by James Mace
The number of armored adversaries was dwindling rapidly. Artorius and Valens had run out of men to fight, as had many of their companions. Macro wrenched his pickaxe from the chest of a rebel and quickly assessed the situation. Sacrovir’s main force could be seen advancing.
“Second Century, disengage!” he shouted, “reform behind the cohort!”
Decanii echoed their centurion’s command down the line.
After making certain his men heard the order, Artorius started down the slope, pickaxe over his shoulder. The rest of the Third Cohort was advancing towards them, shields parting at intervals to allow the Second and Third Centuries through. Artorius stopped just shy of the formation and waved his men through the gap. He slapped each man on the shoulder as he passed through, quickly getting accountability for his section before allowing himself to withdraw from the fray.
“Our wings are collapsing!” Belenus shouted, terror rising in his voice.
“The Roman front ranks appear to be disengaging as well,” Heracles added, his voice much calmer. “It would seem they are bringing the bulk of their legionaries forward.”
Indeed, the soldiers in the front ranks had pulled back once they saw the hordes of Sacrovir’s army rushing towards them. With precision timing, the remaining four ranks rushed past the wreckage that was the Noble Youth, forming up in time to disgorge their javelins.
“Front rank . . . throw!” Proculus shouted.
“Second rank . . . throw!” came the order from Centurion Dominus.
The rebel force was within a few yards when the javelin storm was unleashed. To miss was impossible at such close range. Some rebels managed to catch a javelin with their shields, only to be punctured by several more. One poor man had taken a javelin through each eye socket, his head literally torn apart by the shock of the blows. Others had their shields pinned to their bodies or, at best, stripped from their hands. Aside from the commands of the centurions and the occasional grunt from heaving their javelins, the Romans had been unnervingly quiet up to this point. That changed with the next order from Proculus.
“Gladius . . . draw!”
“Rah!” The Gallic army, by this time, was in complete disarray and like their companions on the wings, they, too, forgot they still had the Romans badly outnumbered.
The dying screamed in pain. Those now devoid of shields panicked. Survival became their one concern as the legions charged into their ranks. Those who stumbled, caught legionary shields and gladii in their backs.
Proculus caught a rebel in the back of the leg with his gladius, bringing him down. He then stabbed the man through the base of the neck before he could rise. His men battled their way uphill, slaying all in their path. The slope became slippery as bodies piled up; blood and intestinal fluids saturating the ground.
“Fucking cowards!” Taranis growled. “I thought you said your gladiators were warriors, Sacrovir!”
“If you will notice, it is my gladiators who continue to fight,” Sacrovir replied coldly. “It is your Sequani who are running.”
“Then I shall rein them back in myself!” Taranis drew his sword and spurred his horse towards the battle. “Turn and fight, if you honor yourselves as Sequani!”
A few of his men did heed their chief’s call, though most were too panic stricken to fight any more. Taranis’ mount crashed hard into the Roman lines, knocking soldiers down and creating a gap which Sacrovir’s gladiators quickly tried to exploit. He ran his sword through the throat of a surprised legionary, only to have it wrenched from his hands. His weapon gone, he swung his shield about, catching a Roman on top of the helm. Just then, another soldier leapt up and stabbed Taranis through the groin. He gave a cry of pain as he was pulled from his mount. He was surrounded by legionaries who started smashing his face and body with their shields. His arm snapped, his nose shattered, and his esophagus was crushed underneath the force of their blows. Blood and urine flowed freely from the wound to his groin; a wound that itself would have proven fatal, though his spine snapped underneath the Romans’ onslaught. The chief of the Sequani was dead long before the enraged legionaries quit bludgeoning his broken body.
Sacrovir’s gladiators were indeed brave, but they were no match for well-disciplined legionaries. Roman soldiers found their strength in working together, each man protecting his companions on his left and right. The gladiators, on the other hand, were used to fighting as individuals in an arena, and were in no way prepared for close combat with such a disciplined force. The gladiators held the high ground, but they were slowly giving way; the rest of Sacrovir’s army having broken and ran.
Proculus struggled up the gradual slope that was now littered with corpses. Legionaries were fighting their way through the mass confusion; the remaining gladiators not knowing whether to fight or flee. The centurion rammed his gladius into the belly of one assailant. He then shoved the stricken man down the hill behind him. One rebel threw down his weapons in the face of the Roman onslaught and raised his hands in the air. Proculus paused for a second as the confused rebel knew not what to do. He then went to reach for his weapons again. Proculus turned his shield up and rammed the bottom edge into the man’s face, just above the bridge of the nose. The rebel gave a short cry as he was knocked to the ground, the centurion ripping out his jugular with his gladius. The severed artery sprayed Proculus with blood as the dying man lay convulsing. In an act of bravado, a gladiator leapt high into the air, body-tackling one of the legionaries. Though he had succeeded in knocking the Roman down, as well as several men around him, the gladiator took a blade to the heart for his efforts. The battle was turning into a rout, and there was no one left to exploit any such breaches in the Roman lines.
Belenus seethed as he watched their army collapsing underneath the Roman assault. As their casualties mounted, the gladiators had turned and fled with the rest of Sacrovir’s force. They had held the longest, but their numbers were too few.
“It is over,” he heard Sacrovir say, his voice surprisingly calm. “I guess they win this one.”
“Our entire army is routed!” Belenus protested. “What are we to do?”
“What can we do?” Heracles asked, his own voice matching Sacrovir’s sense of calm.
Belenus was exasperated with the situation.
“Surely we had more than enough men to overwhelm the Romans,” he said, his voice chalked full of emotion.
Their dreams of liberation from Rome were disappearing as they watched groups of their men stumble in their flight, only to be slaughtered by the oncoming legions.
“That we did,” Sacrovir replied. “And we still do, if we could get some order restored. Come, let us leave this place. We will reform our army and not make the mistake of facing the Romans in the open again.”
The Second and Third Centuries raced back to where they had grounded their shields and gear. Quickly they dropped their pickaxes, hefted their shields.
“Form it up! Second Century on me!” Macro shouted.
With drilled precision, legionaries fell into line to the left of their centurion. Camillus sheathed his gladius and retrieved the century’s standard. Macro pointed towards Flaccus at the end of the line with his gladius. The optio mimicked his gesture, signaling the century was set.
“Let’s go!” Macro ordered, waving his gladius forward. The century started at a run back to where the battle still raged. They merged with the Third Century; Vitruvius and his men falling in behind them. Other units could be seen doing the same up and down the line. Silius was riding up on his horse, signaling for them to cease their attack.
“The rebels are routing,” Artorius heard him say to Macro and Vitruvius. “Have your men start rounding up prisoners, as well as our wounded.”
“Yes, sir,” Macro and Vitruvius said together.
Shields were once again grounded, gladii sheathed, and rapidly they jogged back to the site of their battle with Sacrovir’s armored minions. There were many dead amongst the rebel ranks, along with a significant num
ber of wounded that were trying to crawl away from the battle. Their injuries, as well as their armor, prevented this. Still others were alive and unscathed, and were simply knocked senseless by the Roman onslaught.
Artorius and his section was tasked with checking the defeated rebels for survivors while others rounded up wounded and dead legionaries. The battle had been decisive, but no side ever survives unscathed. Solemn were the legionaries who carried their fallen brothers from the battlefield. Wounded soldiers made every effort to mask their pain as their friends tended to them. Artorius was glad that he only had to deal with enemy casualties; it hurt too much when he had to deal with one of his brothers suffering or dying.
“What do we do if we find a live one?” Valens asked.
“We disarm them and take them prisoner,” Artorius replied. “We will also check them for wounds and send them to the surgeons as needed.”
“Just be careful. Some may be lying in wait to try and kill one of us,” Magnus added.
“Any treachery and I’ll cut their balls off,” Carbo replied icily.
As they started stripping the enemy dead of their armor, they came to a morbid understanding.
“These are bloody kids,” Decimus said, horrified as he removed the helmet of a slain rebel. “These aren’t men at all!”
“They were the sons of Gallic nobles,” Artorius observed. “Sacrovir sent them to fight in order to keep their fathers in line.”
“The true sign of a brave and noble man!” Decimus spat with macabre sarcasm. “I guess the barbarians east of the Rhine are not the only ones who use children to fight their wars for them!”
“Here is a live one!” Valens called out.
It was Alasdair, who was gripped with terror as the legionary removed his helmet. He had been knocked over during the battle and struck his head on a rock, knocking him senseless. He awoke to find himself surrounded by Roman soldiers. He was panting and unaware that he had soiled himself.
“Oh gods please don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me! Please don’t kill me!” his voiced was a constant heaving sob.
Valens slapped him hard across the face. “Knock it off!” he barked. “If we were going to kill you we would have done so already.” “Easy there,” Magnus said calmly as he helped the lad to sit upright.
Valens knelt behind him and started to unbuckle his armor. Alasdair was paralyzed with fear and shock. He could not believe he was still alive. He was certain the Romans would slay any that survived the battle and was, therefore, baffled by their behavior. His mind raced out of control, unable to focus…except on one thing.
When he was struck down by a legionary’s shield he caught a glimpse of another soldier swinging his pickaxe at Farquhar. An icy chill went up his spine.
“What’s your name, son?” Magnus asked, his voice surprisingly calm.
Alasdair jolted, suddenly brought back to the present. The Roman kneeling in front of him was a big, intimidating man; and yet his manner was surprisingly soothing.
“Alasdair, son of Kavan,” the lad replied, as he caught his breath. “Oh gods, what have we done?” He shook his head, trying to release the shame and sorrow within. His thoughts then turned to his friend. “Please, I need to know, where is Farquhar?”
“Who?” Magnus asked.
“He is my friend,” Alasdair replied. “We stood next to each other during the battle. Please, he is like my brother; I must know that he is alright.”
“Is this him?” Carbo asked, removing the helm of a slain rebel.
Alasdair’s eyes filled with tears. The side of Farquhar’s head had been rendered by a pickaxe, brain matter and bits of bone were splattered on his face. His eyes were open and lifeless, a trickle of congealed blood running from his mouth down his cheek. Alasdair placed his head in his hands, his emotions overtaking him.
“No, it cannot be . . . oh Farquhar, I am so sorry I led you to this. I have become your death!” His speech became inaudible as he sobbed.
“Get him out of here,” Artorius said in a low voice as Magnus and Valens helped the lad to his feet.
The legionaries then bound his hands behind his back and guided him away from the scene of carnage and death. To their rear, Statorius was marshaling prisoners into a holding area that other soldiers were hastily building barricades around.
“Noble lads, sacrificed like sheep at the slaughter,” Decimus said in a low voice.
“Sheep at the slaughter die with more dignity,” Gavius scoffed. “At least their heads are not filled with foolish notions of glory and victory.”
Artorius scowled at the thought and was about to turn away when something caught his eye. He noticed the sword that lay in Farquhar’s outstretched fingers. It was longer than the blades carried by the other young men they had fought. He leaned down and examined the weapon. It was old; not something hastily crafted in mass numbers. Someone had put a lot of work into this weapon. The blade was well-worn from countless blows; the leather straps of the handle faded. He then saw the scabbard on the slain lad’s hip. It was leather and wood, adorned with embossed metal engravings. Small images of men hunting a stag and of wild horses abounded. Artorius unbuckled the scabbard and sheathed the sword. The weapon was a fine prize born of the Gallic nobility during a different age. Gaul had, at one time, been a land of valiant warriors, but those days were long since gone; Julius Caesar having broken their fighting spirit. Now the only warriors that Gaul produced wore the uniform of either the Roman legions or auxilia. The young boys they had massacred were no warriors. Artorius considered them victims of Sacrovir’s brain-washing. He let out a sigh of resignation as he strapped the sword to his belt.
The rebels had been routed before the Romans executed their first passage-of-lines. Sacrovir’s gladiators had made a brief surge forward, but they were outclassed by the discipline and cohesion of the legions. As he wrenched his gladius from underneath the ribcage of a slain enemy, Proculus watched as the remaining rebels turned and fled en mass.
“Cohort stand fast!” he ordered as he men ceased any attempts at a pursuit. “Gather up any prisoners, as well as our dead and wounded.” He then stopped and rested, leaning on his shield with his free hand on his knee.
“I’m getting too old for this,” he said in a low voice.
“Oh, come now, you are only too old if you allow yourself to be.”
He heard a reply in front of him. He looked up to see Calvinus standing over him. The master centurion’s face and armor were saturated with blood and gore. His own breathing was heavy, though he still stood erect and strong.
“Calvinus,” Proculus replied with a slight nod.
The master centurion gave him a friendly smack on the shoulder.
“Your lads did well,” he remarked, “particularly those who routed the van. Silius has ordered us to start laying out the rebel dead. He wants the families of the slain to be able to identify them.”
“What of the live ones?” Proculus asked.
Calvinus gave a wicked smirk at that. “We have plans for them. Suffice it to say, the dead have paid the price for their warmongering. On the other hand, the living still has a debt to settle with Rome.”
Chapter XVI: A Generation Lost
***
Kiana clutched Lennox’s hand as they walked past the rows of Gallic dead. A search of the prisoner stockades had left them with no sign of Farquhar. The Roman General Silius had posted a decree directing all citizens of Augustodunum to come and claim their dead. Many were paralyzed with fear; fear of being implicated in the rebellion, and the even greater fear of finding out the worst had happened to their loved ones. Still, many came in hope of finding the lost husband or son that might be alive and able to return home.
“Perhaps he has escaped,” the young lass said in a near whisper.
Lennox could only shake his head. He feared the worst for his son, and his heart was near breaking with the sense and dread of the unknown. They gazed in horror and sadness at the sight of thousands of sl
ain Gauls, all laid out in long rows. Roman soldiers were pacing back and forth around the outside of the mass, driving off dogs and other wild animals as grieving families carried away the bodies. The air was filled with the sounds of weeping and mourning. Kiana watched a mother overcome with grief, wailing loudly as she clutched the body of her son. The woman violently resisted any efforts by her husband to pry her away. The father soon broke down and joined his wife in heart-wrenching sorrow.
Kiana put her hand over her mouth at the sight of the corpses. In all her life she had never witnessed such carnage. She felt herself getting sick, but quickly composed herself. She could not let Lennox face the possibility of Farquhar’s death alone. She shuddered as she gazed upon each of the bodies in turn. All bore fearful wounds, begotten by the pickaxe, javelin, or gladius. Others were completely mangled from where they had been trampled by Roman chargers. Every last body was saturated in blood. Flies were already gathering around the corpses, adding to the pestilent nature of the spectacle. Kiana winced as she passed a young woman, scarcely older than she, arguing vehemently with the mother of her slain lover; the girl insisting that the body could not belong to the boy she loved. Kiana gagged as she caught sight of the corpse they argued over; the face completely crushed like a gourd smashed with a sledge.
She stopped. A startling realization came over her as she felt Lennox release her hand. At a slow and almost limping gait, with tears flowing freely, he staggered over to the body of his son. Farquhar’s eyes were still open; the Romans had done nothing more than move the bodies to a central location once they had been stripped of their weapons and armor. Lennox fell to his knees, placed his hands over his face, and quietly wept.