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

by James Mace

  “That’s more like it,” Camillus said quietly as he saw his master centurion bound through the last few feet of tide, accompanied by about twenty legionaries. The rest were scattered out in the sea, trying to get onto the beach and support their friends. Leaving the standard where it was, serving as a rallying point for the rest of the cohort, Camillus raced over to join Artorius and do his part to begin the conquest of Britannia.

  It was haphazard for the master centurion as he and his men tried to form some semblance of a battle line in the face of their onrushing assailants. The melee was very chaotic, and several of his men were cut down as they were swarmed by numerous warriors. Still they kept driving forward as more of their mates splashed through the rolling waters and quickly moved in to reinforce them.

  Artorius knocked down one attacker with a shoulder tackle with his shield, a nearby legionary finishing the man with a stab to the throat. He then looked back over his shoulder and watched as Praxus and the Second Century formed up on their right, encountering similar resistance from a band of enemy warriors who sought to drive them back into the sea. Behind the assault force, the central catapult on Stoppello’s large ship unleashed a large flaming pot of Greek fire over their heads, smashing amongst the rocks where their foes were bounding over. Though it had missed them directly, it was enough to startle the Britons into pausing their attack momentarily.

  “Praxus!” Artorius shouted. “Secure the right flank, I’ll take the center. Magnus will take the left, as soon as he lands, with the remaining two centuries following me in reserve!”

  “Sir!” Praxus acknowledged before shouting subsequent orders to his men.

  Stoppello’s flagship fired one more flaming catapult shot as it backed away from the beach. This one landed amongst a large mass of Britannic warriors with a splash of fire dousing a number of them. The barbarians had never witnessed such fearsome weapons such as ships that could ‘breathe fire’. The effects terrified a number of them. Their stricken companions crying out in agony as their flesh was devoured by the flames. Several staggered into the surf, where they were immediately cut down or drowned by the approaching legionaries.

  The ship bearing Magnus’ century was approaching rapidly from their left, and Artorius’ signifier quickly raised and swung the signum, letting them know their orders. The signifier aboard ship sent an acknowledgement back as the vessel fired a shot from its catapult towards the tree line the Britons had come from. The master centurion was relieved that at least his centuries were where they were supposed to be. He just hoped the same was true for the remainder of the legion!

  The stab of an enemy spear glanced off Artorius’ shield and grazed his right shoulder. It was utter madness for the master centurion, for he had to not only coordinate the landing and formations of the entire First Cohort, but he had enemy warriors in his face, attempting to spill his guts. Another stab went inside his shield, deflecting off his segmentata armor. Artorius managed to catch the man with a punch from the pommel of his gladius before subsequently plunging the blade home, beneath the ribs. It was a repugnant, yet all too familiar, experience for him as the warrior cried in pain during his final moments while his life’s blood gushed onto the master centurion’s hand. Artorius kicked him hard in the guts, knocking the dying man onto his back as he wrenched his weapon free.

  With the Roman warships covering the landing troops with their catapults, the Britons started to withdraw in face of the unholy onslaught of fire. Magnus’ Third Century met only light resistance as they assaulted up through a large outcropping of rocks, bypassing the path and heading straight to the wood line.

  “First Century, guide to right, link up with Praxus!” Artorius ordered.

  His men quickly complied, with Optio Parthicus taking his position on the far end and their battle line joining with their companions, who were still meeting stubborn resistance from the Britons.

  “Fourth Century is up!” one of his centurions said as he quickly approached Artorius.

  “Very good,” Artorius acknowledged. “You’ll follow me in reserve. Praxus is still engaged. We’ll use the Fifth Century to reinforce them.”

  It was a remarkable feat of coordination that the First Cohort was able to maneuver so fluidly in spite of the utter chaos around them. The resistance from individual enemy warriors was brave and determined, but it was also sporadic and haphazard. If they did in fact outnumber the Romans, they made no effort to fight as a single cohesive unit.

  Artorius and his legionaries continued to make their way up towards the grassy slope, which the druids had since abandoned, but left their pyres burning, adding an ethereal feel to the ongoing battle. A volley of javelins from the Fifth Century, combined with continuous fire from the warships, soon broke the enemy resistance on their right.

  “Sir, we need to continue the advance,” the Fourth Century’s commander emphasized, looking back over his shoulder, where the next wave of warships were reversing their oars, with legionaries jumping over the sides. “It looks like the Second and Fifth Cohorts are starting their landing.”

  “Would love to stay with you,” Camillus said as he smacked Artorius on the shoulder, “but I’d best head back down to the beach. Everyone’s going to make straight for the eagle, and I need to direct the cohorts where they need to be.”

  “Alright, go,” Artorius said, nodding his head towards the beach. He noticed the aquilifer’s gladius was stained with crimson, and he figured Camillus had decided he needed to spill a few splashes of enemy blood to start off the invasion.

  He then signaled for his cornicen to sound the command to double-time. Upon the rapid notes of his horn, the First Cohort, minus Magnus’ men, who were assaulting the tree line on their left, advanced at a quick jog up the slope. They veered past the burning pyres and made their way to the top, anticipating an enemy horde awaiting them. Artorius was surprised to see it vacant. The sun was now coming through the dispersing clouds as if in a sign that their enemy, along with his dark magic, had simply vanished.

  “Artorius!” Magnus shouted as he quickly made his way over. “That wood is a more than just a grove, it’s an entire damned forest. We can see movement, so we know they’re in there, but I cannot clear it with just my century.”

  “Understood,” the master centurion replied. He then looked down at the beach below, where he saw Sempronius linking up with Camillus, who was directing the landing cohorts. Artorius quickly assessed the situation and then addressed his friend. “I’ll have the Second Cohort reinforce you.”

  “Alright, but know that we cannot land any more troops on the left,” Magnus noted. “There’s nothing but jagged rocks and a short cliff beneath the trees.”

  “Well, then the rest of the legion will have to swing out to our right,” Artorius concluded. “The Second Cohort will anchor the left with you tying in off their right. I had hoped to have the First Cohort in the center, but it looks like that plan is completely fucked.”

  “Hey, at least we all landed together,” Magnus remarked with a grin and a wink before turning to rush back to his men.

  Artorius gave a brief smile and nodded. Whatever the situation, his Nordic friend would always make the most of it and adapt. Seeing Magnus was secure in his position for the moment with the rest of the cohort established in its battle lines. Artorius quickly ran back down the slope and waved to Sempronius.

  “Rome has returned!” the chief tribune said excitedly, in an echo of Camillus’ earlier statement.

  “Sir, the woods on our left are thick and cannot be cleared with just one of my centuries,” Artorius quickly explained. “I’m going to send the Second Cohort to reinforce them. The rest of the legion can assemble and start its advance inland off to my extreme right.”

  “I’ll pass the word,” Sempronius concurred. “I watched your men battle their way up the beach but cannot figure where the enemy has run off to. I thought for certain we would meet stiffer resistance on the beach.”

  “They left a num
ber of wounded behind,” Artorius observed. “Perhaps we can gather some information from them.”

  “They’ll talk or die,” the chief tribune asserted. He then directed Artorius, “Return to your men. Once the rest of the legion is ashore, we’ll assess our movement inland.”

  “Yes, sir.” Though the chief tribune lacked experience and was relying on him far more so than he would have liked, Artorius still knew it was preferable to having their invalid of a legate trying to lead them. At least Sempronius was showing that he was not afraid to make a decision.

  As he climbed his way back up the slope, his legs already stiffening from the exertion of the day, Artorius saw off to his left the Second Cohort marching up the wide dirt path that led to the grove, where they would coordinate with Magnus. He was startled when he returned to the First Cohort and found they had pushed forward to the edge of a nearby forest. With his own century on the left, there was a noticeable gap between him and Magnus.

  “What is happening?” he asked his optio, who was coordinating the removal of several wounded legionaries.

  “Archers and slingers,” Parthicus replied, “lots of them. Not two minutes after you left, they opened up on us. Fucking cowards scattered as soon as we assaulted the tree line. We pushed into the trees to, at least, provide some cover and not allow them easy targets.”

  “Pull three squads and have them reform at an angle on our left,” Artorius directed. “We cannot even see Magnus, and I don’t want our flank exposed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There you are!” Praxus said as he approached from just behind Artorius’ men. “This landing’s been a giant cluster-fuck, what with the lads freaking out about druids and all, but I think we’re finally getting some semblance of order.”

  “That’s a relief,” Artorius replied dryly. “My horse hasn’t come ashore yet and trying to coordinate the entire damn legion is impossible on foot.”

  “Let Sempronius handle that,” his friend replied. “The cohort commanders know their orders; they won’t go wandering off on their own.”

  “We were supposed to be the center of the assault,” Artorius reminded him. “But instead we are now on the extreme left.”

  His friend simply shrugged. Praxus was just as difficult to rattle as Magnus, and Artorius was glad to have their levelheadedness in what otherwise appeared to be random mayhem.

  “No operations plan, regardless of how well thought out, ever survives beyond first contact with the enemy,” Praxus thought aloud. “Reconnaissance was shit leading up to the invasion, and the terrain on the left was far more treacherous than was originally thought. Either that or we just landed in the wrong damn spot, which is entirely plausible. We saw a number of assault ships veer to the right before unloading their troops. I’m guessing they also found the terrain impassible.”

  “Well, at least we’ve secured this beachhead,” the master centurion said as he looked back towards the sea. Dozens of ships were still anchored out amongst the rolling waves, awaiting orders to offload their troops and various cargoes. Artorius then made his decision. “Time to bring the cavalry ashore. We’ll use them to root out those fucking cowards who hide from us amongst the trees.”

  He made his way back down the slope once more to find Camillus.

  “There’s the signal!” a sailor on the prow of the large Quinquereme said.

  Tribune Cursor gave a sigh of relief before turning to Centurion Taurus. “I will accompany Indus’ Horse ashore. The auxiliary infantry will assist with the offloading of supplies.”

  “Understood,” Taurus replied.

  The tribune then walked over to where his mount was already hanging from a large sling off a specially-made crane that used a series of pulleys for handling crates and livestock. He gently rubbed the horse’s muzzle before signaling to the sailors to drop him over the side. There were two cranes on each side of the ship, and with several horses already spooked by the chaos of activity on the ship’s deck, it was a struggle for their riders, and the sailors, to keep them still long enough to get the slings beneath them without getting kicked for their efforts.

  Cursor was grateful that his own beast was surprisingly calm, and as the animal was hoisted over the side of the ship, he climbed over the railing and dropped himself into the surging waters. As the legionaries had secured the beach, he had left his armor strapped to his horse in hopes of keeping it dry until he got ashore. The water was freezing, and Cursor struggled to keep his shivering under control as he took the bridle of his horse and led it through the choppy seas. A gust of wind caught him as he stepped onto the sandy bar, waves lapping beneath his sandaled feet. As he unstrapped his armor, he saw that it was soaking wet. All he could figure was that his horse must have stumbled into the surf at some point, thereby drenching his armor.

  “Damn it all,” he swore under his breath, then deciding he wouldn’t even bother to don a dry tunic.

  Twenty or so troopers were also coming ashore, some had attempted, like the tribune, to keep their armor dry, others had not bothered and made their way through the seas fully kitted. The men were all from the legendary regiment, Indus’ Horse, which had gained its formidable reputation during the Rebellion of Sacrovir and Florus in Gaul more than twenty years prior.

  “Inform your commander that I want the regiment formed up in columns on the beach,” Cursor directed a nearby squad leader, who helped him finish putting on his armor. “I’m going forward to ascertain the situation before we advance further.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The tribune then donned his helmet, with its black accents, lion’s head on the crown, and magnificent red plume. From a tactical standpoint, he hated wearing such ostentatious garb, which like his muscled cuirass armor, would distinguish him as an officer even from a great distance. By the same token, he knew that his men needed to be able to identify him quickly during battle, and like all leaders he accepted the risk involved with being so readily noticeable.

  It was a short ride up the slope to where Artorius and the First Cohort were holding. Sempronius had taken the rest of the legion staff, along with the aquilifer, further to the right, trying to center himself on the rest of the legion.

  “Artorius!” Cursor shouted as he rode up and quickly dismounted. The master centurion jogged back to the tribune and saluted before clasping his friend’s hand.

  “Glad to have you with us!” he said. “We’ve been harassed by archers, but they seem to have gone to ground for the moment. Think you can root them out for us?”

  “I’m bringing up Indus’ Horse as we speak,” Cursor replied, bringing a knowing grin from Artorius, who had fought beside the regiment during the very actions where they earned their renown. The tribune then explained further, “Rome does not have a lot of recent experience with amphibious invasions, and it is a slow process getting cavalry ashore. The rest of the regiment should be up within an hour, but the other two will not hit the beaches before dark. Still, once the rest of Indus’ Horse is up, we can help drive those bastards into you.”

  Artorius shook his head. “No, that will take too long, when now we just need to keep driving forward. I recommend you link up with Sempronius and let him know I will push forward with the First and Second Cohorts, and that he can use your cavalry to screen the front of the rest of the legion.”

  “That works for me,” Cursor replied as he remounted.

  “First Cohort!” Artorius shouted. “Make ready to advance!”

  Though Banning had relished watching legionaries fall to his archers and slingers, he was distraught over how many of his warriors had been killed or captured on the beaches. That the Roman warships could breathe fire had come totally unexpected, and his men were still shaken by having watched a number of their friends burned alive.

  “The Roman legion has landed all of its men,” one of his scouts reported to him. “They’re cavalry is coming ashore as we speak.”

  “Damn it all,” Banning muttered. He knew his warriors were
too few to face a legion head-on, and if they had cavalry with them, then that boded ill for his skirmishers. He, begrudgingly, made his next decision. “We will withdraw for now. But know this; this war has only just begun! I promise you, the Romans will continue to shed blood and tears over every inch of ground they crawl through!”

  A war horn sounded a single note, and scores of warriors appeared from the thickets and groves of trees, running towards their rally point, several miles inland. Banning had hoped to punish the Cantiaci further for their lack of fortitude in the face of the invaders, but with the sounds of advancing legionaries, he knew there was no time.

  It was almost nightfall by the time the Twentieth Legion established its perimeter and encamped for the night. Aside from the initial skirmish on the beaches and harassment from enemy archers, they had been largely unopposed. Sempronius had placed the principia near a large cliff that would give sentries an over watch of the beach, where supplies were still being ferried ashore under torchlight. A large fire burned outside the massive tent, while inside numerous torches and lamps added a degree of warmth.

  “At least it’s slightly warmer than on the Rhine,” Artorius noted as he entered the principia and removed his helmet, which he handed to a nearby servant.

  The legion’s headquarters was a mass of activity, as equite tribunes and staff officers sorted through all the logistics, as well as reports from each of the cohorts. Also present were the centurions of the First Cohort, as well as Tribune Cursor.

  “It went a lot better today than I first anticipated,” Sempronius said as he glanced over a hastily scrawled map that showed the positions of his cohorts that were stretched out on a long line that formed a haphazard semicircle that used the cliffs to cover their backs. His face was pale with eyes that were bloodshot.