Free Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered by James Mace

their badly wounded friends, who lay sprawled about the battleground.
    “Do any of you speak Latin?” the master centurion asked, drawing confused stares. He shook his head in irritation and called over his shoulder, “Send our interpreter forward…and inform General Paulinus that we’ve taken the town!”
    A few minutes of awkward silence followed, with neither warrior nor legionary knowing exactly what they should do. The other cohorts from the Twentieth Legion had breached the defences with a number of troops surrounding the chief’s hall. Paulinus soon appeared at the barricade. With him was Landon, the Brigantes interpreter.
    “Well done,” the legate said approvingly. “Tyranus, take twenty of your men and come with me. The rest of you, start binding and sorting these prisoners.”
    “Yes, sir,” the primus pilus nodded.
    “Centurion Magnus, take charge of the cohort.”
    Magnus nodded and ordered his men to lead their defeated foes out of the town onto the open plain below. As they guided the prisoners down the slope, he was joined by Centurion Furius.
    He noticed Magnus was walking with a pronounced limp. “Almost sent you to Valhalla, didn’t they?”
    Magnus smiled and shook his head. “No, just the past injuries of an old man.” He winked as he looked at a rather nasty gash on Furius’ cheek. “That’s the worst shaving cut I’ve ever seen.”
    His fellow centurion primus ordo sighed and gently touched the still-bleeding wound with his fingertips. “Twenty-two years in the ranks without any visible scars and now this. It’s my own damned fault. I didn’t tie the chin cords on my helmet tight enough, and the cheek guards were flapping about. And it would seem I was slower with my shield than the cohort’s ‘old man’.”
    The two shared a laugh as their legionaries began to sort the prisoners. Their hands were bound behind their backs, and each man was tied to the warrior behind him. Their dead and maimed were left where they fell. For the Romans, it had not been a costless victory. Seven legionaries and four auxilia archers had been killed, with another forty men wounded between them. Half of these injured soldiers would likely be fit to return to duty in a few days; the rest would have to be evacuated to a hospital in Roman territory. Scapula’s intent was to have the imperial navy transport enemy prisoners and Roman wounded back to Camulodunum, when they arrived with the army’s next resupply.
     
    The chief of Deceangli was an older warrior named Elisedd. He was surrounded by a score of legionaries who stood close with their weapons drawn. He wore a long leather frock covered in small, rectangular bronze plates, belted in the middle. A sword baldric hung over his right shoulder. His weapon, a magnificent two-handed longsword, had been confiscated and was being held by a decanus. Standing beside him, her expression one of defiance, was his wife, Runa. She kept her plaid cloak held close around her shoulders, her auburn hair pulled back tight against her scalp.
    The chief’s brow was sweaty, his complexion red from exertion. For him, the battle had not lasted long. From his vantage point atop the hill, his stronghold swarming with imperial soldiers, he knew all was lost. He bowed to the General Paulinus as the decanus handed the chief’s sword to the legate.
    “Yr wyf yn ostyngedig yn cynnig fy ildio,” Elisedd said, in a language that Paulinus could not even begin to comprehend. “ Pa tynged yn aros fy mhobl?”
    “He says he humbly offers his surrender,” Landon translated, speaking slowly, as he struggled to understand all the chief was saying, “I believe he’s asking what fate awaits his people.”
    “He and his warriors are to be taken to Governor Scapula who will decide the ultimate fate of the Deceangli.”
    Landon translated the legate’s words causing Elisedd to grimace. He had little to no faith in the honour of the imperial governor, yet sadly, he knew he was