Britannia (Veteran of Rome Book 3), page 10
Marcus, surrounded by his principal officers and the Cohort standard bearer clutching the boar-headed banner, sat waiting on his horse beside the road when Hedwig appeared on the balcony at the top of the tower.
"There are four dead inside," the Decurion shouted as he caught sight of Marcus. "No sign of the others Sir."
Marcus frowned and was just about to call out, when a cry rose up from some of the Batavian riders near the river. Marcus turned to look in the direction of the tumult. The riders were shouting to each other.
"What's going on over there?" Marcus cried, as he urged his horse in the direction of the noise. The river bank was muddy and lined with tall and thick river reeds. As Marcus reached the water's edge, a party of mounted Batavians came riding towards him escorting four dirty, exhausted looking men. Marcus stared at the men, as they staggered towards him before sinking wearily down onto their knees in the mud. They looked like they'd been through hell.
"Thank the gods, thank you, Sir," one of the miserable looking soldiers cried, "You came at last Sir."
Marcus took a deep breath as he stared at the men.
"What happened here?" he cried.
"They came at night," the soldier stammered, "they killed four of my men before we knew what was happening. My boys here and I, we managed to escape Sir. We have been hiding in the reeds for two days now. We haven't eaten in two days Sir."
"Give them some food," Marcus snapped turning to one of his Decurion's beside him, "and find them someone with whom they can ride. We will take them with us."
"Bless you, Sir," the Batavian called out, "but there is something else you should know Sir. The men who attacked us - they were not local men. They were from the north, they were Caledonians Sir."
Marcus's head whipped round and he stared at the soldier.
"Caledonians, here, this far south," he exclaimed, "Are you sure?"
The soldier nodded eagerly. "I was at Mons Graupius with you Sir. I know what these Caledonian tribesmen look and sound like. They were Caledonians. I am sure of it."
***
"What do you think?" Marcus said, glancing at Adalberht. The two of them sat on their horses within the cover of the trees, as they peered at the lone Briton fort, perched on the crest of the steep rocky hill. It was mid-morning and it was drizzling.
"Not much of a siege," Adalberht grunted, speaking in his native language, "The Briton boy told us there would be a hundred men besieging the fort. I only count twenty eight, where are the rest of them?"
Marcus muttered to himself, as he peered at the rebel pickets across the open field. Adalberht was right. The rebels were clustered in small groups, huddled around open fires, as they formed a loose line surrounding the western approaches to the hill fort. He shifted his gaze to the hill fort. Nothing about the tight cluster of thatched, round-houses inside the fort looked unusual, but he could see no defenders up on its earthen embankments.
"The lake protects the fort from the north and the southern approaches are too steep for our horses," Marcus muttered, "that leaves the west and the east. Boy," he said turning sharply to the young Briton behind him, "you said there were a hundred men; where are the rest?"
"The entrance into the fort is from the east," the Briton muttered with a strange excited tension in his voice as he avoided Marcus's gaze, "they are probably on the other side of the hill. Let's attack them Roman."
Marcus frowned and for a long moment he examined the Briton. The youth seemed keen to fight but he was unarmed. Slowly he turned his attention back to the hill fort.
"Adalberht," he said, "At the head of the lake over there is a ford across the river. Send a squadron to secure it. That will be our line of retreat if things go badly." Marcus paused as he turned to look to the west. "Take two squadrons and move around their flank. Once you hear my trumpet signal, attack them from east. Until then, do not show yourself. Understood?"
Adalberht nodded. "They won't know what's hit them," the veteran warrior growled as he turned and rode away.
Marcus glanced at the massed ranks of his cavalry. The Batavians were silent as they clustered around their officers amongst the cover of the trees, their eyes fixed on the enemy in the fields, a couple of hundred paces away beyond the tree line. The only noise was the occasional nervous whinny of a horse.
"Stay close to me," Marcus snapped, turning his attention back to the Briton youth. The young man again avoided Marcus's gaze, but he gripped the reins of his horse in eager anticipation.
"Drustan will be grateful, he will be eternally grateful," the youth muttered. "Let's attack now Roman."
Marcus ignored the youth. Instead he gestured at Hedwig. There was a serious expression on the Decurion's face as he caught Marcus's eye.
"Form the men up for the attack," Marcus snapped. "Once you hear the signal sweep up the hill. No prisoners Hedwig. We cannot take them with us."
"Thunder and lashing rain, so Woden commeth..." Hedwig muttered in his Germanic language, as a dark-spark of adrenaline fuelled excitement, appeared in his eyes. "No prisoners, Marcus."
***
"Now!" Marcus cried, turning to his trumpeter.
A moment later, the long, mournful trumpet blast echoed away across the fields and the forest around Marcus erupted into movement and noise. With a cry, Marcus urged his horse forwards and burst from the forest. Along the tree line the Batavian cavalrymen had broken cover and were surging forwards up the grassy slope, their wild yells and cries mingling with the thud of hundreds of hooves. The earth seemed to shake, as the line of horsemen bore down on the Briton pickets. Dimly Marcus was aware of Fridwald, galloping along at his side. The young man was practically standing up in his saddle. Up ahead, the Britons had risen to their feet and were staring at the approaching cavalrymen in stunned horror. Then with a cry, the rebels scattered and fled, racing up the hill towards the fort.
The Batavian cavalry surged forwards and the foremost riders were in amongst the enemy before the Britons could reach the outer ditch. Shrieks and screams rose up as the fleeing enemy were mown down, struck and cut down by the Batavian spears and long cavalry swords. They didn't stand a chance. As Marcus reached the outer defensive ditch, the fight was already over. The corpses of the Britons lay spread out across the grassy slope, as the Batavian troopers rode up and down, crying out to each other as they dispatched the wounded and dying. Marcus reined in his horse, gasped and turned to stare at the hill fort. There was still no sign of anyone inside the fort. Irritably Marcus twisted in his saddle.
"Where are Drustan and your people?" he roared as he caught sight of the young Briton.
The youth was staring at the blood-soaked grass slope. Silently he shrugged as he dismounted from his horse and started out towards the cluster of round houses inside the fort.
"I said stay close to me," Marcus roared but the Briton took no notice.
Annoyed, Marcus growled out loud and urged his horse into the ditch and up the other side. As he made it to the first earthen embankment, he heard a man crying out his name. He turned and saw Adalberht and his riders galloping full pelt towards him. Confused Marcus wheeled his horse round as Adalberht cried out again. The old warrior looked in a hurry and as he approached Marcus felt a sudden unease. Something was wrong. Something felt wrong.
"It's a trap Marcus," Adalberht bellowed, "We have been set up. We have to leave now, right now!"
"What?" Marcus blinked in confusion, "What are you talking about old man?"
Adalberht came to a halt beside him. He was panting with exertion and his face was flushed. "It's a trap," he cried. "They are moving around to cut us off. I saw them. On the eastern side of the hill. We must get out of here!" Adalberht fell silent as he struggled to regain his breath.
"There are hundreds of them," he gasped, his eyes flashing wildly, "and they are mounted. They have been waiting for us to enter the hill fort. They knew we were coming."
"Fuck," Marcus exclaimed as he felt a hot flush spreading across his cheeks. For a moment he stared at Adalberht in horror. Then before he could say another word a Celtic Carnyx sent a long defiant blast reverberating away across the lake. The trumpet blast was followed by cries of alarm amongst the Batavian cavalry, as a line of rebel tribesmen suddenly appeared along the southern slope.
"They set us up," Adalberht hissed bitterly as Marcus's head whipped round to stare at the young Briton. The youth was clambering up the earth embankment and as he caught sight of Marcus, he sprang forwards with renewed urgency and speed.
"Seize that man, seize him!" Marcus bellowed furiously. Frantically the youth scrambled up the embankment but just as he was about to reach the top a Batavian flung himself against the earth wall and caught the man's foot. It was Fridwald. With a cry, Marcus's bodyguard pulled the Briton back down the steep, earth embankment. The Briton cried out as he tried to cling to the grass, but it was no use. Fridwald caught his arm and pinned it against his back, as the two of them wrestled in the mud at the base of the embankment. A moment later another Batavian came to his aid.
"Bind his hands and put him on a horse," Marcus yelled as he stared at the Briton, "I want him alive. He is not to be harmed."
Marcus's head whipped round to stare at the advancing line of rebel tribesmen. The infantry were coming on at a steady confident pace. His eyes blinked rapidly as he turned to look towards the west. Sure enough in the fields, half a mile, away a large contingent of Briton cavalry were thundering northwards.
"Order the retreat," he yelled at his trumpeter. "We need to reach the river ford before they can hem us in against the lake."
He had hardly spoken the words before a trumpet blasted away. Marcus wheeled his horse around and gave the Briton hill fort a final derisory glance.
"So much for fucking Drustan and his loyal subjects," he snapped. Then he was away crying out to his men to follow him.
The retreat was chaotic. Marcus urged his horse on as he tried to keep the lake to his right. Trees flashed passed as he wove his way through the forest, ducking under branches, as around him the disordered Batavian riders did the same. At last he emerged into an open meadow.
"Move, to the river, to the river," he roared, wheeling his horse round as his men thundered passed him. Wildly, Marcus stared around him but there was no sign of Adalberht or Fridwald or the Briton. It was everyone for himself now. As the Batavian horsemen surged past him, the standard bearer holding aloft the boar-headed banner came galloping towards him.
"Follow me," Marcus cried at the soldier as he turned and joined the retreating riders.
To his left Marcus was suddenly conscious of a movement. Then he heard the deep and low note of a Carnyx and as he did, the Batavians to his left started veering towards him. Marcus snatched a glance to his left and groaned. The Briton cavalry, riding their small shaggy and fast horses were closing in from the west. There were hundreds of them and their wild excited whoops and cries were drawing closer. He wrenched his gaze away. How far to the river? If they could cross the river and make it to the opposite bank they would have a chance.
"Ride, ride," he screamed at the men around him.
The ground shook as the horsemen thundered across it. Where along the river was the ford? With rising panic Marcus realised he couldn't remember. Desperately he peered at the fields ahead. Where was the fucking crossing point? Where the fuck was it? Just as his panic was about to turn to despair, he suddenly heard the noise of a Batavian horn. It was not standard army equipment but had to be part of one of the soldier's personal belongings. His eyes bulged. Then once more he heard the horn, its distinctive noise was unmistakeable. It had to belong to one of the men from the squadron he'd sent to guard the ford and their line of retreat. They were signalling to him.
"Follow that horn, follow the horn," he roared at the riders around him.
A minute later, Marcus suddenly caught sight of the river and as he did, the Batavian horn rang out once more and this time it was closer. Marcus cried out as he saw the Batavian riders on the opposite bank. Without pausing, he and his horse crashed into the river. The horse staggered and raised its head in protest but the river was not deep and with Marcus crying out and urging the beast on, the animal began to swim, snorting and tossing its head. All around him the Batavian cavalrymen were crashing into the water, sending waves rippling away into the far bank. There was no time to look behind him. Marcus bit his lip as his horse struggled through the water. Then with a snort the beast rose from the river and struggled up onto the opposite bank. Marcus turned to look behind him and gasped. The river was filled with swimming Batavian horsemen and a hundred paces away across the river the meadows were filled with rebel cavalry. There were hundreds of them. The Britons were charging towards the river as they cut down the Batavian stragglers.
Wildly Marcus looked around him. Close by Fridwald and his horse, carrying two men struggled up onto the bank, sending droplets of water flying in all directions. His bodyguard looked exhausted as he gripped the young tattooed Briton around the neck with one arm.
"Form a line, form a line," Marcus roared as more and more of his men and beasts struggled ashore.
But as the Britons neared the river their pace suddenly slowed until their foremost men came to a halt at the water's edge. For a moment the rebels seemed uncertain about what to do. Then they raised their weapons and jeered at their enemy across the river. Marcus wiped the spittle from his mouth. His chest was heaving. The enemy were not going to try and force a crossing.
"Let's get back to Luguvalium," he cried at the men around him.
Chapter Fourteen - The Face of the Enemy
"Who are you? Marcus cried.
Inside the room the oil lamps had been lit and bathed the principia of Luguvalium in a dim flickering reddish glow. The Briton did not reply, as he knelt on the ground. His hands had been tied behind his back and the youth was staring moodily at the floor. He had not said a word since they'd returned to the fort. Behind him, Fridwald stood looking down at the prisoner. The bodyguard had his arms folded across his chest. Wearily and irritably Marcus turned and glanced at Adalberht and Lucius. The two officers were staring at the Briton with a mixture of shock and outrage.
"They set us up, Lucius," Marcus growled. "That piece of shit over there was leading us straight into a trap. If we had entered Drustan's village the enemy would have surrounded us and annihilated every one of my men." Marcus closed his eyes and rubbed his face. It had been a long day and he needed to rest, but it could wait. "We are facing a cunning enemy," he muttered, "We must not underestimate them again."
"Well boy, are you going to tell us who you are?" Adalberht roared as spit flew from his mouth.
"Fuck you Roman," the youth hissed.
Marcus caught Adalberht just in time, as the veteran was about to lunge at the prisoner. He shook his head sharply and pushed the old man backwards.
"You are a brave man," Marcus said turning to face the prisoner and the tone of his voice was suddenly softer and quieter, "You showed courage coming into our midst like you did and your acting was first class. You did well."
The youth did not reply as he stared moodily at the floor. Slowly Marcus came up to him and crouched before him. "But at the end of the day you failed," he said, as he grasped the youth's chin and forced the boy to look at him. "We are still here and we are going to crush this rebellion. Twenty eight of your comrades are dead tonight and you have nothing to show for it."
"You will never defeat us," the youth hissed, as a proud look appeared on his face. "This is our land. Rome is not welcome here."
Marcus nodded. "Tell me who your leader is," he said quietly, "tell me the name of the man who has planned this rebellion and I will let you go free."
The youth looked at Marcus in surprise. Then surprise gave way to suspicion.
"You would do that? I don't believe you."
Before Marcus could reply however there was a commotion at the door to his HQ. He looked up as one of the guards hastened into the room. The soldier saluted quickly.
"Sir, it's that merchant, Urbanus, he says he wants to speak to you."
"Tell him to wait," Marcus growled irritably, "I am busy."
The soldier nodded, turned and disappeared out of the doorway and into the night.
Marcus turned to look at his prisoner.
"I will organise a prisoner exchange. Just tell me the name of the man who is leading this rebellion and I will let you go," he said.
The youth peered at him suspiciously and for a long moment he did not reply.
"The tribes have chosen Faelan to be High King, "the Briton muttered at last, "Faelan unites the Brigantes. He is our leader."
"Faelan," Marcus frowned in surprise. "I have heard this name before. Where have I heard this name before?"
"In Hibernia," Adalberht growled, "there was a druid who went by the name of Faelan. He claimed to be the bastard son of the barbarian queen herself. Your father had dealings with him. The prick only had one eye."
"He is the son of Queen Boudicca," the prisoner snapped defiantly.
Marcus was silent as he rose to his feet. "Faelan," he muttered, "I remember him now. He was at the siege of Tara. He advised the Hibernian High King. So he has returned to Britannia to cause trouble."
"He has returned to claim his birth-right," the young Briton hissed.
Coldly Marcus turned to look at the prisoner.
"Adalberht," he said sharply, "Take the prisoner away and make him talk. Torture him if necessary. By dawn I want to know everything he knows."
"Gladly," Adalberht muttered as he strode across the room, caught hold of the Briton and yanked him up onto his feet. The prisoner's eyes bulged in shock.
"But you promised, you promised a prisoner exchange, I would go free," the man cried out.
Marcus stared at the youth with a hard cold look.
"I lied," he replied.
***
Alone, Marcus paced up and down beside the table in the Principia. The night was far advanced but despite his crushing tiredness he could not rest. Outside in the camp all was quiet, except for the high pitched screams coming from one of the barracks blocks where Adalberht was interrogating the prisoner. Marcus ran his hand across his face. He had very nearly gotten all his men killed today. How could he have been so stupid? The ambush had unsettled him. How could he have been so gullible? The prisoner had made a fool out of him. As he paced up and down his face darkened as outside the screams intensified. Torturing the prisoner was not a pleasant task and he took no satisfaction from it, but it was necessary. The boy had refused to talk and he needed to know everything he could about the rebels. They had already proved themselves determined and cunning opponents.
