Soldier of Rome: The Last Campaign (The Artorian Chronicles) (31 page)

Despite the fairly open terrain, Artorius found it impractical to place his entire legion on line, even with just eight cohorts at his disposal. Instead
, he positioned five cohorts in front with about ten to twenty meters spacing between. The remaining three formed up behind these, staggered between the gaps. This gave a large enough frontage, while also allowing for greater control and situational awareness, as well as maintaining a needed reserve. Camillus instinctively fell in just behind Artorius and off to his right. Though his purpose was to carry the eagle and use it to relay any visual signals, as well as watching for any indications sent back from the other cohorts, his sword arm twitched, anxious as always to take part in the fighting.

The warriors coming at them were at first sprinting, but as the more fleet-footed grew closer to the advancing wall of shields, they suddenly slowed their pace, allowing their friends to catch up before advancing again. These particular fighters had never faced Roman soldiers before, and to see thousands of men marching together with such discipline, while also encased in heavy armor behind a wall of brightly-painted shields was
, in the very least, unnerving.

“Fight with
courage,” Magnus said, beginning a Nordic battle chant he had heard from the time he was a child. “Fight with honor, and if you must die, then do so with the gratitude that you died in battle. Today is a good day!”

“Steady lads!” Artorius said, as much for his own benefit as his men.

The centuries behind him slowed their pace slightly, allowing for a greater distance between ranks. The barbarians to their immediate front, though at first slowed by indecision, were soon carried forward by their comrades on a wave of fury.

“Javelins ready!”
Artorius shouted, drawing his gladius as his men hefted their heavy pila to throwing position. The subsequent centuries had not readied their javelins yet; the First Cohort having adopted the practice of each rank unleashing its pila just prior to executing its first passage-of-lines.

Their enemy was getting closer. Even moving at a dead run, it was still an anxious few moments before they closed. Artorius’ eyes were fixed on one younger man with a filthy red beard who carried a woodsman’s axe. It served as a reminder that these were not professional soldiers, but simply men who became warriors when the need rose to defend their homes or when summoned by their king.
As they drew closer, Artorius could hear the man’s battle cry over the wall of sound coming from his companions as he raised his axe over his shoulder.

“Javelins…throw!”

The Durotriges were caught off guard by the storm of javelins suddenly unleashed upon them. Many, who thought the Romans may use them as stabbing spears, were suddenly impaled or had their shields punctured and ripped from their arms. Warriors suddenly found themselves stumbling over their stricken companions, many of whom cried out in pain as their guts were punctured through. One poor man had taken a pilum through the bowels and was pinned to the ground as a result. He gasped for air as the agony overwhelmed him. The hideous entrance and exit wounds seeping both blood and excrement. Another javelin slammed clean through a warrior’s heart, bursting out his back. Though he was killed instantly, his body continued to stumble forward a few feet, eyes glassy and vacant, mouth open as he collapsed just in front of the legionary who slew him.

Artorius braced himself behind
his shield, his gladius protruding forward at hip level. With his head being the only viable target for his opponent, he quickly ducked down as the barbarian’s blow came crashing down, driving forward and knocking the man off balance with his shield. He rotated his hips and thrust his gladius deep into the warrior’s stomach while still keeping low. The entire struggle had lasted maybe a couple seconds, and Artorius was immediately back behind his shield. As instinct took over, he was relieved to note that age had not slowed down his reflexes.

There had been no order for his men to draw their gladii; each soldier unsheathing his weapon as soon as he let his pilum fly. Despite the losses they had already incurred, the Durotriges
came at the Romans with brutal tenacity. Spears, clubs, axes, and the occasional sword smashed into the shield wall as the Romans continued to press forward, their gladii stabbing forward repeatedly. The barbarians were valiant, though lacking the reckless abandon with which many of their Germanic adversaries had fought with in past campaigns.

“Set for passage-of-lines!”
Artorius shouted, the command being echoed down the line. Upon hearing his, Magnus shouted a subsequent order, directing his men to unleash their pila. The following storm of javelins went over the heads of or, in some cases, between the soldiers in the front rank. The Durotriges warriors fell back in disarray as they were mauled once again.

“Execute passage-of-lines!”

The javelins giving them a split second of breathing space, the soldiers in the front rank turned sideways, holding their shields against their bodies, as those in the second rank rushed past them, smashing their shields into their reeling enemy once more.
Artorius and his men passed through Praxus’ and the remaining two centuries, all of whom had their javelins ready to fly.

As he reached the rear of the formation, Artorius took a drink off his water bladder and wiped a rag over his forehead. He then looked around to try and get a sense of situational awareness. As best he could tell, the remaining cohorts were pressing forward with no noticeable breaches in the lines by the Durotriges. Behind him, he could see two of his reserve cohorts, each marching slowly while following the main battle line. The master centurion reasoned that if he could break their enemy before deploying his reserves, he would use them to conduct the pursuit. He
noticed that from a distance the terrain looked relatively flat. It was, in fact, full of small defilades and rolling mounds. The left wing of the First Cohort was moving laterally along a short rise, while the right was stuck in a saddle with no real ability to get a larger look at the overall battle.

“Can’t see a fucking thing down here,” he swore quietly.

“If we can keep pushing these bastards back, that rise to our immediate front should provide a decent vantage,” Camillus observed.

Magnus was soon giving his men the order to set for passage-of-lines with Praxus’ legionaries hurling the next volley of heavy javelins. This tactic was proving demoralizing for their enemy, far more so than the conventional method of employing all javelins before closing with the gladius. From the enemy’s perspective,  once the storm of death passed, it was over. Here the First Cohort was continuing to throw measured volleys at close range, leaving scores of casualties in their wake. As the line continued to move forward, they found themselves stumbling over th
e bodies of their fallen adversaries. A few were dead with many more wounded and unable to extract themselves before the Romans overwhelmed them. Many of these were quickly dispatched by legionaries in the subsequent ranks.

Ten minutes later, as the fifth rank made ready to call for passage-of-lines, the cohort reached the top of the knoll. As Artorius and the first rank smashed forward into the brawl once again, they noticed the barbarians were starting to give ground at a much faster rate. Cle
arly they were starting to fall apart, and Artorius wanted to press the advantage home as quickly as possible.

“Camillus!” he shouted
, as he shoved an enemy warrior back with his shield. “See if you can tell whether the entire barbarian horde is breaking yet!”

The aquilifer slammed the base spike of the eagle into the ground and sprinted a few feet up to the highest point, quickly scanning around them.

“They’re pulling back on the right wing!” he replied excitedly. “It looks like they are attempting a fighting withdrawal. I can’t see the left, though. There’s another damn rise in the way.”

“Signal the reserve cohorts to attack!” the master centurion ordered. It was maddening, trying to coordinate an entire legion, while at the same time dealing with individual warriors who wanted to spill his guts. The man to his front looked haggard and exhausted and was starting to back away quickly. Camillus’ visual signal was met by the blaring of the cornicens’ trumpets from behind the line. Unbeknownst to Artorius, a band of rather brazen barbarians caught sight of the legion’s sacred standard and made a rush for Camillus, who quickly drew his sword and
unslung his buckler as he made ready to defend the eagle.

To the outside observer it was a fascinating sight, watching as three cohorts of legionaries filed between the five to their front, immediately fanning out in both directions and forming their own battle lines with rapid precision. Though the Durotriges force remained mostly intact, exhaustion and casualties had sapped their will to fight, and their withdrawal was quickly turning into a rout. Many within the reserve cohorts did not even get to throw their javelins before their enemy broke into a run. Instead, they became occupied with conducting a pursuit, while killing or capturing as many warriors as possible.

As the last of the First Cohort crested the short rise, Artorius and his men gave a shout of triumph, watching the remnants of the Durotriges flee for their lives, leaving their dead and abandoning the badly injured to their fate.

“Bastards won’t be back in a hurry,” Magnus said with a satisfied grin.

All around them soldiers were leaning against their shields and breathing hard. They were exhausted, having not slept in two days. The night crossing, which had proven clumsy and slow, had been equally demoralizing, knowing that they were confined to a minor support role and not expected to get any real fighting in. Having instead caught an entire army of enemy reinforcements out in the open and scattering them filled the men with a well-deserved sense of triumph.

“You’re bleeding, sir,” a legionary said, looking down at Artorius’ forearm.

“Damn it all, so I am,” the master centurion observed with a chuckle. It was a deep gash on his forearm, yet he scarcely felt a thing. “Eh, nothing a wash and a wrap won’t fix.”

“Artorius
!”
a frantic voice said behind him. He turned to see it was one of the tribunes.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s Camillus, our aquilifer…”

“
Yes, I know who he is!” Artorius snapped, battling the sudden feeling of dread that came over him. “What about him?”

“He’s dead, master centurion.”

Artorius’ elation at the legion’s decisive victory suddenly turned to dismay and sorrow as he walked back along the knoll and came upon the body of his fallen friend. The legion’s sacred eagle still stood, planted into the ground with Camillus’ blood-soaked arm wrapped around it. The aquilifer’s eyes were wide open, his head turned to the side with a stream of blood coming out of the corner of his mouth. Half a dozen dead barbarians lay around him, and his gladius was soaked in blood.

“No,” Artorius whispered, fighting against the tears as he dropped to a knee, placing his hand on Camillus’ arm. It was still warm; only the blooded gash in his stomach from where a barbarian sword ha
d penetrated his scale armor that was now soaked in blood and bodily fluids gave away that his friend was dead.

Near the body knelt
a young, battered legionary. He was down on one knee with his head hung low and face wrought with emotion. His smashed helmet was lying next to him; his forehead bearing a nasty gash that bled profusely. There were three more dead enemy warriors next to him.

“Artorius,” the tribune said. “I am sorry to interrupt, but you need to know something.”

“Yes?” He fought to compose himself and rose to his feet, unable to look down at his friend anymore, lest it break him completely.

“This soldier broke formation when he saw Camillus fall,” the tribune explained. “Those three bastards fell by his hand as they tried to take the eagle that Camillus still clutched as he was dying.”

“Help him up,” Artorius ordered two of the legionaries who stood over their friend. “What is your name, son?”

“Legionary Marcus Amatius, sir,” the young soldier said, his voice trembling.

“A soldier would normally be flogged for breaking formation,” Artorius said slowly, still struggling to keep control over his voice. “You, on the other hand, did so not out of cowardice, but in order to save the sacred standard of this legion.”

“He fough
t off a number of those fuckers, not just the ones he killed, sir,” one of the legionaries spoke up. “Took a beating for it, too.”

“Camillus was a mentor to me,” Amatius replied. “
I sometimes got assigned to working as his aid at the legion’s headquarters. He died saving the eagle, and I could not let his sacrifice be in vain.”

“Where is this man’s centurion?” Artorius asked.

One of the soldiers immediately sprinted away, returning moments later with a centurion from the Sixth Cohort.

“Your legionary singlehanded
ly saved the eagle from falling into enemy hands,” Artorius explained. “He is to carry the standard for the remainder of this campaign, and I want an appropriate award from you sent up the chain-of-command.”

“Yes, sir,” the centurion replied, glanc
ing approvingly at the soldier, who was now being propped up by his friends.