“I want you to walk casually towards those trees but don’t make it obvious that you’re looking to see what’s there, make it look like you’re going to take a piss or something.” Varro turned, “Lucius,” he said looking at the other soldier, “I want you to hold the reins of his horse in case he has to run back and be ready to ride.”
“Understood.” He acknowledged taking the reins from Marcus who began to walk forwards and started to adjust his tunic. He had taken no more than ten feet when violent loud movement disturbed the bushes at the base of a tree. The tip of a wooden spear tipped with iron appeared and was hurled towards the advancing Marcus, the throwers arm disappeared back into the bushes as quickly as it had appeared. Marcus didn’t panic but quickly moved to the left avoiding the lance as it flew harmlessly past him at arm’s length and landed, embedding itself into the ground its end vibrating as its deadly sharpened spike skewered the soil.
He crouched and began to move slowly backwards watching the foliage. He had left his oval shield on his horse hanging from one of the pommels, believing that to have taken it with him would have meant arousing suspicion, a decision he was now beginning to regret. He turned to check where the others were and the expression on Varro’s face told him to get back quickly. As he turned to run he was aware of more movement behind him as men emerged from the trees.
In seconds he was leaping up and vaulting into his saddle, snatching the reigns from Lucius and turning his horse ready to move, he was aware the others hadn’t started to gallop away, he turned the horse and saw why. Twelve men dressed in strange primitive clothing that was draped around their legs as well as their upper bodies were standing staring at the Romans. They carried small round shields and some were holding long swords as well as spears.
Some of them had limed hair that looked dirty and stiff and stood on end, a few wore it tied up at the back and most had straggly unkempt beards, blue streaks marked their faces, they were obviously tribal warriors, the first Britons they had seen. As the two opposing sides stared at each other with fascination, fear and a growing anticipation of what was to come, a silence seemed to descend over the area and the air became still.
These were the Britons, the inhabitants of this strange land, their faces looked rough and weather beaten even more so than the sailors that had brought Varro and his men here on their ships from Gaul. Some held their swords in their right hands, whilst others had them in the left, Varro presumed that this meant that they didn’t form disciplined lines in battle as they themselves did but instead probably fought as individuals and not as a cohesive group. They had been told that tribes would traditionally send their best warriors to fight in single combat to decide disputes. This was something the Romans could use to their advantage because they wouldn’t make such an effective force together. Some of the swords looked to be made of bronze and Varro knew they wouldn’t be as strong as the iron that made their own weapons, three or more had newer iron weapons. Nevertheless, the bronze swords could still cut a man in half as some of the Gaul’s swords had. They each carried two spears attached to their backs by unseen fixtures except for one, the man that had tried to kill Marcus or had tried to scare him at least.
The odds were clearly in favour of the Britons who had an advantage of more than two to one and the expressions on their faces showed that they weren’t happy to find these strange looking men in their territory. They had clearly never seen men like these before, wearing shining metal armour around their heads and bodies, the Britons eyes searched their bodies and equipment taking in every detail.
The legionaries knew that when the warring tribes weren’t killing, maiming, raping each other or raiding their neighbour’s lands, only a delicate peace existed, normally to prevent more deaths to individual groups who had sustained large casualties already. If they killed their own neighbours when they intruded onto their lands, they wouldn’t react kindly to men from a distant country stepping foot on their soil either. As Varro considered a tactical retreat and began to look around slowly, he wondered if these men were alone, a hunting party maybe or were there more of them hidden in the darkness and shadows of the trees? He couldn’t tell from this distance but he knew that without Quintus and his men, he couldn’t risk a direct assault even though they had horses, were better equipped and most certainly better trained.
The last thing he could afford was a wounded horse or rider, just one dead mount or worse a wounded one, could mean death for the rider or a slow dangerous ride in retreat with the horseless riders being carried by another and no doubt being picked off as they lagged behind.
Without any sign or warning, the men who had been standing still in front of them for what seemed like an age moved backwards and in an instant disappeared back into the foliage as one. The disciplined soldiers to a man risked looking at each other in bewilderment, it would have been preferable if the Briton’s had charged them screaming and slashing with their weapons. An eerie silence seemed to rob the air of noise, more acute than anything Varro had experienced before. Instinctively he began to move backwards followed his by his men backing up behind him.
As they turned their horses in preparation to move away, screaming suddenly erupted from the rear, shattering the eerie silence. Varro glanced around and saw the ranks of blue faced men had at least trebled in size.
“Go!” He screamed to his men as spears were launched towards them rising into the air. “Quickly move now.”
The soldiers automatically ducked down as flat as they could over their mounts and kicked at them, their horses charged forward rapidly in response, spears landed in front of them flying over their heads, at their sides and one struck Marcus’ horse as it kicked out and veered violently to the left into Varro and Staro. He couldn’t see where exactly it had struck but could see it waving around as the horse galloped forward as Marcus fought for control. He had no time to think about that now because they had to get free of the deadly avalanche.
As the small group moved out of range of the airborne bombardment, the attackers howled and ran forward, collecting their spears and hurling them into the air again. Varro led his men clear of their range and then turned when he felt it was safe. He saw the tribesmen, now at least forty strong, standing shaking their spears at the Romans. One of them walked clear of the group and held his sword aloft, to a man the rest stopped howling and gesturing with their weapons.
“So much for these barbarians being an undisciplined rabble then because that to me was deliberate and practised I’d say.” Veranius remarked.
“Marcus, are you injured?” He asked. Marcus jumped from his own horse and went to its flank. The spear was embedded in its back, he carefully examined it and an expression of relief and then frustration flooded over his face, relief, because the long weapon was stuck in his bedding roll and frustration, because he wanted to return the compliment to the thrower of the spear.
He pulled it clear and turned the weapon in his hand, it was lighter than a pilum but just as deadly in the right hands. He ran towards the Britons taking ten paces and hurled the spear back. Marcus was a strong man and the lance arced into the air and then fell. It landed in front of the horde harmlessly sinking into the ground with a thud. Not one of the blue streaked faces had flinched or moved a muscle as the spear was thrown and landed mere feet from them. The sound of hooves suddenly came from somewhere behind, Marcus turned, “Quintus.” The other joined them.