by K. M. Ashman
‘Centurion Leonis,’ he called out formally, ‘take your standard and join your cohort.’
The Centurion saluted Nasica with clenched fist against his chest, and accompanied by huge cheering from the gathered legion, marched his proud trainees to join the Cohort depicted on the Vexillum. Nasica carried out the same ceremony five times until only the Century led by Severus was left on the field.
Centurion Severus and his mauled trainees had arrived back from the final task two days earlier, a full twenty-four hours after their competitors and without one of the prized standards. They had buried their dead and nursed their wounded, but had had little time to rest before the parade. The fact that they had defeated a strong enemy was widely acknowledged and a source of great pride, but tradition dictated that there were only five standards to award. His men were to be dispersed amongst the legion, a shameful outcome for everyone. Nasica approached Severus.
‘I feel your pain, Severus,’ he said quietly. ‘Your action was heroic and your men are a tribute to this legion, but my hands are tied.’
‘I understand, Sire,’ answered Severus.
‘Therefore,’ added Nasica, ‘I have no option but to disband your Century.’ He returned to his position to make the announcement, but before he could bark his commands, his eye was caught by a commotion at the far end of the parade.
‘What is going on?’ he asked one of the officers at his side.
‘A rider approaches, Sire,’ said Tribune Mateus.
The horse came into view at the far end of the parade and a nearby Centurion stepped out to grab the horse’s reins.
‘I’ll have him taken away,’ said the Tribune.
‘No, let him come, I am intrigued. What man rides into the centre of an entire legion with such impunity?’
‘Release him!’ shouted the Tribune and the Centurion dropped the reins, allowing the horse and its rider to continue its steady journey. Slowly, the lame horse limped closer and Cassus recognised Prydain under the coating of dust and blood. As the horse stopped before the Aquila, Prydain lost consciousness and fell to one side, but before he hit the ground, Severus caught him and lowered him to the floor.
Nasica joined Severus.
‘One of your missing men, I assume?’ he asked.
‘Yes, Sire,’ answered Severus.
‘And the body?’
‘Montellus,’ said Cassus, ‘our other missing comrade.’ Cassus trickled some water between Prydain’s cracked lips, causing him to splutter as he regained consciousness.
‘How ironic,’ said Mateus at Nasica’s side. ‘Just as your Century is once again complete, it will be disbanded.’
‘He is wounded!’ said Severus, and removed the blood soaked bandage from Prydain’s arrow wound, replacing it with his scarf. ‘Two men, take him to the Medicus, quickly!’
Cassus and another soldier carried Prydain through the gates of the fort as Nasica’s bent down to pick up the blood sodden bandage from the dirt. He unfolded the scarlet cloth, and looked around at his fellow officers, astonished at how strong an omen he was holding in his hands.
‘Have you given tribute to your Gods yet, Severus?’ he asked, as the Centurion turned his attention from the disappearing men.
‘Not yet, Sire, I haven’t had time.’
‘Then I suggest you make the time,’ he said and gave the fabric to the Centurion. ‘I think this belongs to you.’
After a moment, Severus realized the implications. He retrieved his dropped Pila from the floor, and after piercing one corner of the Germanic standard with the point, marched over to his Century and drove the spear into the ground before his men. As it caught the breeze, the fabric unfurled to reveal a blood-stained Raven, the captured standard of Hanzer.
----
Prydain spent the next few weeks in the hospital while the legion undertook battle training in the surrounding mountains. At first, he had suffered with an infection, but the application of selected herbs by the Medicus meant that the wound soon healed. He was impatient to join the rest of the legion but the weakness in his shoulder meant he was unable to wield a Gladius with any great effect. Finally, he was released from the hospital and put on latrine duty until his shoulder had healed enough for him to re-join the legion. At last, he was given the all clear and sat on his bunk in the quiet bunkhouse, packing his kit. The sound of hobnailed Caligae echoed along the timber decking and he turned to see that a Centurion stood in the doorway. Prydain sprang to attention.
‘Are you Prydain Maecilius?’ asked the Centurion.
‘I am, Sir,’ he answered.
‘Stand easy,’ said the Centurion, and entered the room.
Prydain relaxed slightly but remained wary. The brutality of the Centurions was well known.
‘I am Scipio,’ said the Centurion, ‘and I have been hearing a lot about you, Maecilius.’
‘Oh?’ said Prydain simply.
‘You are the talk of the legion, he said. ‘That little escapade with Hanzer’s warriors seems to have made you a bit of a hero amongst the ranks.’
‘I only did what any other legionary would have done, Sir.’
‘Ah, but that’s the point,’ said Scipio, ‘you didn’t. Any other legionary wouldn’t have left the ranks in the first place. They would have stayed in place, following their training to the letter, fighting as one. But not you, Maecilius,’ he continued, ‘You had to be different. And I hear it’s not the first time. It seems you are always leaning against authority and questioning orders.’
‘I escaped an enemy camp and captured a standard,’ said Prydain defensively.
‘And caused the death of a comrade in the process,’ shouted the Centurion, smacking his Vitis down hard on the table.
Prydain stared at the Centurion in shock.
‘But, Sir,’ he started.
‘Shut up!’ ordered the Centurion. ‘I am talking.’ He walked around the bunk room, hitting his Vitis into the palm of his hand.
‘You are an opinionated, arrogant, individual who, despite all the training invested in you by our glorious Emperor, refuses to conform.’ He stopped in front of Prydain, staring into his face. ‘I don’t know what to make of you Maecilius,’ he said. ‘Some say you are a hero; others say you are a liability. However, there is no mistaking what you did was quite extraordinary. You spotted the enemy before anyone else did, held your own in a swordfight with Hanzer, which is no mean feat in itself. Captured a standard, killed a man with your bare hands and brought your comrade back to the fort, even though you were wounded. You have the skills of an excellent soldier Maecilius, yet continue to be an individual. And therein lies the problem. Rome doesn’t like individuals and the legion has no place for people like you.’
Prydain was dumbstruck.
‘You are throwing me out?’ he gasped in disbelief.
Scipio stopped and stared at Prydain for a while before continuing.
‘That depends on you,’ he said.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Prydain
‘I have a proposal for you, Maecilius,’ he said. ‘I am willing to take that streak of defiance and bend it into a form we can use. I command a unit that is made up of men like you. Outsiders, renegades, and insubordinates. But they are also excellent soldiers, and after undertaking training totally different to what you have experienced so far, become the spear point of the Roman army. Interested?’
‘Yes, Sir,’ said Prydain immediately.
‘I thought you would be,’ said the Centurion. ‘This is the deal. Your training will start immediately. We don’t take any shit, Maecilius, any nonsense and you’re out. No second chances, understand?’
‘Yes, Sir.’
‘Good. Get your kit and come with me,’ he said, holding out his hand, ‘welcome to the scouts.’
----
Chapter 15
Two months had passed since the battle with Hanzer, and finally the day had come when the Ninth Hispana’s battle training ended and they made their way to the coast
to join up with the other legions. Cassus and his comrades were at the peak of fitness, their muscles hardened from constant exercise. Their kit was packed, weapons sharpened, and every soldier was impatient for the invasion to begin. At last, after several false starts, they finally embarked and the enormous invasion fleet set sail for Britannia.
Cassus listened to the sound of the oars dipping into the gently swelling sea, strangely soothed by the groan of oak against iron. He sat shivering against the walls of the ship, and thanked the Gods that the crossing had been calm. It wasn’t just the fact that on the one occasion he had actually been on a ship he had been impossibly sick that worried him, but the knowledge that, as every legionary knew, troop carrying was not the strongest skill of the Roman navy and the chances of ending up as fish food were very high in his eyes.
Back in their assembly camp, the sailors had taken great delight in stirring up the soldier’s fears with tales of sea monsters, giant waves and how terrible was death by drowning. Fights often ensued when the wine flowed too freely around the Gallic docks, but the sailors gave as good as they got, for though they were not legionaries, all had trained in the auxiliaries and were used to fighting in the many skirmishes still taking place on the seas around the empire. Finally, the time had come and all four legions boarded the armada of ships lying at anchor in the port of Gesoriacum.
This was where the sailors came into their own. This was their world and they took command of the situation, instructing the nervous soldiers where to sit in order to balance the ships. The bravado of the famous legionaries diminished as they solemnly took their place in a situation where they had no control whatsoever. Some lost their breakfast as the time drew near and the nerves kicked in, whilst others prayed silently to their personal Gods for protection and courage.
The twelve Triremes brought from the Mare Nostrum, lined up close together in the darkness. The top deck of each triple layered ship had a ballista mounted in the bow, the giant crossbow that could fire their limestone projectiles hundreds of yards across sea or land. Each ship was manned by a team of marines who were permanently stationed on board and supported by twenty Sagittaria, the archers ready to suppress any initial resistance with a hail of iron tipped death.
A Century of fully armed Legionaries from the feared first Cohort, sat shoulder to shoulder in the lead ship, filling every available inch of the open deck ready to disembark at a moment’s notice. Below them sat two levels of sweating, heavily muscled rowers. Paid freedmen and just as well trained in their own field as any infantryman and veterans of many conflicts. The lower deck, usually manned by a third layer of rowers had been cleared to allow the carriage of thirty cavalry and their mounts. These were the initial landing troops, tasked to secure the beach before the bulk of the invasion force.
Following the Triremes the troop ships came. Simpler in design with a single hold, and powered by only one bank of rowers, they were packed with the supporting Cohorts of the legion along with the auxiliaries.
Finally, the cargo ships came; a mix of whatever vessels had been sent by Rome or could be sequestered along the shores of Gaul, each filled to the brim with the essential supplies necessary for an expeditionary force of this size.
Even though the commanders were confident of self-sufficiency within days of landing, they still carried enough stores for weeks of unsupported campaign, by which time; the huge stockpiles assembled back across the channel would have been brought over by the never-ending relay of cargo ships. The second and third waves would include the camp followers, bribing their way onto merchant ships to follow the soldiers across the sea, for wherever the legions went there was usually coin to be made.
General Aulus Plautius stood in the bow of the lead Trireme looking toward Britannia, the sound of the breaking waves the only indication they were near their objective. The strength of the opposition was unknown on the looming shore, and as the sun had yet to rise, no one could yet see any reception party waiting for them.
Plautius knew that the barbarians would not just roll over and submit. On the contrary, he fully expected a bloody confrontation and knew that Julius Caesar had twice been repelled from these shores. He would not make the same mistakes and had prepared as well as any man could for the expedition. He was confident in his force and had planned for any eventuality, but he was not a stupid man and other preparations had been made. Those preparations were about to come to fruition and he stood in the van of the huge Roman invasion fleet, confident, arrogant, but patient as he awaited the right time to commit his overwhelming force to the annals of history.
----
A mile away from Plautius on the shores of Britannia, a young boy wrapped himself tighter in his sheepskin wrap as his father added more wood to the fire. The weather was dry but very cold and he would be glad to get back to his family’s hut. Their instructions were clear. The minute they saw any sign of an enemy ship, they were to light the bonfire they had prepared on the cliff edge. Many such bonfires were built all along the coastline and should there be an attack, a line of beacons would be lit and over ten thousand warriors could be anywhere along this stretch of Britannia within an hour. He yawned widely but the pleasure of the stretching muscles was interrupted as he saw something far out to sea. He stared again, sure that he had seen something. Suddenly it was there again, a flashing light where no such light should be.
‘Father,’ he said. ‘Look.’
His father threw another few sticks on their campfire and stood up, his eyes taking a few moments to adjust to the darkness after the glow of the flames.
‘What do you see?’ he asked, and stared out at the inky blackness.
----
The young boy was not the only one to have seen the light and two legionary scouts crawled through the damp grass in the darkness toward him. They wore no armour and their tunics were dyed black, but Roman soldiers nonetheless. They and their colleagues had lain hidden for days, deep in the centre of inaccessible thickets along the coast, eating only Buccellatum and sipping sparingly from their flasks.
The plan was simple. When the fleet was offshore, the signal would be given and the scouts would take out as many of the warning pyres as possible, ensuring that the invasion fleet was guaranteed a secretive landing. Now the long awaited signal had come and the fifty scouts who had landed far down the coastline in the depths of a rainstorm several nights ago, prepared to carry out their lethal orders.
The soldiers crawled slowly forward until they were less than five metres away from their target. With hearts racing they both leapt up and ran toward the two men alongside the fire. There was no fight, the surprise was absolute and father and son died together, their throats slit before they knew anything was wrong. A few yards away, two more warriors died in their sleep as Pugios were thrust into their wrapped bodies over and over again. For miles down the coastline, the scene was repeated and within minutes, all potential warning fires were thrown over the cliff edges and into the sea below. The mission had been successful and the Centurion in charge of the scouts sent his own signal to the fleet. The way was clear for the invasion to start.
Out at sea, General Plautius gave the order everyone had been waiting for. There was no fanfare, and no special speeches. The order was passed down to double the stroke and the oarsmen bent their backs into their task, all thoughts of subterfuge discarded as they increased the speed to force the ship far up the shingle beach.
----
Chapter 16
‘Stand by!’ called the ship’s commander, and all the waiting legionaries got to their feet, holding their shields as high as their chins in case of enemy archers. ‘Brace!’ he shouted and despite gripping the sides, all the soldiers jolted forward as the front of the ship ground to a shuddering halt. ‘Marines go!’ he shouted and ten of the crew climbed over the side to drop into the surf, each carrying metal stakes and ropes to secure the ship to the beach.
‘Shallow water, Sir!’ called a voice in the darkness.
The commander nodded to Severus.
‘Safe to go,’ he said. ‘Good luck!’
Severus’s voice sounded calmly over the commotion as the oars were stowed by the rowers.
‘Raven Century!’ he called, referring to them by their own nickname. ‘Disembark.’
The men in front of Cassus shuffled forward and climbed over the sides of the ship, lowering themselves by rope into the surf below. Cassus caught his breath as he landed up to his chest in the freezing water.
‘Move it!’ hissed Remus behind him as the soldiers waded onto the beach. Within a few minutes, the Century was together again and ran to the top of the hill. The night was still relatively quiet despite the hundreds of wet men now racing to take their positions.
At the top of the hill, the front line dropped to their knees and crawled the last few feet to the ridgeline, keen not to present a profile to any unseen watchers on the other side. Centurion Severus and Optio Remus were the first to peer over the crest and into the lands of Britannia.
‘See anything?’ asked Severus.
‘Nothing to worry us,’ said Remus, ‘though those fires must warm a thousand warriors.’ They stared at the looming shape of a mountain in the distance, the base of which was dotted with the fires of an encamped force.
A sudden movement caught Severus’s eye and his hand flew to the Pila lying at his side. A group of shadowy figures were approaching along the hilltop, crouching so not to be seen by unwelcome eyes. Suddenly they stopped, dropping to the ground and out of Severus’s view.
Severus drew his Pugio, and using his shield as a drum, struck three times with the hilt, a full heartbeat between each strike. A second later, a similar sound came out of the darkness, a pre-arranged signal designed to identify friendly troops. Happy that the silhouettes were Roman, Severus called out to them.
‘Watchword?’ he whispered into the darkness.
‘Thunder!’ answered the hidden figure, using the name of General Plautius’s favourite horse.
