Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered by James Mace Read Free Book Online Page A

meant they were difficult for even their beloved king to lord over. King Orin, like his brother before him, had kept their people in a constant state of conflict lest they fall into anarchy and fighting amongst each other. Only the strongest of hands could control the Silures. Yet Orin was slowly beginning to see there was one even stronger than he who could do so. As Caratacus joined the kings, he passed a jug of mead between them. The men drank to their health, to the glory of their ancestors, the valour of their collective warriors, and the obliteration of the imperial menace.
     

     
    “There it is,” Stoppello said, pointing to the large river mouth several miles distant.
    Neither Governor Scapula nor General Paulinus could quite see it; however, they trusted the admiral’s superior vision. The fleet had formed into a long line, with the distant shore off to their right. As the fog broke, Paulinus was able to see the large sandbar that dominated the landscape. Just beyond the beach the ground rose up to what looked like a small ridge in the distance.
    “The terrain here looks relatively flat,” he observed. “It’s not as rugged and broken as the southern regions.”
    “And there’s a nice beach for us,” Scapula said to Stoppello. “We’ll land here.”
    Stoppello called out over his shoulder, “Signal the fleet…action right! All assault troops make ready to debark!”
    “That would be us, lads!” Master Centurion Tyranus shouted to his men. “First Cohort, up!”
    Anticipating the pending debarkation, all legionaries had been ordered into their armour and kit just before dawn. Soldiers donned their helmets and stood ready, using their shields and pila to help balance themselves.
    “This area appears to be deserted,” Paulinus said to his primus pilus. The ship lurched hard to the right as oarsmen cut into the waves, training the ship towards the shore. “Once off the ship, press forward to that rolling ridge. It looks to be about a mile inland and should make a good staging point.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Centurion Magnus leaned against his shield, as the ship cut through the rolling surf. He tied the helmet cords beneath his chin and took a deep breath in anticipation. He clenched his fist and beat it hard against the scar on his leg, drawing a bemused stare from Optio Caelius.
    “Trying to wake the damn thing up,” the Norseman explained.
    “I didn’t say a thing, sir,” Caelius said with an understanding grin. The optio had his share of scars and old injuries, and could therefore sympathise with his commanding officer.
    “Four fathoms!” a sailor at the stern of the ship shouted, as he pulled in the long knotted roped used for estimating depth.
    “Stand ready, lads,” Magnus said. He hefted his shield. “Just a little further.”
    “The cohort will advance in column until we reach the beach!” Master Centurion Tyranus shouted. “At my signal, we will form into battle ranks!”
    “Three fathoms!”
    Magnus scanned the horizon, anxiously looking for enemy warriors. There was little doubt they had been spotted during the previous day’s voyage. The only question now was whether or not hostile forces would be waiting for them on the other side of the ridge.
    “Two fathoms!”
    “Stand by to reverse oars!” Admiral Stoppello ordered.
    Magnus could now see the sandy bottom beneath the waves. He took a deep breath and slung his shield over the railing. Many of his legionaries followed suit as they prepared to jump over the side.
    “One-and-a-half fathoms!”
    “Reverse and withdraw oars!”
    Orders were shouted below deck. With great precision the oarsmen abruptly changed the direction they were rowing, halting the ship in just a few strokes. Upon a subsequent command, they hauled their oars into the ship, preventing them being smashed by the disembarking legionaries.
    Master Centurion Tyranus blew his whistle. Without further commands, Magnus stepped over the rail and leapt into the