by E. Knight
Agricola nodded. “Carry on, Felix.”
“I understand that disagreements will arise,” Paulinus said. He was dressed in his war gear, and he looked every inch the patrician commander. Agricola, Flacca, and the primus were all drawn up to attention in his praetorium. “That is the nature of men,” he added. “Something for our philosopher here to ponder, no doubt.” He glanced at Agricola. “In your time of leisure. But that time is not now. We are at war, gentlemen. I cannot—and will not—tolerate petty rivalry between you. I’ve heard what the tribune has to say, and I’ve heard the primus’ report. I’m disappointed, gentlemen. Flacca,” he addressed the centurion, who began to sweat again. “You were out of line. I ordered termination, yes. You took it upon yourself to . . . extend . . . that order to rape and crucifixion. This, I did not order.”
“Orders were to strike terror, sir,” Flacca blinked sweat out of his eyes and spoke through gritted teeth. “I thought that was the best way.”
“Crucifixion, perhaps. Rapine behavior, no. It’s bad for discipline, Flacca. This is an army, not a mob, and I won’t tolerate it at this time and certainly not without my express permission—even if these creatures we’re fighting are subhuman.”
“Sir, the men . . .” Flacca began but stopped short. Paulinus didn’t even have to speak—he just fixed the man with his serpent stare and waited for him to wilt. Which, Agricola noted, he did rather quickly. “Yes, sir.”
“Are you all right, Flacca?” Paulinus asked. “You’re sweating.”
“Fit for duty, sir,” Flacca said. “The local food is giving me the . . . a . . . bad stomach.”
“I see.” Paulinus turned his attention to the primus. “As for you, I expect better. Your ‘report’ wasn’t worth the wax it was scratched on. Having the backs of the men you command is one thing. Character assassination is quite something else. I don’t care what you think of this tribune personally. He is a tribune, and he is now under my command. If he gives an order, the men will obey it. Even if,” his gaze finally fell on Agricola, “he was unaware he was countermanding me.” Paulinus let the lie hang—everyone in the room knew it for a lie, and Paulinus was daring the primus and centurion both to bring it up. They didn’t, and Paulinus allowed him a slight smile that indicated that whilst they might have the real truth of it, his version of the truth was all that counted. “That misunderstanding has now been rectified, and I’m satisfied that Tribune Gnaeus Julius Agricola is fully appraised of my orders and my wider strategy. Are we in accord, gentlemen?”
They all responded with a militarily neutral, “Yes, sir.”
“Good,” Paulinus nodded. “Then the matter is settled. To cement our new pact of inter-legionary cooperation, your Second Century, Flacca, and the men of the Second Augusta’s Tenth will carry out a patrol today. You will work in cooperation; you will follow Agricola’s orders—which, Tribune, will reflect my own. I will be seriously displeased if it comes to my attention that there are any . . . issues . . . on this patrol.”
“Sir,” Agricola spoke up. “The Tenth is under-strength after the recent action.”
“I’ve got men coming back into duty from injury,” the primus said. “I can spare a few from our Tenth as well. We’ll get your lot back up to a full eighty, Tribune.”
Paulinus let them stand for some time in silence before speaking again. “You may go,” he said and turned back to his desk as if they no longer existed.
They exited in silence, but as soon as they were outside, Agricola determined that the governor had the rights of it. “A moment, Flacca,” he said. The primus hung around, too, and Agricola met his eye. “Primus. I would like a word with the centurion if you please. Unless you are coming on the patrol, there’s nothing for you to hear.”
The veteran nodded and saluted; clearly, he was getting into the swing of it, too. “Very good, sir,” he said. “I’ll round up the spares for you.” He made off, leaving the two men alone.
“At ease, Flacca,” Agricola said. “Look. You don’t like me. I don’t like you. But—you heard the governor. We have to work together. I’ll hold up my end, you hold up yours, all right? We can’t afford to be back-sniping each other out there. I’m counting on you and your men. My boys don’t have the same experience as yours. If the shit flies—which I hope it won’t—they’ll be looking to you and yours.”
Flacca nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Very good, sir,” he said.
“That said,” Agricola added, “Paulinus is right. You look like hammered shit. You sure it’s just a case of bad guts? You want to see the medicus? Send your optio out with us? I mean you no disrespect—genuinely, Centurion. Sick is sick.”
“I’m fine, sir.” Flacca was admirably stoic.
“Very well.” Agricola wasn’t about to wet-nurse the man—he wouldn’t be thanked for it. “Go and get Magnusanus and his turma ready to ride,” he ordered. “I’ll see you at the gates.”
It was hot—springtime in Britannia was all too short, and they were already getting a hint of the summer to come. Agricola rode at the front of the column, frequently glancing over his shoulder at the men slogging through the rolling grasslands. Discipline was good—the Tenth and Flacca’s Second chatted as they walked—something he was prepared to allow in the spirit of Paulinus’ orders. Magnusanus and his cavalry were thrown out in a screen on both flanks. He looked to the east to see the Batavian canter up a hillock, surveying the ground beneath. He dragged his horse’s reins about swiftly, signaling his men to do likewise, and kicked the beast’s flanks, pounding toward the column.
“What is it?” Agricola raised his arm to halt the men, who fell silent as the Batavians pulled up by him.
“There’s a war band down there,” Magnusanus reported. “About one hundred and fifty armed men, I reckon. Didn’t stop to count in case they saw us,” he added. “But they’re heading toward the sea.”
“Then we’ll have to stop them,” Agricola said, his mind made up. “Dog their progress, Magnusanus. I’ll have the centuries go at the double and give them a greeting. Keep me apprised of the Cambrians’ movements. Once we’re in position, ride around the back and attack on the oblique.”
“On the oblique?” Magnusanus raised his eyebrows.
“Yes. Flacca,” Agricola looked to the centurion, “I’m going to attack head-on with the Tenth. We’re eighty men; they’re almost twice that—they’ll think we’re easy pickings. I want your boys up the rise and hidden. Once we’re engaged, get yourselves down the hill and hit them in the flank. That,” he looked to Magnusanus, “will force them east—as you come in on the oblique.”
Magnusanus looked impressed. “Good plan,” he said and rode off to gather his men.
“Flacca . . .”
“We won’t let you down, Tribune,” the scar-faced veteran said.
“Then let’s move. At the double. And keep the noise down.”
“Form a fucking straight line, you cunts!” Naso screamed at the Tenth. “A straight line!”
Agricola swallowed as the war band drew to a halt some hundred yards away from them. A figure dressed in black robes was capering about in front of their massed ranks, screaming and raising his hands skyward, doubtless imploring the gods to bring death to the Romans.
He’d ordered his men to form up in two ranks of forty—presenting a thin and inviting target for the Cambrians to attack. For a moment, he doubted the wisdom of his plan—there seemed to be a lot more than Magnusanus’ hurried estimate. He’d guess the number at nearer two hundred than a hundred and fifty. But the die was cast, and he’d have to go through with it now. For his part, he rode at the rear as a tribune should, ready to give orders and not get involved with the fight—unless he had to. Naso glanced back at him, ready for instruction now that the men were in line, and he felt a flush of shame. He couldn’t let them go into battle and just hang back, shouting encouragement. He threw his leg over the head of his horse and slipped to the ground, drawi
ng his sword.
“You don’t have a shield, sir,” Naso said. “Best you give the orders; we’ll do the fighting.”
“Don’t worry, Naso,” he said, his voice loud so it carried. “I won’t get in the way. Boys! Let’s close with them and give ’em two flights of pila on Naso’s command. Put iron to the bastards, and let’s see if we can finish them off before Flacca and his arse-bandits from the Twentieth can get down the hill!”
“Tenth will advance at the double!” Naso’s high-pitched and nasal parade voice rent the air. “Advance!”
They took off at a trot, deaf to everything but the crunch of booted feet on the ground and the rhythmic clanking and jingling of kits as they closed the ground between them and the enemy. Agricola did not put himself in the front rank; as Naso had pointed out, he had no shield, and he’d be a hindrance there. With the centurion holding the right of the forward line, he found himself at the lowest of the low—rear rank on the left, running next to Felix. The boy looked resolute and only a little afraid—this was not, of course, his first battle. Nor was it his own, Agricola realized, but the truth of it was, his first engagement had hardly been covered in glory.
The Cambrians were evidently surprised at the aggressive stance taken by the Roman commander. The usual legion rule was to receive the famous frontal all-or-nothing charge the tribesmen were so fond of and then see who gave way first. However, under the leadership of their black-robed commander, the Cambrians swiftly recovered and, with a roar, began running toward their enemy, shrieking and howling as they came.
“First pila!” Naso shouted. “Loose!”
Without breaking stride, the men hurled their javelins, the black shafts arcing skyward and falling into the ranks of the Cambrians, sending many sprawling to the ground, slowing the advance as men tripped over the dead and dying. “Second pila! Loose!” Naso cried scant moments after the first—they were closing still, and fast.
The second flight of javelins caused far more damage than the first, the shafts killing some and embedding themselves in the shields of those that carried them. The iron shanks of the weapons bent as they sank into the shields, rendering them too cumbersome to be used. Cursing barbarians cast the things aside—causing yet more chaos in the ranks.
“Swords!” An edge of panic sounded in Naso’s voice as they closed in. No man—not even a veteran—was unafraid before contact. “Shields up—get ’em, lads!”
Whatever he said next was lost to Agricola as the Cambrians smashed into the Roman line, and the cacophony of battle swept around them like a deluge. Men screamed in pain and fury, weapons clashed and thudded into shields as both sides’ advance juddered to a halt and disintegrated into a frantic scrum. In the second rank, soldiers waited—hoping that they would not have to step forward because it would mean, firstly, that a man they knew had gone down and, second, because it would now be them in harm’s way.
Agricola shouted encouragement to the men in front of him. Over their helmeted heads, he could see the seething mass of Cambrians, wild-haired and wild-eyed, their swords raised as they hacked and cut at the thin Roman line. Dirty fingers gripped the edges of shields, trying to rip them from the men’s grasps. He saw one man succeed and receive a gladius in his throat for his pains—the dark iron went in deep, sending blood jetting all over the soldier. Shieldless, the man rolled to the left, and Felix stepped into the breach. He did as all the soldiers were trained to do—punch with the shield, head low, thrust with the sword, repeat. It was brutal, close, and effective, the Roman gladius designed precisely for this type of fight.
Agricola had to step back as the Tenth’s line was forced to give way by the press of battle and, panicked, he looked to the hills to see Flacca and his men rushing down—admirably silent as they came. “Hold them, lads!” he screamed, his voice shrill with nerves. “Hold them!”
The Cambrians roared, encouraged by the slack in front of them, and the brawl intensified. Agricola saw a war axe descend and split a soldier’s head in two, helmet and all. As the blade was dragged up, another legionary rammed his gladius into the axman’s guts, sending him to the ground, but in doing so, he exposed himself and left his right side open to an attack. A spear lanced into his side, buckling his segmentata. Agricola leapt to the fore and swung hard with his spatha—a longer weapon than an infantryman’s—taking the spearman in soft flesh between his neck and shoulder.
Huge gouts of blood erupted from the gaping wound, showering friend and foe alike, and the tribesman went down shrieking in pain, his blood soaking the already sodden grass at their feet.
Then Flacca's men crashed into the flank of the attacking Cambrians, hard enough to send the entire line lurching to the left. Agricola's Tenth leapt forward as a single iron-clad beast, swords and shields working in unison, punishing their enemy, who was now in confusion—a confusion that turned to fear and panic as they were being scythed down without mercy.
A few moments later, they were on the run, fleeing the carnage, leaving the ground littered with their dead and dying.
“Get them!” he heard Flacca shout. “Kill them! Kill them all!”
The Second Century rushed after the fleeing Cambrians, but Agricola held his tongue. His own men had done the brunt of the fighting and were spent for now, gasping for breath and cursing as they discovered wounds that they had not felt in the rush of battle.
The Cambrians were outdistancing the Second—a man in segmentata holding a shield could not catch a lightly armored enemy. But a horseman could.
The Batavians swirled into view—on the oblique as he had ordered. The angle of attack confused the Cambrians, who had men at their backs and now coming down on their shield sides. “Tenth Century!” Agricola shouted. “On me, at the double!” Rest time was over as he rushed to cut off their sword sides just as Magnusanus’ horses smashed into the wavering Cambrians, swords cutting a bloody swath through the desperate men, the charge rending the mob in two. The Cambrians whirled in panic as the Second closed in, the legionaries running as hard as they could, blood up now and eager to get stuck into an enemy that was already beaten.
The Batavians wheeled about for another charge, Magnusanus as the tip of their wedge, shouting in his own language as the turma thundered back through the shattered warriors, leaving dead bodies in their wake. Utterly demoralized, they threw down their weapons, some falling to their knees as the Second drew to a halt. Agricola led his own men forward, knowing what had to be done.
“We surrender!” the black-robed man shouted at Flacca in Latin, seeing the red cross-crest on his helmet and recognizing him as a senior man.
Flacca looked over to Agricola as he trotted up with the gasping men of the Tenth. “Do your duty, Centurion,” Agricola ordered.
Flacca nodded and raised his sword, but the black-clad man raised his arm, stopping the veteran in his tracks. “If you strike me, you will die!” the man screamed. “I am the representative of the gods. I am sacrosanct—you will die!”
“Everybody dies,” Flacca informed him and rammed his gladius into the man’s abdomen. The man—a Druid, Agricola guessed—wailed in agony as the cold metal pierced his vitals. But he had courage, and he spat a gob of blood into Flacca’s face as he fell away.
“The gods will have their vengeance,” he gasped. “They will . . .”
Flacca bent over and stabbed him in the neck, silencing him. “Finish them,” he ordered. The men of the Second and Tenth needed no urging. They rushed in, swarming over the defenseless Cambrians and butchering them to a man. It was, Agricola thought, sickening, watching desperate men beg for their lives, hands clawing and pleading, begging for mercy where none was to be found.
It didn’t take long. Agricola felt unclean afterward, the sight of the dying littered across the field, the flies already feasting on still-warm corpses. But this was not his first fight, and he did not vomit this time like a green boy.
“Look, sir!” Agricola dragged his eyes away from the bod
y of a fallen man to see Felix holding a bloody gladius in his fist. “One of them had this. And there,” he pointed with the dripping weapon. “That one has lorica on.”
“Must be some of the ones that hit your marching camp,” Flacca said, still gasping from his pursuit. “Must be . . .” He stumbled forward, and Agricola caught his arm, holding the man up. Flacca scrabbled at his armor. “My chest . . .” He coughed. “Can’t breathe . . .”
Agricola was unable to hold his weight, and the centurion crashed to the ground, trying to clutch at his chest. “Get his armor off!” he shouted. “Do it now!”
But it was too late. Flacca had ceased to move, and his dead eyes stared at the sky.
“The Druid cursed him!” one of the Second shouted. “I heard it!”
“Shut your mouth,” Agricola cut the man off. “He had a weak heart is all.”
“Aye, and now it’s been burst by magic!”
The men turned in an instant from rampant victory to fearful superstition, all and sundry making signs to ward off evil. Agricola cursed under his breath. “Shut up. All of you. Get the dead together and sort your wounded. Naso, have a tent party search these corpses, see if there’s anything in the way of intelligence. Who’s the optio of the Second?”
“I am, sir.” A short man stepped forward. He had an indestructible look about him, and Agricola saw he had calves like a Herculean statue.
“Get your men sorted. And put any man on a charge who mentions the word ‘Druid’ or ‘curse.’ Am I clear?”
“Aye, sir.” The optio didn’t look convinced, his blue eyes flicking to the corpse of his centurion.
“Get them sorted,” Agricola said again. He made his way over to Naso, who was detailing Felix and his mates to search the corpses.
“You think the Druid cursed him, sir?” he heard Felix ask the centurion.
Naso had no answer to that—or at least he didn’t seem to want to give one. “Get on with your work, lad.” He drew up as Agricola approached. “Yes, sir.”