***
Valerius had lost count of the amount of lives his arrows had taken in the dawn attack on their position earlier that day, it was impossible to say, so crowded had the Britons been in their thirst to assault the palisades and outer defences. He had been relieved by his senior Centurion, Marus Fulvious Cortus who was co-ordinating the defences for a few hours, in order to get some food and some sleep but had spent most of the time watching as work details dug out another series of ditches halfway between his own position and the very summit on the mountain, the problem now, was that they would soon run out of space to fight. Cortus knew it meant their commander expected that the Britons would break through the outer perimeter or that it was a distinct likelihood.
In order to try and raise moral, Vespasian had briefed his officers saying that in the event that the first line of palisades were overrun, all legionaries were to fall back to the second line where their defence of the mountain would continue. The men of the Second Augusta, the centurions and soldiers were some of the finest men he had ever had the fortune to serve with and the best in the Empire and they would not fall to a bunch of half-naked savages who tried to mate with goats.
He had also said that he expected re-enforcements in a matter of days but until then they would take as many lives as were thrown against them. He refused to die on this insignificant hillock and wouldn’t allow his men to do so either. They would march out of these hills with their heads held high after stopping the assault and would one day return to wipe the scourge of Caratacus from the face of the earth. His men quiet at first had listened in silence but as the speech progressed he had rekindled their spirits, thumping a clenched fist into the air they had cheered and stood applauding the man who would lead them to salvation.
That day, the remaining trees had been felled and embedded into the new ramparts that ran all the way around the upper half of their sanctuary, the ends sharpened with axes. The men went about their business with renewed vigour after the speech by Vespasian and now looked forward to the next attack with renewed optimism. As well as forming a difficult obstacle to overcome, the lengths of timber also helped to re-enforce the ramparts themselves, some of which had been significantly damaged during the first onslaught. Everyman knew that if Caratacus and his warriors broke this second line, they would never leave this mountain alive and it would become their tomb. In order for that not to occur, every effort was to be made to repulse the enemy lower down the slopes, which was where Valerius later found himself once more.
The sky was darker than the previous night due to ominous black clouds overhead and only the light from fires provided any relief but they were not their own. Small fires twinkled in the distance down in the valley, hundreds of them but there were none where they were as Vespasian had ordered a blackout. He realised that he had to ration the remaining timber and didn’t want fires illuminating his men once the next attack was underway.
Uncomfortable and cold they maybe, but that discomfort could well be the difference between life and death as they would not silhouette themselves against the night sky. Valerius shivered as he walked out from his wicker barricade once more, a distance of ten paces, looking up he sniffed the air and suspected it was going to rain. Looking down he thought he saw movement and quickly went back to cover, he crouched, nocked an arrow and waited.
Valerio saw him dart back or did he? “It’s your imagination,” he said to himself but he stayed behind the wicker shield and looked downwards again.
“Men think they see shadows at night, there’s nothing there, besides if they try again, they’ll get so much iron pumped into them, they’ll never come back again.” He turned to look at Valerius and smiled, that instant his back arched forward and he gurgled. Horror creasing his face as blood ran from his open mouth and down his chin. Valerius tried to bring up his bow as a hairy limed head grinned out at him from behind his dying friend. Valerio was hurled to one side and over the palisade as a wet glistening sword was removed from his back.
Valerius froze for a moment, finding movement impossible as suddenly all around him the ground came alive below the palisade. A swiping blow chopped through his bow from his side, he saw Britons scrambling up over the defences by climbing onto each other’s backs.
“Alarm,” he shouted, “Alarm.” As loud as he was able and turned to run as another sword swipe crashed into his helmet slicing through the metal like wheat, lurching upward his hands touched the ground as his boots tried to grip the blackened soil. His limbs seemed alien as they betrayed his attempted escape. He was aware of the sound of breaking wood as his wicker shield was ripped from the ground. Arrows began to flash through the air from above as the men of the Second launched their response. He ran scrambling and falling forward, his life flashing before him, expecting to feel a sword or spear blink out his existence at any moment.
Figures above shouted garbled words as his fingers dug deep into the grass now clear of the soil as he pulled himself up. He could hear grunts and shouts behind him and he imagined a sword sinking into his trailing foot, Faster and faster he tried to move, panting with effort, eyes wide, mouth gasping for air. Javelins rained down and thumped, impacting into the surface all around him. He heard an anguished cry close by but didn’t dare try to look to see what had caused it.
“Run, keep going, come on you can make it.” A voice shouted from above as his helmet fell over his eyes. His legs burned from effort, his calves pumping, ankles hurting like never before as the incline took its toll. One quick push on the rim of his helmet cleared his vision as he saw a legionary shouting from above as he hurled another javelin, it landed close by somewhere behind. Twenty paces from the next ditch above the new rampart, the soldier and another linked hands as one was lowered reaching out. Arrows hammered into the ground, shouts of pain and anger rose closing in on him all around but still he ran, his lungs taking in huge gasps of oxygen.
Six feet away from the outstretched hand he leapt upward, flailing his leading hand to make contact but he fell short, weak and out of breath from his effort to get this far, he slammed into the wall of the rampart, hitting it hard with his face. He gasped again for air turning for the first time since Valerio had been killed and saw blue streaked Britons upper bodies bare, eyes large, mouths screaming, bearing down on him.
“Move your fucking arse soldier.” The legionary clinging onto the other man from above shouted, his other hand holding onto a post sticking out from the ground. An archer appeared at his side and fired an arrow as Valerius tried to block out the approaching barbarians in his mind. An arrow flew by his head from the archer, clearly aiming at something close. Taking a deep breath he stumbled to the outstretched arm stretching down to him and jumped up. The strong hand clamped onto his wrist and pulled his body up, feet dangling as he was hurled up and over the trench, he landed hard, gulping for air, leg muscles burning. Grunts of effort filled his ears as men all around him threw javelins at the enemy trying to scale the palisade, their last real defence against oblivion. More men re-enforced their hold on the mountain as pila and arrows were thrown and fired at the attackers who screamed in anger and agony alike as their dead grew. Those who came behind the warriors at the front piled into their backs as a killing field quickly grew and the dead mounted but on they came, fury in their eyes as they sought to take the mountain.
Varro quickened his pace and began to run slowly at first away from the sounds of battle. He knew he had to find help as quickly as possible and to do that he needed a horse. He tried to steady his pace as the incline of the valley helped propel him downward faster than was comfortable, his upper legs straining with effort. Once in a while he would get a whiff of the dead man’s shit in his new pants as he ran and decided he would have to find more clothing at the earliest opportunity. He ran on until eventually the ground began to level out, he slowed his pace and stopped catching his breath. Turning he looked back up the track at the way he had come, it snaked curving upward until his disappeared in the dark. He couldn’t see anyone following or anything beyond the winding road in the dark.