The relief from the cessation of incoming missiles was like a
tonic itself to these men, but all eyes constantly returned to stare across the
sea with a regular glance, as to a man they longed to see the remission offered
by Roman sails appearing over the misty southern horizon. Over those same days,
every outward foray was a trying and extremely dangerous enterprise and angered
at losing so many small hunting parties, Caesar was forced to contemplate
foraging in numbers, just for the men’s safety. Not being able to use his missing
cavalry even once was a biting frustration but starvation was not an option.
Caesar and his officers had managed with great stealth and
luck, to assemble parts of the 2nd, 3rd and 4th
Cohors of the 7th Legion, totalling almost fifteen hundred
Legionaries and two part-Cohorts of Macedonian Auxiliaries of a further nine
hundred men in support, making the foraging force a total of almost two and
a-half thousand men. They had managed to get off the beach and into the open
countryside at around three in the morning, on a moonless, cloud-covered night
and they had been forced to crouch for over half an hour on the pebbles, until
their night vision had come to the fore. That operation alone had been fraught
with possible dire consequence but the pressing need to feed themselves was
imperative. It had necessitated this great risk, but their escape had gone-off
as well as could be expected and without any obvious alarm. The procedure had
also brought into sharp relief how almost impossible it would be, to get all
his remaining soldiers off these ships and off this Dis-cursed beach without
some other major development or diversion. He needed desperately to get all his
troops into some broad space of land and the big cliff looming to the east with
its domed grassy top would be a good place to start, but access to it was only
through the unseen Prittanic forces behind this beach and those who may be lying
in wait behind them. It was obvious he couldn’t risk his whole army to chance,
as he had done with that large force when the time came for them all to move,
but he did have an iron in the fire in that regard.
Caesar longed for open ground where he could march his army
in proper formation and meet whatever was thrown at them as it presented
itself, which is what the Roman army excelled at. The tactical ingenuity
required to effectively operate this army at that endeavour was what he
excelled at, and Caesar chaffed at the bit to discharge his latent but currently
shackled powers.
Following two days out hunting and collecting what grain they
could find and steal, the break-free cohorts of the 7th Legion got a little
lost on their return when they ventured into the Kantish countryside a little
too deeply, to reap whatever corn they came across and gather supplies.
Although they had returned to this coast simply enough with the aid of the sun
and retracing their steps, they had taken a western route around a familiar
hill in error and found themselves approaching their beachhead from a slightly
different direction. This foraging force should have been advised by their long
scouts of this but were not, and so they ploughed-on in ignorance and were but
a few miles from their beach when they came across the farmstead.
Their scouts had been removed from this earth a short time
previously and so these remaining soldiers had unwittingly come across a large
expanse of burnt crop stubble, adjoined to the burned-out ruin of a large
thatched farmstead enclosure. It was clear the locals had hurriedly gathered
their unripe grains before setting the field ablaze, to deny them the food and they
had then destroyed their own home and out-buildings from sheer spite. The air
was still rank with the after-smell of a damp fire and not a single bird or
creature moved on the land. There was an almost pensive hush surrounding the
abandoned property and the fields around it and not even a bird was tempted to
break it. However in stark and welcome contrast, the field beyond the blackened
enclosure glowed with a glorious sunshine yellow. It was still filled with a million
tall stalks of wheat, adorned with fat golden tops, which all glowed in the
summer sun and they weaved enticingly in the breeze.
Empty bellies do rash soldier’s make and these hungry men of
the 7th Legion were drawn inexorably to the golden, beckoning wheat
like trout to a fly-hatch and were just as careless in their advance. They were
careless in forging forwards toward this huge and bounteous field-crop before
prudently awaiting the return of their scouts and the all-clear, which of
course was never coming. Some of the men broke ranks and started to run across
this stinking black stubble toward the golden wheat with hopeful faces, each
encumbered by a large leather foraging satchel slung around his neck. The
officers chose not to yell-out and recall them, as their highly attuned senses
were stirring, and there was a strange, malevolent atmosphere hanging over the
whole place and not just from the stale and damp stench of burning. They looked
around themselves nervously from their saddles, hands creeping towards their
swords, as they carefully checked the tree lines in their vision but absolutely
nothing stirred, not even a cricket and it was this unnatural silence which
worried them the most, but it was already too late. Halfway across this
blackened swathe of stubble, the hundreds of hunger-blinkered legionaries of
the Seventh along with two Cohorts of their Auxiliaries were neatly ambushed. A
large Prittanic host revealed itself abruptly from the treeline, swarming under
three huge and flowing tribal banners. One large flag displayed sharp white
teeth in the snarling face of an angry brown bear, whilst the central and
larger banner was a broad T-mounted flag, bearing a strange and mystical,
long-spined boar of outrageous proportions. That hideous boar pennant was
flanked by a far more elegant standard of beautiful design, showing a crowned
and rearing white stallion. This large opposing force which had appeared from
the trees so suddenly was flanked by dozens of two-man chariots, with the
snarling brown bear painted on each of the front panels.
Even at a distance it was clear there was a solid mass of
spearmen in the centre of this host, most being long-haired brutes of large
proportion, with long drooping moustaches and round, gaudily decorated shields.
Compared to their own precise and geometrical formations, these Prittanic
warriors presented themselves as an indistinguishable, amorphous mass of
untidy, hairy humanity with round or oval shields and tall spears. As they
advanced from the trees, more and more of them were revealed and they held
their chariots to their wings as Roman generals held their cavalry, which it
seemed the Prittans had none this day, as their equites had obviously chosen to
war in vehicles. Any barbarian
charioteer who didn’t want to run over his own men would do the same and form
on the flanks, as it required no great reasoning to organise it thus.
Although on closer inspection, there were some clear
dissimilarities in their clothing and shield designs which obviously denoted
the families within the tribe, they meant nothing to these soldiers. Sections
of the long ranks facing them had different coloured chequered cloaks about
their shoulders and even from a distance, they could see that some had longer
spears than others, also giving some clue to the diversity within this brutish
looking opposing force. Some had their hair comically spiked-up with some kind
of white, chalky paste to make them look fiercer perhaps, whilst the majority
did not. What was most obvious and unsettling however, was that they were all
smiling terribly to a man and surprisingly, to a woman.
Many animated whispers flitted through these troops at the
sight of women in the enemy approaching, as it was a rare sight. Whilst there
was only a small percentage of ferocious-looking females in this host, their
overt and colourful differences separated the Prittans in appearance and even
as they were in ordered groups, this gave no clue as to their martial variations,
but two things were abundantly clear; there was no way around them and they
hadn’t come to chat about the weather.
“Ad Aciem!” Neleus roared at them and they formed up to his
orders, but not quite quickly enough for this Centurion now the enemy was in
sight. “Lemanus!” He yelled, slapping the vine-wood baton into his left palm
ominously. “Get your fuckin’ men to pull the lead from their caligae, or
they’ll feel my vicus I warn you!” He
shouted at the Optio Principalis, as
the Cohorts of the 7th fell into formation and dressed-off in their lines,
their auxiliaries forming up hurriedly behind them. “Intente!” Neleus roared
once all were fell-in and with a crash, they came to attention.
“Right you lot!” Neleus snarled, his terrible war-face
emerging from under his gleaming helmet. “Listen-in as I will say this only
once! You’ve all been gobbing off about wanting a crack at the hairy-arsed
Prittans - well there they fucking-are by Jupiter’s great cock!” He roared at
them, his face filling with blood as he pointed across the burnt grass at the
Prittans, still advancing slowly across the stubble toward them, step by step. This
glittering Centurion stalked the front ranks fuming in his red cloak and
polished armour, wrathfully brandishing his knobbly baton and throwing dark
curses at the enemy, and at that precise moment these soldiers were far more
afraid of him, than they were of the approaching tribesmen who had ambushed
them.
This well-known and highly decorated Centurion; Neleus of the
7th, caught the eye of many experienced soldiers he knew, those who had fought
alongside him many times before and he nodded to these grisly men now, needing
their courage and support and these invaluable veterans took-up the shout;
“Caesar! Caesar! Caesar!” They crashed their fists to their
chest-plates at each shout, and every soldier joined them, making Centurion
Neleus growl his pleasure at the thumping, metallic crescendo.
“We know what to do with those stupid long-swords don’t we
lads!” He yelled at them over the din and they shouted their agreement back. His
men knew from long and bloody experience that with practice, the Gaulish
long-swords could be trapped between their shields, just long enough to allow
someone with a pair of plated leather gauntlets, or a javelin shaft to bend
them which wasn’t difficult, especially with the older or poorer forged ones
and it rendered them almost useless.
“Just watch the fuckin’ axes and those farmer’s sickles
coming over the top, and the spears underneath! Always keep one eye on me lads and
listen-out for my commands and whistles. Do your duty, obey your orders and
fight like Romans!” He demanded of them. “And we’ll give these hairy-arsed,
ugly barbarians the worst kick in the fuckin’ balls they’ve ever had!” He
roared this at his men and they roared with him, as their enemy approached them
without pause across the stubble, giving them a clearer impression of what now
approached them in arms.
“See that big ugly cunnus in the middle, I’m going to gut the
hairy pig and piss on his entrails!” A growl came from the front ranks and
Neleus didn’t even have to turn his head.
“You Carpus, my excellent and battle-eager Miles Gregarius
will leave that big ugly cunnus to me and that’s a fuckin’ order!” His
Centurion growled and there was much laughter in the ranks, over Carpus’ low
growling.
“He would pluck off your head Carpus, as if he were pulling a
petal from a daisy!” Didacus’ cultured drawl drew more laughter, causing
Carpus’ misshapen face to darken at this slight to his prowess.
“I’ll pluck your fucking head off Didacus you knob-polisher,
and shit on the stump of your scrawny neck!” Carpus growled in response, the
blood rising up his throat, along with his escalating temper.
“Enough!” Neleus barked and they fell silent. “The enemy is
over there! If the big ugly cunnus kills me Carpus, you have my permission to
gut him and to piss on his entrails!” Neleus said casually and the men laughed
again, the consummately relaxed attitude of their Centurion facing mortal
combat, bolstering their courage. Eolus, Tycho and Agapitus their Optios stood
behind the rear rank with their prods, securing that same courage. These three
veteran officers would closely inspect the men arriving back down the lines for
damage or missing and broken weapons, as the ranks rotated and the exhausted
legionaries tacked-on behind. The Optios were also the driving force behind
these men, literally.
“Consider it done my honourable Centurion.” Carpus growled
again, screwing up his eyes then and scowling at the oncoming barbarians,
choosing another target for his escalating fury. As they had done so often in
their past, Sisera his Decanus stood to his right in front of the Aquilifer and their venerated banner, alongside the brutal Balorin and with Ӕlianus beyond him. Gabinus
stood firm to Carpus’ left before Balius, with the tall Didacus alongside him
and the ferocious looking Ferox standing next in line along the front rank,
their best man with a Pili. These mess mates had marched across Gaul and
Germania together for years and they prepared for battle again now in
Prittania, together.
“Let’s give ‘em a fucking slotting they won’t believe lads!”
Sisera snarled at his men and they rumbled back their response.
“Parati!” Centurion Neleus barked, standing stiffly to
attention and the men of this steadfast Contubernium opened their legs, along
with all the other soldiers in the front ranks and shifted their stances,
turning side-on. “Pila Tollite!” Came the next order and they selected their
first javelin. “Pila Parati!” Came the quickly followed command from their
imperious officer and the 3rd of the 7th gripped their
Pilli, preparing themselves for this fast-approaching Prittanic onslaught.
*
* * * *
This large Brythonic taskforce was an alliance of Albion and
Galedon warriors, sent here as an organised test by Pendragon Cadallan ap
Cadall to see how the warriors of the old enemy fared, fighting together for
the first time against a common enemy.
Albion fielded a full Battalion of warriors, including a four
hundred strong Brigade of the Plufyn y
Baedd; the intrepid and battle-seasoned, specialist spearmen of Albion. These ferocious warriors were known
for good reason as the ‘Quills of the Boar’ and they were led here today by
their enormous and already victorious Captain. The huge leader of these men who
has a contoured crest of stiff boar-quills running down the centre of his
helmet, and who sports a bone-white boar-tusk mounted to each cheek-piece was
the God of war personified this day. This chiselled warrior had a huge jutting
jaw which gave him a permanently challenging and belligerent look, one which
sat well with his war-like personality. He was an impressive, dangerous looking
man with the easy air of the merciless and the quick to kill. This enormous
brute of a man known and feared throughout Albion and Prydein, was one Gŵyr
Tŵyr ap Garth, who had already seen successful action on the beach against the
Romans and had gloriously claimed the life of the infamously furious Centurion. This famous
man-killer of Selgofan and Albion legend, had escaped the black wings of death
countless times and he was as ferocious and pitiless in battle, as his scarred
face suggested. Looking as if he had survived some form of hideous and primeval
selection process, Tŵyr ap Garth was a lantern-jawed man of immense muscular
build. Surviving many years as a 1st rank spearman in countless brutal
shield-wall battles, this man-mountain’s reputation and Bri were almost insurmountable. He and his men of the ‘Quills’ were
not only armed with the slender, two-foot longer and snag-free spears of their Brigade, but also with their unique three
sided and triple-edged stabbing swords, which is a long and honoured tradition
of theirs. Their ancestors’ triple-edged swords had all been cast in bronze and
it is only their own revered smiths who can now forge these fearsome blades correctly
from steel, and their master forgers are well protected by necessity. The real
quills of the boar are their long and sleek spears, which were rightly named
the Plufyn y Baedd. Their equally unique triple-swords however are called their
Plufyn y Cwt by these superbly
trained warriors, and represent the shorter, stiffer spines found on the
tail-end of the ridge-back of a wild male boar. Each of these men also carried
a unique oval shield, which bore a snarling boar’s-head cygil and had a
semi-circular void cut-out of the lower right-hand edge of the rim, through
which their comrades behind plunged their specialist spears.
Crown Prince Cadwy ap Cridas of Selgofa and Albion, along
with his allies of a newly crowned King, several Princes and nobles led this Army
today, which included two thousand of his own spearmen of Selgofa, alongside
four hundred of the legendary ‘Quills’; his father’s very finest, elite
warriors. Cadwy’s force was supported by thirty-three war carbad of Prince
Berwyn’s highly skilled Damnoniau, who were arrayed to the flanks and prepared
for glory. King Galan of Epidia represented Galedon here today, with two Alau
of his glorious cavalry not yet come to the field and totalling six hundred of
his peerless mounted warriors. The
spectacular and newly crowned King of Epidia also led a hundred vassal cavalry
and a token force of thirty-thee chariots, coming from King Lleu’s wild
Wenyllon and completing Galedon’s host this day.
Since his late brother’s recent but short-lived rebellion,
Galan had unified Epidia by erasing Wrad’s black cygil from his Kingdom and
making the celebrated Druid-led walk against the sun at midnight. His oath to
share the country as two equals with Wrad was just a memory now and Galan had
taken his father’s beautiful crown, a heavy circlet of golden galloping horses
and had become King Galan ap Cerwyn of the ancient and honourable, unified
House of Epidia. Here today, even as he was a King and Cadwy a Prince, and even
though Galan was older and battle-tested, Epidia and Galedon had officially
ceded power in today’s battle to the Crown Prince of Selgofa and Albion. It was
Albion men who made up the infantry, the main bulk and shield-wall of this
allied task-force and their beloved Crown Prince was thus declared senior.
In view of Galan’s somewhat supportive role, many were
surprised at him taking a back-seat to the young Albion Prince, until they recalled
or were reminded exactly who this fortunate young Tywysog was about to marry.
He was soon to be their Liege-Lord and King of all Galedon’s son-in-law and it
was this undeniable fact, which had made the chain of command here today
acceptable to all concerned. In fact this pending royal handfasting had in some
way, galvanised these northern families of entirely analogous Brythons from two
historically perennially warring tribes, into a single-minded fighting force,
assembled here on this burnt and stinking stubble field as an examination by their
Pendragon.
Pendragon Cadallan on behalf of the five glorious Kings of
Prydein, and all the great nobility of this country had hoped for just such a
meeting of minds and attitudes. This was the defence of the nation no-less and with
the import of that alone, it was time that the phrase old-enemy was once and for-all consigned to Prydeinig history in
the north.
This action too today represented to many veterans in
Selgofa, the Barn-Isarno of a certain
famous young Prince of the Boar and his challenge to become a Tywysog. These seasoned soldiers of
Albion and Galedon knew however, that the proof of the blood-pudding lies
always in the eating and today would most certainly prove if Cadwy was up to that
title.
Cadwy sat easily on his magnificent chestnut war-horse Tywysog and to his right-hand the
glorious Epidian King sat astride Epona herself come-to-earth, in the
snow-white and pristine form of the dazzling Horse-Lady Galwena. She stood imperiously,
flicking an ear in impatience and easily outdoing the iconic representation
flapping in the breeze above her; the dazzling white cygil of the gold-crowned
and rearing stallion of ‘unified’ Epidia. This beautiful flag fluttered
alongside an allied pennant of a ‘Wren perched on dagger in-hand’, representing
King Lleu’s notorious horsemen and charioteers, who had travelled more than four
hundred miles from wild Wenyllon to be here. These eye-catching banners shared
pride of place in the centre of this mighty force, with the Brown Bear of
Damnonia and the fabulous and swirling hump-backed, long-spined and monstrously
tusked Boar banner of Albion in the centre.
Under his fearsome Albion banner and sitting at Cadwy’s right
was his big Pencampwr Bleddyn ap Arawn who sat upright in the saddle of his
big bay mare, as was his custom. His champion nodded then and grinned at him like
a mischievous child. Cadwy winked back at him with a grin of his own and each
man could feel the other’s building excitement.
As this allied Battalion came to a crunching halt, a huge man
in a black bearskin cloak with the sun-bleached skull of a bear strapped to his
head, stood tall on the back of a big chariot to the left flank. This obvious
leader lifted one muscular and beringed arm, making a clear signal and the
effect was immediate. Abruptly his
charioteers sped from both flanks and tore across the black stubble, charging
the Romans with a reckless abandon. The Damnonian drivers cracked their long
whips and the vehicles shot forward, rattling and banging as their occupants
attacked the enemy valiantly and directly, achieving much success initially
with the loose troops, those who were caught in midfield and who had tried belatedly
to scamper back to their ranks. They were too slow, and many fell, tripping
over their big leather bags or the uneven, hand-cut and burnt stalks to be
speared by dozens of accurately thrown spears. The unluckier of these were
run-over by the thundering carbads of Berwyn, to much-applause and wild
cheering from the ranks of their combrogi.
These fantastic Damnonian charioteers made a great sport of
running over these Romans the living and the dead alike, bouncing into the air
as the wheels struck the body. A howl would erupt from both occupants as they
clung-on, laughing madly and a cheer would erupt from their on-looking ranks of
bristling spearmen. When placed correctly, a wheel would decapitate a man with
a crunching ‘snap’ and the head would fly-off high into the air, trailing
streaks of blood behind it. The driver would then make a sharp skidding turn,
with his passenger clinging to the wildly canting rear with one hand, whilst
leaning down and out with the other. A clean pick-up of the same head was
cheered loudest of all, as the claiming of enemy heads was still seen by many
as a deeply honourable achievement. They would then hold their trophies high
and hang them with a leather lace around the necks of their horses, before the
next mad dash into peril and glory.
As the Romans reassembled, retreating slowly and in-formation
from these fast and deceptively agile chariots and the bold and accurate
spearmen within, the ground they reversed over proved far too rutted for them
to follow. Some did and many a spear-thrower was catapulted off the rawhide
lattice of a chariot’s rear platform, to sail into the air and crash in a heap
to the turf, spilling all his Bri on
the grass in front of the Roman gelyn,
to much-cheering and ribald abuse from his own comrades. The sprung-seats saved
the drivers from a similar ignominious decant but only just, and they also flew
into the air each time, holding-on tight to the reins and howling at the sheer
fun of it. Their outwardly propelled partners would jump to their feet quickly
and sprint for their chariots as the drivers swung back around to get them, as
the air around them would suddenly become thick with dangerous whizzing things. Once aboard again, the
cheering would get louder from the ranks and these men would turn and attack
again immediately with great courage and verve, the warrior drawing a fresh
spear from the leather boot on the rail and loosing it at the enemy, both men
or women grinning like fools as they clattered past the Romans.
A number of overgrown
ditches had proved almost catastrophic for a more adventurous phalanx of these
charging carbads, who had crashed over them with a tremendous series of loud
bangs and numerous noble spearmen had been thrown headlong into a ditch. One
unfortunate had been facing the rear when her chariot hit the first ditch and
the rawhide slatting under her foot had sprung, allowing her left leg to drop
between them. Facing backwards and with the front of her thigh held tight
against the rear rail, her left heel caught the top of the next ditch as the
chariot clattered over it and it snapped her leg above the knee like a twig.
Her scream was loud but short, as a Roman javelin flew down her open mouth to
appear at least two feet from the back of her head and her long blonde hair, in
a crimson welter of blood and brains. The Damnonian Gawres flopped backwards with a foreign spear protruding from her
mouth and her broken leg dangled horribly below the bed of the chariot, as it
hobbled back to its lines on buckled wheels.
Two men limping along this low and overgrown ditch were
dragging an injured comrade with them and keeping their heads down, as
slingshot buzzed around their heads like huge and angry superfast bees, as
these battle-mates knew they carried more than just a sting. They were
collected by their drivers on chariots which didn’t quite run right anymore, and
they trotted their dazed horses back to sanctuary. These reckless charioteers
had been forced to withdraw from the field before they doomed themselves in their
ardour, and the Damnoniau clattered around to the rear now, where the
battle-pairs dismounted and abandoned their carbads, to re-join the ranks on
foot. A huge roar erupted from this host then, as they all joined their voices
in ferocious challenge; ‘Prydein! Prydein! Prydein!’ They roared in one
enormous voice at these foreign trespassers and the air shook with their shouts,
as thousands of spears punctured the air, shaken in dire demonstration and murderous
threat.
The Roman invaders had formed up quickly into their fighting
block formations roughly fifty reeds away, with their dark skins and polished
steel plates stark against their blood-red cloaks, and with their weapons glinting
in the weak sunshine. Two tall and fabulous leaders stalked the front ranks of
the enemy in the most amazing armour, shouting at their men in their unfamiliar
words and preparing them for this impending battle.
Cadwy swept his gaze across that row of steel, leather, wood
and wool ahead of him, made-up of men standing in precise machine-like furrows
of polished metal and it looked so alien to him. They were all so identical and
seemed so inhuman, especially their glittering Centurions and Cadwy spat his
nerves to the grass. Turning in his saddle, he nodded then to the Major on his
right and this seasoned, beautifully dressed and now familial officer,
in-turn made a signal to his big Sergeant-Major mounted to his right. Meyrug
made a brief signal to an observant young cornwr, who had to emulate his Prince
and spit his nerves to the ground, before he was able to blow the strident call
to advance. To this blaring and rising clarion call, the old enemies of Albion
and Galedon marched forwards together for the first time into battle.
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