Slaves of Fear: A Land Unconquered (18 page)

“Whether we should have brought the siege trains with us or not is irrelevant,” he said forcefully. He broke into a coughing fit, quietly cursing his lungs for still bothering him, even after taking time to convalesce during the winter months. He took a deep breath and continued, “We will simply have to overwhelm them with what forces we have available.”

It would prove to be a long night for both Romans and Silures. Paulinus ordered the auxilia infantry cohorts to post the picket outposts in the woods leading to the mines, with the cavalry kept in ready reserve. This upset many of the commanders as well as their troopers. They perceived the legion as being left safe within its fortified camp, while they battled the ‘night demons of these woods’. Scapula had berated the men, telling them to follow orders, while Paulinus made it known that Legio XX would be handling the brunt of the assault in the morning. No one slept that night, as the cries of men and sounds of skirmishing echoed throughout the forests and across the valley. It was a confusing frenzy. In the utter blackness of the thick woods, it was impossible to tell friend from foe.

“Must be hell for those poor bastards,” Centurion Furius said as he joined Magnus near the eastern ramparts.

It was nearly midnight.

“They’re doing their job whether they realize it or not,” Magnus observed. “Hopefully, we won’t have too many surprises waiting for us in the morning.”

Dawn came at last. While decani conducted final inspections of their men, General Paulinus called a meeting of all cohort commanders and First Cohort centurions.

“I’ve received word from the auxilia cohort commanders,” the legate said. “A lot of their boys took a beating last night.”

“How bad was it, sir?” Tyranus asked.

“Some of them didn’t get hit at all. Other groups were almost completely annihilated. It’s still fairly dark in the woods. But, I imagine they gave as well as they took. No doubt the Silures did not expect us to have troops waiting for them out there. A pity we didn’t have time to set proper counter-ambushes.” His voice was filled with regret. The auxiliaries were not his men, but they were still soldiers of Rome and had died in service to the empire.

“We’re sending cavalry to the hills north and south of the complex,” Paulinus continued. “Cohorts Seven and Eight will swing wide to the left, approaching from the northwest. Cohorts Nine and Ten will attack from the south and southwest. The rest of the legion will conduct a broad assault straight up the centre.”

“We’ll be passing the auxilia pickets,” Tyranus noted, “So be sure to let the auxiliaries know you’re friendly forces. There won’t be any subtleties about this attack. The Silures know we’re coming.”

After answering a few more questions, Paulinus dismissed his commanders back to their units. Magnus made his way back to the First Cohort’s Third Century to where Optio Caelius and the tesserarius were finishing up the inspection of their legionaries.

“What are the orders, sir?” Caelius asked.

Magnus replied with a question of his own. “Are we ready to pound these fucks into oblivion?”

“That we are, sir.”

“Then let’s go give these bastards a Roman-style thrashing!”

Magnus’ last words elicited a loud ovation from his men. They were inspired by this newly found energy and aggression coming from their centurion. Indeed, Magnus felt as if he were ten years younger. He was filled with the burning anticipation of battle that had been dormant within him for far too long.

The cornicens sounded the call to arms. General Paulinus and the staff tribunes rode to where the aquilifer stood with the eagle standard held high.

“Twentieth Legion!”
the legate shouted, raising his spatha.
“To the eagle!”

Wordlessly, nearly five thousand imperial legionaries rushed to their place on the massive battle line. The designated wing cohorts followed a handful of guides from the legion’s indigenous cavalry. The main assault force dressed their ranks and made ready to advance. Once all cohorts were in position, the eagle was raised up and then dipped forward, signalling the advance. Eyes were wide as they proceeded through the dense woods. It was a slow and somewhat awkward trek. Soldiers stepped on or tripped over fallen logs, with javelins, shields, and helmets snagging low hanging branches and undergrowth.

It was only an hour after dawn. The sun’s rays had yet to fully illuminate the darkness. Because of their impeded vision, officers were ordered to call out the watchword of
‘Germanicus’
to alert the battered and exhausted auxiliaries who’d been through a hellish night. Centurion Magnus would see just how harrowing their ordeal was when he called out the watchword.

“Britannicus! Britannicus!” A near-panicked voice shouted from less than thirty feet away.

Magnus pulled a large thicket aside to see the battered remains of a twenty-man picket crouching together behind their shields. Seven of their number were dead, covered in blood with their entrails split open. Two were missing arms. A third slain trooper had his lower leg severed. Almost all who survived were covered in injuries. The decanus in command had his right arm in a makeshift sling made from shreds of a cloak. His face was covered in blood and filth, like most of his men, and his eyes were wide with terror, exhaustion, and now relief. Around their position lay nearly a score of Silures corpses. Those wounded and not saved by their companions had had their throats cut by the maddened auxiliaries.

“We thought you lot abandoned us,” the section leader said, through gritted teeth.

“Withdraw back to camp,” Magnus replied.

He and his men did not cease in their tramp through the woods. While he pitied the troopers and understood better than most what they had been through, they could not stop the advance to assist them.

“Poor bastards,” his signifier muttered. His eyes locked with those of the auxilia decanus. The signum then caught on a branch, causing the signifier to break into a fit of profanity as he wrenched the standard free.

There were similar grim discoveries made all along the legion’s frontage. A couple of pickets had been overrun completely, with only a handful of badly wounded survivors found amid the bodies. And despite their terrible sacrifice, they had failed to completely prevent the Silures from laying a series of traps and ambushes. Magnus and his soldiers could hear the sound of shouts and war cries echoing through the woods.

“Look alive, lads,” he said, drawing his gladius and hefting his shield. His timing proved fortuitous. A sling stone that should have smashed into his face instead bounced off his shield.
“Down!”

A volley of throwing darts and sling bullets flew from a previously unseen defilade directly in front of them. His entire century quickly dropped to their knees, shields in the second to sixth ranks raised up to provide overhead protection. The barbarian salvo proved mostly ineffective, as the trees and brush that gave concealment also impeded many of their missiles from striking home.

“Century…up!”

Magnus’ legionaries were burning with anger. They pressed onward. As they forced their way through another thicket patch, the ground suddenly sloped downward about fifteen feet. Legionaries stumbled down through the ankle high grasses, reaching a path below. Directly to their front was a nearly impassable wall of ferns and sticker bushes.

“Oh, fuck me!” a legionary snapped. He tried to crash through with his full weight behind his shield.

“There’s nothing for it, we’ll have to go around,” Magnus admitted begrudgingly.

There were many such obstacles that broke up the formations of the Twentieth Legion. This gave the Silures the chance to bombard them further, while launching harassing attacks on the extreme flanks.

“This way, sir!” a decanus on the extreme left shouted.

The Norseman ordered his men to follow the sergeant around the mass of ferns and thickets, to where the valley opened up into a series of small, grass covered hills. At one point they almost crashed into the First Century. Master Centurion Tyranus was leading them out of a similarly thick stand of woods.

“Bugger me, but it is a fucking mess back there!” the primus pilus said. He laughed in defiance but with a trace of nervousness.

“At least we’ve found their compound,” Magnus remarked, nodding his head towards the large networks of huts and forges that dotted the hills.

“Let’s go claim it for the emperor!”

As various cohorts smashed their way out of the woods, General Paulinus was spotted off to their right, attempting to reform the legion into a more coherent assault force.

“Glad to see you still with us, sir,” Tyranus said, as the legate rode up to them.

“The flank cohorts on the right are in a nasty scrap,” Paulinus informed him. “I’ve sent Corbulo to ascertain the situation on the left. How goes it here?”

“Once we get everyone out of these damned woods, we’ll be ready to assault the stronghold,” Tyranus informed him.

Down below, they could see hundreds of Silures fighters fleeing for the perceived safety of their barricades. Their mates stood behind the crude stockades, shields and spears ready for battle. As a sign of Silures wealth, nearly half wore mail shirts belted in the middle. Though lacking the additional shoulder guards worn by Roman auxiliaries, it was still a sign of status that so many of their fighters had some form of protection.

“Let’s break these bastards,” Magnus growled.

With the blow of his whistle, the century began its methodical jog towards the defences. Enemy skirmishers continued to pelt them with the occasional missile weapon, but there was no stopping the ferocious onslaught of the Twentieth Legion. At less than thirty feet from the growing mass of enemy warriors, the Romans unleashed their own form of hell.

“Front rank…throw!”

Hundreds of javelins sailed over the Silures’ makeshift barricades, impaling many a warrior and smashing through the shields of those who managed to raise them in time.

“Second rank…throw!”

With the unleashing of a second storm of death, the Silures instinctively withdrew into the compound.

Magnus and the other centurions ordered their men to use controlled volleys with the rest of the javelins, keeping the defenders at bay, while the first two ranks assailed the stockade. Legionaries hacked through the ropes holding the stakes and sharpened poles together, creating a series of breaches in a matter of minutes.

Grinning sinisterly, Magnus looked over his shoulder and pointed his gladius to the nearest gap in the crumbling barricade.
“With me, lads!”
With a shout of rage, the entire Third Century swarmed into the compound, the wreckage of the stockade only breaking up their formations momentarily. As the Romans stepped on and over the fallen barbarians, the remaining Silures warriors found their courage and charged into the wall of shields and flashing blades. The Norseman rammed one assailant, heaving all of his weight behind his shield. The crash left the Silures fighter off balance, giving Magnus just enough time to plunge his gladius into the man’s guts. Though wearing a mail shirt that may have offered some protection against a barbarian spear, it proved useless against a heavy, sharpened imperial sword with a powerful Norseman behind it. The rings of the mail burst, and Magnus’ weapon plunged deep into the warrior’s guts. The stricken man howled in agony as blood spurted onto Magnus’ hand.