He lay there feeling helpless, cold, frustrated and hungry and tried to think of something positive he could do to help. He felt his eyes growing heavy as he lay there and tried to shake off the tiredness by blinking his eyes but he knew he was no good to anyone exhausted. He retreated from the edge, wrapped himself in his cloak and curled up in a scoop in the ground out of the wind and allowed himself to fall into a disturbed sleep.
Not too far away on the Roman held mountain, eight legionaries slipped through the defensive perimeter one at a time. A centurion patted each of them on the back and quietly wished them good fortune as they crawled by him on their stomachs. They had removed their armour and blackened their tunics and skin as much as possible using spit and mud dug up from the ditch in the palisade. Vespasian had asked only for men who were willing to volunteer to go on a mission that in all probability would end in all their deaths but he was desperate, as were they all. The eight men were the first to volunteer although there were others. One said he preferred to do something other than sit and wait for a guaranteed death if they did nothing at all.
Vespasian knew that the rations and weapons could only last a certain amount of time, that said, they were now all of them, on half rations which meant they could survive longer. That in itself created problems because as the days went by they would get gradually weaker but it was a chance he had to take, he had to use every ounce of experience now if they were to survive. He actually hoped that the Britons would attack in force and break themselves against his defences and eventually withdraw but knew the odds were against it.
There were three realistic possibilities as he saw things; the first and most probable being the all-out attack with little regard to tactics by the enemy, in which case his men would send as many of them to their gods as possible. As a result of seeing many hundreds of their own warriors die they may withdraw and go home. He knew the Gaul’s in particular had such a habit of doing just that when the blood started to flow and they took severe losses but would this enemy be the same? Second and the worst case as he considered it, was that the Britons sat back and waited for their foe to run out of food and water and either become so weak they couldn’t defend themselves and were easily overrun or lastly they made one heroic charge down the slopes and onto the waiting spears below.
All scenarios he had considered fully and discussed with his senior officers and the general opinion was that tonight they should defend the mountain and see what it brings. In the meantime, the eight men would try to get down from the mountain undetected and attempt to get help. With no sign of their scouts, who he presumed were dead, the eight men were the only hope.
Once more he looked out at the fires on the peaks surrounding his own and wished that he could reach out and crush them, so tiny they looked from his position. All he could do in reality now was wait, wait and see what Caratacus did, he didn’t have long to sit and wonder.
Decimus had lost sight of the horses and the track some time ago and had stopped trying to look backwards except to make sure that no-one or nothing was behind him, which he did repeatedly. He kept having a sense that someone was following him or was about to take his head off with a sword from behind as he turned around. He imagined the hunched over giant he believed he saw earlier, swinging a double headed axe and removing his skull in one swift movement. Who would mourn for him, what would happen to his body, would anyone pray for his soul? He pulled a face, screwing his features up as he dispelled the thoughts and concentrated on the task at hand. Gripping the handle of his sword tighter he continued forward.
“Brenna.” He whispered standing still after a while but there was no reply except for the breeze. He took another step and immediately saw something move directly in front of him, it was Brenna he was certain. The shape was fleeting moving fast from left to right and just within his vision in the darkness and he was sure she was running with her sword in hand. He began to jog forward, spatha to the front in his right hand now held tighter than ever. He got to where he saw her and slowed but could see no sign of her passage, he glared at the ground but there was nothing.
Snap!
Something had broken a branch or a twig nearby and he crouched instinctively expecting an arrow. There was light in the distance flickering, a fire maybe but no arrow struck him. He walked towards the flickering flame, lurching from left to right as he went, all the time expecting attack. He was now getting angry at himself for being so scared, he was like a frightened lost child in the woods, the anger helped calm him. Fool he thought to himself, stop being such a prick. Closer and closer he moved, he could now smell wood smoke and hushed talking from around the fire where bodies sat huddled.
Fifty or so paces from them, they still hadn’t seen him, one of them looked like Brenna he was sure. He looked at the others and saw they weren’t soldiers but were dressed in the same garb as her. Quietly he approached the fire hardly breathing, he could see their faces now in the light of the fire, it was Brenna he was certain. He stood for a while trying to make out what they were saying but could only hear mumbling. As he crept closer, the breeze rustling through the trees and the crackle of the fire made it impossible to distinguish their words.
Suddenly Brenna turned her head and looked directly at him, “Decimus, thank the gods,” she said standing and walking towards him, the others all turned to look at the new arrival, “I got lost and came across these people of my tribe.” She smiled and approached him. “We were about to set off looking for you. You poor man you must be frozen, come warm yourself by the fire.”
He looked at the people sat round the flames, they were wearing swords and axes and he saw a couple of bows lying nearby, two of the men stood staring, hatred filled their eyes. He looked back to Brenna and she smiled as she suddenly whipped her hand up plunging a blade deep into his throat and ripped it through his flesh. Blood spurted out splattering her face as he fell, dead before he hit the ground.
The eight soldiers were led by Centurion Varenus Corvus a veteran of the campaigns in Gaul, four optios were also in their number, the rest were made up of legionaries. Although the night was clear and fires lit, some of the landscape around them was hard to distinguish so Corvus stuck to the natural gulley’s in the rock and knew they would be hard to spot, or so he hoped. Each man carried only one thing, a sword. They too had been dulled by caking the blades in mud so as not to give away their position as they tried to avoid detection. They moved slowly but swiftly down the slope as they made the descent. They could hear the enemy clearly all around them but would only engage those who attacked them or shouted an alarm.
Corvus had reminded them all not to look at the fires or their vision would be dulled and impaired sight could mean death. They would move and then go to ground sometimes for short periods and sometimes for longer, words would only be whispered and then only into an ear of the man next to them. They were to rely on hand gestures and were to be prepared to lay low for long periods of time even until darkness returned the following night if necessary. The final advice he had given them was the most crucial, if they were discovered and surrounded and there was no chance of escape, they were to fight to the death. By way of reasoning he had explained some of the things he had seen both in Gaul and Britannia of Roman soldiers captured by the enemy.
Crouching low Corvus surveyed the area ahead where he intended to travel. From the height they were at he had an advantage of seeing the lower ground virtually laid out before him as if it were a map, the disadvantage was that someone looking up could just as easily see him and the men unless they were very careful. They were in a slight crevice about eight feet in depth where trees and bushes grew thanks to a trickle of water from the mountain top. He had chosen this route as it ran the furthest down the slope until disappearing over an abrupt ledge somewhere hundreds feet below the palisade. The noise of the trickling water would help mask their movement and the branches would hide them from view but still he took no chances. He turned his head slowly and held out his mud covered arm and gave a signal to the man behind him to lay flat. Head first with his gladius held in his hand, he moved lower on his elbows and toes, moving inches at a time.