by James Mace
The druid gave one last unholy chant before dumping the contents of the basket onto the flames that spattered and sizzled with wafts of black smoke and the putrid smell of burning human organs. All the while the Catuvellauni king stood motionless, watching the sacrifice intently. The gathered druids continued to chant over the sound of hissing flames and wafts of black smoke.
“The gods have given us their blessing,” Archantael said at last, turning to face his king. “On the field of battle, between the two rivers, you will have victory.”
Chapter XV: Faceless Gods
***
The arrival of Vespasian at the Twentieth Legion’s camp early the next morning, a full day ahead of schedule, delayed their pursuit of the captors of their chief tribune. The legate became rather vexed when Artorius told him of their skirmish the day before and the disappearance of Sempronius.
“Take three cohorts and one regiment of cavalry to find him,” Vespasian directed. “I’ll go with you. Have the rest of your men remain in camp. I came to inform you that the Second Legion is but half a day’s march from here. We will combine both legions into one division and continue our trek north to link up with Plautius.”
“Yes, sir,” Artorius replied before turning to address Centurion Magnus. “Any other word yet out of the prisoners?”
“Not yet,” the Norseman replied. “The interrogators are working on them as we speak.”
“My interpreter is also back with the column,” Vespasian added. “I doubt you will get anything of use out of those vermin.”
“Scourge and crucify them,” Artorius said coldly. “I want them strung up as a feast to the vultures and crying to their foul gods before we return.” He then donned his helmet as his servant walked over with his horse. The master centurion quickly mounted and nodded to Vespasian.
It was fairly easy, following the ruts created by the numerous chariots that had been hidden behind the grove where the ambush took place. Artorius and Vespasian rode at the head of the cavalry, which kept a slow enough pace to keep the infantry cohorts close, should they run into more trouble. They were regrettably denied the chance of retribution as they came to a small glade. Here most of the chariot tracks broke away in various directions, though a couple made straight for the clearing. They did not have to go far.
Artorius’ stomach lurched as they came to the macabre scene. The stench of burned flesh still permeated, and the corpse of Sempronius hung grotesquely from the crossed poles. Flies covered much of his splayed insides, and crows were already pecking at his flesh. His finger, that had borne his signet ring, had also been removed.
“Cut him down,” Artorius ordered the nearest cavalrymen, who reluctantly dismounted and walked over to the maimed body. Some of the men held their hands over their mouths as one drew his spatha and cut the ropes holding the remains of their chief tribune.
“Rome can tolerate many things,” Vespasian observed, his eyes fixed on the men as they laid out the tribune’s body. Two others began the task of digging him a makeshift grave. “We even respect death at the hands of worthy adversaries. But something we will never accept is the wicked practice of human sacrifice. I want the druids exterminated! All within these isles will soon learn that anyone caught practicing their repugnant religion will be flogged and crucified!”
“These lands belong to our enemies,” Artorius stated. “I think we should send a harsh lesson to them.”
“Sir, there is a settlement not far from here,” a trooper spoke up. “Should we start there?”
“Yes,” Vespasian replied. He turned to Artorius. “As soon as the Second Legion arrives we will wipe them out!”
“Sir,” Artorius nodded. He was unsettled, not by the legate’s orders, but by the long dormant feelings of hatred tearing up inside him.
Though he had fought in numerous campaigns and participated in the utmost horrors of war, he had not felt this type of burning rage in many years. His quiescent sense of bloodlust, which had been brought on by the death of his brother and his quest for revenge during the Germanic wars, now reared its hideous head once more. To Artorius, those who would gut a human being as a sacrifice to their unholy gods were not men, but monstrous beasts that needed to be exterminated.
“Rome will fight horror with horror,” he said darkly.
Though the sun had come out on this day, there was a blackened mood that dominated the Roman camp, especially when Sempronius’ ghastly fate was confirmed to them. Two of the prisoners had died of their injuries while under torture, though the remainder now lined either side of the road on hastily erected crucifixes. A legionary paced the road in between them, carrying a corded whip. Occasionally he would lash one of the prisoners, who would cry out in pain momentarily before falling silent once more.
“We did get some more information out of them, thanks to your interpreter,” Magnus said to Vespasian as they met within the principia tent.
“And?” the legate asked.
“A lot of it was nonsense about the gods of their underworld swallowing us up. The one part that did make sense was two rivers.”
“There are two great rivers that run through the Catuvellauni lands,” Artorius said.
“The southern one is the River Medway, which is near the rally point Plautius has established for the army,” Vespasian added.
“Our assessment is that that is where Togodumnus intends to finally face us,” Magnus conjectured. “The terrain is likely to be most advantageous to them there, and I would guess that what they did to Sempronius was to appease their vulgar gods before they face us.”
“Plautius wants a battle,” the legate said, folding his arms across his chest. “And a battle we shall have! But first, there is some unfinished business we must see to here.”
The settlement was, in fact, a small hill fort that overlooked a number of farm fields. Vespasian had tasked the Second Legion with surrounding the oppida, and left the honor of conducting the assault to the Twentieth. Their rage burned fiercely at the ghastly way in which their chief tribune was butchered, and they were eager for revenge.
“That ‘fort’ is little more than a stockade,” a scout reported as Artorius met with the cohort commanders. “A few shots from the onagers will bring it right down.”
“Any idea as to their overall strength?” Centurion Tyranus asked.
“Judging by the number of farms, as well as the size of the oppida itself, I would say no more than a thousand total persons,” the scout replied.
“Of whom maybe a couple hundred are warriors,” Magnus remarked. “This is going to be easy.”
“Perhaps,” Artorius agreed. “But I do not want the men acting carelessly with their lives. Their anger needs to be focused, not reckless. They need to look at this as a ‘bloody drill’, and I want this done with discipline as well as extreme aggression. Once our siege engines smash through their walls, we will conduct a broad assault on all sides simultaneously. If possible, take their leaders and holy men alive; our orders are to kill all the others.”
“Sir, what of the women and children?” a centurion asked.
Artorius’ cold stare was all the answer the man needed, and he simply nodded in reply. The master centurion dismissed the pilus priors and made his way to where the First Cohort was assembled.
The area around the oppida was mostly wooded, with a number of wheat fields encircling the hill fort. The fields, as well as most of the structures, appeared to be deserted as their denizens fled for the safety of the stockade.
“Fear,” Artorius said as he was joined by Magnus. “They know their fate and even now they pray to their false gods for salvation.” He exhaled audibly, removed his helmet, and wiped a rag across his sweaty brow.
“Are you feeling alright?” the Norseman asked, his eyebrows raised and hands clasped behind his back. “It’s a bit brisk out today, and yet you’re sweating like you just came out of the bathhouse.”
Artorius ignored him for the moment, as he watched onagers and scorpio
ns being sent forward under the escort of several auxiliary infantry companies. They had orders to start the bombardment once in position; Centurion Praxus was overseeing the operation and would report once completed.
Knowing that they had some time, Artorius pulled Magnus off to the side, out of earshot of their men. “Do you remember the first time we ever sacked a barbarian village?”
“It’s been many years but, yes, of course I do.”
“And do you remember what I did?” Artorius persisted, his expression wrought with concern and uneasiness at the memory.
“You went a touch insane, but what of it?” Magnus asked. “You were avenging your brother; none of us really faulted you, despite your periodic acts of barbarism. I will say, you’ve calmed down considerably over the years.”
The loud slap of throwing arms from the onagers unleashing their heavy stones interrupted them momentarily.
“Those feelings that I’ve suppressed for so long are returning,” Artorius stated as the first salvo of catapult shot smashed into and around the barricades in the distance. He thought for a moment he heard screams of terror coming from within the pitiful fort.
“Because of what happened to Sempronius?” Magnus knew the answer, but felt the need to prompt his friend. Whatever issues Artorius was having, he needed to at least address them before the assault commenced.
“It’s not the same level of hatred that stemmed from my brother’s murder,” Artorius said. “But the similar feelings of loathing are there; that these aren’t really men we face, but animals. It’s one thing for me to lose my head a bit back when I was but a legionary in the ranks. However, I now have to command the entire legion, and it would not set a good example if I go off like a damned heathen berserker.”
“Just give the orders and let the men handle it,” Magnus replied.
In the background they could hear the commands being shouted by the section leaders of the siege engines. Soon another wave of heavy stones was launched against the ramparts. Some onagers had shot over or landed short on the previous volley. Adjustments were made ensuring even more shots hammered the stockade, which was bursting apart.
“The most complicated issues in my head, and yet you have a way of making them so damn simple,” Artorius chuckled as Magnus smacked him reassuringly on the shoulder.
“After all these years, it’s what we do,” he said before nodding his head back towards where their cohort waited in anticipation for the order to advance.
Though still burning with anger, and his stomach turning in knots like it always did before any engagement, the master centurion and acting commander of the Twentieth Legion strode confidently to the front of the First Cohort to observe the work of his siege engines. It was not taking very long. The stockade to their front had mostly collapsed, and onagers were now firing both heavy stones as well as fire pots in hopes of catching some of the thatched roofs ablaze. As the recent rains had kept both timber and thatch perpetually soaked, there was a lot of thick smoke but little fire.
“Advance the scorpions,” Artorius ordered.
As each century had a scorpion attached to it, there were fifty-nine of these within the legion. Given their much lighter weight and ease of maneuverability, it took little effort to carry the bolt-firing ballistae forward to where the hapless defenders of the oppida were in easy range. Though resistance would be minimal, Artorius was taking no risk of unnecessary casualties amongst his infantry.
With their barricades smashed, the people clustered on the small hilltop were exposed to the merciless barrage of scorpion bolts and onager shot. Artorius’ face twitched as he watched a small group huddled together take the brunt of a large catapult stone. Their bodies were smashed to pieces, with limbs severed and one young man’s head burst like a melon.
“Sound ceasefire,” the master centurion calmly said to his cornicen. As the notes resounded on the trumpet, he drew his gladius and took a deep breath. “Sound the advance!”
The call to advance on the town was echoed by the cornicens of the various cohorts, and as one unit the soldiers of the Twentieth Legion converged on the hilltop, their measured footfalls resonating with an ominous cadence upon the ground. Legionaries trampled through the fields of crops, driving the scattered livestock before them. As they made their way up the short slope, Artorius noted a number of bodies strewn about victims of the scorpions and onagers. Many of those who lay broken on the ground were still alive. Some had smashed limbs with bones protruding through the skin, others had arms and legs completely missing and were bleeding out, waiting for death to come.
The people cried out in terror as legionaries fell upon them, killing without mercy. As his flanking cohorts had scaled the slope quickest, Artorius halted the First Cohort and took in the scene of death that played out before him. He quickly noted the lack of men of fighting age amongst the throng.
“Sound the recall,” he told his cornicen, who looked at him with a raised eyebrow for a moment.
As the call sounded on his horn, legionaries in the fray immediately ceased killing. Artorius then made his way forward and quickly found Centurion Tyranus, whose Fifth Cohort had assaulted from the right flank.
“There’s nothing but old people, women, and children here!” the pilus prior said with a shake of his head.
“Hey, we found their druid!” a legionary shouted triumphantly as they dragged a battered old man and threw him at the feet of the master centurion.
“How do you know he’s a druid?” Artorius asked.
The legionary sneered and dropped a basket containing the tops of several charred human skulls.
“We found these in his tent, sir,” the soldier replied.
“Bastard needs to be strung up by his balls,” another legionary scoffed.
“At ease!” Tyranus barked. He then looked to his master centurion. “What would you have us do, sir?”
“Crucify that one, along with any of their leaders,” he replied with a nod towards the druid. While moments before he had considered putting the rest to the sword, he was suddenly having doubts. He could not very well release them, and yet he was assailed by visions of his younger self, who would not have hesitated to slay the lot of them. Vespasian rode up on his horse, interrupting his thoughts.
“Why in bloody hades did you cease your attack?” the legate snapped. “I told you to wipe this place out!”
“Sir, we’ve captured their chief druid, who will be crucified,” Artorius explained. “Any warriors and other leaders will meet the same fate.” He paused for a moment, then spoke slowly as a plan formulated in his head, “The slave drivers will be wanting to ply their trade soon enough, and there are ample women and children we can sell to them at a hefty profit. If we then burn the oppida, and take or destroy their food stores, we still meet your overall intent.”
“Feeling a bit merciful, are we?” Vespasian asked as he dismounted his horse and removed his helmet.
“Not at all,” Artorius lied. “Most of the warriors from this settlement have run off to join our enemies. If we simply kill their families, they will be filled with the courage of despair, having nothing left to live for. If they learn that their wives and children are now Roman slaves, then so much greater is their torment.”
“An interesting assessment,” the legate replied, his pragmatic mind turning over everything Artorius had said to him. He then shrugged. “If we crucify every druid we find, that will avenge Sempronius sufficiently, while perhaps dissuading the practice altogether. Very well, there appear to be several hundred useful slaves from this group. From what I hear, the slave traders arrived not long after the initial wave of the invasion force, so we’ll give them their first taste of business. Any who are too old or unable to travel will be put to the sword.”
“Yes, sir.” Artorius turned about to see a small number of warriors who’d been tasked with defending the oppida.
Several were badly injured, and all bore looks of both despair and utter hatred.
&nb
sp; “The lads are gathering wood to make the crucifixes,” Tyranus reported. “There are sufficient poles from their smashed ramparts to do the job.”
They were soon joined by the other cohort commanders, as well as the First Cohort centurions.
“You heard the legate’s orders?” Artorius asked.
“We’ll start segregating the prisoners now,” the Sixth Cohort commander replied.
“One last thing,” Vespasian interrupted as he walked back over to the men. He pointed to a very young warrior who did not look as badly injured as some of the others. “Spare that one. I want at least one witness to go back to Togodumnus and let him know what we’ve done, and what we will continue to do.”
“You wish us to release an enemy warrior so he can fight us again?” a centurion asked.
“Cut his hand off first,” Vespasian replied nonchalantly. “And keep two of the others alive as well. I want them interrogated thoroughly before we dispose of them.”
Chapter XVI: The Gathering Storm
Near the River Medway
June, 43 A.D.
***
The Roman invasion force was at last gathered in one location, ready to strike a decisive blow against their enemies. All four legions, plus auxiliaries were arrayed along the southern side of the river. Across the wide river their foe awaited them.
“Scouts have confirmed what you garnered from your prisoners,” Plautius said to Artorius. “The enemy has gathered all his strength on the far bank.”
The commander-in-chief had called a meeting of all of his senior officers to devise a battle plan with the intent of delivering a single decisive defeat on their enemies. Along with the legion commanders were Tribune Cursor and his senior regimental commanders, was Admiral Stoppello, whose ships were anchored in the harbor a few miles east, where the river opened into the sea.