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

by James Mace

  “Sound the advance!” he ordered.

  The loud notes resounded on the cornicen’s horn and the army began its move. Artorius and the cohorts of the Twentieth Legion were in the very center and stepped off slowly, as the cohorts of the Second Legion on either advanced at a much quicker pace. Directly behind them, the artillery crews drove their massive siege engines forward. Each crew supplemented by more than a dozen auxiliaries to drag the heavy machines forward. In the far distance, Cursor’s cavalry regiments rode in front of the north and south face of the hill. Two regiments of Batavian auxiliary infantry blocked the western approach to the hill, having positioned themselves in the middle of the night.

  Anxious as the men were for battle, they kept their pace slow and measured; the hill being much further away than it appeared. Despite it being nearly fall, it was an unusually warm morning. The sun was already beating down on them and, remarkably, there was nary a cloud in the sky.

  From the top of the great hill, King Donan watched intently as the Roman Army advanced. Even at a distance of a mile, their footfalls echoed across the ground. The armor and shields of the legionaries gleamed in the rising sunlight. While still confident that Mai Dun could withstand the coming assault, Donan was struck with fear. What would happen to his people should his men fail? He had perhaps four thousand warriors, along with about twice as many boys and women who were able to fight and had grabbed whatever they could in the way of weapons.

  He had numerous bows, slings, and short throwing spears in his arsenal, which had always proven more than enough whenever neighboring tribes had been brazen enough to attack Mai Dun during the incessant disputes over the region’s fertile lands. And yet, having witnessed firsthand what these Romans were capable of once they closed the distance, he knew that if they breached the ramparts and a close-combat battle ensued, his people were finished. What Donan was not prepared for were the large wooden mechanisms that were being wheeled, almost inconspicuously, behind the advancing wave of legionaries.

  “Cohorts…halt!” Vespasian shouted.

  The Twentieth Legion’s men took one final step then stopped. The units of the Second Legion continued their advance towards their supplemental assault positions.

  The rolling mounds where the road had to wind its way through were now clearly visible, as were the wooden barricades where numerous warriors clustered with slings and bows. Vespasian knew how to break them up.

  “Onagers and ballistae make ready!” he ordered. “Scorpions…post!”

  Having taken every piece of siege equipment available, Vespasian was able to mass twenty scorpions between each of the gaps of the assaulting cohorts. The rest were dispersed to cover the Second Legion and provide harassment fire to the defenders on the other ramparts. In addition to the onagers, he had acquired the ten heavy ballistae the emperor had brought to Britannia. Given their cumbersome weight and lack of mobility, they were almost never used in open battle, and were, instead, employed strictly for sieges against large strongholds. Vespasian reckoned there was no better place to finally put his heaviest weapons to use.

  The enormous machines were unloaded off their carts and arrayed in a long line, facing towards Mai Dun. All the while, the Second Legion’s cohorts continued their methodical advance in the distance. And while any type of heavy boulder would suffice, the engineers had been carving and smoothing down those that would be shot from the heavy siege engines, thereby ensuring greater accuracy. Two wagons of shot were placed behind each onager and ballista.

  “Load!” the centurion primus ordo in charge of the catapults shouted.

  A similar command was echoed by the section leaders of the scorpions, who were arrayed just in front of and in between the three cohorts of the Twentieth Legion. While a single man could carry the stones used by the onagers, it took two men using a pair of carrying poles to lift the heavy shot into the siege ballistae. And while three or four men could readily man an onager, the largest of the ballistae took a minimum of eight. The throwing arms of the onagers were pulled back with heavy cranks, and several men on each ballista turned the large wheels that pulled back the double arms.

  “Siege engines set!” the centurion called out to his commanding legate.

  “Scorpions ready!” another officer shouted back.

  Vespasian took a deep breath as the taunts and war cries from the ramparts grew louder.

  “Time to bring the hammer down,” he said quietly before shouting his next order. “Siege engines…fire!”

  The loud slap of more than forty onager throwing arms slamming home, along with the loud screech of the heavy ballistae as they unleashed their heavy payloads jolted the legionaries positioned in front of them. It was both awe-inspiring and terrifying for Artorius and his men as they watched the storm of death fly over their heads and towards their enemy.

  The warriors on the wooden ramparts had never so much as seen a catapult before. So when the storm of several dozen large boulders was hurled at them, they stared, first in disbelief; this turned to abject terror at the last moment as both man and barricade were smashed to pieces. One warrior had his head smashed clean off his body, which stood momentarily with torrents of blood spewing from the stump his neck before tumbling unceremoniously over the ruptured ramparts. Another took an onager shot directly to the chest, sending him flying back and landing with a sickening crunch amongst his companions behind the barricades. His eyes were wide, tongue protruding between his bloodied teeth. Many of the catapult stones flew over the ramparts and landed amongst the warriors who were massed on the other side.

  “What unholy magic is this?” one of them screamed as he looked upon his friend’s shattered body that twitched violently after having been brutally crushed.

  “The Romans have summoned the beasts of the underworld!” another snarled as he climbed up one of the rolling mounds near the gate. In an instant a scorpion bolt slammed into his throat and burst out the back in a spray of blood and bone. A volley of similar missiles fell amongst the defenders with several more falling, either killed or badly injured.

  “That woke them up a bit,” Vespasian chuckled darkly. “Siege engines, fire at will; scorpions, fire by volley! Keep those bastards behind the ramparts suppressed!”

  “Sir!” his centurion primus ordo acknowledged.

  Vespasian turned back to Artorius. “We’ll beat them down for a while and then conduct the assault.”

  “Understood,” the master centurion acknowledged.

  His men were talking quietly amongst themselves, though they would jump with a start whenever an onager or ballistae close to them fired. Artorius then spoke over his shoulder to Magnus, “It’s almost unnerving for us, let alone what it must be doing to those poor bastards.”

  Magnus snorted in reply. “I imagine the breach will be saturated with mutilated corpses before we even get there.”

  “The paths will run red with blood,” a nearby legionary said quietly to himself.

  After a few minutes of relentless bombardment, Vespasian calmly turned to Artorius. “Master Centurion Artorius, you may conduct your assault.”

  “Yes, sir!” Artorius drew his gladius and shouted an order that could be heard throughout the plain. “Twentieth Legion! Forward…march!”

  Without cheer or fanfare, the soldiers of his three cohorts silently stepped off and began their advance towards the ramparts. Shots from the ballistae and onagers continued to sail over their heads and smash into the palisade and earthworks. Advancing just ahead of his detachment was Achillia and her skirmishers. They moved at a quick jog and would provide continued covering support for the legionaries after the siege engines and scorpions ceased in their bombardment.

  “She should not be here,” Magnus muttered to himself.

  Artorius heard his words of concern. “Take it easy, old friend,” he consoled. “Achillia is one of the best skirmishers we’ve ever had. Don’t forget what she did to those pirates in the Judean arena all those years ago.”

&nb
sp; His words were of little comfort, for Artorius did not know of Achillia’s condition and why Magnus was especially worried about her safety. The Norseman knew there was nothing he could do. Either she would survive the day or she wouldn’t, The same could be said for all of them. And at that moment, Magnus had his double-strength century of a hundred and sixty legionaries to concern himself with.

  Ahead of the advancing formation, with catapult stones still sailing over their heads, Achillia and her warriors were soon within less than fifty meters of the ramparts when suddenly enemy skirmishers rose up and started unleashing with their bows and slings.

  “Zastavit!” she shouted.

  Her men instinctively dropped to a knee and started to shoot back at their assailants. Though their hamata armor gave them some degree of protection, it did little good when one of the Syrians took an arrow to the neck. As he fell to the ground, clutching at the arrow that had snapped off in his bloodied neck, another was shot through the eye socket. He gave a quick shout of surprise and pain before death mercifully took him.

  Achillia was taking her time, marking each target as it exposed itself before unleashing an arrow. Her movements were fluid and extremely fast, despite how fast her heart was pounding. She managed to keep her breathing slow and controlled, even as an enemy arrow shot past her head. She tried not to dwell on the fact that had it been just a couple inches to the right, she would be dead. The Durotriges had been battered severely by the storm of catapult shot and their barricade was a splintered ruin. However, they were far from beaten, and with cover still available, they were holding their own against Achillia’s skirmishers who, though quick on their feet, were also exposed in the open. It seemed that for every enemy she or her men shot, one of them would, in turn, fall dead or wounded. Her mission had been to suppress the defenders until the legionaries closed the distance, and while successful, it was coming at a terrible price. Six of her fighters already lay dead with about three times as many badly injured, mostly to the arms and legs which were unprotected by armor.

  The rapid footfalls of the advancing legionaries behind her were growing louder, and she knew it was time to move. She released one last arrow, which caught an enemy warrior in the shoulder as he swung his sling to throw.

  “Rozptyl vlavo a vpravo!” she ordered.

  Her skirmishers fanning out in either direction in order to make room for the Romans. She ran to the right of the advancing formation, where she saw Vespasian walking off to the right of the First Cohort, his cornicen beside him.

  “The cohorts on the immediate left and right have a much steeper climb to make,” the legate said, pointing with his sword. “Once they reach the top rampart, they will have to descend into a deep defilade before they can climb up the far side. I need your skirmishers to occupy the first rampart once they take it and cover them as they move up to the second.”

  “Understood,” she replied. She then waved to her deputy on the far side of the field. A few quick signals and he was leading his men off to the left rampart. She raced over to the Fifth Cohort and quickly found Centurion Tyranus. “I’m to cover your advance once you take the first rampart.”

  “Very good,” the pilus prior replied. “Fall in behind us.”

  “Advance!”

  At Artorius’ command, the soldiers of the First Cohort gave a loud battle cry and sprinted the last few meters to the smashed palisades. Legionaries in the first rank instinctively unleashed their javelins as Durotriges warriors gave a shout of their own and leapt over the barricades and earthworks. One man was impaled through the stomach as he jumped in the air, the shock of the weapon’s impact knocking him to the ground, where he writhed in unspeakable agony. Without need for subsequent orders, the men drew their gladii and a savage brawl commenced.

  On the extreme right of the formation, Artorius scaled the earthen rampart where he was met by a crazed Briton with a large axe. The man caught the master centurion by surprise, and Artorius quickly raised his shield, the first heavy blow reverberating down his arm and shoulder. A second blow came down too high, and Artorius managed to hook the curved axe blade with the top of his shield. He pulled hard while stepping forward and to the side, thrusting with his gladius simultaneously. As the warrior still held the higher ground, Artorius only managed to catch him in the thigh, the point of his weapon driving deep. The man shrieked and tumbled forward down the mound. Artorius let him go, knowing Magnus or one of his soldiers would finish the retch and continued his assault.

  The mounds near the east gate were far shorter than the high, steep ramparts on the north and south faces, yet there were many more of them, all overlapping each other as the main path crisscrossed between them. This rolling mass extended back more than a hundred meters before gradually sloping up towards the top of the hill fort. The mounds also served to break up the Roman formations, and Artorius saw that his century was divided into at least three or four groups, all engaged with massed hordes of barbarian warriors. The Romans did now hold the high ground. However, this first wave was badly outnumbered.

  Artorius was further dismayed when he saw a second group of barricades no more than fifty feet behind the first. This had not been visible to the Roman reconnaissance, and it was to here the enemy skirmishers had pulled back, and with the legionaries exposed on top of the first set of ramparts, they unleashed a torrent of arrows, sling stones, and short spears. And as the Romans were heavily engaged with the Durotriges warriors, they were unable to duck down behind their shield wall. While many enemy missiles inadvertently struck shields or bounced the soldiers’ helmets and armor, a few did find their marks on the exposed appendages. One legionary was grazed in the side of the neck by an arrow. At first he paid it no mind, but then the wound started gushing dark crimson, the artery having been severed. He collapsed to the ground, gritting his teeth as he clasped his hand over the flowing gash, trying in vain to stem the flow of blood as his life left him. Several legionaries were struck in the legs and lost their footing. They were pulled down into the mass of warriors and hacked to pieces.

  “Magnus, get up here!” Artorius shouted over his shoulder as he fought off another assailant. It was exasperating trying to give orders while also fighting against a maddened berserker who wanted to spill his guts. “Unleash your javelins; throw them over the heads of my men!”

  “Sir!” the Norseman acknowledged.

  The centuries of the First Cohort had kept a much deeper interval between each other to allow for greater mobility, but now those of Magnus’ century quickly closed the distance, javelins passing over and sometimes between their companions in the front rank. A hundred and sixty pilum falling amongst the Durotriges temporarily broke their resolve as many were killed or badly maimed by the heavy javelins. Artorius’ century gave a renewed shout and as one they charged down the short embankment, smashing into their foe. Magnus’ century mounted the first rampart, quickly dropping behind their shield wall as the Durotriges skirmishers hurled another volley at them. A couple of his men were not quick enough. One taking a sling stone to the face, sending him tumbling back down the mound, his hands clutching his face. Another took an arrow to the foot, and while not fatal, it was extremely painful and the soldier was now out of commission.

  Artorius jumped down into the fray, bringing the bottom edge of his shield into the chest of an enemy warrior, sending him sprawling back. The master centurion instinctively brought his shield back up as another man took his place, stabbing at him with a short spear. The man was strong and admiringly brave, but he was no soldier. Artorius quickly side-stepped the warrior’s attack before driving his gladius clean through the side of his neck. Gouts of blood erupted from both the entrance and exit wounds as Artorius wrenched his weapon free.

  “The rolling terrain is working against them as much as it is against us,” Artorius noted as Magnus stumbled down into the short defilade. “They can’t seem to mass their numbers as effectively here.”

  “True, but then how the fuck do we c
onduct passages-of-lines in this shit?” Magnus remarked.

  “Bound by squads,” Artorius directed. “Let your decanii handle that. Once you’re through, advance on that second rampart. Praxus’ men, as well as the other centuries, still have their javelins. I’ll have his men cover you as you advance.”

  “Understood,” the Nordic centurion replied. He then shouted down the line, “By squads…execute passage of lines!”

  As most legionaries were used to conducting line passages as an entire century, this more unorthodox maneuver would normally prove unwieldy. Yet for the highly experienced veterans of the First Cohort, each squad conducting its own movement under the direction of their decanii proved seamless. Groups of legionaries bounded forward, driving into the wavering enemy warriors with shield and gladius. With a rapid flashing of swords, a number of their foes were quickly cut down, causing their surviving friends to panic and flee towards the next line of defenses.

  As he scrambled back up the first mound to find Praxus, Artorius noted that their taking of the first line had not been without cost. A handful of his legionaries lay dead, with still many more with various injuries trying to extract themselves from the fray. As he bounded to the top, the master centurion was surprised to find Vespasian up there, down on one knee, apparently in deep thought. The legate carried no shield, though his gladius was drawn and bloodied. Next to him lay the still-twitching corpse of a Durotriges warrior; a deep cut just beneath the ribcage was soaked in blood from where Vespasian had executed a perfect thrust below the ribs and up into the heart.

  “Silly bastard tried smashing me with his large sword,” he said casually while pointing to the crude long sword that lay in the grass. “He easily had a foot or two of reach on me and could just have easily stabbed me in the face…poor dumb amateurs.”