He couldn’t stop thinking about the stupid nature of the Dobunni, merely moments before they had been on the verge of a great victory. Even with the enemy re-enforcements coming from the fort they could still have held them off and isolated the targeted men. Now however, it was impossible and so was any hope of any early end to this war.
They rode on through the forest where their speed was hampered by the trees but they were out of range of the enemy who were now occupied with thousands of Dobunni. He took one look back but couldn’t see beyond the foliage and could only imagine the end that the warriors who had covered their retreat had suffered.
The Dobunni would be rounded up and in all probability put to the sword or worse, sold as slaves. Caratacus vowed never to let such a fate happen to him again as he fingered the small dagger he always kept concealed inside his trousers. He and Togodumnus had agreed that should they be taken prisoner they wouldn’t allow themselves to be trophies of the Romans to be put on display. They would take their own lives and wouldn’t live under the boots of any enemy like sheep.
Eventually they got clear of the covering trees and moved along at a better rate on well-worn tracks. Warriors on foot couldn’t keep pace but they all knew where the rallying point was beyond the great river. All the people knew where and when to cross the river safely at low tide, the Romans wouldn’t, maybe that would help the retreat. That was of course providing no traitor had told them. The possibilities were small Caratacus thought as the territory had been their own for decades but then he remembered Adminius, another thorn in his skin.
Even the thought of his traitorous brother made him grip the hand guard of the chariot tighter as he saw his face in his mind’s eye. His brother had often warned that he believed the tribes only chance against the Romans was if they were all united. There were always conflicts and he knew that the possibility of one unified force was impossible.
The Roman leader had apparently listened to his brother’s tale with compassion or stupidity, a man who wanted an alliance with the greatest known Empire in the world but was cast out by his own people, his own family. Claudius had pledged that with the help of Adminius his legions would conquer his backward people and return him to his rightful place, the throne of Camulodunum. Caratacus pictured his former brother wearing the clothes of the invader, their robes and spat physically at the thought. He would pay for his treachery he swore again and decided to instruct others to kill him should his own life be taken.
Those who had survived the counter attack crossed the shallows of the Tamesa at low tide, the great river in their territory was even larger than the Medway. Reports reached Caratacus all the time that the Romans had followed and were close on their trail. He knew they wouldn’t be able to cross the water however, because by the time they reached it, the tide would be high and the river too fast and deep or so he hoped. He had made that mistake on the Medway but the Tamesa was broader, deeper and faster moving, it would stop even them surely.
He considered what he would do if fortunes were reversed in the event that the Romans found themselves stuck on the other side of the river. Part of his territory was already occupied and he was now heading for the lands of his recently departed dead brother. Would the Romans be content to sit there or would they wait for more re-enforcements, would they need them or would they circumnavigate the waters and attack from the rear as they had before?
He had already sent scouts out to the other tribes both west and north to warn them of the invasion. It wasn’t a fight that threatened just his territory after all but others as well and to stop them, they all had to fight together. He considered again those who had always preferred and had wanted to be a part of the Empire, they would surely side with Claudius now. He thought out his choices and knew that if he surrendered, he would no doubt die as other tribal Chieftains had done, strangled in front of cheering crowds in Rome. As he was bounced along in the chariot he thought through all the options available to him but there was only one real one, to resist. Now more than any time since his brother’s death he wished that Togodumnus was still alive. He doubted his ability to carry the fight against Rome himself but at that moment he realised that he had no other choice and for the first time in a long time, he felt alone.
Varro cantered his horse forward and into the fort. The battle had been hard won and the Britons had pushed the legions back, a feat rarely seen. He respected their leader Caratacus for his tactics and knew that had he succeeded in isolating and taking thousands of troops, Plautius would have been put in an unenviable position. Had he made a treaty with the Briton and bargained for the soldiers’ lives he would have won the respect of all his army. However, in bargaining with such a foe he would have been replaced, returned to Rome in disgrace and punished most severely.
As it turned out Geta had saved the day and the fortunes of Plautius who now it was rumoured, was about to decorate Geta for his bravery and that of his men. Varro had eventually been involved in the battle that day but only in the last attempt to outflank the enemy. He returned now to discover what his orders were as the fleeing Britons were pursued. It was said their capital was within a day’s ride now with only one major obstacle in their way, another larger river.
Trotting through the gate after helping escort prisoners to a stockade he saw that Plautius was indeed already decorating his officers, centurions and legionaries after the battle. He turned aside and saw Varro approach.
“Ah Centurion Varro how good it is to see you young fellow. I trust you played your part in the today’s victory?” He asked smiling up at the centurion.
“Sir, yes sir.” Varro answered. “We attacked with the cavalry and took down many of their chariots, men and horse.” He pulled up and got down off Staro.
“Splendid work my boy, splendid work. I suggest you go and find Legate Vespasian and see what he’s got in store for you. We need to pursue the barbarians that didn’t fall to our swords and give them a damn good beating as well. If things keep going at this rate, we’ll have conquered their entire island within the year.” He laughed walking off in the direction of his command tent. Varro led his horse to one of the equestrian enclosures and handed him over to a legionary.
“Make sure he’s fed and watered will you? We’ll be out again soon enough I’m sure.” He said already walking away.
“Yes sir.” The soldier acknowledged as Varro followed Plautius to the command tent. Inside, it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the dimness compared to the bright sunshine outside. The temperature was hot and stuffy, not helped by the large standing burners liberally placed to allow sufficient light. He saw that Vespasian and the other senior officers including Geta were heavily engaged in their plans for the follow up campaign.
He was ushered to a side room where other centurions and a few optio’s awaited their orders. Dirt covered most of the faces, arms and legs of those around him as they recounted their personal stories of the battle. He presumed that he was as filthy as them as none of them had time to wash as the General always insisted on debriefing his troops immediately.
Some laughed out loud as others were more serious as they told of narrow escapes or friends and comrades injured or killed and close escapes. The cavalry were in the minority of those waiting, the majority made up of the legions centurions who were well and truly in the middle of the fight. Auxiliaries were mocked at their near destruction but were able to give as good as they got in the well humoured banter. It was always at times like this that Varro thought the General and his staff should be present. He was certain that fewer men would die the next time and they would learn more than they did from the side lines watching as men were butchered, if only they spoke to those on the ground.