by C K Ruppelt
“It was long enough to figure out that the Cretans think we are barbarians,” Gulussa interjected. The Numidian archer’s barracks were located on the other side from the group of Cretan archers, with Celtic cavalry between, and they had quickly figured out the reason.
“Doesn’t matter to the Romans though, to them we’re all stupid and unworthy foreigners,” Massi added. His whole tent group started laughing.
They marched with half of the Ninth’s Numidian and Cretan forces behind three of the legion’s regular cohorts.
“So, does anybody know where we are going?” Massi added.
“Our decurion said this is a punitive expedition against a clan of the Celtici people that fled into the hills to the northwest of here,” Oz answered in Latin. “But he did not know what they did to deserve punishment.”
They each took every opportunity to practice their Latin since enlisting in Cirta. Though Oz’s speech was still badly accented, he had improved his fluency. Adhe had made more progress, though he still preferred listening over speaking.
“Anybody know why the Gallic cavalry is not coming with us?” his nephew now surprised everybody by asking in nearly flawless Latin.
“Maybe because we’re going into the hills. Or maybe because some of our cavalry are local Turdetani. Would they try to help the Celtici?” came back from Massi.
“I don’t think that’s the reason. We’ve heard since coming here that the Celts fight amongst themselves all the time. At least, if they’re still independent, like the ones in the west or in Gallia to the north,” Oz mused.
The Celts attached to their legion had been recruited from all over Roman Hispania and southern Gallia, yet seemed to share the same culture, language and similar dress, with at least one piece of their clothing made from colorfully plaid cloth. They usually had blue, green or gray eyes. The brown eyes he had seen around Corduba and their camp belonged to Iberian, Greek or Phoenician people, with the latter two descendants of centuries-old colony cities.
“Well, I’m sure the Celtici will wear open torcs around their necks like all the other Celtic warriors, to show their prowess for battle. But what I really want to know is what kind of stuff they put into their hair. Is it going to be whitened with limewater like what the northern Celts seem to prefer, or are they using the sap-based stuff like the locals here in the south, forming their long hair into impressively tall spikes?” Gulussa asked.
“I’ll bet anyone that it’s going to be the wood resin.” Massi said.
“You are on!” Adhe spoke up. “I bet you five sesterces that it’s neither, and that the Celtici do something else with their hair.”
Massi smiled and nodded to Adhe. “We’ll see. I hope myself that it’s not the tall spikes, we’ll be safer in battle.” The whole group laughed.
“Talking about Celts. Have you two gone to one of the local weapon smithies yet?” Oz inquired. Massi and Gulussa shook their heads. “I took Adhe to a big one. The craftsmanship is like nothing I’ve ever seen. Their pieces are not just functional, but have lots of ornate decorations, some of which is outright beautiful. What impressed me the most is their chainmail. We need to save money and get some for ourselves. The extra weight is well worth it if it keeps arrows and spear tips from penetrating.”
Making Adhe and my friends safer would be priceless. The thought of possibly losing somebody else close put him into a melancholy mood, keeping him silent for a long while as they kept marching down the Roman road paved with large slabs of white local stone.
***
A week later, the legionaries all took turns using their field shovels and their wicker baskets for collecting dirt for a berm used as a base for a simple ten-foot tall log palisade. Oz looked away from the men to gaze at the approach up the hill, where several more mules brought the men’s tents and additional palisade logs.
“I’m glad we’re standing watch instead of digging like our heavy infantry,” Capussia said from his side with a chuckle. The man was first decurion of all the legion’s Numidian turmae, and seemed to be a natural and smart leader. Oz liked the man immensely. “But never forget that we’re in enemy country. Don’t take your eyes off the horizon for long,” the man continued. Oz nodded and waited a few minutes before giving the current construction site another quick glance. Their camp was to house a single legionary cohort, two turmae of Numidian, plus one turma of Cretan archers. A turma meant thirty soldiers divided into three squads of ten, each led by a decurion.
Like at their permanent Roman fort, the four gates of this one were carefully laid out from east to west and north to south, with the roads connecting the center of the camp. The only concession he had seen for the smaller size was the lack of true gates; instead of hinged doors, the men left permanently open gaps in the wall. A recessed palisade blocked the direct view to the inside for anyone approaching, and the openings could be blocked by additional sections kept ready nearby.
He looked the other way again. The beautiful view seemed peaceful, though the late afternoon sun parched his throat. “Do you think the enemy will come looking for us here?” Adhe asked from his side.
“Maybe, if we don’t find them first. I’m sure our cohort prefect will send search parties out the moment our camp is secure,” Oz answered.
They all kept staring at the edge of the woods. Oz hoped they would get through the rest of the day without any excitement.
***
Over the last two weeks the troops had gone out every day. The Celts had ambushed several skirmish units, Oz figured that proved their cohorts were closing in on their target. He stood on the catwalk of the western wall for sentry duty and watched their cohort prefect lead the tight formation of five centuries of legionaries marching out this morning.
All archers and a single century of legionaries stayed behind to secure the camp. Once the troops were out of sight, he returned to scanning the tree line. He could hear some of the louder birds chirping in what was left of the woods a few hundred feet away, where the cohort had cut firewood and replacement stakes for the fort’s palisade.
Many hours seemed to pass before he looked up at the sun’s placement and the length of the shadows to discover that it wasn’t even lunch time yet. His stomach growled. “I can’t wait to eat”
“I am happy we always have enough rations, but I am more than bored with our food,” Massi stated. “We have all the wheat we’ll ever need for bread and porridge, but otherwise we only get salt, chickpeas and lentils. The worst thing is that I am all out of spices. If you can spare something, anything, I would much appreciate it.”
“Don’t forget the free garlic and olive oil,” Oz added. They both laughed. Garlic and olive oil were used as meal ingredients by every soldier for every single meal, including the fresh bread and porridge at breakfast. “I will gladly share my spices with you, I bought a lot before we left. Don’t know what half of the local stuff is, but that just makes it interesting,” Oz replied, still laughing. “I also plan to ask Capussia if Adhe and I can go out to hunt. We could use some more variety.”
Ozalkis checked the shadows again. Close to noon now. Good, their shift change would happen in another hour or two. He paused. Something in the pit of his stomach made him turn back to the woods.
Why? What is wrong? He stood there for a moment in silence. The birds. They sound agitated.
He scanned from the hill ascent to the trees covering the ridge of the hill. There is movement. Several people.
He looked left to Massi and saw his friend walking away to the stairs. He turned right to wave to the next sentry in line. “Can you confirm that?” he said, pointing at the tree line.
The Cretan archer nodded. “Yes, there’s movement.”
Oz turned toward the inside of the fort to see a single legionary strolling down the main east-west road.
“Hey, you there, legionary! Alarm the centurion that we have movement in the woods to the west.” The soldier nodded and took off at a run.
Three minut
es later he saw Titus Balventius rushing toward their part of the wall with his optio by his side. The boyish looking junior centurion was in overall command of the camp in the prefect’s absence. Oz heard the cornicen and tubicen, the century’s two trumpeters, blowing a call to arms.
“Who called this?” the centurion shouted from the stairs leading to the catwalk.
“I did sir. Ozalkis.” He pointed at the tree line. “I saw movement over there, and this man here confirmed it.”
The Greek archer drew himself up in front of Balventius. “Klearistos, at your service. Don’t know exactly how many I saw, but it was several.”
Titus Balventius looked at the forest himself. “Seppius, assemble our century here at the western gate.”
He turned to look down into the fort. The two highest ranking auxilia officers had arrived with several of their squad commanders. Capussia, tall and broad, represented the Numidian contingent, overshadowing the thin and hook-nosed Cretan leader named Andrippos.
“Both of you, get the rest of your men onto the wall to give us cover. Except for a couple of squads that go out with us. Andrippos, please personally lead those.”
The Cretan spoke to his two decurions, while Capussia ran to the tents of his Numidians, soon reemerging with the remaining squads.
“We are to mount the western wall, follow me!” Oz heard him call as his fellow archers mounted the stairs.
Ozalkis was once again impressed by the level of organization within the legion. Within a few short minutes, the century of legionaries was perfectly arranged in front of the gate, ready to march out.
***
He might have the years of service experience thanks to lying about his age when signing up as a fifteen-year-old, but Balventius still thought of himself as too young to lead a whole century.
Perhaps feeling unworthy is why I’m not cursed with the same prejudice against non-Romans my colleagues seem to have. It’s supposed to be about how people behave, not where they’re from. He really liked the Numidians and their leader Capussia. They seemed to be refreshingly honest and straight-forward people, not trying to play games and politics for advancement like the Roman officers were wont to do.
He walked away from the men that had raised the alarm, pushing through the archers streaming onto the western catwalk. He made it down and walked through Andrippos’ group of twenty Cretan archers to the infantry behind. Seppius stood with the century’s standard bearer and their two trumpeters. The squad leaders all called in the troop’s readiness before he raised his hand. “Let’s march!”
“Blow the signal!” Seppius relayed to the cornicen. The man deftly used his instrument.
The century moved through the gate in rows of four, immediately spreading out into a long traditional formation of three ranks deep. As always, the freshest recruits walked in the front.
Balventius glanced over his shoulder at the Cretan archers spreading out into their own loose line right behind the Romans. The formation marched the few hundred feet to the tree line without any issues.
As they approached the woods the officers and the men in the formation’s center could see the grisly display prepared for them. Severed heads of Roman soldiers sat on spikes rammed into the ground, located only a few feet behind the undergrowth of the tree line. Why would the enemy do this here? Did they mean to draw us out of the camp?
Balventius’ eyes grew big as he recognized the horse’s head in the middle of the spikes. This could only be their prefect’s chestnut, identifiable by the big white blaze running down its face. Now he also recognized the head next to it as belonging to the cohort prefect.
The other centuries must all be dead. He had played into the Celts’ hands by bringing his men out to investigate. He hoped it was not too late.
“Halt, NOW!” he screamed. Most of the first line had reached the edge of the forest. “Orbem formate!” he called loudly, his command to form a loose circle. The sides of the battle line started moving back and inwards. The men had drilled this maneuver often enough that they smoothly created a near perfect circle when both ends of the line joined. “Retreat to the fort!” he shouted, wanting all his men to hear him directly. The formation moved as one. He warily scanned between the underbrush and the trees. Good, the last men of the front rank are out of the forest.
A big roar sounded through the woods as several hundred Celtici jumped out of hiding. The warriors ran by the severed heads eager to engage the Romans. Balventius swore. Thank the gods he had not waited any longer with the retreat, or it would have been much worse. “Steady men, steady!” he shouted. The first warriors of the Celtic charge hit the legionary shield wall with tremendous force. Some of the green recruits had left their rank’s shields misaligned, causing several of them to be killed or wounded. The men of the second line stopped their backwards march to fill in where needed.
Now that the shock of first blood was behind them, the legion’s continuous drilling took over. The rear arc of the circle formation directly involved in the fighting started a running change-out for an orderly retreat. The more seasoned second and third ranks of the rear section rotated their bodies ninety degrees to stand sideways, allowing the first rank to squeeze through to reform behind, again keeping the same gaps open. The soldiers of the second rank had become the front, rotating their bodies to again present a continuous shield wall to the pursuing enemy. They opened their shield briefly two times to stab at the enemy, then squeezed backwards to let the next rank behind them become the front line. His century managed a slow, yet orderly retreat.
Halfway back to the wall, Balventius heard the thundering of hooves, long before he saw the line of horsemen riding up to cut them off from the fort’s gate.
Merda. They’re not letting us get away that easy.
The archers on the wall collected a heavy toll from the Celtici riding up. Balventius grinned when he realized that the cavalry’s shields were all pointed towards the legionaries on the ground, exposing their right sides fully to the volleys of the archers on the wall. Many of the warriors twisted in their saddles to avoid incoming arrows. Good. Now it was time to change orders. “Second rank, put your swords away. Hold your first pilum ready!” he ordered, not waiting for his trumpeters to pick up on the command. “Second rank, move forward!” The men moved to become the new first rank, while the horses filled the space in front of the gates. “Throw, throw! Second and third ranks, grab your pilum!” He repeated the same process, switching the ranks until they had all thrown both sets of pila. The use of the small iron shafted spears proved deadly for the cavalry, their small shields leaving both men and horses unprotected. A quick glance back to the forest showed that his men’s pila there had entangled many shields of the pursuing foot warriors who tossed the now unwieldy contraptions to the ground, allowing the legionaries to fell the warriors by the dozens, freely stabbing into vulnerable bellies, groins and legs.
The Cretan archers in the midst of their small group kept up a steady stream of arrows flying over the legionaries’ heads. They would run back a few feet, stop and shoot another volley, always careful to keep ahead of the retreating legionaries.
The circle pushed through the horsemen, climbing over dead horses and dispatching wounded enemies along the way. Balventius, focused to the side, stepped on the innards of a horse and slipped.
Seppius was there to pull him back up. “Thank you, my friend.” He looked down at his gore-drenched armor in surprise. Incredible, I can’t believe how focused I am. Even the stink doesn’t touch me as much as it used to.
The circle broke against the gate opening and split into two open ends, moving along the fort. As soon as his soldiers reached the wall they turned back towards the middle to march through the gate.
“Decanus, stop!” Balventius shouted at one of the men running inside. “I need you to organize three parties for the other gates. We need to close them all before the enemy goes for them, do you understand?” The man nodded. “Hurry!”
A few
minutes later, Balventius rushed towards the gate himself. “Turn, form testudo!” he roared at the last two squads, joining their front rank. “Keep them out!” Stabbing a lone warrior, he saw the remainder of the Celts fall back and run to get out of range of the fort’s archers. Standing a combined twenty feet tall, the Numidians and Cretans on the wall commanded the enemy’s respect.
“Switch!” Balventius pushed through the rank behind him to see another squad stand ready with the loose wall section. “Retreat. Let’s close it up, quickly!” He watched the last lashing being tied into place from within the wall before glancing up at the sun. It had barely moved. Really? I thought we were out there for hours.
He walked away to check with the squad’s decani about how many men they had lost. Every answer added another twist to the knife in his back. The total came to fifteen dead and five badly wounded that were out of the fight. They were down to sixty legionaries and surrounded by the enemy, yet they were still alive. Thank the gods for our auxilia.
***
Three days had passed since the sortie. The Celtici warriors camped in big groups within sight of the four gates and had hundreds of their horses grazing in full view of the camp, illustrating that marching out to escape would not work.
Oz sat on his cot in his squad’s tent, polishing the exposed wood sections and leather wrapped joints of his bow with a patch of raw sheep’s wool. He smiled when he saw Adhe corner Massi.
“You owe me five sesterces!” his nephew demanded.
“I guess I can’t argue with that. Most of these Celtici seem to color their hair red with Henna like they do in Mauretania and some of Numidia.” Massi smiled as he got his coin purse out, counting the money loudly as he handed it over.
Capussia peeked in through the tent flap. “Oz, I need to talk to you.”
“Come on in,” He told the first decurion, who took one step before scrunching up his nose.
