Caratacus

Chapter Twenty One

Decimus watched her walk away from him until the darkness swallowed her form, enveloping her completely and waited, and waited, He heard nothing except the breeze and saw nothing except for the darkness all around him. After a while he decided that she had been gone far longer already than the short time she had suggested or he had imagined. He looked around into the dark, cold night and at the landscape around him, he walked along the track ten paces and then back again to where the horses stood. He patted each of them in turn and spoke to them but there was still no sign of Brenna.

“Fucking cunting fuck cakes.” He said to no-one in particular under his breath, it was frustration as he realised for the first time he was alone, miles from any friendly faces and surrounded by hostile barbarians for miles around. He looked at the horses who just stared back at him and then at the grass at the side of the track.

“Go on then.” He said and let them wander to the side, letting them eat the long green grass. He turned back to where Brenna had disappeared and then turned looking in the direction they had come from, back down the track. They both looked the same, both directions, cold, dark, empty and uninviting.

“Well if you think I’m staying here all on my own you’ve got another thing coming lady.” He said to himself and slowly drew his sword as it quietly whispered out of the sheath. He frowned concentrating and walked slowly along the track in the same direction as Brenna, sword facing forward. For the first time he realised how cold it was despite them now being a lot lower in altitude than they were earlier that day where the danger, real danger was, he thought to himself, danger that he could at least see. He had an ironic grimace on his face as he continued forward grinding his teeth.

“Where in Hades are you Brenna?” He whispered and then he saw movement and stopped dead, standing perfectly still, a shiver went down his spine but not from the cold. Something had crossed his path but it was too far distant for him to see clearly, it looked like a large Briton hunched over clasping his stomach. His senses were stretched to the limit as he tried to pick something up but staring into the darkness he saw nothing. He considered shouting out to Brenna in full voice but knew that if there were Britons nearby, they would be alerted to his position and would descend on him like a pack of wolves. He moved to the side of the track, off the gravel and onto the soft grass verge where he moved more quickly straining his eyes into the dark, every sense heightened.

“Brenna!” He called quietly almost whispering but there was no response, he knew there wouldn’t be because she would have had to have been standing right next to him to hear his voice.

“Fucking thunder cunt!” He whispered to himself, now he was scared. The pattern of the track in front of him changed, curving to the left and downwards. At the arc of the curve there were dark trees, many dark trees. He squinted trying to see what lay beneath them but could only make out the nearest low branches with blackness beyond, he turned again and looked back at the horses, they were still happily munching away on the grass oblivious to what was going on around them. He wished he was a horse he decided, they would be looked after by whoever had them unless they were desperately hungry at least. He considered going back to them and riding off but he couldn’t leave Brenna alone in the middle of this barren place, could he?

Varro scrambled up a steep slope as he thought about Decimus and Brenna and where they were and if they were safe. The night was cold now and a slight breeze blew down the valley but the sky was clear which at least allowed him to see from his elevated position with the stars shining brightly above. With the help of the gods they would be miles away from this place by now and galloping towards help, somewhere in the lowlands, ‘Mithras, make it so’ he thought, praying mentally. From somewhere below he suddenly heard noises from the valley over the crest in front of him, blown on the wind. Staying low he reached nearer to the edge and got down on his stomach, the grass was cold but not yet full with nightly dew, something unpleasant to look forward to later no doubt.

He crawled over the ground and could see Britons moving along the track below, tiny from this distance they were so tightly packed, they looked like a human river as they moved through the gorge like valley carrying torches. He followed their direction with his eyes and saw numerous mountains tops and hills in the distance where fires burned. One of them, the tallest peak was especially bright and he could make out the distinct features of a Roman defensive position around its middle.

“Thank Mithras.” He said, his voice the first he had heard in hours, it sounded strange, isolated, alone. He removed his helmet placing it down and leaving it behind and edged further forward to get a better view. The last thing he wanted was for his helmet to glint and give his position away. He wouldn’t last anytime at all if the Britons saw him and wouldn’t be able to get away once they scaled his lofty perch, which wouldn’t take long. He looked out over the valley and saw that his Legion or what was left of it, the survivors, had dug palisades and built defences. A swathe of land was bare where they had chopped down trees to build their temporary fortification and he could see a great many men moving about on guard, the size of ants from this distance.

It looked as if they had been forced to use every piece of land available to them right up to the peak where more fires burned. There were no tents erected which could only mean that they were either in enemy hands or had been abandoned, left where they were ambushed. If that was the situation, he wondered how much food and water they had remaining. These were questions he couldn’t answer but assumed that if Vespasian were still alive, they would have as many provisions as physically possible as well as weapons. He could make out a line of archers beyond the cleared land and some patrolling the perimeter where he could also see what he presumed was a stock of javelins.

Looking down again at the river of bodies he knew it would be suicide to try and get to the men of the Second from where he was. The other peaks nearby were covered sporadically with their own fires which he assumed were ringed by Britons warming themselves against the night air. Every so often he heard singing carried on the breeze as if in celebration and saw that the Britons on one mountaintop were dancing around a fire, which could only mean that they had already killed many of his comrades.

He lay there feeling helpless, cold, frustrated and hungry and tried to think of something positive he could do to help. He felt his eyes growing heavy as he lay there and tried to shake off the tiredness by blinking his eyes but he knew he was no good to anyone exhausted. He retreated from the edge, wrapped himself in his cloak and curled up in a scoop in the ground out of the wind and allowed himself to fall into a disturbed sleep.

Not too far away on the Roman held mountain, eight legionaries slipped through the defensive perimeter one at a time. A centurion patted each of them on the back and quietly wished them good fortune as they crawled by him on their stomachs. They had removed their armour and blackened their tunics and skin as much as possible using spit and mud dug up from the ditch in the palisade. Vespasian had asked only for men who were willing to volunteer to go on a mission that in all probability would end in all their deaths but he was desperate, as were they all. The eight men were the first to volunteer although there were others. One said he preferred to do something other than sit and wait for a guaranteed death if they did nothing at all.

Vespasian knew that the rations and weapons could only last a certain amount of time, that said, they were now all of them, on half rations which meant they could survive longer. That in itself created problems because as the days went by they would get gradually weaker but it was a chance he had to take, he had to use every ounce of experience now if they were to survive. He actually hoped that the Britons would attack in force and break themselves against his defences and eventually withdraw but knew the odds were against it.

There were three realistic possibilities as he saw things; the first and most probable being the all-out attack with little regard to tactics by the enemy, in which case his men would send as many of them to their gods as possible. As a result of seeing many hundreds of their own warriors die they may withdraw and go home. He knew the Gaul’s in particular had such a habit of doing just that when the blood started to flow and they took severe losses but would this enemy be the same? Second and the worst case as he considered it, was that the Britons sat back and waited for their foe to run out of food and water and either become so weak they couldn’t defend themselves and were easily overrun or lastly they made one heroic charge down the slopes and onto the waiting spears below.

All scenarios he had considered fully and discussed with his senior officers and the general opinion was that tonight they should defend the mountain and see what it brings. In the meantime, the eight men would try to get down from the mountain undetected and attempt to get help. With no sign of their scouts, who he presumed were dead, the eight men were the only hope.

Once more he looked out at the fires on the peaks surrounding his own and wished that he could reach out and crush them, so tiny they looked from his position. All he could do in reality now was wait, wait and see what Caratacus did, he didn’t have long to sit and wonder.

Decimus had lost sight of the horses and the track some time ago and had stopped trying to look backwards except to make sure that no-one or nothing was behind him, which he did repeatedly. He kept having a sense that someone was following him or was about to take his head off with a sword from behind as he turned around. He imagined the hunched over giant he believed he saw earlier, swinging a double headed axe and removing his skull in one swift movement. Who would mourn for him, what would happen to his body, would anyone pray for his soul? He pulled a face, screwing his features up as he dispelled the thoughts and concentrated on the task at hand. Gripping the handle of his sword tighter he continued forward.

“Brenna.” He whispered standing still after a while but there was no reply except for the breeze. He took another step and immediately saw something move directly in front of him, it was Brenna he was certain. The shape was fleeting moving fast from left to right and just within his vision in the darkness and he was sure she was running with her sword in hand. He began to jog forward, spatha to the front in his right hand now held tighter than ever. He got to where he saw her and slowed but could see no sign of her passage, he glared at the ground but there was nothing.

Snap!

Something had broken a branch or a twig nearby and he crouched instinctively expecting an arrow. There was light in the distance flickering, a fire maybe but no arrow struck him. He walked towards the flickering flame, lurching from left to right as he went, all the time expecting attack. He was now getting angry at himself for being so scared, he was like a frightened lost child in the woods, the anger helped calm him. Fool he thought to himself, stop being such a prick. Closer and closer he moved, he could now smell wood smoke and hushed talking from around the fire where bodies sat huddled.

Fifty or so paces from them, they still hadn’t seen him, one of them looked like Brenna he was sure. He looked at the others and saw they weren’t soldiers but were dressed in the same garb as her. Quietly he approached the fire hardly breathing, he could see their faces now in the light of the fire, it was Brenna he was certain. He stood for a while trying to make out what they were saying but could only hear mumbling. As he crept closer, the breeze rustling through the trees and the crackle of the fire made it impossible to distinguish their words.

Suddenly Brenna turned her head and looked directly at him, “Decimus, thank the gods,” she said standing and walking towards him, the others all turned to look at the new arrival, “I got lost and came across these people of my tribe.” She smiled and approached him. “We were about to set off looking for you. You poor man you must be frozen, come warm yourself by the fire.”

He looked at the people sat round the flames, they were wearing swords and axes and he saw a couple of bows lying nearby, two of the men stood staring, hatred filled their eyes. He looked back to Brenna and she smiled as she suddenly whipped her hand up plunging a blade deep into his throat and ripped it through his flesh. Blood spurted out splattering her face as he fell, dead before he hit the ground.

The eight soldiers were led by Centurion Varenus Corvus a veteran of the campaigns in Gaul, four optios were also in their number, the rest were made up of legionaries. Although the night was clear and fires lit, some of the landscape around them was hard to distinguish so Corvus stuck to the natural gulley’s in the rock and knew they would be hard to spot, or so he hoped. Each man carried only one thing, a sword. They too had been dulled by caking the blades in mud so as not to give away their position as they tried to avoid detection. They moved slowly but swiftly down the slope as they made the descent. They could hear the enemy clearly all around them but would only engage those who attacked them or shouted an alarm.

Corvus had reminded them all not to look at the fires or their vision would be dulled and impaired sight could mean death. They would move and then go to ground sometimes for short periods and sometimes for longer, words would only be whispered and then only into an ear of the man next to them. They were to rely on hand gestures and were to be prepared to lay low for long periods of time even until darkness returned the following night if necessary. The final advice he had given them was the most crucial, if they were discovered and surrounded and there was no chance of escape, they were to fight to the death. By way of reasoning he had explained some of the things he had seen both in Gaul and Britannia of Roman soldiers captured by the enemy.

Crouching low Corvus surveyed the area ahead where he intended to travel. From the height they were at he had an advantage of seeing the lower ground virtually laid out before him as if it were a map, the disadvantage was that someone looking up could just as easily see him and the men unless they were very careful. They were in a slight crevice about eight feet in depth where trees and bushes grew thanks to a trickle of water from the mountain top. He had chosen this route as it ran the furthest down the slope until disappearing over an abrupt ledge somewhere hundreds feet below the palisade. The noise of the trickling water would help mask their movement and the branches would hide them from view but still he took no chances. He turned his head slowly and held out his mud covered arm and gave a signal to the man behind him to lay flat. Head first with his gladius held in his hand, he moved lower on his elbows and toes, moving inches at a time.

After travelling only about fifty normal paces and very slowly, he stopped and indicated to those behind him to rest with his hand by gently lowering it to the ground flat. Their progress would be exceptionally slow, not only because they wanted to avoid discovery but also because after a while, the muscles they were using burned like fire. After the pain had eased significantly and after regaining his breath he moved on again, the line of men moving in tandem behind him, silent and unseen.

Later as the first signs of a new day began to dawn, he had reached the drop that he had seen from a distance hours before when they were selecting which route to take. He looked up without moving his head and saw the first strands of morning in the night sky, soon it would be light and he had to make a decision. He edged forward parallel with the narrow stream and peered over the drop. He saw the trees were thicker and taller below, probably due to the shelter from the wind. He followed the waters flow and saw a camp of Britons in the distance on the flat ground through the branches. They were far enough away for little concern for the present and most of them looked as if they were sleeping. He scanned the area for any obvious guards but saw none, so sure were they of their safety.

Corvus decided on a plan of action and very slowly turned his body to the man next in line behind him and whispered his orders. They were to take cover in the trees below and rest, he considered it too much of a risk to go further with daylight fast approaching. The result of their capture or discovery was far too great for the men still above them, they would wait in the trees, try and sleep and wait until darkness came again.

Caratacus stared up at the Roman emplacement high on the mountain in frustration. They had buried themselves like a lice on a hogs arse and would take some manoeuvring and prodding to displace. Having considered all his options and looking at the defences from every conceivable angle, he had formed the opinion that he had to attack. If it failed badly and many of their people were killed trying to scale the fortifications, he would draw back his warriors from the slopes and starve the Romans out.

He and Ardwen were agreed on their course of action and spent most of the night telling their men and women where to position themselves so as to try and cut off every possible area of escape. If they could contain the enemy fully, they knew the battle was half won, the problem however, was that many of them had stopped on or near the tracks, or by streams where they had arrived at the base of the mountain and there were gaps where the Romans could force an entire Legion through, if they had one.

By the time they had done as much as they could to disperse the warriors fairly evenly, the sun was beginning to show its first glimmers in the sky. Now the problem was co-ordinating an attack with thousands camped in family groups around the base of a large mountain. They had all been told to watch for the first signs of fire around the palisades once it was a light and they would be able to approach under the cover of the smoke and push the attack forward.

Ten men had been sent up the slopes throughout the night with sacks filled with oil, six had returned. That at least meant that there were now six bags full of highly flammable liquid that would burn brightly once they were hit by an arrow bearing flame, or so he hoped. The signal for the bowmen to go forward was to be the first rays of light. Caratacus looked about him and at first saw no movement or indication that his orders were being carried out but then looking to the east, he saw the first group of bowmen scaling the mountain.

He turned to Ardwen and nodded saying, “There will be no better day than this to crush so many of our enemy.” He clasped his cousins forearm. “Good luck Ardwen of the Silures, may you take many heads.”

“And to you Caratacus of the Catuvellauni, may luck and good fortune bless you today and may our gods crush those of Rome.” Ardwen said smiling and then turned and mounted his horse and made off for his position further along the track.

Caratacus watched as the men grew smaller as they climbed the slopes, slippery with shale and morning dew, bows in hand. The first line of defences were about seven hundred feet up and the men would already be tired from their exertions, then would have to light fires before sending their arrows crashing into the palisade. His attention was drawn to a wave of warriors some few hundred feet behind the archers as they took to the slopes, their end not in sight.

Vespasian had instructed his men not to watch the eight as they tried to make their way off the mountain. A group of gawking fools stood standing and staring over the palisade would have given their position away and they would all be doomed. He had also said that if they were found, they would know soon enough, further explanation was not required. The medic had cleaned his wound again with water and applied some herbs that he was told would speed his recovery. He still couldn’t put his full weight on the leg unaided so one of his men had fashioned a crutch from a branch which in itself was difficult to use on the uneven surface of their sanctuary, but he was thankful nevertheless. With the crutch and the wooden splits either side of the wound for support, he hobbled from place to place.

He had managed to sleep briefly in between the pain of his leg and the cold disturbing his slumber together with the nightmares he foresaw of his destruction and of those around him. He was standing trying to lean on his injured leg that had stiffened somewhat during the night when the alarm sounded from somewhere below. A lone trumpet at first was quickly joined by others as men raced to put their helmets on and grab their javelins.

Roman archers were the furthest forward, positioned at the top of the defences. As soon as the first alarm was raised arrows were nocked onto draw strings as the men ducked behind the cover of wicker walls made for them to launch their arrows from. The wicker would take some impact and absorb damage but they wouldn’t last long against a hail of continued assault. The men crouched behind their small walls hoping that the trench beyond them would be enough to stop the Britons gaining access to where they were.

Legionary Titus Valerius was one such soldier, he looked to the other man, Valerio also sheltering behind the relatively small six foot wicker wall and nodded. To the side of each of them were piles of arrows ready to use against the attackers, neatly stacked and facing the same way to ease loading. The position was mirrored at intervals of fifty paces all the way around the mountain, several hundred feet from the lower ground.

Valerius peered through the small gaps in the wicker and saw movement below, a lot of movement. His fingers felt the reassuring draw string again as he edged to the side of his part of the wicker. The sight before him made him pause and shocked him to the core. There were thousands of enemy warriors struggling up the slopes towards them. A few carried torches and were surrounded by pockets of archers beyond them in the masses were blue painted warriors, men and women carrying long swords, axes and spears. Some he saw wore cloaks against the morning chill their pale skin underneath covered in woad in circular Celtic patterns.

“Fire Arrows!” Valerius bellowed as loud as he was able and drew back his bow, he knew that their own missiles would carry further than those of the Britons due to the height advantage and indeed fly faster through the air. They had to keep them as far away as possible to avoid the wood in their defences catching on fire.

“Loose. Concentrate on the bowmen.” He heard the order given from somewhere to his right and estimated the enemy were now approximately two hundred paces away and took aim. The first arrow flew straight and true and landed somewhere in the crowd of bodies eating up the ground below. The second arrow he saw clearly land as it entered the forehead of a baying woman who instantly fell backward and was lost in the crowd.

The Britons lit their arrows and launched the first wave to a sound of cheers and roars as they took to the air. Valerius watched as the bowmen gathered around those with torches lighting their deadly arrow heads coated in oil. He aimed again for the torch bearer almost directly in line with him, his arm wavered slightly as the pressure of the draw took hold. Sighting the big man along the length of the shaft he let loose allowing the barbed missile to fly free. It rose slightly on its downward path as it headed for its target but quickly dropped again arcing toward the flame.

The torch bearer didn’t see it approach as he was too busy with his task as archers fought to use his flame. The sharpened iron head penetrated his temple with a violent impact that rocked his huge head sideways as he had turned shouting at another man. It sank deep into his skull and he fell backwards but was propped up by the bodies around him, his torch disappearing from sight as others scrambled to retrieve it. Valerius turned nocked another arrow and drew back again aiming for the same spot where two men he saw were now aflame, their clothing on fire. The torch bearers flames must have ignited their cloaks.

He calmly looked down the shaft of his next arrow and considered shooting at the men screaming as their flesh burnt but instead shot to the side of them, the others could burn. As the first of the enemy arrows began to find length, they landed still on aflame embedding themselves into the wood of the defensive positions. Those that landed in the freshly dug soil of the palisade were extinguished as oxygen smothered them, others set fire to anything they hit that was combustible.

Vespasian had considered having legionaries placed at strategic intervals with the few buckets they had recovered from the spoiled wagons nearby but knew the men would have made all too easy targets. He knew they wouldn’t last long silhouetting themselves above the defensive wall but also knew they couldn’t afford to use water in such a way. He prayed his gamble would work as the barbarians drew to within a hundred paces of their line.

“Loose pila.” A centurion shouted from somewhere behind Valerius but he concentrated on his own task and continued to launch arrows. He was aware of running boots hitting the ground all around him and then a wave of javelins were launched into the air. He looked briefly and saw the soldiers returning to their stock pile for more. Turning back to the front he saw the javelins land as they buried themselves into the men and women who were intent on killing them. Dozens were felled in that first launch and fell backward onto a wave of advancing bodies. They were dragged to the side or pushed out of the way and vanished from sight almost instantly under the feet of those who came after them.

The screams of the Britons were animal like now and a lot louder as they vented their fury at those above. Some were silenced forever in the next avalanche of arrows and spears but still the mass kept advancing, seemingly undaunted. Valerius drew his gladius as the first of them reached the rampart, his face glowing from the flames of arrows burning into the wood of the palisade. He tried to run up the steeper incline of the defensive wall but slipped and fell backwards on loose soil. He took the opportunity of sinking an arrow into the soft ground as his feet scrambled for purchase and tried pulling himself up on its length. Anger bore into the young archer from the enemy as he realised it was useless and nocked another arrow.

“Heavy pila, loose!” Another order rang out from somewhere.

The nearest attacker was now less than fifteen feet below him and jumping to reach the sharpened stakes on the defences. The draw string was allowed to race forward freeing its arrow but in his haste Valerius jerked his arm at the last instant and missed the manic warrior who wanted to kill him. He reached for another arrow blindly, keeping his eyes on the man who was now joined by others, as they sought to gain entry to the mountain fort. Another legionary stepped forward and hurled a heavy javelin towards them, it sank deep into an exposed throat and gurgling, the man fell away.

The sound of battle was almost deafening now at such close quarters as the Britons tried repeatedly to climb the wall. Many died and more were wounded as they were repelled time and time again as they fell in their heroic but foolhardy hordes. Some climbed up onto the backs of others and grabbed for the burning stakes only to be run through by pila, heavy and light now as the men of the Second butchered away at hands, arms, heads and bodies.

So close were the enemy now that the soldiers could lean out and stab down at the brave, who threw themselves against their spears bending iron as they plunged them into the faces of the screaming few who managed to climb onto the flaming stakes. Burning or stabbed, they fell away, only to be replaced by others. Occasionally one would get over the palisade only to be chopped down by a gladius. It wasn’t all one way however, as soldiers were lanced by a thrown spear or hit by the occasional arrow when an archer could free himself from the masses to shoot. The injured men were quickly carried away from the front line and further up the slope to safety and replaced by other troops eager to kill the barbarians.

Caratacus watched from behind a line of heaving bodies pushing to get forward and surveyed the scene above him. The attack had stalled on the defensive line of the mountain encampment and now his people were being slaughtered, bottled up like penned sheep. He watched as a man fully aflame jumped back down from the palisade and landed on top of others who fought to push him away, punching and kicking. The Roman legionaries looked like cloaked devils as they thrust their spears downward lit up against the flaming wood. Helmets glinted and armour shone, reflecting the fires that burned before them as they went about their deadly work. He knew that to continue in this way would mean the death of more brave souls for no gain and knew he couldn’t allow that to happen.

“Withdraw,” he started to shout, “Withdraw.” He ran forward and grabbed at the backs of those crowding forward and spun them around shouting at them to retreat.

“Fucking move.” He snarled into faces that turned to see what was happening and who was shouting and what.

“Can’t you see this is pointless we’re just dying up there?” He spun one woman round and she careened backwards falling down the slope into the legs of others still clambering upward. He grabbed at others and hurled them backward until more and more realised what was happening, who was demanding the retreat. Slowly the tide began to turn and run back down the mountain followed by the occasional javelin or arrow. Those struck slumping forward onto their faces as they were hit, legs flailing into the air. Some lost their footing because of the gradient and tumbled downward screaming as they went limbs breaking. Caratacus turned and joined the retreating army as he fought to maintain his balance, the attack had been a failure and so something else was called for.

The rest of the day was spent helping those that could be helped, down from the slope, those who were dead and there were many, were left where they had fallen. There were injured still below the defensive line crying out for help but when anyone approached to try and recover them, arrows and javelins forced them back. The Romans weren’t in any mood to grant leniency even to the injured as they knew their own fate if they were to be taken, a stalemate was reached.

Caratacus withdrew to the lower valley and found Ardwen who had fared no better as he too had lost many brave souls that morning. By the late afternoon the injured that could be moved were taken away on carts heading to their villages wrapped in bandages. Those with life threatening wounds were gathered together to be administered and comforted in their final hours by those who were their kin or friends.

“We’ll try again tonight.” Ardwen said looking up to where smoke rose to the sky and bodies lay. “Under the cover of darkness, with no moon, we’ll be on top of them and inside before they know we’re there.”

Caratacus looked at him and half smiled at his determination, “Very well but if that fails, we starve them out. We can’t lose as many as we did today again. I’ve seen their iron take too many lives and I tire of the weight on my shoulders, we need the guile of the fox and the strength of the wolf if we’re to break these men.” He looked upward onto the slope and saw the dead laying strewn everywhere the eye could see, the sight replayed an image of the morning assault in his mind’s eye and it was awful.

“Go and find your family cousin, they’re camped along the track.” Ardwen pointed. “Get some rest and eat and come and find me here later as the sun begins to fall. Tonight we shall climb again and things will be different, you’ll see.”

Caratacus patted him on the shoulder, “I hope you’re right, it would be better to defeat them with swords rather than hunger but defeat them we will.” He turned and went to find his wife and family.

Varro had woken up cold and damp when the first sounds of battle had reached his ears. Lifting his head slowly he looked around trying to get his bearings and for a moment was confused. Rolling over he pushed his cloak off his head and looked around. At first he had thought he had been having a nightmare until his surroundings confirmed the reality, he really was alone and on top of a mountain miles from the men of his Legion.

He cursed himself for falling asleep for so long as he realised that dawn was breaking. Looking out over the valley he watched as the Britons had climbed up to the defended held slopes like a tide, only to be halted suddenly in it’s tracks. Tiny defenders had cascaded arrows and pila into the swarming masses of the enemy and the advantage of high ground had won them the fight. Fires burned and plumes of smoke rose high into the morning sky from fire arrows and their targets.

After the battle which had raged for a considerable time, he could see many hundreds of bodies littering the slopes left behind as the attack finally subsided and withdrew. He could also see soldiers being carried further up the mountain, obviously wounded. He wanted to be with them but could do nothing except watch as the fate of the men of the Legion was played out before him. Again it brought home his own position as he remembered his isolation but the thought of Decimus and Brenna hurrying north calmed him somewhat. He looked around again and saw hundreds of plumes of smoke from camp fires on the valley floor and suddenly realised he was hungry. He moved backward and rolled onto his back pulling his food bag around and opened it. He chewed at the salted pork slowly and decided that he couldn’t stay where he was, he would move lower as a plan began to form in his head.

It took him nearly all day to descend onto the valley floor where the smell of numerous fires was strong to his senses. Moving slowly to avoid detection the day was beginning to draw in and he could hear voices of the Britons as they prepared food. He felt his stomach rumble, the pork had staved off hunger and would continue to do so and keep him going but for now he had more serious concerns than food. He crawled into a copse at the base of the slope and stripped down to just his tunic. The rest he buried roughly only keeping his dagger to hand and then he waited.

Later as darkness covered the land, the light of the fires burned brighter and so did the noise from the Britons as they began to consume their brew before battle. Singing and laughter echoed around the hills and mountains as they celebrated the lives of those who had departed that day. Funeral pyres were lit and a solemn atmosphere enveloped those gathered around them as they paid their respects and then the singing and celebration began again. He watched on waiting for the right moment from his concealed place in the copse. As the celebrating continued, numerous warriors started to walk away towards where he lay to relieve themselves in the bushes.

Just as he was beginning to regret his idea a young man approached, shouting back to his friends and laughing. Varro watched as he pushed branches aside and made his way into the copse where he wouldn’t be seen by the others. He stopped about five feet from the covered Roman, hidden under branches and dropped his woollen trousers. Wind escaped his backside as he chuckled to himself and crouched down, starting to groan with effort.

Varro gripped the handle of his dagger and pushed himself up quickly in one fluid movement and lunged forward, the young warrior barely had time to turn his head as cold sharp iron slashed through his throat ending his short life. Varro looked down at the body and quickly dragged the clothing off. He soon realised that his victims shit had landed in the trousers and the smell made him gag. He wiped off what he could using leaves and quickly put the pants and other clothing over his tunic and the cloth cap the man had been wearing onto his head. The rich combination of sweat and shit was foul but he would have to endure the discomfort for the time being. He turned and made his way through the bushes and stooped peering out at the other side. There was another fire some distance away surrounded by more Britons, he pushed his way through the branches and emerged.

He was seen immediately by two of those sat at the fire and feigned doing up the pants, tugging at the harsh cloth. One of the men raised a hand and shouted a greeting and laughed, Varro waved back and began to walk. He was aware of eyes following him or maybe it was his imagination as he angled away from the light of the fire and made for a dark area ahead. Expecting a shouted challenge at any moment he carried on wanting to run but knowing he couldn’t. Reaching darkness his beating heart began to slow, when he was sure he was out of sight he turned and saw no-one was following. The smell from the soiled clothing made him cringe as he found his way onto a track and began to walk faster.