Hosker, G [Sword of Cartimandua 03] Invasion- Caledonia Read online

  “Now then take your men in a long sweep. Find the enemy. We will build a camp here, just in case they attack.” He paused, “I don’t think they will but remember what happened when the garrison of Rome failed to make a camp and that slave Spartacus slaughtered them. Wouldn’t do would it? Not when things are going so well. I should be able to leave for Aquitania by the end of the week.”

  When Marcus and his troopers returned to the beach they were dry although their legs and those of their mounts were covered in dried salt. “Can we find some clean water soon sir and wash them off?”

  Marcus looked down at Sergeant Cato who was responsible for the horses. It would not bother the man to be covered in salt himself but he would hate the idea of his horses suffering.

  “Yes sergeant as soon as we have made camp take your old turma and scout out a good spot.”

  All the troops were ashore and the camp in place. The general had his headquarters tent set up and the prefects were al there. “Ah Decurion. Find anything?”

  “No sir. The tribesmen we did see were all on the skyline moving away from us. I don’t think they were ready for such an… interesting invasion.”

  Agricola beamed. “No we seem to have caught them napping. What about the terrain? Any problems?”

  “No sir in fact it is flatter than anything we have seen so far, including the north. It is just low rolling land with a few woods but no forests. Nothing my lads couldn’t get through.”

  “Excellent. Well in that case we will move off tomorrow and head for, “he pointed at the map, “this little island where the centre of the Druidic religion appears to be. Caer Gybi. What a name!”

  When Marcus told the decurions the only comment came from Decius. “I bet a month’s denari we will be swimming again!” This time there were no takers.

  Caer Gybi

  Fainch looked around the small island at the disconsolate warriors who sat dejectedly in little clumps. She had to admit that the Romans had outwitted her and yet, irritatingly, her Ordovician army still outnumbered them. Unfortunately their morale was so low that any attack by the Romans would result in disaster. She had to come up with something which would inspire and terrify at the same time, inspire her warriors and terrify the Romans.

  She called over King Gwynfor who had both aged and shrunk over the past days. She spoke quietly so that none could hear but the king. “Have you thirty or forty warriors you can trust?”

  Bridling at the comment he spluttered, “I can trust all my men!”

  “As you trusted Inir?” His silence was eloquent. “Have you a small band of warriors who have the courage to go behind the Roman lines without hope of glory to bring back one prisoner?”

  Intrigued the king replied, “Yes but what…?”

  “I want your men to capture, alive, one of their officers. They are easily marked out by their helmets. Or even a standard bearer but it must be someone of importance.”

  “Why?”

  “A cold hard look spread across her face and her eyes narrowed. “Do you question me? It was not I who led half the army to its death disobeying orders it was one of you trusted warriors.” She sighed as though having to explain something to a truculent child. “Their officers, all their officers, are leaders. Without their leaders, any leader, they are weaker. The ordinary soldiers believe in the strength of their officers. I want them to bring one such here and we will display him in the wicker effigy so that when the Romans arrive here they will see one of their own leaders helpless and bound and we will burn him before their eyes. It will embolden our warriors and please both the god Taransis and the Mother. It will put fear into the Romans for they fear our priests more than they fear our warriors. When they attack us they will do it reluctantly and our warriors will destroy them.”

  The king had to admit that it was a good plan and he could see its merits. “I will send my son Gryffydd. He is clever and he will not let us down.”

  “Good.”

  Chapter 4

  The crossing of the island of Mona was conducted at a steady pace. The general was confident that he could defeat anything the barbarians threw at him but he was ever mindful of the ambush of the cavalry and so he was more cautious than usual. The loss of a turma was a serious one. Gaelwyn and the other scouts reported that the barbarians were gathered on the most sacred and holy part of Mona, Caer Gybi.

  After crossing the Cefni, where the cavalry took the opportunity to wash all the salt from their mounts and themselves, the column headed for the coast and made their last camp before the assault at a small bay about ten miles from the island. Marcus and his decurions took the opportunity to discuss the new tactics employed by Agricola.

  “We can fight on foot but what is the point? We are cavalry!”

  “No Vettius we are only cavalry when we can operate as cavalry.” The decurion looked puzzled. “Here is a problem for you then, for all of you. Tomorrow we arrive at this little rocky island. What do we do?”

  “We make sure we aren’t ambushed.”

  “You dozy lump! All the barbarians are on the island.”

  “Thank you Decius but Domitius has a point. That is what we should do but all of the enemy are on the island, a rocky island. Do we let the auxiliaries and legionaries just attack on their own?”

  “You can’t do that sir.”

  “I know Agrippa and the only way we can help is by fighting on foot. By wading across the stretch of water while they are hurling missiles at us, climbing up the rocky cliffs and then fighting them on foot.” They nodded finally seeing his point. “However when we can, we will be cavalry again although it looks like this part of the world does not suit us as horsemen which probably pleases Sergeant Cato.” They all laughed for the blushing sergeant was known to care more for horses than humans. “When we get the chance ask Macro and Agrippa to help train your turma in foot tactics. It can’t hurt.”

  Leaving the decurions to drink and talk Marcus retired to his tent. He cleaned his armour and then spent half an hour cleaning and sharpening the sword of Cartimandua which he reverently placed it in his chest. As usual he went to his small altar and said a prayer for Macha, his dead wife and Ulpius Maximunius, his dead son. Perhaps tomorrow he would have the chance to avenge them and his friend Ulpius Felix; perhaps tomorrow would be his day for this was where the Druid’s power was concentrated and it was where Fainch awaited him.

  Gryffydd and his men had coated their flesh with mud making as invisible as it was possible to be. They had watched the gates of the camp close with a dark and sinister finality. The warriors with Gryffydd looked at him. How would they get in and how would they escape? Gryffydd was young but cunning. When asked to carry out this mission he had planned his escape route first ; he had a small fishing boat moored less than two hundred paces from the camp. The Romans had no ships nearby and if he could snare his quarry he would be away before they knew that they had kidnapped one of their own. Watching from the rocks he had identified the places where the leaders were. As much as he would have liked to snatch the general himself Gryffydd had seen the sentries posted around his tent and he knew that there would have been no chance of silencing the guards and escaping. He was flexible; the witch had sad an officer, any officer. He had seen where the prefects and centurions were gathered and the tent with the cavalry officers. They were all noisily drinking and laughing that meant they could not be taken but their noise would mask and disguise the kidnap. That left the tall cavalry officer who had retired to his tent early.

  The palisade was meant as a barrier to those who would attack at night but Gryffydd and his men were not attacking, they were sneaking in and there would be neither rush nor war cry; they would not even kill a sentry, not unless they had to. He hand signalled for five of his men to accompany him while the other ten kept the guards under close observation their arrows notched, their slings at the ready. Gryffydd found the place he was looking for between the two gates where the guards would not tend to look. It also happened to be a
dozen paces from the tent of the victim, the Decurion Princeps. Two men boosted Gryffydd and two others over the palisade and then one man boosted his colleague. The four of them peered around in the unfamiliar dark. That was the weak point in the attack for the Romans knew every uncia of the camp having erected hundreds of them in their time. They froze as a sentry walked by and Gryffydd had to restrain one of his warriors who attempted to raise his knife. Shaking his head the leader pointed at Marcus’ tent. While one kept watch the other three slipped under the back wall of the leather tent. Inside it was pitch black but they could hear the heavy breathing and snuffling of the man who lay in the comfortable sleep of a man who believes himself to be safe. The decurion was soundly asleep. Gryffydd’s eyes gave the signal and the two men grabbed Marcus’ arms and covered his mouth while Gryffydd swung the club at the side of the Roman’s head. Unconsciousness arrived quickly. They bundled him under the tent and then, each man taking a leg or an arm they hurried to the wall. Although they were quiet they could have made as much noise as they wished for the drinking parties amongst the officers were in full swing and masked all other noises. They also distracted the sentries who kept looking at the tent and laughing, speculating about their officer’s behaviour. When they arrived at the palisade they checked that the guard’s attention was elsewhere and they unceremoniously threw the unconscious decurion over and into the ditch.

  A few moments later, with extra arms to help them they had scurried over the small rocky mound, onto the beach and the waiting boat. While Gryffydd and four others began to row back to Porthdafarch, the rest made their way back silently along the beach. There was no alarm, there was no chase. Decurion Princeps Marcus Aurelius Maximunius was captured and would soon be in the clutches of the woman he hated most in the entire world. He would be in the hands of the Druidic priesthood and few Romans had ever survived such an encounter.

  When Marcus came to he found that not only did his head hurt as though a wall had fallen on it but his hands and legs were tightly bound and he was incapable of movement. He thought he must be in some sort of hut for he could see wicker branches before him but how he had come to be there he had no idea. He remembered going to sleep and then… nothing. He woke up to this. As his ears became attuned to the ambient sounds he could hear an argument. He could not tell the direction for the sounds were not clear it was as though they were in a different room. The voices appeared muffled but as his head hurt it was difficult to tell.

  “Why did you not bring this soldier’s weapons? Do you not know that he is one who possesses the Sword of Cartimandua? If we had that sword then all the northern tribes would rise with us. You knew who it was you brought did you not?”

  “Yes!” The man’s voice was young and threatening. “I was told to bring a prisoner not his weapons. Do you know how difficult it was to capture him alive and with no alarm given? No. And why not? Because you are a woman who just gives orders. You are the witch who commands. You are the witch who stays behind the safety of this isle while others do your bidding. You are Fainch! And unlike others around here I am not afraid of you.” The young angry warrior squared up to the diminutive witch who refused to back down.

  Although his mind took in that a door of some sort had been slammed it was immaterial. He had heard her name. His enemy, Fainch was here. The one, who had murdered the Queen of the Brigante, tried to murder Ulpius Felix and had murdered his sister in law, wife and son. She was here and he was tied like a helpless sacrifice. Suddenly a chill spread through his bones. Sacrifice! A wicker room! He saw now that was what he was in, a wicker coffin. And that meant he was to be burned alive. He had heard Decius talk of it but he had ignored it as a superstitious fantasy. But it was true and that was the cruellest irony, he would burn to death within touching distance of the being in the entire world he most wanted to kill. He vowed to stay alive as long as possible in the hope that he might be revenged and prayed to the Allfather to help him.

  It was as the camp came to life before dawn that Marcus’ disappearance came to light. Decius and the other senior decurions had gone to wake him when he did not come for his food. This was not the Marcus they knew for he was always the first up, organising and chivvying. At first they thought he had gone to an early meeting with the general but when the general sent for him they knew that something was amiss.

  When Decius entered the tent he could see the covers on the floor and footprints in the dirt. “Get Gaelwyn. That old dog will sniff what went on here or I’m a Greek bum boy.” When Gaelwyn arrived , unusually, he did not make a disparaging comment or give one of his usual sniffs instead he began to feel around the edge of the tent and then under the bed. He quickly leapt to his feet and set off like a greyhound around the outside of the tent. The auxiliaries followed as quickly as they could. When he came to the palisade he amazed them by lithely leaping over the barrier as though it was not there. By the time they had exited the gate and caught up with him he was down by the beach. “Well?”

  “Four men came into the camp and captured the decurion. They climbed the wall and met others. Half went in a boat and the rest went along the coast. Probably to the isle.” He gestured to Caer Gybi.

  Showing more affection than he normally did Decius put his arm around the scout’s shoulders. “Well you have earned your pay today old lad. Tell me is he still alive?”

  He looked straight at Decius, “I did not see any blood. He could be.” Closing his eyes for a moment he said, “And I do not feel his death. He lives.”

  Decius went straight to the general as the other decurions roused their turmae. “General!” His guards tried to stop the intrusion but Decius was in no mood to be halted and he pushed aside their spears.

  Agricola looked up more bemused than angry at the interruption. “Yes Decurion?”

  “The Ordovice. They have captured Decurion Princeps Maximunius.”

  Had he slapped the general in the face he could not have a greater impact. For the first time since he had seen him Decius saw a man not in command of himself. “Are you sure? Of course you are. Tell me.”

  “Looks like four came in last night, hit him and then took him to their island.”

  “So still alive, “he put his hands together and half closed his eyes. “They want him for something which means he may be kept alive for a little longer. Oh tribune, have all the guards from last night flogged, this should not have happened. Now where was I, ah yes, what do they want him for? The sword. That damned sword. Is the sword still there?”

  Confused Decius looked around as though the sword was behind him. “I er, I don’t know. I’ll find out.” Forgetting to salute he raced out.

  “I think gentlemen that; until we have a better picture of what they have taken him for we will put off the assault until tomorrow. It isn’t as though they are going anywhere and it will give us time to reflect on this disturbing turn of events. Oh and send for that barbarian they like to keep with them, the scout.”

  Gaelwyn arrived with Decius and the sword. “Well that answers one question. They didn’t get the sword. Decurion you are to take charge of that thing until we get the Decurion Princeps back. Now, “his clerk whispered in his ear, “er Gaelwyn. You probably know these people better than we do. I know you are not of this tribe but you know their ways.”

  Gaelwyn nodded, “I know the Ordovice. They are rats, for they live in holes.”

  Smiling the general continued, “Quite. I would like you to find out what has happened to the Decurion Princeps. Can you do that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Decurion have an escort get him as close to that isle as possible without showing yourselves and make sure he gets back here right?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Oh and decurion do not go yourself. I don’t want to lose all my senior officers.” The disappointment showed like cracks on the bluff trooper’s face.” You will have your revenge but this is a task for a younger man.”

  “Sir!” Once he left the tent he said, m
ore to himself than anyone else, “All this because I got out of breath climbing that bloody hill.” He turned to Gaelwyn. “Right then. What is the plan?”

  “We will go along the beach as they did. When we get to the isle I will swim around to the far side where there is a cliff. I will climb and be able to see into their camp. I will return to your men. “He looked at Decius. “I do not need to be guarded.”

  Decius’ voice softened. “I understand and I know what you think of the Decurion Princeps but look at it this way. If you have four or five men with you then it might be possible to rescue him. Difficult on your own eh?”

  For the first time he could remember, Decius saw the scout smile. “You are not as addled in the head as you make out are you decurion?”

  “Gerroff with you!”

  The choice of two of the rescue party was obvious, Macro and Gaius it was the other two who were not as easy to find for they had to be tough, quick and fearless. It was Macro who gave them the answer. “Those two troopers who Modius and Scipio sent back to us. Cilo and Galeo they are as good a pair of fighters as I have trained and they would give their lives for the decurion. Oh and one more thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “They are Atrebate, from the south. They might know about the customs of the tribe. We need all the help we can get.”

  That settled the question. “Right. No horses, they will make too much noise. Take your slingshot and just swords, don’t bother with shields.” He looked over his shoulder. “And there will be a turma within a mile of the isle. I want your ugly faces back. May the Allfather protect you.”

  Caer Gybi

  There was a sudden movement and Marcus found himself lying on his back although still contained within the wicker structure. He was roughly bounced around and then flickering daylight began to flood in through the gaps in the wicker and he involuntarily tried to shield his eyes with his tethered arms; the pain was excruciating. After a few moments he found himself upright. Again there was some movement and a piece of the wicker from directly in front of his face was removed. He found himself seemingly hovering above the sea like a gull, for it stretched before him blue and grey in the early light. He turned his head to the left and saw, with some relief, the land that, he assumed was Mona. He still wasn’t certain whether he had died or not but the pain in his head and his arms seemed to suggest that he was still in Britannia.