Roman - The Fall of Britannia (15 page)

‘
Pompous arse!’ said Cassus through the gritted teeth of his
false smile.

‘
Who
is he?’ asked Prydain

‘
The
same man who tried to buy us off this morning,’ answered Cassus, ‘I
forget his name.’

‘
Mateus,’ said a nearby soldier, ‘son of a senator. Never
lifted a Gladius in anger, yet poised to lead a Cohort. It’s
disgusting.’

‘
No
matter, ’said Cassus, ‘come on, let’s get out of here. There’s not
much time and too many women.’

‘
Where are you going?’ asked Prydain.

‘
Where do you think?’ said Cassus, ‘the town,
obviously!’

‘
But
he said…’

‘
Bollocks to what he said,’ interrupted Cassus. ‘He already
has his strumpets on call. I haven’t seen a naked woman in two
months. I’ll take my chances?’

Prydain
paused.

‘
No!’ he said finally, ‘I am going to sort out my
kit.’

Cassus
shrugged.

‘
Your loss,’ he said and joined his other comrades as they
returned to their barracks.

Over the
following few days, they were issued with their personal equipment.
Assorted armour, helmets and capes were distributed, and a frantic
day of swapping and altering ensued, while every man tried to
obtain the best fit he could. Clerks ensured they signed for the
equipment so the cost could be deducted from their pay, and at the
same time, they signed up to their retirement fund and joined a
death club, ensuring their remains would get a decent burial should
they fall.

The training was
harder than they had ever dreamt possible and every man collapsed
each night onto their bunks into an exhausted and dreamless
sleep.

Every morning
before dawn, they endured their morning run followed by an hour’s
physical exercise, and after a breakfast of cheese and oatmeal
porridge, they had two solid hours of sword practice with a
weighted wooden Gladius on wooden posts. Every man carried out a
thousand blows with either hand, repeating the exercise over and
over again until they were proficient with both. The instructors
side-lined any deemed not to be striking with all their force,
while the rest of their Contubernium were made to run ten laps as
punishment. Soon every man struck the posts with every ounce of
strength they had to stop themselves being alienated by their
comrades.

‘
Forward edge,’ shouted Julius, their instructor. ‘Head, leg,
body, change. Back edge, head, leg, body, change.’

The training
continued until the strikes were second nature. Then came the finer
points, the high parry, the low parry and most important of all,
the killing thrust. Over the days, they combined all the drills
until eventually; the Tessaria added a new dimension, the Scutum.
It was like they were learning all over again, but this time their
balance was altered by the weight of the shields, not only in
defence, but also as an attacking weapon, smashing the central
brass boss into the enemy faces painted on the wooden
pole.

For drill
instruction, they marched in formation around the fort, keeping
step with everyone else as the pace was called out by the Tessaria,
learning the commands they would hear in battle, yet safe within
site of the legion’s fortress.

The midday meal
was fruit and bread, washed down with water from the river before
continuing the arduous training. Afternoons consisted of more
exercising, more sword practise and more drill, interspersed with
wrestling and trials of strength and endurance. All around them,
hundreds of other recruits shared their pain, as each was pushed to
their limits, learning the basics required to be a legionary.
Swimming was a welcome relief from the physical pain, but even
there they were required to swim back and fore until exhausted,
eagerly encouraged and often rescued from potential drowning by the
Tessaria from the comfort of their safety boats.

Those who had
been identified as being particularly adept at certain skill were
formed into smaller units, concentrating on their own talents.
Sagittarii worked constantly with their bows, slingers worked their
way through mountains of stones and the better riders were given
extra practice with the horses and though there were dedicated
cavalry within the auxiliaries, the legion had their own force of
horsemen that were always in need of recruits.

Finally came the
evenings and they were worst of all. Every recruit was made to
clear a patch of sand and dig a hole in the soil beneath.
Dimensions varied, but as long as it was as wide as the digger’s
outstretched arms, as long as their own body with their head was
lower than the pit edge when standing on the bottom, then Julius
would be satisfied and the recruit allowed to backfill the void.
Even though Prydain’s broken arm prevented him from digging, he too
was kept busy, ferrying leather buckets of water to the thirsty
recruits. Soon every man was exhausted and his muscles ached from
the constant demanding exercise. It was a task universally hated by
the recruits with little explanation as to the purpose, but it was
not until every trench was once more level, that the men were
dismissed for the night. It didn’t take long for them to realize
that the more they helped each other, the quicker they could be
dismissed and the quicker they could eat.

The evening meal
was issued as a pack of uncooked food sufficient to feed eight men.
It consisted of a piece of meat, usually pork or mutton, and a
basket of barley along with whatever assorted vegetables that were
available at the time. Each Contubernium built a fire on their
stone hearth and cooked a communal stew in the brass pot to make
the meal stretch further.

Every week, the
Century set out on a twenty-mile route march to be completed in
five hours, and when they could achieve that with ease, they
started again, but this time carrying their personal equipment
strapped to a Furca, the crucifix shaped pole each soldier carried
over his shoulder on the march.

As the weeks
progressed, the equipment increased. As well as carrying their
Furcas, they wore their Lorica Segmentata for the first time, the
upper body armour made from bands of overlapping iron fixed to a
leather under-vest. In addition, as their fitness and strength
developed, they were issued with their Pilae, Gladii and Scutum and
every time the legionaries marched they found it easier, building
up their strength, stamina and technique until they could easily
achieve the twenty miles in full battle dress.

At last, the
constant training and weeks of pain passed and the recruit intake
was told to pack up their belongings to parade outside the fort
with all their equipment. The men did so eagerly and efficiently,
now well versed in the drills and familiar with their kit. The
excitement was palpable; for this was the day they would be posted
to their Cohorts and started battle training.

Six centuries of
men lined up in front of the fort in full battle dress. Their
instructors walked up and down the ranks, tightening straps,
checking water bottles and generally ensuring that everything was
as it should be.

The ranks waited
in silence and it seemed to Prydain that the life of a legionary
consisted of waiting, rushing and polishing armour. Finally, the
same black charger rode out of the gates carrying the Legatus, who
had last addressed them, months ago. He came to a halt in front of
the gathered men and stared at them for a long time. The difference
in sixteen weeks was astonishing. They held themselves more upright
and there was an air of arrogance about them as they stared
directly to their front, disciplined and attentive.

‘
Tirones,’ he shouted, ‘tomorrow, the legion moves into the
field to start battle training and I know you are eager to join
them. You have worked hard and your instructors tell me you are
ready,’ he paused, ‘But I am yet to be convinced. The men of this
legion have fought and died in many campaigns and I would be doing
them an injustice if unready recruits were to water their ranks
like cheap wine. Therefore, I have a challenge for you. Today you
will be given a final task.’

‘
Oh
shit,’ muttered Cassus under his breath, ‘why do I feel another
route march coming on?’

‘
No
problem,’ answered Prydain quietly. ‘Five hours of hard work and it
is over.’

The Legatus
continued.

‘
Each Century will march with full kit to a camp already
situated in the hills. Within the camp will be five standards, each
bearing a number of a Cohort within the legion. You will return
here with a standard, and those who are within the allotted time,
will stay together within the Cohort whose standard they bear.’ He
paused again. ‘You will note I said there are five standards, yet
there are six Centuries. The Century, who fails to return with a
standard, will be split up and shared between the
cohorts.’

A gasp rippled
through the ranks. No one wanted to be split up from the comrades
they had shared the pain of training with. They had become brothers
and had always been under the impression they would stay
together.

‘
So
your future is in your hands,’ continued the Legatus. ‘Work hard,
and you will earn your standard. Take it easy and suffer the
consequences.’

He turned to the
six Centurions lined up before their men.

‘
The
standards lie in the fort of Chabal. You can pick your own route.
Take them out as recruits, and bring them back as legionaries. You
may begin.’ With that, he spun his horse and galloped back into the
fort.

It seemed that
the announcement had a delayed reaction for no one moved for a
while. Suddenly the Centurions sprung into life, turning on their
squads demanding action. Centurion Severus called his men to
attention.

‘
You
heard the officer,’ he said, ‘this is your chance to earn your own
standard, but it will be the hardest thing you have ever done.’ As
he spoke, Severus stomped back and fore, his voice steadily raising
the passion in his soldier’s chests. ‘Chabal is over twenty miles
away, so a return journey is twice as far as you have ever marched
before. I am confident that every man here is capable of succeeding
in this task, but if we do this, we do it as a Century. Eighty men
as one. If we fail, we fail together. There will be no dropouts,
there will be no quitters and there will be no failures. We have
stuck together throughout your training and we will still be
together when we meet the first barbarian spear in Britannia. I am
proud of what you have achieved so far and have no doubt that we
will return with standard held high. Are you with me?’

‘
Yes, Centurion,’ roared the men in return.

‘
I
can’t hear you!’ screamed Severus. ‘Are you fucking with
me?’

Again, the
Century roared their agreement, this time their voices echoing off
the surrounding hills.

‘
Tessaria’ roared Severus, ‘check their kit. Optio, get me a
sack of Buccellatum.’

He looked at the
retreating columns of the other centuries disappearing into the
distance, already started on the race. Within a few minutes, the
Century was ready to march, each with an extra ration of
Buccellatum, the hard tack biscuit issued to legions on campaign
and each carrying an extra water bottle, hastily gathered by the
Tessaria from the quartermasters in the fort. Centurion Severus
took Optio Remus to one side.

‘
Chabal camp lies along the road twenty miles in that
direction,’ he said, pointing at a trail of dust left by the
departing centuries, ‘but our route lies there.’ He pointed upwards
at the mountain overlooking the valley to the north. ‘The other
side of that hill lays a track that leads past the camp. If we can
gain the summit in two hours, I reckon we can be there before the
others.’

‘
Our
horses will never climb that,’ said Remus.

‘
The
horses stay here,’ said Severus. ’We march with our
men!’

----

Chapter 10

Gwydion sat
huddled in his oiled sheepskin cloak, pushing himself as close to
the fire as possible to get some warmth into his freezing bones.
All around him were hundreds of similar fires providing the same
service to thousands of Catuvellauni warriors. Spring was still
weeks away and though the forest canopy had prevented the worst of
the snowfall from reaching the forest floor, it could provide
little in the way of warmth or comfort to the waiting army
below.

Men coughed and
spluttered as they tried to get a few minutes sleep, while others
talked quietly, anticipating the forthcoming battle. Gwydion blew
on his hands for the hundredth time that night, and looked
jealously over to the makeshift tent that contained Caratacus’s
brother, Togodumnus and his own King, Idwal. Muffled voices came
from within and shadows moved on the hide walls, the imagery
projected by the roaring flames within.

The Catuvellauni
army was impressive, consisting of over sixty thousand armed men
and a thousand chariots. Huge piles of wood were built into unlit
bonfires every few miles along the coast, each covered by two men
ready to light the pyre should there be any sight of the invasion
fleet. Gwydion had never seen such an army. He was sure the Romans
would be crushed like ants when confronted by Caratacus and his
hordes. He huddled deeper under his cloak and closed his eyes, not
sure why he was even here. Suddenly, his eyes sprung open,
instantly alert.