by James Mace
“Combined losses between all battle groups came to three hundred and fifty-five dead with about three times as many wounded; regrettable, but acceptable, sir.”
“Agreed,” Plautius confirmed. “We’ll cross to the north side of the river tomorrow and establish a more permanent camp there. I know the men are exhausted, but we cannot tolerate a substantial enemy presence in this area, and they must be driven off or killed.”
Caratacus, the new king of the Catuvellauni, felt very much alone. Though he had not seen his brother fall, there had been many who did, and the fact that he had failed to rally with the remnants of his army spoke volumes. Also among the dead was Silyen, the leader of the Silures. Only King Donan of the Durotriges confederation was at the king’s fire that night, and his news proved even bleaker for Caratacus.
“I am sorry, my friend,” Donan said consolingly. “But with the losses we’ve suffered already and with the collapse of the alliance, we must look to our own borders. As it is, there will many fewer of us to take in the harvest this year. And for all we know, the Romans could have launched a second invasion force and be ravaging my lands even as we speak.”
It was a hard blow for Caratacus, but in truth one he could not fault Donan. After all, the Durotriges had traveled more than a hundred miles outside of their own kingdom in order to stand with the Catuvellauni, even though the Romans had not made a single aggressive gesture towards them.
Caratacus said as much.
“It is only a matter of time until Rome comes for us,” Donan said. “They are like locusts, consuming everything in their path; ever hungry, desiring more. I am sorry to have to leave you, my friend. You have a way of rallying people to you, even more than your brother did. No disrespect meant to him, for he died valiantly. I also do not mean to place more of a burden upon you, but I think that you will soon become the face behind the resistance to Rome. And once I can ensure the safety of my lands, the Durotriges will stand with you once more.”
Artorius stood looking down towards the expanse of the river below. The Tamesis was substantially larger than the last river they had crossed, though thankfully this had a useable bridge, plus their enemy appeared to be all but beaten. He hoped that in the morning they would confirm that King Togodumnus was, in fact, dead; his alliance of tribal kingdoms completely shattered.
He looked down at the gash on his forearm that had since scabbed over and was now wrapped in a bandage. It was simply the latest of many scars his body had endured in his decades serving as a soldier of Rome. Though he was still very fit and immensely strong, Artorius knew his body simply did not heal as fast as it once had. The nights without sleep before and after a major battle also took its toll on him far more than it had in the past. And while Artorius refused to ever consider himself anything remotely resembling ‘old’, he had to acknowledge that he was not the young lad who joined the legions all those years before. The fact that he found himself thinking about the past so much, only served to drive this point home.
Perhaps he was finally reaching the end of his fighting profession. Diana certainly would not object! He let out a sigh as he thought about his wife. Not a day passed that he did not long to hold her once again, twenty years together doing nothing to dissipate his desire for her. As he lay down on his camp bed and allowed sleep to take him, he could almost feel Diana next to him, her gentle touch soothing after the savagery and loss he’d suffered the past few days.
Chapter XX: Send for Caesar!
***
“Is this him?” Plautius asked.
The slain man at his feet was large and well built. His tunic, while filthy and now soaked in blood, was of naturally brighter colors than his contemporaries. He also wore a light mail shirt, though it had failed to withstand a pair of arrows that jutted forth from the chest and side. Perhaps most telling was the large sword that lay next to his outstretched hand. A much higher quality weapon than those found on even the nobles they had killed or captured, it was a large two-handed great sword with a highly polished blade and a pommel that was wrapped in leather cords; practical, yet fitting for a warrior king.
The prisoner, who’d been one of Togodumnus’ war chiefs, suddenly fell to his knees, his eyes wet with tears. His hands trembled as his face turned red with sorrow and anger. In a cry of hatred, he lunged forward and grabbed the king’s sword. He quickly spun around, but before he could get to his feet, a legionary’s hobnailed sandal stomped him hard across the head, sprawling him backwards. The soldier rapidly drew his gladius and plunged the blade deep in the war chief’s guts. The man’s eyes rolled back into his head as he clutched his bleeding stomach. The legionary spat on him contemptuously.
“Apologies, sir,” the soldier said as he turned to face his commanding general. “I could have easily subdued him without killing him.”
“I’ll never reprimand a legionary for being quick and precise with his weapon,” Plautius replied. “Besides, his reaction told me what I wanted to know.” He picked up the Catuvellauni king’s sword, admiring its balance and craftsmanship. “This is a fine weapon,” Plautius noted as he showed the blade to Sabinus before handing it to a nearby soldier. “See to it this gets placed in my luggage.”
“Sir!” the legionary acknowledged with a sharp salute before he took the sword away.
“With Togodumnus dead, his brother fled, the alliance shattered, and the remnants in this region cornered,” Plautius thought aloud, “I think it is time we send for Caesar.”
“And what for?” Sabinus asked. “No disrespect intended, but Claudius is no soldier, we don’t exactly need him here.”
“True,” the commander-in-chief conceded. “However, he needs his victory to be seen so that the triumph can be his. Why do you think we invaded this damned isle in the first place?”
“Well, there is a lot of fertile land,” Sabinus observed. “Not like Rome actually needs it, though. And they may have some precious metals, but nothing that cannot already be found in ready supply within the empire.”
“Exactly,” Plautius replied. “We invaded for one reason alone; so that Emperor Claudius could claim that he succeeded where even the great Julius Caesar had failed. He can also claim to have stood for justice, as he restored an allied king to his throne. Let’s just be honest with ourselves, Sabinus, this invasion was a political conquest, nothing more.”
“You don’t seem very distraught over the notion,” Sabinus observed.
“I’m not,” Plautius replied, shaking his head. “I simply accept things for what they are. Besides, a new province requires a new governor, and who do you think the emperor will turn to? Don’t mistake me, though, when Claudius asked me to assemble and lead his invasion force, the last thing on my mind was having my own province to govern.”
“Still, it is a sufficient reward for the conquering hero,” Sabinus said, causing Plautius to laugh. “I reckon all wars are political in the end. Well, let us send for Caesar, then!”
With a lull in activity while the army waited for the emperor to arrive from the continent, Artorius took it upon himself to honor their dead. Most of the fallen had come from the regular cohorts, and he left the ceremonies to their respective centurions. Of the thirty-five dead the legion had suffered during the two days of fighting, four were from the First Cohort, along with Camillus.
The cohort was arrayed in parade formation, weapons and armor still battered from the previous days’ fighting. The four centurions primus ordo stood in front of the formation. Though Legionary Amatius was not officially part of the cohort, he still stood with the eagle, which he would carry until such time as a replacement for Camillus was promoted. Artorius had also given the young soldier leave to return to his century later that day in order to attend the military honors being rendered to a friend of his who was slain during the battle.
Artorius slowly stepped in front of the formation and faced his men, his hands clasped behind his back. He spoke calmly, though he found his voice was already starting to break.
“Today, we honor the sacrifice of our friends, who have paid the ultimate price for Rome and the empire. Every man lost is a son of a grieving mother, often times a father to now-orphaned children, and always a brother to his friends in the ranks. Remember them! Gladius…draw!” As his men drew their weapons, Artorius closed his eyes and proceeded to, in what was a tradition going back hundreds of years, recite the names of each man killed three times.
“Legionary Gaius Fronto! Legionary Gaius Fronto! Legionary Gaius Fronto!”
“Legionary Sextus Villius! Legionary Sextus Villius! Legionary Sextus Villius!”
He paused briefly before reciting the last name, quietly hoping that this would be the final time he would ever have to do a call to the fallen for one of his friends.
“Aquilifer Manius Camillus! Aquilifer Manius Camillus! Aquilifer Manius Camillus!”
Claudius’ arrival was nothing short of a grand spectacle that had been months in the planning. Upon receiving word that the invasion force had landed, the emperor made ready to move his seat of government from Rome to Gesoriacum. The consuls had been given authority to speak on his behalf in all affairs except those of the gravest importance. As the thousand-mile journey over land would have taken months, Claudius had elected to travel by ship, despite his violent seasickness. This long trek around Hispania and up the northern coast of Gaul still took the better part of a month. Claudius had brought an entire fleet of ships which carried his personal baggage, several cohorts of the Praetorian Guard, a dozen senators and their necessities, as well as several new war machines that he intended to give to his commanding general in Britannia. Therefore, once Plautius had sent for him, it took but a few days for word to reach Claudius, who was anxious to set foot on his newly-won conquest.
The emperor rode in an ornate chariot drawn by a team of spectacular Arabian horses. He wore a brightly polished breastplate with a purple cloak flowing in the breeze behind him. Atop his head was the customary laurel crown that he wore to official functions. Behind him rode a dozen senators, to include Glabrio, who looked as disinterested as ever. Behind them marched four cohorts of the Praetorian Guard. A company of Syrian archers followed, though it was what came next that capped off the grandiose display. The trumpeting of elephants at first seemed unreal to the legionaries who stood in parade formation, lining either side of the open road. Four of them came into view, heavily armored, with covered baskets atop, where rode their North African handlers.
All four legions lined both sides of the road in cohorts of six ranks. Auxiliary cohorts stood in formation behind the legions, with the cavalry regiments arrayed behind them. As the emperor rode past, he held his arm high in salute to his brave legions. Artorius and the other master centurions drew their weapons and turned to face their legions.
“Gladius…draw!” he shouted. Swords flashed from their scabbards and were held up in return of the emperor’s salute.
As one, the soldiers gave a loud ovation, “Hail Caesar! Hail Caesar! Hail Caesar!”
Claudius face broke into a broad smile and as he passed, Artorius surmised that this was the happiest moment in the emperor’s long life.
At the end of the road stood the Praetorium that Plautius had ordered erected. A great red tent stood in the center where the four eagles of the legions stood posted, along with the regimental standards of the auxiliary units that had taken part in the invasion. Plautius, Vespasian, Sabinus, Geta, and Cursor all stood outside the entrance, each man wearing his best armor. King Cogidubnus was also there to greet the emperor; Plautius having extended the invitation to him soon after the battle between the rivers. Though he’d kept his longer hair, he now wore a Roman style toga, complete with a broad purple stripe of the senatorial class, denoting him as their peer.
“Ave, Caesar!” the commander-in-chief said as Claudius awkwardly dismounted from his chariot.
His limp and other physical limitations did not give the appearance of a conquering leader but, then again, the divine Augustus had hardly looked the role of the soldier, either.
“Plautius,” Claudius said, clasping the legate’s hand. “You’ve done well, conquering a p…province in such a short t…time.” Secretly the emperor cursed himself for his stammer, but Plautius seemed not to notice.
“We’ve established a province, Caesar, but the work has only just begun,” Plautius replied candidly as he led the emperor into the massive tent.
Inside was lined with work tables, couches, as well as an entire dining room setup and numerous columns bearing statues and other décor.
“King Cogidubnus,” Claudius said with a respectful nod towards the Atrebates monarch.
“Hail, Caesar,” he replied, placing a hand over his heart and bowing at the waist.
Servants helped the emperor out of his armor and onto a waiting couch where a large map was spread out on the table. Rather than showing the entire isle, it detailed the southeast portion where the invasion force landed, where decisive battles had taken place, as well as the current borders, following the latest battles.
Plautius pointed to the spot where the camp now stood. “This great river here is called Tamesis1 by the locals. Camulodunum2 is the name of the fortified town about forty-five miles north of here. It is the costal capital of the Catuvellauni, who have made up the core of resistance we’ve faced.”
“Their king, Togodumnus, was killed during the last battle,” Vespasian added. “His brother, Caratacus, has fled, though we do not know where yet. He may be in Camulodunum, or he could have fled to the west with his closet allies, the Silures.”
“I know who they are,” Claudius remarked. “Beastly people, prone to violence and w…war.”
“I’ll give them their due,” Geta said. “They fought like lions, but quickly fled once the rest of their alliance scattered.”
“For now we don’t have to concern ourselves with them,” Plautius said, getting the men back to the task at hand. “Camulodunum is the last stronghold of the Catuvellauni. As such, we sent for you, Caesar.”
“So that I…I could claim victory over our enemies,” the emperor said with a raised eyebrow. He then noted how Plautius looked taken aback. “Oh, come off it, man. I kn…know why you sent for me; so that I could say that I personally triumphed in the end. It was very thoughtful of you, though I know your men could have finished this on their own. Still, my coming here will not be a total waste, as you saw by the elephants I brought with me.”
“Those will serve to terrorize the Catuvellauni,” Vespasian concurred. “Hell, they terrify our own men!”
“Quite,” the emperor said with a nod. “I have also brought you some new siege engines that you may or may not be able to use, depending on h…how much fight the barbarians have left in them.”
“Bugger me, would you look at the size of that thing!” Master Centurion Lyto said as Artorius walked over to where his peer was staring at what appeared to be an oversized scorpion. It had the same double-arms with a tension rope in the center and was drawn back by a pair of hand cranks. The long trough that the firing rope slid along was tilted back so that the weapon was set to fire at high elevation. What was baffling about the entire contraption was its sheer size; more than double the height of a man, and instead of bolts it shot large catapult stones, much larger than those flung by the onagers.
“Siege ballista, sir!” a centurion said as he stepped down from an inspection he’d been making of his weapon. “The emperor brought ten of these to supplement your artillery arsenal. It can fling stones far heavier than an onager and nearly twice the distance.”
“It is a fearsome machine,” Artorius conjectured. “What I want to know is how much does the damn thing weigh? I mean, can we conceivably carry these contraptions with us on campaign?”
“Well, she’s not as heavy as she looks,” the centurion answered. “However, I confess the weight and logistics are still an issue; not just with the ballistae themselves, but with the number of ox carts necessary to carry sufficient ammunitio
n. Still, if you ever need to break an enemy fortress, this is the weapon to do it with.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” Lyto concurred. “My chief of artillery will want to have a look at these.”
“Of course,” the centurion said with a nod. “Please know, too, that we brought our own crews and logistics staff of cart drivers, ammunition handlers, and stone masons.”
“Well, that does mean a few more mouths to feed, but we’ll make due,” Lyto said, extending his hand to the centurion. “Welcome to the Army of Britannia.”
The centurion accepted his hand before Lyto and Artorius left him to continue in his work.
“Fuck me!” Artorius said with a laugh. “Alright, logistics and transportation issues aside, I would still love to see one of those in action. Hard to believe the emperor brought us ten of those monsters!”
Three days later, as Claudius rode in his chariot at the center of the massed column that marched towards the rebel stronghold at Camulodunum, he appreciated the stamina and intestinal fortitude of the Roman legionary. While it was uncomfortable for him having to stand for long periods, the emperor could not help but marvel at the soldiers who marched with not just their armor and weapons, but packs full of rations, entrenching tools, and various personal effects. Combine this with the fact that they could march between fifteen and twenty-five miles per day, depending on the terrain, and build a fortified camp every night was a colossal feat in its own right. Claudius made mention of this to Plautius on the third night of their march.
“They are the reason you control an empire that stretches from here down to North Africa and east to Mesopotamia,” the legate remarked.
They sat on couches inside the Praetorium tent while the incessant rains that had been falling since midafternoon resounded loudly outside.
