by John Salter
Time had slowed as he saw the impact on the dark terrified remaining wide eye, as the tip of his weapon pierced the other organ as the being it belonged to tried to close it’s eyes in a final and futile attempt to save its sight and possibly its life. It was forced back into the head and suddenly popped again, exploding blood in a sudden gush. The knife instantly sank deeper and the man fell to the floor, silent and dead that instant.
He struggled to keep a grip of the handle of his dagger with two hands that were now slippery with sticky warm blood and he moved back, the momentum helping to free the weapon as he gagged almost emptying the contents of his stomach. As quickly as time had seemed to slow, it returned to its frantic manic pace as men fought to slash, stab and hack at each other all around him.
Veranius tried to wipe the blood from his left hand whilst stabbing out at more hordes of barbarians with the dagger in his right. He knew he had to get clear of this chaos if he were to survive. There was no sense in dying for no reason in this land of primitives in a battle that would probably be forgotten tomorrow. Other soldiers were now retreating to other lines to the rear, some fell, stumbling as they tried to get to the neat rows of soldiers that were formed up some distance away, waiting to join the battle.
Through shaking vision, he saw the straight columns and lines slowly walking towards his position as he began to get clear of the combat. An eagle standard glistened with the sun reflecting off its surface as the mist began to clear and trumpets sounded the signal for the advancing troops to quicken their pace. Swords began to strike shields as they got closer and the sound grew.
He heard a trumpet echo as the troops closed in on the battle and changed their stance slightly as they walked. The front rank he saw, were preparing to throw their first pilums. These spears were much heavier weapons than those used by the Cavalry and wooden pegs secured the spear head so they would break off on impact, stopping the spear from being thrown back. The metal head would break free of the body and pierce even shields as well as flesh and bone. The killing head of the weapon could be up to twelve inches long and so would kill or cripple anything it came into contact with. Veranius had seen the damage these spears could do to the body and ducked lower as he ran thinking of the irony of being killed by his own side.
The first of the retreating soldiers met the advancing column and were allowed to melt into their straight lines as small gaps were made for their injured, retreating and stunned comrades. A quick glance to the rear showed that his reason to run was justified. Those that had survived the initial onslaught but had tried to stand their ground were now being cut down and the fortunate amongst them, hacked to death. Some were dragged screaming from the battlefield to a more uncertain and no doubt worse fate. Some screamed, the men even hardened campaigners, would take the sound to their graves in the years and decades to come. He looked to his fellow soldiers just as the front row of the advancing lines released their javelins with a great sigh of effort. They rose high, silently climbing into the misty Germanic skies above.
Large ballista bolts were launched from somewhere behind the column, the speed of them was almost supernatural as they flew only a matter of feet above his head, hissing through the air. In one instant he heard the bolts being fired and then within the blink of an eye they were over his head and within a second they were embedded into lines of the enemy, four or five men deep, impaled on the enormous spiked heads of the bolts. He ducked instinctively and stumbled falling to the ground and tumbled forward into the mud with his momentum. He briefly caught sight of a few ballista units mounted on the rear of horse drawn wagons behind the marching death machine of soldiers as their crews worked furiously to load more of their deadly accurate life taking machines.
Veranius almost immediately felt slightly stupid and foolish for ducking and falling deliberately because he knew the weapons were deadly accurate, up to three hundred yards away and these were half that distance. He didn’t dare to look behind him again because every second counted now, knowing what was to come however, he almost pitied the enemy. They were going to realise that victory didn’t mean brute strength and ignorance and they were about to be annihilated to a man.
Panting he reached the column as they parted to let him through their lines, he smiled briefly and was happy to see the fresh uniforms of troops not yet covered in gore and blood from battle. One of the men shouted an acknowledgement as they went to their knees as the second row launched their own pila. He struggled through to the rear line and collapsed on the muddy surface beyond, turning almost straight away to watch the carnage that was about to unfold.
A loud shrill trumpet blast sounded from a cornicularis trumpeter, who blew for all he was worth from somewhere in the distance ordering the centuries into a testudo tortoise formation. He saw the men behind the front row bring their shields up instinctively covering their heads and those in front of them, this after days, weeks and months of drilling with their left arms holding their shields up sometimes for hours at a time. The testudo was primarily used as a defensive formation but in situations like this, a legion would use it to get into fighting range comparatively safely. Those at the front turned their bodies slightly to the left with their large rectangular shields still facing the enemy, eyes peering through the gap between the scutums and helmets. The enemy were now advancing rapidly, running towards them screaming like maniacs. In the same motion the soldiers grasped the hilts of their short swords on their right sides. A loud rasp that sent a shiver even through him, indicated they had removed their gladius swords, the blade of which would protrude from their collective shields, to stab at the advancing, screaming hordes.
An almighty clash of men, metal, swords, axes, shields and screams ripped through the air like thunder, consuming all other noise as the opposing forces came together. The Romans dug their sandaled hobnailed boots into the earth barely pausing as they began to cut the enemy down as if they were one giant animal, its teeth wounding and killing. It was now that the angled stance of the soldiers paid off as their right boots bit into the earth behind them and they leaned forward against their shields pushing forwards with their left legs slightly angled to gain purchase against the weight of the enemy whilst all the time stabbing at them beyond the wall of shields. After a short time they rotated, the front row coming to the rear, some bloodied and injured, as the second row met the barbarians as they became the front line and so it continued, second after second, minute after minute with fresh men moving to the front rank until what was left of the enemy, who realising it was hopeless, fled the battlefield and began to retreat.
Cavalry arched galloping around the legionnaires on the flanks and pursued the running men, cutting them down with their swords. Those lying injured in the mud were killed where they lay by the infantry as they broke the testudo and despatched those who had attacked their countrymen, for them there was and could be no mercy. Horse’s charged, knocking men over, whilst their riders slashed at them with their long swords. It turned into a massacre.
Months later, now in the present and in the large tranquil clearing he looked at the dagger again. It had saved his life on that occasion, the image of its blade deep inside the barbarian’s skull vivid and visceral. He examined it admiring its lines turning it over and examining it’s shape of ruthless efficiency. It was truly a weapon capable of causing great injury and one he was glad to have. Thinking about that day, it was a vile and disgusting experience but he reminded himself, one that would have been reversed, had he been the one killed and not the other way round, as it was it was the barbarian whose remains had surely rotted where he had died.
The memories of previous battles didn’t disturb his sleep anymore as they had in his first few months of service but once in a while something would remind him of the shear barbarity of his chosen profession and the brutality that went with it. He was brought out of his contemplative state by the sound of his approaching comrades riding clear of the tall trees.
“Veranius, stop playing
with that dagger,” Shouted a grinning Varro as he brought Staro to a halt, “anyone would think it was your manhood the way you were gazing and fondling it.” He smirked.
A chorus of laughter started from the others as they came to a halt and Lucius said, “Don’t worry you’d never see that boy sized peanut from there anyway, so it couldn’t have been his cock.”
More laughter rippled through the group, as Veranius just grinned in response. Trying to change the subject he said, “Nice country this my friends and its nowhere near as barren and hostile as we were led to believe” he began, “I think I’ll build a villa here, right here in this very wood when I retire and find a girl to keep me warm at night. It’s much more pleasant than Germania don’t you think?”
Varro jumped from his horse feigning a smile. He walked Staro to the small stream making sure he had a drink.
“I think that you had better wait and see how the locals greet us before you think of setting up home with one of them don’t you think?” The other men dismounted and watered their animals, Lucius walked into the stream, knee deep.
“This would be an ideal spot to camp for the night but for one small detail, the enemy could surround us and we wouldn’t even know they were coming, we’d be trapped with no escape.”
“We’ll take a few moments and then move on.” Varro replied. “Lucius and Marcus, you two will go forward this time. We need to try and get free of these trees or at least find high ground somewhere within it if we can’t. Have a drink and fill your water sacks before we go. We don’t know when we’ll find another stream like this.”
Lucius had been in the army for six years, two of those had been spent with Varro. He had more than his fair share of scars, more even than the others but no-one ever seemed to know why. He came from Ravenna one of the largest military ports on the north east coast of their homeland. Unlike most of the others under the command of Centurion Varro, Lucius was tall and skinny despite days, weeks and months of physical training. His large Roman nose meant that he sometimes had the nickname Caesar, usually when others in the group had drank too much wine and became braver as the alcohol loosened their tongues. He was a good man to have around and a demon in a fight.
He actually hated the seafaring men of the empire more than his commander after his woman Rica, had run away with one of them. Rumours circulated throughout the legion that he had sought them out in a nearby port and killed them both the night before joining the army the next day. He wouldn’t talk about his life prior to joining the legion except to say where he was from accompanied normally by a loud snorting, followed by him spitting huge mouthfuls of phlegm onto the floor no matter where they were. The rest of them had learned not to ask too much about his past. He was however, a joker who never missed the chance to verbally rip the bowels out of his friends and fellow soldiers and he liked to drink his share of wine.
Marcus and Lucius were close friends and were constantly bickering with each other. A daily joke was that they should make things formal and become man and wife but then the two argued about who was going to be who, bride or groom. They drank the clear cold crystal water heartily and checked their mounts before moving off.
“So what’s the plan sir?” Decimus asked watching the others in their group who were all checking their equipment a few feet away. Legionary Quintus was ensuring that everything was in order. Although he was a legionary, he was one rank above the others as he commanded the other half of the men when Varro and his group were parted whilst one was scouting ahead and the other returned to the main body of the legion to report on their progress.
Quintus had been in the army for ten years and was a veteran of many campaigns, he had been offered further promotion many times but had turned it down preferring to ‘keep his boots in the mud’ as he could often be heard saying. He was an Optio, one rank below Centurion and had quickly risen to the rank but he knew with further promotions, came the possibility of a command post and he didn’t suit managing others or writing commands on scrolls or wax tablets all day long.
Varro replied, “We are going to stay as close to the coast as we can for the time being and keep heading west until the land naturally takes us north, a few days ride from here. The map we got hold of shows that the coast is cut away with paths going north and then branching off in different directions. The General has orders for the Second to try and identify any settlements that are willing to help and engage those that aren’t. Whatever the outcome of the next few days, we’re to liaise with the other legions before he decides who is going in which direction but from what I could gather from the briefing, we’ll continue along the southern coast.”
He took out a rough map drawn on animal hide sometime before by an exiled prince. It showed the southern coastal part of the island, if this place could be called an island because of its size. There were two smaller land masses, one off the south coast and one to the west just off the land fall, beyond that was another island it was marked as ‘Mona.’ There was a red mark against the name.
“What’s the significance of this Mona?” Decimus asked pointing as he and Veranius flattened the parchment and studied the map.
“It’s thought to be crawling with druids, the spiritual leaders of these Britons. This is where Adminius tells us they have their main settlement where they train others in their spiritual beliefs. They are believed to have been the main reason some of the tribes stopped forming an alliance with Rome. It’s said they worship ancient forces and commit cruel ritualistic acts and anyone that goes against them is automatically under the threat of death and eternal misery from their druidic gods. Personally I think it’s a load of old bollocks just like some of our own priests. If we end up going there and there’s a distinct possibility it will be us,” he pointed to Mona, “the other legions will move inland to the central core of the country, one of them anyway and the other up the east coast. Fortifications will be established and those that want to join the empire will receive our help and assistance. Those Britons that do not, will be crushed and destroyed or that’s the plan anyway. One other legion will stay in the south and establish forts and harbours for supplies and reinforcements.” Varro paused, thinking.
“Why the hesitation?” Veranius asked, “We will destroy all those who oppose us surely?”
Varro said, “You know it’s never as easy as that and there’ll be a lot of fighting and dying to do first. Many of those soldiers unloading equipment on the beach right now will never see their families or homes again, it’s a fact. It’s not something I come to terms with as easily as some my friend.”
“Come on Varro, don’t be so dour, there’ll be spoils a plenty here, come on lets get moving.” Veranius was right he thought. There was no point in thinking about what might happen but only what they could make happen.
“Your right, okay come on.” Standing he ordered, “Mount up, lets get a move on, we won’t expand the empire sitting here with you fiddling with yourself.” He looked at Veranius smiling, they trotted into the trees following legionaries Lucius and Marcus laughing again as Veranius muttered something about his blade and where he’d like to put it.
In time, just as the light was beginning to fade, the two leading riders emerged from the trees into a clear area but beyond it was another vast woodland or forest, which it was, they couldn’t be certain of from their position.
“Trees! Who would have guessed it?” Lucius remarked, “More like a fucking forest this time though just look at that.” He brushed twigs and leaves from his shoulders and legs.
“It must have been like that when you bedded that hairy fucking bitch in Gaul Marcus. Only it probably took you longer to run your sword through her, I would have thought you’d have enjoyed the ride.” Decimus said, chuckling quietly.
“Gaul’ish women maybe hairy but they keep you warm on a winter’s night.” He retorted. “You should have tried them instead of swilling wine every night and looking for small boys.”
“Ha-ha. You’re funny aren�
�t you? Wine may kill you eventually but it can’t cut your throat like those harlots.” Decimus replied.
The legion had eventually banned the men from ‘associating’ with the local women after a few didn’t report for duty the next day. Their bodies, with throats cut were found floating in the local river for days afterwards. The legions Legate, Vespasian had instructed that any soldier caught breaking the rule would be flogged and for each Roman soldier killed, five local women would die. Their severed heads would be impaled on spikes as a warning to others outside the fort. It didn’t stop the drunken troops however, and no legion could confine its men to barracks forever but it did stop the murders of his men.
Discipline was hard but couldn’t be brought down like an iron fist and passes had still been given to the men to visit taverns after a hard days training, building, marching or riding. Ordinarily there was no time for such activities when the legion was on the march in the middle of a campaigning season. By the time they stopped, they had to construct defences every single night as they didn’t know who to trust in any given area, so socialising with the locals would always come another day. Waiting for the fleet and for the legions in Gaul to gather had been different and it was unavoidable that the men would mix with the women of the local neighbourhood.
“We’ll meet up by that small hill.” Marcus pointed to a distant rise beyond the forest. He estimated it had to be at least two hundred feet above ground level. “It should make a good place to camp and we’ll be able to see anything that moves from up there.”
When Varro and the others arrived the daylight was already fading fast. A small fire was burning in a hole in the ground and Lucius was skinning a hare he had snared, three others lay dead nearby. Varro surveyed the area around the hill, he could see for miles. Each man usually carried three days rations but if they could hunt and find fresh food, it was better for them, the salted dried meat from their rations would have to wait.