Blood of Rome Retribution (The Blood of Rome Chronicles Book 2) Read online

  “Is that wise? Ardwen asked. “They will want retribution.”

  “Should we concern ourselves with what they want or what they may do? It is for us Ardwen to take retribution, they are the ones who betrayed us. Catuvellauni heads stare out at people on the outskirts of Camoludunum on poles as we speak. If we are afraid to attack these people because of what they may or may not do, we will never rid ourselves of them.” Caradoc replied. “We will attack them when we can, where we can and as often as we can and we will not concern ourselves with their thoughts except one, fear. We will make fear eat away at them, until it is the only thought they have until they are gone. Remember my friend, we did not start this war and it was not us who invaded their lands, butchered their people and broke treaties, stopping trade that had been carried out for generations. We just wanted to be left alone, to live in peace but they wanted more, they wanted it all, everything. They have brought this upon themselves and we must make sure our hearts are black when dealing with them, whoever they are, no matter how old.”

  Ardwen pressed his lips together but did not answer or make another comment as they rode on. He knew Caradoc was right but wished things were different, they all did. By late afternoon they had reached the first roundhouse of the settlement as they emerged from the trees blanketing the valley they had climbed. Five dwellings were surrounded by twined fencing in a family group, beyond that was another and more as they rode on. There were many such ringed habitations sprawling along the valley, all linked by fencing and gates. Children ran out to greet them as dogs barked and wagged their tails excitedly as they saw the men approach.

  Riding along the perimeter, Caradoc said, “We’ll have to start building a defensive wall around the outskirts of the settlement. I’m sure that once the Romans start to bleed again, they’ll come looking for those responsible and we have to be ready. I don’t want them walking straight in like they did at home.” As they entered the fence line through a large open gate, he jumped from his horse and handed the reins to a young man who came running forward. He led the horse to an area where others were corralled, chewing grass under the spring sunshine.

  “We’ll make a start on the walls tomorrow.” Ardwen said. “We’ll build ramparts two men high, maybe three and as straight as we can, it will make them harder to climb.” He handed his horse to the young man. “It will also help keep that biting wind out in winter, although we’ll lose the view.” He nodded towards the valley laid out below them. Caradoc followed his gaze and looked down the tree line; it truly was a peaceful and beautiful place. Only the track disturbed the thick trees but it soon vanished below the green leaves as it wound its way snake like down the valley. It would be a difficult place to attack, with its natural defences of mountains and valleys but Caradoc knew the enemy were organised and determined, professional fighters. He didn’t want to leave anything to chance. “Make the walls three men high.” He said. Ardwen nodded.

  They had discussed their plans at council meetings with the chieftains and elders and knew that they would have advanced warning of any future Roman intrusions into their territory. Men, women and children had already agreed to help build the walls that would surround the roundhouses as it was acknowledged that the way things were the enemy would simply walk straight in.

  “Come, let’s get some of that brew you’re so fond of and relax while those fish smoke and become extra tasty.” He said to Ardwen. “Let’s talk of these problems no more for the day.”

  Ardwen smiled, “Good idea.”

  ***

  As darkness began to fall many miles to the south, Dumnoc was lying down under the cover of a large oak tree and watched as the slaves began returning to the villa, after their days toil in the fields. He counted them off as they trudged back after a day digging and tilling soil, preparing the ground for yet another row of young trees for their master’s vines. When the last of them was inside and the large gated doors were closed behind them, he nodded to Drustan, who turned and went to where the others waited.

  Dumnoc had been watching the villa on and off for a few weeks, so carefree were the occupiers who lived there. They had never noticed the solitary figure who would ride past nor had they paid him any attention, he was just another traveller on the dusty roads in this rural area. They had no suspicion of his intentions. Over two years before, he and some of his war band had gradually travelled south and taken occupations in and around garrisons and marching forts, some even working for Roman families providing them with food or had trained them how to hunt in the land they had come to. Others became shepherds or tanners, smiths, anything so that they could blend in unseen. They, the Romans, had no clue that some of the men and women they believed to be of the Domnonii tribe were actually Catuvellauni intent on revenge.

  From watching the villa he knew what time they awoke, where the slaves and the freedmen went during their daily routine, when they tended the small rows of trees or dug new land, where they worked and what time they returned to the villa late at night. He knew what resistance he could expect from those who resided inside and suspected which of the slaves he could trust and those that would help when the attack came. Some had been openly badly treated, beaten and even whipped while he watched on, waiting for an opportunity to strike.

  He had waited a long time for this moment, this opportunity to take the lives of those who had more than likely celebrated when his people had died a few years before, and had looked on eagerly wanting to take their land. His own family, two sons and his wife, had been wiped out during the battle at the river Medway and now as he waited for complete darkness, he felt his heart begin to surge and slowly pound as blood coursed through his veins as his battle rage grew.

  Smoke billowed out of the villa’s two chimneys and rose into the darkening sky as the occupants prepared fires to cook food after a hard day working, the slaves at least he thought. The compound was a large pale rectangle from this distance, with an open space in the centre. The slave’s quarters were to the south, adjoining them at a sharp right angle was another wall, behind which the horses were stabled. Attached to that block was another long straight wall that contained the gates and then came the part of the building where the occupiers lived with their household slaves in a small building beyond.

  His mind showed him images of how the structure would look in the morning, burnt and ruined, with corpses lying outside, dark blood staining dead bodies. He felt no sympathy for what was to come or those whose lives he would take, just hatred, cold, black hatred, even the young would die if it came to that. He watched and waited until the last candle was extinguished from behind the window skins and then waited again. When after a while all was quiet, he searched the building with his eyes one final time to make sure no guards had been posted, there were none, how arrogant and at ease were these fools? He stood up, stretched his aching limbs and then joined his warriors beyond the bank, a short distance away where they waited.

  “Is it time?” Drustan asked. Dumnoc placed a hand on his friends shoulder and smiled. “It is my friend.”

  Some considerable miles further north-east at Isca Dumnoniorum, Centurion Varro secured his cloak with a brooch bearing the Second Augusta insignia engraved on it. It was usually positioned over his right shoulder when he was out in the field and held his deep red cloak in place away from his sword arm. Today it was above his sternum over the centre of his chest as he wasn’t expecting to fight within the heavily fortified garrison. He checked the leather laces of his boots, pulling them tight and then left his bunk. He was the officer of the watch and found himself once again going out to check the men who stood guard on the garrison’s walled perimeter. He would be glad when the campaigning season started again and he could leave the walls behind and the duties that he found himself performing. Like all other soldiers and officers, when they weren’t engaged in active duty, the routine of military life took over, guarding, maintaining equipment, drilling, training and more training. After a while it became monotonous but
it was necessary as he well knew.

  Consequently the winter months had brought nothing but training, hibernation and yet more training and he yearned to get back out into the fresh air on his horse and doing what he did best, scouting for information and intelligence. The repeated training although at times a chore, he knew was vitally important and believed that he was more competent with his spatha cavalry sword, than ever before. He had also practised for hours on end with heavy and light javelins and had extended his throwing distance by at least three paces. As a centurion, he could also choose other forms of training and had spent time with the archers and had now become quite proficient with the curved weapon that could kill from a distance. As a consequence he had ensured that all the men in his tent party were equally as good with a bow. He now felt better prepared for the months ahead, months that he would be spending with a relatively new scouting group.

  The men that he had originally arrived in Britannia with a few years before, were all dead, they had been replaced by other members of the Second Augusta. He had mourned his comrades for some time especially Decimus, who had been killed at the hands of Brenna, a woman he had shared an intimate relationship and his heart with. He had not been able to avenge his friend’s death because of the circumstances at the time but he still felt an almost physical pain whenever his thoughts drifted to her image or that of Decimus. He had not seen anything of her since but had vowed that if the opportunity arose, he would kill her without hesitation for her betrayal.

  He walked from the duty officer’s quarters and into the room where soldiers on standby rested, some were playing dice, others were talking quietly and some slept in double bunks lined against the walls. Those that were up and about wore their white tunics, their armour and weapons laid up near the door. They acknowledged him with a nod or “sir” as he went past. He fastened the chin straps on his helmet and walked out into the warm night air. Leaving the guardroom behind, he went directly to the nearest ladder to climb up onto the ramparts. At the top he felt a slight breeze and twenty paces away was legionary Marcus Pullo, standing looking out into the dark countryside. He heard Varro approach and turned saluting.

  “Sir.” He said holding his pila straight as a sign of respect to his superior.

  “Everything quiet?” He asked of the sentry.

  “Like the grave sir, no-one has come in or out since I came on post and it’s dead out there as well.” Pullo nodded down to the gates and then looked beyond the garrison again.

  “That’s good legionary Pullo believe me, better to be quiet and boring than to have a war band of hairy arsed barbarians trying to kill us eh?” He said in reply.

  “Yes I suppose so sir but I wouldn’t mind a bit of excitement once in a while. I’ve been here six months now and the only Britons I’ve seen have been polite and courteous. It’s hard to believe all the stories we were told in training. Our centurion told us that he had served here since the invasion and had seen human sacrifices, Britons torturing captured soldiers, that they would throw themselves onto our shield walls without a care for their own safety and that they lived on butchered meat and milk. I haven’t seen any of that, just the opposite. They may be a little primitive but apart from that, they are no different than us in many ways.”

  “Well Pullo,” Varro said, “I don’t know what you were told but I can assure you that things were different than this not too long ago and it could change just like that.” He snapped his fingers and went on. “When we first established the fort here Caratacus attacked and gave us a bloody nose. He sank a few vessels just there in the river,” he pointed to the water, “they hadn’t even been unloaded at the time and we ended up on rations for a while. If the first fort’s defences hadn’t been so good, they would have breached the walls and slaughtered us all. As it was the entire front line was virtually destroyed by fire.” He gazed out across the countryside. “Before that it was even worse, we had to fight for every piece of land, he and others like him are still there, waiting.”

  Pullo raised an eyebrow, “How many of them were there then sir?” He asked.

  Varro screwed up his nose thinking for a second, “That attacked Isca?”

  Pullo nodded. “A few thousand,” Varro replied, “more than enough to destroy the first century that was sent out against them. The second one didn’t fare much better either, they were sent to help the first and had to retreat as they started to take arrows and were then set upon by the bastards that had wiped out the first century.”

  Pullo looked down to the straight part of the water in the distance.” Hard to believe sir really, especially looking at the river now.”

  Varro smiled thinking back to when he was little more than a recruit. “Don’t wish for too much excitement too soon Pullo because you may just get a bit more than you bargained for.”

  Pullo looked back to his superior. “What’s it like though sir?” He cocked his head slightly. “I mean battle, when you have to kill for the first time? Did you just do it without thinking or did you hesitate?”

  “It’s never easy and you can’t hesitate because if you do you’re likely to have your head removed or at best a limb. Hesitating is definitely not recommended especially when you’re so close that you can smell the stench of the enemy’s breath as they scream in your face, someone that is intending to kill you.” Varro replied.

  “Tullus said that his first kill just wouldn’t die.” Pullo went on, “He said that he ended up hacking his head off just to make sure of the kill.” Pullo said.

  “Tullus?” Varro replied. “That sounds Germanic.”

  “It is,” said Pullo, “he’s the big German you must know him sir?”

  Varro turned and began to walk away, “I don’t know every soldier in the Second. He’s probably just trying to scare the life out of you, don’t think about it.” He said.

  “Remember, keep your shield tight and up high and your head low, so that you can just see through the gap between the shield and helmet. Thrust and stab out at them with your sword, don’t thrash, as you have been taught until they fall, you’ll be fine Pullo trust me.”

  Pullo didn’t look convinced, “Thank you sir, I will.”

  Varro smirked as he continued along the wall thinking about the first man he had killed in Gaul, it hadn’t been easy but he wasn’t going to tell Pullo that. He could remember every last detail of the encounter, the noise, the smell, the blood, even the man’s face as he had suddenly realised that he had been stabbed and was drawing his last breath. Killing was never easy, but a necessary fact of life in the legions sometimes. He checked the other sentries within his area of responsibility and began to make his way back down to the guard house located near the front gate.

  “Rider’s approaching.” He heard Pullo shout from his position above. Varro didn’t think much of it and continued on his way. Visitors were always arriving at all hours, merchants, returning patrols even envoys from unknown tribes. The guards at the front would deal with whoever it was. It wasn’t unusual for people to come and go at all hours, especially at such a large garrison.

  He had just removed his helmet when a soldier knocked on his bunk door. “Yes legionary,” he said turning, “what is it?” He asked.

  “Sorry to disturb you sir but a group of riders have just arrived at the gate.” He reported standing to attention.

  “What of it? What’s so special about them?” He asked perplexed.

  “They’re Britons sir, about twenty of them.” The soldier replied.

  “And?” Varro asked, beginning to feel himself get annoyed by the crumbs of information he was getting. He couldn’t keep going in and out every time someone came to the gate. The optio on duty out there was more than capable of dealing with visitors surely?

  The soldier saw his frustration. “One of them asked for you sir, by name. She said you would know her.”

  Varro frowned, “Come on man out with it, who is this mysterious Briton?”

  “Brenna sir, she said her name wa
s Brenna and that you would know her.” The soldier replied.

  Varro felt rocked, dazed, as if the man’s words were blows.

  Chapter Two

  When Dumnoc was absolutely certain that everyone in the villa was asleep, he led his party down the slope on foot very slowly. In the distance at the opposite side of the dwelling he could just make out Drustan’s raiding party as they also approached the stone and concrete structure from another direction, small figures moving carefully and silently. Behind both groups walked warriors leading their horses in case a quick escape was required. As he got to the bottom of the sloping rise of the bank and onto level ground he paused, and held his hand up to stop those behind him and listened, nothing moved. It was quiet, peaceful except for the sound of a mild breeze that touched his skin and whispered through the nearby trees. He smiled staring at the villa once more looking for signs of life, but there were none to be seen. He moved again. As he got to within a hundred paces of the structure, where the light walls stood out against the dark night, he could smell smoke from the still burning fires inside, he signalled for the archers to take their places ready to fire. They ran past him slowly and fanned out in a line, ten paces from each other, he was taking no chances. Drustan would be doing the same with his own bowmen at the far side of the complex. He slowly withdrew his long sword from its sheath, looked back at his men and women once more and nodded them onward.

  Reaching the wall, he placed a hand against it, feeling its texture, listening a final time for any movement inside. The wall was rough and hard against his skin not smooth as he had expected, he could hear nothing. His warriors stretched along the wall’s length silently and waited for his signal. Placing his head against the wall it felt cool, nothing moved inside, he was sure. He waited until he saw that Drustan’s warriors were in position as they slowly emerged from the gloom at the corner of the building and stood waiting. Raising his sword, his warriors began to climb the walls helped by each other as they climbed up onto interlinked hands and were pushed upward.