Caratacus withdrew to the lower valley and found Ardwen who had fared no better as he too had lost many brave souls that morning. By the late afternoon the injured that could be moved were taken away on carts heading to their villages wrapped in bandages. Those with life threatening wounds were gathered together to be administered and comforted in their final hours by those who were their kin or friends.
“We’ll try again tonight.” Ardwen said looking up to where smoke rose to the sky and bodies lay. “Under the cover of darkness, with no moon, we’ll be on top of them and inside before they know we’re there.”
Caratacus looked at him and half smiled at his determination, “Very well but if that fails, we starve them out. We can’t lose as many as we did today again. I’ve seen their iron take too many lives and I tire of the weight on my shoulders, we need the guile of the fox and the strength of the wolf if we’re to break these men.” He looked upward onto the slope and saw the dead laying strewn everywhere the eye could see, the sight replayed an image of the morning assault in his mind’s eye and it was awful.
“Go and find your family cousin, they’re camped along the track.” Ardwen pointed. “Get some rest and eat and come and find me here later as the sun begins to fall. Tonight we shall climb again and things will be different, you’ll see.”
Caratacus patted him on the shoulder, “I hope you’re right, it would be better to defeat them with swords rather than hunger but defeat them we will.” He turned and went to find his wife and family.
Varro had woken up cold and damp when the first sounds of battle had reached his ears. Lifting his head slowly he looked around trying to get his bearings and for a moment was confused. Rolling over he pushed his cloak off his head and looked around. At first he had thought he had been having a nightmare until his surroundings confirmed the reality, he really was alone and on top of a mountain miles from the men of his Legion.
He cursed himself for falling asleep for so long as he realised that dawn was breaking. Looking out over the valley he watched as the Britons had climbed up to the defended held slopes like a tide, only to be halted suddenly in it’s tracks. Tiny defenders had cascaded arrows and pila into the swarming masses of the enemy and the advantage of high ground had won them the fight. Fires burned and plumes of smoke rose high into the morning sky from fire arrows and their targets.
After the battle which had raged for a considerable time, he could see many hundreds of bodies littering the slopes left behind as the attack finally subsided and withdrew. He could also see soldiers being carried further up the mountain, obviously wounded. He wanted to be with them but could do nothing except watch as the fate of the men of the Legion was played out before him. Again it brought home his own position as he remembered his isolation but the thought of Decimus and Brenna hurrying north calmed him somewhat. He looked around again and saw hundreds of plumes of smoke from camp fires on the valley floor and suddenly realised he was hungry. He moved backward and rolled onto his back pulling his food bag around and opened it. He chewed at the salted pork slowly and decided that he couldn’t stay where he was, he would move lower as a plan began to form in his head.
It took him nearly all day to descend onto the valley floor where the smell of numerous fires was strong to his senses. Moving slowly to avoid detection the day was beginning to draw in and he could hear voices of the Britons as they prepared food. He felt his stomach rumble, the pork had staved off hunger and would continue to do so and keep him going but for now he had more serious concerns than food. He crawled into a copse at the base of the slope and stripped down to just his tunic. The rest he buried roughly only keeping his dagger to hand and then he waited.
Later as darkness covered the land, the light of the fires burned brighter and so did the noise from the Britons as they began to consume their brew before battle. Singing and laughter echoed around the hills and mountains as they celebrated the lives of those who had departed that day. Funeral pyres were lit and a solemn atmosphere enveloped those gathered around them as they paid their respects and then the singing and celebration began again. He watched on waiting for the right moment from his concealed place in the copse. As the celebrating continued, numerous warriors started to walk away towards where he lay to relieve themselves in the bushes.
Just as he was beginning to regret his idea a young man approached, shouting back to his friends and laughing. Varro watched as he pushed branches aside and made his way into the copse where he wouldn’t be seen by the others. He stopped about five feet from the covered Roman, hidden under branches and dropped his woollen trousers. Wind escaped his backside as he chuckled to himself and crouched down, starting to groan with effort.
Varro gripped the handle of his dagger and pushed himself up quickly in one fluid movement and lunged forward, the young warrior barely had time to turn his head as cold sharp iron slashed through his throat ending his short life. Varro looked down at the body and quickly dragged the clothing off. He soon realised that his victims shit had landed in the trousers and the smell made him gag. He wiped off what he could using leaves and quickly put the pants and other clothing over his tunic and the cloth cap the man had been wearing onto his head. The rich combination of sweat and shit was foul but he would have to endure the discomfort for the time being. He turned and made his way through the bushes and stooped peering out at the other side. There was another fire some distance away surrounded by more Britons, he pushed his way through the branches and emerged.
He was seen immediately by two of those sat at the fire and feigned doing up the pants, tugging at the harsh cloth. One of the men raised a hand and shouted a greeting and laughed, Varro waved back and began to walk. He was aware of eyes following him or maybe it was his imagination as he angled away from the light of the fire and made for a dark area ahead. Expecting a shouted challenge at any moment he carried on wanting to run but knowing he couldn’t. Reaching darkness his beating heart began to slow, when he was sure he was out of sight he turned and saw no-one was following. The smell from the soiled clothing made him cringe as he found his way onto a track and began to walk faster.
Chapter Twenty Two
As Corvus began to move forward on his stomach, he felt that his limbs were stiff from inactivity and movement was difficult. He and his men had lain unmoving in the ravine for so long, that he had fallen into a restless sleep drifting in and out of consciousness despite the circumstances surrounding them. He paused tensing and flexing the muscles in his legs and arms as he tried to get the blood flowing again and then slowly began to move off. Seven bodies then followed slowly and silently behind him as they made their way to the bottom of the huge gash in the side of the mountain where they had spent the day under cover of the trees. He paused and drank from the stream for the final time and then pushed himself up into a crouch and moved to the edge of the bushes where he surveyed the land.
The Britons had been gathering their weapons and were now moving away from their fires down one of the tracks, presumably he thought to mass before another attack. He looked around and back at his men and signalled for them to wait as he emerged from the trees. He walked slowly to the nearest fire, looked around again and then gestured for his men to follow, the way clear. Slowly they emerged from the damp shelter and searched about around the camp. They found scraps of meat left cooking over the fire and ate greedily having their fill before moving off in the opposite direction to the Britons. When they were sure they were totally out of sight, they began to jog along the edge of the track trying to stay in cover as best they could.