Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered Page 12

  “What have we found out from the prisoners?” a centurion asked.

  “I’ll give those bastards credit, they are difficult to break,” the legate said, avoiding the question for a moment. “Torture is tricky. One needs to get them to talk without breaking them to the point they start spouting off a bunch of shit, just to make it stop.”

  The centurions chuckled grimly.

  The general continued, “We believe they were after our supplies. Thankfully, our skirmishers discovered one phase of their ambush north of the lake. Had they been able to catch the army strung out in the woods, they could have very easily destroyed most of our food stores and supply wagons. A credit to the auxilia cohorts who closed ranks around our stores. They took a severe punishing, but they held.”

  Tyranus remarked, “Caratacus knows his chances of besting us in battle are minimal, at least not without suffering thousands of losses. By attempting to starve us out, they minimize the risk to their warriors. He is clever, I’ll give him that.”

  “He’s also been named High King of both Silures and Ordovices.”

  Paulinus’ remark caused the centurions to stare at him wide-eyed.

  “The barbarian prisoners were only too happy to share that little piece of information. Some even refer to him as ‘High King of Britannia’.”

  “As high king, he keeps all the tribes united,” Tyranus grumbled.

  “It also means they will be more likely to fracture should we capture or kill him,” Magnus observed. He looked to Paulinus. “But what happens now, sir?”

  “Now, we take a day to honour our dead. The day after tomorrow, we make our way towards the sea. Scouts have returned, and it seems Caratacus has buggered off completely, putting as many miles between his ass and us as he could. With as many wounded as we’ve suffered, pursuit is impossible at this point. Wagons are overflowing, and we’re going to need to get creative in how we transport the rest.”

  The legate went on to explain that the army would back-track about three miles up the road they had come down before making their way west, following the river to the sea. From there, they would march south along the coast, searching for a suitable place to camp for the winter.

  “No going home for us, then,” Furius observed.

  Tyranus then pronounced, “As long as we have a secure position to fortify, with supply access via the sea, we will be in good position to hit these bastards again, come spring.”

  The collective mood the following day was very sombre. Outside the camp along the lakeshore were rows of pyres. The surrounding region had been scoured for dry timber, and now the bloodied corpses of the fallen were laid atop in reverence. Each fallen man’s century took the time to pay their respects, with centurions calling their names three times as their souls were sent on to Elysium.

  Two of the slain were from Magnus’ century. For one of the soldiers, Optio Caelius asked that he be allowed to light the pyre.

  “It was the only death he would have found acceptable,” Caelius said later, after they watched the flames take hold of the timber, crackling and billowing thick, black smoke.

  “In battle, you mean,” the centurion noted.

  “Twenty-seven years in the ranks, he could have retired at any time. He confessed to me not long ago that he had no idea what else to do with his life, and it would be best if the barbarians got him before the army discharged him for being too old to wield a gladius in battle. He did not want to fade away as a crippled old man.” The optio looked at Magnus with a sad half-smile. “You of all people should understand that, sir.”

  It wasn’t meant to be a rebuke, though it certainly gave Magnus reason to pause. After all, the dead legionary had been a few years younger than he. And as the flames engulfed the kindling, he began to wonder what would happen should the army suddenly decide he was no longer fit to lead his men into battle. What would he do then? More than anything, he longed to find peace within his deeply troubled soul. And yet, he had no idea what would bring him solace. Perhaps it was the capturing or killing of Caratacus. He doubted it. Caratacus had not been anywhere near Mai Dun when Achillia was killed. No, this was not something as simple as a personal vendetta against the newly-proclaimed High King of western Britannia.

  What Magnus did know was he missed his old mates more than ever. For more than two decades they carried each other through the harshest of conflicts and moments of unbridled sorrow. But now, every one of his closest friends in the legions was gone. Carbo and Decimus were killed at Braduhenna twenty years before. Camillus died protecting the legion’s sacred eagle during the Invasion of Britannia. Praxus and Artorius left the legions soon after Mai Dun. Valens also retired from the ranks and ran off with Magnus’ younger sister. Of all his old comrades, it was Artorius he missed the most. He had been more of a brother than friend since they joined the legion together at the age of seventeen. Artorius was gone, but there was one left. It was he the old Norseman would go see that night.

  “Magnus, old man,” Metellus said, surprised to see the older centurion entering his tent. The pilus prior for the Fifth Cohort had his armour laid out on his camp table, making notes to all the damage it had suffered, while his manservant polished various pieces of his kit.

  “I needed to get away from the First Cohort for a while,” Magnus explained. “Despite being in the same legion, I almost never see you anymore, old friend.”

  Metellus raised an eyebrow and chuckled. “So I’m your friend in my own right now, and not just the son of your best friend?”

  The men shared a laugh.

  Magnus reached over and smacked the younger centurion on the shoulder. “I would say I’ve considered you my friend since Judea. By Mercury, how long has it been?”

  “Eleven years,” Metellus answered quickly. “It was hot, dry, and the people were utterly insufferable…although to be fair, they really weren’t any worse than the Silures or Ordovices.”

  “Difference is, I think these people will eventually be conquered. The Jews have been fighting for thousands of years. They simply refuse to acknowledge when they’ve been beaten, and I highly doubt that anyone will ever subdue them.”

  “And for it all, there is still something I miss about that place,” Metellus remarked thoughtfully. “I can’t say exactly what. But never mind that. You didn’t come here to reminisce about the old days…or did you?”

  Magnus smiled sadly. “I admit it hasn’t been the same since Praxus and Artorius left the legion.”

  “And how long until you join them in retirement?”

  “Anxious to be rid of me, are you?”

  “I am, if I ever want to see one last promotion,” Metellus answered candidly.

  Magnus looked at him inquiringly.

  He laughed and shrugged. “Come on, old boy, you’re the oldest centurion primus ordo in the First Cohort. Hell, you’re even older than Tyranus!”

  Magnus did not reply.

  “Every soldier longs to join the elite First. When we’re at full strength, which I admit we aren’t even close to at the moment, I have four hundred and eighty legionaries and decani, plus eighteen principle officers and five centurions under my charge. You have scarcely a third of that number. Your soldiers are all elite veterans who require little to no supervision. The youngest soldier in the First is still older than over half of my legionaries. You know how many pages of disciplinary reports I go through every week?”

  “A lot more than I do, I reckon.” While the First Cohort did have the occasional lapse in discipline, usually brought on by excessive drink, it was rare when compared to the rest of the legion. “So you want my billet in the First Cohort.”

  Metellus furrowed his brow. His next words dripped with sarcasm. “Hmm, let’s see. Better pay, fewer soldiers to supervise, no fatigue details to oversee, plus you are all on the commanding general’s advisory staff. What’s not to like? Granted, there are no guarantees I would be next in line for elevation to the First Cohort, even if you did retire. There are oth
er pilus priors who have seniority over me, though I hope my record will stand on its own merit. I will remain in the emperor’s service long enough to see. If I am passed over, then I will be done with the legions. To be honest, either outcome suits me.”

  “Am I the only one who isn’t certain as to whether I should ever leave the ranks?” the Norseman asked rhetorically.

  Metellus’ playful demeanour changed to one of seriousness. “Magnus, I have a family. Marcia never ceases worrying that I’ll either be killed in battle or succumb to any number of infectious diseases. You see this gouge in my armour? Had I not been wearing it, I would have been spitted like a wild pig.” He paused and took a deep breath. “And then there’s my boys.”

  “How old are Lucius and Gaius now?”

  “Seven and six, and. I feel I’ve missed too much of their lives already. I never knew my father—my real father, I mean. I was already a grown man when my Uncle Artorius adopted me.” He took a moment. “I want my sons to know me, Magnus. My hopes at promotion into the First Cohort are as much for them as for me. Centurions primus ordo are ensured elevation into the equites upon retirement. I may still have a chance, should I retire as a pilus prior; however, that will take a lot of political manoeuvring, which I am not very adept at. But, should I manage to find myself as a member of Rome’s noble order of knights, I need to make certain I have enough funds to ensure that Lucius can at least follow the career path of the equites. Marcia has already said repeatedly that gods forbid either of our sons ever joins the army.”

  “Yes.” There was a long pause. Magnus pondered all the younger centurion had said. Metellus was only thirty-eight, and it would seem strange if he left the legions before Magnus.

  Metellus saw the strained expression on his friend’s face and was suddenly apologetic. “Dear friend, I do apologise. You came to me needing to talk, and all I’ve done is bicker about my own petty issues. Please, tell me what vexes you.”

  Magnus sat on the edge of Metellus’ camp bed and stared at the oil lamp flickering on the table. “Family,” he said quietly, almost a whisper.

  “Come again?”

  “It is family I feel devoid of,” Magnus explained, coming to the realization. “I should have known it when I stood beside my brother aboard his ship. We’ve only seen each other three times in the last thirty years. The legion became my family, especially those I joined the ranks with. Artorius and I were, in many ways, still children when we enlisted. Praxus, Valens, Carbo, and Decimus became our older brothers. You still have a number of mates from your early days in the legion. But even when all of them are gone, you still have Marcia and your boys. My family is gone, Metellus…all of them.”

  The following day, many of the wounded who were unable to walk were loaded into supply wagons. Others had makeshift stretchers made from their cloaks with javelins used for poles. These were dragged behind their pack animals or by fellow soldiers.

  Scapula first thought to crucify all of the enemy prisoners. However, with Caratacus long gone, there was no one to terrorize with the image of crucified warriors. He opted instead to have his men cut their throats and leave the carcasses to rot in the sun. The one exception was the treacherous Oelwein, who had survived an arrow to the back. The governor ordered him savagely flogged and then hung from a cross along the shoreline of the lake.

  It took the better part of the day to make their way around the hills to the west following the river. They soon came to an open plane approximately two miles from the sea. The army was able to spread out into several columns, and they followed the coast another few miles before camping for the night.

  Though there was at least another month of warm weather before the autumn rains, there was a sense of relief among the soldiers of Scapula’s column. Scouts reported no signs of the barbarians since the Battle of Trawsfynydd, as it was now called. The terrain along the sea was a lot more open, negating any attempt for the enemy to set an ambush.

  The following day they reached a tidal river so wide they had to make their way several miles inland, hugging a range of steep hills before finding a viable fording point. Still, there was no sign of Caratacus. It would be another two days before they reached their destination. Along the way they burned two settlements, taking at least a hundred sheep and other forms of livestock.

  By midday, scouts had reached another large tidal river, with a large beach and wide open hills to the east. With only grass, scrub brush, and various white and yellow flowering plants, it was the perfect place for the vast army to encamp.

  “At least there won’t be any nasty surprises from Caratacus,” General Paetus observed as he, Paulinus, and Scapula sat astride their horses on a modest hill overlooking the region. The legate turned to Scapula. “Governor, are you not well? Your face is rather pale.”

  “I haven’t slept in days,” he confessed. “Not since Caratacus got the jump on us. And I wasn’t resting well even before then. We’ve had no contact with the rest of the province. I fear for what may have transpired during our absence. Will the restless provincials attempt some sort of uprising, what with half our armed forces trapped within enemy territory? And what about the constant troubles in Brigantes?”

  “You’ve left your deputies in command,” Paulinus reassured him. “When a province is at war, it is the governor’s duty to be with his men. That being said, it would probably be best if you returned to Camulodunum for the winter. Not much you can do from here.”

  “Yes,” the governor agreed with a tired nod. “Anyone know what this river is called? Or for that matter, where in Jupiter’s name we are?”

  “No idea,” Paulinus said, shaking his head. He gave a sinister grin, nodding his head towards the shoreline. “There’s a fishing village down there, perhaps we could ask one of the locals.”

  Scapula elected not to destroy the fishing village. Informing the local chief that they would be spared, so long as they provided fish for the army. They also learned that the river, known to the locals as the Dyfi, was south-flowing and therefore a good source of fresh water.

  “It is a very long river,” Landon reported to the governor. “It shares its watershed with both the Dee and Sabrina Rivers.”

  The villagers, thus far oblivious to the war, were absolutely terrified at the sight of the vast imperial army. Most had never even heard of Caratacus, nor did they know he had been named high king over their own monarch, Orin.

  “They say Orin is not their king,” the Brigantes interpreter added. “To the south along the peninsula is the Demetae territory. Their chief confesses he has no idea which side their king has declared for, if any.”

  “That’s no surprise,” Paulinus stated. “On this remote corner of the isle, no one would bother with a small fishing village such as this.” He sniffed the air and gazed out towards the sea. “I have to say, this is quite the tranquil little corner of the empire.”

  Scapula looked at him with a raised eyebrow and grinned “Of course. All the lands of Britannia should be regarded as the emperor’s. We should make sure these people are well aware of who they now serve.”

  “They probably don’t give a damn one way or the other,” the legate conjectured. “It’s the same for most peasants throughout the world. A local chief or a foreign emperor, it matters not. Just as long as they are left to live their lives in peace.”

  Since they would remain in camp for at least the next six months, the legates ordered their men to build semi-permanent guard towers and other structures. Legionaries would still utilize tents for their quarters. A functioning latrine was erected with a sewage line directly fed from the River Dyfi. Each legion had its own separate camp. The auxilia infantry cohorts built their own between the two larger fortresses. Cavalrymen were housed near the sea with plenty of riding and grazing land for their horses. By early September, a reconnaissance flotilla of three triremes and a quinquereme spotted the camp, their commander coming ashore to meet with Governor Scapula.

  “Inform Admiral Stoppello
that we are establishing the army’s winter camp here,” Scapula directed.

  “Understood.”

  The governor then looked to Paulinus and Paetus. “It seems I will be returning to Camulodunum a bit sooner than I originally anticipated.”

  “We’ll still be here when you return, sir,” Paetus reassured him.

  Scapula nodded. “Confine any wintertime operations to reconnaissance and intelligence gathering. Perhaps we can make a few friends among the Demetae.”

  The weeks passed uneventfully. One afternoon, Magnus stood at the shoreline, arms folded across his chest, as he watched the approaching warships along the horizon. The Calends of November were nearly upon them, and the weather had turned decidedly cooler and wetter over the past few weeks. Though never cold enough to freeze, even during the dead of winter, the perpetual damp in the air chilled the imperial soldiers. Out upon the sea, the ships rose and fell with the tall waves. Rough surf lapped away at the beach.

  “They’re a few days early,” Magnus observed.

  “The seas get decidedly rough during the winter months,” Tyranus noted. “Best we get resupplied now, in case they become unnavigable. Besides, we have some passenger cargo for them to retrieve.”

  “Passenger cargo? Governor Scapula left for the capital over a month ago.”

  The master centurion kept his eyes fixed on the approaching ships. A smirk now creased his face. “Tell me, Magnus, when was the last time you took any leave?”

  “Just prior to the invasion,” the Norseman answered. “Why do you ask?”

  “Because four years is far too long without any sort of reprieve. You need to get away from here for a while, away from the army, the war, and hopefully that which deprives you so often of sleep.”

  “That will never go away, I’m afraid,” Magnus remarked glumly.

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Tyranus stated. “I do know sitting on your ass here, through the entire bloody winter, is not going to help you. I’ve already spoken with General Paulinus, and he agrees we need to place as many of our officers on leave as we can. The lads in the ranks have nowhere else to go, and so they can simply be given time away from their duties.”