by James Mace
“I intend to,” Ellard replied. “I’ll give them a good enough showing against the Romans, then be done with this affair.”
Artorius was walking the perimeter of their camp that evening when he noticed a young legionary sitting off by himself, gazing at the setting sun. He was going to pay the man no mind when he recognized him as Legionary Felix Spurius of Praxus’ section. The lad had definitely improved his physique since recruit training. His paunch was nearly gone; his arms, chest, and legs filled out with a fair amount of muscle. As Artorius walked over to him, Spurius was immediately on his feet.
“Sergeant Artorius,” he acknowledged.
The decanus waved him to take his seat.
“Sit down,” he replied. “I just noticed you were off over here by yourself instead of over at the fires with your section mates.”
“I needed some time by myself,” Spurius replied. “May I speak frankly?”
Artorius nodded.
“Tomorrow will be my first action,” the legionary continued. “I am ashamed to admit this, but I’m afraid.” He closed his eyes, expecting a verbal thrashing from the man who had bludgeoned and chastised him throughout his training. He was perplexed by Artorius’ relaxed demeanor.
“What is it you are afraid of?” Artorius asked gently.
“I am afraid of being shown a coward, of not living up to what I promised myself I would do.”
“And what was it you promised yourself?”
“That I would expunge Spurius from my name. My name means ‘bastard.’ My father is ashamed of me.”
“And yet your family name, Felix, is a noble name; it means fidelity, and is a name you should be proud of.”
“My father is not proud of me,” Felix said bitterly. “Indeed, he is a nobleman. His two oldest sons, my brothers, are both patricians with promising careers. He only acknowledges my existence through the persistence of my mother. He signed my letter of introduction to allow me into the legions in order to be rid of me, nothing more.” He was now staring at the ground, his breathing coming hard through his nose as his pent up anger grew.
“What of your brothers?” Artorius asked.
Felix shrugged. “They were kind enough to me. There are vast differences in our ages, so I rarely saw them.” He took a deep breath and let out an audible sigh.
“Are you are afraid of being killed tomorrow?” Artorius asked, changing the subject.
The legionary lowered his eyes and nodded.
Artorius nodded in return. “So am I.”
Felix looked up at him surprised. At first he thought he had not heard the decanus correctly.
“I am going to let you in on a secret,” Artorius said. “All of us are afraid, though we do our best not to show it. We wonder if tomorrow our number will come up, will the gods choose to abandon us to butchery and murder. And you know what? It never changes; it never gets any better. No matter how many times I go into battle, it is the same every time. The same terror grips a man, knowing that tomorrow he may see his last sunrise, that his will be a battle for survival. Though once the first blow is struck, it all becomes instinctive. Your mind and your body become acutely aware of what they are supposed to do. Being afraid does not make you a coward. Not doing your duty does.”
“I suppose so,” Felix replied. “But why is someone like you afraid of going into battle? I watched you destroy the best men this legion has to offer during the tournament, and I hear you are one of the best close-combat fighters Rome has ever borne.”
Artorius gave a short, mirthless laugh at the young soldier’s remarks. “I will tell you something that someone, my mentor in fact, once told me regarding his own abilities. ‘I am not a god. The enemy still has a say in whether or not I live or die tomorrow; but more importantly, so do the men on my left and right.’ Protect the men next to you, as they will protect you. For when we fight together, we survive.”
“You have much wisdom and experience, sergeant,” Felix replied, “but yet you look so young.”
Artorius laughed at that. “That is because I am young,” he remarked. “I am probably scarcely any older than you are. I joined the legions the day after I reached the age of maturity. I took part in two campaigns in Germania, under Germanicus Caesar. They were brutal, savage, and beyond civilized man’s comprehension of barbarism and cruelty. I may appear youthful in both face and body, but my mind and heart are that of an old man.”
Chapter X: A Bloody Skirmish
***
The Turani were mustered on the plains of a low-lying valley. There were perhaps ten to twelve thousand men dressed for battle, most bearing spears or short swords with small, circular shields. There were about the same number of troops amongst the Romans and Sacrovir’s forces. The legionary cohorts were behind the auxiliaries, who were arrayed in three lines of battle, with their heavy troops out front.
“We’ll teach these legionaries how to fight!” a gladiator spat.
Heracles snorted at the remark. He knew full-well that this army of thieves and gladiators were amateurs compared to the legions. However, it was not through battle that he intended to defeat the Romans.
“We will hold in reserve behind this ridge,” Calvinus said to Sacrovir.
The Gaul seemed taken aback. “Your men do not wish to take part in the glory of this battle or the plunder to be had?” Calvinus smirked and shook his head. “Let the glory fall upon your men. This will be a good test for them, a chance to allow them to prove their worth. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
Sacrovir nodded briskly, drew his sword, and rode towards his restless army.
Calvinus turned to face his cohort commanders. “As soon as they move to join battle, we will step off at the double-time, moving around these small hills on our right. Once clear, we’ll maneuver the entire task force online and hit those bastards in the rear.” “What of Sacrovir?” Aemilius asked.
“What of him?” Calvinus replied. “We do not work for him. Besides, I foresee Sacrovir only making this a token engagement; whether out of trepidations regarding his army or something darker, I don’t know. All I do know is something is just not right. I think he intends to engage just long enough for the enemy forces to retreat. Well, I intend to teach these rebels a lesson they will not soon forget!”
Farquhar and Alasdair stood in the shade of a large oak, watching the battle unfold in the valley below. A large hoard of men was massed in the valley floor, the first of many who would look to free Gaul from the oppression of Rome. On the far slope they could see the auxiliary forces and mercenary troops of the noble Sacrovir.
“Where are the Romans?” Farquhar asked aloud. “Supposedly there were at least four cohorts with Sacrovir’s men.”
“I don’t know,” Alasdair replied. “Perhaps they have already gone home?” There was an air of levity and giddy excitement in his voice. “If my sources are correct, this will be only a minor skirmish, rather than a real battle. The Turani know they are not supposed to win. They will withdraw with only minimal losses, and once the Romans are lulled into complacency, they will join with Sacrovir!”
Suddenly, Farquhar’s hand was on his shoulder. Alasdair’s eyes followed to where his friend was pointing. Both lads’ eyes grew wide in horror as they saw coming around the base of the small hills on their left a contingent of Roman soldiers.
“Dear gods, the Turani will be trapped!” Alasdair despaired. “The Romans will chop them to pieces! They must be warned!”
Farquhar’s hand restrained him as he sought to run towards the battle below. “It’s too late,” he replied. “The battle is more than three miles away. You will never get there in time.”
Alasdair looked into his friend’s face. Farquhar’s eyes were wet, fear and emotion overtaking him as he cringed in anticipation of the Turani’s pending annihilation. Both lads turned towards the scene below. The Romans were now clear of the hills, maneuvering their way into formation. They blocked the entire width of the small valley, legionaries stacke
d up six ranks deep. Farquhar closed his tear-stained eyes as the Romans unleashed a storm of javelins upon their unseeing prey.
Sacrovir watched eagerly from atop his mount as his forces clashed with the Turani. Ironically, both sides were working for him, and they all knew it. They looked to this battle as nothing more than a bloodied drill that would prepare them for possible battle with the real enemy--Rome. Sacrovir had even gone so far as to remove his helmet, so as not to be a target for missile weapons.
The Turani knew they were not supposed to win this battle and, in fact, were ordered to begin a mock retreat should they end up pressing the issue too hard. Both sides came together in a clash that resembled more of a sporting match than a life and death struggle. Granted, men were dying. However, that was a necessary evil if the Romans were to be fooled. The Turani allowed Sacrovir’s men to come down from the high ground and engage them on the level plain.
Sacrovir was pleasantly surprised with the way his gladiators were fighting. His mercenary troops were amateurs at best, a menace to themselves at worst. They would take the brunt of his losses. Several units of these had been outfitted with circular shields and eight-foot spears, which Heracles tried to teach them to use in a phalanx. Their formations were loose and sloppy. Sacrovir knew this exercise would give them the opportunity to learn their lessons more poignantly, as the price for lack of discipline could be serious injury or death.
Sacrovir gave a sadistic grin as the battle ground its way along. He glanced over his shoulder to see if the Romans were observing or not. Oddly enough, there was no sign of them, not even their standards. His face creased into a frown as he searched for any sign of his so-called allies.
Where could they have gone? He thought to himself.
Sacrovir rode back to where the ridge crested and sloped down into the defilade behind them. He was horrified to see the Romans were nowhere to be seen. A dark feeling of realization came over him as he wheeled his horse around, back towards the battle. At the end of a small spur that shot off the hillside on his right--well behind the ranks of the Turani--the Romans could be seen moving at a dead run. Within minutes, they were arrayed in battle formation, advancing on the Turani and Andecavi, who were completely oblivious to their presence. Sacrovir closed his eyes and raised them to the heavens. He had anticipated only minimal casualties from both sides and expected to enlist perhaps another ten thousand Turani and Andecavi into his army as a result. His plan was quickly unraveling as the Romans unleashed a storm of javelins upon their hapless victims.
“Front rank . . . throw!” Proculus shouted.
At the sound of the order, the Turani turned around and were stricken with abject terror at the sight of Roman soldiers bearing down on them. A volley of javelins tore into their bodies, an entire wave falling in the torrent. Blood splattered everywhere as javelins punctured and tore bodies asunder.
“Second rank . . . throw!” Macro ordered.
The Romans waited until they were very close to the Turani before unleashing their javelins. This increased precision and shock as more of their enemies were skewered from behind.
Artorius was surprised to see the enemy was only a matter of feet in front of him as he let his javelin fly. It burst through the back of one of the rebels, exiting through his heart and pinning him to one of his companions in front of him. The man in front gave a scream of pain and horror as the javelin struck through the back of his ribcage. He was then wrenched to the ground by the corpse of his friend..
Nearby, Legionary Spurius killed his first human being as his javelin tore through the side of another rebel, puncturing both lungs. The young soldier was breathing heavily, his mind awash in feelings of both triumph and revulsion.
“Third rank . . . throw!” Centurion Vitruvius barked.
Soon all six ranks of the cohort had disgorged their javelins. The Turani were caught completely off-guard, not knowing where this threat was coming from. They had been told that this would be a minor skirmish, a simple blood-letting to prepare them to face the legions. In what could only be perceived as an act of betrayal, the Romans had completely outmaneuvered them and were smashing into the rear of their army. Bodies piled up as the survivors turned about to face this new threat.
“Gladius . . . draw!”
The legionaries’ audible shout completely panicked the Turani. There was mass confusion and many started looking for ways to flee the battle. Unfortunately, there was nowhere for them to run. Many still had no idea the Romans were even behind them, and were caught completely by surprise as a wall of legionaries collided with the rear of their lines. Those engaging Sacrovir’s troops in front were readying themselves to withdraw, completely unaware their escape was now cut off.
Sacrovir’s army was just as confused, not knowing if they should disengage or continue to pursue the battle. The Gallic general himself dared not ride down into the fray to try and stop the killing. To do so would be to show his hand, and now was not the time. He could only watch through clenched teeth as Roman troops continued to slaughter the Turani. No one appeared to be even attempting to fight back, just survive, and possibly escape.
Alasdair laid his head on his friend’s shoulder in despair. The Andecavi and Turani were kin to each other. The young man had many friends and relatives amongst the Andecavi and Turani, who were now being slaughtered by the Romans. Inhuman screams accompanied the din of battle.
“Those bastards!” he cursed through his tears. “They fight with treachery and deceit! My friends, my kinfolk, I should have died with them.”
Farquhar grabbed Alasdair by the shoulders and shook his head. “No,” he replied, “not this way. There will come a time for us to take out our retribution against Rome, but not today.”
“Does this mean you intend to join us?” Alasdair asked.
Farquhar nodded and said passionately, “I renounce my family’s Roman citizenship! I am a noble of Gaul, and we shall lead our people by our example and all will rise with us against those barbaric bastards that dare to call themselves the heart of civilization!”
Alasdair embraced his friend. As long as he had Farquhar with him, he would be alright. Together they would rid their homeland of the Romans.
Artorius stood ready as the Third Cohort pushed deep into the Turani lines. They were giving way quickly, and it was turning into little more than a killing frenzy. Then Proculus gave the order, “Set for passage of lines!”
Proculus’ signifier raised his standard as a signal to the rest of the cohort. Soldiers in the front rank ceased in their advance and stood defensively. The Turani, who had been getting steadily pushed back, did not know what to do. None had ever seen the Romans execute precision maneuvers before, and they were unaware as to what was coming. Artorius rocked onto the balls of his feet, ready to spring as the next command was sounded.
“Execute passage of lines!”
With a unified shout of rage the Second Century stepped off and passed through the rank in front of them. By this point, many of the rebels had already thrown down their weapons in an attempt to surrender, aware as they were of the hopelessness of their situation. But no order had been given to cease the attack.
Artorius tilted his shield and smashed the bottom edge into the face of a rebel who had just thrown down his spear and shield. The blow knocked the man down, rendering him unconscious. Artorius elected not to finish him, instead focusing on another Turani who wielded a short sword, and small, circular shield. The man attempted a punch with his shield, but before he could pull his arm back, Artorius brought his gladius down hard upon his forearm.
The rebel screamed in pain as the gladius cut a deep gash into his arm, smashing the bones in the process. Artorius followed up by punching with his own shield and stabbing the man beneath the ribcage. Before he could engage his next adversary, cornicens sounded the halt.
“Cohort, stand fast!” Proculus shouted.
As soon as the legionaries ceased in their attack, the Turani started throwing dow
n their weapons en mass. Many were weeping, their heads bowed in shame.
“We’ve been betrayed,” Artorius heard a Turani say quietly to the rebel next to him. The decanus cocked his head to one side, curious as to what the man had said.
“Who betrayed you?” he demanded.
The Turani stared at him, eyes filled with hate, and spat at him.
“Go fuck your mother, Roman,” the man growled.
This earned him a blow from Artorius’ shield flush on his jaw. The rebel’s eyes rolled back in his head as he crashed to the ground. His face emotionless, Artorius stepped forward and rammed the bottom of his shield into the man’s stomach. The rebels surrounding the man stood wide-eyed, faces full of fear. The soldier’s expression remained stoic.
“Artorius stand down, damn it!” Statorius shouted at him.
“Don’t insult my mother again,” Artorius said calmly before returning to his place on the line.
On the extreme right of the line, Calvinus stood breathing heavily. The adrenaline rush that followed close combat was still strong, even after twenty-five years in the legions. As he readied to give orders regarding the taking of prisoners, Sacrovir rode up on his horse.
“What the hell do you think you are doing?” the Gaul screamed at him. “You were supposed to hold in reserve, not go off on your own without even consulting me!”
“Don’t you ever give me orders!” Calvinus snapped. “Instead of allowing the rebels to escape with their noses bloodied, we have routed and captured practically all of them. Now I suggest you round up these prisoners and get them into the stockades! Trust me, you don’t want my men to do it.” Calvinus’ defiant smirk told Sacrovir that he had planned his little maneuver from the very beginning.