Soldier of Rome: The Last Campaign (The Artorian Chronicles)

by James Mace

  “Well, just so you know, I never told Pilate,” Artorius assured him. “I’m not sure which would have hurt him more, that it was an old friend who destroyed his benefactor or that said benefactor was an ignominious traitor? What surprised me is that you sought reelection as tribune of the plebs after all of that.”

  “It wasn’t easy,” Cursor admitted. “I did what I had to do, bringing down he who betrayed the empire. But when Tiberius ordered the deaths of Sejanus’ two youngest children, I broke inside. Did you know they defiled the young girl while the noose was around her neck? Their rationale was that it would offend the gods to execute a virgin. As if they would be better disposed towards raping an innocent child before murdering her!” Though a dozen years had passed, the horrifying events of that hateful night still haunted the tribune. He pulled out a small kerchief and wiped his brow.

  “Claudius was there that night,” Cursor continued. “He absolved me of any blame in the death of his niece and nephew, for you remember at the time he was married to Sejanus’ sister and was very close with the children. And in those few moments we shared, we promised each other we would attempt to find something in Rome worth fighting for. That is why I sought reelection or, at least, that was what I told everyone. After ten years, I was tired. Adela worried about me, she knew that I had yet to find that which I sought and my soul was tormented as a result. Claudius becoming emperor and offering me command of the army’s cavalry corps restored that hope. Adela laments that I must now break my promise of never drawing my sword again in anger. She told me that it may be the only way to salvage my sanity and my very being.”

  Artorius was aware of at least some of the events that had transpired in the aftermath of Sejanus’ downfall, though he did not know about the repugnant violation of the traitor’s innocent daughter. “And to think, Tiberius was once one of the greatest men to lead Rome’s armies into battle,” he said quietly.

  “That is why I was so torn over what he’d done,” Cursor remarked. “I was the one who informed him about Sejanus’ betrayal, as well as later, when it was proven that Sejanus also had a hand in murdering Tiberius’ son. When I last saw the emperor, I did not recognize him anymore. Gone was the unbeaten general who had led the legions to countless victories. He was always cold and distant, but even his first years as emperor showed him to be a strong leader.”

  “I think, had he died before his son, he would have passed into eternity hailed as one of the greatest men to serve Rome,” Artorius conjectured. He then asked, “Have you found what you seek?”

  “We shall see,” his friend replied. “I will say this; I do not think I will be returning from Britannia. Oh, I don’t mean to say that I foresee my death, although that is always a very real possibility. No, something tells me my future lies within that isle that we now seek to place under Roman rule. I have told Adela as much, and that we should be ready to sell the vineyard when the time arises. As it is right now, we have a tenant farmer renting it from us. I hope it does not trouble you that I should seek to sell your childhood home.”

  “It is not home for me anymore,” the master centurion assured him. “If it was, I never would have sold it to you in the first place. I may have been raised there, but I was still a boy of seventeen when I left. And with parents gone, any thoughts of ‘home’ are not to be found there. But now to the present, for we have a long journey ahead of us before we can even think of such things.”

  “Agreed,” Cursor replied, extending his hand. “I daresay, within the next few days, we will be writing the pages of history.”

  That anyone knew exactly where to go and which ship to board amazed Artorius. The camp had been torn down, all tents and supplies loaded onto wagons and pack mules. Representatives from each of Stoppello’s ships, usually the sailing masters, guided each unit to their ship. Two centuries could fit aboard each vessel with cavalry regiments requiring more with their horses. A full third of the transports were dedicated to logistics stores, along with a handful of men to aid the quartermasters once they unloaded.

  As the mariner assigned to guide the Twentieth Legion’s First Cohort’s First Century to its assigned ship, Artorius saw the massive lines of legionaries, auxiliary troopers, and cavalrymen hustling to get up the planks. As each ship took on its payload of men and supplies, they would cast off, though each had to take extreme caution so as not to ram into other vessels coming and going from the partially enclosed harbor. Artorius knew there was nothing he could do but follow the man and trust in those whose duty was to coordinate that journey across the channel and subsequent landing. He only hoped that once ashore, the correct units were landing with him.

  “You’re fortunate, sir,” the sailing master said as they reached the boarding plank of their assigned ship. “You get to sail to Britannia aboard Admiral Stoppello’s flagship.”

  “Welcome aboard, Artorius!” the admiral said excitedly, climbing down from the upper rear deck of his ship as the master centurion and his men stepped off the boarding plank. Judging by his blood-shot eyes, Stoppello had barely slept in days, the enormity of his task bearing down on him. However, in addition to being a first rate sailor, he was also a logistics master and knew how to coordinate even as large and chaotic of a debarkation as this.

  “Just tell us where you want us,” Artorius replied.

  The wind and movement of hundreds of ships under oars had made the waves very choppy, and the ship rocked about erratically. Stoppello and his sailors scarcely noticed, though Artorius had to stop for a moment, lest his dinner spew forth onto the deck.

  “Right up here, near the prow of the ship,” Stoppello said, waving his hand towards the open space at the front, which normally would have been covered in cargo.

  The sun was beginning to set, and both Plautius and Stoppello wanted to make certain all vessels were at sea and in formation before night fell. As the flagship, Stoppello had elected to be among the last to depart.

  “Let the men ground their armor but have them stay close,” Artorius ordered Parthicus. “Get some rest if they can, but I want everyone suited up and ready to assault by the time the isle is in sight.”

  “Yes, sir,” the optio replied. He in turn said a few quick words to the principle officers and squad leaders.

  Before the ship even pulled in its gangplank, the men were out of their armor and lounging on the deck near the front of the ship. Many were using their armor for pillows and back rests.

  “Where would you like me?” Camillus asked, walking up to Artorius, who had just finished removing his armor.

  “For now, wherever you want,” he replied. “Just be sure you find me well before we go ashore.”

  “Of course,” the aquilifer said as he set the eagle down near his armor and kit. “Oh, by the way, before we left, Glabrio asked me about his signet ring. I told him he must have lost it; he never mentioned it again.”

  “Probably forgot all about it,” Artorius grunted.

  In the background, he could hear orders being shouted by both Stoppello and the sailing master. The ship lurched in the surf as oars slapped into the water, pulling them away from the docks.

  “And I shouldn’t use that anymore; just keep it as a souvenir. Plautius gave Sempronius his own signet ring and told him his seal is to be used for the Twentieth Legion.”

  “Fair enough,” Camillus shrugged. He turned back and watched the still hectic coastal town as the ship slowly put distance between them and the imperial mainland. “Think we’ll ever see home again?”

  “Who knows,” Artorius replied. He then nodded towards the setting sun that glowed red just over the water. “What I do know is that our destiny lies there, just beyond that horizon.”

  Chapter XI: Invasion

  Off the coast of Britannia

  April, 43 A.D.

  ***

  “They are coming!”

  The frantic cry alerted Banning. In many ways it came as a relief to the young war chief. He had more than ten thousand warriors
from various tribes all along the coast and keeping them fed and supplied was already proving to be a nightmare, even in the early spring. They had readily taken from the Cantiaci, whose lands they now occupied, for they knew that their king intended to ally himself to Rome.

  “They come to us at the start of our campaign season instead of the end,” he said with satisfaction to one of his sub-chiefs.

  “They certainly are brazen,” the man replied. “Attacking in the spring when we can mass our numbers, rather than waiting until the fall when we must return for the harvest.”

  “The Romans want battle,” Banning asserted. “And we shall give it to them!”

  He walked out of the hut that he’d taken for the night and went out to the edge of the cliffs. The early morning fog masked their numbers, but he caught the occasional glimpse of approaching Roman warships. The sea gave the illusion of closeness, and the war chief knew that despite their apparent proximity, it would be at least a couple hours before the first assault wave landed. He then turned to an accompanying messenger.

  “Send word to our reinforcements,” he ordered. “Tell them their quarry approaches.”

  As he stared out into the sea, his heart was filled with loathing towards Togodumnus and Caratacus. To him, they were blustering cowards who failed to take decisive action that could drive the Romans from their lands before they so much as got off the beaches. He just hoped the number of warriors he had would be enough. If the invasion force was as large as they’d been told, then they would have fleets of warships landing at various points all along the coast.

  “Damn you, Togodumnus!” he growled, shaking his head. He walked down towards the beach, where a coven of druids were assembled. “You know what you must do.”

  “Of course,” the elder druid replied, his eyes and mouth barely visible from beneath his hooded cloak. “When one lacks allies, it becomes time to call on the gods.”

  “Good,” Banning said with a nod. “And now you will bear witness as to how true warriors fight!”

  The invasion fleet was enormous. From the prow of his vessel and to his left and right, Artorius could see nothing but other ships in either direction. The sea was choppy, though the waters were only about chest deep where they were to launch the assault. It would be a rough landing, but as the initial wave would be carrying only their weapons and armor it would be passable enough. Though it was now midmorning, the sky was dark, and the wind gusted in his face. Along the short beachhead and up on the cliff he could see numerous fires burning.

  “The First Cohort will spearhead the attack,” the chief tribune ordered during the preparations. This came as no surprise, as the First had far more soldiers, who were all highly experienced.

  When the scout ships had conducted their reconnaissance of the landing site it was empty, and they did not know whether or not there would be any resistance. The ground at the top of the cliff was reported to be relatively flat and devoid of dense growths of trees. As the First Cohort had the most men, they would move up the beach and secure a large enough area on top of the cliff for the rest of the Twentieth Legion. Once established, a signal would be sent back to the second wave of ships, which contained the majority of the army’s cavalry corps.

  The Second Augusta, Ninth Hispania, and Fourteenth Gemina Legions were all making similar landings at various points along the coastline. Even though all the ships had left the coast of Belgica around the same time, it was impossible to coordinate a true simultaneous landing. Those vessels bearing the Second Legion would have to first make their way a number of miles to the southwest before landing, and the very large task force carrying the Ninth and Fourteenth Legions had an even longer trek to the north. As such, the Twentieth Legion would be the first to land in Britannia.

  “Depth, two fathoms!” a nearby sailor shouted over his shoulder as he pulled in the knotted measuring rope that told them how deep the water was. Legionaries had donned their armor and were making ready to disembark.

  “Standby to reverse oars!” Admiral Stoppello shouted to the sailing master who was overseeing the rowers. Camillus, the aquilifer, stood next to his master centurion on the prow of the ship, the legion’s eagle standard clutched to his chest.

  Once they hit the shallows the legionaries would have to slog about a hundred meters through the surf before they hit the beach. It was then that Artorius first heard the ominous chants coming from the beach. Dozens of figures in hooded cloaks stood around the fires, their faces hidden, and hands held in front of their chests in prayer. Dozens more lined the beach, their chants carrying over the wind and seeming to permeate the very air the legionaries on the ship breathed. They grew even louder as the vessel lurched to a halt in the shallow waters.

  “Fucking druids,” Camillus cursed as Artorius turned to face his men.

  “First Century…up!” he shouted. “Form up to advance!”

  The soldiers reluctantly got to their feet, clutching their shields and javelins close to them as the sinister chants grew ever louder, carried on the increasing gusts of wind. Optio Parthicus shouted a few curses as he tried to motivate the men.

  “What the hell’s gotten into them?” Artorius growled as he turned his gaze front once more.

  “You have to admit it is a rather riveting performance,” Camillus stated with his usual good nature. “Face it, the lads are superstitious. Even the most battle-hardened veteran still fears the gods of darkness and those who can harness their unholy power.”

  “And you don’t?” Artorius asked.

  Camillus simply shrugged. “I’ve had a good life. What’s the worst they can do to me?”

  Behind them they could hear mutterings from the men laced with words of druids, magic, and curses. Artorius knew they had to move immediately, lest irrational fear upset the entire operation. If his own men were being so adversely affected by the druids’ spectacle, he knew it had to be playing havoc on the men aboard the other assault ships.

  “They’d better follow us when we go over,” he grunted.

  Camillus simply grinned. “They’ll follow this,” he emphasized, holding up the legion’s eagle. The aquilifer then turned and addressed the legionaries.

  “Soldiers of the Twentieth Legion!” he shouted, holding the eagle high. “You cower like old women before a handful of barbarians in ratted cloaks! Their gods do not hold power over the eagle! Will you let this sacred standard fall into their hands?”

  “No!” a legionary shouted, eliciting similar affirmations from the other soldiers.

  Camillus gave a sinister grin. “The eagle advances!” he shouted. “Will you follow it to glory or allow it to fall into their vile clutches and damn yourselves for eternity?”

  He then turned about, and holding the eagle aloft, threw it over the front of the ship into the foaming sea. The standard tumbled end over end before slamming into the sand in the shallow surf. He looked back briefly and saw the looks of horror on the faces of the legionaries before jumping over the side.

  “The eagle stands, and it faces the enemy!” Artorius shouted, pointing towards the standard.

  He watched as the aquilifer surged through the crashing waves, retrieved the standard, and started to advance towards the beach alone.

  “Fearless bastard,” Artorius grinned. He turned towards his men with a look of fierce determination.

  “To the eagle!” he shouted as he jumped over the side of the ship and to his fate.

  He landed with a hard splash, plunging briefly beneath the waves before leaping to the surface. The water was bitingly cold, and Artorius stifled a shout as the frigid surf shocked through his body, chest-high waves knocking him about. The current of the tide was deceptively rougher than it appeared, and he struggled to maintain his balance as he drew his gladius and slogged his way towards the beach, holding his shield over his head, lest it become waterlogged. The sight to his front was surreal; the dark skies accented by the fires of druidic pyres. About a hundred meters away his friend, Camillus was casu
ally making his way through the rolling waves, the eagle standard draped over his left shoulder, with his weapon drawn.

  For the aquilifer, marching towards certain death with the legion’s sacred standard in tow seemed like the most random, yet natural thing to do. His rationale had always been that if he was going to die, then he’d best make a good show of it. How he’d survived three decades in the legions was anybody’s guess. The sandy beach itself was empty; it was the grassy slope that led up towards the over-watching cliffs that the druids burned their pyres and cast their dark magic. The gusts of wind felt surprisingly warm as Camillus made his way out of the surf, the water squishing out of his sandals and running off his legs, belt, and armor. He almost nonchalantly planted the eagle into the sand.

  “Rome has returned!” he said as he glanced around, looking for enemy warriors. The druids, who were perhaps a hundred meters up the slope, continued their unholy chants, shrouded in their grayish cloaks. The aquilifer unslung his small round shield. “Well, bugger me, where are they?”

  His question was quickly answered by the sounding of a war horn, followed by unholy battle cries from a grove of trees off to his left, where he now saw there was a large earthen path. Dozens of warriors soon appeared, running at a dead sprint for the lone Roman who had dared to defile their lands with the imperial standard. Camillus grinned and turned to face them, quickly limbering up his sword arm. In his peripheral vision, he could just make out the streak of a high-sailing javelin that slammed into the side of an enemy warrior, who was rushing so fast that the force of the pilum impaling his side knocked him clean off his feet. Subsequent javelins followed sporadically as legionaries quickly slogged their way through the rolling waves. Many carried their shields high across their backs in order to keep from having to drag them through the surf.