Titus Vassio: Brittania A.D.60. Part 1.'The Battle of Ynys Mon'

Titus Vassio

 Britannia AD. 60

Part 1.

The Battle of Ynys Mon.

The Roman Centurion glared down at his enemy; A Celtic warrior; Its face was painted in a garish blue dye. Its hair, bone white and spiked. A fancy twisted bronze torc ring hung around its neck. The Celt bared his yellowing teeth and spat in his last defiant act.

Titus Vassio pressed his hobnailed boot down hard on the Celt’s bare chest, pinning him in place, as if he were standing on a bothersome rodent. 

‘Avé Roma.’ he growled,

Then thrust his Xiphos sword into the Celt’s throat. A squirt of blood jumped up the damascus steel blade, then pooled in the indent of the Celt’s throat, before running in ruby rivulets down his neck. He coughed and choked. HIs eyes bulged, his hands curled into fists. He twitched, his chest collapsed as the last vestiges of air escaped his dead lungs.

Titus looked up, death surrounded him on the battlefield. His fellow Romans were executing the dregs of wounded Celts that littered the blood drenched ground. Swords, and spears were thrust into bodies, extinguishing the last spark of life in these pathetic painted savages.

Titus’s eyes fell on the eagle standard. A smile spread across his bloody sweat stained face. His heart beat faster. Pride bristled in his breast. A gust of wind blew across the field. His scarlet sagulum cloak flapped around his armour clad body. It had gained a few rips and tears. Sweat ran down his face from beneath its leather and ermine lined galea helmet, which felt heavy on his head. His neck ached from it.

A spattering of wet drops peppered his face. Titus looked skyward. Dark clouds were rolling in, bringing rain and a chill in the air.

‘Britannia!’ he sighed. ‘Does it ever stop raining on this flea ridden Isle?’ He bent down and ripped the bronze torc from the Celt’s neck and tucked it into his belt.

Suddenly a large brown dog came bounding at him. Its jowls flapping around its ugly, scarred face. Fresh blood stained its big nose. A bulky spiked collar hung around its thick neck. It came at Titus, slavering and barking.

Titus thrust his sword into the ground and knelt down as the dog lunged at him. Its big pink tongue scraping over his face. Its breath was fetid.

Titus patted it and laughed, ‘Ah! Fleabag! It is good to see you boy!’ 

Fleabag’s tail wagged excitedly at being reunited with its master. The Molossian war dog was a breed of fighting hounds of Epirus in Greece. They were huge, savage, loyal dogs. Bred for the fighting arenas, where they would be used for entertainment, bringing down bulls for the delight of the crowd. THe Roman army had taken them into their fold, using these mighty hounds in their arsenal on the battlefield.

‘Titus sheathed his sword. Fleabag fell in line at his side. ‘Come on, boy, let’s see what rich pickings and trinkets we can procure from these wretches, before heading back to Segontium fort.

Thunder rumbled above his head then the heavens opened and the rain came down in a heavy deluge, as if the Gods of Britain were weeping for its fallen warriors.

‘Deos!’ Titus scowled. ‘I hate Britannia!’ 

Monam Insulam (Isle of Mona)

Dozens of campfires crackled, warming the air around them. The heavy woodland trees surrounded the Roman army camped within its heart of sap heavy air. 

The Roman castra Immunes Architectri; Praefectus Castorum, had dug out an earthen wall, firepits and threw up tents, within the rise and fall of a single sun.

 Spits sizzled over the flames of the firepits. spitting from roasting fat of fowl and pig, dripping onto their glowing hot embers. Britain was a veritable pantry of food and belly bursting fayre for hunter’s bows and snares and nets.

Titus Vassio stood on the shale shore of the Menai Strait. He looked out across the bay toward Ynys Mon. A small Isle, yet probably the most important part of this God’s forsaken land. At least to the heathen Celts who populated this green, forest covered land.

Ynys Mon! The Druid Isle! The heart of the people. Their most sacred land. It was said their heathen gods were manifest on that Isle. They dwelled in their sacred Oak Groves and stone circles. They frolicked through the forest, naked, wild and baying like stags and bears and wolves. Taking on those animal forms.

A shiver ran down his spine, at the thought of slaying gods. Surely no good could come of that? He looked up at the darkening sky. Red streaks hung over Ynys Mon! A bad Omen? But for whom? Those wretches who resided on that cold rock, or for the Roman legions about to invade those sacred groves, bringing slaughter and death to all that resided there.

Titus sniffed and spat out a glob of mucus. Fleabag whimpered at his side. He absently reached down and scratched its big boney head. The dog panted and pressed its warm body into his legs.

Come first light of the new morning, Then he and his cohort of men would see if those rumours, of gods and magic were true. When they would cross the strait and put all who dwelled there to the sword. He would see for himself, if gods lived there, and if heathen gods died, just like men do in battle. Titus turned back toward the campfires and the mouthwatering smells coming from them.

‘Come on, boy. Time to fill our bellies with a hunters feast and drown our sorrows with an amphora of sour wine.’ Fleabag jumped up and barked. Titus smiled at his faithful companion, then strode off toward the campfires.

Gaius Seutonius Paulinus sat on his white steed. His face was stern. A cruel arrogance glinted in his brown eyes, surrounded by crows feet. He squinted from his vantage point out across the ebbing tide of the menai strait.

His scarlet cloak draped over his square shoulders. He wore a soft woolen focale scarf wrapped around his neck to stop his lorica musculate; boiled leather cuirass armour, chafing his skin. Due to the colder weather of Britannia. The legions had replaced their caligae sandals for Calcei boots and knee length bracae pants they had adopted from the Gauls.

The tide had receded. The Immunes went to work. They dragged their pontoons out onto the shallows. Using oxen as their beasts of burden. It would take half the morning for them to build their floating bridges. Four of which would span the strait of fourteen hundred passus distance.

Dozens of smoke plumes rose into the sky from Mona. The Celts knew the Romans were at their throats. The Celts had nowhere else to run! This was going to be a deciding, bloody battle, for their freedom, their lives, and their beliefs and culture.

Titus leaned on his pilum spear and squinted out across the strait. Hundreds of Britons stood on the shale shore of Mona, bashing sword pommels on their shields, screaming and shouting. Some had pulled down their bracae pants, exposing their buttocks in some kind of insult.

Dozens of fires had been lit. Druids stood, ankle deep in the water, Pointing staffs at the Roman army. Their cloaks flowed around them as they stood on one leg, hopping around, casting down curses upon Their Roman oppressors' heads.

Several cattle had been dragged into the clearings. Their throats were cut by druids using small handle sickles. They collected the spilling blood in iron pots. Pouring it over their heads and running amok through the crowds of warriors splashing their bare painted chest with oak leaf and mistletoe brushes.

Carnyx horns roared. Their discordant sound reminded Titus of farting beasts, so uncouth was the racket they made.

Women, bare breasted, ran around screaming and dancing, holding burning torches in their hands.

Titus yawned and scratched his arse. He sighed waiting for the bridge to be completed, and then he and his cohort could cross to that little mound of rock and bring those savages to heel, all for the glory of his beloved Rome.

Smoke from fires drifted on the breeze. The sound of chanting druids and jeering savages assaulted the ears. The cacophony of swords clanging off shield rims was deafening.

The orders came. Titus swallowed. His jaw tightened. He gripped his shield, took a deep breath and shouted to his cohort.

‘Ad Octo! Movete!’

His men shuffled, forming ranks of eight men in a row. With a grunt, they matched forward. Their hobnailed boots crunched loudly on the shale, and then clacked as they stepped onto the pontoon bridge.

The sound of baying Britons grew louder. Titus’ heart beat madly in his chest. His mouth dried.

Hundreds of savages shook their shields and weapons at them. Baring their teeth and spitting into the wind.

Several ranks of warriors, bare chested. Their skin decorated in pagan patterns and tattoos, ran forward. They whirled sling shots around their heads, then released them. Pebbles smacked off the advancing Roman scutum shields.

Maximus Blasius Laughed as a pebble bounced off his shield. ‘Can you believe it? These savages have nothing more deadly to cast at us than stones!’

‘Silentium!’ Titus snapped at his legionary companion, turning to give him a stern look.

Maximus’ eyes widened in horror as an arrow smashed through his teeth, into the back of his throat and erupted out the back of his neck in a spurt of crimson. He gagged. His shield clattered to the ground. He keeled over, face first onto the bridge.

Titus felt the warm, fine spray of Maximus’ blood hit his cheek. He shook his head and growled.  

Pulling his shield up and interlocking it with his men. They stepped over the body of Maximus as if he were not there and advanced.

Slingshots and arrows rained down upon them. Several men cried out, as arrows and even stones found their mark.

At last, Titus and his cohort set foot back on terra firma.

‘Tela!’Titus commanded his men to form a shield wall against the projectiles being cast at them.

His men moved as one, interlocking their scutum shields and forming an impenetrable wall against the Briton’s onslaught.

As more cohorts crossed the bridges forming up. Titus peered from behind his shield. He could see the faces of his aggressors.

The Britons were a pathetic bunch of disorganised savages. They had no discipline. No battle tactics that Titus could discern.

They jeered and bellowed like bludgeoned cattle. They ran about, casting slingshots and arrows at Titus and his men.

Titus gritted his teeth and huffed. He could not fathom why these Britons resisted the rule of Rome? All of their intertribal bickering and skirmishes would become a thing of the past. Trade and the comforts of life would be in reach for all. All they had to do was work for Rome. Supply it with men for its military. Riches and grain and other foodstuffs, and they would be brought under the protective blanket of Mighty Rome and its illustrious Emperor.

But these Barbarians; These Britons were a stubborn lot. Their hubris would be their downfall.

And then there were those damned Druids! Stirring up their warriors into a frenzy. They darted about inbetween the half naked screaming women, and bare chested warriors. 

Splashing them with blood from small cauldrons they carried. Dipping in brushes made from clumps of twigs and leaves from Oak trees and other flora they found sacred, which they thought had some innocuous connection with their wild, animal headed gods.

The Druids were dangerous! They held ultimate power over the people of this wind and rain swept Isle. They even held sway over the tribal Kings and Queens! They had to be stamped out! They had to be brought to heel. They had to be put firmly in their place, under the boot of Rome.

All Titus wanted was to advance and get this over with. There would be a feast cooking, for when they got back to camp, and plenty of wine and beer. His belly grumbled at that comforting thought.

Roman cohorts poured over the bridges, taking up formations on the beachfront. Forming an impenetrable shield wall. Cavalry waded through the thigh deep water.

Some brave Briton warriors ran forward, challenging Roman soldiers to single combat, as was their custom. But the Legionaries ignored their taunts and cheers.

‘Ad Cuneum!' Titus ordered as the great shield wall segmented. Breaking into small wedge shaped formations. 'Percute Movete!' He ordered.

The wedge formations started their advance toward the enemy line. Titus gripped his Xiphos sword. His heart was beating fast and strong. A small trickle of sweat dripped from his helmet, down his face.

The Celtic horde surged forward, like a wave smashing into the prow of a ship. But just like the prow of a boat, the Ad Cuneum wedge cut through them, splitting the wall of warriors, washing them along its sides, where they became victims of protruding, stabbing Roman swords. 

Celtic blood squirted over the shield faces. Men fell and stumbled, cut down by the Roman war machine. 

Titus and his men rode the storm of warriors smashing against them. The sound was deafening. The stench of sweat and blood and shit and piss was thick in the air. Men’s screams mingled with the crying gulls gliding overhead.

The battle of Ynys Mon had begun! 

It didn’t take long for the Britons to abandon the shoreline;Throwing themselves at the Roman shieldwalls, only to be cut to pieces, was a foolhardy tactic, even for them.

They retreated into the woodland areas, where the Shieldwall could not go. It had to break up into smaller sections, making the Roman’s task more dangerous and precarious.

The Britons knew the terrain like the back of their hand. The Legionaries, on the other hand, did not. They advanced slowly into the underbrush and overhanging trees, in their small, wedge shaped formations.

Sweat ran down Titus' back. His armour felt heavy. His shield arm was aching. His eyes darted about in the shadowed forest. Twigs snapped under his feet. Birds trilled in the branches of the thick wood. Light pierced the canopy, in shafts of glimmering gold.

Up ahead of them,He could see figures, flitting between the trees, like woodland spirits. Howling like wolves. And every so often an arrow or stone would bounce off a shield with a clunk.

Titus felt uneasy. As if they were being drawn into a trap, herded like dumb cattle to the slaughter.

Titus looked to his left then right. Through the trees he could see his Roman allies, slowly pushing forward in their own Ad Cuneum formations. Shouts and screams echoed around the forest as men came to blows.

Something caught Titus’ eye, he squinted, his guts tightened, ‘What was that?’ he whispered, as a strange black hunched figure hopped amongst the trees. It looked like a crow, squawking and flapping its wings. Only it was the size of a small child!

Rumors abound about this Isle. How it was said to be the most sacred place in the world of the Celtic tribes. Not only the tribes of Brittania, but also, Gaullia, Iberia and Germanica. All of their holy men, these Druids, Drus, Droi, whatever title they came with. All travelled here to this place with its sacred groves and altars, to learn its secrets and walk side by side with their wildling gods.

Titus wondered if he had just spied one of those gods, a huge crow? Then a sharp howl, close by, brought him out of his thoughts. A wolf! Again, on the edge of his vision, several creatures ran Through the trees. They were big and looked abnormal. Then one of the wolves stopped. It cocked its huge head toward Titus, staring at him. 

Titus held his breath as it stood up on its hind legs, raised a bow and shot an arrow at him. Titus pulled his shield up. The arrow thunked into it breaking through its surface. Its iron point stopped inches from Titus’ face. The wolf threw its head back and howled, before disappearing into the underbrush.

‘Vos servate…. Percute!’ Titus shouted. His men tightened their shield formation and advanced through the forest.

All around them, the forest was alive with the sounds of howling animals and screaming bird-like calls.

The thick acrid smell of smoke drifted on the breeze. Roman voices shouted out their orders to their men. Shields clashed. Arrows flew through the trees. Shapes darted in and out of vision.

Suddenly a large white stallion burst into view. Its eyes were wild with terror. Its roman saddle was empty. Its white flanks were splashed with blood. It had a cut on its shoulder and a broken arrow sticking from its rump.

‘Vos servate!’ Titus shouted as the horse crashed into their shields, kicking and screaming. Several men were bumped out of formation. Two went crashing to the ground.

The horse reared up then dashed off into the woods.

Titus shook his head. He felt dizzy.from the collision. The forest seemed to lurch from side to side. The surrounding brush moved and swayed, as if it were alive.Branches fell to the ground as Britons stood up, dropping their camouflage. They were daubed in clay and dye, mimicking the colours of the forest. They were all around, surrounding them.

Titus snarled angrily at the deception they had fallen for. In the blink of an eye chaos rained down upon them.

Several Britons broke through the Roman defences. Swords, axes and spears clashed, men cried out, blood was spilled on the forest floor.

Two Britons rounded on Titus, determined to cut off the cohort’s commander from his men. 

Titus held up his shield taking three axe blows to it. The last blow broke through the shield. Titus twisted his scutum to one side and cast it to the ground, pulling the lodged axe from the snarling Briton’s grasp. Titus lunged forward, bending at his knee. His xiphos sword ran up the inside of the Briton’s thigh slicing it open. The Briton screamed, toppling over. Titus thrust his blade into his enemy’s heart, hissing through gritted teeth.

‘Ave Roma!’

Suddenly Titus lurched forward, winded by a heavy blow to his back. His armour had saved his life from a vicious sword slash. Yet his ribs would be bruised for days, if he survived this onslaught.

Titus turned and threw up his sword just in time to deflect another sword blow. His arm jarred painfully from the blow. Growling, he kicked the Briton in the gut then gripping his sword with both hands he swung up violently, catching the poor wretch under the chin. The Briton's face was sheared off in an eruption of blood and shattered bone. He collapsed to the ground like a sack of horse shit.

Titus was gasping for air. When the trees around him groaned mournfully. Then he saw it! Swinging down from the branches. A felled tree stump spiked with deadly spear heads on a rope swing. 

Men cried out as their bodies were crushed or impaled by the swinging trap. Titus tried to duck, but was struck on the shoulder. His head exploded in pain, his sword flew from his hands. He was thrown through the air and came crashing down onto the forest floor.

Titus Vassio opened his eyes to a nightmare world. His vision was blurred. His mind, full of confusion.

Two wolves held down a naked Roman legionarii on a stone, blood drenched altar. He squirmed and screamed. A stag headed figure stood over him. A giant cawing crow hammered a greased wooden spike into his rectum with a huge wooden mallet.

Titus’ left eye was swollen, bruised and half closed. His head throbbed insanely. His left shoulder drooped, dislocated and in agony. The nightbreeze caressed his naked flesh. He struggled against his bonds. He was tied to a pole. He tried not to look at the scene of hideous barbarity around him, but he could not stop himself. Two cadavers hung from poles. Headless and gutted like fish. Titus was in no doubt he was staring morbidly at his own intended fate. 

The two wolves carried the impaled Roman to his resting place. Standing him up next to the other two victims. He screamed. His body slid down the greased pole. His right shoulder bulged abnormally. His clavicle bone snapped as the bloody point of the spike ripped through his flesh.

The Stag strutted over to him like a proud forest spirit. His face was covered in the bone skull mask. The antlers gleamed, golden in the flickering torch light. The druid wore a deer pelt over his shoulders. A strange large metal disk was stitched to the leather pelt wrapped around his chest. It also gleamed golden and bronze; A sun disc and half moon surrounded by a constellation of stars embossed on its blue enamelled surface.

What it all signified, Titus could only imagine.

The stag druid held a small sickle in one hand. He approached the pathetic Legionarii impaled on the pole. And in one swift upward motion, he gutted him from cock to breast bone. The legionarii’s guts spilled out of him, slopping to the ground. His head flopped forward. The wolves, like the scavengers they were, fell upon their dead victim. They hacked off his head with his own gladius sword, and placed it on a wooden shelf, in the company of dozens of other mouldy, decomposing trophies.

Titus was a veteran of the Roman army. He had seen every atrocity and every barbarous act one man could inflict on another. He had killed and hacked countless men to death himself. All in the name of Mighty Rome, its Emperor and its revered eagle banner. 

He bowed his head and whispered a prayer to Jupitor and Mars for a swift death.  His head swung loosely to his chest. 

The wolves came for Him! They cut his bonds and dragged him over to the red drenched altar. The distinct tang of spilled blood and fresh entrails pervaded the grove like a butcher's stall in a busy city street of Rome.

They threw him down onto the altar. It was wet and sticky on his back. They spread his legs as the crow hopped about, holding the wooden mallet. From beneath his beak mask and feathered hood. The druid grinned viciously at Titus.

Titus clenched his jaw. He would not struggle, or plead for mercy, or cry out. He would not disgrace Rome or himself. The crow hopped forward, menacingly pointing the sharpened stake at Titus’ arse. Titus took a deep breath, preparing himself for the agony to come.

From the shadows of the trees a baying noise came. A dog, a brute Molossian mastiff, ran into the torch lit nightmare grove. 

The Mastiff’s big brown eyes gleamed like a denizen of Tartarus. It wore a spiked collar. It was missing one ear. A cut ran down its face. Matted and bloody. It bared its teeth at the druids. 

Titus' eyes widened, ‘Fleabag!’ He gasped.

Behind Fleabag, the bushes rustled as more war dogs pushed their way through. They stopped and growled. Saliva ran from their hanging jowls. Their muscles bunched up. They barked and snarled in warning.

Titus suddenly felt a glimmer of hope creep into his hopeless predicament. 

‘Fleabag! Vestra sponte,' he shouted.

The Molossian war dogs understood the command and leaped into action, attacking the druids. Savaging them in a wild attack.

Titus rolled off the altar. He grimaced in pain from his dislocated shoulder. His eyes fixed on the pile of Roman armour and weapons from his sacrificed Legionaries. He picked up a gladius blade and turned on the panicking druids as they fought off the attacking dogs.

It was time for the druids to scream in terror, as the Mastiffs went to their grisly work. Their jaws locked onto arms and legs, pulling their victims down with their heavy weight, and then snapping those slavering jaws on the druids throats, ripping them out and tearing their belly’s open.

Titus crept up to the stagg headed druid. The druid’s eyes gleamed with hate for the Roman. He made a whooping sound then swung his sickle at the Centurion.

Titus knocked the sickle out of the druid’s hand with ease, then lunged forward, ramming his gladius into the druid’s gut. Comin eye to eye with the masked holy man. He hissed through gritted teeth.

‘Ave Roma!’ Then ripped the gladius upward, disemboweling the druid.

The druid fell to the ground surrounded by his spilled guts. The Mastiffs fell upon him. Tearing the pathetic figure to pieces.

Titus fell to his knees. Leaning on his gladius, he thanked Mars and Jupitor for listening to his prayers and sparing him the indignity of such a harrowing death. 

Epilogue

Segontium Fort

The taverna was warm, inviting and full of smells from all across the Roman empire. Spices from the persian lands. Amphoras full of wine from Iberia and Gaul. Jars of olives from Macedonia.

Men talked and laughed and drank and ate. Some bragged about their prowess on the battlefield. Others laughed and played games of chance in candle lit corners. Others sat silent. Their faces are drawn. Their eyes hollow and empty. The rigours of battle had silenced their tongues. They sat deep in their own thoughts.

Titus Vassio, sat silent in a corner. A trencher in front of him with a half picked at spatchcock. A bowl of garum sauce for dipping, and a bowl of olives. 

The tavern door swung open. A Legionarii entered. His face was flushed. The hem of his cloak, dirty from his travels.

He walked over to the bar and drew his gladius blade. Banging its pommel down repeatedly. The taverna fell silent.

 His eyes were tired, His voice strained. ‘Dirige Frontum!’ he shouted.

All eyes turned to him. ‘Attention, men!’ he said. I bring grave news. A rebellion has taken hold in the south!’ his voice cut like a knife. ‘An upstart has formed an army. Camulodunum has been sacked. Burned to the ground! They have killed everyone. Roman, Briton, women and children, alike’

The taverna erupted with shouts of surprise and anger.

‘’Who is this rebel?’ they shouted.

‘A flame haired fury. A Warrior queen. They flock to her crow banner, in their thousands. They march south to Londinium as we speak.’

‘Who is she?’ Who is this so called warrior queen? They shouted again in anger.

‘They call her Bouddica!’

Titus sighed deeply. He ripped a leg off his spatchcock and dipped it into his garum sauce, then took a bite and washed it down with a swig of ale.

‘Deus!’ he spat. ‘I hate Brittania!’ 

Titus Vassio

Brittania AD 61.

Part 2:

'Boudicca'

Coming in the New Year.