Standard Bearer

by Richard Foreman

Chapter 1

 

  The boats drew closer to the white cliffs. Sunlight glinted off a myriad of swords, breastplates and helmets. Spray from the turquoise channel blew up into his face, but sweat more than seawater moistened Lucius Oppius' palms as he gripped the Tenth Legion's eagle. His eyes were as blue and cold as the Mediterranean. His friend Roscius had commented, half jokingly and half in earnest, how Oppius would have been considered handsome - if he ever bothered to smile. A grim expression again carved itself into the soldier's face as he gazed up at the jeering barbarians, their bodies smeared with woad, upon the cliff tops. Even the most cowardly of tribes in Gaul would fancy its chances from such advantageous ground, Oppius mused. The sound of their jeers was occasionally accompanied by the high pitched swish of an arrow, as the odd archer tried his luck. Invariably the missile would zip harmlessly into the sea, or at best a thud could be heard as it struck a Roman scutum or the hull of a ship.

  Oppius turned his gaze towards the lead trireme where his General, Caesar, stood at the prow. Did the standard bearer notice the hint of a wry smile upon his commander's face? Caesar had encountered such defiance before. Many had rolled the dice against Caesar and the Tenth, but in the end the Venus throw always came up and Rome was victorious. His red cloak blew in the wind. Caesar was still handsome, whether he smiled or not. His hairline had been retreating of late more than the armies of Gaul but his body was still taut with muscle, his face clean-shaven. His eyes took in everything, yet often remained unreadable. Although brave, Caesar was not foolhardy, Oppius thought. Should he choose to attack now then the legions - the Seventh and Tenth - would be slain from a barrage of missiles before the boats could even reach the beach.

  "If their blood lust is anything like their lust for alcohol then we could be in trouble," the standard bearer heard a legionary mutter behind him, only partly as a joke.

  "The one often fuels the other. " The knowing reply came from a man that the legion nicknamed Teucer, for his skill with a bow. The wiry, pale-faced soldier was a Briton, who had left his homeland and travelled to Gaul. Most Britons were recruited by Rome's enemies on the continent but Teucer had chosen to fight for the Republic. Caesar himself had witnessed his abilities with a bow and bent the rules to promote him to the Tenth. Oppius liked the Briton - and not just because he had saved his life in battle on more than one occasion. He was amiable and intelligent, picking up Latin as quickly as he picked up the legionary's black sense of humour. Oppius briefly wondered how his comrade was now feeling, as he journeyed towards invading his homeland. What was it like, to view your countryman as your enemy? Oppius hoped that he would never have to find out.

  The standard bearer was far from the only Roman to focus his attention upon the figure of Caesar as the trireme's captain approached his commander. Many of the newer recruits thought, hoped, that Caesar would point to the captain to sail back to Gaul. Yet Oppius had faith in his General that he would give the order for the fleet to sail onwards, along the coast, and discover another landing site. Indeed Oppius had more faith in Caesar than he did the Gods - and sure enough he observed his commander nod his head in the direction of Britain rather than Gaul. Onwards.

  Not even the Gods could stop Caesar. Chapter 2

 

  The previous night.

  Through the flames and smoke of the campfire, through the blackest of evenings, through a sea of bobbing heads, Oppius could still see the precious, gleaming head of the legion's silver eagle. The eagle nested in the sacellum, a sacred shrine dedicated to the standard. Even in the safety of the Roman encampment the standard bearer tried to keep an eye on the semi-divine totem. Oppius was one of the youngest ever legionaries to be awarded the honour of serving as an aquilifer - a standard bearer. Lucius sometimes missed being in the thick of the fighting however, owing his duty to protecting the standard rather than fighting alongside his friends and comrades. Although the eagle had tasted blood a couple of times recently when an enemy had been a glory-hunter, or just plain mad. Gore had smeared the eagle's beak and talons as the aquilifer had fought off the barbarians. Oppius was honour bound to sacrifice his life rather than the standard.

  His attention was taken away from the shrine when Teucer handed him a plate, with a charred piece of venison on it. Oppius drained half his cup of wine and poured the remainder over his plate, to soften and moisten the meat. At the same time however he watched Roscius down his cup in one and quickly refill it.

  "You should pace yourself Roscius. We have a long day ahead tomorrow. You don't want to spend the voyage forever emptying your guts over the side of the boat," Teucer remarked, full-knowing how his warning would probably fall on deaf ears. As their General often exclaimed that "Caesar must be Caesar", so too Roscius was Roscius, a drinking and killing machine.

  "If I am ill tomorrow or go weak at the knees, it'll be due to sick sickness rather than any hangover," the hulking legionary replied, wine dribbling down his stubbled chin. "If man was meant for the sea, the Gods would have given us gills. "

  "I remember the last time when you went weak at the knees, when you fell for that whore in Massilia," the Briton remarked, smiling and taking a swig of watered down acetum from his own cup.

  "Aye, I nearly lost my heart to that girl. I also nearly lost a more important part of my body, due to the itch she gave me," Roscius replied, laughing at his own joke.

  "So what is Britain like Teucer?" Marcus Fabius asked, when the laughter had died down. Marcus Fabius was a teenager, a new recruit. He was the son of a merchant who had once been Oppius' centurion, when the standard bearer was a raw recruit himself. The elder Fabius had asked Lucius to keep an eye on Marcus. The youth's ambition was to be a poet, but the father had entered the son into military service. "I want to put some steel into his soul. I just don't want some Gaul putting some steel between his ribs. " Combat had yet to scar his body or war ravage his features and innocence. "The enemy won't know whether to fuck you or fight you lad," Roscius had commented upon first being introduced to the sensitive looking adolescent.

  "There are parts of my homeland that are green and lush but that's partly because it rains so much. The people can be friendly, especially when they've had a drink or two. Yet my people can also be violent, especially when they've drunk too much. The tribes are forever squabbling between themselves, although our imminent invasion might just unite the usually fractious tribal leaders. Caesar must aim to divide and conquer. He also needs to avoid a pitched battle on open ground, as the enemy archers and charioteers might pick us off in a piecemeal fashion," Teucer posited, picking at his venison in an equally piecemeal fashion.

  "And what of your people? What are they like?" Fabius asked, his eyes filled with curiosity, although his heart was somewhat filled with fear in regards to the strange barbarian race.

  "My people can be proud, rapacious, ignorant, brave and noble - in short, they are much like everyone else Marcus. "

  "But will you consider them just like everyone else when you pull back your bowstring tomorrow and they're in your line of sight?" Roscius gruffly asked.

  "No, but I'll still know which side I'm on, don't worry about that Roscius. A Briton will still receive an arrow in his front, as opposed to a Roman receiving one in his back. In fighting for Rome though, I believe I will also be fighting for my homeland and its people still. I have little doubt that Rome will subdue Britain eventually - and unfortunately that subjugation may well be bloody, as our experiences in Gaul have proved. But it also may be a price worth paying. Rome will tax Britain and mine it for its tin and take a share of the harvest, but in return we will receive laws, security, increased commerce and advances in the arts and sciences. Tin and corn are a fair trade for a more civilised s
ociety. "

  His voice was clear and confident, but Oppius couldn't help but notice how the Briton appeared troubled, or pained, as he spoke. Chapter 3

 

  It was Caesar's turn to look troubled and pained as he stood upon the prow of his trireme again and assessed the situation. The bulk of the barbarian force, led by its cavalry, had tracked his fleet along the coast and was marshaling itself upon and around the beach where he was intending to land his own army. Caesar had given the orders for his ships containing his archers and artillery to anchor at both ends of the beach, in order to flank the enemy and provide covering fire. Word was passed around that the legions should ready themselves for the attack. Yet whereas upon land the so0ldiers would have commenced to snarl, jeer and thump their shields Caesar witnessed a sea of hesitant faces. He was worried too, about the depth of the water and the strength of his enemy. He could lose as many men to drowning as he could to British spears. Yet the time to attack was now. Caesar would not be Caesar if he suffered defeat or a retreat, the proconsul judged.

  Oppius winced slightly at the brightness of the searing blue sky. Perhaps the Gods had dispelled the clouds in order to get a better view of the imminent, bloody spectacle he fancied. The legionaries looked at each other, with blank rather than eager expressions. Even Fabius' glowing olive skin had lost a little of its colour. The boats had still to brush against the seabed beneath them. Enemy archers had assembled towards the rear of the beach. The shields of the soldiers in the transport vessels nearest to them began to look like pin cushions. The sea breeze whistled around their ears. Although the sun blazed down upon them the wailing sound still sent chills down spines. Even Roscius appeared apprehensive.

  Caesar had crossed the channel. The die was cast. He could not go back. His pride would not allow him to. Caesar could not suffer the ignominy of failure. Even in victory Cato and other backward-looking members of the Senate had criticised him. Yet he could not move forward without his legions. If he was on land he could give a rousing speech and direct his officers and troops with purpose. Battles often rage like fires but every fire needs a spark, Caesar thought. He drew his sword, hoping that the action would somehow serve as an inspiration or signal.

  The light reflected off the commander's sword, into the standard bearer's eyes. Lucius Oppius was the son of a soldier. His father had intended to work out his service in the army and gain a plot of land that he could call his own. The veteran legionary ultimately craved peace. Yet the son craved promotion over peace. Perhaps it was the voice of his dead father, Gnaeus Oppius, whispering in his ear now. Lucius had heard stories from veterans how his father would lead from the front when he had served under Marius, Caesar's uncle. Or were the Gods now whispering in his ears? As when a barbarian would look to capture a Roman eagle, were madness and vain-glory taking possession of his soul?

  "Once we're on that beach, we'll soon bring peace to this barbarous land," Roscius exclaimed, trying to convince himself of his argument as much as others.

  "If you want peace, prepare for war," Fabius replied, almost in a whisper, perhaps quoting one of the writers that the would-be poet was so fond of.

  Yet Oppius barely heard the youth's words, as he prepared to make his leap of faith. Chapter 4

 

  Brine rather than sweat drenched his entire body as Oppius rose up from out of the sea, having leapt over the rail of the transport vessel. The silver eagle of the standard broke forth first from out of the foaming water, the sunlight glinting off its head and reflecting into the eyes of Caesar.

  Before he had jumped into the water Oppius had offered up the legionary's prayer,

  "Jupiter Greatest and Best, protect this legion, soldiers every one. May my act bring good fortune to us all. "

  Witnessing the act of a madman - and eyeing the prize - a brace of enemy cavalry broke off and charged towards the isolated standard bearer. The first horseman screamed wildly and raised his axe, ready to bring its flesh-stained head down upon the Roman's shoulder and chest - yet instinct and timing kicked in as Oppius drove the standard upwards and into the torso of his enemy, knocking him off his coal-black mare. But where was the second horseman? Spray misted up in front of Oppius and stung his eyes. The second Briton was less obliging in offering up a war cry up to reveal his position, as he came at the Roman from the side. His sword edge was a foot or so from his enemy's head - but it travelled no further as a Roman pilum sang through the air and skewered his stomach. Blood turned the blue dye purple.

  "And there you was thinking that you could defeat the bastards all by yourself," Roscius shouted and grinned. The brutal looking legionary had jumped into the water shortly after the standard bearer. He would have followed his friend into Hades, for he knew Oppius would do the same for him. Teucer and - more hesitantly - Marcus Fabius followed their comrades into the sea. The legion was shocked and irate at witnessing such a suicidal act. But as they witnessed another dozen or so horsemen ride towards the eagle they scrambled into the sea too and rallied around the valiant, or unhinged, standard bearer. The loss of the eagle would mean a loss of honour for all and the stain could never be washed away. Far more than Rome, the Tenth Legion fought for the Tenth Legion.

  At first Caesar cursed his aquilifer for such a rash act but his mouth, twisted in rage, soon formed itself into a smile. He had his spark. Now he needed to fuel the flames. Caesar immediately gave the order for his archers and artillery to provide covering fire. He also called for the captain of his own ship to close in on the beach. Caesar was keen to wash his sword in the blood of the irksome barbarians too.

  Individual splashes swiftly turned into one long whooshing tumult as the Seventh, not wishing for the Tenth to shame them or take all the glory, disembarked from their transports too. The legions formed themselves into make-shift shield walls and moved forward, some chest deep in the sea, their pilums held aloft to defend against the enemy's cavalry. For all of their bravery and numbers the barbarian army could not prevent the Romans from driving forward and making it onto the beach.

  Rome had landed upon Britain. Chapter 5

 

  The tang of blood and brine filled the air. The turquoise sea was streaked with gore. The clash of arms and blood-curdling screams drowned out the sound of the sea breeze. The Tenth had landed upon the beach, but it not captured it.

  "Teucer, climb upon that rock there and start loosening some arrows into some of these bastards," Oppius exclaimed whilst surveying the field of battle. The Tenth had landed upon the right side of the beach and upon the left the Seventh were taking casualties, but advancing nevertheless. Their enemy was fighting ferociously, but they were ill disciplined. Their light armour and weaponry made them agile but the legions were used to fighting against similar foes in Gaul (albeit the Britons seemed to have more spirit, perhaps fuelled by more wine). The standard bearer noticed an island of resistance forming at the back of the beach - centred around a giant Briton who appeared to be wielding a huge hammer. He was swotting away legionaries like flies, with shields buckling under the weight of his heavy blows.

  "Roscius, bring down that fat bastard with the hammer. He's boring me. "

  Roscius made his way towards the heart of the fighting, whilst Oppius was heartened to see how a group of Roman infantry had formed a square at the other end of the beach. A line of shields surrounded a group of legionaries, who were unleashing their pilums into a mass of enemy cavalry.

  "What would you like me to do sir?" Fabius asked, trying to dispel the fear from his voice and features.

  "Just stay close to me lad and try not to get yourself killed. "

  Roscius assessed his enemy as he marched purposefully towards him. The savage brute was strong, but overweight and predictable. A half a dozen men from the Seventh formed a semi-circle around the barbarian, but they were wary of closing in having witnessed their comrades fail to bring the giant down.

  "Hey, shithead, why don't you pick on somebody you
r own size?" Roscius announced, whilst throwing down his shield. The scutum would be an encumbrance for what the legionary had planned.

  The wild-eyed Briton stood even taller and wider than Roscius, a mix of flab and muscle. Blood - that of his foes rather than his own - flecked his face. He growled and ran towards the Roman, lifting the fearsome hammer above his head. Roscius moved just in time however and the large iron head of the mallet thudded into the sand, at which point the legionary swiftly lifted his foot up and brought it down upon the shaft of the weapon, splitting it in two. The Briton, his face twisted in even greater rage, swung what was left of the shaft at Roscius' head but the Roman swung his sword in return and the gladius truncated the oak shaft even further. The blade of the sword met the barbarian's fist too when he then swung a punch. His blood flecked the legionary's face and he howled in pain - before the savage fell to his knees and Roscius buried the gladius in his chest.

  "Never send the Seventh in to do a job that only the Tenth can do," Roscius declared with relish at the end.

  Oppius glanced across the beach and nodded in approval at Rocius having defeated the troublesome barbarian. He was also pleased to see that his friend had come through the fight uninjured. The standard bearer again surveyed the battlefield. The tide was turning Rome's way. The Britons were retreating as reinforcements now landed upon the beach without opposition. Caesar himself was leading a cohort from the front and spurring his men on. The standard bearer ordered Teucer to try to bring down a couple of the cavalry horses who were escaping up a narrow track that led up to the top of the cliffs. Should he fell the animals then they would hinder the retreat of the rest of the cavalry and infantry retreating up the path. A number of enemy archers and peltists still lined the tops of the cliffs and covered the retreating forces however.

  One such archer drew back his bow, with the standard bearer in his sights. The Briton had watched both his courageous leap into the water and his marshalling of legionaries as they arrived upon the beach. Both had been crucial to the imminent victory. At least he would stop the standard bearer invading Briton. His arms bulged with muscle as he drew the bow back, yet despite the tension in the string his body remained calm, composed. He took a deep breath and then released the arrow. His skill and technique as an archer were not dissimilar to Teucer's.