Controlling his breathing he ran on until the first rays of light started to appear and his knees and ankles felt like the bones were grinding together, sweat peppered his forehead and ran down and into the already dirty stinking clothes. He stopped again and paused leaning forward, hands on his knees that now ached like nothing he had ever experienced before. Wiping at his brow he felt dried salt from sweat just below the hairline, proof if any were needed of his effort. He staggered on trying to loosen his muscles but knew he would have to stop and rest soon or he would collapse exhausted.
He had eaten the last of his pork sometime before and was already starting to feel hungry again when he saw a glimmer of a fire in the distance up ahead at the side of the path. Drawing closer he could just make out silhouetted bodies sat, huddled around the small flames. He carefully moved into the trees that ran along the edge of the path and got closer still using the trunks as cover. As he began to smell wood smoke and the aroma of cooking meat, he heard hushed voices talking, they were Britons.
The dark night had favoured Caratacus as he had pushed forward his attack. Under the cover of darkness he had led two thousand warriors up through the ravines of the mountain as Ardwen had done the same elsewhere hidden by trees and thick foliage. The sudden onslaught had caught the Romans by surprise and had not only overrun their defences but had rewarded them with prisoners as well. So swift and furious had been the enthusiasm to take enemy lives, that over two hundred legionaries had found themselves cut off from their comrades further up the slopes. Some who resisted were hacked to death or hit by their own arrows and javelins from above but as others realised their plight, they surrendered throwing their weapons and shields down.
Ardwen had pushed to butcher them all, stripped naked and in full view of the survivors cowering behind their last ditch above, but Caratacus had refused vehemently. He persuaded him that the men would be taken and given to surrounding villages and tribes as slaves and proof of their own power and the Romans vulnerability. It would pave the way for more to fight against the people who had come to steal their lands and wealth. Ardwen had given in but sought re-assurance that the remainder on the summit would be slaughtered to a man, Caratacus agreed saying that this would be their grave.
The palisade that had proved so troublesome previously now became an effective defence against arrows as they were loosed at the massing Britons baying for more blood. Some of the ramparts were destroyed in places, hacked away by large war axes as effective rough steps were gouged out and dug into the ground ready for the next assault. Warriors now sheltered below the unnatural wall waiting for the order to move again. Ardwen insisted for it to begin immediately but Caratacus was cautious and asked for patience, once again Ardwen impatiently agreed. The Silures leader knew his cousin was better placed to be in overall command and was already demonstrating his more effective leadership.
Before the battle for the summit could begin however, Caratacus sent word of his plan, back down the mountain. A great victory was at hand over the eagle bearers and he wanted their destruction witnessed by as many tribal leaders and chieftains they could find. In the meantime, they would bring their warriors forward to feast and celebrate the victory and consolidate their position making it impossible for even one member of the depleted Legion to escape.
Varro crept forward as close as he dared and crouched down trying to take in the words his ears were almost hearing. They struck him like mighty fists battering his weary body and soul as they shocked him to the core. He leaned with his back to the tree not twenty paces from the fire and listened as Brenna once more told of his friends death.
“The fool died like the rest will soon enough, Vespasian and his lap dogs will never escape these valleys and mountains.”
The crackle of the fire was the only other sound he heard now as no-one interrupted her as she repeated the story again as if to convince those sat with her around the warmth of the fire.
“For many months now my brother and I have lived and fought amongst the invader but they never suspected we are of the Catuvellauni. He even died living this lie so we could discover their plans, killed by Silures warriors, allies to Caratacus and sworn enemy of Rome.”
Her voice sounded different, almost feral, animal like as she spoke. He slowed his breathing not wanting to give away his position in the foliage behind the tree. Her words were like daggers stabbing at his heart, he had openly given himself to this woman and it had all been a lie.
“I had the opportunity to kill this man and I took it.” She said, Varro was frozen with shock as she continued, “Decimus was one of the centurions and trusted scout rider of their leader Vespasian. He and his kind are the eyes and ears of their legions and I even prostituted myself to another, Varro, to gain his trust.”
He fought the urge to vomit as the words pounded at him again striking him like cold iron. He fought the urge his rage was directing, as part of him wanted to run into the camp and tear her throat out with his blade. He knew that it would be a futile death and no-one would learn of this woman’s treachery and it would result in his own, no doubt by the hands of those she was speaking with. He turned his head carefully as she continued to talk and boast and looked around the edge of the tree, his face against rough bark. To the right of the fire impaled on a wooden stake was the head of his friend Decimus, mouth open, eyes wide in shock.
The final ultimate victory that Caratacus had sought did not occur despite many attempts to achieve it. Time and time again his brave warriors and those of Ardwen climbed above the final rampart of compact mud and were met by a deadly hail of arrows and spears through night and day as they tried to reach the remaining soldiers to take their lives on the summit. Soon there were many dead and wounded on the mountain and he ordered that groups carry them down the slope again and again. After five full days and nights, warriors stopped returning to the summit and simply vanished into the valleys below, exhausted, wounded and mourning the dead.
Ardwen had tried to gather his forces but only a few thousand remained as both leaders finally conceded they would have to starve the Romans out before taking their heads. They were now left with a combined army of less than four thousand strong but it was more than enough to complete the task or so they believed.
Conditions a few hundred feet above the Britons were far more precarious than they knew or could have imagined. Of over four thousand legionaries that marched into the mountains, only four hundred and seventy now survived. They were down to their last days rations and were short on arrows and javelins as they waited for the inevitable final assault. More lay injured, unable to fight on, some dying who would never see Rome or their homeland again. The only surviving medicus had ran out of bandages, poultices, vials and herbs to treat the wounded two days before and now resorted to tearing up the tunics of the dead to staunch the flow of blood from freshly injured men. The crippled and dying had been removed to the very top of the mountain where they were afforded a little shelter by the basin at the top. The same could not be said of those who stood and waited hungry, dirty and despondent behind their barricades for the enemy to return once more.