Roman - The Fall of Britannia

by K. M. Ashman

  ‘I suppose we will find out soon enough,’ said Cassus as they returned to the bunkroom. ‘Come on, let’s have a look around the fort.’

  ‘I’m going to find the mule,’ said Montellus. ‘By the look of that lot in there, we need to make sure we have a healthy animal.’

  ----

  The following morning, a line of a hundred men stood outside the walls of the fort waiting patiently in the pre-dawn darkness for the day’s activities to begin. Each was dressed in a black tunic and wore a simple sword belt complete with a wooden Gladius. These were the training Tessaria, handpicked veterans who had either recently retired from active service, or had suffered some minor injury during service. Some only had one eye, others perhaps a hand or lower arm missing, while old battle wounds disfigured some of the others. They waited patiently to greet their new charges, civilians that they had been tasked to turn into efficient killing machines over the next few months.

  A murmur of sound echoed from within the fort and a double file of nervous recruits marched out onto the training ground. As they emerged, they lined up in groups of eight behind the Tessaria. Each recruit was dressed in a white tunic gathered at the waist with a corded belt. By the time, the sun had cleared the horizon; eight hundred men stood shivering on the plain, waiting nervously to be told what to do next.

  The buzz of nervous chatter slowly died as a column of trained legionaries marched out of the fort, perfectly in step, finally halting and turning inward to face the recruits across the cobbled road. The two groups faced each other, one alive with anticipation and excitement, the other littered with indifference and contempt.

  Eventually, an officer rode a black charger out of the gate. His armour was gleaming bronze and on his head, he wore a glistening helmet with hinged metal plates hanging from the brim. A scarlet cape hung from his shoulders completing the ceremonial uniform.

  He stopped his horse and looked around those who had volunteered for servitude in the legions of the Emperor. Landowners, freedmen and tradesmen stood before him, each with their own reasons to be there. The dross had been filtered out during the recruitment process and for their impudence; runaway slaves who had sought to seek a different fate had been sent to the salt mines. Bankrupts and murderers, seeking refuge from Rome’s justice, had been handed over to the magistrates, and the papers of every applicant had been carefully scrutinized for authenticity. Rome didn’t allow just anyone into her ranks. Desperate or not, she had her standards to maintain.

  The silence was absolute and everyone stared at the impressive officer. At last he spoke, his voice carrying strongly to everyone on the parade ground.

  ‘Citizens of Rome,’ he shouted, ‘I am your commanding officer, Legate Nasica,’ he paused briefly before adding, ‘and I salute you.’

  A murmur flitted around the recruits before he continued.

  ‘As you have taken the sacramentum to serve Rome, your lives now belong to us. From this day forward your existence will become a blur of training and hardship. There will be pain and misery, but I make no apology, for these are the predecessors of the professional soldier. All your instructors are battle veterans and have been handpicked. Over the next few months, they will train you to the standard I expect and that standard is greater than any other legion.’

  ‘You will be expected to march further than you thought possible, your blistered feet pouring with blood, but it is then you will double the distance.’

  He spurred his horse to parade slowly along the ranks of the gathered trainees.

  ‘When the muscle in your arms ache to such an extent that you can no longer wield a sword, it is then that you will strike twice as hard. When your back breaks from the burden you carry, and your fellow falls at the wayside, you will take his pack and carry him forward. At the end of the day, when your body is incapable of doing any more and you are physically sick through pain and exhaustion, it is then that you will unpack your digging tools and build the defences. This is what we do. We train hard, for when the training is hard, the fighting is easy.’

  ‘Heed your instructors,’ he continued, ‘for during this pain, they will be alongside you. Their feet will also blister and their bodies will ache for their blood is as Roman as yours. Do this and I promise that you will emerge a military machine the likes of which this world has never seen before.’

  ‘Before this year is out, Rome will embark on a new campaign in a country as yet unconquered. We do this in the name of civilization, and return a rightful King to his throne.’

  ‘Britannia lays off the coast of Gaul a hundred miles to the west,’ continued Nasica. ‘We will return this exiled King to his country and spread civilization to his deprived people. The merchants, who already trade there, say that they are truly a barbaric race, worshiping the Gods of the underworld and sacrificing their children in unspeakable ceremonies. We will bring peace and prosperity to this oppressed and misguided people, ending their despicable acts and bring law and order into their miserable lives. Make no mistake, they will resist, for it is said they are a warlike race, but they will be no match for our legions. Some of you will pay the ultimate price, but I promise you this. Your lives will be filled with honour and a comradeship that will stay with you till the day you die.

  ‘So look around you, for you are all brothers and your lives lie with the man next to you. I leave you in the hands of your instructors and the next time we meet, I will lead you to the shores of Britannia.’

  Without another word, he rode his horse back into the fort, closely followed by the armed guard. The recruits started to relax, looking to their Tessaria for direction. They split into their ten training centuries and spread out around the arena to pre-determined areas. At the orders of one of the Tessaria, Cassus’s group rearranged into a large circle for their first lesson as Tirones, trainee soldiers of Rome. Cassus and Prydain talked excitedly amongst themselves. This was it. This was what they had waited for all their lives and the great adventure was about to begin. Gradually the chatter died away and silence fell.

  ‘Get out of my way!’ said a quiet voice and some of the recruits shuffled sideways to allow a previously unseen soldier to enter the circle.

  The legionary walked slowly around the front rank of the circle, his hand ever present on the hilt of his Gladius as he went, staring each man in the eye as he passed. Dressed in a scarlet tunic and lightly armoured, he commanded respect. Everyone present realized this was an experienced veteran, whom no one should mess with. His tunic was held at the waist with a polished sword belt. His Gladius hung on his right and his Pugio, the narrow leaf-shaped dagger favoured by most legionaries on the left. Though he wore no armour on his torso, his arms were each protected with Manica, the chain mail sleeves designed to protect the forearms from enemy sword thrusts in the heat of battle. Similarly, his legs were covered by sheet metal Greaves, designed for the same purpose.

  He made his way to the centre of the circle and stood as if waiting for something to happen. The recruits were deathly silent, totally transfixed by this veteran of countless campaigns and the epitome of everything they hoped to be. Eventually he removed his helmet and cast it aside into the sand and tilting his head back, drew in a lungful of the cold morning air. His bald head shone in the morning sunlight, and his muscular neck sat on abnormally straight shoulders. His face was weathered with one side hanging slightly lower than the other, a by-product of an African cudgel in a long forgotten campaign, and a leather patch covered an empty eye socket. He stared at the circle of men.

  ‘Which of you can handle a sword?’ he asked.

  When nobody answered, he walked up to the nearest recruit.

  ‘How about you?’

  ‘I am a carpenter, Sir,’ said the man, ‘I have never handled a sword.’

  He looked around the circle again.

  ‘You?’ he asked, jabbing his finger into the chest of a giant of a man to the side of Prydain. ‘You are the ugliest brute I have ever had the displeasure of laying eyes o
n. You must have killed a few men in your time.’

  ‘I have also never used a sword,’ the man stammered nervously, ‘I am a farm labourer, Sir.’

  The instructor spat on the floor.

  ‘What is this they give me?’ he shouted to the sky, ‘I ask for men and they give me babes. What chance do I have?’

  He dropped his gaze to look at Prydain.

  ‘How about you boy?’ he asked.

  Before Prydain could answer, Cassus piped up.

  ‘He is the son of a Gladiator, Sir,’ he said, ‘and can handle a sword as good as any man.’

  The instructor stepped forward until he was close to the much younger man, focussing on Prydain’s eyes with interest.

  ‘One blue and one brown,’ he said, ‘interesting. Few men are blessed with the devil’s stare and it is said that those who are, will be destined for greatness or infamy. Which will you be boy?’ he asked. ‘Hero or coward.’

  ‘Only the Gods know,’ answered Prydain.

  ‘Perhaps,’ said the soldier. ‘Let’s see if we can get a glimpse of the man you will become, shall we?’

  ‘Which blade?’ he asked suddenly, turning away from Prydain and striding back toward the centre of the circle of men.

  ‘Gladius, Sir,’ answered Prydain.’

  ‘Gladius,’ repeated the instructor with a nod of appreciation as he started to undo the straps on the Manica on one arm. ‘And where did you learn this?’

  ‘My father fought in the arenas,’ answered Prydain, ‘and when I was a boy he taught me to fight.’

  ‘Trained by a Gladiator,’ the instructor announced to the circle of men with mock pride. ‘Impressive!’

  ‘What is your name, boy?’ he asked turning again to face Prydain.

  ‘Prydain Maecilius, Sir,’ he said, ‘Freedman of the house of Gaius Pelonius Maecilius.’

  ‘Freedman!’ he said with undisguised contempt. ‘So you were a slave and some idiot not only gave you your freedom, but made you a citizen as well?’

  ‘I have the correct paperwork, Sir,’ said Prydain, ‘everything is in order!’

  ‘Well, Prydain Maecilius,’ said the instructor, ‘it just so happens that I too can use a Gladius and would you believe it, I happen to have one right here.’

  He drew the weapon from its scabbard and walked over to face Prydain once again. He pressed the blade of the sword against Prydain’s throat.

  ‘Lesson one, slave-boy,’ he said, ‘never, ever, call me sir again. Those officers and politicians, who you address as Sir, are not fit to eat my shit. My name is Remus and my rank was, and as far as you are concerned, still is Optio. From now on, you will all address me by that title. Is that clear?’

  ‘Yes, Sir…I mean, Optio,’ came the muted reply.

  Prydain’s head tilted right back to avoid the point of the blade piercing his throat.

  ‘Is that clear?’ screamed the instructor.

  ‘Yes, Optio!’ shouted Prydain, his voice echoing around the parade ground.

  ‘Good,’ he smiled, revealing a line of broken and missing teeth. ‘Now the introductions are over, let’s get started.’

  He turned around and walked back to the centre of the circle. A slave ran forward and loosened the leather ties fastening the Greaves to his legs and as he did so, Optio Remus undid his remaining Manica. Both sets of armour were cast aside before he drew his Pugio and tossed it next to his helmet. Finally, he stood there, donned in red tunic only, but still holding his Gladius in his hand.

  He spun the sword into the air and caught it by the blade, hilt facing away from him. With lightning speed, he threw it like a dagger toward Prydain. It span through the air and embedded itself deep in the sand between Prydain’s legs.

  ‘Pick it up!’ he ordered.

  Prydain picked up the sword, folding his fingers around the hilt as he felt its familiar weight and balance.

  ‘Listen very carefully, Prydain Maecilius, freedman of the house of Pelonius Maecilius,’ said the Optio sarcastically, ‘you are about to receive your first order from me. If you refuse, I will kill you! If you argue, I will kill you! If you question my order, I will kill you! Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, Optio,’ said Prydain, a look of apprehension creeping into his face.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Optio through a sickly smile, ‘I didn’t quite hear you,’ His smile evaporated and he growled the question again. ‘Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Optio!’ roared Prydain again.

  ‘Good,’ said the older man his tone instantly placatory, ‘then listen very carefully.’

  He stepped a pace back and opened his arms wide emphasizing the fact he was totally unarmed and vulnerable.

  ‘Prydain Maecilius,’ he said, ‘I order you to kill me!’

  ----

  Chapter 9

  Prydain stared at the Optio across the sand.

  ‘What’s the matter, slave-boy?’ sneered Remus. ‘Isn’t this exactly what you joined up for? Excitement, adventure,’ his voice dropped, ‘the chance to kill a fellow man!’

  Prydain thought furiously and started to say something before stopping suddenly mid-sentence. Remus’s raised eyebrows reminded him of the lethal ultimatum he had just been given. The whole group were silent, eighty trainees and eight instructors, all holding their breath as they waited for someone to make a move. Those at the rear strained to see what was happening over the heads of those in front, each wondering who would move first, the Optio with his arms open wide presenting an easy target, or the recruit standing in shock, the acquired Gladius hanging limply by his side.

  ‘It’s very simple,’ continued Remus calmly. ‘The choice is clear. Kill or be killed. A choice that is faced every day by better men than you, all across the empire. Your life or mine, slave-boy, which do you hold dearest?’

  Prydain realized he had no choice. It was obviously a set up designed to show off the instructor’s prowess in sword play and he had no doubt that Remus would be able to disarm most men, but Prydain was no ordinary man. Karim had taught him, and everyone knew that Karim had been second to no man in the arena.

  He looked down at the Gladius, all Karim’s instruction coming back to him. Most untrained men would hack at an opponent, lifting the weapon high and opening up their own torsos for blows to the ribs. But Prydain knew better. The Gladius had been designed for thrusting into an exposed opponent and demanded a different technique. He span the sword in his hand and sprang forward into the stance of one used to handling the Gladius. His feet were placed shoulder width apart, left foot half a step forward of the right.

  His body was twisted slightly to the right and he held the Gladius at chest level, pointing toward his opponent. Despite his not having a shield, his left hand was extended forward in a natural defence against any attack that the Optio may bring.

  Remus smiled.

  ‘That’s more like it,’ he said. ‘Come on, slave-boy, do your worst.’

  Prydain inched forward, his Caligae leaving a sandy trail as he edged toward the unarmed instructor. Remus stood his ground, his arms now lowered to his side seemingly totally relaxed, but his one eye firmly locked on Prydain.

  After a few tense minutes, Prydain made his move. He feinted with his outstretched left hand as if to strike, but quickly took a giant pace forward onto his right foot, changing the point of attack to thrust his Gladius deep into Remus’s unprotected midriff.

  ----

  Cassus looked down at the body lying on the sun-warmed sand, surprised at the amount of blood that had sprayed out from the wounded man. The rest of the Contubernium stared in awe, not quite believing what they had just witnessed.

  Prydain’s attack had been perfect. The classic stance, the protecting arm providing the feint before the lightning quick killing blow had been administered. All perfect, all textbook. But textbooks had never faced barbarian swords whilst Remus, on the other hand, was a veteran of countless battles.

  At the last second, the instructor had leaned
backwards and twisted his body to the left, causing the Gladius to miss his chest by the narrowest of margins. Grabbing Prydain’s wrist in his own left hand, he continued to spin his body and lifting his right arm to head level, slammed his elbow backwards into Prydain’s face, shattering his nose. Prydain was unconscious before he hit the floor, and as he fell, Remus snapped his forearm over his knee, causing him to release the Gladius, which was back in the instructors sheath before Prydain’s head hit the sand.

  ‘I am insulted,’ said Remus. ‘Is this the best that Rome can offer? Not only did he underestimate me just because I am unarmed, but in addition, he told me exactly how he was going to fight. By telling me a Gladiator had trained him, I knew the style, the tactics and most of all, the result he expected. I deserved better. Know everything there is to know about your enemy. Just because they dress in rags or speak in words you don’t understand, do not assume that you are better. As legionaries, you will rarely fight alone. You will advance as one, killing the man to your front and defending the man to your left. As you step over your fallen enemy, you will crush him beneath your heel, leaving no threat behind you. Those that still survive will be finished by the rank behind.’

  He walked around the inner edge of the circle of watching men, staring at each in turn.

  ‘You will kill and inflict injury, efficiently, coldly and without remorse. You will show no mercy. You will advance through their lines without stopping, administering death without thought, and when you can kill no more, you will step aside for the man behind you to take your place. By the time I have finished with you, you will be killing machines, cold, ruthless and unrelenting. Yes, the training will be hard, but nothing like that pompous arse said earlier. Oh no, nothing like it at all, for in truth, it will be much, much worse.’