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

by James Mace

  “And over time, I suppose we will all become Roman,” another elder spoke up.

  Claudius raised an eyebrow as this was translated for him. “Do you find this disagreeable?” he asked, the elders knowing it was a loaded question.

  “Those who would continue to fight against Rome have already fled,” the first elder said quickly. “Our people simply wish to be left in peace.”

  “And they shall,” Claudius replied.

  “You must understand, there are many benefits to falling under the rule of Rome,” Plautius added. “Our soldiers will now defend your lands, and an attack on you will be an attack on Rome.”

  “Some may say that you are no longer free,” Claudius spoke up. “But then were you before? Tell me, is the fear of starvation from a bad crop season, or the constant infighting and fear of being conquered by a neighboring kingdom that may not be as magnanimous as we are, is that really living free?”

  There was an uncomfortable pause, as none of the elders dared reply.

  “In time you will see the doles of being Roman subjects,” Plautius added. “In the very least, know that your children and grandchildren will live a better life with greater opportunities than they had before.”

  In one of the Roman camps outside the town, Magnus was having a celebration of his own with Achillia. As a centurion primus ordo, his tent was one of the largest in the camp and, as such, he’d had no qualms about having Achillia essentially move in with him. Each had their armor, weapons, and kit laid out on sturdy racks with all of their personal belongings stored in packs. The Syrian-Roman woman kept little in the way of personal effects, as she preferred to travel light.

  “By Odin, I am relieved that the major fighting is done,” Magnus said with a sigh as he took a cup of wine and fell back onto his large camp bed.

  Achillia curled up next to him, trying not to spill her own chalice on him. “There will always be fighting to do,” she said. “But for now, I agree that this is a time for celebration.”

  “In more ways than one,” the Norseman said with a broad smile, placing his hand on her stomach. Achillia blushed for a moment, but then saw that Magnus had become serious. “I don’t want you going into battle anymore, at least not for the time being.”

  “Well, like you said, my love,” Achillia replied, “the fighting appears to be over.”

  ________

  Chapter Endnotes:

  1 – River Thames

  2 – Colchester, England

  Chapter XXI: Triumph Interrupted

  Camulodunum, Britannia

  August, 43 A.D.

  ***

  After just sixteen days in Britannia, Emperor Claudius began his journey back to Rome, where he would inform the senate of the army’s triumph. Though while Caratacus and his followers had gone into hiding in the west, there was still trouble stirring. Barely two days after the emperor’s departure, a messenger from one of the cavalry regiments patrolling the southwest arrived. Plautius was holding a meeting with his senior commanders to decide the dispersing of the legions and auxiliary regiments throughout the newly-won lands when the trooper arrived.

  “Noble Plautius,” the cavalryman said with a salute.

  “What word do you bring?” the new governor asked.

  “It’s the Durotriges,” the messenger replied. “They refused our parlay for peace and instead had the audacity to goad us into attacking them. We also heard word from several sources that they will try and defend against us at their fortress called Mai Dun1.”

  “Mai Dun,” Plautius repeated, looking over at Tristan.

  “It means Great Hill, excellency,” he explained.

  “Do you know much about it?” Vespasian asked.

  “I’ve been there once, when I was a small boy,” the young man replied. “The people of these lands believe it is impenetrable. It is a large hill with massive ramparts carved out of its very face; each rising up more than thirty feet. It was formed nearly two thousand years ago, and tall grasses now cover it. It is relatively flat on top and more than large enough for an entire town to occupy it.”

  “The Twentieth Legion fought the Durotriges,” Plautius noted, turning to Artorius.

  “Yes, sir,” the master centurion replied. “Though to be honest, we only fought against their reinforcements that had been late to arrive, no more than eight thousand total. Of those, we killed several hundred and captured perhaps another thousand. They’ve already been shipped off with the slave drivers.”

  “They are a confederation of small independent villages and farming communities,” Sabinus added. “From that they can still muster large enough of a force to harass our territories to no end. The also border the Atrebates, who will look to us for protection should hostilities increase.”

  “All with the perceived notion of safety within their great hill fort,” Plautius grumbled.

  Word of the Durotriges’ refusal to capitulate had already spread throughout the camps. The army was mostly scattered by this point, with vexilations from each legion en route to their assigned locations, with only the Second Legion mostly intact still at Camulodunum. Artorius had sent half of the Twentieth to just north of the Tamesis River, where a more permanent camp was being established. He had kept with him his First, Fifth, and Eighth Cohorts.

  After receiving the message, Plautius sat brooding for a few moments. The dispatch troubled him greatly. The emperor returning to Rome to prepare for his triumph the following spring complicated things. If the word Plautius received was true, then any celebrations in Rome would be premature should the Durotriges prove able to muster up enough warriors from their confederation of tribal states. And they had yet to hunt down Caratacus nor had they established relations with many of the surrounding kingdoms and tribal states. In short, Rome had a small province that was but a fraction of Britannia, and what they had acquired was by no means secure.

  “These impudent bastards must be smashed into oblivion!” Plautius emphasized as he addressed his senior officers. “By refusing our offers of peace and continuing to make war with Rome even after the Catuvellauni were subdued, their king has forfeited his life.” He then turned to Vespasian. “Take the Second Legion plus whatever additional forces you will need and destroy them.”

  “I’ll need two regiments of cavalry to screen our advance,” the general said after a moment’s contemplation. “We don’t know the terrain to the southwest or even how far it is to their stronghold at…what was that place called again?”

  “Mai Dun, sir,” his chief tribune said.

  “Two of my reconnaissance patrols have just returned this morning, along with the messenger,” Tribune Cursor spoke up. “I’ve just barely had a chance to look at their report. The terrain to the southwest is mostly open fields with the occasional hill fort. After their recent defeat, I do not foresee them attempting to face us in the open.”

  “In which case I will need siege engines and lots of them,” Vespasian remarked. “Plautius, I will need every onager, scorpion, and ballista we have available. We cannot afford any protracted sieges, so I will smash every barbarian fort we cross into extinction.”

  “You’ll have them,” the commander-in-chief asserted. “Take those heavy siege ballistae with you, as well. I will detach every spare logistics wagon we have available for your siege train. You will need extra manpower to escort them, as well as the crews themselves.”

  “Alright,” Vespasian said while drawing a line with his finger along the crude map that showed their general axis of advance. “I’m guessing it’s about two weeks march to their capitol, though we should triple that pending any small sieges and assaults we have to conduct, plus how much those heavy ballistae and their ammunition wagons slow us down.”

  “That was our assessment as well,” Cursor stated. “We didn’t get all the way to the coastal capitol, plus the messenger was turned back well before he could get close enough to have a thorough look. That being said, my men did hear from the locals, confirming there i
s an ancient fortress that’s been cut out of a massive hill. I’m assuming this is the same place as they say it’s impenetrable.”

  “Of course, they would think that,” Plautius scoffed.

  “The natives also call the place Dunium, which we think means fort,” the tribune added. “We believe that this is the seat of King Donan.”

  “Send one of your regiments ahead to scout this fortress out,” Vespasian ordered Cursor. “Your remaining troops will screen the legion’s advance. I’ll need two cohorts of auxiliaries to protect the flanks and supply trains. And if we’re going to be conducting a number of assaults on fortified positions, I’ll need additional archers, so I’ll take the Syrian allied detachment with me. They are extremely mobile and very accurate with their longbows.”

  “They covered us well at both river battles,” Plautius observed. “No doubt Achillia will be anxious to get her troops back into the fighting.”

  “I’ll need two cohorts from you, Artorius,” Vespasian added. “I’m not concerned about the smaller oppida, but if this ancient fortress is anything that the locals would view as impenetrable, I’ll need extra assault troops.”

  “I’ll give you three, including my First Cohort,” the master centurion asserted.

  Plautius then addressed the assembled leaders. “If that is all, then prepare your men to start their advance tomorrow. Your orders are simple; find the enemy and break him!”

  “You cannot go!” Magnus protested as Achillia packed her gear and threw on her mail shirt.

  “Vespasian has asked for my skirmishers, and so I go with them,” she replied as she tightened her belt and slung her arrow quiver.

  “Damn it all, I forbid it!” Magnus immediately regretted his choice of words, for Achillia simply glared at him coldly as she reached for her longbow.

  “Know this,” she relied calmly, “though I love you, you are neither my husband nor my master.”

  “It is not just you that I worry about,” Magnus persisted.

  “I am not so far along that I’ll be incapacitated,” Achillia reassured him. She understood the cause for his concern all too well, and was quick to forgive his earlier words.

  “Well,” he replied, “at least I’ll be coming with you.”

  “We both have our duties. And I promise you, my love, that this will be my last…provided it is yours as well. I have no more desire to see you slain in battle than you do me, so let us end our campaigns here.”

  Her words took him aback, yet Magnus did not hesitate to answer. He took her in his arms and kissed her passionately.

  “One last campaign,” he promised. “And then a new life together!”

  Despite continued pockets of resistance, as well as Vespasian’s pending trek to finish off the Durotriges, Plautius was still pleased with how the conquest was coming together. Fall was coming on, and in just six short months he had established Roman control in southeast Britannia and gained a new province for the empire. Even though the northern lands of the Brigantes had not been occupied by Rome, their queen, Cartimandua, was ready to swear allegiance and, as such, had made herself the most powerful monarch within Britannia. There was still one more kingdom to deal with that held the lands on the east coast of the isle, just north of the established Roman territories. Plautius was willing to offer them very favorable terms, at least for the time being.

  “King Prasutagus of the Iceni!” a tribune announced.

  The king was a young man, tall with blondish hair and piercing eyes. He wore a thick plaited cloak, held in place by a bronze broach, over his left shoulder. A tall, young woman, who Plautius surmised was his consort, accompanied him. Her garb was similar to that of her husband, though it failed to obscure her protruding belly that showed she was heavily with child. She remained silent, though her demeanor was one of hostility that contrasted the genial air of her husband.

  Plautius sat on his camp chair, which he used for all such engagements. As it was an unusually sunny day, he elected to hold their meeting outside his principia tent. Sabinus and Geta sat on either side of him; Vespasian having left for the southwest, en route to lay siege to Mai Dun. All three legates had donned their best armor with scarlet ceremonial cloaks.

  “Noble Plautius,” Prasutagus began, bowing deeply, “it is an honor to stand before you, and I hope Rome and the Iceni will enjoy a long lasting friendship in peace. May I present my queen, Boudicca.”

  The woman gave a curt nod to the Roman legate, clearly not sharing her husband’s amicability towards their new overlords. Plautius paid her a quick glance and then returned his focus to the king.

  “You fully understand the emperor’s terms,” he stated.

  “Yes,” Prasutagus replied. “And you are aware of the concessions we’ve asked for?”

  The king had dictated his response to the imperial messenger who had borne Plautius’ proposal to the Iceni. Though worded cordially enough, it was clearly an ultimatum. Prasutagus knew about the alliance’s resounding defeat and suspected that the hill fort of Mai Dun would soon fall. Like all tribal monarchs within the newly won Roman Province of Britannia, he knew that he had little choice when it came to accepting Plautius’ terms. Despite the loathing his wife felt for the Romans, Prasutagus was determined to spare his people from the same fate as the Catuvellauni and Durotriges. Still, in his response he had hoped to win some concessions.

  “Your response was…intriguing,” Plautius said slowly, resting his chin on his steepled fingertips. “I am willing to grant your request that no Roman troops be stationed within your lands. You further ask for loans from Rome to help with infrastructure.”

  “We suffered a bad harvest last year,” Prasutagus explained. “We need to purchase grain and wheat to supplement our food shortages. I also wish to make basic improvements to my people’s lives but cannot with the means we have at this time.”

  “This should not be a problem,” Plautius replied with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  Prasutagus looked relieved, though Boudicca continued to glare at the Roman legate.

  “The emperor’s representative to your people will be an equite magistrate. You can work out the details with him, once he’s assigned. Meantime, I’m sure we can arrange a preemptive installment to ease your people’s hardships.”

  Were he not so anxious to secure Roman loans to aid the Iceni, Prasutagus would have paid closer heed to the tone in Plautius’ voice. It was by no means sinister; however, his queen consort rightly suspected that Roman generosity often demanded a heavy toll. It was a price that most paid, due to either desperation to escape whatever their plight may be or out of fear of reprisal wrought by the blades of legionaries.

  “As for your final request,” Plautius continued, “you should know that it is customary for client kings to will their kingdoms to the emperor upon their death. This ensures at least a few years of peaceful assimilation before the people become fully immersed within the Roman Empire. You are asking that we allow the Iceni to retain a modicum of autonomy, even after your death.”

  “As you can see,” the king replied, looking back at his consort, “my wife is bearing our first child. I ask that both my children and the emperor be my heirs.”

  “You make a bold entreaty,” Plautius remarked. He paused for a few moments before replying. “I will grant your request. Your children will be named joint heirs with Caesar after you pass on to the halls of your ancestors.”

  Prasutagus looked immensely relieved and somewhat triumphant that he had achieved all he’d hoped for. There was still one last formality to end their meeting.

  Plautius then held up his clenched fist with the imperial seal prominently showing on his ring. “Swear your allegiance!” he demanded.

  The Iceni king looked back at his wife and despite the look of horror upon her face, he quickly stepped forward, bowed, and kissed the ring on Plautius’ hand. Though he had failed to get on his knees like the other kings, and the act was rather rushed, it was still enough to satisfy Pla
utius and the other Romans. He nodded to Prasutagus, who replied in kind before leaving with his queen and escorts in tow.

  “Do you think I was too generous with them?” Plautius asked, resting his chin on his hand.

  “A touch of good will can have far reaching implications,” Sabinus replied. “Those who opposed us may come to regret their transgressions, and those who rule the lands not yet conquered by Rome may be more amicable to coming to terms with Caesar. Besides, Prasutagus is a young man. I daresay he has many years of rule left and much can change between now and then. Your term as governor will be long past, and we may not even have the same emperor when the time comes.”

  “I swear his queen was trying to kill me with her gaze,” Plautius noted. “She either has an insufferable temperament or, perhaps, she is more cognizant than her husband when it comes to understanding what obedience to Rome will mean.”

  “Eh, what’s the worst she can do?” Geta scoffed.

  ________

  Chapter Endnote:

  1 – Maiden Castle, Dorset

  Chapter XXII: An Arduous Trek

  ***

  The first week on the march passed without too much calamity for Vespasian and his task force. August was the driest month of the year for Britannia, and although they were still subjected to scattered rains every few days, the paths were mostly clear. They soon passed through the region around the camp that was under construction just north of the River Tamesis. Artorius was pleased with the work already being done by his legionaries. Their own fort was a temporary wooden structure, though they were working and building up the roads and infrastructure to allow for a much larger settlement to spring up.

  “The great river makes this place an ideal location for a city,” he observed as he and Vespasian sat astride their horses and watched the construction work. Down by the water, the foundations for a series of docks were being emplaced.