by James Mace
Artorius meant to ask what in hades Vespasian was doing there on the rampart, but then he quickly saw that his commanding general had knelt down, with one forearm resting on his knee, and was surveying the enemy fortifications to their front and adjusting his tactics accordingly.
“Look up there,” Vespasian said, pointing with his still-bloodied gladius. “There’s a third, albeit much smaller set of barricades beyond the one your men now advance upon.”
“I see it,” Artorius replied. He held up his hand as he saw Praxus and the rest of the cohort climbing the mound. “Praxus, fall in behind Magnus, use your javelins to cover him as he assaults the second line of fortifications.”
“Understood,” the primus ordo replied.
“Hold in place once you do take them,” Vespasian added. “The third line is too close to that large gatehouse, and you’ll be well within range of their missile weapons.”
“Yes, sir,” Praxus acknowledged before signaling for his men to continue.
“Damn it all, we could not see any of this from our vantage points before now!” Vespasian spat in frustration.
“Even the lowest mounds and the gradual slope kept us blind as to their true disposition,” Artorius added.
“No matter,” the legate said as he rose to his feet. “As I told your centurion, keep the First Cohort in position once you take the second line of defenses. I’m going to bring up the siege engines and scorpions. No sense losing any more soldiers than we have to when we can simply smash apart their fortifications. Also, look on the ridge that leads into the town proper. You’ll see there are no palisades up there. Given how steep the slopes are of the overlapping ramparts, it is clear that the Durotriges do not view that as the real threat. Their numbers and resources are limited, and so they are staking everything on holding this gate.”
“Give us another artillery barrage, sir, and we’ll end this,” Artorius replied with a voice full of determination.
“You’ll have it,” the legate replied. “It’ll take some time to get the heavy weapons up, but at least the scorpions can keep the heads of those on the gatehouse pinned down. They’re also light enough that they can be placed on top of these rolling mounds. I’m going to order the Second Legion to advance on the northern and southern heights as well. The Durotriges may view them as unassailable, but if they see legionaries advancing on them, they’ll have no choice but to commit warriors to their defense.”
Without further discussion, Vespasian bounded down the first rampart and gave a quick series of orders to his cornicen. A series of trumpet blasts alerted the artillery crews to advance. Scorpions were rapidly broken down and carried by their loaders and gunners with additional soldiers tasked with carrying the baskets full of bolts. As he watched the onager and heavy ballistae crewmen start wheeling their engines forward, along with the oxcarts full of shot, Artorius reckoned it would be at least twenty to thirty minutes before they were set and back in action.
“Magnus and Praxus are engaging the second barricade,” Optio Parthicus said as he walked over to his master centurion. “As it will be a while before we’re back in the fight, I’ve got some of the lads patching up the wounded as best they can. Others I’ve told to finish off the enemy wounded, since we’re not exactly feeling merciful today.”
“Very good,” Artorius nodded, thankful that his optio was a man of initiative and common sense. “We’ll leave the dead for now. Once the artillery smashes the main gatehouse, the Fourth and Fifth Centuries will conduct the assault. Once through, it looks like the terrain will work to our advantage of fighting on a battle line. And let’s hope the Fifth and Eighth Cohorts can achieve a breakthrough of the ramparts. It’ll allow us to hit them in the flanks, as well as the front.”
“Yes, sir.”
The advance up the steep slope in testudo formation had been slow, arduous, and particularly tedious for Metellus and the men of the Fifth Cohort. Given the large frontage they had to cover, as well as how compact the testudo formation was, Tyranus had ordered his centuries to advance individually, rather than trying to form a cumbersome single formation with his entire cohort. Further along the north face of the hill several cohorts of the Second Legion were also making their trek up the slope while being harried by enemy skirmishers.
Men in the front rank stood shoulder-to-shoulder with their shields linked together. Men in the subsequent ranks held their shields overhead, providing protection for both themselves and those in front of them. A small handful of skirmishers looked to be their only immediate threat, though if their diversion was successful, they would draw away more warriors from the east gate, where Artorius and his men were locked in brutal combat with the defenders. Behind Metellus’ century, Achillia and half a dozen of her archers advanced, ready to provide support to the legionaries. Groups of her skirmishers walked just behind the other centuries of the cohort.
A throwing spear smacked into Metellus’ shield, causing him to jolt. Rocks and similar missiles pelted their formation; most of their foes’ archers being committed to defending the east gate. Achillia walked beside Metellus, hunkered down so as to use the legionary testudo for protection. She quickly leaned to the side and loosed an arrow, which caught the warrior who’d thrown the spear at Metellus in the chest.
As they came within twenty meters of the top, the Durotriges defenders abandoned the rampart and sprinted away. Achillia’s archers rushed forward and unleashed several volleys of arrows on them as they sprinted up the steep incline of the second rampart. Several cried out as they were mortally stricken or badly injured, tumbling down the hill into the defilade below.
“To hell with this,” Metellus grunted as he reached the top.
His men in the subsequent ranks lowered their shields and stretched out their arms. The centurion surveyed the defilade and the next rampart. He shouted to his cohort commander, whose century had also just reached the top, “Sir, the next climb is too steep to scale in testudo formation!”
Centurion Tyranus gave a nod of agreement. “Battle formation!” he shouted. Instinctively, the men of the Fifth Cohort spread out into four ranks. Tyranus had been smart enough to leave enough space between each century testudo so that they could readily shift into battle lines. Only a handful of paces separated Metellus from Tyranus’ optio, who positioned himself on the far left of their formation.
Metellus looked over his shoulder at Achillia. “You have us covered?”
It was a rhetorical question, but one that reassured him as she nodded in reply and nocked another arrow, her face in a devious grin that echoed from a time when she fought as a volunteer gladiator in the east.
“Move out!” Tyranus shouted.
Metellus waved his men forward with his gladius and they quickly descended into the low ground where a handful of dead and wounded warriors lay. The next incline was incredibly steep, with legionaries using their shields to help pull them up the grass-covered slope.
Achillia’s detachment formed a long skirmish line along the first rampart, waiting for enemy combatants to show themselves once more. They did not have long to wait. The supplemental assault was having its intended effect, and the far rampart was now swarming with Durotriges warriors. Along with archers and skirmishers there were large numbers of fighting men with spears, swords, and axes. Achillia’s archers started shooting rapidly, and though they were inflicting casualties, their numbers were too few to drive the defenders to ground. Their archers and missile troops, knowing they were useless against the armored legionaries and their shield wall, instead focused their attention on the archers who harassed them from the outer ridge.
Achillia had just let loose an arrow that struck an enemy axman in the neck, when a heavy thrown spear sailed in a high arc and slammed into her abdomen, bursting through her mail shirt and plunging deep into her stomach. Her bow dropped from her hands, and she fell to her knees, clutching the spear in agony. She rolled to her back, unable to cry out despite the immeasurable pain. Her body was twitch
ing and going into shock, and as gouts of blood spewed from her mouth, she knew her life was rapidly coming to an end. Her last thoughts were on that which she carried within her. Lost amongst the blood and sweat that covered her face, several tears fell from Achillia’s eyes.
From his vantage looking down upon the battle that raged near the east gate, King Donan was not as concerned about the assaults on the north and south ramparts. He’d kept a number of his warriors in reserve, and these men would drive the Romans back. What worried him were the machines that his enemy used to hurl waves of large stones that smashed men and barricade alike. The tall gatehouse lay in ruins, and warriors were now fleeing back towards the town in an attempt to escape the hammering storm of death.
“If the Romans want to fight us in the open, then a fight we shall give them!” he growled as he drew his great sword.
Along with his warriors were a number of women, the elderly, and young boys who were still big enough to carry a weapon. They were determined to fight the Romans to the very last and would not simply lie down and let them destroy the seat of their kingdom.
“They’re reforming at the top of the rise,” Praxus observed as Artorius and his First Century made their way to the front of the cohort.
His Fourth and Fifth Centuries had conducted their assault of the main gatehouse valiantly, though to their credit, the Durotriges had not given ground without a fight.
Artorius scanned the top of the hill that led into the town. He recognized the enemy king by his flowing robes and the metal circlet upon his head that gleamed in the midafternoon sun. The Durotriges who massed behind him numbered several thousand. And with his other two cohorts held up on the flanks, along with the entire Second Legion, it would fall upon the First Cohort alone to break their enemy into submission.
“Javelins and scorpion bolts are expended, and we cannot bring the siege engines any closer,” Artorius noted, shaking his head. “Looks like cold steel will have to finish this job.”
“The plain at the top of this hill is enormous,” Magnus noted. “The frontage is too large for us to fight as a cohort.”
Artorius signaled for all of his centurions to join him, figuring the Durotriges would wait for them to attack, lest they fall pretty to the storm of boulders the siege engines had been unmercifully hammering them with. For all Artorius knew, the onagers and ballistae could very well have expended their ammunition stores.
“We’ll attack by centuries,” Artorius said. “Place your men into three ranks, this will allow us to maintain a larger front against the enemy, hopefully without spreading ourselves too thin. Unless our other cohorts and the Second Legion can take the heights, it falls upon us to finish this thing. Should we fail, then the entire assault will be undone, and Mai Dun will have proven impenetrable.”
“As you said, nothing is impenetrable!” The voice of their commanding legate surprised the assembled centurions.
“General, sir,” Artorius said. He noted the legionary shield Vespasian now carried. “Intending to join us in the final assault?”
“I am indeed,” the legate said with a nod. “I’ll be on your immediate left. And don’t worry, I’ll not interfere in the running of your cohort just think of me as another legionary.”
“With respect, sir,” Artorius said, “this attack runs a high risk of failure, and if it does the army cannot afford to lose you.”
“It wasn’t a request, Master Centurion,” Vespasian replied sharply. “I am not asking you if I can fight on your battle line, I am telling you where I will be. With all units committed, there is nothing left for me to do except provide an additional blade, and it is plain to me that you need every one you can get!”
“Yes, sir.” Despite Vespasian’s rebuke, Artorius found himself grinning.
Clearly the man who’d orchestrated this assault was a different type of leader. Though he’d proven himself to be a military genius throughout the campaign, at the end of the day, Flavius Vespasian viewed his own life as no more valuable than that of even the lowest legionary from the ranks.
“Once I take my place on the line, you will then give the orders,” the legate stated.
Artorius simply nodded and addressed his centurions once more. “Any questions?”
When there were none he dismissed the men who, with a quick series of orders, formed their men into three ranks. They allowed a small gap of a few meters between each century, in order to allow for easier maneuvering over the uneven ground.
“As of now, I’m just another legionary,” Vespasian said as he took his place next to Artorius on the line.
“A legionary wearing a rather distinctive crest on his head,” Artorius noted with a dark laugh.
“Eh, so I am.” The legate then shrugged. “Fuck it.”
This last rare profanity caused Artorius to raise an eyebrow. Their brief moment of levity ended as he took a deep breath and steeled himself for the final assault. On the top of the hill, the Durotriges were all shouting war chants and battle cries as they beat their weapons against their shields and whatever else they managed to find to defend themselves with. There was no doubting their bravery, especially in the face of annihilation. The next hour or so would be a bloody spectacle of death.
“Cohort!” Artorius shouted.
“Century!” his centurions sounded off in unison.
“Advance!”
Shields braced against their bodies, gladii protruding forward in a wall of bloodied blades, the legionaries stepped off as one. They advanced at a fluid, yet measured pace, as they did not want to expend what was left of their energy before they closed with their enemy. Secretly, Artorius hoped that progress was being made on the attacks on the flanks.
As he struggled to make his way to the top, Metellus slammed the bottom edge of his shield into the shin of an enemy attacker, snapping the bone and sending the man sprawling backwards down the other side of the embankment. He and his men were pressing forward on sheer determination alone. A number had been killed or injured, with others struggling to maintain their footing on the steep face while battling their resolute enemy. Metellus’ body ached all over, particularly the chest and shoulders from where he’d been struck by numerous enemy weapons. He wore a centurion’s hamata chainmail, which simply did not provide nearly the amount of blunt-force trauma protection that a legionary’s segmentata plate did. His only surprise was that none of his enemies’ weapons had penetrated. As he pulled himself upright, he turned and plunged his gladius deep into the side of another warrior, allowing the legionary next to him to finish scaling the heights.
A quick glance down the line revealed that Tyranus and his century were similarly able to brawl their way to the top, though Metellus lamented to the sight of dead and wounded legionaries that lay strewn about the slope. Regardless of their superior training and equipment, no armor could be all-encompassing, and even legionaries had weaknesses that could be exploited, particularly around the neck and lower abdomen. Still, they fared far better than their adversaries, who had no armor and little training to speak of. As more and more legionaries successfully made it to the top, the Durotriges began to panic and flee towards the third rampart, which was mercifully lower and less steep than the one they had just assaulted up. The centurion surmised that the will of their foe was breaking, and that there would not be nearly as much resistance on the final rampart.
“Metellus!” Tyranus shouted, alerting the young centurion as his cohort commander walked over to him. “I’m sending three centuries to the right to clear the rampart and allow the Second Legion to advance. The rest of us will assault the final embankment and move to assist Artorius and the First Cohort. No doubt they’ve been up to their knees in shit this whole time.”
It was then Metellus was first concerned for his adoptive father. Despite the harsh difficulties he and his men had just surmounted, he knew the First Cohort was bearing the brunt of the enemies’ resistance. His mouth parched and face covered in sweat, the centurion removed his
helmet and took a long drink off his water bladder, splashing some more on his face.
“Get some water,” he ordered his soldiers. Despite the sense of urgency, he knew his soldiers needed a minute to rest and rehydrate before they continued in their assault. As his own breathing slowed, he donned his helmet once more.
Rage and adrenaline consumed Artorius as they closed within a few meters of the massed horde of Durotriges. Though not all were warriors, their numbers were so vast that he feared his men would simply wear out in the pending bloody grind. Though the Roman Army outnumbered the defenders, if they could not get over the ramparts, this counted for little. With nothing else to do but fight, the soldiers of the First Cohort instinctively increased their stride to almost a jog.
Blood rushed through the master centurion’s veins, and he gritted his teeth and gave a howl of rage. “Charge!”
His men, to include General Vespasian, gave a unified cry of wrath as they sprinted headlong into their enemy with a loud crash of shields and bristling swords. The poor man who happened to be in the master centurion’s path was a lad who looked like he was scarcely into his teens. Artorius bowled him over with a shoulder tackle from his shield. He thrust his gladius at an angle to his right in order to fend off a potential assailant, his face grimacing when he saw it was a young woman who he had just gutted with his blade.
The Durotriges were brave, but they were not being reckless with their lives. While they hammered the legionary shield wall with their weapons, they slowly moved backwards, giving ground. As Artorius feared, they were simply trying to wear the legionaries down until exhaustion overtook them. Given that Mai Dun was large enough to house an entire town, it was a viable strategy. And as they moved into the mass of huts and other structures, this would break up the legionary formations, forcing them to fight in smaller groups where the Durotriges could mass their numbers against them. Artorius knew he was out of options and had no choice but to try and grind the defenders down before his already tired soldiers wore out.
