The metallic stench of blood was everywhere as the grass ran red and became slippery underfoot for the barefooted warriors. They were being annihilated by the professional soldiers who were seeking to rule the land and at the same time were being taught a harsh lesson in battlefield warfare. Caratacus watched in horror as his men and women were butchered. Those not close to the Roman front line were struggling to get to it, pinning and pushing those at the front onto swords. Those who had seen the horrors it held were trying desperately to get away but were trapped by their own people and they died in masses.
“Archers, slingers, fire over our people, keep the heads of the enemy down.” A shouted order was heard over the din. Within seconds the weapons launched their missiles but had little effect that Varro could see. Arrows either bounced off hardened armour or shields and the rocks flung by the slingshots had little to no effect at all and were ricocheting off targets.
The Roman wall advanced again, the iron of their swords could be seen pumping forward from behind the shields, stabbing out at the helpless attacking and trapped warriors. The rotations of the front ranks came more often now as the arms were exhausted from the thrusts and expenditure of the lives they had taken, it was hard work cutting down fellow human beings, even if they were barbarians.
A ripple went along the centre of the testudo as soldiers climbed over the bodies of their fallen enemies, once in a while the end of a spear could be seen stabbing downward as it was used to end the life of a fallen Briton somewhere in the melee.
Caratacus waved forward his next line of women and men who sprinted forward as eagerly as those who had been killed already. He believed that the Romans couldn’t continue their success but was dismayed to see that his fresh forces were relieved of their lives blood as easily as the first wave.
“It’s a fucking massacre sir.” Marcus commented from the safety of the trees.
“It’s what these dumb sub human bastards needed Marcus, a fucking good shafting and General Vespasian is just the man to fuck them good and hard.”
Through the slaughter that continued on the open ground before them, the testudo suddenly stopped advancing and its men turned and quickly marched back towards the rear, still covered by their shields.
Caratacus smiled to his brother. “See Togodumnus these metal covered pigs haven’t got the stomach for a real fight. We’ll slaughter them as they retreat.” He quickly ran to a waiting tribal chief and shouted instructions to him, he in turn ran and jumped onto a horse. The retreating metal square had now cleared all the dead bodies lying prone on the ground. Caratacus frowned as he began to realise the cost of this battle.
“Brother, we should withdraw now,” Togodumnus pleaded, “we can’t give them anymore of our people.”
“They are cowards,” he began, “and we’ll smash them into the ground, look at them falling back. They haven’t got an ounce of bravery compared to our men and women. We’ve got to take advantage of their weakness.” As his words ended more warriors ran towards the enemy being overtaken by more chariots, as dust clouds swirled all around.
Togodumnus shook his head in disbelief. “I know that’s what you want brother and I pray you’re right but if this fails we have to withdraw, agreed?”
Caratacus looked at his older brother sweat dripping down his temples, “Agreed.”
As the soldiers of the testudo got to their own lines their shields were taken down revealing the men behind them, sweating and exhausted but very few of them were missing littering the battlefield, a cheer went up celebrating their success.
Caratacus watched as another three lines of formations of soldiers advanced towards him. They were five men wide but this time they advanced their faces showing above their shields, these men were not hiding behind their shield wall as the others had, they were heavy infantry.
Caratacus held his breath as the two opposing armies came together with a horrendous crunch of weapons and bone. His warrior’s battle frenzy was heightened like never before after the slaughter they had witnessed and he saw them hack and swing with their axes and swords as Roman soldiers finally began to fall. For a brief moment he dared to think that victory against these invaders was possible as his people continued their grim task. With a sudden jolting realisation he watched on as he realised what was occurring. Two Roman oblongs on the edge of their flanks began to wheel around as if one, the ends moving quicker than those towards the centre were advancing.
Within minutes the battling Britons were all but sealed in from the front and both sides and there was now no escape as the marching squares closed in. Cavalry now raced past the battle in the centre outflanking the chaos that continued on the field of battle as distant trumpet calls ordered them into the fray. Realisation dawned on Caratacus instantly that there would be no victory for him here today. He exchanged a look with his brother and turned away from the premeditated butchering of his people as a lucky few ran back escaping the enclosing wall of horses. The rest were sealed in as cavalrymen used their shortened spears and spathas to stab at the still struggling warriors hemmed in against their ranks. Togodumnus mounted his horse following his brother as they gave the order to retreat. He saw the horror in their remaining forces as they too realised there was nothing they could do for their trapped kinsmen and women.
As Caratacus began a large scale retreat, huge spears thumped into warriors around him. He turned and saw the enemy had brought forward machines on carts and they were now firing enormous arrows from a distance of some three hundred paces. The arrows ripped through horses, chariots and men and women alike, pinning them to each other as they withdrew. Some punched through individuals, sailing through flesh and embedding themselves into others through their retreating backs.
Varro and Marcus began to get up, watching as the large weapons pounded into the enemy, their crews working furiously charging the ballista again and again without mercy. The fighting battlefield grew smaller as life was snuffed out of the remaining trapped Britons. The soldiers on the periphery began to sheath their swords turning towards the retreating Britons instead who were already some distance away.
General Vespasian trotted to the rear of his heavy infantry surrounded by a cohort of cavalry and was already congratulating his men as they began to withdraw. The sound of fighting, swords clashing and screams of agony began to die away as the men in the middle finished their deadly work. The battle was won and the Britons had paid a heavy price for their bravery, but naivety had cost them many hundreds of lives as their retreating people vanished from view.
That night many miles from the blood shedding of the day, around a sombre fire, Caratacus stared into the flames still disbelieving what he had witnessed. Many hundreds of his people had lost their lives that day on the battlefield for little life in return, those missing or known to have died was nearly a thousand. He estimated that less than fifty of the enemy had died, hiding behind their large shields. He cursed the gods for allowing this defeat, where were they, why had they allowed this destruction he asked himself. Were his people so unworthy that these invaders should rout them, slaughtering them on their own ground like animals. He held his head in his hands as visions of the days hell returned again and again.
The almost drum like beat of the Roman swords clashing against their shield’s as they had slowly advanced, the harsh trumpets cutting through the air, men and women screaming and horses whinnying. The smell of victim’s blood, shit and dust, all these memories brought back flashes of the day, as he shook his head at the images burned deep into his mind, his soul. They would haunt him for rest of his life.
Shock was etched on the faces around him, women cried rocking where they sat, men cursed or sat clearly devastated and mute. Muttered conversations, whispers, told tales of the horrors of the day. As a few lucky but wounded warriors were treated, shrill screams broke the quiet of the night around them as their wounds were cauterised with hot iron, bandaged or poultices applied. Less than two hundred had escaped the enclosure of the Romans. They had suffered even more wounded from the huge arrows that were rapidly propelled through their ranks as they tried to escape. Gaping open wounds still bled freely where the weapons had punched through flesh. Those whose internal organs were ruptured had died virtually instantly or were disabled enough not to be able to escape, They were later put to death as the enemy swept through the field checking for those that still held breath. They would have died horribly in agony, maybe taking weeks to die in the aftermath but as the Romans checked for survivors, they were quickly expelled and sent to the afterlife.