by James Mace
“Set for passage-of-lines!” he shouted, the command being echoed down the line.
His men in the front rank bore expressions of relief at getting even a few moments of reprieve.
“Execute passage-of-lines!”
In a fluid movement that took but a second or two, the soldiers of the second rank lunged forward, slamming hard into the defenders as the front rank withdrew to the rear. It was during this interlude that Artorius stepped to the side of the formation, trying to assess how the battle progressed. Casualties had been mercifully low, at least amongst his century. As they were on the extreme right, he was not in any position to observe how the rest of the cohort was faring. He was filled with dread as they approached the scattered huts on the outskirts of the town. Who knew what foes lay hidden within, waiting for the legionaries to pass by them before they struck? And as he had no torches, they could not simply ignite the buildings as they passed. Even as he made ready to issue his next order, he noted a definite slowing of their advance. The initial assault, the series of bloody brawls at the east gate that had taken the better part of several hours to conclude was now taking its toll.
“Set for passage-of-lines!”
King Donan’s plan was working! Though the Romans had gotten much further into Mai Dun than he’d anticipated, the end would still be the same. Despite the fierce bombardment from their unholy weapons that had killed scores, if not hundreds of his warriors, the legions were simply being worn down by the inevitable grind of trying to take the heights. The king grinned as he saw an enemy centurion fall, having taken a sword blow to the leg.
“Now we can show Caratacus how to defeat these invaders!” he scoffed, as he beat his sword against a legionary’s shield. He then turned about to see how far they were into the town when his eyes suddenly grew wide. “No! It cannot be!”
Before he could say anymore, a legionary gladius plunged into his back, driving into his lung as he fell to his knees. Whatever happened to the rest of his people, King Donan’s reign over the Durotriges confederation ended on the blade of a Roman soldier.
As Metellus and his soldiers advanced into the town, they saw that they were at an angle behind the Durotriges, who were heavily engaged with the First Cohort. As he looked to his right, he saw not just the remainder of his cohort, but numerous soldiers from the Second Legion who were running forward to join the fray. What Metellus did not know was that Master Centurion Lyto, upon reaching the top, had dispatched one of his cohorts to the far side in order to clear the southern rampart and allow the rest of the legion to assault the town. The young centurion was filled with relief, as well as a brief sense of déjà vu when he recalled the first time he and Artorius had fought together at Braduhenna, fifteen years before.
A cornicen’s horn sounded, announcing the charge both to the Twentieth Legion’s First Cohort, as well as their enemy. As the Durotriges turned and faced them, their eyes grew wide in fear and despair.
“Cohort…halt!” Artorius shouted as the ranks of the Second Legion swarmed in from both flanks and fell upon the hapless defenders. He knew their adversaries were finished, and he did not wish to risk the lives of any more of his exhausted legionaries.
“I told you my men would take the heights,” Vespasian said with a friendly smack to the shoulder. His cheerful demeanor contrasted sharply with the brutal scene playing out as the air was filled with a symphony of screaming terror and pain as legionaries from the Second unleashed a fury of steel and death. He set down the shield he’d used, wiped off his gladius before returning it to its scabbard, and then made his way over to find Master Centurion Lyto. Though a number of Durotriges had been killed during the initial attack by Vespasian’s soldiers, most of those who remained were quickly trying to surrender. The men of the Twentieth Legion took it all in as they leaned against their shields and caught their breath. Sweat and grime covered all of them, and they reeked of blood and death.
“What do you bet the Second Legion takes all the credit for this?” Optio Parthicus asked as he joined his master centurion.
“It doesn’t matter,” Artorius replied. “Rome won a victory today, and that is enough.”
“Sir!” a legionary said as he ran over to them. “Centurion Magnus is down.”
Chapter XXIV: Is this Glory?
***
The battle won, Vespasian allowed himself a moment’s reprieve. He looked down from the highest rampart at the corpse of the enemy king that had been unceremoniously dragged forward as he surveyed the carnage wrought by his men upon the fortress. Bodies lay strewn about, many of which had been smashed by catapult and ballistae shot; faces and bodies mangled as a result. One poor bastard was leaned over the rampart, his head split open with brains bursting through the shattered skull. There were still cries from within, as well as on the earthworks below, as legionaries finished off those among the enemy wounded who they deemed were too gravely wounded to try and save. In a morbid sense, this was an act of mercy, for all who had defied Rome from the heights of this great hill fort and survived would live out the remainder of their lives in slavery.
In truth, Vespasian respected the Durotriges for their stalwart tenacity. How could he not? They had fought to the last for what they believed in, and despite the losses inflicted upon his legionaries, the legate of Rome could not fault them for that.
“If the roles were reversed, we would have done the same,” he said quietly to himself. He looked back over the outside of the rampart, down the large hill with its earthworks and battlements where his men had battered their way up.
Onagers, scorpions, and ballistae were scattered about, their crews assisting with the recovery of the Roman wounded. Near the last line of fortifications they carried away a pair of badly injured Syrian archers from the allied detachment. They had received their fearful wounds while protecting their stricken leader, over whose body they openly mourned. The crewmen who assisted them did not realize that the men’s tears came not from the pain of their wounds, but from seeing she, who had led them so valiantly, lying brutally slain. Achillia’s eyes were now closed, her face smeared in blood that had spewed from her mouth. The large spearhead had cleaved through her mail shirt, plunging deep into her stomach where it embedded against her spine. That it severed a major artery was the only mercy, as it expedited what was an agonizing death.
It was past this scene of sorrow that an imperial messenger rode along the path that led into the fort. Vespasian spotted the rider and climbed down from the timber wall in order to meet the man near the smashed gates.
“By Thor’s fucking hammer, this hurts!” Magnus said through gritted teeth as he tried to stifle the pain.
Artorius clutched his hand as a legionary wrapped a loose rag around the Nordic centurion’s bleeding leg.
“I feel your pain, old friend,” Artorius replied, wincing as he recalled a similarly painful injury he had sustained during a raid on a captured estate. Though this had happened more than twenty years prior, his leg still throbbed at the memory.
“Damn it all, I’m bleeding like a stuck boar,” Magnus grunted as the legionary tied the rags tight.
The soldier then took the centurion’s helmet and propped his injured leg on top of it. “It’s pretty serious, sir, but at least it’s not dark crimson; meaning the artery’s not severed.”
“That’s a relief,” Magnus said, swallowing hard as his forehead broke out in a cold sweat. “Now if we can just stop a bloody infection from setting in. I’d rather like to keep my leg.”
“You’re too much of an ornery bastard to let something as undignified as an infected wound kill you,” Artorius said while trying to force a smile. It was difficult, especially given the scene of death and suffering that went on around them.
All of the prisoners were being corralled at the far side of the fort, many of them crying out in rage and sorrow as they watched Roman soldiers murder their more badly wounded friends and loved ones. As the Durotriges had attempted to safeguard as many of
their people as possible within the fort, women and children were also found amongst the dead and wounded; many were struck down by errant catapult stones or cut down by rampaging legionaries during the assault.
“Achillia,” Magnus said anxiously, “where is she? Why is she not here?”
He looked to Artorius who, not knowing what else to do looked to the legionary that had bandaged up Magnus. The young soldier could only shrug. It was then that the master centurion feared the worst.
“We’ll find her for you,” Artorius stated, unsure what else to say.
“Damn it all,” Magnus replied, sadly shaking his head and fearing the worst. He turned his head to the side and stared at the mud-stained walls of the fort, not wanting to see any more signs of death.
“Master Centurion Artorius!” Vespasian’s words drew his attention, and Artorius pulled himself to his feet stiffly. The few minutes he had spent kneeling at Magnus’ side had caused his already battered and exhausted body to seize up.
“Sir?” he said, noting the messenger that accompanied the legate.
“Governor Plautius’ compliments, sir,” the man said, handing him a short note. “He says to let you know that you are relieved of command of the Twentieth Legion.”
“Relieved?” Artorius asked, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.
“Yes, sir,” the messenger replied. “Before his arrival, the emperor had sent word to Rome, demanding a replacement legate for the legion. Of course, the directive took several weeks to reach Rome, and the new commander almost a month by sea to arrive. He has assembled the rest of the legion at their camp north of the River Tamesis.”
“Understood,” Artorius nodded. “Who is it?”
“Ostorius Scapula, sir.”
“He’s a good man,” Vespasian acknowledged. “A pity we did not have him with us during the invasion.”
“Very well,” Artorius said. “I’ll ready my cohorts to begin the march as soon as they’ve rested and eaten.”
“Take an extra day to rest your men and get refitted with rations,” Vespasian directed. “Gods know they’ve earned it! And don’t worry, I will see to your wounded.”
“Yes, sir,” the master centurion replied. He then asked the messenger, “Was there anything else?”
“There was; Governor Plautius wished me to convey to you that he personally exalted your leadership, valor, and distinguished conduct to the emperor.”
It was still midafternoon, yet to Vespasian it felt much later. Every minute of the assault had felt like an hour, and he was completely spent. However, there was still much that required his attention. He made his way on foot once more down the main hill road, where at the bottom he was greeted by Tribune Cursor.
“A hard-fought but total victory,” he said to the commander of his cavalry.
“If I may say so, that was one of the most disciplined and well-coordinated assaults I have ever witnessed,” Cursor replied respectfully.
“It certainly did not feel that way at the time,” the legate noted. “I wasn’t sure how any of us got up that damn hill!”
“Discipline, tenacity, and leaders who know how to adjust to an ever-changing situation will overcome any defense,” the tribune replied. “I’ve also never seen anyone attempt to advance siege engines with their infantry, especially when attacking uphill. I don’t doubt that the efforts of your artillery crews saved the lives of numerous legionaries.”
“I needed this place to fall quickly,” Vespasian shrugged. “I couldn’t let it stand definitely against us nor could I risk suffering unnecessary losses trying to take it.”
“Well, take this for what it’s worth,” Cursor said, choosing his words carefully as he continued. “I have seen many campaigns in my lifetime, to include a number of sieges. I have also served under some of the greatest military leaders Rome has ever borne. And yet, not even Germanicus Caesar could have accomplished what you did today.”
“Your words mean a great deal to me,” Vespasian emphasized, “for Germanicus was one of my heroes when I was a young lad. I’ll never forget my father holding me up on his shoulders so I could watch the returning hero and his legions during the Triumphal parade.”
“And now perhaps you’ll be the triumphant general,” the tribune noted.
“Perhaps,” Vespasian grinned. “But of course I am but one amongst many. The victory belongs to them more than it does me.” He gave the cavalry officer his next orders. “I need you to scout to the north. The Dobunni kingdom is not far from here, and we do not yet know their disposition. They have trade relations with the continent, however, they are also bordered by several tribes who we know are extremely hostile towards us. Take one regiment and see if you can ascertain their motives. In the very least, make certain no enemy forces are on the move to attack us while we reconsolidate.”
“Yes, sir.”
As Magnus was carried by several of his men to where the field hospital was being staged, he saw her. He clutched the shoulder of one of the soldiers hard, and the man saw what had so vexed his centurion.
“Give me a few moments,” the Norseman said as he hobbled over to where Achillia lay, ignoring the shooting pain in his leg as the split muscle twitched violently. Two of Achillia’s archers stood watch over her body, but they stepped away, their heads bowed in respect. Magnus then collapsed onto his side and lay propped up on his elbow next to her. The spear had been removed from her belly, though the ghastly wound was now attracting flies. Her hands lay folded on her stomach, just above the gash. Her head was turned to the side, eyes closed. If not for her ruptured guts, one would assume she was sleeping. That she’d been stabbed in the stomach was an even greater symbolic loss for Magnus. The news she’d shared that had once brought him so much joy now magnified his sorrow. He cursed himself that he was unable to cry. The fact that the tears he longed for refused to fall added to his torment.
“The gods mock me in allowing me to live,” he said bitterly through clenched teeth. Unable to bear any longer the sight of the woman he loved so brutally slain, he signaled for his soldiers, who helped carry him the rest of the way down the hill to where a field hospital was being hastily set up.
Along the slopes, and particularly towards the very top, exhausted legionaries set about their grisly task of separating the wounded from the dead. Though losses were comparatively light when viewing the carnage they had inflicted, every man lost was both friend and brother to his mates. For the survivors, they were awash in conflicting emotions; jubilation and triumph at their victory, relief that they were still alive, sorrow for the loss of their friends, and repugnance at the sights and sounds of brutally killed and badly maimed. Several mass graves were being dug into the hard earth, where the corpses of the enemy dead would be unceremoniously tossed. Their wounded were being treated, if possible, though if their injuries were too great legionaries would simply finish them with a slash across the jugular.
As Artorius wiped down the blade of his gladius, he wondered if this was his last battle. He certainly hoped so! After decades of serving in the legions, he had grown tired of the suffering and death they had inflicted. He thought when he was younger he would grow accustomed to it, but this had been a foolish notion.
He was reminded of war’s abject horror as he happened upon a young girl, whose leg had been smashed by catapult stone. The leg was completely mangled with splintered bones protruding grotesquely. Though her face was covered in sweat and her breath was coming in rapid gasps, she bravely made not a single cry. Her mother held her head in her lap, tears running down her cheeks. Artorius watched as a legionary removed his helmet and knelt down next to them. His eyes were full of pity as he drew his gladius and rested the blade against the girl’s neck. She looked up at her mother and nodded pleadingly, hoping to end her pain. The woman then met the soldier’s gaze. Though they could not communicate verbally, she gave an almost imperceptible nod before closing her eyes and turning away as the legionary quickly slashed his blade across the girl’s throat
. Torrents of warm blood gushed into her mother’s lap, who broke down in wails of a broken heart. The young girl’s eyes betrayed a sense of relief as her life left her, in a sense thanking the soldier for ending her pain.
Tears streamed down the legionary’s face as he hung his head for a brief moment. Though he understood the reality that women and children also perished in war, he found no honor in slaying the weak. As Artorius continued to gaze at the sad spectacle, he wondered if perhaps the soldier also had a daughter around the same age. The man turned his head and looked up at him, though he was unashamed by his tears.
“Is this glory, sir?” he asked.
The question caused Artorius to instinctively think back to a siege he’d taken part in, many years before this soldier was even born. The words reminded him of a brief conversation between him and Magnus as they’d watched the survivors of that siege being mercilessly executed by their commanding general’s order. What was the question he’d asked his friend who now, twenty-eight years later, lay badly wounded? Oh yes, it was, ‘Is this victory?’ Different words, but almost identical meaning.
“There is no glory in what we’ve done,” the master centurion replied with surprising candor. It was true, however, and it was best that his men learned that sooner rather than later. He believed in Rome, and that there was honor in fighting for the empire. That being said, war was anything but glorious. It was savage, inhuman, and wrought with pain, terror, and sorrow. Whatever came next for the Roman conquest of Britannia, Titus Artorius Justus decided then that his fighting days were over.