Soldier of Rome: The Last Campaign (The Artorian Chronicles) (2 page)

Pro
log

Lugdunum, Gaul

January, 74
A.D.

***

The blade gleamed in the lamplight and as Magnus caught his reflection, he did not see
an old man. In his mind he saw one far younger, full of vitality and strength. It was as if the weapon were possessed by the spirit of the youth who had joined the legions so many long years ago; at a time when he was really little more than an overgrown boy, tossed into the brutal and unforgiving world on the Roman frontier. That he had kept the same weapon all these years was remarkable; the blade had slain many of Rome’s enemies, and in his hands it felt as if it possessed a life of its own.

It was a façade, of course; for
he was very old now. He came from a long-lived line and had done and witnessed more than most would in ten lifetimes. After so many years in the ranks, his greatest struggle had been allowing the younger generation to deal with the woes that besot Rome after he left the legions.

“Father,” the voice of his son caused him to smile as he turned towards the half-opened door. “Everyone is here, and the grandchildren are asking for you…rather boisterously, I might add.”

“Give me a few minutes, son.”

The young man, Titus, saw the gladius in his father’s hands and
immediately understood. He understood his father well enough to know that there were moments when one did not ask questions, just let the old soldier alone for the time being. As soon as the door was closed, Magnus sheathed the weapon and looked into the spacious trunk he’d pulled it from. It had not been opened in many years, yet somehow he found it calling to him; perhaps because he knew his grandchildren would want to hear stories of his ‘adventures’ in the legions. And yet, what he found within gave him reminders of a much darker time.

Inside, folded up, was his once-gleaming scale armor with the harness that bore his phalerae campaign disks and other decorations. On the left side of the chest was his battered helmet that still bore his centurion’s crest, and in the upper right, almost as an afterthought, a piece of cloth was folded over a circular shape. It was the brittle remains of
his Civic Crown that he’d been awarded at the Battle of Braduhenna forty-six years prior. His old crumpled cloak was rolled up haphazardly underneath.

“That which consumed me for so many years is now but a faded memory,” he said quietly.

Magnus’ pillar of support in his years away from the legions had come from his family. He had met Ana, who had been a childhood friend of his sister Svetlana, while on leave from Britannia, and they had married soon after. He was privately ashamed that he had taken her as his wife simply as a means of forcing himself to finally let go after the death of the only woman he had ever loved. As the years passed, he came to love Ana, as well as the two fine sons she’d born him. But now she was gone as well. And despite Magnus’ efforts to convince him to do otherwise, his youngest son, Hansi, had joined the ranks as soon as he came of age. He currently served with the Second Legion, Augusta, at a fortress called Isca that had been raised in western Britannia four years prior. It filled him with both pride, as well as fear, knowing that his son was posted on the same violent frontier he had once been; perhaps fighting the children and grandchildren of some of Magnus’ former enemies.

It had not been easy,
leaving the army behind after so many years serving under the eagles. The greatest difficulty had been being forced to sit idle when the empire erupted into civil war six years earlier, after the death of the despondent and hated Emperor Nero. In the span of a year, four men had claimed the mantle of Caesar. Magnus had kept his personal feelings to himself, though friends and acquaintances would constantly ask the ‘old soldier’ his thoughts on who he felt had the most legitimate claim to be emperor as the war raged on with various factions staking their claim through violence and bloodshed. Magnus always deferentially stated that his loyalty was to Rome, though he privately held out hope for the empire when the legions in the east declared his former commander, Vespasian, emperor. It had pained Magnus that he was in no position to draw his sword in support of the one man he knew was worthy of ruling Rome. Fortunately, Vespasian, the man who had helped conquer Britannia, would emerge triumphant, bringing stability and peace to the empire. In the five years since becoming Caesar, Vespasian had proven to be as benevolent as he was strong, the brutal suppression of the Judean rebellion notwithstanding.

The sky had been dark grey all day and now it was black.  The sun had set, and the storm that had been brewing all afternoon was blowing hard and cold.  But amidst the storm was Magnus’ large, warm house, and the occupants ignored the wind and the rain that started to fall outside.

In the modest dining hall
, it was full of warmth and laughter with children playing games and running amok through the house, the adults drinking wine and sharing gossip as well as the latest news while lounging on couches that surrounded the long table. As he joined the family, Magnus would reach out sneakily and swipe one of the smaller children as he or she went tearing past the table. They would squeal with laughter as Magnus swung them high in the air then caught them in his old, but strong, arms.  He would kiss them and put them down, giving their bottoms a smack and send them off again. 

He was very content.
It had been an easy journey from Rome and the Nordic realms for the members of his extended family. Amongst the gathering were his eldest son, along with his wife and their children. In addition to his youngest son, his late wife, Ana, was the only other one absent.

Magnus’ sister,
Svetlana, smiled privately every time he tossed another child in the air.  The older he got the more he reminded her of their grandfather. Every time he laughed she was surprised that it wasn’t Mad Olaf returned.

Later, after the little ones wore themselves out and most of the family was drunk on
various libations, they all gathered around the fire in a small antechamber, telling stories.  It wasn’t long before someone asked Magnus to give them a tale from
The Chronicles of Artorius
.

“
Oh, you don't want to hear that old tale do you?” he asked reluctantly, heaving a great sigh as if it were an arduous task.

There was a chorus of “
Yes, yes!  Please Grandfather!” from the children.

They knew his game and crowded around Magnus, the little ones pushing each other in their attempts to sit on his lap. Magnus roared with laughter and insisted on t
elling them a different story. But they would have none of it. They wheedled and teased him, with their parents cheering them on, until he finally relented.

“
Alright,
alright!”
he bellowed. 

There was instant
silence and the children sat down on the floor as close to him as they could, eyes big and faces beaming. Magnus plucked up two of them and put them on his lap. The twins were four years old and fiercely proud of the privilege of sitting on Grandfather’s lap tonight.

There were many sagas in the
family, whose lineage was a unique amalgamation of both Nordic and Roman. Some days it pained the old Norseman to see that the youngest generation of his family was all but removed from their Nordic roots. He supposed it was simply the way of things; when a people became Roman they over time were completely assimilated, their foreign ancestry buried as generations passed.

He quietly contemplated this for a moment before
returning his thoughts to which stories he would tell. The Chronicles were of Magnus’ dearest friend, Artorius, whom his first born son had been named after, and who Magnus often referred to as,
‘the bravest man I ever knew’
. Though the Norseman had been very much a part of every battle and adventure within, he always preferred to leave himself out of most of the stories, or at least diminished in role.

Years ago, Ana put his stories of Artorius into written form.
It was difficult in some ways for Magnus, for the stories were written similar to a Nordic saga, oftentimes embellished, while also devoid of the graphic horror that he and his friends had suffered during those harrowing years. The perception of valiant heroes, worthy of Valhalla, who achieved great glory in conquest for the Roman Empire, sat uneasy with the former centurion. What his children and grandchildren never heard were the ghastly details regarding friends who bled to death in battle, suffering abject pain and terror; or the slaughter they wrought upon entire towns, when orders were to give no quarter, not even to women and children. He swallowed hard in the abject realization that there were those killed by his blade that had been no older than his two grandchildren that now sat on his lap.

E
ven when he was awarded the Civic Crown after the Battle of Braduhenna, Magnus never felt like a hero. Perhaps then, that was why he made his tales about his friend, rather than himself. Strangely enough, the written saga had ended after the campaigns in Judea, though this was in part because Magnus simply never spoke about Britannia to Ana, or indeed anyone. There were memories that were simply too painful to gloss over or twist into song.

The original script was safely wrapped in a chest, as it wasn
’t needed. Over the years the family memorized
The Chronicles
and in some ways, Magnus blamed them for Hansi choosing to join the legions. His sons, and now his grandchildren, never tired of hearing about Centurion Artorius and his wife, the Goddess Diana. As with all sagas the story was often overstated, but fairly true to form. That added dramatization, with traces of fiction, had helped Magnus distance himself from the savage and ugly brutality that really was.

The old man
adjusted the twins more comfortably on his lap. Most days he felt almost as young and strong as ever, but those days were swiftly diminishing. Having his children and grandchildren were like a fountain of youth, and he took advantage of it whenever he could. He felt like he did in the early days of the legions whenever he recited
The Chronicles
. He paused for a moment and then shook his head. For reasons he could not explain, perhaps because of the memories brought back from his old trunk, he decided in that moment that he would not tell this particular tale in the epic poetry of a saga. It was time, even for the youngest of his grandchildren, to know the truth about the horrors of war and what had happened all those years before.

“I think,” he said, “
it is time I tell you all about the final harrowing saga of Artorius and his legionaries. But be warned, my beloved, this story is not simply one of adventure. It is one of immense personal tragedy that fell upon your grandfather so many years ago.” He then looked up at his son. “That is why I never told your mother, or any of you, about those days in Britannia. They were full of horror and extreme terror, as well as personal bravery. It is time for you to know about the last campaign…”

Thirty-four years earlier

Chapter I: Gate of Kings

Kingdom of the Atrebates, Britannia

April, 40 A.D.

***

The rains had ceased, and the ground was sodden and cold. The fog clung to the ground like a sinister shroud; ready to envelope the armies of two rival kings that faced each other across an open field. Copses of trees dotted the landscape with a small brook separating the two opposing forces. Though difficult for the outside observer to see through the engulfing mist, one of the armies substantially outnumbered the other, and their warriors were full of confidence and ardor as a result of their assured victory. That their vastly outmatched adversaries had decided to fight rather than capitulate, only fueled their inherent bloodlust.

“Our enemy reeks of fear,” a warrior said to his leader
, a powerful warlord named Caratacus.

“Their folly in opposing me will be paid in blood
.” Caratacus was a big man, with dark hair pulled back and well-groomed whiskers. He carried a large two-handed sword slung over his back, His brother, Togodumnus, was king of a neighboring tribe, and he had sent a large number of warriors to aid Caratacus in installing himself as king of the newly-conquered lands. A powerful and wealthy man who owned many fine weapons, Caratacus had on this day elected to wield his favorite battle axe that was capable of cleaving limbs and heads from bodies with a single blow.

Contrary to popular belief on the mainland, the peoples of the Isle of Britannia were anything but united. Consisting of
more than a dozen kingdoms, they were as diverse culturally and ethnically as those who populated the continental Roman Empire. The loyalties of individuals lay with their tribes rather than any sense of larger nationality. In fact, the very term
‘Briton’
was an absurdity that meant nothing to those who inhabited the mysterious and volatile isle. Wars were constant, even though none of the kingdoms had anything resembling a permanent standing army; the concepts of supply and logistics needed for a prolonged campaign were completely foreign to them. Instead, every man of fighting age could be called to arms at any time to serve his king. Wars were mostly short in duration and extreme in brutality. The inability of any of the kingdoms to field a large army for prolonged periods prevented the isle from ever becoming anything resembling united. That did not stop the constant state of conflict, particularly as larger kingdoms attempted to annex the lands of their smaller neighbors, either by coercion or violence of action.

Warriors
were armed at their own expense, and as such the majority carried spears, hand axes, or clubs, with simple oblong or circular shields. Those of greater wealth and social status would carry swords or in some cases large battle axes. Few, if any, wore anything passing for body armor. Courage was their only protection, and for the army on the eastern side of the brook, they would need all they could muster.

Before the sounding of the war horns, Caratacus met with those who would help him lead their men into battle.

“Your brother, the king, sends word from the south,” a messenger reported. “The silver mines are ours! Several villages were abandoned, the rest surrendered without a fight.”

“That is because Verica has every warrior in his pathetic kingdom here, across that trickle of water,” Caratacus remarked. He then spat on the ground.

That Togodumnus was leading part of the army personally added to his reputation as a strong warrior. The actual defeat of the Atrebates’ army, however, he would leave to his brother who would install himself as their king.

“Time to end this farce of a conflict.” Caratacus then brandished his axe and signaled to the nearest horn player. With the dropping of his axe, the Catuvellauni began their advance.

“It never ends,” an old man lamented from across the field as he leaned against his great sword. His name was Verica, ruler of the small kingdom known as Atrebates in southern Britannia. Opposing him were familiar nemeses, the Catuvellauni. A kingdom of far greater size and power, they had been pressing the Atrebates’ borders, encroaching on their lands since well before Verica became king, twenty-five years earlier. King Togodumnus had now become so brazen as to send his brother to conquer Atrebates and establish his own kingdom, with himself as overlord.

“And our friends have abandoned us,” a young warrior said through gritted teeth. His name was Cogidubnus,
Verica’s great-nephew. His blondish hair came just past his shoulders, and he was clean shaven, which caused him to stand out amongst his fellow warriors. He also carried a metal buckler and his weapon of choice was a Roman-style gladius.

“Even if the Cantiaci and Iceni both joined us, our numbers would still be too few against the Catuvellauni,” Verica observed somberly.
“Most of their army is out plundering our lands, sacking villages, and laying claim to our precious silver and tin mines. The force that Caratacus leads against us is but a fraction of his total strength.”

“And he still outnumbers
us three-to-one,” Cogidubnus growled.

“I would rather die than be Caratacus’ slave!” another warrior spat as he clutched his spear to his chest.

A war horn sounded from across the way, and a mighty battle cry erupted from the Catuvellauni as they brandished their weapons in the air before slowly advancing. Their faces and bodies painted in various blue patterns, and their eyes mad with savagery.

“And so it begins,” Verica muttered.
Due to his advanced age, he was not fit to personally fight; an affliction that emasculated and humiliated him deeply. Instead, it would be for his nephew to personally lead their warriors to their destiny, while their king was confined to simply watching with a small handful of bodyguards.

“Your warriors are with you, uncle!”
Cogidubnus asserted. “The Catuvellauni possess neither honor nor courage; they will not lay claim to Atrebates without spilling much blood. And I intend to have amongst that shed be Caratacus’ own!” He then gave a brave shout and held his sword high, his warriors echoing his calls to battle.

Cogid
ubnus was wrought with both rage and despair, though he did his best to mask these feelings. He knew that neither side possessed any advantages in either weaponry or tactics. This battle would be decided by numbers alone, despite his reassurances to his uncle. The maddened cries of both sides grew louder as they approached the brook. Suddenly, several dozen Catuvellauni sprinted forward, bows in hand. A haphazard volley of arrows followed, cutting down numerous Atrebates warriors as they sought cover beneath their crude shields. The shouts of rage were replaced by those of pain from the stricken. Cogidubnus flinched as a warrior to his left was impaled through the neck by a stray arrow. The man dropped his weapons, clutching at the arrow as blood spurted forth, his tongue protruding grotesquely as he fell to his knees, eyes wide in terror. The Atrebates had a few archers of their own, and these men took aim and unleashed a spattering of arrows in return. Cogidubnus’ mouth twisted in a defiant sneer as he watched a few Catuvellauni warriors fall.

Hi
s fear then left him, turning to rage as he gave a renewed cry of wrath, breaking into a sprint, his fighters following. The brook was shallow and very narrow, and in a few bounds Cogidubnus crossed, lunging forward and plunging his gladius into the stomach of a Catuvellauni warrior who stood taunting them while brandishing a large spear. His adversary howled in agony as he clawed at his ruptured intestines. The Atrebates prince shoved the dying man aside, and as his fighters sprinted across the brook, a fierce melee ensued. Despite the ferocity of their charge, as well as their extreme bravery, the Atrebates were simply too badly outnumbered. Warriors found themselves in a brawl with two, or sometimes three, enemy combatants at once. One would tie up the Atrebates’ shield with his own while his fellows would plunge their weapons into his guts. Individual melees resembled more of a pack of wild dogs attacking a stricken cow rather than a battle amongst warriors. The end result was never in doubt.

And yet, it was anything but a one-sided slaughter, for the Atrebates bore the courage of despair, knowing that lest they hold, all would be lost for them and their loved ones. As the Catuvellauni drove them back into the brook, they left in their wake many dead and horribly maimed fighters from both sides. Spears plunged into hearts, swords and axes hacked off limbs, while large clubs smashed the brains out of their victims.

His warriors still attempted to stand their ground, and Cogidubnus found himself stumbling back amongst the slick rocks that lay scattered about the bank. He swung his buckler in a punching motion, the edge catching one of his assailants across the temple, rendering him dazed as the Atrebates prince stabbed him through the cheek with his gladius. It was then that he spied Caratacus. And while Cogidubnus was no small man, Caratacus was a monster in comparison. He wielded his great axe with ease, bringing it down in a vicious chop that cleaved through the shoulder and arm of a hapless warrior. He then swung his weapon in a backswing, decapitating the man.

“Vile bastard of hell!”
Cogidubnus shouted as he attacked the usurper.

He caught Caratacus off-guard with a lunging blow to the head from his buckler. He followed through with a quick stab that caught the Catuvellauni leader in the side. It was a painful, but mostly superficial wound, and Caratacus caught the prince in the head with the back of his fist before bringing his axe to bear. His eyes were red with fury as he smashed Cogidubnus’ shield, the metal buckling under the onslaught. The shock of the smash shot numbing pain through the young warrior’s arm
, and he found himself suddenly facing more than just Caratacus as a number of enemy warriors came to their leader’s aid. His chance at slaying the Catuvellauni’s war chief was quickly lost, and he stumbled back across the brook, which was now filled with dead and dying men. A hand reached up piteously, catching Cogidubnus on the boot as he splashed past the poor wretch, whose guts had been splayed open by a Catuvellauni sword. And yet the prince knew there was nothing he could do for the man or, indeed, any of his numerous warriors who lay strewn about with sickening and ghastly wounds that they would soon succumb to; that is, unless the Catuvellauni were feeling somewhat merciful and put the men out of their misery.

King Verica watched the battle unfold, his head bowed in sorrow. The
entire brawl had lasted maybe a few minutes. Survivors of his army now fled in all directions, their only saving grace being that neither side had any cavalry with which to conduct a pursuit.

“My king, we must leave the field at once!” a warrior from his bodyguard pleaded. “If you are lost, then there will be no hope left for our people.”

Verica nodded reluctantly and allowed himself to be helped onto one of the only horses on the field. The triumphant shouts of the Catuvellauni echoed in his mind as he, and a few mounted guards, fled south.

“Uncle!” Cogidubnus shouted, running up behind him. “
We must make for the grove of Ancasta, along the River Alre
1
. I will hold Caratacus as long as I am able and then meet you there in two days.”

Verica could only nod in reply and as he spurred his horse away from the scene of death, he gave a sad look back. Despite his despair, he managed a smile of deep
-set pride at his great-nephew, who continued to stand defiantly in the face of Caratacus’ oncoming hordes, even as friendly warriors fled in all directions. There was no cohesion to be found in either side, and it was only the occasional single enemy fighter who would come at the Atrebates prince. Verica watched as Cogidubnus smashed a warrior across the head with his buckler and thrust his gladius into his heart, beneath the ribcage. He then sprinted up a short, rocky knoll and shouted a series of curses towards their hated foe. Another brazen enemy warrior came at him, only to stumble on the slick stones and fall on his face, allowing Cogidubnus to dispatch him with a slash of his gladius across the throat. Even from a distance, Verica could see the blood spurting forth as the man thrashed about. His nephew then gave one last battle cry towards their enemy before sprinting away, leading many of their enemies to chase after him and away from his great-uncle.