by James Mace
“You seem pretty content, like you don’t have a care in the world,” he heard Magnus say as his friend sat down and unlaced his caligae.
Artorius grinned slightly, his eyes shut and his hands folded on his lap.
“We’ve done all we can,” he replied. “Whether or not it goes well for us tomorrow, there is no sense losing any sleep over it.”
“You men are the iron youth of Gaul!” Sacrovir proclaimed. He stood on a makeshift pulpit, Heracles and Taranis standing behind him. Most of the men he addressed were not men at all; they were very young, more like overgrown boys; the sons of Gallic nobles from all over the province.
The majority had been attending school in Augustodunum and had subsequently become hostages of Sacrovir in order to assure their fathers’ allegiance. He had held spectacular rallies, decrying their status as second class citizens of Rome, and expounding upon the virtues of “old Gaul.”
The impressionable young men were swept up on a tide of patriotism and hunger for military glory. These lads were the ones who would form the van of the army; first to engage the Romans, encased in plate armor so as to make them impervious to the javelin and gladius.
“I look into your faces,” Sacrovir continued, “and I see not young boys. Rather I see men of Gaul, valiant youth who will rid our land of the Roman scourge once and for all!” This elicited a series of cheers and battle cries from the assembled host. Sacrovir was indeed proud of his men. While his initial motives for rebellion had seemed selfish and petty in nature, he too had become caught up in the spirit of liberation. His cause was no longer just one of vengeance and personal independence. No, it was bringing liberty and a sense of nationalism to all of Gaul. Once the Roman Army that faced him was destroyed, surely the rest of the province would follow.
He dismounted the dais as a messenger came running up to him. It was Broehain, carrying a brass breastplate in his hands.
“I bring word of General Florus,” the man spoke, his normally stoic face was shaken. “He is dead, his forces routed by a single Roman cohort along with Indus’ cavalry.”
“Impossible!” Taranis spat. “Even if he were unable to enlist the Treveri, his forces still numbered over five thousand men. Surely you are mistaken.”
Broehain presented the breastplate to them. Sacrovir closed his eyes at the sight. Florus’ ornate armor was unmistakable.
“He was a good man,” Broehain said quietly.
Sacrovir could only nod in reply.
“What is worse is not only did we lose his force, but we still have no cavalry!” Taranis observed. He then turned to Broehain. “Did you see any cavalry amongst the Roman ranks?”
“We did,” the man replied. “In addition to their standard compliment, we saw the standards of a cavalry regiment. Not only that, but we fought against them in the mountains. Indus has, in fact, sided with the Romans, as have his men.”
“I gave that man my friendship and my trust,” Sacrovir growled, “and this is how he repays me? We will crush the Romans on the morrow, and I will feast on Indus’ heart before this is over!”
As day broke, Silius sat on his horse, gazing at the massive army the enemy had arrayed before him. As predicted, their heavily armored troops were in two ranks, forming the van of their force. The rest were formed up in a mass on the gentle slope that rose just a few meters above the plain. Thankfully, they had no cavalry to speak of. Only a few of their senior leaders could be seen riding on horses. A man that Silius assumed could only be Sacrovir was riding a splendid charger back and forth in front of the formation. His gestures were wild, and his men were answering audibly with battle cries not heard in a generation.
Silius spat in contempt at the sight and turned to face his men. “What a pity it is the very forces who, not four years ago, vanquished the Cherusci and the hordes of Germania, now have to face such a pathetic rabble that the enemy has marshaled against us! Why only recently the Turani and rebellious Treveri were smashed by a single cohort of this very army. Teach these rebels what it means to violate the peace of Rome. Show them no mercy in battle, but spare them when they flee.4 Into battle Germanica and Valeria!” “Cohort!” Proculus shouted.
“Century!” came the reply from his centurions.
“Advance!”
Without another sound the Germanica and Valeria Legions advanced towards their foe. The first two ranks advanced about twenty meters ahead of the rest, legionaries bearing pickaxes keeping close behind their companions who would provide them with protection while they chopped down Sacrovir’s armored troops.
On the far slope, Heracles watched, puzzled at this strange formation.
“Something is not right,” he said to Belenus. “Look at how their first two ranks are clustered together, well ahead of the main force.”
“I see it,” Belenus answered. “Their files are spaced apart, almost like a skirmishing formation. What could it mean?”
“I don’t know,” Heracles replied. “These Romans have a plan of some sort. Look, the men in the front ranks are not carrying javelins either. What are they up to?”
In the van of the rebel force, Farquhar noticed that something was not right about the Roman formation. Though he could not see the forces behind the front rank, he could clearly make out that these men were devoid of javelins, and the second rank was very close to the first.
“They are not carrying javelins,” he said to Alasdair.
“Perhaps they know we are impervious to them!”
“I wonder.” The young man felt safe, encased in the armor Sacrovir had provided for them, yet at the same time he knew he was severely constricted, his mobility greatly hindered. All around him his companions were chanting ancient Gallic battle cries, beating their weapons against their armor, exhorting their own valor and the impetuousness of the Romans. He then started in with cries of his own and beat his short sword against the small buckler attached to his left wrist.
The legions were advancing slowly and deliberately, the cadence of their steps drowned out by the battle cries of the Gauls. Farquhar beat his weapon harder against his buckler, his chants growing ever louder as he tried to work himself into frenzy. He was fast becoming a man, a man of Gaul, fighting for that noble thing called freedom. The Romans were getting closer, and Farquhar knew it would not be long. He could almost make out the faces of individual legionaries. He eyed the sword that he carried. It was a fine weapon, the best on the line no doubt. It had served his ancestors for generations; would it serve him as well?
Suddenly, and without a sound, the Romans broke into a fast jog. The young nobles noticed that their front rank was in a looser formation than they were told the Romans were used to fighting. Their shields were not linked together, and there was a noticeable gap between their files as the soldiers in the second rank stood directly behind them. The young man became fearful as the gap closed.
Such discipline, he thought to himself. He was suddenly afraid as the foolishness of this venture became clear to him. Vercingetorix and his warriors had failed to break the Romans; what chance did a handful of youths have who had never even seen combat? These men they faced were professionals; battle-hardened veterans who were bred to kill. Farquhar braced himself as his father’s words echoed in his mind. This was, indeed, madness, and there was no escape. For when the Romans were within a few paces, they came alive audibly. Legionaries in the second rank rushed around their companions, each carrying an entrenching pickaxe.
Farquhar became terrifyingly aware of the Romans’ battle plan as he saw a well-muscled legionary rushing straight for him, eyes filled with rage, pickaxe ready to swing. The young man tried to block the coming blow with his buckler, but his armor made him too slow and unwieldy. He gave a cry of pain and the pickaxe smashed through his armor. The sharpened point punctured the side of his breastplate, as well as the bottom flank of his ribcage. He felt his ribs break as his lung was ruptured by the blow. A howl of shock and pain took his breath from him. As he fell to the ground, th
e pickaxe became embedded in his ribs and armor. He cried out again as he hyperventilated in sheer panic. Blood seeped from his mouth as he felt the pickaxe wrenched from his side. The pain blinded him, and overwhelmed his senses. He lay on his side, his sword lying useless in his twitching fingers.
“Mother,” he whispered as he longed for the maternal comforts that only she could provide. “Father...Kiana, my love.” As he lay dying, his father’s warning rang hollow in his ears. His life was coming to an end before it had even begun. He sobbed in pain and sorrow for the few seconds it took the Roman to swing his pickaxe again. He was not even aware of the subsequent blow that smashed through his helm.
Artorius stepped on the helmeted head as he wrenched his pickaxe free. His titanic strength made punching through the enemies’ armor an easy task. What threw him off was the awkwardness of having to retrieve his weapon, which became stuck with every blow. As he stumbled back, Valens rushed in and rammed his shield into another armored rebel who, impeded by the weight of his armor, stumbled to the ground.
“Go for the throat!” Artorius yelled. “There’s a gap just beneath the helm and the chest!”
Valens saw this as well and ran his gladius across the man’s neck.
Artorius watched briefly as the rebel thrashed in the throes of death, blood gushing through the gap in his armor. As he did so, another rebel came at him, screaming wildly, sword raised high. Artorius rushed forward, raised his pickaxe over his head and brought it down with a crushing blow that punctured the man’s heart. As his adversary fell dead, Artorius found his pickaxe wrenched from his hand. Before he could move to retrieve it, he had yet another armored enemy bearing down on him.
In a move that surprised the rebel, Artorius rushed him, quickly getting between the man’s buckler and sword. With his left hand he grabbed his opponent’s wrist, and wrapped his right arm around his waist. With maddening strength he threw the rebel over his hip and hard onto the ground. Rapidly he drew his gladius and fell on top of the man. He wrenched the rebel’s face mask up as he raised his weapon to strike. The face that looked up at him in terror was not that of a man, but of a boy. The lad looked to be in his mid-teens at the most; not even old enough to require a shave. Artorius was shocked; he flashed back briefly to the young German boy who had tried to fight him. He then grimaced hard and rammed his gladius into the lad’s neck. The rebel’s eyes grew wide as blood gushed from his neck and mouth. Artorius wrenched his weapon free as the boy’s eyes glazed over, devoid of life.
He looked to his left and right and saw what had become a disorganized brawl. The legionaries were working well in pairs, but they were starting to scatter amongst the mass of armored rebels. He watched as Magnus smashed his pickaxe into the back of a foe. Gavius then rammed his shield into their stricken enemy as Magnus wrenched his weapon free. Artorius then sheathed his gladius as he scrambled over to retrieve his own pickaxe from his slain adversary’s chest.
“You alright?” Valens asked as they paired up once again.
“I am. You?”
The legionary nodded in reply.
Without another word they sought out other foes to slay. Valens would tie up a rebel by hammering him with his shield, while Artorius swung around either side and slew them with his pickaxe. Macro and Camillus could be seen paired up together, the centurion electing to carry a pickaxe while the signifier protected him. As he was not carrying the century’s signum into battle, Camillus had elected to go without the wolf's skin over his helmet and shoulders. He also wielded a standard legionary scutum shield, as opposed to the much smaller circular one that he normally carried.
“Keep it up, lads!” Macro shouted. “They’re breaking!”
Proculus grasped the pommel of his gladius roughly. He watched the frenzied melee taking place to their direct front and was anxious to get the rest of the cohort into the fray. Macro and Vitruvius were doing a spectacular job of mauling the enemy’s armored troops, and Proculus knew he had to time his advance well. The main force of Sacrovir’s army was arrayed behind these men, and he needed to make certain that he was able to push his remaining centuries past the Second and Third in order to keep their formations intact once they engaged. Sacrovir’s men in the van were falling rapidly, and he knew it would not be long.
“Our armored troops are being mauled by the Romans!” Taranis growled. From their vantage it looked as if the legionaries were chopping down small trees with their pickaxes.
“The majority of their forces are holding fast,” Belenus observed. “Their front ranks are dispatching our armored men so as to keep their formations intact.”
“Taranis,” Sacrovir replied, “ready the main force to attack.”
Just then they were able to make out the dust coming from the hooves of the Roman cavalry. They formed up on either side of the legions and were moving at a slow gallop. Sacrovir was able to make out the form of Julius Indus on the right, being as he was bearing a sword instead of a lance. He scowled at the sight.
“And so the traitor Indus has returned.”
“Wedge formation . . . lances ready!” Indus shouted, as his force closed with the left wing of Sacrovir’s army.
The legions were heavily engaged with the armored men in the center. All Indus and his cavalry faced were light-armed skirmishers and infantry. They grew closer. He raised his sword and nodded to the horn blower who rode next to him. As the charge was sounded, Indus gave a great cry and spurred his horse to a full sprint.
The rebel forces on the wings were in no way prepared for the ferocity of Indus’ assault. Panic swept their ranks as the wall of men on chargers raced towards them, lances pointed at their hearts.
“Set your spears, keep together!” Torin shouted.
The gallop of the Roman chargers was growing louder. Ellard swallowed hard at the sight.
“Fuck this!” he retorted. “I’m not going to stand here and get trampled by one of those beasts!”
“Nor am I,” Radek said in a low voice. He scowled and watched as Indus’ cavalry rapidly drew closer.
Many were stirring amongst the rebel ranks. All seemed to understand that in order to stop the horsemen, they would have to chance being trampled and ran through. Yet no one wished to be that man who died so that the others might live.
“Gods damn it, stay together!” Torin was in a rage. “It is our only chance of survival!”
“Like bloody hell it is!” Ellard shouted. He turned and started shoving his way back through the mob behind him. “Get out of my way!”
Ellard and Radek both threw down their weapons as they sought to escape. Their panic proved infectious. Those bearing spears and shields immediately forgot their discipline, as well as the tactics that Heracles had taught them for repelling cavalry. Instead of forming a wall of spears in the way the legions were famous for, they started to break and run; too late for most of them. The cornicen’s trumpet could be heard clearly; the pulsing sound of horses galloping and men yelling became deafening. His escape clogged by the disorganized mob that could not decide whether to fight or flee, Ellard turned back in time to see the Roman chargers bearing down upon him. He let out a resigned sigh as a lance was run through his side. He collapsed to the ground as his guts were torn from his body. His intestines were mutilated; parts of them left hanging from the Roman’s lance. He clenched his teeth as the unbearable pain engulfed him.
As the cavalry continued to smash into their ranks, men were skewered by lances, while others were trampled underneath. The Roman cavalry penetrated deep into their mass before engaging in a frenzied melee. Radek caught a lance in the back as he tried to flee. He screamed in pain as he stumbled into the dirt. As he sought to regain his feet, a Roman brought his lance straight down, catching him in the back of the leg. Another cry of pain erupted from his mouth as he slowly crawled away, seeking an escape from amongst the carnage. The body of a mortally wounded rebel fell on top of him, pinning him to the ground. The injuries to his leg and back prevented him from r
olling over and removing the man. The stricken rebel thrashed about, his fist slamming into the gash on Radek’s back. The pain became too much, and he blacked out.
Torin stood his ground as best he could. He brought his spear about and managed to bring down one of the Roman horsemen, stabbing him through the sternum, rending the man from his horse. His spear became stuck, and he let it go as panic got the best of him. A charger crashed into his shield, sending him reeling to the ground. As he rolled onto his stomach, another horse trampled his shield arm. He wrenched his arm free, holding it into his chest. Remarkably, it was not broken.
He scrambled amongst the scene of death which surrounded him. He saw a number of men rushing up a small hill on their flank, which led away from the battle. He made his way towards them, keeping his injured arm close to his side. Men and horses charged past him, lances missing him by inches. At last he reached the base of the hill, where he used his good arm to help pull him up the steep slope. He could hear the sounds of men and horses behind him; the cry of one poor fellow who was brought down by a Roman lance before he could make his way up the hill. Torin was ecstatic to be alive, yet shamed by his actions. He consoled himself. He had tried his best and had slain a Roman cavalryman. Still, the tears came freely as feelings of loss and persistent fear threatened to incapacitate him. He then steeled himself and renewed his surge up the slope with renewed passion. Whatever became of Sacrovir and his rebellion, he knew he had earned his freedom.
Torin’s attempt at valor was a rare sight. The rebels were mostly thieves and cowards. Their concern was their own survival, and they did not wish to face death at the end of a Roman lance. Those who could flee did so, whilst the less fortunate were forced to fight for their lives. The reach of the Roman lances proved too great for most, as they could not get close enough to engage man or horse. Some did manage to drag horsemen from their mounts before viciously slaying them, though this was done out of desperation rather than any kind of organized battle plan. Little did they realize that had their companions not panicked, their numbers alone would have been enough to overwhelm Indus and his cavalry. This observation was not lost on Sacrovir.