by James Mace
Artorius hoped they were on the right path, and that they would meet Plautius before finding the main enemy force. He reckoned that as long as their journey kept taking them in a northeasterly direction, they would find the rest of their army sooner or later. The sky was growing dark, and the master centurion instinctively wrapped his cloak around himself as he rode towards the head of the column.
“I’ve sent an ala of cavalry to screen our movement,” Sempronius explained as his second-in-command joined him. “The undergrowth is so damn thick that they can do little but scout ahead on the road.”
“About the only good thing to come from these cursed woods is, at least, they’ll offer some protection from the rains,” Artorius replied as the first drops of a pending deluge splashed off his helmet.
“It seems for every two days of sunshine, we get at least one cloudy and one rainy,” the chief tribune snorted. He looked up at the ominous sky as they passed underneath a narrow opening in the tree canopy. “Most of the rains here pass quickly enough, but I think we’re in for a bad storm here.”
Within a minute of their conversation, the rains began to fall in earnest. Legionaries hunched beneath their packs, drawing their cloaks in close. While these offered some protection from the weather, there was nothing to stop the unpaved path from becoming a virtual quagmire. Soldiers found themselves having to push the baggage carts and supply wagons, slowing their movement to a crawl. Artorius was grateful for the thick undergrowth of briars and sticker bushes on either side of the path, for it meant the chances of enemy warriors hiding in them were lessoned greatly. Their adversaries knew the lay of the land, but they were still subjected to the same torments brought on by inclement weather and inhospitable terrain. The dense clouds and thick mass of trees made it seem like night, and Artorius almost failed to notice the cavalryman who rode up to them.
“The path splits up ahead, sir, about a mile,” the man said to Sempronius. “The ground is more open there, and we can spread out.”
“Excellent!” Sempronius replied over the echo of rain splashing off the tree canopy as well as his helmet. “If we are correct, that road will take us north to the rally point. Have your men scout ahead. We’ll encamp near the crossroads and wait for the Second Legion to catch up with us.”
The trooper saluted and turned his mount around in the narrow space before riding at a slow trot back up the sodden path.
“You see, Artorius,” the chief tribune said, for the first time calling the master centurion by his name instead of his rank. “This day is not so bleak after all.”
Artorius cracked a quick smile as they instinctively pressed on. Behind them were two of the military tribunes, who were also mounted. And behind them marched Camillus, who held the legion’s eagle high in defiance of the incessant rain. Artorius swore he could hear the man humming to himself, and even the vilest of weather could not cast a gloom over his perpetual good nature. With him were the other standard bearers of the legion, along with a selection of soldiers from the First Cohort who acted as their guard. The Fifth Cohort marched at the head of the column proper, just behind the eagle. Every day on the march, different cohorts took turns marching at the head; both as an honor of being closest to the eagle, while also accepting the greatest risk should they come under attack.
The winds whipped the rain into their faces for a moment, but then Artorius noticed in the west that the clouds had broken up. It was late afternoon, and the sun was just now visible, along with several patches of blue sky. The rain ceased to fall, and the sound of the wind amongst the trees grew ever louder. Artorius threw back his cloak, which whipped up behind him in the wind for a moment.
The road forked up ahead, with their current path taking them even further into the woods. The branch to their right curved around to the north, where the terrain appeared to be more open, at least on the right-hand side of the widening road.
“More thick woods on our left, it would seem,” Sempronius said as they turned onto the road and surveyed the rolling plains in the distance. “Can’t see where the damned cavalry have pushed out to.”
“Our only option appears to be to the right,” Artorius observed. “We can bring the legion out of a single column and spread the cohorts out while keeping the baggage carts on the main road.”
“Very well,” Sempronius nodded. “Pass the word back that the lead cohort will remain with the wagons, the rest will break off to the right and continue to advance in cohort columns. Now let’s just hope the terrain is at least somewhat hospitable and not a fucking bog out there!”
Unbeknownst to any of the Romans, the woods on their left only seemed to be thick and impassible like the ones they had just come through. In fact, they were little more than a façade, devoid of thick undergrowth. Just beyond them the ground was relatively flat and easily passible. It was here that Togodumnus waited. A thousand warriors hunkered in the woods, anxious to deal a critical blow to the invaders. Behind the woods, where the Romans could not see, were a dozen or more chariots. Though best suited in battle on flat terrain, for this mission their speed would be crucial. Togodumnus knew his force was too small to defeat even a fraction of the Roman Army that marched out of the woods, but then he did not need to defeat them in open battle; not yet. He saw a group of men riding at the head of the emerging column of legionaries. He grinned sinisterly as he pointed to the younger leader with an ornate helmet and crest that ran front-to-back.
“That one,” he said to one of his warriors, who nodded in reply. He then looked back at Archantael and said quietly, “The gods will have their sacrifice.”
Artorius started to think the rains might be passing for good, as the sky was now showing larger pockets of blue. He was admiring the terrain that opened up on their right, allowing himself to appreciate the beauty of this green land, when a sling stone swished past his head and smashed into the helm of Chief Tribune Sempronius. A storm of rocks hammered into the young officer, sending him sprawling from his horse, face-first into the saturated ground with a splash. Sporadic arrows flew from the trees, one skipping off the master centurion’s plate armor, causing him to instinctively fall off the far side of his horse.
“Bugger fuck!” he shouted as he landed hard on his stomach, knocking the wind out of him for a moment. As he leapt to his feet, he saw one of the tribunes take an arrow through the neck. He fell to the ground, clasping at the shaft that had broken in half, gouts of dark crimson flowing out as he succumbed.
“Fifth Cohort…up!” Artorius shouted as he unstrapped his shield from his panicking horse. A loud war cry echoed from the far tree line and hundreds of warriors soon descended upon him. Realizing he was for the moment by himself, the master centurion started to quickly back away, throwing off his cumbersome cloak and drawing his sword. Camillus was quickly by his side, planting the eagle into the mud, unslinging his buckler, while drawing his own weapon.
“Can’t very well let you die all by yourself!” the aquilifer said with a macabre chuckle.
Behind them, legionaries were dropping their packs and trying to remove their soaked cloaks as they raced to their master centurion. The lead century, coincidentally led by Centurion Metellus, managed to stay on the road. Those falling in behind them were compelled to form their battle lines on the short slope of slippery grass behind Metellus, many of them sliding and falling as they went. All still had their leather rain covers on their shields, and they looked like a disorganized wreck. In reality, they had moved with great speed and discipline, and as their foe sprinted up to the road, Metellus’ order opened the battle properly for the Romans.
“Front rank…throw!”
With a shout of rage, the legionaries unleashed a storm of javelins that cut into their enemy with a vengeance. A number of warriors fell dead or stricken by the fearsome weapons. Despite this, they advanced so quickly that there was no time for subsequent waves, and those centuries that were still forming up behind Metellus were forced to drop their javelins and draw their gl
adii.
As Artorius’ and Sempronius’ horses panicked and bolted back down the column, the master centurion and Camillus found themselves at the center of the fray, with warriors driving hard into them with a crash. As commander of the Fifth Cohort, Centurion Tyranus quickly assessed the danger his men were in, and he pushed out further to the right with three centuries, in order to prevent them from being flanked. Back along the road, word quickly passed that they legion was engaged. Rather than letting panic overtake them, the centurions maintained order and discipline, with the Fourth Cohort forming its battle lines at a right angle from the Fifth. Given the direction their enemy had attacked from, they surmised that the woods were not very thick, and by forming up as they did they were able to press the flank of the Catuvellauni. The Third Cohort was behind them, and they started to make their way between the forks in the road, attempting to get behind the grove of trees from which the Britons had emerged. It was slow going, with many legionaries becoming temporarily stuck in the mire that lay hidden beneath the tall grasses.
With Sempronius down and possibly killed, Artorius knew he needed to coordinate the overall battle, yet he could not move; pressed as he was with enemy combatants to his front and the Fifth Cohort behind him. All he could do was stand and fight. For the time being he was little more than a legionary on the line.
He tilted his shield and slammed it into the kneecap of a warrior to his front, bringing the man down in a howl of pain. Artorius went to lunge forward and finish him, only to lose his footing in the slick ground and slip down to his knees. His anger boiling over, he scrambled forward, swinging his gladius in a hard slash, catching the injured warrior on the inside of his leg. He knew he’d struck an artery, because the wound immediately starting gushing dark red. A spear came down on his back, deflecting off the plates of his armor as he crawled backwards and awkwardly got to his feet.
The rain-soaked ground allowed neither side an advantage, though it appeared to be helping the Britons most, as they were at least able to hold their ground. On dry terrain, even the bravest of warriors stood little to know chance against the legionary shield wall. As it was, the Romans could not maintain sound enough footing to press the advantage. Yet as the Fourth Cohort unleashed its javelins and started to assault the Catuvellauni right flank, war horns sounded and the rampaging horde started to rapidly withdraw. To his right, Artorius spotted their cavalry returning up the road, yet in the sopping earth their horses could only move at a slow trot. The lightly-equipped Britons were able to run from the battle without fear of any kind of organized pursuit.
And while the Romans gave a loud cheer, thinking for the moment that they had won a victory of sorts, it was Togodumnus who had made good on his objective. The unconscious officer was tied by his wrist to the back of the king’s chariot. They had not far to go, for a sacred grove existed but a few miles away. And as the Romans had not mounted any sort of a pursuit, Togodumnus knew they could take their time and conduct the sacrifice to the gods properly.
The horde of warriors who had accompanied him had scattered in multiple directions in order to throw off the Romans. The king regretted the dead he had left behind, and he knew that any warriors captured would likely be tortured and killed. Still, it was a risk they all accepted when they joined Togodumnus on this mission. Perhaps their deaths would appease the gods even more, knowing that they had died bringing them their sacrifice.
The rains had ceased, though the sky was still dark. In the west one could just see the falling sun and a few patches of blue sky. The entire battle had lasted only a few minutes, and the soldiers now had to deal with its grim aftermath. There were five dead, including the hapless tribune who’d taken an arrow through the neck. And twenty had various injuries, though most of these were, thankfully, minor. What troubled Artorius most was the one soldier who was unaccounted for.
“Sir,” the pilus prior of the Third Cohort said, as he walked over to the master centurion and saluted. “It’s about Chief Tribune Sempronius.”
“Have you found him?”
“Not exactly,” the centurion replied, shaking his head. He then led Artorius through the grove their enemy had attacked from, which was now occupied with legionaries who were establishing their camp for the evening. As there was not a scrap of dry wood to be found, they would have to settle for burying their dead. Enemy corpses would be left to rot. A group of legionaries stood over what looked like drag marks and chariot wheel tracks in the flattened grass. A soldier held up a smashed tribune’s helmet and torn cloak.
“Bastards drug him away,” the legionary spoke. “But I don’t think it was as a prisoner to be ransomed.”
“Explain,” Artorius said.
“Well, sir, I am originally from northern Belgica. My father was a merchant, and so I have dealt with the Britons, mainly traders, many times before I ever joined the legions. They would tell us stories about the druids and their penchant for human sacrifice. As I was a young lad, I thought they were just fables meant to scare children.”
“The druidic practice of slaughtering people to appease their vile gods is well-known,” the man’s centurion added. “We found a pile of human skulls two days ago, arrayed on a makeshift burnt altar. Apologies for not mentioning it sooner, sir, but as our mission is taxing enough as it is, I knew you had better things to concern yourself with than a pile of charred skulls on a block of stone.”
“Then I fear the worst for our chief tribune,” Artorius said, shaking his head. His eyes burned with anger. “I want him found!”
“Sir,” the centurion said, pulling Artorius off to the side, out of earshot from his legionaries. “It will be dark soon, and if they were dragging him behind a chariot, they are long gone. And if we are being honest with ourselves, he is likely already dead. We can mount a pursuit, but I strongly advise we not leave until morning, lest we risk even more lives.”
“Understood,” the master centurion replied glumly. He hated the thought of abandoning one of their own to a hideous fate, but there was little else they could do. Their cavalry might be able to make an effective chase, but they were too few in number and the risk was unacceptable under the circumstances. “Did we take any prisoners?”
“We captured ten of the bastards,” Tyranus answered as he walked over to the master centurion. “These are mostly badly injured, and I figured we would just cut their throats and let them bleed out.”
“And I have no interpreter, so I cannot even get any useful information out of them,” Artorius grumbled. “I don’t suppose any of them speak our tongue?”
“I doubt it, but we’ll find out,” Tyranus replied.
“What about you, soldier?” Artorius asked the legionary from Belgica. “Can you speak to them?”
“I only know a few words, sir,” the man replied. “And with a dozen dialects in this land, gods only know if what I say will make any sense. But I will try.”
In addition to the rage that burned inside him, Artorius came to the stark realization that he was now in command of the legion. With his senior officers in the First Cohort still back down the column, he sought out Camillus, the surviving equite tribunes, as well as those pilus priors available.
“It will be dark by the time the rest of the legion arrives,” he told the gathered men. “Is the open terrain passable or is it boggy?”
“In places, sir,” Tyranus replied. “The men can march through it readily enough, but the wagons will have to remain on the road.”
“Very well,” Artorius remarked. “We will push forward towards the open ground beyond these trees and establish our camp there, placing the road in the very center. Vespasian and the Second Legion are about two days march from here. We will wait for them here while we send out search parties to find our chief tribune.”
“Beg your pardon, sir,” the legionary from Belgica said as he walked over and saluted. “My centurion ordered me to come inform you at once.”
“What of?”
“Well, I was able
to catch just a word here and there, as most of their babble was gibberish to me. But I did make out the words sacrifice and sacred grove.”
Artorius gave a nod and waved the soldier off, who saluted and left. “I want the prisoners scourged and crucified,” he said with ice in his voice.
“Yes,” Archantael said as he eyed Togodumnus’ prize. “The gods will be most pleased!”
The grove was dedicated to the deity Anextiomarus, who was also known as the Great Protector. This made it an ideal location for Archantael to perform the ghastly ritual that the Catuvellauni king hoped would bring them divine powers and ultimate victory. If nothing else, it would serve to inspire the more superstitious amongst his people and compel them to bring everything to bear against the invaders.
The battered body of the Roman chief tribune was hung upside down; arms and legs splayed out and tied to crossed poles. His armor was stripped away, and his body was badly beaten from the pelting of sling stones and the rough dragging behind a chariot. He was bleeding from multiple places, unconscious, and scarcely clinging to life. Togodumnus and his chief warriors gathered around as Archantael placed a wicker basket beneath the Roman, while uttering ancient chants in a language so old that none of the non-druids could understand him. There were several of Archantael’s hooded peers circled around the sacrifice, holding torches and echoing their leader’s chants.
The chief druid spoke faster and louder, looking up to the blackness of the heavens in the night sky briefly, before plunging a long blade into the lower abdomen of the unconscious Roman. The unfortunate young man twitched violently, but mercifully did not regain consciousness as the druid sliced him open, disemboweling him as his guts and copious amounts of blood splashed into the wicker basket. The druid then reached in and removed the still twitching heart, which he dropped amongst the guts with a sickening slap. Streams of foul liquid ran out the bottom as Archantael carried it over to a stone alter. It was partially hollowed out, creating a large bowl in the top, which was covered in burning timbers.
