Soldier of Rome: The Last Campaign (The Artorian Chronicles)

by James Mace

  “What do we think they’re full strength is?” Sabinus asked Cursor, whose scouts were still riding up and down the river.

  “All told, perhaps one-hundred thousand,” the cavalry commander answered, “possibly more. I still have several reconnaissance patrols to the southwest that haven’t reported back yet. They’re also trying to find us a viable ford because, as you can see, where we stand now is damn near impassible.”

  “The terrain is wooded in places, but also relatively flat,” Centurion Taurus spoke up, having led one of the scouting missions personally. “They have little cavalry, but what they do have are chariots and lots of them. Some of the lighter ones are probably for carrying archers to harass us; but they also have a number of heavy bastards with large blades protruding from the wheel hubs.”

  “No doubt their intent is to use these to break our shield walls,” Vespasian conjectured.

  “Well, if there are any fords that our scouts find,” Plautius added, “you can bet Togodumnus knows about them.”

  “Possibly,” Cursor replied. “Remember, these are not his lands. Even our allies among the Cantiaci are uncertain as to whether the river can be crossed safely. Several of them are riding with my remaining patrols.”

  “Whatever they find, we need to at least make a show of force here,” Vespasian said.

  As the men conferred, a rider stopped just outside the tent. He spoke quickly with the guards at the entrance and was ushered in. He was a cavalryman from Indus’ Horse, and he looked soaked and out of breath.

  “Forgive my intrusion, sir,” he said with a sharp salute to Plautius.

  “Never mind that,” Plautius replied with an impatient wave. “What news do you bring?”

  “We’re still trying to find a place for the legions to cross,” the trooper replied. “However, we did manage to get eyes on the remainder of the enemy force.”

  “Well?”

  “The Durotriges confederation has joined our enemy. Their warriors were still spread out on the march, but most of them will arrive this evening.”

  “How many?” Geta asked.

  “We apprised their numbers around forty-thousand, sir.”

  The cavalryman’s report brought some stifled groans from the assembled leaders.

  “Well, we wanted a decisive battle, and now they’re obliging us,” Vespasian chuckled.

  “Are these numbers in addition to the hundred thousand Togodumnus already has assembled?” Geta persisted, ignoring his fellow legate’s attempt at humor. He shook his head when the trooper nodded. “Damn it all, they outnumber us three-to-one! And with no viable crossing for the river, plus heavy chariots arrayed against us, we’re looking at a fucking blood bath!”

  “Perhaps,” Vespasian shrugged. Despite being slightly younger and less experienced than his peers, the commander of the Second Legion possessed such a level of tactical and strategic intuition that when he spoke, even Plautius listened. He continued, “If your scouts were able to swim across the river unseen, then we can get at least a sizeable raiding party over to the other side without causing alarm.”

  “And what are you proposing they do against a hundred and forty thousand men?” Geta asked. His voice betrayed his doubts. However, he was still hopeful.

  “Nothing,” Vespasian answered. “We don’t do shit to their warriors. What we do is eliminate their chariots. Their morale will take a serious blow, to say nothing of the knowledge that they will have to face our legions head-on, once we find out how to get them across.” He then turned to Stoppello. “Admiral, can any of your ships sail these waters?”

  “It’s wide enough, though we don’t know for certain how deep the river is,” Stoppello replied. “However, I am reasonably confident that my smaller triremes can get as far as our camp. After that, we risk bottoming out in the shallower depths. What are you suggesting?”

  “Fire support,” Vespasian answered, bringing a grin from Plautius.

  “I like the way you think,” the commander-in-chief replied. He then directed the naval officer, “Stoppello, a dozen ships loaded for bear with catapults, ready to harry our foe with solid shot and fire.”

  “I need two days to prepare,” the admiral stated. “My triremes only have a single catapult, and to transfer additional siege engines from the bigger ships will take time.”

  “Then two days is what you have,” Plautius said. “Meanwhile, we’ll keep searching for viable fording points and gather any additional information we can about our adversaries. That is all.”

  The sky was glowing red in the west behind him as Artorius walked over to the riverbank. He was soon joined by Tribune Cursor, who stood with his arms folded across his chest.

  “Think your lads can find us a way across this?” the master centurion asked his friend.

  “Even if they can, I doubt it will be practical for forty-thousand men to use all at once,” Cursor replied. “We could always pick up and move to the southwest, in hopes of finding a way around the river. However, I agree with Plautius that our best chance of smashing the barbarians is here. After all, there is nothing to say that they won’t change their minds about fighting us or simply shadow us the whole way around, ambushing our men once we do find a crossing. No, we must find a way to beat them here.”

  “Then I guess a few of us will be getting wet,” Artorius chuckled. He thought for a few moments before speaking again. “You know, we don’t all have to cross together.”

  “What are you thinking?” the tribune asked, looking over at him with a raised eyebrow.

  “I agree, make a show of force here,” Artorius began. “But if Stoppello is going to be using his ships for fire support, then why not use them to land at least some of our troops to the east?”

  “A capital idea,” Vespasian said behind them.

  “General, sir,” Artorius said as he and Cursor turned and saluted the legate.

  “I came down here to think a little bit, too,” Vespasian said. “But do go on. What else are you proposing, master centurion?”

  “Leave two legions here,” Artorius replied. “Have them bear the brunt of the assault, while another launches its attack by ship from the east.”

  “And the fourth legion?”

  “They can go with the cavalry, find a way across the river, and then envelope the enemy’s western flank.”

  “An interesting concept,” Vespasian remarked. “Alright, I’ll mention it to Plautius. And don’t worry, I’ll make sure he knows who to give credit or place blame on.” He winked at his last remark as he made his way back towards the principia.

  “You know,” Cursor said, “the reality may be that there simply aren’t any viable crossing points close enough for men carrying heavy weapons and armor.”

  “Well, not with that attitude…sir,” Artorius replied with a short chuckle.

  “Artorius!” The shouted call from Vespasian alerted them, and they turned to see Vespasian standing just outside the large tent, signaling for the master centurion to join him.

  “Plautius must think you’re on to something,” Cursor remarked.

  The young warrior had struggled to find his way to Togodumnus’ camp, delirious from loss of blood and the shock at having his hand severed with the stump subsequently cauterized with a red hot piece of iron. A small group of Durotriges fighters had found him lingering outside their camp fire soon after they finished their march into the two rivers. Their intent was to join up with Togodumnus in the morning, and these men immediately took the badly injured young man to King Donan. Rains had started to fall, and they beat down on the hut of animal skins the king’s men had erected for him. A fire burned in the center, and the young man was helped into a small wicker chair and given a hide blanket to wrap himself in. One of the camp women brought him some ale.

  “Bring him food, as well,” Donan ordered.

  “T…the Romans did this,” the young man said, his voice trembling badly. “I must f…find King Togodumnus.”

  “It’s alri
ght lad, we’re friends of your king,” Donan replied, placing a hand on his shoulder. “We are joining up with him to expel from our lands those bastards who did this to you.”

  As he ate, the man told about the horrors inflicted upon them by the invaders, including the horrific machines they used that could spit both fire and stone. His ramblings sounded delusional, which was of little surprise given that he had a bad fever, and his skin burned to the touch. What Donan did understand was that the Romans were without mercy, taking into slavery all who they did not kill outright. They had also committed a terrible sacrilege by crucifying the village druid. Even in their bloodiest conflicts with hated enemies, no warrior within Britannia was allowed to harm a druid; their sacred persons being inviolable.

  “If even half of what he says is true,” a war chief said after the lad had fallen asleep from exhaustion, “then we are facing a different sort of enemy. What demonic monsters are these Romans?”

  “Not monsters,” Donan said, shaking his head. “They are still men, though clearly men with neither soul nor honor.”

  “We still have bands of warriors making their journey who are strung out between here and Dunium. I only hope the warriors we do have is sufficient.”

  “As do I,” Donan agreed. “Togodumnus has assembled quite the mighty host, yet I fear that many of these bands of warriors are, at best, unreliable and, at worst, traitorous.”

  The Ninth and Twentieth Legions would soon be breaking down their camps and making ready to march to their assault points. The Second and Fourteenth would remain in place, as they would be attacking their enemy head on across the river. Auxiliary regiments were scattered throughout the lands, already taken by the Romans with only a few infantry cohorts available. Several squadrons of cavalry were dispersed between each battle group to serve as both messengers and mounted support. However, Cursor was sending the majority of his corps to the west. Even if they could not find a suitable bridge or ford, his men could still readily swim their horses across the river. He had also placed these men under the command of Centurion Taurus, as he had elected to personally lead the pending nighttime raid against the enemy chariots.

  As evening fell upon the enormous camp, with the sun glowing red in the west, Admiral Stoppello arrived, along with several of his ships’ captains. Accompanying them was a company of what appeared to be Syrian archers. Magnus’ face broke into the broadest grin Artorius had ever seen as the Norseman raced over to the advancing group. It was only then that Artorius spotted Achillia, who Magnus took into his arms and kissed passionately. Though the sight made him miss Diana, Artorius was happy for his friend as he watched Magnus lead Achillia away towards his tent.

  Artorius sighed and then as he walked towards the principia, he saw two Britons being roughly handled by a group of dismounted cavalrymen, who were taking them into the large tent. As he was headed that way anyway, the master centurion decided to investigate further.

  “We found these two skulking about,” a trooper said as Artorius entered. “No doubt spies of Togodumnus!”

  “I’m telling you, we are not spies of Togodumnus!” the Briton with blonde hair said. His ability to converse in the Romans’ tongue startled them. He shook free of the grip of the trooper. “We are Brigantes, not Catuvellauni!”

  Artorius stared at the young man for some time before he finally realized who he was.

  “Hold up!” he said quickly, walking over to Plautius and the other senior leaders. “I think I know this man.” He then walked over to the Briton. “I do know you, don’t I? Alaric?”

  “You do,” he replied, recognizing the master centurion. “We sailed to Judea and fought those pirates all those years ago. And we met again at the crucifixion of the Nazarene.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Artorius said quietly. He looked up at the auxiliary troopers. “Unhand them.”

  “Do you mind telling us what the hell this is about?” Plautius snapped in irritation.

  “Respectfully, sir,” Artorius replied. “It’s a long story that I would prefer to tell another time. But suffice to say that I can vouch that these men are, in fact, Brigantes and not Catuvellauni.”

  “We are members of Queen Cartimandua’s personal guard,” Alaric explained.

  “So you’re not here to spy on us, then,” Plautius surmised.

  “We’ve been observing you for some time,” Alaric replied candidly. “But our task was for our queen, not Togodumnus.”

  “Plautius, these men can probably tell us the disposition of the Brigantes and if they are siding with the Catuvellauni,” Vespasian said.

  “I assure you, we’re not,” Alaric emphasized. “But then neither have we sided yet with Rome. You must understand our queen’s prudence in this matter.”

  “She’s waiting to see who the victors are,” Plautius concurred with a snort.

  “Believe me,” Alaric replied, “she has no love for Togodumnus. If she did, she would have sent our warriors to join him, and they are many. We are simply members of Cartimandua’s guard, as well as her eyes and ears. We have no mandate to speak on her behalf. However, I know her, personally, and can attest that her intention is to eventually forge an alliance with Rome.”

  “Very well,” Plautius stated. “Once we are finished with Togodumnus and whatever allies he has rallied against us, you will return to Brigantes and summon your queen to me. In the meantime, you will accompany General Vespasian and note well what happens to those who would dare oppose the might of Rome.”

  “Release his friend,” Vespasian ordered the auxiliary troopers. “He can return to his people tomorrow. This one will remain with us. Stable both of their horses, these two can bed down with the Syrian detachment.”

  Forgetting his original business in the principia, Artorius promptly left and followed the men outside, where night had fallen and only the glow of torches cast their light about.

  “I’ll take this one,” he told the troopers, who simply saluted and left with Alaric’s friend. He walked with the young man towards the edge of the camp. “Strange that we should find each other here of all places.”

  “Our lives seem to have come full circle once again, Roman,” Alaric replied. “Forgive me, but despite what would appear to be an intertwining of our destinies, I never once learned your name.”

  “Artorius,” the master centurion replied. “You say our destinies have been intertwined. Explain.”

  “You were there when my village was destroyed,” Alaric replied. “I know you were, I can sense it.” When Artorius did not speak he continued, “I was raised in these isles in the house of King Breogan. I grew up alongside Cartimandua, who I now serve. I think it was fated that we would end up on the same vessel bound for Judea.”

  “Why would you say that?” Artorius asked. “We never actually met then, and before tonight the only time we have spoken was after the Nazarene’s crucifixion.”

  “That may be,” Alaric replied, “but that makes our paths no less drawn together. You told me that you joined the army to avenge your brother, who was killed in an ambush that my people, the Marsi, took part in. In turn, when Rome unleashed its legions upon Germania, how many fell by your blade? And how many of those were even warriors, let alone those who might have taken part in Teutoburger Wald? Your hatred and bloodlust consumed you…”

  “And how the hell would you know that?” Artorius snapped, the young man’s words clearly striking a nerve. “I’ve spoken with you once in my entire life, and yet you presume much!”

  “It is only because it should have consumed me, as well,” Alaric replied. “You lost your brother. I lost almost my entire family. My father died in battle, so at least that was an honorable end. But what of my aunt and my cousin, who was just a newborn babe? I remember little from that time, as young as I was, but I do remember seeing her soon after she was born. She was scarcely a week old and completely blameless of any crime, and yet she was butchered by your legionaries.”

  Artorius said nothing as
they walked over to one of the ramparts near the river. Torches had been placed every twenty meters with sentries dispersed throughout. His face was sweating, despite the cool evening breeze that blew in off the water. Dark and foreboding memories had assailed him in recent days, and talking with this young man of a race he had tried to exterminate laid them all bare.

  “It is a vicious cycle,” Alaric said, collecting his own thoughts. “Hate begets hate and, in the name of retribution, the savage killing never ends. And yet, no one even knows where it all began or who struck the first blow.”

  “Why then did you fight alongside us, your mortal enemies, when we faced the pirates on the way to Judea?”

  “I was on the ship because I needed the work,” Alaric explained. “I was hired on as a skilled laborer and was never a member of the Roman navy. And when the pirates attacked, what choice did I really have? They would have killed me as readily as any of you, and had I not fought against them, then I would have been executed for cowardice. I had also made friends with the sailing master.” He was caught off guard when Artorius chuckled at this. “You know him?”

  “His brother is my best friend,” Artorius said. “Hansi now has command of his own ship.”

  “I am happy for him,” the young man replied. “Still, I knew I could not stay aboard a Roman warship any longer, so I took my share of the prize money from the sale of the pirate vessel and journeyed throughout the east, searching.”

  “For what?”

  “Another way,” Alaric answered. He went on to explain about his first meeting with the teacher from Nazareth, and his message of love and compassion. “When he first told us that we should love not just our neighbor, but also our enemy, it felt as if he was speaking directly to me; almost as if he knew about my past. He said we should love and forgive…”