Caratacus

Chapter Twenty Two

As Corvus began to move forward on his stomach, he felt that his limbs were stiff from inactivity and movement was difficult. He and his men had lain unmoving in the ravine for so long, that he had fallen into a restless sleep drifting in and out of consciousness despite the circumstances surrounding them. He paused tensing and flexing the muscles in his legs and arms as he tried to get the blood flowing again and then slowly began to move off. Seven bodies then followed slowly and silently behind him as they made their way to the bottom of the huge gash in the side of the mountain where they had spent the day under cover of the trees. He paused and drank from the stream for the final time and then pushed himself up into a crouch and moved to the edge of the bushes where he surveyed the land.

The Britons had been gathering their weapons and were now moving away from their fires down one of the tracks, presumably he thought to mass before another attack. He looked around and back at his men and signalled for them to wait as he emerged from the trees. He walked slowly to the nearest fire, looked around again and then gestured for his men to follow, the way clear. Slowly they emerged from the damp shelter and searched about around the camp. They found scraps of meat left cooking over the fire and ate greedily having their fill before moving off in the opposite direction to the Britons. When they were sure they were totally out of sight, they began to jog along the edge of the track trying to stay in cover as best they could.

***

Valerius had lost count of the amount of lives his arrows had taken in the dawn attack on their position earlier that day, it was impossible to say, so crowded had the Britons been in their thirst to assault the palisades and outer defences. He had been relieved by his senior Centurion, Marus Fulvious Cortus who was co-ordinating the defences for a few hours, in order to get some food and some sleep but had spent most of the time watching as work details dug out another series of ditches halfway between his own position and the very summit on the mountain, the problem now, was that they would soon run out of space to fight. Cortus knew it meant their commander expected that the Britons would break through the outer perimeter or that it was a distinct likelihood.

In order to try and raise moral, Vespasian had briefed his officers saying that in the event that the first line of palisades were overrun, all legionaries were to fall back to the second line where their defence of the mountain would continue. The men of the Second Augusta, the centurions and soldiers were some of the finest men he had ever had the fortune to serve with and the best in the Empire and they would not fall to a bunch of half-naked savages who tried to mate with goats.

He had also said that he expected re-enforcements in a matter of days but until then they would take as many lives as were thrown against them. He refused to die on this insignificant hillock and wouldn’t allow his men to do so either. They would march out of these hills with their heads held high after stopping the assault and would one day return to wipe the scourge of Caratacus from the face of the earth. His men quiet at first had listened in silence but as the speech progressed he had rekindled their spirits, thumping a clenched fist into the air they had cheered and stood applauding the man who would lead them to salvation.

That day, the remaining trees had been felled and embedded into the new ramparts that ran all the way around the upper half of their sanctuary, the ends sharpened with axes. The men went about their business with renewed vigour after the speech by Vespasian and now looked forward to the next attack with renewed optimism. As well as forming a difficult obstacle to overcome, the lengths of timber also helped to re-enforce the ramparts themselves, some of which had been significantly damaged during the first onslaught. Everyman knew that if Caratacus and his warriors broke this second line, they would never leave this mountain alive and it would become their tomb. In order for that not to occur, every effort was to be made to repulse the enemy lower down the slopes, which was where Valerius later found himself once more.

The sky was darker than the previous night due to ominous black clouds overhead and only the light from fires provided any relief but they were not their own. Small fires twinkled in the distance down in the valley, hundreds of them but there were none where they were as Vespasian had ordered a blackout. He realised that he had to ration the remaining timber and didn’t want fires illuminating his men once the next attack was underway.

Uncomfortable and cold they maybe, but that discomfort could well be the difference between life and death as they would not silhouette themselves against the night sky. Valerius shivered as he walked out from his wicker barricade once more, a distance of ten paces, looking up he sniffed the air and suspected it was going to rain. Looking down he thought he saw movement and quickly went back to cover, he crouched, nocked an arrow and waited.

Valerio saw him dart back or did he? “It’s your imagination,” he said to himself but he stayed behind the wicker shield and looked downwards again.

“Men think they see shadows at night, there’s nothing there, besides if they try again, they’ll get so much iron pumped into them, they’ll never come back again.” He turned to look at Valerius and smiled, that instant his back arched forward and he gurgled. Horror creasing his face as blood ran from his open mouth and down his chin. Valerius tried to bring up his bow as a hairy limed head grinned out at him from behind his dying friend. Valerio was hurled to one side and over the palisade as a wet glistening sword was removed from his back.

Valerius froze for a moment, finding movement impossible as suddenly all around him the ground came alive below the palisade. A swiping blow chopped through his bow from his side, he saw Britons scrambling up over the defences by climbing onto each other’s backs.

“Alarm,” he shouted, “Alarm.” As loud as he was able and turned to run as another sword swipe crashed into his helmet slicing through the metal like wheat, lurching upward his hands touched the ground as his boots tried to grip the blackened soil. His limbs seemed alien as they betrayed his attempted escape. He was aware of the sound of breaking wood as his wicker shield was ripped from the ground. Arrows began to flash through the air from above as the men of the Second launched their response. He ran scrambling and falling forward, his life flashing before him, expecting to feel a sword or spear blink out his existence at any moment.

Figures above shouted garbled words as his fingers dug deep into the grass now clear of the soil as he pulled himself up. He could hear grunts and shouts behind him and he imagined a sword sinking into his trailing foot, Faster and faster he tried to move, panting with effort, eyes wide, mouth gasping for air. Javelins rained down and thumped, impacting into the surface all around him. He heard an anguished cry close by but didn’t dare try to look to see what had caused it.

“Run, keep going, come on you can make it.” A voice shouted from above as his helmet fell over his eyes. His legs burned from effort, his calves pumping, ankles hurting like never before as the incline took its toll. One quick push on the rim of his helmet cleared his vision as he saw a legionary shouting from above as he hurled another javelin, it landed close by somewhere behind. Twenty paces from the next ditch above the new rampart, the soldier and another linked hands as one was lowered reaching out. Arrows hammered into the ground, shouts of pain and anger rose closing in on him all around but still he ran, his lungs taking in huge gasps of oxygen.

Six feet away from the outstretched hand he leapt upward, flailing his leading hand to make contact but he fell short, weak and out of breath from his effort to get this far, he slammed into the wall of the rampart, hitting it hard with his face. He gasped again for air turning for the first time since Valerio had been killed and saw blue streaked Britons upper bodies bare, eyes large, mouths screaming, bearing down on him.

“Move your fucking arse soldier.” The legionary clinging onto the other man from above shouted, his other hand holding onto a post sticking out from the ground. An archer appeared at his side and fired an arrow as Valerius tried to block out the approaching barbarians in his mind. An arrow flew by his head from the archer, clearly aiming at something close. Taking a deep breath he stumbled to the outstretched arm stretching down to him and jumped up. The strong hand clamped onto his wrist and pulled his body up, feet dangling as he was hurled up and over the trench, he landed hard, gulping for air, leg muscles burning. Grunts of effort filled his ears as men all around him threw javelins at the enemy trying to scale the palisade, their last real defence against oblivion. More men re-enforced their hold on the mountain as pila and arrows were thrown and fired at the attackers who screamed in anger and agony alike as their dead grew. Those who came behind the warriors at the front piled into their backs as a killing field quickly grew and the dead mounted but on they came, fury in their eyes as they sought to take the mountain.

Varro quickened his pace and began to run slowly at first away from the sounds of battle. He knew he had to find help as quickly as possible and to do that he needed a horse. He tried to steady his pace as the incline of the valley helped propel him downward faster than was comfortable, his upper legs straining with effort. Once in a while he would get a whiff of the dead man’s shit in his new pants as he ran and decided he would have to find more clothing at the earliest opportunity. He ran on until eventually the ground began to level out, he slowed his pace and stopped catching his breath. Turning he looked back up the track at the way he had come, it snaked curving upward until his disappeared in the dark. He couldn’t see anyone following or anything beyond the winding road in the dark.

Controlling his breathing he ran on until the first rays of light started to appear and his knees and ankles felt like the bones were grinding together, sweat peppered his forehead and ran down and into the already dirty stinking clothes. He stopped again and paused leaning forward, hands on his knees that now ached like nothing he had ever experienced before. Wiping at his brow he felt dried salt from sweat just below the hairline, proof if any were needed of his effort. He staggered on trying to loosen his muscles but knew he would have to stop and rest soon or he would collapse exhausted.

He had eaten the last of his pork sometime before and was already starting to feel hungry again when he saw a glimmer of a fire in the distance up ahead at the side of the path. Drawing closer he could just make out silhouetted bodies sat, huddled around the small flames. He carefully moved into the trees that ran along the edge of the path and got closer still using the trunks as cover. As he began to smell wood smoke and the aroma of cooking meat, he heard hushed voices talking, they were Britons.

The dark night had favoured Caratacus as he had pushed forward his attack. Under the cover of darkness he had led two thousand warriors up through the ravines of the mountain as Ardwen had done the same elsewhere hidden by trees and thick foliage. The sudden onslaught had caught the Romans by surprise and had not only overrun their defences but had rewarded them with prisoners as well. So swift and furious had been the enthusiasm to take enemy lives, that over two hundred legionaries had found themselves cut off from their comrades further up the slopes. Some who resisted were hacked to death or hit by their own arrows and javelins from above but as others realised their plight, they surrendered throwing their weapons and shields down.

Ardwen had pushed to butcher them all, stripped naked and in full view of the survivors cowering behind their last ditch above, but Caratacus had refused vehemently. He persuaded him that the men would be taken and given to surrounding villages and tribes as slaves and proof of their own power and the Romans vulnerability. It would pave the way for more to fight against the people who had come to steal their lands and wealth. Ardwen had given in but sought re-assurance that the remainder on the summit would be slaughtered to a man, Caratacus agreed saying that this would be their grave.

The palisade that had proved so troublesome previously now became an effective defence against arrows as they were loosed at the massing Britons baying for more blood. Some of the ramparts were destroyed in places, hacked away by large war axes as effective rough steps were gouged out and dug into the ground ready for the next assault. Warriors now sheltered below the unnatural wall waiting for the order to move again. Ardwen insisted for it to begin immediately but Caratacus was cautious and asked for patience, once again Ardwen impatiently agreed. The Silures leader knew his cousin was better placed to be in overall command and was already demonstrating his more effective leadership.

Before the battle for the summit could begin however, Caratacus sent word of his plan, back down the mountain. A great victory was at hand over the eagle bearers and he wanted their destruction witnessed by as many tribal leaders and chieftains they could find. In the meantime, they would bring their warriors forward to feast and celebrate the victory and consolidate their position making it impossible for even one member of the depleted Legion to escape.

Varro crept forward as close as he dared and crouched down trying to take in the words his ears were almost hearing. They struck him like mighty fists battering his weary body and soul as they shocked him to the core. He leaned with his back to the tree not twenty paces from the fire and listened as Brenna once more told of his friends death.

“The fool died like the rest will soon enough, Vespasian and his lap dogs will never escape these valleys and mountains.”

The crackle of the fire was the only other sound he heard now as no-one interrupted her as she repeated the story again as if to convince those sat with her around the warmth of the fire.

“For many months now my brother and I have lived and fought amongst the invader but they never suspected we are of the Catuvellauni. He even died living this lie so we could discover their plans, killed by Silures warriors, allies to Caratacus and sworn enemy of Rome.”

Her voice sounded different, almost feral, animal like as she spoke. He slowed his breathing not wanting to give away his position in the foliage behind the tree. Her words were like daggers stabbing at his heart, he had openly given himself to this woman and it had all been a lie.

“I had the opportunity to kill this man and I took it.” She said, Varro was frozen with shock as she continued, “Decimus was one of the centurions and trusted scout rider of their leader Vespasian. He and his kind are the eyes and ears of their legions and I even prostituted myself to another, Varro, to gain his trust.”

He fought the urge to vomit as the words pounded at him again striking him like cold iron. He fought the urge his rage was directing, as part of him wanted to run into the camp and tear her throat out with his blade. He knew that it would be a futile death and no-one would learn of this woman’s treachery and it would result in his own, no doubt by the hands of those she was speaking with. He turned his head carefully as she continued to talk and boast and looked around the edge of the tree, his face against rough bark. To the right of the fire impaled on a wooden stake was the head of his friend Decimus, mouth open, eyes wide in shock.

The final ultimate victory that Caratacus had sought did not occur despite many attempts to achieve it. Time and time again his brave warriors and those of Ardwen climbed above the final rampart of compact mud and were met by a deadly hail of arrows and spears through night and day as they tried to reach the remaining soldiers to take their lives on the summit. Soon there were many dead and wounded on the mountain and he ordered that groups carry them down the slope again and again. After five full days and nights, warriors stopped returning to the summit and simply vanished into the valleys below, exhausted, wounded and mourning the dead.

Ardwen had tried to gather his forces but only a few thousand remained as both leaders finally conceded they would have to starve the Romans out before taking their heads. They were now left with a combined army of less than four thousand strong but it was more than enough to complete the task or so they believed.

Conditions a few hundred feet above the Britons were far more precarious than they knew or could have imagined. Of over four thousand legionaries that marched into the mountains, only four hundred and seventy now survived. They were down to their last days rations and were short on arrows and javelins as they waited for the inevitable final assault. More lay injured, unable to fight on, some dying who would never see Rome or their homeland again. The only surviving medicus had ran out of bandages, poultices, vials and herbs to treat the wounded two days before and now resorted to tearing up the tunics of the dead to staunch the flow of blood from freshly injured men. The crippled and dying had been removed to the very top of the mountain where they were afforded a little shelter by the basin at the top. The same could not be said of those who stood and waited hungry, dirty and despondent behind their barricades for the enemy to return once more.

Soldiers half-starved by days of rationing, stared down the mountain, dirty and covered in blood and grime, exhausted by the unrelenting punishment the Britons had delivered to them. Those injured but still able to wield a blade and hold a shield, guarded the miserable peak with those who had somehow escaped injury and waited, now led by the surviving centurions. Vespasian had developed a fever as a result of his own wound three days into the siege and was barely lucid anymore as he lay with others with stab wounds, lacerations, bruises and broken bones.

Valerius looked out glassy eyed at the view around him and breathed heavily. All day the Britons had been carrying their dead and wounded down the mountain and funeral pyres had burned for days in the valley below, the acrid stench of burning flesh wisped up into the air to fill his nose with its rank stench. He had been told that after the last senior officer had lost his life, the centurions who remained alive were now considering suicide. The rumours had said that they refused to fall into the hands of the barbarians and would prefer to die honourably rather than await a fate worse than death if they weren’t fortunate to die in battle.

As he sat watching the enemy lines carrying bundles of bodies file lower, he looked at the blade of his gladius and imagined the cold iron entering his stomach, pushing upward under his ribs and into his heart. He closed his eyes as tears fell and rolled down his cheeks as he realised he would never see his parents again. His father, a former optio with the Thirteenth, had been so proud of him when he had joined the legions following in his footsteps. He remembered the day he had first returned home to stand in front of both his father and mother in uniform, armour polished to perfection and shining brilliantly. He sighed rubbing at his eyes at the memory, wiping his tears away, hoping no-one had seen his weakness but then realised he didn’t care if they had. He was nineteen years of age and would never see another birthday or his family again.

As he looked around at the men near him, battered and exhausted, red eyes staring back, he heard a sound carried on the wind and stopped breathing. His head turned in the direction he thought it came from but his eye caught more Britons scurrying down off the mountain. The breeze was strong and he knew it moved sounds playing tricks on the mind, especially at such height. He leaned forward as if a few hand widths would help and listened again.

“If you need a shit, fuck off over there.” A legionary said sat next to him, wrapped in his cloak and jerking his head towards the holes dug in the ground for such things. He ignored him and stood up and looked at the Britons again. They weren’t just carrying their dead and wounded anymore, they were withdrawing from the mountain by the hundred and as quickly as possible. He looked beyond them into the valley but could see no reason for their obvious panic. He began to move around the edge of the wicker wall that had been his home for what seemed like an eternity.

“You’ll get something shoved up you’re fucking arse with a barbarian holding the other end of it if you don’t get back behind this wicker you daft cunt.” He heard the man say.

“Shut your hole for a moment will you?” He replied. “Look!” Pointing down the slope, he stood on his toes trying to try and get a better view. Cautiously the other man came out from behind the wicker and joined him.

“If I get a fucking spear I’ll gut you with it myself before I die you little runt.” The soldier said joining him frowning. “So what’s to be seen then?”

“Shush, shut up for the gods sakes and listen you dirty unshaven smelly whores hole.” Valerius said removing his helmet and cupping his hand to his ear leaning out. He frowned concentrating straining his ears.

“I think you need my right boot up your sack young man, there’s nothing to hear.” The agitated soldier said but Valerius didn’t respond. He cocked his head listening. Then he heard it again and his face lit up, the distinctive blare of a Roman trumpet somewhere in the valley below. He turned and ran around the entire line of their defences shouting, almost crying with joy as the blares got gradually louder and others realised they were going to live.

“We’re saved, we’re saved, Jupiter’s cunt we’re saved.” He shouted tearing off his armour and running round like a lunatic. The survivors of the Second Augusta jumped up and joined in to a man as they too heard the sound of rescue being carried on the breeze as the men of the Twentieth Legion with Corvus and his men marched into the mountains of the Silures.

“Well shave my hairy ball bag and call me Emperor Titus Cock Fuck, I don’t bloody well believe it.” The previously dour soldier said and joined in the celebration hugging and kissing Valerius.

Caratacus and Ardwen had considered ambushing the advancing legion as it marched, trumpets blaring and echoing around the valleys. They estimated their strength to be around five thousand possibly more, a fully manned legion, fit and well fed and ready to fight and more than twice the amount of men they had under their strength. As Caratacus looked down on the men of the newly arrived enemy, shining as the sun reflected off their armour, he looked to his own people and saw exhaustion and no will to fight on against the odds. They were tired, hungry and weary of death and battle after so many days fighting. He knew they were in no condition to face the new threat.

“We’ll go north into the lands of the Ordovices and the Deceangli for the time being. They’ll swell our numbers and together we’ll crush this plague as it eats away at our land.” Ardwen smiled at his cousins words and resilience.

“What of the injured?” He asked climbing onto his horse.

Caratacus looked about him at the wounded lying all around, littering the floor of the valley, “If they can travel, they can come with us but any who have to be carried, they have to be left behind, we can’t afford to waste time.”

Ardwen considered arguing but knew his cousin was right again, he kicked his horse as it reared up and shouted, “You will not be forgotten.” He then raced after Caratacus who was already galloping away into the dust ahead.

The men of the Twentieth Legion could barley recognise the survivors of the Second Augusta as Romans when they reached the first line of palisades. They were gaunt, dirty shadows of their former selves, unshaven and unkempt. The usual inter legion rivalries were forgotten as the injured were treated and soldiers ate properly for the first time in days. Those who had passed away before rescue could arrive, were buried as words were spoken over their unmarked graves. Fit healthy legionaries helped their injured comrades off the rock and down into the valley below. The Britons main force had gone, travelling north, the worst done to defeat those who had defended the mountain.

It took several days until the men of the Second were ready to move and only then, flanked and led by the soldiers of the Twentieth. Cavalry scouts rode ahead ensuring that the way was clear but the Britons didn’t return, they were gone as if spirited away. It took several days for the slow moving army to make its way back to Isca where Legatus Vespasian’s men could lick their wounds. Of all of them, he was one of the more fortunate, as his fever ensured he was unaware of the entire journey. He finally awoke three days after they returned, in a fresh bed wearing clean dressings and wondering what had happened on the mountain top that had haunted his feverish sleep.