The Battle of Oss 55 BC.

Excerpt from Iron Blood & Sacrifice (The Sons of Beli Mawr) Deleted from published novel due to excessive manuscript volume.

Fuanladd the ghost-warrior lay prone on the pine needle strewn ground of a wooded hilltop, to the south of a broad and wind-blown plain. This hillock was plainly situated before a wide bend of the Afon Rhein as it wound its way through the heartland of this lowland country. This combrogi Kingdom of Batafia sat to the west of its enormous Germanic neighbour and controlled the lucrative coastline and all the vital trade it allowed them at the great downriver estuary, but the region had been coveted by the Germanic tribes for many years. The river shone like the living coils of a gigantic silver snake below him, and the weak spring sun of this blustery and cloudy day would occasionally sally-forth to bring the river alive with a myriad dancing lights across the ruffled surface and to cast a pale, yellow light across the plain below him. Down to his right about two miles distant, smouldered the black and moss-riddled thatches of the sprawling Town of Oss, but it was deserted now and not a soul could be seen on its muddy streets. The Galedonian ghost-warrior turned to survey the plain behind him and he watched with fascination through the gaps in the trees at the uncountable glinting of shining steel, as the vast yet distant Roman host in the spring sunlight marched with an inexorable certainty toward him and the distant, serpentine Rhine.

This monstrous, legendary army was marching purposefully toward the wide apron of land that stretched for miles around this hill, which was a perfect vantage point and the fact that it was obviously so wasn’t lost on the furtive ghost-warrior either. Fuanladd had taken an enormous amount of time and care, to arrive at his present situation undetected and leaving no physical trace of his arrival. The ghost-warrior turned away from the huge cloud of Roman dust in the distance behind him, as they were still many miles away and it would be almost an hour before they approached. He wriggled himself a little comfort, as he looked back down onto the broad plain between him and the glinting curves of the river. Down to his left, was assembled a colossal number of the twin wandering tribes of the Usipetau and Tencterau and their long ranks of patient warriors and Druids now occupied this land below him under truce, in the broad open plain of Caesar’s choice, where they had been instructed to wait. A large ambassadorial retinue had been held as hostage the previous day by Caesar, to-much outrage and complaint by their countrymen but which action had ensured the presence of their people here today.

Fuanladd considered these people as his cefndr and whilst they were only distantly related, they were cousins nonetheless and their dress, religion and culture were almost identical to his own. Even the language was so similar he could converse with them easily and ultimately, the same hot blood ran in their veins as did in his. He cast his gaze over the vast pair of tribes arrayed below, who were in a weary and disconsolate attitude and he thought back to the time he had visited the Usipetau and their peaceful neighbours; the Tencterau. He had travelled to their Duns and Trefs in a land which was now considered Greater Germanica and had found it a fertile and pleasant land. He had come to speak their similar language as a native in no time and had found them a gregarious and welcoming people, who took their responsibilities as hosts very seriously and they were to a person, open and hospitable. They were great lovers of the arts and music and their houses were always filled with music, fine food, wine, excellent curmi and much laughter. The craftsmen of both people were superb and although they were descended from fearsome, war-like tribes, they had both become largely pastoral peoples, who cared immensely for their stock and domestic animals and were lovers of beauty and all things pleasing and peaceful.

These unfortunate combrogi had been brutally expelled from their rich, bountiful lands by the enormous and pitiless Germanic tribes, who had mobilised their warriors in more than a hundred large towns and they began to move south in conquest and to gain that rich land they had coveted for so long. The Usipeta and the Tenctera had banded together in the face of a simple choice, annihilation or banishment, as they had a long and mutually valued relationship and many of their families had merged with marriage over the years. As the marauding Germans approached, these two tribes had chosen the latter and with heavy hearts, had slaughtered all their animals apart from their oxen. Then they torched every crop-field, thatch and building they owned, before leaving their ancient lands together and in deep mutual suffering. Forced to flee, they wandered along the western regions in search of new lands and their number had been more than a quarter of a million homeless souls. 

These two analogous tribes had crossed this great river below Fuanladd some weeks previously, passing into the combrogi lands south of here which the Batafian Menapi people inhabited. In this part of the Menapi’s territory, the Trefs, Treflans and houses were ancient and had been founded either side of a great bend in the huge, arterial river which supported them. The Menapi had been alarmed by the arrival of so great a-host of people at their river crossing and had fled from the area. It was only the disdainful supplications of these startled, indignant people which had brought Caesar here on his dishonest campaign of treacherous greed, and Fuanladd was compelled to glance behind to the approaching tower of dust once more.

He recalled his first impressions of the huge and muscular, fiercely aggressive Germanic warriors who were now rampaging across the vast spread of lands far to the east of here, pillaging and murdering with impunity. He had watched a large warband of them descend a high glacier pass in the Cisalpine region of Gallia some years previously and he was reminded of the strange feeling he’d had at the time. From his place of concealment, he had thought to himself as they passed close-by, that he was looking at a host of Gadwyr from the Galedon Highlands, as they were very similar in size and build and they were too red-haired, hale and freckled and blue-eyed to a man. He’d thought at the time that somewhere back through the mists of time, these two disparate people had most likely came from one set of enormous copper-haired ancestors but it was certainly an opinion he would keep to himself, especially in the company of the recently honoured Gwyr Brith Fawr.

The ghost-warrior put these fanciful thoughts behind him now and looked sombrely down at his tens of thousands of massed relatives, who had already sued for peace again and had sent more emissaries to Caesar himself in his enormous leather campaign tent with its stout, decorated poles, its brace of eagle standards at the doorway and their attendant Aquilifers. The two intermingled tribes below looked very much like the Brythons of his own land and they amassed in a similar way, with formations of about four hundred mounted warriors at either flank. However, Fuanladd’s estimate of the numbers below was now around two hundred thousand souls and he realised with a sad shake of his head that many thousands must have perished from starvation or sickness already. Notwithstanding the little over two thousand horses and men abroad foraging, who were yet to return if they ever did, this still left almost fifty thousand people missing, either slaughtered in some other place, or cast like seeds to the four winds, to likely find themselves burdened somewhere by the heavy and oppressive chains of slavery.

The undisciplined rear ranks of the remaining people below were filled with all the family members and various chattels of these warriors, in fact everything they owned and they stood wearily and hungrily now, but stoically in the rain to plead their case. Thousands of uncertain women and children filled the rear ranks with many babes in arms and large groups of children were being organised and kept busy among the dozens of ox-carts, which were loaded with their possessions.

Fuanladd had removed the saddle, blanket and large leather panniers from his horse earlier and stripped off the reins, bit and strap work, before stuffing these into a large leather drawstring bag. He’d let his horse whom he’d named Blag loose to roam and graze, as he’d concealed all his tack inside a large and prickly gorse bush. His stuffed leather panniers had been a struggle, as they held his choice of alternate clothing, the various shades and weaves chosen for the spring season in this terrain, by years of experience and personal local knowledge. Although the Galliad horse was not the size he usually chose and had cost a little more than he was used to paying, he had proved to be worth the compromise and the extra coin, as Blag was now indelibly imprinted with his voice of authority. The loyal and good-natured Blag had become well-trained in the short month he’d been travelling this vast lowland region, to his precise and varied requirements. The intelligence he’d perceived in those charming eyes at their first meeting had proved its worth, as the two-year-old was now a diligent servant and a loyal, valued ally who would return to him on hearing a particular bird call and would go willingly to no-one else. Once he’d hidden his gear and let Blag roam, he was free and unencumbered to carry-out his mission, without being discovered by some wandering outlying scout on this rather obvious hilltop lookout, but it was the only hill for miles in this flat flood-plain, so he had no real alternative. Hiding himself was an art-form he was long adept at performing but concealing a fully equipped and bridled horse was a trick that took a little more time and effort. Fuanladd lay now in his carefully chosen spot among the tortured, exposed roots of a tall sycamore and settled down to watch the vast Roman host approach in monumental dust through the trees behind him and he estimated them to be roughly ten miles off still.

Fuanladd was well-informed, as it was his life’s mission to gather intelligence by any and all the myriad methods known to the ghost-warriors and he was aware that his combrogi’s ambassadors had assured Caesar, that they would accept his conditions and further requested that he give them the space of three days to negotiate these affairs. Caesar made it clear that he considered them to be underhand delaying tactics, employed to allow their two thousand horsemen to return. A laughably small force, which had been some distance away at that time, as their riders foraged to feed the huge, dislocated numbers of their Nation. This had been yesterday and Caesar had ostensibly agreed to this period of grace and in this regard, further promised that he would not advance further than four miles from them with his cavalry, but that they would need to approach the Rhine, having a pressing daily need for procuring water. With these assurances, he ordered that they should assemble at this place in all their numbers this day, so that he might inquire into their demands. It seemed that the time of compromise and negotiation was at hand, and the tribes’ hopes of finding new lands burned bright in their hearts, as they lined up in their thousands.

Over his shoulder, Fuanladd watched the clouds of dust billow closer behind him now, as dozens of Alau of Roman cavalry passed around the van and rode forward in their thousands, sure to be heading for the Rhine and their imperative access to its waters. Thousands of gleaming, fantastic and exotic horsemen approached the eastern riverbank in perfect formation and each moment that passed, their shape and form became clearer, but the sky behind them was a growing sandstorm of dark, gritty dust and it obscured the main host. In a few short minutes these precise formations of horsemen began to wheel to their left and drew nearer to his vantage point, causing a frown to crease Fuanladd’s weathered forehead. ‘That is not the route to water and you don’t send cavalry to discuss terms!’

A great heavy feeling of foreboding settled on Fuanladd then and he had a sick, sinking feeling that a tragedy was about to play-out on the uneven turf below and it would not be the first pact that Gaius Julius Caesar had broken. It seemed a cruel and ridiculous travesty to him now, as Caesar had sworn to defend the Gallia from the marauding Germans as part of his cunning and deceptive pact with those great Kingdoms. He had pretended ignorance of much intelligence here, which would have swayed a just and rational man to clemency. Caesar possessed none however and had labelled these Galliad tribes as Germanic in his deceit, as although that is where they indeed came from, only a fool would confuse these two Galliad tribes as German. Fuanladd spat the bitter taste of greed and personal ambition from his mouth for he knew, as did every soul in all of Gallia, Germanica and Prydein that these were the very people Caesar had sworn to protect. It was the monstrous, fur-clad hordes to the east he should be facing this forlorn day, not these life-loving families. 

His combrogi were milling about below now, in fear and abject uncertainty and in the cold drizzle that now descended on them from the heavens, which soaked them all to the skin. As this huge body of Roman horsemen described the most perfect arc in formation below him, Fuanladd’s worst fears were being confirmed but at the same time, a small part of him was immensely impressed with the Roman’s discipline and consummate horsemanship. If they were seeking water though, they would not be making this wide and perfect cavalry turn now, they would be heading arrow-straight for the glinting water ahead. As the majestic front ranks of this immaculate host rounded the hill, the sight of the ranked thousands of bedraggled but proud warriors of the Usipeta and Tenctera came into their view. The massed cavalry continued to wheel away from the river, ominously turning to approach the awaiting tribesmen, and a deep murmuring could be heard issuing from them at this clear and obvious threat, even from this hill top. Fuanladd’s worst fears abruptly became a reality and his stomach knotted as the Roman cavalry no longer threw up dust as they entered this broad pastureland, they threw up clods of turf instead and he could pick out more detail, from the gleaming plates of their armour and prodigious helmets and the long javelins they carried un-couched.

The tribes below reacted in alarm as this enormous army of horsemen broke their agreed boundary and began to accelerate down the slope toward them. This caused an enormous amount of consternation to these warriors, as some of the Gŵyr and Druids seemed to be calling for calm and no rash action, as they were no-doubt being tested and perhaps even tempted, whilst other, younger Gŵyr and Captains looked to be rousing the warriors and calling for immediate action. Fuanladd could see these figures squabbling at the front of this monstrous herd of humanity but was too far away to identify any of them, nor his many friends among them. It seemed that prudent youth was winning the argument and these long, irregular ranks of spearmen shuffled into a neater and more effective line, sensibly preparing their enormous shield-wall in defence. Fuanladd was about to adjust his position a little to get a better view when he froze, an electric shock of alarm pulsing through him. He heard the unmistakeable sound of a soft footstep nearby, crushing some of the brown cones that littered the floor of this woodland hill, the obviously human-made noise coming from behind him and to his left.

The first thing Fuanladd considered calmly was that whoever it was, they were nobody to really worry about, as no ghost-warrior would have ever made such a childish error even in stout leather riding boots, let alone their muffled shoes which they used for silent and close approach. He wasn’t about to be discovered this day, as if they were Roman it would mean instant execution as a spy unless he could overpower them and escape, yet he was well prepared for that event, but then evading the thousands of horsemen below would be entirely another thing if an alarm was raised. He wouldn’t countenance the embarrassing scenario of being discovered and captured by some local Batafian scouts either, so he drew his mantle around himself slowly, glad that he’d chosen this spot and the matching ‘Spring Woodland’ weave, as it blended perfectly with his immediate surroundings. He heard two people approach his tree carefully on foot, as he adopted one of the ‘contortions of concealment’ under the cloak, learnt the hard way at the toe of his tutor’s leather boot. In pairs, the ghost-warriors had perfected the techniques and Fuanladd adapted his position a little now to suit his circumstances and under the thick but beguiling, double-weave of the cloak. He raised an arm and rested it against the underside of one of the gnarled and twisted roots which had been exposed by the trade winds and then he froze, breathing silently but deeply and slowing down his heart beat. Fuanladd the ghost-warrior effectively disappeared, and you could have stood over him now and not seen anything but the contorted root limbs that sprang from the bole of this great tree above him.

Fuanladd’s ears were now primary and his focus was intense as he heard the two men come to stand just inches from his right foot, to take-in the sight below no-doubt and he cursed his luck, touching the screaming, sabre-toothed cat tattoo at his throat with the tip of one finger and sending a silent prayer down to Lug in his dark lair. Something was happening down on the plain below, he could tell by the clamouring noise that came in waves with the wind and the excited comments of the two adjacent Roman scouts, but he wasn’t doing his job and his eyes under the cloak of concealment were hard. Fuanladd wasn’t witnessing these events he had been tasked to do and it galled him, as if these two had been Batafians he may have taken a chance by revealing himself, as all combrogi knew the screaming long-toothed cat warriors of Galedon. At least then he could perform his duty and witness all that happened, including the details of numbers, formations and tactics and to commit all this intelligence to memory. He was entirely capable of eliminating these two Romans but it was risky, as anything can happen once you are committed to violence, so he decided against it calmly, choosing to relax a little and focus on his hearing and his breathing.

He understood some Latin but it wasn’t enough to decipher all their quickly spoken words and was thus restrained to lay frozen and invisible among the roots, in the long-practised art of invisibility. One of the Romans took a piss by his feet and Fuanladd remained impassive, feeling the warm trickle of enemy urine caress his right calf. One said something assertive to the other in a gruff voice and the two departed, never having recognised Fuanladd for what he was, despite seeing him and more. The ghost-warrior grinned to himself as he heard the scouts depart, appreciating this unique cloak he now threw off. The four camouflage mantles at his disposal which always accompanied the obligatory sheepskin outfit in Winter, ranged from ‘Mossy Oak’ to ‘Green or Yellow Bracken’, depending on the date and location. The ghost-wives as they were referred to in jest, were the only women to have perfected the irregular and disjointed weaving patterns of concealment over many years, in cooperation with their often absent and distant partners. 

Fuanladd thought of his own dear wife at that moment, realising that he hadn’t seen Laryn’s face in almost three long years. With a painful pang in his chest, he realised too that he missed her as much now as when he had kissed her goodbye those years ago. Apart from being ferociously intelligent, Laryn was a fine huntress and deadly too with any weapon. His partner in life had also been an extremely inventive designer and weaver, and they had been an inviolate, inseparable duo, who feared nothing and no one in their lifelong service to King Ederus. Laryn had woven him the most amazingly cunning mantles in their time together and he was glad that he wore one of hers today, as it brought him comfort and he swore he could still catch the occasional hint of her smell on the wool. Lately he had struggled to bring her beautiful face to mind and it had concerned him greatly, but he had dreamed of Laryn often.

Although free of the cloak, the ghost-warrior remained frozen in his uncomfortable position for a long minute, his ears still straining, before he decided to break out slowly and carefully. Easing himself out of the still warm puddle of piss, he stood up to follow the Roman scouts to confirm their actions. They led him away from his outlook but as soon as he saw them mount a pair of stout ponies and ride away to the north, he moved silently and carefully back to his observation post.

He could see immediately that there had been a violent confrontation on the plain below, as the foreground was littered with fallen warriors and the Roman cavalry had veered away, but not before causing much damage to the frontal ranks of his combrogi. It was obvious that many hundreds of javelins had been loosed into the ranks of the defenders, breaking the promised treaty and yet another of Caesar’s oaths. The Roman cavalry had clearly attacked these people unprovoked and under a promise of truce, and the treacherous Julius Caesar had shown his true-colours once more. The tribe’s two small but brave formations of cavalry had enjoined the Roman in battle and many of their rider-less horses now wandered the field aimlessly. A handful of Romans had fallen in the unseen assault and they lay now in torn pieces on the ground. The incensed members of both tribes knew they had been deceived and betrayed this day and so they had lost all reason, hacking the fallen Romans into bloody fragments.

Three broad ranks of warriors broke away from the front of the host as he watched, and these thousands of screaming men charged up the slight incline of the grassy plain, leaping over their fallen countrymen and racing to support their decimated horsemen. The mounted Gallic warriors reformed ahead of this manic, mindless attack of their outraged combrogi and pursued the Roman cavalry as they withdrew precisely, as if entirely expecting this turn of events. Roughly two Alau of around six hundred Roman cavalry then swept from the interior, in a swift and clearly much-practised move and they took the fight to the Galliad horsemen once more with surprise, killing many hundreds of them with their superior organisation and advanced techniques. The tribe’s surviving horsemen were forced to withdraw and flow back toward their charging warriors, to reassemble and support the brave onrush of the main body of the two tribes, which flowed up the hill at a trot, as all were now committed. The space between the ranks of warriors stretched as the host moved forward, the families at the rear not moving for many minutes as the massed middle ranks shuffled forward.

Fuanladd looked down through the trees to his right in despair, as the main body of Caesar’s army was about to round this hill and his combrogi were charging headlong into the bared teeth of the wolf of Rome. He noticed a cloud of dust closer behind him then but could not see down to the plain from this angle and his brow creased as he eased himself upright. With all his senses tingling, he moved like a ghost through the undergrowth almost silently, until he came to a crevice in the northern slope of this hill and through this broad cleft in the bedrock, he saw a large number of Roman troops trotting past below. He identified a mixed group of races in the close-ranked formations, with a Centurion leading each of them from the front and an Optio bringing up the rear. To him, they looked like Auxiliary Cohorts and he counted twenty-five of these blocks of soldiers in all, making almost two thousand soldiers. There was no chatter in this host marching past below him and those silent soldiers were curving behind and around this hill now, to come-up behind the rear of the forward-moving tribes on the plain. Fuanladd’s face twisted at these horribly dishonourable tactics, the full implications of this development hitting home. His outrage burned his soured stomach and his helplessness enraged him even more. He could see clearly in his mind’s eye what was about to take-place and his soul wilted, as the many smiling faces of his friends floated back to his mind now unbidden. It was as if each were saying goodbye to him and Fuanladd allowed these images to fade-in and out of his consciousness, greeting each one, and he mentally and spiritually honoured each and every one of them. Shaking his head in a fathomless despair, he made his careful way back to his observation post, the faces of his friends haunting him.

Inexorably these two opposing armies closed on each other and from the strident blare of a number of bronze horns, the whole Roman cavalry charged-as-one. The Roman equites scythed through the charging warriors as farmers cropped the wheat at harvest and the horsemen of the combrogi, were quickly overcome, becoming scattered and lost. The thousands of valiant tribesmen in the headlong charge slowed and came to a complete stop, at the almost overwhelming sight of Caesar’s vast and immaculate host, now wheeling around the broad plain at the crown of this shallow hill. Slowly, these tribesmen somehow overcame their blood-rush attack and retreated, back to their oncoming people. Once these panting warriors had rejoined the huge mass of people moving up this slight hill, the Usipetau and the Tencterau began to properly form their huge shield-wall, but on each man and woman’s face was written theirs and their nation’s doom. They squashed up tighter, locking their round shields tightly together to receive what was about to be unleashed against them.

Fuanladd watched with a dread fascination, as hundreds of metronomic ranks of red-cloaked, plume-helmeted and dazzling cogs in the leather and steel machine of Caesar’s monstrous army, moved as one and it wheeled smartly to its left. Mounted staff officers rode up and down the flanks, keeping order and discipline in the moving, curving formations and their legionaries stepped in time toward the enemy, banging their long javelins against their tall and oval, identical maroon shields, each with a large iron boss mounted in the centre and surrounded by the spread golden wings of Rome. There was no longer any ambiguity as to their fate here today and it became clear what Caesar had assembled both tribes here for; to slaughter them.

The archers of the two tribes loosed then and thousands of arrows swept into the air above the slowly shrinking ground between the two opposing forces. As they arced through the pale sky like so many black needles, the Romans moved machine-like in a much-practised procedure. Rows of these rectangular and curving shields rotated in time together then, as the men changed formation into groups and crouched, before the spinning shields locked together over their heads, making a dome of wood, canvas and leather in the protective formation they called the ‘testudo’. These formations did indeed look like dozens of enormous, plated tortoise on the plain below to Fuanladd and once again, against his inclination he was impressed. Most of the lightweight arrows bounced off these durable shields the Romans called their ‘scutum’ and those that stuck, posed no real threat to the soldiers sheltering under each tortoise shell. They stood quickly, reformed and marched onwards and a second volley of arrows was defended in the same effective manner. These professional, hugely experienced Roman soldiers made it look easy as they moved inevitably forwards once more. They entered the range of the throwing spear and now hundreds upon hundreds of these javelins, flew from the massed ranks of combrogi in a constant but irregular stream. These heavier missiles proved more damaging to the closing ranks of silver and red, and many were brought down by these well-thrown spears, but the Roman advance didn’t falter, and the terminal moment finally approached.

The crash of thousands of shields meeting made such a clap of thunder-like sound, it could be heard from Fuanladd’s hill, although delayed a fraction. Now the real butchery began, as axe, spear, dagger and gladii chopped into human flesh, as the blood began to flow and the screaming commenced. The shorter Roman Gladii were far more efficient in the crushed confines of a shield-wall and whilst axes were useful over the top and a low-thrust spear into the legs of an enemy was effective, the combrogi’s long, unwieldy swords were only really useful in a thrust through a gap. Most would use the point, and many were thus trapped and bent between the hard shields of Rome. The Gladius however was the ultimate weapon in the sweaty, slippery, beer-breath crush of a shield-wall, and the expertise of these professional soldiers began to tell immediately.

The two thousand soldiers of the Auxiliary Cohorts who had covertly circumnavigated this hill, had now finished the curve and were coming up fast behind the haphazardly arrayed ox-carts and the terrified families at the rear. Needing no further invitation, these soldiers broke ranks and attacked the old folk, the women and children amongst the baggage with a wild abandon, and the most heinous, evil slaughter of innocents ensued. These auxiliary soldiers revelled in the easy blood-letting, whooping and yelling as they cut-down all about them with an unnatural savagery. Long inured to the slaughter of innocents, these Roman thugs clearly began to enjoy themselves, throwing babies into the air so their little chubby limbs flailed, and so that a comrade could neatly catch the screaming infant on the sharp tip of his spear. They chopped down crippled ancients with ease, gutted the pregnant and speared wailing women and screaming children as if it was sport.

A nerve-shredding, harrowing sound reached Fuanladd, but more crucially it reached the battling front ranks of his combrogi below and no guesswork was needed to realise that they had been utterly and fatally compromised. As the hair-raising screaming of their butchered women and children washed over these dense ranks of wet, wool-mantled warriors, their shield-wall and their resolve began to break-down. The Romans immediately sensed this distraction, felt the breaking focus of the shield-wall in front of them and they let out a savage roar, as they charged forwards to spring the trap.

Fuanladd had watched the massacre, as it was his duty to do so, but if had been up to him, he would have left this Gods’ cursed place and he and Blag would have been heading south an hour ago. The carnage sickened him to the core and his baleful eyes watched, even as the tribesmen below capitulated, throwing down their arms in desperate plea for mercy for their families, but clemency was an unknown concept to these machine-parts of Rome. The kneeling Galliad warriors were mercilessly and unflinchingly butchered like vermin and those that ran got nowhere, as they were trapped. Many chose the swirling grey, icy waters of the Rhine over the butchery of these barbaric Romans and threw themselves into the rushing river in their droves, and to their certain deaths.

Long rows of soldiers with spears passed through the drifts of uncountable bodies now, dispatching every last soul who clung to their final moments of life. Those cold milwr of Rome were gore-splattered to their waists, as they carved their way through the tens of thousands of injured and dying people, rolling away the dead and spearing the living. Fuanladd’s face was pale and drawn and he felt wretched, spitting once more to the grass as he surveyed the carnage on the Plain below him. He estimated that only eighty thousand people remained on their knees in the rain and the blood clotted, mud-torn grass. These broken, bereft and terrified unfortunates were the fit youngsters and the healthy younger women who would command the highest slave prices, and all were destined for a long, chain-linked march to a slaver’s block somewhere in the Republic. The loot and the slaves alone would raise a fortune, giving a glimpse perhaps at the true motivation of the avaricious and merciless Roman General, now overseeing his ill-gotten gains. These were the last terrified remnants of two once huge and wealthy tribes now lost for ever and they were surrounded by the torn bodies of their loved ones. All knew they would be reduced to the bonded yoke of Roman iron but they would have a chance to live at least, whilst almost two hundred thousand of their men and women, their old, their babies and their priests lay slaughtered in drifts around them. There where each loved-one fell, they knew they would remain for the buzzards, here on the rain-swept, blood and mud splattered Plain of Oss.

The ghost-warrior had extraordinary eyesight and had spotted the unmistakeable figure of Caesar himself, passing between the rows of prisoners astride a great white stallion. He was dressed in a vivid purple cloak, thrown over a fabulous, glimmering armour, with two enormous hounds flanking him and his circle of glittering personal guards were in close attendance. Although he could just discern the short black hair and olive skin and hints of his most fabulous breast-plate, he could not see the man’s features. If the infamous Roman General had been an adept, he may have perceived a measure of the hate-filled waves of vengeful animosity which Fuanladd exuded in his direction.

The ghost-warrior had seen enough and once he’d reconnoitred the hilltop carefully one more time, he reclaimed his equipment from the golden bloom-adorned thorns of the gorse thicket and gave a warbled whistle to Blag.  Fuanladd crammed two oatcakes into his mouth and stood to look for his horse as he chewed morosely, his eyes flicking skyward from some instinct and his mouth twisted, spilling crumbs, as a large flock of Buzzards was already circling the despoiled plain below and he wondered not for the first time, how on earth they got to know so quickly. 

Blag approached him with a whinny, dragging Fuanladd’s gaze back to earth and he morosely picked up the saddle, shaking his head at the tragedy he’d been forced to witness, still struggling to come to terms with the disgraceful and needless slaughter of so many people, so many women and so many children, even babies, and so many friends. Killing came easily to Fuanladd, as being a soldier for as long as he could remember, it was what he did. He had seen his share of major battles too and the resulting fields of dead and injured, but this butchery was something different, something beyond cruel and altogether unnatural. This had been slaughtering on an industrial scale, a monstrous travesty against all he held honourable and just, but to perpetrate such a massacre of warriors and innocents alike under a promise of truce was beyond all purpose. The sky blackened above him and the rain hardened, matching his mood and his heavy heart, but as Fuanladd prepared Blag for the long ride south and completely out of the blue, Laryn’s beautiful face came bright to his mind and his spirit was at-once lifted. Fuanladd drank-in her smiling image like a healing draught of cold curmi-da, and he mounted Blag now with a little brighter spirit.

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