by James Mace
“That’ll be the Durotriges,” Magnus surmised. “They will have been on the march for at least two weeks.”
“I thought there were far more of them,” a tribune said.
“Oh, there are,” Magnus replied. “And, I daresay, most of them are throwing themselves against Sabinus and Vespasian’s shield walls, provided they got across without meeting disaster. But the Durotriges are a confederation rather than single tribal kingdom. I figure these twats probably saw an opportunity to take part in the glory, once they heard just how massive an army Togodumnus had assembled.”
“That also means our rear cohorts with the baggage trains will run right into them,” Praxus added. “If they see our supply trains, no doubt the Durotriges will make a play for them.”
“Our mission is to protect the flank, as well as preventing further reinforcements,” Artorius observed. “We’ll meet these bastards head-on and smash them into oblivion! How far are they?”
“About six miles,” Taurus answered. “My men intercepted a rider from Togodumnus, who had just reported to these men that there is a major battle in progress, and they need to move quickly. About a mile north of here the ground opens up, and you should have no issue deploying your battle lines.”
“Form the legion,” Artorius ordered his senior officers. “Have all cohort commanders report to me immediately. Let us hope that if they have spotted our logistics trains, those two cohorts are enough to hold them in place. Taurus, inform Vespasian and let him know our legion’s disposition. My apologies to him for not being able to crawl up Togodumnus’ ass like I intended, but unfortunately, we will not be able to hit the main enemy force in the flank without leaving ourselves exposed to attack from behind.”
“Keep them from reinforcing Togodumnus, and I’m sure Vespasian will be most grateful,” Taurus said before riding off, following by a swarm of auxiliary cavalry.
“A bit of a relief to have seen friendlies on this side of the river,” Magnus thought aloud.
“Indeed,” Artorius replied. He then gave his next orders. “Have the legion form into four marching columns ready to move into battle formation once we close with the enemy.”
“The Romans are pushing us back, my king!” a messenger said frantically. “We can’t seem to mass our numbers effectively against their shield wall.”
“We have many times the strength of the Romans now facing us,” Togodumnus growled. “What do you mean we are getting pushed back?”
“Sire!” another man said as he rode up. “A second Roman legion has landed near the mouth of the river. They are supported by warships, unleashing great fire upon our men who tried to stop them.”
Togodumnus shoved the men aside and quickly walked over to the edge of the small hilltop. In the distance, off to his left, he could just make out the sails of several Roman vessels in the deep waters. He even thought he could see the flaming shot from one of their catapults.
“Send word to my brother,” the king ordered. “He is to drive the Romans back into the river. I will deal with those who are landing by sea.” He called for his horse and quickly sped down the gentle slope of the hill.
Bands of warriors were slowly making their way towards the battle, though many seemed to lack guidance or initiative. It was as if they were hoping the issue would be decided before any of them had to do actual fighting. The reality was their army was so vast that it had become unmanageable. It was proving to be impractical for either the king or Caratacus to coordinate such a massive and unwieldy force. And for those bands of warriors not of the Catuvellauni, they felt less inclined to press the attack once they crashed into the Roman lines and felt the biting death of legionary steel.
Plautius watched from the deck of Stoppello’s flagship as waves of legionaries disembarked near a small creek that intersected with the main river. The smaller Roman triremes had been equipped with multiple catapults, which they used to send flaming shot over the heads of the advancing soldiers, raining down amongst the barbarians that were attempting to rally upon the far bank. Archers from the closer ships unleashed volleys of flaming arrows as well, driving their enemy back and allowing the infantry time to form up on the sloping terrain that led away from the river. The ground here was coarse and sandy, covered in low grasses, weeds, and small yellow flowers.
“Our enemy is a disorganized rabble,” Plautius noted with contempt. “They outnumber us significantly, yet they do little to try and stop my men from forming up on their side of the river.”
“A little fire does a lot to cower the superstitious,” Stoppello remarked as the catapult on a nearby trireme sent a flaming ball in a high arc. It smashed on the rocks near a slowly advancing band of barbarians, who immediately scattered and fled back towards their more wary friends.
“I only hope Vespasian’s crossing is going well,” the commander-in-chief noted. “His is the crux of this operation; this is little more than a sideshow to draw off more of Togodumnus’ warriors.”
On the field across the water they saw a more daring horde of their foes, at last, make a concerted attack against their still-forming lines. Legionaries were quick to unleash a storm of javelins before drawing their gladii and charging headlong into the barbarians.
“This outcropping of land rests between two great rivers,” Stoppello observed. “The river to the north is substantially larger than this one and can handle even my much larger Quinqueremes. I suspect that if we are successful here, the enemy will try and cross that one in order to escape from us. I recommend dispatching a flotilla of ships to cover that river and harry them in the event they try and flee.”
“A solid plan,” Plautius noted as the admiral gave the orders to his signalman, who in return passed the message to a nearby river barge that acted as messenger between the larger vessels.
On the far shore, Sabinus and his men had formed their battle line at a right angle from the river, allowing the warships to continue to harass the flank of the barbarians with catapult and archers. The Syrian allied detachment under Achillia had disembarked behind the legion and was providing additional support with harassing volleys into the barbarian ranks. Their enemies were holding their ground well in the ensuing bloody grind against the legions. Given their numbers, they could withstand the disproportionate casualties they suffered. It was the fire from the ship-borne catapults and archers that proved most demoralizing. And so the bloody business of the day continued.
As he came down the hill, the sounds of the main battle reverberating not far away, Togodumnus was flabbergasted when he came upon an entire force of allied warriors who were still gathered around their campfires. Not one was armed for battle, a few still slumbered, while others ate. “What is the meaning of this?” Togodumnus snapped. “Do you not hear the sounds of battle not a mile from here?”
“We hear it,” a warrior shrugged. “Seems we have plenty of time to finish our breakfast.”
“You pile of vermin shit!” the king shouted. “You will arm yourselves for battle this instant!”
“I think not,” another man said, who Togodumnus recognized as the war chief, Banning. These men were of the Corieltauvi, a tribe just north of Catuvellauni, who they had fought border skirmishes with in recent years. It was a curse for Togodumnus, having to rely upon shaky alliances with many whom they had recently drawn blood against.
“My men will attack when they are good and ready,” the war chief persisted. “And let us hope that your own warriors have not cut and run already.”
“Even now, you would let our past differences risk us both losing everything against the Romans,” Togodumnus growled at the man. “You are a vile coward and no warrior!”
“Go fuck yourself!” Banning retorted. “You dare call us cowards, yet where were the Catuvellauni when my warriors were spilling their blood on the shores of this isle? We implored you to join us on the beaches, and you did nothing! You are not my king, Togodumnus, so do not ever try and order my men again! Consider yourself fortunate to have us
here, lest we abandon you to deal with the Romans, like you did us.”
The king knew further arguments were pointless, and so he rode away towards the fighting in the west. False friends like Banning were a greater threat to him than even the Romans. Once the invaders were dealt with, he would teach those impudent bastards a harsh lesson!
As he approached the western wing of the battle, where the Romans had landed another legion, his men had been driven further inland by the fire from the enemy warships, yet their numbers were still proving sufficient to withstand the onslaught of legionaries. Once out of range of the catapults, the battle became one of attrition, and Togodumnus guessed that the issue would not be decided before the day was finished.
“Sir, there they are!” a soldier cried out from off to Artorius’ left.
The additional Durotriges bands had, indeed, spotted and attempted to take the supply wagons of the Twentieth Legion, who had found the same fording point used earlier by Taurus and his cavalry. The master centurion was thankful that he’d detached two cohorts to protect them, as he’d originally only intended to send one. The legionaries had formed a protective square around the supply train with the wagons formed into a crude circle. The Durotriges were taunting them and attacking with small groups of warriors, who were attempting to achieve a break in the Roman line. Outnumbered nearly ten-to-one, it seemed like only a matter of time before the cohorts were overwhelmed and slaughtered to a man.
“Battle formation!” Artorius shouted, the cornicen echoing the order with blasts from his trumpet. The Durotriges were, at first, shocked to see most of a legion now bearing down on them with cohorts fanning out into battle lines. Many of them abandoned the attack on the supply trains and, instead, moved in a confused mass towards the advancing legionaries.
Despite the fairly open terrain, Artorius found it impractical to place his entire legion on line, even with just eight cohorts at his disposal. Instead, he positioned five cohorts in front with about ten to twenty meters spacing between. The remaining three formed up behind these, staggered between the gaps. This gave a large enough frontage, while also allowing for greater control and situational awareness, as well as maintaining a needed reserve. Camillus instinctively fell in just behind Artorius and off to his right. Though his purpose was to carry the eagle and use it to relay any visual signals, as well as watching for any indications sent back from the other cohorts, his sword arm twitched, anxious as always to take part in the fighting.
The warriors coming at them were at first sprinting, but as the more fleet-footed grew closer to the advancing wall of shields, they suddenly slowed their pace, allowing their friends to catch up before advancing again. These particular fighters had never faced Roman soldiers before, and to see thousands of men marching together with such discipline, while also encased in heavy armor behind a wall of brightly-painted shields was, in the very least, unnerving.
“Fight with courage,” Magnus said, beginning a Nordic battle chant he had heard from the time he was a child. “Fight with honor, and if you must die, then do so with the gratitude that you died in battle. Today is a good day!”
“Steady lads!” Artorius said, as much for his own benefit as his men.
The centuries behind him slowed their pace slightly, allowing for a greater distance between ranks. The barbarians to their immediate front, though at first slowed by indecision, were soon carried forward by their comrades on a wave of fury.
“Javelins ready!” Artorius shouted, drawing his gladius as his men hefted their heavy pila to throwing position. The subsequent centuries had not readied their javelins yet; the First Cohort having adopted the practice of each rank unleashing its pila just prior to executing its first passage-of-lines.
Their enemy was getting closer. Even moving at a dead run, it was still an anxious few moments before they closed. Artorius’ eyes were fixed on one younger man with a filthy red beard who carried a woodsman’s axe. It served as a reminder that these were not professional soldiers, but simply men who became warriors when the need rose to defend their homes or when summoned by their king. As they drew closer, Artorius could hear the man’s battle cry over the wall of sound coming from his companions as he raised his axe over his shoulder.
“Javelins…throw!”
The Durotriges were caught off guard by the storm of javelins suddenly unleashed upon them. Many, who thought the Romans may use them as stabbing spears, were suddenly impaled or had their shields punctured and ripped from their arms. Warriors suddenly found themselves stumbling over their stricken companions, many of whom cried out in pain as their guts were punctured through. One poor man had taken a pilum through the bowels and was pinned to the ground as a result. He gasped for air as the agony overwhelmed him. The hideous entrance and exit wounds seeping both blood and excrement. Another javelin slammed clean through a warrior’s heart, bursting out his back. Though he was killed instantly, his body continued to stumble forward a few feet, eyes glassy and vacant, mouth open as he collapsed just in front of the legionary who slew him.
Artorius braced himself behind his shield, his gladius protruding forward at hip level. With his head being the only viable target for his opponent, he quickly ducked down as the barbarian’s blow came crashing down, driving forward and knocking the man off balance with his shield. He rotated his hips and thrust his gladius deep into the warrior’s stomach while still keeping low. The entire struggle had lasted maybe a couple seconds, and Artorius was immediately back behind his shield. As instinct took over, he was relieved to note that age had not slowed down his reflexes.
There had been no order for his men to draw their gladii; each soldier unsheathing his weapon as soon as he let his pilum fly. Despite the losses they had already incurred, the Durotriges came at the Romans with brutal tenacity. Spears, clubs, axes, and the occasional sword smashed into the shield wall as the Romans continued to press forward, their gladii stabbing forward repeatedly. The barbarians were valiant, though lacking the reckless abandon with which many of their Germanic adversaries had fought with in past campaigns.
“Set for passage-of-lines!” Artorius shouted, the command being echoed down the line. Upon hearing his, Magnus shouted a subsequent order, directing his men to unleash their pila. The following storm of javelins went over the heads of or, in some cases, between the soldiers in the front rank. The Durotriges warriors fell back in disarray as they were mauled once again.
“Execute passage-of-lines!”
The javelins giving them a split second of breathing space, the soldiers in the front rank turned sideways, holding their shields against their bodies, as those in the second rank rushed past them, smashing their shields into their reeling enemy once more. Artorius and his men passed through Praxus’ and the remaining two centuries, all of whom had their javelins ready to fly.
As he reached the rear of the formation, Artorius took a drink off his water bladder and wiped a rag over his forehead. He then looked around to try and get a sense of situational awareness. As best he could tell, the remaining cohorts were pressing forward with no noticeable breaches in the lines by the Durotriges. Behind him, he could see two of his reserve cohorts, each marching slowly while following the main battle line. The master centurion reasoned that if he could break their enemy before deploying his reserves, he would use them to conduct the pursuit. He noticed that from a distance the terrain looked relatively flat. It was, in fact, full of small defilades and rolling mounds. The left wing of the First Cohort was moving laterally along a short rise, while the right was stuck in a saddle with no real ability to get a larger look at the overall battle.
“Can’t see a fucking thing down here,” he swore quietly.
“If we can keep pushing these bastards back, that rise to our immediate front should provide a decent vantage,” Camillus observed.
Magnus was soon giving his men the order to set for passage-of-lines with Praxus’ legionaries hurling the next volley of heavy javelins. This tactic was proving demora
lizing for their enemy, far more so than the conventional method of employing all javelins before closing with the gladius. From the enemy’s perspective, once the storm of death passed, it was over. Here the First Cohort was continuing to throw measured volleys at close range, leaving scores of casualties in their wake. As the line continued to move forward, they found themselves stumbling over the bodies of their fallen adversaries. A few were dead with many more wounded and unable to extract themselves before the Romans overwhelmed them. Many of these were quickly dispatched by legionaries in the subsequent ranks.
Ten minutes later, as the fifth rank made ready to call for passage-of-lines, the cohort reached the top of the knoll. As Artorius and the first rank smashed forward into the brawl once again, they noticed the barbarians were starting to give ground at a much faster rate. Clearly they were starting to fall apart, and Artorius wanted to press the advantage home as quickly as possible.
“Camillus!” he shouted, as he shoved an enemy warrior back with his shield. “See if you can tell whether the entire barbarian horde is breaking yet!”
The aquilifer slammed the base spike of the eagle into the ground and sprinted a few feet up to the highest point, quickly scanning around them.
“They’re pulling back on the right wing!” he replied excitedly. “It looks like they are attempting a fighting withdrawal. I can’t see the left, though. There’s another damn rise in the way.”
“Signal the reserve cohorts to attack!” the master centurion ordered. It was maddening, trying to coordinate an entire legion, while at the same time dealing with individual warriors who wanted to spill his guts. The man to his front looked haggard and exhausted and was starting to back away quickly. Camillus’ visual signal was met by the blaring of the cornicens’ trumpets from behind the line. Unbeknownst to Artorius, a band of rather brazen barbarians caught sight of the legion’s sacred standard and made a rush for Camillus, who quickly drew his sword and unslung his buckler as he made ready to defend the eagle.
