by James Mace
Decimus loosed his javelin just as one turned around. It impacted the man square in the chest, penetrating through his heart. The man was dead, his eyes hollow and lifeless, yet he stood there still, his hand clutching the shaft of the javelin, which had stuck itself into the ground.
Carbo threw his just as one of the pickets started to turn and run. It struck the rebel in the back of the leg, knocking him to the ground, where he lay screaming in pain and terror. Carbo drew his gladius and, without missing a step, swung his weapon hard in an underhand slash. His blow cleaved through the man’s jugular, as well as his esophagus. The remaining pickets fled at a dead run, quickly outdistancing the advancing legionaries, who continued to move together at a fast jog.
Indus swung his sword in desperation and rage. His men were better trained and equipped than their adversaries; however, they were getting overwhelmed. He brought his sword down and crushed the exposed head of one of the Turani, bone and brain matter spraying everywhere. He felt his shield arm quiver under the blow of another enemy before one of his men ran the rebel through with his lance. Indus knew they had to pull back soon, as his men were starting to fall under the force of the wave of Turani warriors. He brought his sword around in an underhand swing. He felt the sickening crunch as it cleaved through the neck of a Turani rebel. His horse reared up in the face of enemy spears, nearly throwing him.
“Fall back!” he shouted.
His cavalrymen started to turn their mounts around and ride away from the battle. He prayed that the Roman infantry had timed their attack well and would be right behind them.
Broehain ran his sword through one of the Treveri cavalrymen that had fallen from his horse. His pent up rage and aggravation was boiling over as they fought the traitors of Indus’ cavalry. His last battle had been a complete disaster and he wished to atone for it. His warriors had been ambushed and slaughtered by the Romans in what was supposed to be a ruse, those who survived goaded into continuing to fight for Sacrovir and Florus.
They had rallied even more of their men, along with numerous Treveri, and had hoped to subvert Indus’ cavalry. The gall of those bastards, not only refusing to return in fealty to their heritage but also attempting to hunt them like animals, was insufferable. They should have been in Augustodunum a week ago! Now, at least, they were able to take their revenge on the traitors. The Treveri started to retreat, their losses mounting.
“Come on!” he shouted, waving his men towards their fleeing enemy. He did not care that his foe was mounted; they would catch many of them before they could escape.
The guards at the far entrance to the Turani camp were completely surprised when their own pickets rushed past them in a panic. They, too, had been listening to the sounds of the battle and were oblivious to the threat fast approaching them.
“The Romans are coming!” one of the frightened pickets shouted as he ran for his life.
The guards turned around and gasped in horror as they saw a host of Roman legionaries bearing down on them. The lead guard opened his mouth to sound the alarm when a Roman javelin slammed into his chest, knocking him to the ground. It had been a perfect hit, directly through the heart. His makeshift breast plate had done little to stop the force of the blow, his punctured heart convulsing in death as it shot spurts of blood through the gaping wound.
Artorius threw his javelin as hard as he could and watched as it slammed into the chest of one of the Turani guards. The force of his throw knocked the man completely off his feet. As he drew his gladius, he watched Gavius throw his javelin with even greater force, skewering one of the rebels through the neck and pinning the twitching corpse to a nearby wagon.
“Nice!” he said in genuine admiration.
The rest of the men out front unleashed their javelins on the hapless rebels as a skirmish ensued over by the cluster of wagons staged near the camp entrance.
“Macro, secure this area!” Proculus ordered. “I’ll take the rest of the cohort and push through.”
“Sir!” the junior centurion acknowledged.
As the remainder of the cohort started to push through the camp, killing whatever stragglers they found, the Second Century proceeded to finish off those poor souls who had been tasked with defending Florus’ precious cargo in his wagons.
“The Romans have breached the camp!” one of the terrified pickets shouted to Florus as he ran up to him, out of breath and at his wit’s end.
“Impossible,” Florus replied, casually. “We have the Roman cavalry on . . . the . . . run . . .” His words died off as he looked in horror at the sight of Roman legionaries sweeping through his camp. What drove him to madness was the handful of soldiers who could be seen milling about his wagons.
“My money!” he despaired. He then started to grab whoever was nearest and pointed them towards this newest threat. “Save the wagons!”
Any rebels not directly engaged with Indus’ cavalry turned about to face this new threat.
“There aren’t supposed to be any bloody legionaries in this region!” one despaired.
“I don’t care about the money,” another stammered. “It does me no good if I am dead.”
Florus grabbed the man by his shock of unkempt hair and cuffed him on the ear.
“Well I care about the money, you fucking coward!” he shouted at the man. “You sorry cocks wanted to fight the legions, well now is your chance!”
He shoved the Turani towards the wagons where several dozen of his companions were attacking; a sense of desperation overcoming them. Florus was so fixated on his precious treasure that he scarcely acknowledged the legionaries that were ransacking his camp.
Artorius stopped and caught his breath as he surveyed the action going on around them. The cohort had almost finished clearing the main camp and was starting to sweep towards the road and the main battle. As he looked down the road itself, he saw a number of Turani rushing towards them. His eyes grew wide as he turned around and butted Valens with his shield.
“Form it up!” he ordered.
“Oh shit!” Valens swore as he caught sight of the enemy coming towards them. He immediately started rallying the rest of the section. “Online!”
Artorius gave a shout towards two of the other sections that were close by. “Rufio, Ostorius, on me!” As Artorius set into his fighting stance, the rest of his section fell in on his left.
“Section set!” he heard Magnus shout.
In his peripheral vision, he could just make out Rufio’s and Ostorius’ sections forming up to the left of his. He took a deep breath, knowing that by placing himself on the extreme right he was in a precarious position. “Advance!” he shouted. As the three sections moved towards their enemy, those with javelins disgorged them as soon as the Turani were in range. Their impact made the rest of the rebels halt in their tracks, their uncertainty apparent. Already they were rattled by the mere presence of legionaries; the sights and screams of their dying companions causing their fear to overtake them.
Artorius smiled sinisterly as he issued his next order. “Charge!” The Romans hit the Turani at a run, their shields linked together, smashing into the rebels like a human battering ram. As waves of Turani were felled by the force of their onslaught, legionaries quickly slew them.
Artorius plunged his gladius into the throat of a stricken rebel. This was a favorite target for him; it ensured a quick death and was usually not as well protected as the heart. The sight of gushing blood reassured him subconsciously that his foe was dying and no longer a threat. The mass of rebels scrambled away, reforming in time to watch their less fortunate friends butchered and disemboweled by legionary blades. Tears of anguish filled many an eye. For the majority, this was not the first time they had been lulled into a massacre by the legions of Rome. Most had fought in Sacrovir’s mock battle and been taken prisoner after the Romans attacked them from behind. And now, seemingly out of thin air, more legionaries had descended upon them; inflicting suffering and death. One particularly young man lost all contro
l of his fear and sobbed loudly in despair.
“I cannot fight anymore!” he wailed as he dropped his weapons and fell to his knees.
Carbo snarled at the pathetic wretched and stepped towards him; both sides ceasing in their attack to watch the legionary.
“Then die a coward’s death,” he hissed as he buried his gladius into the man’s side.
The Turani’s mouth was agape, yet he was unable to make a sound. Carbo growled and sliced his weapon across his enemy’s stomach; blood and entrails spilling from the slash.
“Carbo, formation!” Artorius shouted as the legionary stepped back into the ranks.
The rest of the rebels stood appalled at what had transpired.
“You will not have me so easily!” an older Turani shouted.
His companions renewed their war cries and charged into the legionaries.
Macro felt at ease for the first time in many days. The camp was cleared; the rest of the cohort acting as the hammer to Indus’ anvil. The plan had worked, and at last he felt like he could release the tension that had been causing him many a sleepless night. His fears were renewed when Camillus grabbed him by the shoulder and pointed to the fray behind him.
“Dear gods,” he whispered.
Nearly a third of his men were fighting off a hoard of Turani rebels by themselves and in a single rank. The centurion looked to his right to find the nearest decanus. Praxus had noticed the commotion himself and was running up to investigate; the same look of horror crossing his face when he realized what Artorius and the others were up against.
“Praxus!” Macro shouted, “Take your men and flank those bastards!”
“Sir!” The decanus acknowledged. With a wave of his arm, he and his section rushed in a file towards the right flank of the skirmish.
“Second Century, on me!” the centurion ordered as he started forward at a slow jog. Camillus planted the century’s signum and was at Macro’s side, his gladius drawn.
In three ranks, the remnants of the century advanced. Macro hoped he wasn’t too late to avert disaster for his men.
Indus’ cavalry had completely broken off contact with the Turani and were gradually falling back. As he started to despair that perhaps the plan had failed, Indus saw Roman soldiers cresting the ridge of the Turani camp. A cornicen sounded his horn, drawing the attention of the Turani, as well as the cavalry.
“Come about!” Indus shouted.
With drilled precision, the Roman cavalry wheeled their mounts back towards the Turani, who had stalled in their pursuit, aware they were being threatened from both sides. What they did not know was that the force of Roman legionaries only amounted to a single cohort, not nearly enough men to overwhelm their ranks. All they could comprehend was that somehow the Romans had managed to send legionary troops to cut off their chance of reaching Augustodunum. And these troops were now raining javelins down upon their heads as they rapidly advanced down the hill.
Vitruvius found himself in the lead as his men stormed down the hill. He had deliberately taken up position in the very center of his men, his plan of attack dependent on it.
“Wedge formation...on me!” he shouted. While still moving at a jog downhill, legionaries guided themselves into a massive wedge, linking their shields together. At the apex of the wedge was the powerful centurion. He braced hard against his shield as he felt soldiers on either side of him linking their shields with his. He could also feel the legionaries to his back pushing against them.
Once he sensed all were set, Vitruvius gave a howl of rage, one which was echoed by all legionaries in the wedge, and increased his speed to an all-out sprint. Turani rebels looked back in terror as the formation slammed into them. The centurion knew that for the wedge to have full effect, he had to push as far as he could into the enemy ranks before engaging. Men were knocked down in the wake of their onslaught, trampled underneath by the legionaries behind Vitruvius and his men. Eventually their momentum slowed, and he knew the force of their charge was expended.
“Online!” he ordered, as his soldiers unlinked their shields and started to hammer the rebels in close combat.
Many Turani were knocked down or into their companions, their ranks compressed together. Vitruvius started to stab rapidly with his gladius, his weapon finding the vitals of a rebel with every strike. Five men had fallen to his ferocious assault before he even had to start engaging opponents in single combat. Legionaries on either side of him attacked the rebels with equal brutality. Vitruvius knew in the close confines of this battle, passages-of-lines would be impossible; therefore, everything pended on how well they carried their charged and shocked the enemy into panic.
Panic was indeed gripping the Turani. Broehain looked back to see Roman troops pouring down the road, hammering into the rear of their army. He grimaced hard, knowing the cavalry’s sortie against them had been a hoax. He turned his eyes front and watched as Indus’ horsemen wheeled their mounts around and came at them.
“Eyes front!” he shouted to those who could hear him.
The Turani were horrified to see Indus and his troopers bearing down on them.
“Brace for impact!”
Having managed to get some distance between themselves and the rebels, Indus’ cavalry was now able to build up momentum as they charged at the full gallop. His men lowered their lances and gave a shout of fury as they smashed over and through the Turani ranks.
At the far end of the mass of rebels, javelins were continuing to rain down, killing or crippling all who fell in their path. The Turani had become so clustered together by the force of Vitruvius’ charge that it was impossible for the legionaries throwing the javelins to miss. Their advance gained momentum once again, the force driving them deeper into enemy ranks. Vitruvius, in particular, was a machine of terror. That a man of his size and brutal power could strike so quickly cowed the rebels unfortunate enough to find themselves in his path. One after another they fell to his fury; a wake of death left in his path.
A sense of shock and surprise gripped the whole mass of rebels, inducing them to panic. Most fled straight into the woods on their left, leading downhill and away from the battle. As they ran, they threw down their weapons, stumbling and falling over rocks and fallen trees. Those in the immediate vicinity of the Romans started to surrender.
Proculus saw the mass of Turani fleeing into the woods. He pointed to Vitruvius and then towards the woods. Vitruvius nodded and signaled to his men.
“Third Century, follow me!” Proculus signaled for the Fifth Century to do the same, both Centuries forming up in a long line, carefully but quickly making their way down the hill.
As the skirmish continued in the Turani camp, Artorius brought his shield about in a hard left hook, the boss connecting squarely on the side of a rebel’s face. He felt the facial bones crush under the force of his blow as the man collapsed to the ground, unconscious. Instinctively, Artorius brought his gladius down in a hard thrust, ramming it into the base of his throat. He then saw two more coming at him. As he was on the extreme right, his flank was completely exposed. One of the Turani saw this and elected to exploit it. Artorius sought to fend the man off with his gladius as the rebel’s companion brought the full bear of his weight onto Artorius’ shield. Sensing this threat to his sergeant, Valens sidestepped and stabbed the rebel in the side. Artorius felt the weight of the man against his shield go limp as he deflected another blow from his adversary’s sword. He then shoved the dead man off him and swung his shield around hard, catching the Turani on the shoulder. This spun him partially around, allowing Artorius to stab him beneath the ribs. He kicked the dying man away, blood dripping from his sword as several more adversaries came at him. He caught sight of legionaries running past his right shoulder towards the rebels. As he braced himself against the onslaught of one attacker, a legionary collided with the man, his shield and body knocking him down with the force of a demon possessed. The soldier fell on top of the rebel, violently slicing his throat open with his gladi
us. Artorius recognized him to be Legionary Felix, as the young man struggled back to his feet. He then noticed Praxus leading the rest of his men straight into the enemy flank.
As he turned back towards the remainder of their foe, Artorius saw that those who had not been killed or maimed had thrown their weapons down and placed their hands behind their heads.
“Are we taking prisoners?” Rufio asked.
Artorius nodded affirmatively.
“Yes. Bind their hands and start setting up a prisoner collection point.” He turned around to see that most of the century had just come up to assist.
Though it felt longer, their entire ordeal could not have lasted more than a minute or so. As he stood catching his breath again, Artorius was mildly surprised that Rufio had deferred to him as to what should be done with the Turani who surrendered. Rufio had four years seniority over him and Ostorius probably more than that. He shook his head, not wishing to make more of the situation than what it was.
“Everyone alright?” Macro asked, as he walked up to Artorius.
The decanus nodded. “I think so; surprised the bloody hell out of us, though.”
Macro turned and saw a glint of metal in the trees on their right, leading uphill. As he focused his eyes on the sight, he was able to make out the figure of a man in a brass breastplate and helmet. Macro’s eyes narrowed as he grabbed Artorius by the shoulder.
“I see him,” he acknowledged, grimacing as his anger rose. “Get that bastard!”
Artorius took a deep breath and waved towards the man with his gladius.