirmish in time then the women at least might be saved. Faolan’s horse holders had seen the danger and were racing their mounts in support of the prince. Faolan saw his men following and knew that his time had come; this was the moment for a last push to escape the Roman trap. “Ebdani warriors, let us drive them off this pass!”
As the beleaguered Roman defenders fought two enemies, Metellus led his men to crash into the sides of the warband. For the first time Faolan had the advantage; until the two pursuing turmae arrived he would outnumber the Romans and he urged his men on. They stabbed and fought as only men who are fighting for a cause greater than themselves can fight; they were fighting for the prince to whom they had sworn their allegiance and given their blood oath. Faolan too, fought harder than he had ever fought before his blood fired up as trooper after trooper fell to his blade.
Suddenly as he hacked a final trooper in the thigh, he found himself face to face with Creagth. Faolan had not time for words but he nodded his thanks. “Hold them as long as you can and then follow us. Do not lose too many men in the retreat, the rest of the warband are coming.”
Creagth and his men formed a shield wall as Faolan and his last thirty warriors mounted their horses, with their precious cargo still tightly tied on their saddles and kicked on over the pass, Metellus cursed the lack of arrows for, with but a quiver of them, he could have killed the leaders as they fled. When Spurius and Graccus arrived with their two turmae the barbarian defenders began to slowly retreat west. They had taken heavy casualties and were few in number. It seemed that they would die in the pass when Creagth saw the remaining horses left by Faolan and he ordered those still standing to mount. Those too injured to mount lurched forwards to hold off the tired troopers and enable their comrades to flee.
Spurius reined in but Metellus roared at him. “Follow them! Stop them getting aboard a boat!” As the two turmae hurtled off Metellus looked around at the remains of his command. Out of three turmae there were barely twenty men still on their feet and he could see brave Cicero lying with a half severed head, sword in hand and defending the pass as ordered. The troopers left looked shocked and shattered but Metellus knew that this was no time for rest. The larger warband was coming and, although Metellus knew that he would not be able to hold them he would have to die trying.
He looked around and saw that Sextus, although wounded himself in the leg, was still alive. “Sextus, take the wounded and use them to guard the captives and the horses on the ridge. If… when we fall try to save them.”
Sextus looked as though he was going to object but, as the capsarius glanced around at the devastation in the pass, he knew that the Decurion was right. The next attack would sweep over the last defenders. He saluted and limped away.
Metellus turned to the survivors who were walking around dazed. He could see that many of them had slight wounds as he had but it mattered not. “Half of you move our dead over there and we will honour them when we can. The rest of you come with me. We have a new defence to create.” He took the men to the destroyed wall. As one or two went to lift the stones Metellus shook his head. “First we have another wall to build, a different wall which might deter our foes more effectively.” He picked up a barbarian body and laid it in front of the wall. “I want every barbarian laid here as a barrier. When that is done we will rebuild the stone wall.”
It was a grisly task but the troopers soon saw that the barrier they were creating would be a hard one to negotiate as there would be less purchase on the bodies soft and slippery with congealing blood and gore. By the time they had finished, the bodies formed a wall eight paces wide before a wall which was as high as a man. Satisfied Metellus turned to look at the pile of trooper’s bodies. There would be no time to burn them as there was little wood in the high pass. Tire
d though the men were he knew they had no other option. “Let us honour our dead and build them a tomb.” The one thing in plentiful supply was stones and they laid a line around the perimeter of bodies and then built a low wall up. Once that was completed they began to fill in the middle. As soon as the last face was covered Metellus stood to order them to rest but he saw that the men continued to work. One of them saw his confusion and said, “Let us make a monument that we can remember and hope that our friends do the same for us.” By the time they had finished there was a dome over the grave of those who had given their lives defending the last pass.
******
By the time Angus halted his warband it was already dark. The barbarians put out a thin line of warriors and, exhausted fell into an immediately deep sleep. That would have been the perfect opportunity for Cassius to launch an attack but his men were also totally exhausted. A series of sudden attacks on the flanks and rear of the column had killed thirty barbarians but his men and their mounts could fight no longer. In addition he feared an attack on the diminished ranks of the ala and had to use a turma as guards. Rufius and his ambush party had rejoined the main group as the ala was so depleted that Cassius needed numbers now. His ruse had worked and the barbarians had taken to using their own scouts to watch for further ambushes. Another sneak attack would be difficult to pull off.
When the ala slumbered Marcus sought out Macro, remembering Cassius’ words. As he expected Macro was not sleeping but standing looking westwards. “Brother you should sleep.”
“As should you.”
“But you appear troubled and that concerns me. I cannot sleep knowing that your mind is filled with serpents.”
Macro spun round his face angry although his voice was a whisper. “You do not know my mind brother! You do not know me!”
Shocked, Marcus recoiled. “Macro what has come over you? You are not the man who was trained, as I was by Gaelwyn; who was taught the way of the ala by Rufius and taught by our father to obey orders.”
Macro’s shoulders sagged. “You are right Marcus and I am sorry to take my anger out on you but we are not real brothers and it has taken the death of Gaius to make me realise that. My father, Macro, died saving my life and yet the first thing my mother did when she met me was to try to kill me. Those raiders who took Gaius’ life came from Manavia; they came from my mother. I cannot rest until she has died at my hands. That means I must kill this Faolan first.”
Marcus was appalled. Morwenna was a witch but she was his mother. How could someone live knowing that they had killed their own mother? “She will be protected and she will be guarded. It will be impossible. You will be killed before you can reach her.”
“Then I will die trying but that will be better than the living death I have now, knowing that she wants me dead and one of her acolytes could poison me or one of her men could sneak up at night and murder me.” He looked terrified. “I have not slept well since she had me in her clutches and I saw the hate in her eyes. She is a witch and she wants me dead. I am a dead man walking.” His eyes softened and he put his arm around his brother. “Sleep now Marcus. You can tell Cassius that you spoke to me and I will be a dutiful soldier once more. But when we reach the coast…”
Chapter 12
The Fist and his band of deserters made good time as they travelled through the empty lands which lay well south of the heavily contested part of Brigantia. Their horses were fresh and for all his cruelty towards his fellow troopers, The Fist knew how to care for horses. So they came down at last from the barren moor land to a fast flowing river. They kept to the north bank and the river turned north west. They were no longer in a hurry for there had been no pursuit. The initial worry for the deserters was that the Romans would send cavalry after the survivors and now that it had not occurred they could take the trail at their leisure. They were also trying to grow out their hair and develop facial hair. They had looked too Roman and now, after a few days on the trail, they looked more like the barbarians or at least natives of Britannia. As the river turned west they found a road of sorts which headed north west in a more direct line. It seemed likely that it would lead to the sea and that was their ultimate destination. When they struck the next river they kept to the western bank and were rewarded one sunny afternoon with the port of the Setantii. They had played the part of traders seeking a port as they had travelled through the country and discovered that the small tribe who lived in the region existed through fishing and a little commerce. Seeing little evidence of Rome and its influence they ventured into the small settlement which did not even have a substantial wall, merely a wooden palisade which would have stopped no-one.
“This looks like a likely place.” The Fist looked out at the port which had a small jetty and a few small ships and boats lying at anchor. “We keep a low profile and just ask for passage on a ship.” He glared at his small band. “We pay for everything and we cause no trouble! The last thing we need is for them to remember us. Once we get away from this island we will be safe. Until then we are peaceful.”
The port had one tavern which had a stable in which both their horses and they could be housed. Occasional visitors from the passing ships often stayed overnight but there was curiosity as to why they had not used one of the bigger ports further south or even Itunocelum, north.
The Fist would have made a good actor as he leaned in to confide in the headman. “Have you not heard of the trouble? The Brigante revolted and the Irish invaded. North of here is dangerous. No we came here because we heard you were a fair people and we would be able to take passage.”
The headman beamed at the compliment whilst worrying about the two conflicts his guest had mentioned. The last thing the Setantii needed was war. And they could do without the Romans taking an interest in them and taxing them. They plied their trade with both Hibernia and Manavia both of which left them alone but if raiders came or rebels, then that would upset their economic success story.
“Where would you like passage to?”
This was the part which had the deserters the most worried for they had no idea of the relationship between Manavia and Setantii. “We had heard there were good opportunities for trade in Manavia.”
They were all relieved when the headman nodded. “Indeed they are good people and we have many boats which trade with them. I believe there is one going there on the morning tide. I can arrange a passage,” he paused as he weighed up the potential purses of these travellers, “for a fee. In gold.”
The Fist smiled, “That will be agreeable.”
The headman was delighted to have made such an easy profit for the boat in question was his and he would make double money as he would charge them twice over. “Yes there is a cargo of shackles going over. They are expecting a consignment of slaves. When the new moon rises there will be a huge slave auction. Traders will be travelling from all over Britannia and Hibernia. You will be well placed to do some deals in…?”
The Fist was too crafty to fall for that trick. “Oh we trade in all sorts of commodities from people to services. We just need a new market. You know?”
The headman had them summed up now. They were fleeing Britannia and he mentally upped the price he would charge. “You are wise to travel to Manavia then for they have a very liberal view of trade. There are two ports one in the south and the larger one in the north. The ship on the morrow is going to the southern port but it is but half a day’s ride to the northern one. “
“That will suit us for we would like to see the whole island before choosing our base.”
“You will have to go to the northern port eventually then for you will have to ask the council’s permission to stay.” He leaned forward, “They are druids you know.”
“That doesn’t worry us.”
“Good. Well until the morrow. I will meet you at the jetty and we can settle up then.”
******
Spurius and Graccus whipped their mounts as hard as they could along the trail desperately trying to catch up
with the remnants of Creagth’s command. The advantage they had was that they had not fought earlier and their mounts were fresher than those they pursued. When they reached more open parts Spurius could see that some of those before them sported wounds. Their disadvantage was that they did not know what they were riding into. The trail they followed was the pack horse trail to the port of Itunocelum and was well worn. The fact that it was down hill helped the barbarians before them for the Roman armour made their burdens greater. Spurius turned to Graccus, “You have better eyes than I; can you see the other band?”
“Yes Spurius. They are about a mile ahead.”
“That means that when we catch up with them we will be outnumbered. We need to hold them until the ala can catch up. We must prevent them boarding their ships at all costs.” Just at that moment one of the barbarian’s horses jinked to avoid a rock and the warrior, unused to riding, slipped from the saddle. His companions glanced around and saw the pursuing Romans. As the hapless raider was speared by a trooper’s javelin the shout went up. “Romans! Behind us!” Urged on by the danger the barbarians kicked even harder and soon began to catch up with Faolan and his men who had slowed up believing that their comrades were still holding the pass.
Faolan heard the sound of horses and turned to see a handful of his warriors, led by Creagth, his arm bleeding heavily and a column of fifty Roman troopers bearing down upon them. “Can you see the sea yet Loegaire?”
“No but I can smell it and there are gulls. It is not far now.”