Chapter 13 #2
The thud of timber on timber reverberated through the fort. A battering ram pounded on the gates, shaking them on their hangings.
At the first strike of the ram, the women and youths on the rampart rose up and pelted those below with rocks or stones from their slings.
Howls of rage sounded from beyond the gates, but still the pounding on them continued.
The attackers would be holding up their large Celtic shields for protection from the attack above.
A flight of arrows from outside topped the ramparts.
“Shields up!” Lucius yelled.
The wicker-and-hide shields of the women and youths did their job.
Would the Dumnone use their chariot and remount to charge in on horseback, or would they fight on foot? Butterflies the size of ravens swirled and pecked in Lucius’s stomach. Would their defenses work?
The sickening crack of the timber gates disintegrating rent the air. A bloodthirsty cry of triumph rose from the attackers. The men of the shield wall beside Lucius shuffled their feet. The shattered gates swung wide open.
“Hold fast, men,” Lucius ordered. Ad victoriam. “Victory will be ours.”
Still the attackers didn’t come.
Lucius tightened his grip on his spatha. A bolt was positioned in the scorpio for discharge. Cosgrach clutched more bolts in his hand ready for reloading the machine.
Now the Dumnone were hurtling through the gateway.
The chariot led their charge. Its driver plied his whip, forcing the Celtic ponies faster.
Behind him stood a Dumnone warrior in chainmail, his polished iron helmet glimmered in the rain-filtered light.
Its protective cheek guards hid most of his face, but even so, Lucius could see the malevolence in his look.
Did he think the fort’s destruction would come before the sun’s shadow advanced one line on a sundial?
Britons on horseback followed him—about forty of them, all with their swords drawn. Some held javelins as well.
At Lucius’s signal, Maonos’s voice rang out. The men, women, and youths on the earthen walls and ramparts loosed their arrows, spears, and sling stones from beside and behind the attackers. The enemy roared with outrage and surged forward to escape the onslaught.
“On my command!” Lucius yelled over the din to those around him.
The chariot ponies were almost at the end of the passageway, their flanks covered in sweat, their bodies straining to race faster. Their legs reached out to pound across the earth.
Instead, they tumbled into the concealed ditch at the end of entranceway. And were impaled on the stakes within. Their terrified screams and cries of agony shredded the air.
As battle-hardened as he was, Lucius blood turned to ice at the sound.
The charioteer joined them. But the warrior or chieftain being driven, was hurled over the carnage and landed beyond the ditch, on the ground before the shield wall, and moved no more.
The riders following saw the danger too late and tried to slow their mounts or ready themselves to try to jump the wide ditch.
“Fire!” Lucius shouted.
A hail of arrows, spears, and two scorpio bolts greeted the frontrunners.
The bolts did their evil job and sliced through the armor and flesh of more than one attacker.
The enemy fell in a screaming, groaning, tangled heap.
The galloping ponies behind trampled them as they stumbled forward. The wide ditch was filling fast.
The scorpio crews reloaded for the next volley. The archers were ready too.
“Fire!” Lucius ordered.
Another wave of death greeted those stuck in the passageway. There was no escape except to flee back through the gateway, but that was targeted by the Durotriges on the ramparts.
“Advance and keep up your fire. Stop any crossing the ditch,” Lucius ordered the men of the shield wall.
The men shuffled forward, sending more throwing spears into the enemy. The passageway was blocked by bodies.
Lucius raced for the ladder to the platform above the gateway.
From there, he saw that the foot soldiers following behind had turned tail. Most headed for the causeway over the stream, causing a bottleneck. Others tried to ford the waterway. Lucius ran along the walkway and marshalled the defenders. “Kill them!” he yelled, pointing to the retreating force.
A wave of arrows and stones hit the enemy, mowing them down.
“Let none escape,” Lucius ordered. He wanted no repeat of this day’s fight.
The defenders did their job and Lucius nodded his approval.
In the closing moments of the battle, Garamaros released his wolfhound, Lurcher, to chase down a warrior who had managed to flee across the stream.
The attack was over. Dead and dying littered the ground. Lucius scanned the battleground until he found Sorcha in front of the grisly ditch, leaning on her sword, chest heaving as she regained her breath.
She lived.
Thank the gods. And he saw no sign of injury, just exhaustion.
Sorcha looked up. Her gaze found him. Shock, excitement, awe blazed over her face.
He pumped his arms in the air in the age-old sign of victory.
She straightened, the tension in her shoulders eased, the lines on her forehead smoothed, and a grin broke out across her face as she punched an answering arm in the air. Her eyes lit with something else as they roamed his body—intense, probing.
Was that hunger, yearning, longing? Maybe.
Hope lit up in his heart. He took a step towards her.
Some other emotion flickered in her eyes and her face collapsed into its usual seriousness. She scowled at him and jerked away, striding towards her roundhouse.
Huh! He’d definitely read her wrongly.
Lucius climbed down from the ramparts. All that was left was the mopping up. He crossed into the killing zone and performed the grisly task.
Some ponies still stood there, trembling and white-eyed with fear. “Eachann,” he called to their young horse master. “Collect the ponies that are unharmed or can be doctored.”
The youth raced to do his bidding while Lucius strode out the gateway to finish his job.
The gruesome work of dispatching the injured enemies completed, Lucius turned back to the fort.
He climbed over the carcasses of the dead littering the passageway, leapt the ditch, and trudged towards the chieftain’s roundhouse.
Clearing the bodies was the next task. He rounded up a few men milling around and set them to work to strip and stack the bodies for burning in the field beyond the fort.
“Leave their leader to me,” Lucius commanded, pointing to the body in front of the roundhouse.
Lucius dismissed the remainder of his force. “See to our wounded.” He had designated one of the empty roundhouses as a valetudinarium for the treatment of the injured. Alina, with her knowledge of herbs gleaned from raising a dozen children, assisted Arawynos, the druid healer in charge there.
Exhilaration fought with exhaustion in Lucius after the tension of the last hour.
He reviewed the battle in his mind. The cobbled-together scorpios and their teams had worked well under pressure.
All the Durotriges had performed their tasks.
Pride in these people’s defense of their settlement surged through him. He was well pleased with them.
The enemy chieftain lay still on the bare earth in all his battle finery. Would the Durotriges let him keep the man’s armor and weapons? Probably not. Would he allow a hostage to remain armed once an emergency had passed? He scoffed at the idea.
Lucius knelt beside the corpse.
The Dumnone’s elbow came up and smashed Lucius in the nose. His head snapped back, but by Mars’ mercy, he didn’t fall. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the pain from his injury.
The Dumnone surged to his feet, sword in hand. Not dead, only knocked unconscious.
Lucius gripped his blood-soaked sword.
They circled one another.
Hatred glinted in the man’s eyes.
Blood gushed from Lucius’s nose. Surely it was broken. And not for the first time. Perhaps Arawynos could straighten it properly this time—if Lucius survived this fight.
The Dumnone slashed with his sword.
Lucius parried with his spatha.
They swung and jabbed with their weapons, neither gaining the advantage. Every blow Lucius landed glanced off the man’s armor. Thrice Lucius thought his leather covering would rend under the weight of the Dumnone’s blow before he could deflect it.
The man lunged again, pushing past Lucius’s defense and knocking him off his feet. The Dumnone followed for the kill. Lucius rolled and struggled to stand. Any second now, the death blow would come, cleaving his head from his body.
Instead, the Dumnone clutched at his neck, staggered, then pitched forward.
An arrow with pristine white flight feathers protruded from the unprotected space between his cheek guard and the top of his chainmail. Blood spurted in an arc from a punctured artery.
Lucius surged to his feet and lurched away from the falling body. His gaze followed the arrow’s trajectory and found Sorcha, a bow in her hands and another arrow ready for flight. Thank the gods she had chosen to save him.
But now he owed one of the Durotriges his life… and of course it would have to be the beautiful but disparaging Sorcha.
He nodded his thanks.
She tipped her chin in reply and turned on her heel.
And just like that, he was alone in the open space before the chieftain’s house again.
His gaze tracked Sorcha and he couldn’t wipe the foolish look of admiration from his face.
Lucius swiped his bleeding nose with the bottom of his tunic. He turned back to the Dumnone leader, ready to strip the armor from his body, and spotted Garamaros standing in the shadow of a roundhouse roof, watching him.
What had the observant Briton seen?
Lucius’s feelings for Sorcha went way beyond gratitude for saving him.
They were wholly inappropriate.
And definitely unrequited.
Why would a Roman commander—a Roman citizen—sworn to protect the Empire, admire a barbarian like her, no matter how beautiful and alluring… let alone admit it to himself?
Who would do that?
Only an idiot!
And obviously, that was him.