Caratacus

Chapter Twenty

Caratacus and Ardwen had watched and waited whilst the enemy had slowly marched up into the valleys and mountains, snaking their long column past what he hoped would be beyond any safe point of return. Caratacus had said that he wanted to wait until they were so far into the territory, that they would find it impossible for them to get out again. When that time came he intended to close off any route of escape and destroy the soldiers who had marched into this land intent on killing them.

He had surveyed the route himself several times when it became obvious which track through the mountains they would be forced to take as there were so few now and once there, were committed. They would find a change of direction virtually impossible because there were very few and of those that existed, they twisted through the valleys for mile after mile. He believed that even if some were to escape the slaughter he planned, they would easily be hunted down. They could of course, attempt to scale up even higher slopes at either side of the long worn tracks but their horses would soon tire and falter and the result would be the same, destruction.

After so many defeats and the enforced retreating Caratacus had at last found a place where he believed he could fight the enemy on equal terms thanks to the terrain he found himself in. The enemy had the advantage of weapons still but here that advantage would be removed by virtue of the land and twisting narrow mountain paths. This would be the first test of his beliefs where even if they were outnumbered, the valleys, hills and mountains would give him a much better chance for success. He had been pleased to see Vespasian himself riding with his soldiers, the black plume of his helmet distinct amongst the others of white and red. He would have to try and ensure that the Roman Legate was either killed or captured, he hoped the latter as he would make a good bargaining piece with Rome. His warriors were briefed accordingly but if he were to be killed, his head would make a nice trophy impaled on a spear for all to see.

As the Romans had camped so far away from the higher ground the day before, it had given Caratacus and Ardwen time to call more warriors forward from the surrounding settlements and word had even been sent to the northern tribes. Although fairly dispersed through the valleys and mountains, there were more than enough to guarantee that they now outnumbered the advancing soldiers by at least three to one. If the Demeta, Ordives and Deceangli tribes joined them as well, they would be able to stop the invaders from gaining a foothold in this part of the world. He also had the advantage of having Ardwen and his people with him as they knew these mountains better than the goats and sheep that wandered the slopes, the enemy were at a distinct disadvantage in every sense and he hoped to make that tell.

Caratacus had watched from thousands of feet up as the Romans had sent a scouting party into the gorge below. They were already a few hundred feet above sea level and their chance of taking a different route was narrowed with every step they took, until they were down to one. The main party had stopped and were taking a break at a fairly large clearing as the scouts entered the path below. Caratacus watched from his vantage point and began to give orders as warriors scurried down the paths carrying out his orders.

Although he was perched watching the enemy from behind the tops of trees on the slope below him, he felt almost exposed to the dangerous beast he now saw. If only he could reach out with his hand and could grab this army and crush it in his hand and squash it like a mosquito. He stood up and scrambled down the slope through the trees holding the hilt of his sword and pushing it down so its blade faced upward at an angle and didn’t scrape along the surface and give away their position. He wanted to wait until the last possible second to spring the trap and kill as many of these intruders as possible.

As arrows and spears began to thud into the ground and flesh alike, causing heavy impacts from their deadly rain, the cries of alarm and pain began from both human and animal alike. As Varro took two giant strides and leapt up onto Staro’s back, he saw from the corner of his vision at least two bodies falling from the horses of his own people. As he began to turn, he kicked the horse into a gallop and saw that the fat lamb that had stopped his progress a few seconds before, was now pinned to the floor, a spear impaling it through its back as its legs scrambled to try and gain some purchase on the slippery shale. Rich red blood was already vividly staining the white woollen fur, then an arrow struck it’s skull at the side and it stopped moving altogether.

“Follow me.” He managed to shout half turning again as his horse built up speed, hooves biting into the stony floor as he ripped his up shield above his head. Arrows and spears continued to land and he heard more shrieks behind in the chaos as they attempted to escape the deadly shower, the noise was almost deafening. Staro chinked this way and that as he moved almost automatically round the tight corners with Varro clinging on for dear life with his legs leaning low.

The first thing that Vespasian knew of the ambush was the instant red hot pain boring into his exposed flesh inside his upper leg, he felt above his right knee and almost collapsed. Crying out in agony immediately and frowning he looked down where he saw a large arrow shaft had embedded itself through his skin and out through the other side. A member of his bodyguard screamed something that he didn’t quite hear and ran over to him stopping his fall as he went to go to ground. As the soldier propped him up, other arrows zipped past his head and landed, some hitting the ground but others wounding and killing other men as they desperately looked for cover. In that second he looked up and saw his men taking both arrows and spears which meant the Britons were close, very close.

“Come on sir we’ve got to move.” The legionnaire said half dragging and carrying his Legate up under his shoulder cursing under his breath. Another man ran over to them an optio, and got on the other side of their commander, almost instantly the first soldier was hit. Vespasian turned hearing a thump followed by a cracking sound as an arrow struck and he felt the man go suddenly slack and fall away. He saw it had pierced his face below the right eye and was inches deep into his head. Deep red blood pulsed out and down into his open mouth. The man was dead before he hit the ground his helmet falling clear and landing before he did.

The optio screamed for help as he dragged his Legate towards a cart where the helpless mules were already being hit and injured by a number of arrows. They jerked around helplessly bellowing their anger trying to get free as men fell all around them. He saw that some had huddled together to form better protection under their shields collectively and were virtually crawling, stooped down trying to get out of range of the deadly torrent. Someone unseen was shouting for testudos to be formed. Shrieks of pain filled the air all around him but he knew he had to take control of the madness that now surrounded his world.

Arriving breathless at the wheel of the cart the optio didn’t wait for his commander to crawl underneath, he hurled him to the ground, the arrow breaking off in his leg as he did so, Vespasian cried out in agony and fought to get under the wooden surface, fury written over his face briefly at the optio.

“Mars fucking hairy cunt, you fucking barbarian goat fuckers will pay for this.” He shouted grabbing at the length of arrow shaft that still remained in his leg. He tried to pull it out but it was already slick with blood. The optio took his neckerchief off and shouted, “Not like that sir, the barbs will rip your fuckin leg apart, turn over.”

The Legate frowned but did as he was told mentally scalding himself for losing his composure, he turned his back on the optio who had wrapped the material around the wooden shaft and was wiping blood away. He smothered the deadly barbed head with the cloth and without ceremony or waiting for his commander to ready himself, yanked the arrow free. Legate Titus Vespasian blacked out and was lost to the chaos.

***

Varro rode as fast as he could around the twisting curves of the track, the sound of the animal’s hooves loud in his ears. He was faintly aware of the others behind him but didn’t dare turn to look and see who was following, who was still with him. Leaning forward low over his mounts back he urged the beast on determined that they wouldn’t die in this place. On and on they rode, arrows showering the ground all around them. He knew an archer would be lucky to hit a galloping horse or its rider especially as they jinked and turned around the bends of the track but also knew that an injury out here far behind enemy lines could mean death even if it wasn’t severe. Although the odds were low on being hit, he knew that there must be dozens, hundreds of Britons firing and throwing missiles at them because the deadly storm kept coming. A thought quickly entered his head as he knew Parthians were known to smear their arrows in excrement to ensure disease even in the slightest of cuts, maybe the Britons did the same.

In the space of a blink of an eye he imagined all kinds of images, their naked bodies stripped of clothing and armour, barbarians celebrating as they disfigured their torsos, their horses killed and eaten, the men at Isca Dumnoniorum never knowing what had happened to them, lost on the frontier. They could be poisoned by an arrow and left to die a long and painful death. Dark thoughts and images filled his mind as he clung onto Staro as he snorted with effort galloping for his and his masters life, it seemed to go on for an eternity. He was pulled from the nightmare by shouts from somewhere to the rear, a familiar voice.

“Varro slow down, stop, we’re clear.” It was Tevelgus. He risked turning and saw the big Briton behind him and slowed down and for the first time. He saw that he was followed by only three, Brenna and Decimus were there also, there was quiet from the banks either side.

“Where are the others?” He asked stopping his horse looking up at the sharp mountain slopes either side of them expecting to see more arrows being launched, his chest lurched with the effort of the frantic ride.

“They were hit in the first wave.” Brenna said, “There was nothing we could do for them.” Automatically they all checked themselves and their mounts to see if they had been injured, they hadn’t. Panting Varro jumped off his horse.

“I didn’t see them. They must have been hiding in the trees waiting to ambush us, there was no sign, nothing at all.” He looked around again certain of more missiles. “We can’t just leave them we’ve got to go back.” He said.

Tevelgus got off his own horse and walked towards the centurion, “You saw that hail of arrows, if we went back we would end up just like them, they’re dead and if they weren’t straight away, they will be by now.”

“What if any of them were just injured, how would you feel if you knew your friends had left you to die?” He answered.

The big Briton stared at Varro almost willing him to argue it seemed and then his eyes widened and Varro heard a thump, he fell forward onto the Roman, an arrow sticking into the back of his head. Varro staggered with his weight, took a step back and let him fall face down. Brenna cried out her brother’s name.

“Mount up.” He shouted grabbing his saddle and swinging his leg back up and onto his horse who, had already started to move forward on his own. Hooves hitting the ground masked the sound of any other flying arrows as they tried to escape again.

From both sides, the Britons scrambled and ran down the steep slopes jeering and screaming towards the men of the Second Augusta who were desperately retreating from the edge of the clearing. Spears were hurled at random from the high ground so thick was the target area below. Legionaries already lay dead or wounded their blood a sharp contrast to the white of their tunics. Despite the deadly avalanche of weapons, the legionaries were already regrouping and forming testudos leaving the dead and injured where they lay as men screamed out for help.

Orders were shouted from centurions and optios inside the formations as they tried to keep order and discipline. One group of such soldiers that were slower than the rest and containing only about thirty men were the first to be attacked. The Britons swarmed the shield wall and they were stopped in their tracks. Barbarians who had jumped down from other areas not even near them, ran and joined the attack. Spears, axes, clubs, swords and arrows stabbed at their defences, hacking and piercing at the shielded formation.

As other testudos retreated, men who were relatively safe for the time being, watched through gaps in their own shields when movement allowed, as they began to fall one at a time. Shields were ripped from grasping arms as the holders were wounded, spears were hurled over the top of the attacking warriors, axes span through the air landing indiscriminately somewhere in the middle, a hand was hacked off a flailing Roman arm as its shield was ripped from its grasp. It was a blood bath, where no mercy was shown.

As the last two men were simultaneously chopped down, Vespasian opened his eyes. He and the optio were in the centre of the clearing under the cart in front of which the two mules lay dead, hit by umpteen arrows. The Legate saw that the soldier had used his neck scarf as a tourniquet to stop the blood flow.

“Report.” He ordered turning and looking out to the scenes of battle around them.

“They’ve just butchered a testudo sir, at least twenty, maybe thirty men hacked and stabbed to death.” He pointed to where he had witnessed the atrocity occur. The Britons were crowding over the slain men picking up helmets, swords and shields.

Vespasian turned in the opposite direction and saw squares of centuries formed up about sixty paces away. “Quickly whilst they’re distracted, we’ve got to get to that testudo over there.” He pointed.

The optio gave him a concerned look until he added, “We can either try and get to them and get some cover or wait here until they,” he pointed a thumb in the other direction, “come over here and drag us out kicking and screaming and butcher us where we lay. It’s up to you but I can’t run without your help.” The optio turned and quickly crawled out from under the cart on the opposite side from the main body of Britons. He knew in seconds they would be bearing down on other men so he moved as fast as he could. Grimacing in pain Vespasian shimmied along on his backside. Once clear of the cart, he was pulled up by the soldier who draped his arm over his shoulder and immediately began half running and dragging the Legate towards the waiting formation.

Suddenly they were aware of shouting behind them, as the optio himself shouted at the wall of shields, silently standing in front of them. Neither of them turned not daring to waste any time but hurried forward, now about forty paces from safety. The noise behind them grew as arrows were launched again but this time they were Roman, they flew over their heads and to the side of them landing unseen. Shouts of pain merged with shouts of anger as some at least found their mark.

The optio pushed Vespasian’s arm higher to get a better grip and was aware of movement in the Roman line now thirty paces distant. His head was suddenly jarred violently forward, a loud single bang on his helmet signalling that he had been struck with something but he didn’t dare look to see what it was. Struggling with the Legate on his shoulder he looked forward and watched as the legionaries launched a wave of javelins into the air towards them. He ducked instinctively as they flew over his head and fell into their intended targets.

He could almost feel the breath of the enemy now and believed that he would die heroically trying to save his Legate. Would his wife hear of his valour? Would they build a shrine in his name? Would anyone survive this catastrophe? Every second he expected to feel a spear puncture his armour and pierce his flesh underneath, snapping his spine. Another volley of pila was launched from the line of shields but it didn’t make him feel any more secure. At least he thought his comrades were doing their duty in trying to protect them as they lurched forward. Twenty paces away from some respite, some of the men in the front line of the formation opened their ranks and waited behind their shields peering out. Another wave of Roman arrows sped towards the heathens behind them as he felt the burning hot sensation of an enemy arrow stab into his heel.

“Arrrggggghhh you bastards.” He yelled, his face contorted in pain as he fell forward the weight of the Legate on top of him and then everything blacked out.

Caratacus thrust his sword at the armoured demon standing in front of him surrounded by his comrades but it bounced off. The soldier leered at him and stabbed out with his gladius from the side of his shield but his reach was too short. Warriors jostled for position sensing victory over this relatively small and isolated group as men barged passed each other, vying for spoils and death. Spears landed in amongst the Romans, some were deflected off shields or armour but a few found soft flesh to penetrate and pierce.

Screams and squeals of pain, some almost childlike, filled his ears as he cut and thrust with his weapon. An arrow flew past his head so close that he felt the draught of its passing at great speed as it smashed its way into a helmeted forehead just below the rim. The eyes were dead and rolling backward into the head long before the body fell and Caratacus wanted more, much more. They were winning this battle within a battle he realised as more spears were thrown from above and shattered men and bone.

From his peripheral vision he saw Ardwen hacking at a soldiers leg like a maniac chopping at a tree whilst another warrior attacked the upper body. The first slice embedded itself deep into the man’s shin before it was wrenched free and another great scything arc removed the leg from below the knee completely. The metallic smell of blood and iron filled his nose. He held his ground briefly trying to assess the situation and saw great rows of soldiers formed up beyond this skirmish, behind their shields. One man was hobbling towards their lines with another draped over his shoulder.

He backed away a few feet from the fighting and gave a hand signal for the archers on the slope to concentrate their fire at the neat rows of silent men waiting to fight. Within seconds the men behind those at the front, hauled up their rectangular shields to form an almost solid roof as arrows struck them. One arrow shaft passed through a small gap and hit one legionary in the face, he dropped from sight instantly. Caratacus signalled Ardwen to break off his attack and follow him, leaving their warriors to wipe out the men before them.

“What is it cousin, why have you pulled me away from our much deserved victory just as we are about to rout them?” Ardwen asked of Caratacus as they ran together.

Caratacus led him to the cover of the trees at the side of the clearing and pointed saying, “Watch what happens cousin, this is one of the things I have learned from fighting these men.” They both crouched down behind thick tree trunks and bushes and watched. The warriors made short work of the remaining men that had been unfortunate enough to find themselves isolated and caught out in the open. More spears and arrows penetrated their bodies from above and even their armour occasionally, those who weren’t hit from the slopes were struck by swords or axes. It was butchery, man against man, crude, vile and naked aggression and the Britons were winning. The last of the Romans fell with another by his side dispatched just before him but the indiscipline of their men showed as they hurriedly bent down to loot the bodies of weapons and armour.

“See here,” Caratacus said, “if those men over there weren’t occupied and distracted with those two scurrying back to them, our people would be wiped out where they stood.”

Quickly the warriors began to turn their attention to the rows of shields and ran towards them. Caratacus and Ardwen watched a few of them as they tried in vain to spear the two men who were closing the gap to safety. The next second, a flight of javelins were hurled skyward from behind the front row of waiting soldiers. They arced into the grey sky and fell, wiping out lives, in an instant they were joined by arrows that jarred their warriors backward, spinning some as they fell. The Roman spears and arrows took a deadly toll on the previously victorious Britons and their advance began to falter.

Ardwen looked on in horror as their men and women were taken from the world, bodies punctured even before they could reach the Roman lines. They both saw the two men who had been retreating dragged to safety through an area of shields that closed behind them. A trumpet sounded from somewhere in the midst of armour and the entire row of Romans began to move backward as if one giant metallic and wooden beast. Caratacus and Ardwen shouted at their archers to keep firing, they weren’t to be given a seconds respite as they retreated.

Caratacus turned and scrambled up the slope behind him quickly followed by Ardwen pulling himself up on trees and branches. He glanced back and saw that the Romans were retreating to the track that they had followed, at the far edge of the bowl like clearing.

“We’ve got to get the slingers involved when they get to that narrow break in the rock.” He shouted back at Ardwen who was already red faced from the effort of hauling himself up. Caratacus slipped on the surface and fell face down and started to slide back down the steep slope towards Ardwen, gravel and loose rock followed his fall.

He swore shouting at himself as he continued to slide trying to grasp branches and roots until he crashed into Ardwen. The two stopped still for a second, looked at each other and then barrelled back down the slope to where they had started.

Varro kept riding until he was certain they were out of sight of the attacking Britons. Eventually he slowed down and turned to see that they had followed the path into another mountainous valley some distance from where the trap was sprung. He guided them down to a small stream where he led his horse to water, Brenna and Decimus followed.

“Gods fucking teeth, this is a fucking disaster.” He said crouching down and scooping water onto his face. “Did you hear the battle beyond where we attacked? The main column must have been ambushed as well, if they were cut off in that clearing, every one of them could be dead.”

Decimus walked into the water and washed his own face, the water was ice cold, “What now then? We can either ride for help or try and get back to them and find out what happened.”

Varro looked over to Brenna who was still on her horse, the animal was drinking from the stream but she was sat staring at the ground.

“Brenna.” She didn’t reply. “Brenna.” He said again, as glazed eyes looked up to acknowledge his words. In the melee he had forgotten about her loss.

“My brother is dead.” She didn’t move, just sat staring at him. He wiped his face with the red cloth around his neck and walked over to her.

“Come, have some water.” He said.

“Will the water bring my brother back?” Tears rolled freely from her eyes down her face and fell onto her dirty skin. He reached up and wiped the tears from her face.

“Come we have to decide what to do, or his death and those of our friends will have been for nothing.” She allowed herself to be helped down and Varro put his arms around her and held her closely.

“The Twentieth are supposed to be to the north of here fighting the Ordovices,” Decimus said, “maybe we could ride for help.” Varro frowned and shook his head slightly telling Decimus that this was not the time. He leaned back and looked at Brenna her head was down facing the ground. Every now and again the sound of battle was carried to them on the wind through the valley, swords clashing, screaming or trumpet sound.

“It sounds like they’re still fighting, may the gods protect them.” Varro said. “There could be thousands of the bastards in these mountains and we walk in without the support of another legion.” Brenna pushed herself away from him.

“It would be as quick to ride back to Isca as to ride north but the Silures are blocking the path so we may never get through, where did your Twentieth legion approach the north from, do you know?” She asked.

Varro walked to the edge of the stream and marked a map in the soil with his sword, “They advanced from the east moving into the northern territories. It’s not just the Ordovices they face though as they would have had to march through the lands of the Cornova first who may have resisted as well.” He looked up at his two remaining companions. “That’s not all,” he marked the ground again, “here to the north towards Mona is the land of the Deceangli and there is no guarantee that they haven’t joined any fight to the south.”

Decimus walked from the stream shaking water from his hands, “At least the Twentieth will be at full strength, they hadn’t established any fort and were marching daily or so I heard, they’ll be better equipped and manned in comparison to the Second.”

“That’s true,” Varro said knowing the Second had left men behind to guard Isca, he looked at Brenna again, “you would stand a better chance of getting through to them than us through these lands, no-one would have reason to stop you.”

She looked back at him, “And why would your Twentieth listen to me? If they’re involved in fighting and see another Briton approach them, I may not even get close enough to speak to them.”

Varro looked over to Decimus, “Go with her my friend, leave your armour and anything of Rome here, we’ve got to go for help or those men in the mountains we came with will be destroyed.”

Decimus’ face showed he clearly wasn’t happy with the decision but started to take off his chainmail. “Very well Varro, I will go with Brenna but what will you do? Isn’t it better that we all stay together, surely three are better than two are they not?”

“Yes they are but against the odds we are likely to face, I don’t think it would make that much difference. We can’t just abandon the Legate and the men of the Second, even if it is only to witness their corpses. Besides if anyone sees you two, they will probably think you are man and wife and won’t pay any attention.” He helped Decimus remove his chainmail as he was struggling to get it over his head.

“Isn’t that all the more reason for you to go with Brenna surely?” Decimus said.

Varro looked from one to the other, “You are both dear to me but for different reasons but so are the men fighting for their lives in the mountains back there. I am better suited to staying alone and you are better suited to going, both of you. I wouldn’t rest if I were the one to go anyway.” He looked over to Staro still drinking at the stream.

“Take my horse, you can ride two and rest one, I can move just as quickly on foot over this terrain.” He said pointing up at the almost sheer face of the mountain. “I’ll just take my dried meat sack and some water, anything else will just wear me down.” He walked to his horse as Staro raised his head, giving him a rub on his ear he whispered something to him and said to the two still watching, “Fill your water skins with fresh water at the stream, you’ll need it.”

***

The rain of arrows and spears began to falter as the men of the Second retreated back into the pass leaving some dead or seriously injured men behind in the dust. The slingers who Caratacus wanted so desperately to join the battle were caught with the same problem and most of their missiles now just bounced off the re-enforced shields. The Britons in their eagerness to draw blood were too crowded on the slopes and too few of them could get close enough to hurl their spears. Likewise only the bowmen close enough to the pass, could get a clear shot, loosed an arrow. Most of the men lying crippled and injured were quickly finished off by warriors as they swarmed over their broken and shattered bodies. Heads and limbs were hacked off, some still with their helmets on to be used as trophies later. A few men were dragged away kicking and screaming, their fate uncertain but not envious.

With the testudo still formed at the battlefront of the retreating lines, those clear of the pass now broke off and started to gain ground running up hill to the attacking Britons on the orders of their centurions. There were no defences except for the trees and the men of the Legion formed their own testudos in century groups until they reached them. Once there they were ordered to break free and engage the enemy. The fighting was fierce and casualties were taken on both sides but in time the men behind the large shields began to get the better of their opponents and pushed the Britons back over the summit. With the advantage of height, pila were passed forward and hurled at the retreating warriors, which helped speed them on their way.

The respite that the Britons had tried not to give the Romans was now a reality and they now held the higher ground on this particular peak. Those who were in the pass quickly began to make their way up the slope and before the rest were safe, the sound of trees being felled could be heard. Rations and weapons were taken from the carts and hurried upward to the top. Ever organised the soldiers of the Roman army began to build a fortified position which would secure them further, for the time being at least.

Vespasian was carried up to the top where rock provided a natural basin of flat land where they could survey the ground below. Medics and surgeons were brought forward to treat the injured and any supplies that could be carried, were taken from the carts in the valley. With all the animals dead, the remaining wagons were set on fire so they couldn’t be used by the enemy. As the daylight began to give way a base camp of sorts was already nearly set up and was preparing for the next attack.

Despite his injury, Vespasian was on his feet as soon as possible against his doctor’s advice. With thick padding over the puncture wounds and bandages strapped round his limb, wooden splits supporting his leg either side of the injury, he hobbled around speaking to his men reassuring them that they could hold the Britons off for days if need be. Each man had left Isca Dumnoniorum with enough rations for seven days but they had managed to salvage more from the carts below. He assured them that they were secure enough and would take this opportunity to draw the Britons in and kill as many as possible, all was not lost.

The faces looking back at him told the reality of the matter however, they were cut off and surrounded in enemy territory with limited resources and weapons and had already suffered many dead and injured. He knew he wasn’t convincing anyone but to give up now would mean certain death for them all and whilst there was still a chance of survival, he would take it.

He walked to the edge of the rocky outcrop on one part of the peak and looked down, he swallowed heavily. Massing below in the valley were thousands of enemy warriors, swarming like insects in the failing light. They looted what was left on some of the carts his men could not reach and stood shouting up at the Romans, waving spears, bows, swords and axes.

“Mighty Mithras help us.” He whispered to himself. Turning he called a centurion over and gave out orders for the defences further down the slope. They would make their mountain fort as impenetrable as they could by angling chopped tree trunks downward but beyond the reach of a standing man, sharpened stakes impossible to climb. Below that would be a ditch dug eight feet deep all around their encampment. Another vertical wall would be built behind the first defence. Pila would be piled at strategic intervals along the line behind the walls, archers behind them would pick off any who got through the walls further up on the land cleared of trees and if all that failed they would defend their land hand to hand until the last man.

As darkness began to fall the chopping of trees and digging continued and once in a while an archer would fire an arrow downward at any Briton that strayed into range, for now the accuracy kept the rest clear as men were speared by the deadly small missiles.

Caratacus and Ardwen watched from the safety of another mountain top close by as the Romans in the distance, the size of peas, toiled at their defences, chopping down trees and digging ditches.

“You have to admire them,” Ardwen said, “they took a good beating today and many of them lay dead but still they prepare for more.” He bit into a piece of meat as he watched and chewed.

“We too lost men and women but not nearly as many as our friends on the mountain top over there, besides what choice do they have? We should have foreseen this, their retreat, and had enough warriors to stop them gaining purchase over there.” Caratacus said in reply.

“If we had that many up there, they would have been seen as they approached and the trap wouldn’t have been sprung. Now we can pick away at them at our pleasure, their weapons won’t last and nor will their food, it’s only a matter of time.” Ardwen said looking down at his warriors below them.

“We’ll wait until its dark and fire the defences, night arrows should burn the wood quickly enough once we’ve put oil to them. We’ll ask for volunteers to go forward and soak the timber. If they’re careful and quiet, they won’t even know we’ve done it until we’ve launched our burning shafts skyward.” Caratacus said, turning to Ardwen he added, “Send some scouts to the local settlements and tell them of our victory today. Tell them we have more Romans trapped and that if they get here quickly enough, they can witness their destruction.”

Ardwen turned to do as he was asked, before Caratacus stopped him grabbing his arm saying, “I want warriors here not old men and women. When we destroy these men,” he said pointing at the peak opposite, “more will realise that these invaders can be beaten and we can remove them from our shores. Old women looking to slice off dead men’s cocks will only get in the way.”

Ardwen smiled and summoned a few men who were used as scouts, their short stocky ponies behind them and gave them their orders. He called for more food and retook his place next to Caratacus, “Well we may as well get comfortable, have some food, relax and wait until our guests are settled.” Both men looked to the enemy still busy forming their defensive lines.

Brenna and Decimus rode slowly at first their mounts trotting along the mountain paths. They didn’t want to draw attention to themselves and the surface was too dangerous to go any faster. The dark night had enveloped the peaks quickly once the daylight began to recede and the paths were difficult to see. They had searched for what seemed like ages looking for a single track that led them lower and eventually they had found one.

“It’s going to take forever to get down from here.” Decimus said quietly. Brenna ignored his comment at first and concentrated on guiding her mount with Staro trotting behind, tied off.

“We’re already a lot lower now and just have to keep going north.” She concentrated her eyes, believing she had just seen something ahead, Decimus saw that she was distracted.

“What is it, what do you see?” He asked looking forward in the direction of her gaze.

“I’m not sure. I thought I saw movement up ahead.” She replied slowing her horse to a walk. “Did you see anything?”

He stopped and peered into the darkness, “I can’t see anything are you sure? It’s probably the dark playing tricks on you.” She stopped by his side and got off her horse.

“Up there by those bushes.” She said pointing along the path they were following. Decimus looked forward straining his eyes and turning his head slightly from side to side, ears listening favouring his left.

“I can’t see or hear a fucking thing.” He turned to look at her.

“Stay here with the horses,” She said, “if I’m not back in a short time, turn around and find another way.” She began to walk along the path.

“Wait, wait a moment, let’s see if anything moves first, be sure.” He said but she held a hand out backwards and continued walking slowly. Decimus got down from his horse and muttered, “Stupid bitch, she’ll get us all killed.” He said talking to the horses.