Roman

by Kevin Ashman

  ‘Mount up,’ he said, ‘It is time.’

  The scouts mounted their horses and looked to their leader.

  ‘Move fast and strike quick,’ said Scipio, ‘Do not get sucked in to combat, that is not our role. Spare their horses, we want them to follow with as much strength as possible. Okay, let’s go.’ He turned his horse and led the troop out of the gorge, taking the enemy encampment by surprise as they stormed into the valley without warning.

  They galloped along the fringes loosing a hail of arrows into the huts as they passed, screaming insults and challenges as they passed. They span around at the end of their run and galloped back up the valley, though this time many warriors had gathered their wits and raced from their huts, picking up their spears and swords to attack the horsemen with a fanaticism borne from fearless belief in the after life.

  ‘The hornet’s nest has been shaken!’ shouted Scipio, ‘Let’s get out of here!’

  Prydain and the rest of the scouts galloped out of the valley with Scipio bringing up the rear. A few hundred metres behind they were closely followed by hundreds of mounted barbarians, all armed with spear or sword as they sought to bring down the invaders.

  The scouts neared the exit to the valley and were almost clear when Scipio’s mount placed a galloping hoof in a pothole and tumbled forward, its leg snapping with a resounding crack and catapulting his rider forward to land face down in the dust. The Centurion regained his feet groggily, his left arm hanging uselessly by his side, blood pouring down from the severed bone that protruded angrily from his upper arm. The barbarians were closing fast and Scipio looked to his retreating scouts, none yet aware of their leaders fate and realising there could be no rescue, he turned to his horse to see if he could remount and escape. The horse had regained his feet but one foreleg hung loosely from its sinews, broken in two places and Scipio patted the horse on the neck to reassure him, whispering in its ear.

  ‘Looks like it’s our time, old friend,’ he said, ‘At least we will go together.’ Scipio drew his Gladius and started to hobble forward towards the screaming hoard less than a hundred metres away. He picked up the pace, ignoring the pain from his broken body until he was running as fast as he could towards the thousand strong enemy, raising his sword above his head and screaming the final challenge of his life.

  Two hundred yards away, one of the retreating scouts glanced back and reined in suddenly as he witnessed their leader being engulfed by the barbarians.

  ‘Stop!’ screamed Prydain and two of the nearby scouts pulled up to find out the problem.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ panted one of the Decurions pulling up alongside Prydain.

  ‘Scipio has fallen,’ shouted Prydain, ‘He’s in amongst that lot.’

  The Decurion struggled to control his horse as he calculated the risks. Finally he gave his orders.

  ’There’s nothing we can do for him,’ he said. ‘It’s too late.’

  ‘We can’t just leave him,’ said Prydain.

  ‘What would you have me do?’ shouted the Decurion, ‘There are thousands of them and eighty of us. He is gone Prydain, we have to finish our mission.’ They looked at the swarming tribe now within a hundred metres before the Decurion added finally, ‘Scipio was a fine man, but he is only one, we have a legion to think of. Now move out!’ He turned his horse and galloped after the distant scouts, closely followed by Prydain and his comrade.

  Two miles away, Cassus lined up in the third rank of the assembled soldiers looking between the first two ranks and across the empty plain to his front. Behind him the heavily wooded hills formed a semi circle of protection, though also presenting a barrier which could not be quickly climbed should they need to retreat. The legion had assumed a linear deployment and two cohorts stretched across the flood plain from hill to hill. The ground was perfectly flat, eroded from the attentions of the spring floods and ideal ground for manoeuvring both infantry and cavalry.

  Legatus Nasica peered down from one of the flanking hills at his deployed forces. It was a typical Roman deployment with two auxiliary cavalry units on the flanks, slingers and archers to the rear and over a thousand legionaries stretched across the plain in three ranks. It looked impressive and any enemy spies couldn’t fail to be impressed.

  But it wasn’t a good impression that Nasica wanted to achieve, and, if he was being honest with himself, he had to admit that the lines did stretch quite a long way and seemed somewhat weak with no heavy infantry back up. In addition the archers, whilst deadly, would be far more effective had there been at least four times as many and as for the slingers, everyone knew flood plains were notoriously sparse of sling sized stones and when their pouches of lead projectiles had been used, there was not much in the way of natural ammunition lying around.

  He turned his gaze to the ground to the front of the formed up Cohorts. Yes it was ideal for infantry to manoeuvre but it was also ideal for chariots and whilst there were the two units of cavalry deployed, any sizeable force being faced with the stretched Roman deployment and perfectly flat battleground would have to come to the conclusion that they were there for the taking, which was exactly what Nasica hoped!

  ----

  Cassus shivered slightly in the early morning breeze, flexing his fingers around the haft of his Pilum to get the blood flowing. This would be his third action since landing in Britannia but still his stomach turned in anticipation. Over the last two weeks the legion had encountered some resistance as they made their way westward and had laid waste to several villages en-route. Those who had welcomed the Romans and had met their demands with little resistance got off relatively lightly. Those villages that argued or showed any resistance were dealt with mercilessly and their occupants either slaughtered or taken as slaves before the provisions were taken anyway.

  But this was different. This was the first time Cassus had formed up with his legion in classic battle formation on an open field, ready to meet an enemy at least of equal strength. Every man was fully aware that their somewhat weak deployment was a deliberate ploy and not a tactical gaffe by their commanders. If this worked, Nasica would enjoy a great victory, and, though defeat was not envisaged, a tactical miscalculation could cost an awful lot of Roman lives. Cassus’s reverie was interrupted by the shout of the Primus Pilus standing ten metres to their front.

  ‘Legion!’ he roared, ‘Present Pilae!’

  Cassus re-gripped his stabbing spear, all thoughts of cold or discomfort forgotten as he focussed on the dust cloud on the horizon. As he was in the rear rank, the butt of his Pila rested on the ground with the blade pointing straight up in the air, unlikely to be needed in the first encounter. The middle rank rested their heavier spears on the shoulders of the front rank, who in turn, gripped theirs firmly in two hands at waist level, their left feet slightly forward of their right in the classic thrusting stance used as a defence against cavalry or chariots.

  ----

  Nasica strained his eyes as the scouts raced back to the legion and even though he was pleased to see a strong force of barbarian cavalry in hot pursuit, was unable to see if they were backed up by the main threat to the legion, chariots. The scouts thundered close to the legions lines heading for the centre, and, as they approached, the ranks pivoted backwards, opening up a large gap in a well-rehearsed move that allowed them to disappear behind the infantry lines. At the same time the flanking cavalry raced in from the sides of the plain to engage the pursuing horsemen in the first clash of the battle.

  The mounted units crashed into each other in the centre of the plain, the barbarians equalling the auxiliaries in number, ferocity and skill. Men and beasts screamed as the initial exchange of hardened spears tore into the flesh of those unlucky enough to be in the initial impact, and, as the momentum of both forces ground to a halt, swords were drawn on both to engage in close quarter battle.

  High above on the hill, Nasica watched closely and considered sending the scouts back into the fray with to strengthen the auxiliaries, but resisted
the temptation when it became apparent that his forces had started to get the upper hand. Finally the surviving enemy warriors broke free from the conflict and raced back the way they came to meet up with the bulk of their force entering the plain far behind.

  The cavalry started to pursue the retreating barbarians but a long blast on the horn from Nasica’s signaller stopped them in their tracks and they returned behind the infantry lines to reform and sort out their wounds. Dozens of lightweight infantry ran forward to cut the throats of any surviving enemy wounded before carrying the legion’s own casualties back to the tree line and the waiting medical orderlies.

  The excitement died down as the dust settled and the chatter in the ranks increased until the Centurion’s voice once again echoed across the position.

  ‘Silence!’ he roared and the plain fell quiet as everyone’s ears strained to hear what the Centurion had obviously heard.

  ‘Listen, ‘whispered a voice to Cassus’s side. ‘Can you hear it?’

  ‘I can’t hear anything,’ said another.

  Slowly, a distant hum reached the ears of the legion, borne on the morning breeze.

  ‘What is it asked the soldier?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Cassus, ‘But whatever it is, it doesn’t sound happy.’

  In the distance, the settling dust revealed an army flowing onto the flood plain like a cloud of black smoke blown across the land, their weapons glinting across the battlefield as they reflected the morning sunlight. Armoured warriors roared their challenges and beat their shields with their weapons while others, draped in cloaks of varying colours, blew into unrecognisable horns producing the melancholy tones rebounding off the hills. Women and children wailed their laments into the air, their hands held aloft as they implored their gods for aid in defeating the invader and even the aged were amongst the throng, adding their screaming voices to the deafening and terrifying din. Suddenly the advancing army stopped dead in their tracks and everyone stared across the plain as if waiting for a sign.

  High up above the valley, Nasica turned his attention from the warrior tribe and towards the entrance to the flood plain, eventually rewarded with the sight of two hundred chariots riding slowly into view. Each was manned by two heavily armed warriors and pulled by a pair of the strong but small horses that were native to these lands.

  ‘There they are, Mateus,’ said Nasica, ‘Like a fly into a web.’

  Cassus swallowed dryly. There was no way their thin lines could repel an assault from such an army. Even at this distance he could see the variety of their weapons, ranging from swords and spears to clubs, maces and huge hammers. There were even some weapons that he had never seen before that looked well capable of smashing the Roman shields with ease.

  A solitary warrior stood to the front of the tribe, his stature and regalia easily marking him out as the leader. Around him stood the half naked Shamen, their bodies heavily tattooed with Celtic designs etched into their skin with blue wode. Druids of the tribe, each invoking the support of their gods walked up and down the lines of chariots, blessing the horses with bowls of human blood, their white cloaks blowing in the breeze.

  One man standing silently alongside the chief, wore a black cloak from neck to ankles, a sharp contrast to the long white hair that fell down past his shoulders. As if his appearance wasn’t distinctive enough, he wore a belt of human skulls around his waist and held a two metre staff in his hand, topped with a human head, still wearing a Roman helmet. Though it was accepted that some tribes would take and display the heads of captured enemies, this one was different. It had a crest atop the helmet but instead of lying front to back as was usual in some units, its dyed red horsehair crest swept side to side, an honour reserved for only one rank in the Roman army, Centurions. It was the head of Scipio!

  ----

  Nasica watched as the enemy tribe moved further into the valley and leaned over to a messenger stood at his side to give an instruction. The messenger nodded and ran down the hill to the line of Scorpios hidden behind a line of bushes, passing the instruction to the Decurion in charge, who in turn approached one of the Scorpio operators. When everything was ready, the Decurion stared up at Nasica, waiting for the signal.

  The General waited until the warriors had totally entered the plain and when he was happy they were committed, raised his Gladius above his head, before dropping it sharply to give the signal. The Decurion turned to the Scorpio operator.

  ‘Okay, soldier,’ he said, ‘This is your chance of glory. Make this shot and when this is over, I will personally ensure every man of your unit gets an amphora of wine.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ said the legionary and leaned into the post-mounted crossbow, aiming carefully at his target over a hundred yards away.

  Cassus stared at the army of warriors now stationary and eerily silent to his front. The priest dressed in black walked forward from the enemy ranks and held up the head of Scipio, cursing the Romans and imploring the gods for support in the impending battle. He held his arms out wide, chanting his mantras to the heavens, watched enthralled by the barbarians, totally entranced by his magic.

  Cassus too was entranced by the mystical figure, until his reverie was suddenly interrupted by the thud of iron as it smashed through bone. Even from this distance the sound was sickening and for a second, Cassus didn’t understand what had happened until the barbarian priest fell slowly forward, his neck skewered by an iron bolt shot from the nearby Scorpio. As the Druid’s body hit the floor, Scipio’s head fell from the staff and rolled forward in the dust, coming to rest facing the barbarians as if in a final gesture of defiance.

  High above Nasica smiled in satisfaction, and ordered his trumpeter to give the signal. A deep tone resounded around the valley, being copied by other strategically placed trumpeters until the valley was echoing with the sound.

  The barbarians looked around in fear, unaware what the sounds were or where they were coming from and shocked at the loss of their high priest. Their leaders quickly regained order and realising there was no turning back, held their weapons high, screaming their curses before charging forward and leading over five thousand warriors into battle with only a thousand thinly stretched Romans.

  At the last moment Nasica gave the order everyone had been waiting for and a waiting Ballista launched a flaming projectile high above the battlefield, signalling the battle to commence. Instantly, bushes on the slopes of the flanking hills fell aside and five hundred archers sprung up, darkening the sky as they fired thousands of arrows into the massed ranks of barbarian warriors. Despite their casualties the barbarians raced forward, still screaming their war cries, keen to engage the invaders in close quarter battle.

  ‘Ready,’ shouted the Primus Pilus as the enemy closed in, ‘Now!’

  All three ranks of the Roman lines dropped to one knee presenting their stabbing Pila forward in defence. The manoeuvre was completely unexpected by the attackers and revealed thousands more infantry behind the first three lines, each jumping to their feet from the prone position they had been in for the last two hours.

  Again, hundreds of missiles filled the air as the spear throwers hurled their Pila into the front ranks of the charging tribe, slowing the advance of those behind, as charging men tripped over the dying bodies of their comrades. As the charge faltered, The Primus Pilus raised his Gladius and commanded the cohort to their feet.

  ‘First Cohort,’ he roared, ‘Advance!’

  The previously kneeling heavy infantry rose to their feet and took the attack to the decimated ranks of the barbarian army, each screaming their own challenge as they closed the hundred paces between them.

  The front rank smashed into the confused enemy, punching the bronze bosses of their shields into snarling faces before following up the assault with the devastating thrusts of their Gladii. Forced into close order, the long swords, axes and maces of the barbarians were of little use and even when one did manage to cut deep into a legionary shield they had no time to withdraw it before
a Gladius was thrust deep into their torso from around the edge of an expertly wielded Scutum. The Romans were disciplined and ruthless, as step by step they forced the attacking lines backwards.

  Within minutes Cassus found himself in the front rank, stepping over wounded comrades to join the fray and found himself caught up in the blood lust again, killing anything to his front in a controlled frenzy of drilled manoeuvres. He worked alongside the men next to him, each covering each other and knowing instinctively how their comrades would act. The skills had been drilled into them over and over again, and, though almost every soldier hated the daily drills during peacetime, the repetitive training became priceless when their lives became dependant on the ruthlessness efficiency of the killing machine that was the Roman army.

  ----

  ‘Chariots lord,’ said Tribune Mateus, though Nasica had already seen them racing down the flood plain to attack the flanks of the Roman position. Another signal was relayed across the valley and five hundred auxiliary cavalry raced out of cover to confront the chariots.

  The initial exchange went far better for the Celts than the Romans and both horses and men fell beneath barbarian steel as spinning blades on the wheels cut mercilessly through the legs of the horses, causing man and beast to fall in a screaming mess of flesh.

  Two distinct battles were now taking place on the plains. The infantry battle where man faced man in a conflict of arms and the other where the chariot riders had now dismounted and were despatching horses and men with axe and blade.

  ‘Sire the first wave is lost,’ said the Tribune.

  For the first time Nasica’s face showed concern, not so much for the men, but horses were hard to come by.

  ‘Tell the Scorpios to wipe them out,’ he said, ‘And send in the third and fourth cohorts to the flanks.’

  The necessary orders were relayed and the temporary Century of Scorpio operators ran along the forest edge to get within range of the cavalry battle, each carrying their heavy weapons over their shoulders.