Soldiers half-starved by days of rationing, stared down the mountain, dirty and covered in blood and grime, exhausted by the unrelenting punishment the Britons had delivered to them. Those injured but still able to wield a blade and hold a shield, guarded the miserable peak with those who had somehow escaped injury and waited, now led by the surviving centurions. Vespasian had developed a fever as a result of his own wound three days into the siege and was barely lucid anymore as he lay with others with stab wounds, lacerations, bruises and broken bones.
Valerius looked out glassy eyed at the view around him and breathed heavily. All day the Britons had been carrying their dead and wounded down the mountain and funeral pyres had burned for days in the valley below, the acrid stench of burning flesh wisped up into the air to fill his nose with its rank stench. He had been told that after the last senior officer had lost his life, the centurions who remained alive were now considering suicide. The rumours had said that they refused to fall into the hands of the barbarians and would prefer to die honourably rather than await a fate worse than death if they weren’t fortunate to die in battle.
As he sat watching the enemy lines carrying bundles of bodies file lower, he looked at the blade of his gladius and imagined the cold iron entering his stomach, pushing upward under his ribs and into his heart. He closed his eyes as tears fell and rolled down his cheeks as he realised he would never see his parents again. His father, a former optio with the Thirteenth, had been so proud of him when he had joined the legions following in his footsteps. He remembered the day he had first returned home to stand in front of both his father and mother in uniform, armour polished to perfection and shining brilliantly. He sighed rubbing at his eyes at the memory, wiping his tears away, hoping no-one had seen his weakness but then realised he didn’t care if they had. He was nineteen years of age and would never see another birthday or his family again.
As he looked around at the men near him, battered and exhausted, red eyes staring back, he heard a sound carried on the wind and stopped breathing. His head turned in the direction he thought it came from but his eye caught more Britons scurrying down off the mountain. The breeze was strong and he knew it moved sounds playing tricks on the mind, especially at such height. He leaned forward as if a few hand widths would help and listened again.
“If you need a shit, fuck off over there.” A legionary said sat next to him, wrapped in his cloak and jerking his head towards the holes dug in the ground for such things. He ignored him and stood up and looked at the Britons again. They weren’t just carrying their dead and wounded anymore, they were withdrawing from the mountain by the hundred and as quickly as possible. He looked beyond them into the valley but could see no reason for their obvious panic. He began to move around the edge of the wicker wall that had been his home for what seemed like an eternity.
“You’ll get something shoved up you’re fucking arse with a barbarian holding the other end of it if you don’t get back behind this wicker you daft cunt.” He heard the man say.
“Shut your hole for a moment will you?” He replied. “Look!” Pointing down the slope, he stood on his toes trying to try and get a better view. Cautiously the other man came out from behind the wicker and joined him.
“If I get a fucking spear I’ll gut you with it myself before I die you little runt.” The soldier said joining him frowning. “So what’s to be seen then?”
“Shush, shut up for the gods sakes and listen you dirty unshaven smelly whores hole.” Valerius said removing his helmet and cupping his hand to his ear leaning out. He frowned concentrating straining his ears.
“I think you need my right boot up your sack young man, there’s nothing to hear.” The agitated soldier said but Valerius didn’t respond. He cocked his head listening. Then he heard it again and his face lit up, the distinctive blare of a Roman trumpet somewhere in the valley below. He turned and ran around the entire line of their defences shouting, almost crying with joy as the blares got gradually louder and others realised they were going to live.
“We’re saved, we’re saved, Jupiter’s cunt we’re saved.” He shouted tearing off his armour and running round like a lunatic. The survivors of the Second Augusta jumped up and joined in to a man as they too heard the sound of rescue being carried on the breeze as the men of the Twentieth Legion with Corvus and his men marched into the mountains of the Silures.
“Well shave my hairy ball bag and call me Emperor Titus Cock Fuck, I don’t bloody well believe it.” The previously dour soldier said and joined in the celebration hugging and kissing Valerius.
Caratacus and Ardwen had considered ambushing the advancing legion as it marched, trumpets blaring and echoing around the valleys. They estimated their strength to be around five thousand possibly more, a fully manned legion, fit and well fed and ready to fight and more than twice the amount of men they had under their strength. As Caratacus looked down on the men of the newly arrived enemy, shining as the sun reflected off their armour, he looked to his own people and saw exhaustion and no will to fight on against the odds. They were tired, hungry and weary of death and battle after so many days fighting. He knew they were in no condition to face the new threat.
“We’ll go north into the lands of the Ordovices and the Deceangli for the time being. They’ll swell our numbers and together we’ll crush this plague as it eats away at our land.” Ardwen smiled at his cousins words and resilience.
“What of the injured?” He asked climbing onto his horse.
Caratacus looked about him at the wounded lying all around, littering the floor of the valley, “If they can travel, they can come with us but any who have to be carried, they have to be left behind, we can’t afford to waste time.”
Ardwen considered arguing but knew his cousin was right again, he kicked his horse as it reared up and shouted, “You will not be forgotten.” He then raced after Caratacus who was already galloping away into the dust ahead.
The men of the Twentieth Legion could barley recognise the survivors of the Second Augusta as Romans when they reached the first line of palisades. They were gaunt, dirty shadows of their former selves, unshaven and unkempt. The usual inter legion rivalries were forgotten as the injured were treated and soldiers ate properly for the first time in days. Those who had passed away before rescue could arrive, were buried as words were spoken over their unmarked graves. Fit healthy legionaries helped their injured comrades off the rock and down into the valley below. The Britons main force had gone, travelling north, the worst done to defeat those who had defended the mountain.
It took several days until the men of the Second were ready to move and only then, flanked and led by the soldiers of the Twentieth. Cavalry scouts rode ahead ensuring that the way was clear but the Britons didn’t return, they were gone as if spirited away. It took several days for the slow moving army to make its way back to Isca where Legatus Vespasian’s men could lick their wounds. Of all of them, he was one of the more fortunate, as his fever ensured he was unaware of the entire journey. He finally awoke three days after they returned, in a fresh bed wearing clean dressings and wondering what had happened on the mountain top that had haunted his feverish sleep.