Read Online Arthur Britannicus by Paul Bannister - Free Book Online
Authors: Paul Bannister
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seen where he liked to be, in the front rank, battering his way through the enemy shield wall so his hacking, stabbing comrades could follow to butcher the shattered line of barbarians. Once, in an ambush sprung by a large war band of Saxons, he had not only rallied his men under a slashing hail of arrows, but coolly bought time for them to regroup by challenging one of the ambushers’ chieftains to single combat.
That day, the Romans’ overconfident tribune had made a bad error, and had brought his men through a defile where the soldiers could not deploy properly if attacked. It had to happen, it tempted the Fates, and the bored, malicious goddesses saw to their own entertainment. The Saxons were concealed and waiting, the Romans were stalled at a blockage of felled trees; there were too few scouts out ahead and none on the flanks, because the defile was too narrow. There was no warning. Saxon arrows and javelins flickered out of the forest and struck with deadly force along almost the whole length of the stalled column, and howling barbarians came in behind them to swamp the standing file. In seconds, the unprepared legionaries were faced with a chaotic hand-to-hand struggle in which the soldiers could not deploy into their battle formation, and the Saxons’ superior numbers meant it was inevitable that they would splinter, isolate and butcher the legion. Carausius acted fast under the hail of missiles. He mustered his century to form an armoured tortoise of covering shields and was working to drag the wounded and dying into shelter when he spotted in the Saxon ranks a big man who seemed to be a commander.
“That’s the noisy bastard I want,” he muttered to his marching companion Juventus, who was struggling to refasten a broken strap on his armour. “I can distract them, take him and put the fear of the gods into his hairy-arsed mates, too.” Carausius grinned. “He’s like you, that Saxon; big, soft, and full of his own piss and wind. He’ll do nicely.” Juventus paused as he struggled with a recalcitrant buckle.
“He’s a big bastard, and he’ll have you for a snack, you ponce,” he goaded. “I suppose I’ll have to step in and drop him when he puts you on the ground.” Carausius spat on the turf.
“If he puts me on the ground, yes, stick a couple of arrows into him. I don’t want any of your Roman etiquette-conscious polite ways putting me at risk.”
The Briton turned towards the German line, stepped clear and pointed his javelin at the big Saxon. “You are a coward who needs to eat fungus to give you the courage to fight. You are a woman who fights from behind trees,” he bellowed in his oddly-accented version of the Germanic tongue. “Come and see what a real man will do to you. Spread your legs for me, you whore, you know you want it.” The grammar wasn’t right, but the message was clear. And, in an obscene gesture the Germans themselves often used, Carausius extended his middle finger at the big Saxon. The man’s cheeks flushed at the insults and he stepped out into the small clearing where the legionaries were frantically trying to pull the wounded inside the shield wall they had formed around the standard bearers.
“I am called Beobwill,” the big blond warrior boomed proudly. “We’ll see who is the bitch here.” He gestured to his war band to stop the javelins and arrows, and strode arrogantly forward. Along the line, the hail of missiles slowed, then ceased. The ambushers leaned forward on their weapons, panting and grateful for the interruption, to watch the sport.
Beobwill, whose plaited blond moustaches hung below his chin, was impressively large and fearsome. He wore bronze and gold bands on his massive, tattooed arms and a shaggy, sleeveless bear’s pelt jerkin over his leather breastplate. He wore calf-length trews and supple leather mid-boots laced tightly. His long fair hair under a plundered Roman helmet with its armoured cheek pieces was tied
That day, the Romans’ overconfident tribune had made a bad error, and had brought his men through a defile where the soldiers could not deploy properly if attacked. It had to happen, it tempted the Fates, and the bored, malicious goddesses saw to their own entertainment. The Saxons were concealed and waiting, the Romans were stalled at a blockage of felled trees; there were too few scouts out ahead and none on the flanks, because the defile was too narrow. There was no warning. Saxon arrows and javelins flickered out of the forest and struck with deadly force along almost the whole length of the stalled column, and howling barbarians came in behind them to swamp the standing file. In seconds, the unprepared legionaries were faced with a chaotic hand-to-hand struggle in which the soldiers could not deploy into their battle formation, and the Saxons’ superior numbers meant it was inevitable that they would splinter, isolate and butcher the legion. Carausius acted fast under the hail of missiles. He mustered his century to form an armoured tortoise of covering shields and was working to drag the wounded and dying into shelter when he spotted in the Saxon ranks a big man who seemed to be a commander.
“That’s the noisy bastard I want,” he muttered to his marching companion Juventus, who was struggling to refasten a broken strap on his armour. “I can distract them, take him and put the fear of the gods into his hairy-arsed mates, too.” Carausius grinned. “He’s like you, that Saxon; big, soft, and full of his own piss and wind. He’ll do nicely.” Juventus paused as he struggled with a recalcitrant buckle.
“He’s a big bastard, and he’ll have you for a snack, you ponce,” he goaded. “I suppose I’ll have to step in and drop him when he puts you on the ground.” Carausius spat on the turf.
“If he puts me on the ground, yes, stick a couple of arrows into him. I don’t want any of your Roman etiquette-conscious polite ways putting me at risk.”
The Briton turned towards the German line, stepped clear and pointed his javelin at the big Saxon. “You are a coward who needs to eat fungus to give you the courage to fight. You are a woman who fights from behind trees,” he bellowed in his oddly-accented version of the Germanic tongue. “Come and see what a real man will do to you. Spread your legs for me, you whore, you know you want it.” The grammar wasn’t right, but the message was clear. And, in an obscene gesture the Germans themselves often used, Carausius extended his middle finger at the big Saxon. The man’s cheeks flushed at the insults and he stepped out into the small clearing where the legionaries were frantically trying to pull the wounded inside the shield wall they had formed around the standard bearers.
“I am called Beobwill,” the big blond warrior boomed proudly. “We’ll see who is the bitch here.” He gestured to his war band to stop the javelins and arrows, and strode arrogantly forward. Along the line, the hail of missiles slowed, then ceased. The ambushers leaned forward on their weapons, panting and grateful for the interruption, to watch the sport.
Beobwill, whose plaited blond moustaches hung below his chin, was impressively large and fearsome. He wore bronze and gold bands on his massive, tattooed arms and a shaggy, sleeveless bear’s pelt jerkin over his leather breastplate. He wore calf-length trews and supple leather mid-boots laced tightly. His long fair hair under a plundered Roman helmet with its armoured cheek pieces was tied
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