If I could hold them for just one day, then the tribe would get into the hills and away. If we managed to inflict too much injury, then perhaps the commander might even call off the campaign and return to lick his wounds.
The Romans reached the bridge as evening fell. They sent some scouts ahead, but they were forced to retreat because of our archers.
They retreated a short distance and formed a defensive encampment for the night. I don’t think anyone on either side slept much that night.
I was up before dawn, watching as the Romans broke camp. They were ready for battle, so I knew that this was crunch time.
They had to reduce the column to just three men wide in order to cross the bridge.
I let their scouts cross with impunity, so giving word that it was safe to proceed.
Then, once the first column mounted the bridge and were almost across I had the archers launch a ferocious volley. This was followed by a quick cavalry attack as the legionaries struggled to form a protective tortoise in cramped conditions on our side of the bridge.
This was successful, so they pulled back off the bridge to regroup.
It was a ludicrous situation. We were hidden from their view by the trees, so they knew we were here, but not how many or how well equipped.
The bridge was in the middle, isolated and bare.
They had pulled back out of range of our arrows to decide upon the best course of action.
The day wore on. Hours passed, and soon it was noon. I had bought the tribe the time I wanted. It was at this point I ordered my entire force to evacuate and escape to the hills.
There was some argument, but with a lot of weeping, they did as I commanded.
I was left with Iona.
“Are you sure you don’t want to join the others?” I asked.
“I can’t leave you to die alone,” she said.
“I have no intention of dying.”
She smiled, lifting her chin, as if to say, I’m where I belong.
Shaking my head and smiling, I hefted the long javelin in my hand.
“Let’s do it!” I said, and we rode towards the bridge.
With the shields already in place, the second detachment of Romans marched up to the bridge to face us.
It must have presented a comical sight, the pair of us, lightly armoured and lightly armed, and on prancing horses, facing around thirty legionaries wrapped up like a parcel in their shields.
They stopped, their spears unwavering.
A single rider came from their rear, an officer on a beautiful white horse.
“There is no need for you to die here!” he shouted in Latin.
He was right, there was no need, but the tribe needed all the time we could give them. Feeling sorry for my horse, I dismounted, as did Iona. The horses trotted off into the forest behind us.
The Roman rider was a good eighty yards away, behind his infantry. I gauged the distance and threw my javelin. I knew I’d never reach him, but it was an excellent shot, forcing him to pull his horse to one side as the weapon hammered into a sturdy oak just behind him, and stuck there, quivering.
I drew my sword and advanced onto the bridge towards the stationary Romans, changing into a run within ten yards. Just before the first points of their spears, I jumped onto the top of their tortoise and ran along its back to jump down the other side and continue towards the mounted officer.
I knew I had no chance, as more men than I could count flung themselves at me, eventually disarming me and pinning me to the ground. I had at least managed to knock several of them unconscious in the process. Iona was also taken. I heard the officer calling to his men not to kill either of us.
Battered and bruised, but alive, we were dragged back to officer, who was now dismounted.
I stood tall and proud, meeting his eyes and waiting for his reaction.
He was younger than I anticipated, as I had forgotten that high ranks in the Roman army were often bought by wealthy parents for their aspiring youths. He was perhaps in his early twenties, with brown hair that had an unnatural curl. His armour was gaudy, denoting his rank of Tribune.
Standing five foot six, he was shorter than I by a good six inches; I also noted that his hair was already thinning. He had a petulant look about him, but possessed hard eyes.
Just behind him stood another officer; a senior centurion. My memory data on badges and marks of ranks were hazy, but I think he was a Primus Pilus. This was the most senior centurion rank, denoting he commanded at cohort level. This was a different breed entirely. I immediately recognised in him a kindred spirit. His armour and equipment was sturdy and functional, a contrast to the almost theatrical appearance of his commander.
He was older too, by at least ten or fifteen years. With his helmet on, it was hard to judge age, but his weathered face and gnarled hands indicated many seasons of battle and a lot of living out of doors.
A stocky man, a few inches taller than the Tribune, his whole demeanour was different. For a start, he wasn’t as dark as his superior. This man did not originate on the Italian peninsular. His colouring was far fairer. His skin was tanned, and what hair I could see seemed to be light brown. He was a career soldier, probably having risen in the ranks to his current level due to hard graft and being one of the best at his job.
He regarded me with a different expression than the young and proud Tribune. His expression immediately reminded me to Roger, that fist day I met him in the library at the manor.
He appraised me as I appraised him, breaking off when his commander spoke.
“Get me someone who can speak their filthy tongue,” he said to the centurion in Latin. His voice had a whiney edge to it, like a teenager who wanted his own way. I disliked him immediately.
“A man’s tongue is only filthy if the person who speaks is filthy,” I said, in perfect Latin.
The young man gaped at me in surprise, while the centurion smiled in genuine pleasure, nodding imperceptibly to me.
“How do you speak our language, wench?” the tribune asked.
“Because it pays to know your enemy, Tribune Gallinas. That is why a group of women could attack and affect the release of over two hundred warriors with hardly a casualty.”
I noticed the centurion look away, so as not to laugh aloud in front of his superior. Gallinas did not notice, as he went bright red in anger and moved to strike me.
Standing straight and staring at him, showing no fear I smiled at him.
“So, you want to show how tough you are by hitting a woman who is bound by ropes?” I said.
He stopped in his tracks, confused, but then he surprised me by bursting out laughing.
“By the gods, Gaius, have you ever encountered such a spirit before?”
“No, sir, not that I can recall.”
“What do they call you, woman?”
“I am known as Layla, but you may call me My Lady.”
Again, the centurion smiled, but at least Gallinas took it well, laughing some more.
“How can you show such spirit? I mean, you’re a captive of Rome, and I could order you killed simply by snapping my fingers.”
“How many men do you want to lose in the process, Tribune Gallinas?” I asked.
“You think you’re that good?” he asked.
“No, I don’t think I’m that good. I know I’m that good.”
The young upstart from Rome stood there, with a supercilious expression and his hands on his hips. He wore a sword, but I doubt it had left its sheath, and even if it had, I very much doubted that the pretty looking thing had been used for real.
Without turning, he asked the centurion,
“Have you a champion in the First Cohort?”
“Aye sir, Fenius.”
“Get him up here,”
“Now sir?”
“Now, yes, now. I want this warrior bitch to see what real men are like!”
“Be careful, Roman, whom you call a bitch. Were not the founders of Rome suckled on the teats of a wolf bitch?”