* * *
Before noon the following day all five riders were miles away from the farm, each on a fresh horse. In addition Gildas led a mule loaded with supplies including food, water and an oiled tent for shelter against the spring rains. The gold coins had raised a high level of interest in the village but they wasted no time haggling over the prices and were long gone before any serious questions were asked. Before leaving, Prydain made a point of talking to one of the traders and mentioning they were going south to trade with the Silures. The deliberate lie would spread like wildfire and hopefully hide their trail. Soon they were miles away, and headed out of the Khymru toward the lands of the Catuvellauni.
Chapter Ten
The Straits of Menai
Suetonius stared across the straits with concern. Despite the cover of the Onagers, the civilian fishermen had suffered heavy casualties from the spear throwers on the far shore and the main wave of assault troops had hesitated in the face of the enemy. On the other side of the strait, as far as the eye could see, the Druids and the common people of Mona poured from the treeline and formed screaming lines of defenders, roaring their defiance at the attackers before them. There was no structure or order within their lines just a melee of manic people hurling their insults and challenges across the water. Warriors were interspersed with children and old alike, every one of them as rabid as the next. Naked women, their bodies painted with wode and hair stuck up with animal fats rushed amongst the throng carrying burning torches and brushing the flames against the men’s bare torsos encouraging them to feats of bravery. Screams and taunts were joined by war horns and drums, all adding to the growing cacophony from across the water.
‘The men have stalled,’ said Tribune Attellus, ‘what’s the matter with them?’
‘I know not,’ said Suetonius, ‘it seems they are entranced by the barbaric display. Get me my horse quickly before we lose the impetus.’
Attellus signalled a nearby groom and within minutes, Suetonius was galloping down the slope toward his confused legion. Though the noise from across the water was indeed loud above the din he could hear the Centurions berating their men for their show of fear.
‘Silence,’ roared Suetonius and gradually the noise from the Roman ranks stopped. ‘Who are you?’ he shouted at the men milling at the boats and lined up on the bank. ‘For I do not recognise you. Where are the men who bear the name fourteenth Gemina, the legion of glorious heritage from across the empire?’
As he addressed them, Suetonius walked his horse before the gathered ranks, addressing them directly and many lowered their gaze in shame.
‘Where are the warriors who defeated Caratacus and Togodumnus?’ he continued. ‘Show me the legion who defeated Cornovii and Deceangli without breaking sweat for I see them not. They are not here for I do not recognise them. Where is the respect for those who died for the name? Is there none? Are the glorious dead to look down, only to avert their gaze from this shame? Look before you, Romans, and ask yourself what is there to fear? They are old men daubed in mud. Naked and feeble old women shouting nonsense and children calling you names. Is it this that holds you back? Are you, who took Caer Caradog, now afraid of babes?’
‘No,’ shouted many of the men, rousing from their stupor.
‘Can it be that the glorious Gemina now turn away from unclothed heathens and I should ride back to Nero proclaiming tales of cowardice and shame?’
‘No,’ shouted the men again, though this time with added voices.
‘And can it be that this glorious legion that has turned its back on no foe, this family of brothers that crossed a thousand miles to give Claudius a nation, now balks from facing mere barbarians not fit to clear our filth?’
‘No,’ screamed the soldiers, ‘never,’ shouted others.
‘Then put aside this shame and deliver what it is that we do best,’ shouted Suetonius. ‘Pick up your arms and stare into the eyes of the enemy. Reach inside for the courage I know you have in abundance and show these heathens that we scorn their displays of pathetic symbolism. Look to your fronts, Romans; before you is the head of the snake, the tribe of the Druids. Beyond them are their sacred groves of gold and precious stones. Swipe away this irritation and the island is yours for the taking. Caskets of gold and silver are there for the picking, maidens untouched await your attentions and treasures enough to make your retirements as luxurious as senators are begging to be claimed. All that stands between you is this strip of water and the farcical display before you. But such things are secondary to that we all hold dearest. The spoils are yours by right, the battle is yours by duty, but your honour is yours by birth.’
‘So what is it to be,’ he shouted, ‘infamy or immortality?’
‘Immortality!’ shouted the legion.
‘Choose your destiny, legionaries,’ roared Suetonius, ‘shame or glory?’
‘Glory,’ thundered the legion over and over again.
Suetonius looked around his men, knowing there would now be no holding them back.
‘Then discard this lethargy and show me the hearts that I know you have. Bring back the soldiers who fought alongside Scapula and send these heathens to hell.’ He drew his Gladius and held it in the air. ‘Men of the Fourteenth Gemina, for our glorious dead and the glory of Rome, advaaance!’
All the carefully laid plans of Attellus were discarded as the legion ploughed forward into the strait. Every boat was filled with the heavy infantry and while those at the front held up their shields as defence against the arrows, the others paddled furiously to cross the small channel. Light infantry swam alongside the boats or clung on to the saddles of the cavalry who had also joined in the all-out assault.
Above them the air sang with the sound of arrows and fire pots, as every ballista and Onager team worked furiously to maintain a hail of missiles upon the enemy on the far shore. Scorpio operators ran as far forward as they could, to place their pole mounted crossbows amongst the rocks and picked off the enemy warriors with deadly accuracy.
Suetonius looked on with a racing heart. It wasn’t the tactic they had planned but he had roused his men to such a state he knew their fury needed to be directed rather than harnessed. Before him there were some casualties as men lost their grip on the barges and some boats capsized in the melee but it was obvious the vast majority would land on the far shore within minutes.
‘I hope this works,’ said Attellus, ‘the strategies are discarded.’
‘Strategies are sometimes secondary to aggression,’ said Suetonius. ‘I trust this is such a time.’
Throughout the legion, the Roman’s own battle cries joined those of the enemies and the battle drums of the Fourteenth joined with the Cornicines, drowning out the wails of the opponents. Fury registered in the eyes of every man and Suetonius knew he had done his job. This was the legion he was proud to lead. On the far side the first to land were wading through the mud toward the grassy slope leading up to the enemy, but no sooner had they advanced than they were cut down by the spears of the Celts. Blood mingled with mud and fallen men tried to crawl forward only to be entombed by the cloying filth. Behind them the assault continued and fresh attackers braved the onslaught to run over the bodies of the fallen, each time gaining a few more metres before they too were cut down by the defenders’ spears.
Seeing the danger, the artillery lowered their aim and fire pots fell amongst the front ranks of the enemy, the flammable oils spraying amongst them and causing panic within their lines. The few moments respite was all the lead legionaries needed, and they rushed forward from their boats to create a double height wall of shields to protect those coming behind. The manoeuvre was self-sustaining and within moments the wall spread outward forming the standard Roman line of assault.
Once the line started to form, Suetonius breathed a sigh of relief. Gaining a foothold on the far shore was always going to be the most dangerous part of the assault, but now they had a century of men across, he knew it was only a matter of time. Every minute
that passed saw hundreds more safely across and despite the constant hail of arrows from the enemy, the growing wall of laminated wood and hides meant that few men now fell. New waves of boats were launched containing the next cohorts and as they reached the far shore, those already in position marched forward as one, forcing the enemy back and making room for their comrades behind. The Druid army retreated slowly, keeping their distance from the wall of red and gold shields, unsure how to deal with the monster that crept forward from the water’s edge.
Finally, Suetonius judged he had enough across and turned to the flag bearer at his side.
‘Give the signal,’ he said and immediately a row of flag bearers raised their banners to wave them back and fore. It was the signal that every officer and Centurion on the far side of the river had been waiting for and after a fanfare of Cornicines, the legion fell deathly silent. The enemy also quietened down, looking on in confusion as the ranks of Romans stopped moving and stared over their shields. A single drumbeat rang out across the slopes and ten men marched forward in pace with the drums. A second later, the ten men either side of them did the same, closely followed by the men on their flanks. Within moments, a human wedge had formed, the dreaded Cuneus formation, or the pig’s head as it was called by the soldiers, the favoured attack formation against enemy defensive lines.
For the last time the legion halted and a senior Centurion stepped out of the front of the wedge. He drew his Gladius as did a thousand other soldiers and looked around the formation.
‘Fourteenth Gemina,’ he screamed, ‘to glory!’ He lifted his sword high before lowering it toward the enemy. ‘Advaaance!’
Every battle drum beat out a marching chorus and the lead cohort advanced to conflict, closely followed by the remaining cohorts. Many warriors broke from their own lines and ran forward to attack the Romans but most fell before they got anywhere near, speared by the Pila thrown from the advancing ranks. Other defenders started to get nervous and despite their rantings and weapon waving, retreated to the protection of the forests.
A white-haired Druid stepped forward, brandishing a staff in one hand and a severed human head in the other. He urged his people to battle and without wielding a weapon of any sort, walked toward the Romans reciting his spells and charms. Within moments a Pilum speared him through the chest and he fell backward into the dirt. As if it was the sign everyone had been waiting for, an ethereal cry arose from the Celts. Immediately they went on the offensive and their warriors ran down to the fight. Behind them their people followed, and the slopes were covered with screaming defenders, men, women and children, all desperate to tear the enemy limb from limb. Thousands poured down the hill and the legion reacted in kind, responding to the sound of the charge signalled by the Cornicines.
* * *
The result was slaughter. The wedge of the attackers drove through the enemy like a spear, pausing for nothing except to slay any before them. Within minutes they had divided the enemy and turned outward to attack the two flanks. Behind them the supporting cohorts drove into the face of the Celts while on the outward edges, the cavalry bore down on them like a terrible wind, wiping them out with lance and sword. Seeing the risk, more Celts ran forward from the forest to add their weight to the battle and though the Romans were outnumbered, slowly but surely, they edged their way up the slopes toward the treeline. The nature of the ground meant it was hard to keep disciplined lines and the Roman formation fractured, allowing the Celts to get amongst them and what they lacked in discipline, they more than made up for in fanaticism.
The battle ebbed and flowed like a bloody tide, but slowly the greater discipline of the legion told and units fought together rather than as individuals. The lower ground was taken and the fight moved into the trees. The Roman advance halted and consolidated their positions in line abreast. The foreshore was secure and though many had fallen, the legion now had a secure beachhead. Behind them, the feared first cohort was landing in the boats led by the Primus Pilus and he walked up to the Centurion responsible for the successful assault.
‘Fabius, your men have fought well,’ he said.
Fabius looked back toward the shoreline over the ground littered with the bodies of his men.
‘But at what price?’ he said.
‘The cost is indeed high,’ said Cassus, ‘but worth paying. Their sacrifice has ensured our forces have a free run inland.’
‘What about the survivors?’ asked Fabius. ‘Many fled inland and will provide resistance.’
‘They will be of little consequence,’ said Cassus. ‘When we have passed through your lines stand your cohort down and see to your dead. Tell your wounded they will collectively take ten percent share of all plunder taken from this shore. I will personally oversee it.’
‘Thank you, Cassus,’ said Fabius. ‘It will be appreciated.’
Cassus looked up and down the shoreline. The entire first cohort was now in formation behind the shields of the front line. Supporting them were a further two cohorts of auxiliary light infantry and an alae of cavalry on either side, a total of almost two thousand-foot soldiers and a thousand cavalry.
‘On my signal,’ said Cassus, ‘open your ranks for us to pass through.’
Fabius saluted his superior and walked away to brief his men. Cassus turned to his grizzled Optio, the experienced second in command of the cohort.
‘Ready the men,’ said Cassus, ‘we waste no more time. We will advance until we either reach the far side of the island or there are no more enemy left to kill. Pass the word, no prisoners, no mercy. I fear the Ninth have need of our services in the east and every day we spend here means a day extra for the Iceni queen to build her army.’
‘Understood,’ said the Optio.
Cassus turned to the cornicen at his side.
‘As soon as Fabius indicates readiness,’ he said, ‘sound the advance.’ He fastened the straps beneath his crested helmet and stared into the treeline. ‘Let’s get this done.’
Chapter Eleven
The Lands of the Trinovantes
Legate Petillius Cerialis ducked out of his tent and walked toward the east gate of the temporary marching camp. His aides had reported that Virrius had returned and though he knew Virrius would report to him shortly, he was impatient to hear the news.
Every soldier he passed in the camp snapped to attention, suitable acknowledgement to a man of his rank. The camp was large, much bigger than those needed by the smaller vexillations that usually patrolled between tribes, as for the first time in over a year, Petillius had an almost full-strength legion to hand. Word had flown in from all around about the threat posed by the barbarian army and though he was no fool, he held no fear of such rumours, confident in the ability of his men.
Almost five thousand legionaries and auxiliaries lay at his disposal, most of whom were camped inside the temporary walls. They were protected from assault by a surrounding ditch and embankment made from the spoil topped by a wooden spiked palisade. There had been talks about forming a permanent legionary fortress in this location but the decision had been postponed while the governor campaigned against the Druids at Mona.
As he walked, he could hear the commotion of Virrius’s men as they sorted out their horses after the two-day mission. Amongst them Virrius’s voice rang out above all others, organising and berating his men to greater effort before they could be stood down. Petillius smiled inwardly. Virrius was still a young man but was an excellent officer. He led by example and wasn’t afraid to discipline those who fell short of his own high standards.
‘Virrius, your return is opportune,’ said Petillius.
Virrius turned sharply and saluted the Legate.
‘Hail Petillius,’ said Virrius, ‘it is good to be back. The palisades are as welcoming as the walls of Rome itself. This country is as cold and welcoming as a young bride’s mother.’
‘Such are the ways of a defeated land,’ said Petillius. ‘What news of this so-called uprising?’
‘We sa
w no sign,’ said Virrius. ‘Every village claimed no knowledge and even those we placed under the whip cried ignorance.’
‘Were the villages fully populated?’
‘As far as we could tell,’ said Virrius. ‘If this Boudicca has the army the rumours speak of, then it is not from around here.’
‘This is a worry,’ said Petillius, ‘in my experience such smoke is usually accompanied by fire of some kind. Perhaps they are exaggerations.’
‘Perhaps so,’ said Virrius.
‘Who are the prisoners?’ asked Petillius, spying a group of four men with their hands tied behind their backs.
‘Nobody of note,’ said Virrius. ‘Our scouts rode them down in the forest. They resisted and two of their number fell before they saw the error of their ways.’
‘I see your scouts introduced themselves well,’ said Petillius, walking over to inspect the captives.
Virrius glanced toward the blackened eyes and swollen faces of the beaten men.
‘Nothing that won’t heal,’ said Virrius. ‘They will bring a good price.’
Petillius drew his Gladius and placed the point of his blade under one of the captive’s chins and forced his head up to face him.
‘This one looks like he wants to eat my heart,’ said Petillius.
‘And given the chance he probably would,’ said Virrius. ‘For one so young he has a temper of a wildcat.’
The boy spat toward the Legate and only the fact that his mouth was dry from dust stopped his bile from reaching the officer.
Virrius immediately smashed his fist into the boy’s jaw, sending him sprawling into the dust.
‘My apologies, my lord,’ said Virrius, ‘I will have him crucified immediately.’
‘Don’t bother,’ said Petillius, ‘keep the crucifixions for when there are others to witness the futility of resistance. When we are done here, send him south to the tin mines. A lifetime of hard labour draped in chains will help him see the error of his ways.’
The Wrath of Boudicca Page 10