The Wolf of Britannia Part II Page 2

  Rhian’s nostrils flared. “I wonder if your cowardly brother, Adminios, is on one of those ships. After all, didn’t he ask the Romans to invade our lands. The pig!”

  “No doubt he is,” Caratacus said. “Only through the Romans can he reclaim his kingdom, but we’ll defeat them. If he had not betrayed my father, we wouldn’t be dealing with an invasion.”

  “What about the other traitor, that so-called king, Verica?” Clud asked.

  “Probably,” Caratacus said. “The bastard wouldn’t stand with his army when I challenged him to battle for the Atrebatic Kingdom, which he had stolen from my dead Uncle Epaticcos.”

  Clud laughed scornfully showing his black, jagged teeth. “He ran like a dog with his tail between his legs, and he’ll run again.”

  “Now, that beast and Adminios return with Roman backing,” Rhian said.

  Caratacus glanced seaward and again back to Clud, Havgan, and Rhian. “I’ve seen enough—back to camp. Havgan, not only will you sacrifice for Lady Rhian’s warriors but for the entire army while we prepare for battle.”

  *

  By early afternoon, Caratacus received word the Romans were landing on the wide, rocky beach and estuary near Rutupiae and the Isle of Tanatus, as he had expected.

  Outside his headquarters tent, beneath a goatskin canopy, Caratacus, Rhian, and Clud were surrounded by his officers, including the senior clan chieftain, Fergus ap Roycal, minor chieftains, and captains, discussing strategy against the Romans. To one side, a cowhide map stretched between two hardwood poles. A messenger had just informed Caratacus that his scouts discovered an advance Roman force, a cohort of between 450 to 480 men marching inland on the trail to Durovernum to Rutupiae. The trackway ran roughly in an east-west direction. He dismissed the rider.

  “Are they mad?” pock-faced Fergus ap Roycal asked. He jabbed a dirt-encrusted finger toward the map. “They’re moving only a small detachment inland without deploying a screening force.”

  Caratacus turned to the gathering. “It’s called Roman arrogance. They believe all they need is to appear, and we will wilt away.”

  “What foolishness.” Rhian twisted the two silver bracelets on her left wrist with her other hand.

  Fergus wiped the sweat off his ham-like hands on the sides of his breeches. “The bloody bastards are asking to be slaughtered.”

  “And they will be.” Clud pounded a fist into the palm of his hand.

  The rest of the group voiced their agreement.

  “I know just the spot to strike the Romans,” Caratacus said. “There is a huge meadow surrounded by a pine forest. It’s a crossroads for the east-west trackway from Rutupiae to Durovernum and the north-south road from Portus Dubris in the south to Regulbium in the north. It’s ideal for springing an ambush. The area allows for maneuvering of our chariots and cavalry.”

  Caratacus pointed to the cowhide map. He touched the road to the north of the crossroads and then to the east and south. “That’s where we will place the chariots. Then they can sweep in when the Romans march up from the west end of the road into the meadow. The chariot assault should give the infantry enough time to emerge from the forest, form up in companies, and be ready to attack once the charioteers finish their run.”

  “The place is perfect,” Rhian said.

  Caratacus gave orders to the leaders to move out the ten thousand warriors who had been ready to deploy at a moment’s notice.

  “All right, see to your warriors,” Caratacus said.

  *

  Less than an hour later, as the afternoon grew hot and muggy, Caratacus’s forces arrived at the edge of the forest dominated by ash trees and hazel shrubbery. Beyond them lay the broad meadow, its chalky turf covered with thyme, rock rose, and a variety of wild orchids.

  Caratacus turned and motioned with his head for Clud and Fergus ap Roycal, who had been riding behind him, and Rhian to move up on his other side. The two leaders approached. “Clud,” Caratacus said, “take your three thousand men and deploy them on the north side of the forest at the edge of the meadow.”

  “Done,” Clud said. He turned and rode away.

  Caratacus gestured to Fergus ap Roycal. “Place your three thousand men to the north side as well, but to the right side of the north-south road. Split your three hundred charioteers along the north and east roads down to the forest’s edge. You’ll attack the north side of the Roman column.

  Fergus narrowed the raven eyes set in his pocked face. “By Teutates, we’ll crush the fucking lot, we will.” The hulking warrior turned his mount and cantered back to his position at the edge of the forest.

  Caratacus motioned to four minor chieftains and as many captains forward, and they encircled him. He gave them instructions to place infantry in the woods along the south edge of the forest, but to keep the north-south trackway clear. In addition, chariots were to deploy along the south and east roads just out of sight of the meadow. The chieftains and captains saluted and departed. Caratacus’s forces of almost ten thousand infantry, cavalry, and charioteers were now in position among the widely spaced trees surrounding the meadow.

  Sitting on his mount, Caratacus wore a checkered, green and yellow, short-sleeved tunic covered by protective, ringed chain mail, topped by a red, painted helmet. On a ringed, iron belt hung a steel longsword, sheathed in an ornate scabbard.

  Rhian sat next to her husband wearing a long, gold and green, tartan tunic of light wool and blue-and-red-striped breeches, feet adorned in deer-hide shoes. Hanging from her shoulder down to her right side at the waist ran a leather baldric, which held an iron longsword sheathed in a cow-skinned scabbard, decorated in multicolored, paisley patterns.

  Adorned with tattoos on their faces and torsos, most of the warriors were equipped with iron-tipped spears, long, slashing swords, and their heads crowned with iron, conical helmets. A few, like Caratacus, the clan chieftains, captains, and his retainers, wore woolen or linen tunics and breeches cross-strapped from knee to ankle above leather sandals. Long moustaches on otherwise clean faces proclaimed their nobility, and gold torcs circled their necks. The rest wore pelts of wolf or beaver above leather kilts, and many were stripped to the chest.

  Commanded by Rhian, the four hundred cavalry riders rode small, Spanish mounts. They wore soft, short-sleeved tunics over ankle-length kilts and were armed with longswords and javelins.

  Under Caratacus’s immediate command, the nearly three thousand infantry were deployed in dozens of loose companies, numbering from one to two hundred each, led by captains or minor chieftains. On the right flank, Rhian’s cavalry stood in ready. Nearly two hundred chariots, each holding a driver and a warrior armed with three spears, waited out of sight on the south road.

  Caratacus turned to his wife. “Rhian, once the chariots have attacked and passed beyond the Roman column, I will signal you to split your cavalry to attack the enemy. Hit them at the head and rear of the column where they are most vulnerable.”

  “I will.” She turned and trotted to where her unit waited among the ash trees.

  Both knew the legionaries would face outward with shields in front to defend against the infantry, their sides exposed.

  From his mount, Caratacus viewed the crossroads through a gap in the trees from the south side of the east-west trackway. He had a clear view of the meadow. To his left he surveyed the north-south road as it disappeared into the woods in the direction of Regulbium. Silence enshrouded the forest. No sounds of a gentle breeze whisking through the branches. The air grew heavy, and the sky seemed to be as close as the top of the trees. Not even the birds, such as the shrilling nuthatches, called to their mates.

  About ten minutes later a couple of scouts galloped towards him up the east-west road from the direction of Rutupiae. They drew up before Caratacus and reported that a column of Roman infantry were approaching. He acknowledged and dismissed them. The king called for his runners and dispatched them with orders to Clud, Fergus, Rhian, and the rest of his commanders to prepare for battle.<
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  Despite being a veteran of many campaigns, the tension of impending battle always caused his muscles to tighten. His throat dried, and his tongue felt like sand. His stomach churned and growled. Perspiration ran down the side of his neck. He spat. Fear is normal. If I weren’t afraid, than I would be either stupid or a mad man. He grinned and remembered the words spoken to him by his uncle, Epaticcos, many years ago when as a youth he took his first head in battle. “Being scared is half the fun. If you weren’t, I’d send you to the stables to shovel shit for the rest of your life!” Well, Uncle, as usual, I’m scared to death!

  Soon he heard the muffled sound of hob-nailed sandals tramping, kicking up dust along the trackway.

  The Romans emerged from the woods to the clattering of articulated body armor, which covered knee-length tunics, with short swords and daggers strapped to their waists. Each legionary carried two javelins, pili, which rested on their shoulders, blades glinting in the bright sunlight. In their other hand, the men carried a partially curved, rectangular shield, scuta. It was tall enough to protect their bodies from shoulder to knee. Entering the meadow, the legionaries changed from columns of two and regrouped into columns of four, strung out in parallel lines of eighty men each.

  The Roman commanding officer, a centurion, marched at the front of the formation. The scarlet transverse crest of horsehair on his iron helmet, metal greaves, and the long, vine cane he carried identified his rank. He was followed by a standard bearer, holding upright a tall pole bearing the cohort’s number X en-blazoned in silver, signifying the tenth cohort. Along the column at intervals of twenty men, marched junior centurions, standard bearers on one side, and on the opposite side, an optio, assistant centurion.

  Caratacus tightened his sweaty hand around the hilt of his sword. He turned about, glancing at his retainers and beyond at the warriors scattered through the trees. Caratacus looked in the direction of the south and then east roads where the chariots hovered out of sight. He turned towards the Romans, and an evil grin crossed his lips. I’ll make these shit-eaters pay for invading my country. May Teutates be with us.

  As the Romans moved across the meadow, the commanding centurion gave the signal to take a break. The troops halted but stood in place, leaning against shields that pointed outward on both sides. As the dust disappeared, the soldiers wiped away the grime from their faces, sighing in relief, and pulled out canteens for a drink to quench their parched throats.

  Caratacus peered around the lowlying shrub and smiled. This is better than I expected. Quietly, he raised his sword and gave the signal for his men to get ready. He turned and nodded to the trumpeter next to him. Using an upright, wolf-headed carnyx, the warrior sounded the brassy signal for attack.

  Chariots stormed down the roads from their hidden place into the meadow. Warriors yelled at the top of their lungs as they bounced, and bumped over the uneven meadow floor kicking up dust. They rode light, two-wheeled, wicker-framed chariots with spoke wheels pulled by two ponies. Each car contained a driver and a warrior armed with three throwing spears.

  The commanding centurion looked about and cursed. Instantly, he turned and barked orders to his other centurions. A split second later, the legionaries kneeled, javelins jutting between the shields of the outer two ranks. The inner two ranks raised their shields, turned them crossways, and formed a protective cover over the formation known as the turtle.

  Caratacus watched as wave after wave of his and Fergus ap Roycal’s charioteers hurtled through the roiling dust, working opposite sides of the Roman column and hurling spears at the Roman shield-wall. Several penetrated and a few soldiers went down screaming. But the wall instantly closed around the dead men.

  Despite the churning earth that partially obstructed his view, Caratacus watched as about a dozen charioteers drove their cars headfirst into the Romans, attempting to break or ride over the formation. The line buckled but held as Roman swords gutted the undersides of the hapless ponies and shoved them back onto the bloody field.

  Caratacus slapped a hand on his thigh, realizing the Roman defense was far better than he had expected. We must destroy their column!

  When the riders had exhausted their supply of weapons, they returned and rode behind the infantry companies Caratacus and Fergus had held in reserve. The dust finally drifted upward, forming a gray-white haze as it disappeared into the sky. They halted behind the footmen, dismounted, and unsheathed their swords, ready to reinforce the units. Caratacus nodded to the trumpeter, who sounded another command and the infantry of Clud, Fergus, and his men drew swords and raced toward the Roman defenders. The warriors yelled, whirling swords above their heads or waving spears at the Romans.

  “Kill the bastards!” Caratacus shouted.

  Within the space of a heartbeat, the legionaries stood and raised their shields and javelins. Upon command of their centurions, the first column of Romans locked their shields, protecting the spearmen behind them. Those soldiers set their feet, placing one foot to the front. In unison, they hurled a volley of hundreds of javelins at Caratacus’s attacking horde. Dozens of the deadly missiles found their marks as screaming, dying Britons rolled onto the ground, dead. But many survived, hurling their spears into the Roman ranks. A few found their marks, but most struck only the wall of shields. Then the lines hurled another volley of spears. More British warriors fell to their deaths.

  A second later, the shields of the front line opened and the rear line, which had expended its javelins, moved forward and formed a shield wall as the former line stepped backwards, stopped, and hurled their weapons.

  Fighters jumped over their dead comrades and rushed toward the Romans. The enemy hurled another volley of spears.

  Hundreds more went down before reaching the Romans. After expending their javelins, the Romans again locked their shields in place with an echoing slam, forming a near impenetrable wall. The legionaries raised their shields to eye level, protecting their upper bodies, from the onslaught. They readied their short-swords to thrust between the narrow gaps at the sides of the shields.

  Caratacus watched as the screaming warriors slammed into the wall of Roman shields.

  “Break them, dammit!” Caratacus shouted. “Crush them!”

  A growling uproar soared from the defenders. Cut and parry. Guard and thrust by the legionaries as wave after wave of Britons hurled themselves against the defenders only to be slaughtered in their tracks. Blood curdling screams echoed among the sounds of steel upon steel swords and crunching of bones by crashing Roman shields. Using the domed, iron bosses in the center of their shields, the Romans smashed into the Celts faces, followed by the deadly thrusts of short swords aiming for chests, armpits, bellies, and the groin.

  Appalled by the losses of his warriors, Caratacus raised an arm in Rhian’s direction signaling her cavalry to attack the Roman flanks.

  Rhian rode with her women into the frenzy, screaming like banshees.

  Despite the fierce Roman defense, their shield-wall waived. Small breaches appeared in the Roman column. Caratacus’s warriors punched more holes through the shield wall. The legionaries closed up, fighting savagely, slicing off heads, arms, and legs of their assailants even as their losses mounted. Agonizing screams, splattering of blood, and the gaseous release from bowels and bladders soared above the carnage.

  Rhian’s female cavalry struck the flanks, hurling their spears, striking Roman soldiers along the unprotected sides of their formation. One soldier after another died, and the defenses gave way.

  Even from three hundred yards, Caratacus observed that upon initially seeing woman riders, the Romans appeared hesitant to fight them. Good, they don’t like fighting women. That will work in our favor.

  Unfortunately, as soon as a couple of legionaries took spears to their chests and another lost his head to a longsword, they fought the women as savagely as their male counterparts. The Romans gutted their horses, toppling them to the ground, and slayed dozens of Rhian’s riders. The Roman line crumpled, but not
before at least two thousand of Caratacus’s warriors had been slaughtered. The chalky ground, now a pinkish, oozing mire littered with what seemed like endless piles of hacked and mutilated corpses. Flocks of wing-fluttering magpies, jackdaws, and thousands of buzzing flies dove and feasted on the putrefying dead.

  Caratacus spotted one lone Roman, a tall centurion, hunkering within his bloodied, partially ripped shield as he was encircled by a dozen warriors. Caratacus and Clud rode to the scene, raised his sword, and shouted, “Stay your weapons!” He turned to Clud, who had drawn his sword, and shook his head. Clud sheathed his weapon. Using his legs and feet to command the horse, he guided the restless mount forward through scores of slain Roman soldiers and British warriors. The centurion stood guard despite his wounds, silent against a circle of taunting warriors. The Britons parted as their king rode through their circle.

  They expected him to kill the Roman. Caratacus measured the young man, a junior centurion, and knew him as dangerous, even now with a headless, Celtic warrior lying at his feet.

  “I am Caratacus,” he called out in halting Latin. He slowly guided his snorting gelding around the centurion. Caratacus glanced sideways to see if he had heard. The soldier turned slowly, following his movement, and nodded as if surprised to hear a barbarian speaking his tongue.

  About twenty paces away, Caratacus spotted a blood-spattered, riderless horse standing by a dead, female warrior. He turned to a nearby captain and motioned with a hand. “Bring that mount here.”

  The captain brought the gelding next to the king. Caratacus nodded to the Roman and then the horse. “You are free to go …”

  A dissenting murmur rippled among his men. Caratacus glanced back at them, and they fell silent.

  “Go and tell your general how easily I destroyed your cohort!” he told the centurion. “Take the horse, now!”

  The centurion looked up at Caratacus and, for the length of five or six heartbeats, fixed his eyes on him. Then he turned away, lowered his sword, and shoved it into his scabbard with a hiss. He stepped to the animal and mounted hastily. The circle of warriors parted, and the Roman picked his way through the body-littered ground. He halted beyond the edge, as though questioning that he was still alive.