Soldier of Rome: The Last Campaign (The Artorian Chronicles) (29 page)

“We’re ready for the general
advance, sir,” Master Centurion Lyto reported. “No signs of the enemy yet from the pickets on the far side.”

“What in Juno’s name is wrong with them?” the chief tribune asked. “They’re just going to let us across?”

“We have a report from Cursor’s auxiliaries,” Lyto explained. “Togodumnus has arrayed hundreds of war chariots off to the left of where we’re crossing.”

“He intends to let us cross, then hit us in the flank with his chariots while his warriors engage us from the front,” Vespasian observed.
“Provided Cursor waits until just before dawn to take out their horses and chariots, we can catch them off-guard. I also doubt that Togodumnus thinks we’re brazen enough to attempt a water crossing at night, and he cannot be altogether certain that we will attack at all.” He then turned to his chief tribune. “I will take half the legion across now, you will remain with the rest in reserve. Once we push out far enough, I will get the signal back for you to bring the rest over. We’ll them form into a single front, with the Fourteenth Legion becoming the reserve.”

The young man looked crestfallen at first at the thought of having to stay back, but then realized quickly enough that with the size
of their enemy, he would get his share of fighting soon enough. Behind them, Master Centurion Lyto led the first century of men over the river, where he would coordinate the initial placement of his men. With any luck, to say nothing of careful preparation and discipline, Togodumnus would be met with a nasty surprise come morning.

Chapter XVII
I: Hammer the Winds

***

The frantic calls from war horns
, and what sounded like the cries of a thousand terrified animals, awakened Togodumnus from his fitful slumber. The Catuvellauni king threw off his bearskin blanket and stumbled from his tent. The sky was now cloudless, in a show of just how rapidly the weather changed on the isle, and the rising sun in the east blinded him temporarily as it first broke over the horizon. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he scanned the valley below. Enemy skirmishers were appearing from the woods in a statement of Roman audacity; for the main attack would, in fact, come right at them from across the river.

It was as the king expected and why he had left his chariots concentrated near his main camp.
And yet, as he looked off to his right, he could see a large number of his war chariots still in their staging area with no horses being limbered up.

“Why have they not moved?” he asked aloud. He then turned to a messenger. “Have our chariots manned at once! They must smash the Romans as they cross the river, before they can establish their battle formations!”

“Yes, my king.” The man quickly mounted his horse and rode at breakneck speed down the hill, not knowing that most of the Roman legion to their front was already across the river and making ready to advance out of the wood line.

Togodumnus quickly threw on his mail shirt and baldric. He was baffled by the great confusion below, as warriors seemed slow to engage the Romans. Behind their vanguard of auxiliary skirmishers he could now see the distinctive red shields and gleaming armor of legionaries.

“Damn it all!” he swore. “Where are my chariots? Why do they not ready themselves to attack?” He summoned his horse, quickly mounting and riding to see what the issue was. As his horse cantered down the slope, he came upon Caratacus, who had spent the remainder of the night with his warriors on their temporary mustering field. It was he who had discovered the reasons for his brother’s frustration, for he had intended to personally lead the charge of heavy chariots that would drive the Romans back into the river.

“The Romans have driven off or killed all of the chariot horses!” he shouted in dismay. “Their light auxiliaries crossed during the night and just as the sun rose
, killed or spooked them all. We were almost trampled by the mad rush of those that had escaped the slaughter.”

“Bastards,” Togodumnus
growled. He took a deep breath through his nose, finding his resolve. “No matter. Brother, you will take our warriors and drive the Romans back into the river. Our numbers alone will prove too much for them. I will go and rally our ‘friends’ and see why they delay.”

“Steady lads!”
Vespasian shouted as he leapt from the makeshift rope bridge. Soldiers of the Second Legion were still getting used to their commanding general’s ‘lead-by-example’ mentality that had not been seen since the days of Germanicus Caesar.

Vespasian had told his senior officers that he could not very well coordinate the battle from behind a wall of trees on the far side of the river
. Therefore, he had dropped his cumbersome cloak and grabbed one set of spanning ropes just as the latest wave of legionaries reached the far side. A few sporadic enemy skirmishers were battling with one of his centuries off to his left, though these were mostly disorganized bands of frenzied warriors with little to no coordination or mutual support.

The Britannic fighting men were extremely brave, and in single combat equal to or
, perhaps in some cases, even better than legionaries. However, besides their inferior weapons and being mostly devoid of armor, what they lacked was discipline and the ability to work together. This was evident as individual warriors would smash their weapons against the Roman shield wall with no coordinated effort to dislodge the legionary formation, which was steadily growing as more soldiers crossed the river.

As he watched a barbarian smash his great sword against the shield of the centurion on the far right of the century
near the crossing point, Vespasian drew his gladius and quickly high stepped through the tall grasses towards the fray. So intent was the man on killing the centurion, he was oblivious to the even greater prize of a Roman general until the last moment, when Vespasian plunged his weapon into the barbarian’s back. The man cried out through gritted teeth, dropping his weapon as his back arched and spasmed. The legate wrenched his gladius free as blood gushed from the deep wound.

“Centurion,” he said calmly, “push your cohort to the left and start advancing towards the enemy camp. We need to make room for the others.”

“Sir,” the man replied before barking out subsequent orders for his men.

As Vespasian turned back, he saw his
second wave of men crossing as fast as they were able, though with the weight of their weapons and armor they could only risk putting a few men on the pontoons at a time. Each man moved at a slow jog, watching his footfalls and keeping his eyes on the feet of the man in front of him until they reached the end, where they leapt from the bridge and made their way into the growing fray. Centurions and their principle officers were always the first over, accepting the greatest risk of falling prey to their still-mobilizing enemy while waiting for their men to fall in on them. As legionaries stepped onto the bank, their squad leaders would direct them to their places in the formation, while simultaneously getting accountability of their men. Discipline and training made their efforts instinctive, and Vespasian was impressed by just how quickly his legion was making its way across the river. The first half of his legion was now across; just enough to form a viable battle front.

A cornicen had finished
making the trek and quickly ran over to his commander, along with the master centurion, who had placed his First Cohort in what was to be the center of the formation.

“Sound the advance,” Vespasian ordered. He then turned to the master centurion. “The rest of the legio
n is forming a reserve. As we push forward, the ground looks like it opens up, and we can commit them to the wings.”

“Yes, sir,
” Lyto replied as he drew his gladius and joined his First Cohort. On the far side of the river, the Fourteenth Legion was already forming up in columns, anxiously awaiting the order to cross.

T
he notes sounded on the cornicen’s horn, and the aquilifer soon joined them. With a handful of legionaries acting as his bodyguard, the legate of the Second Legion stepped off with his men. To his front, the barbarians were forming up into a massive horde and sprinting towards them. Their resounding war cries striking terror into lesser men. With no way of knowing whether the Ninth Legion had affected its naval landing or if the Twentieth successfully crossed its position on the far left, all Vespasian could do was lead his men forward, to where the battle now began in earnest.

Legionaries
unleashed their javelins, leaving scores of enemy casualties in their wake. This made their companions slightly less bold, as the screams of the badly maimed resounded above their war cries. With swords drawn, the Romans advanced together as an impenetrable beast with quickly stabbing blades for teeth, ready to bite at those who foolishly stepped too close to them.

Vespasian called for his horse
. Although he preferred to fight on foot with his men, he knew his place under these circumstances was not on the battle line. As the Second Legion pressed out into the open, the legate got his first clear view of the immediate tactical situation. Though the enemies’ numbers were vast, they seemed very disjointed with little to no sense of cohesion. Many who now faced the advancing Roman line were suddenly hesitant about pressing the attack, not least because of the numbers of killed and badly injured warriors who had been struck down by the volleys of javelins. This hesitation was by no means cowardice, but rather that inner desire for survival that all men and animals are born with. It was strange, too, in that it appeared that various bands of barbarians had not so much as left their campfires. Still lingering about, as if they were oblivious to the battle.

Vespasian watched as one warrior, probably a high ranking leader, gave a loud shout and charged forward with his large sword held overhead. A large band of his men followed
, and they crashed hard into the Roman shield wall. A proper melee ensued, with centurions conducting passages-of-lines as their men wore down every couple minutes. With each successive assault more of the barbarians fell, killed or maimed on legionary blades. The Romans were suffering casualties as well, though these were comparatively few, protected as they were by their superior armor and disciplined tactics. Many of the wounded were helped to the rear of the formation by their friends in subsequent ranks, though a hapless few found themselves pulled off the battle line by their foes, where they were subsequently hacked to pieces. And yet the legion kept pressing forward, inflicting a terrible toll upon the Catuvellauni and their allies. If Togodumnus had thought numbers alone would win the day, he sadly had never considered the disciplined might of the armored Roman war machine.

Vespasian rode his horse down the line, watching as the reserve cohorts of his legion fanned out in either direction, taking their positions on the ends of the advancing force. Behind him he could also see the first wave of soldiers from the Fourteenth Legion following their eagle across the river. Overall, his portion of the battle was being executed as intended.

“The legion is across. All cohorts are ready to advance,” a tribune said, as the sounds of trumpets and enemy war horns sounded in the far distance.

“Very good,” Artorius replied with a nod.
“How far away do you suppose those are?”

“Hard to say,” the tribune replied. “They’re very faint, so my guess would be about ten miles.”

It was a strange circumstance, given that the equite tribunes were his political and social superiors, and yet because of how the chain-of-command worked within the legions, it was he who gave the orders.

He was still shivering from the cold of his swim which
, despite his strength and physical prowess, had drained him completely. The sun was slowly rising, and the master centurion was grateful that the skies were relatively clear.

“Rider approaching, sir!” a legionary shouted.

Artorius was immediately alert and looked off to his left-front, grinning as he recognized the cavalry officer who rode up and quickly dismounted.

“Centurion Taurus!” he said, extending his hand. “I thought we’d lost you
r lot in the crossing.”

“We found a viable fording point a few miles downriver,” the cavalry centurion explained. “But the woods and undergrowth were so damn thick we could scarcely move. Had to make
our way due west for a mile or so until we found our way out and then double-back. That’s where we saw them.”

“Who?”

“Enemy reinforcements,” Taurus explained, “about eight to ten thousand strong. They’re making their way up from the southwest.”

“That’ll
be the Durotriges,” Magnus surmised. “They will have been on the march for at least two weeks.”

“I thought there were far more of them,” a tribune said.

“Oh, there are,” Magnus replied. “And, I daresay, most of them are throwing themselves against Sabinus and Vespasian’s shield walls, provided they got across without meeting disaster. But the Durotriges are a confederation rather than single tribal kingdom. I figure these twats probably saw an opportunity to take part in the glory, once they heard just how massive an army Togodumnus had assembled.”