Soldier of Rome: The Last Campaign (The Artorian Chronicles) (42 page)

Achillia had just let loose an arrow that struck an enemy axman in the neck, when a heavy thrown spear sailed in a high
arc and slammed into her abdomen, bursting through her mail shirt and plunging deep into her stomach. Her bow dropped from her hands, and she fell to her knees, clutching the spear in agony. She rolled to her back, unable to cry out despite the immeasurable pain. Her body was twitching and going into shock, and as gouts of blood spewed from her mouth, she knew her life was rapidly coming to an end. Her last thoughts were on that which she carried within her. Lost amongst the blood and sweat that covered her face, several tears fell from Achillia’s eyes.

From his vantage looking down upon the battle that raged near the east gate, King Donan was not as concerned about the assaults on the north and south ramparts. He’d kept a number of his warriors in reserve, and these men would drive the Romans back. What worried him were the machines that his enemy used to hurl waves of large stones that smashed men and barricade alike. The tall gatehouse lay in ruins, and warriors were now fleeing back towards the town in an attempt to escape the hammering storm of death.

“If the Romans want to fight us in the open, then a fight we shall give them!” he growled as he drew his great sword.

Along with his warriors were a number of women, the elderly
, and young boys who were still big enough to carry a weapon. They were determined to fight the Romans to the very last and would not simply lie down and let them destroy the seat of their kingdom.

“They’re reforming at the top of the rise,” Praxus observed as Artorius and his First Century made their way to the front of the cohort.

His Fourth and Fifth Centuries had conducted their assault of the main gatehouse valiantly, though to their credit, the Durotriges had not given ground without a fight.

Artorius scanned the top of the hill that led into the town. He recognized the enemy king by his flowing robes and the metal circlet upon his head that gleamed in the midafternoon sun.
The Durotriges who massed behind him numbered several thousand. And with his other two cohorts held up on the flanks, along with the entire Second Legion, it would fall upon the First Cohort alone to break their enemy into submission.

“Javelins
and scorpion bolts are expended, and we cannot bring the siege engines any closer,” Artorius noted, shaking his head. “Looks like cold steel will have to finish this job.”

“The plain at the top of this hill is enormous,” Magnus noted. “The frontage is too large for us to fight as a cohort.”

Artorius signaled for all of his centurions to join him, figuring the Durotriges would wait for them to attack, lest they fall pretty to the storm of boulders the siege engines had been unmercifully hammering them with. For all Artorius knew, the onagers and ballistae could very well have expended their ammunition stores.

“We’ll attack by centuries,” Artorius said. “Place your men into three ranks, this will allow us to maintain a larger front against the enemy, hopefully without spreading ourselves too thin. Unless our other cohorts and the Second Legion can take the heights, it falls upon us to finish this thing. Should we fail, then the entire assault will be undone, and Mai Dun will have proven impenetrable.”

“As you said, nothing is impenetrable!” The voice of their commanding legate surprised the assembled centurions.

“General, sir,” Artorius said. He noted the legionary shield Vespasian now carried. “Intending to join us in the final assault?”

“I am indeed,” the legate said with a nod. “I’ll be on your immediate left. And don’t worry, I’ll not interfere in the running of your cohort just think of me as another legionary.”

“With respect, sir,” Artorius said, “this attack runs a high risk of failure, and if it does the army cannot afford to lose you.”

“It wasn’t a request,
Master Centurion
,” Vespasian replied sharply. “I am not asking you if I can fight on your battle line, I am
telling
you where I will be. With all units committed, there is nothing left for me to do except provide an additional blade, and it is plain to me that you need every one you can get!”

“Yes, sir.” Despite Vespasian’s rebuke, Artorius found himself grinning.

Clearly the man who’d orchestrated this assault was a different type of leader. Though he’d proven himself to be a military genius throughout the campaign, at the end of the day, Flavius Vespasian viewed his own life as no more valuable than that of even the lowest legionary from the ranks.

“Once I take my place on the line, you will then give the orders,” the legate stated.

Artorius simply nodded and addressed his centurions once more. “Any questions?”

When there were none he dismissed the men who
, with a quick series of orders, formed their men into three ranks. They allowed a small gap of a few meters between each century, in order to allow for easier maneuvering over the uneven ground.

“As of now, I’m just another legionary,” Vespasian said as he took his place next to Artorius on the line.

“A legionary wearing a rather distinctive crest on his head,” Artorius noted with a dark laugh.

“Eh, so I am.
” The legate then shrugged. “Fuck it.”

This last rare profanity caused Artorius to raise an eyebrow. Their brief moment of levity ended as he took a deep breath and steeled himself for the final assault. On the top of the hill, the Durotriges were all shouting war chants and battle cries as they beat their weapons against their shields and whatever else they managed to find to defend themselves with.
There was no doubting their bravery, especially in the face of annihilation. The next hour or so would be a bloody spectacle of death.

“Cohort!”
Artorius shouted.

“Century!”
his centurions sounded off in unison.

“Advance!”

Shields braced against their bodies, gladii protruding forward in a wall of bloodied blades, the legionaries stepped off as one. They advanced at a fluid, yet measured pace, as they did not want to expend what was left of their energy before they closed with their enemy. Secretly, Artorius hoped that progress was being made on the attacks on the flanks.

As he struggled to make his way to the top, Metellus slammed the bottom edge of his shield into the shin of an enemy attacker, snapping the bone and sending the man sprawling backwards down the other side of the embankment. He and his men were pressing forward on sheer determination alone. A number had been killed or injured, with others struggling to maintain their footing on the steep face while battling their resolute enemy. Metellus’ body ached all over, particularly the chest and shoulders from where he’d been struck by numerous enemy weapons.
He wore a centurion’s hamata chainmail, which simply did not provide nearly the amount of blunt-force trauma protection that a legionary’s segmentata plate did. His only surprise was that none of his enemies’ weapons had penetrated. As he pulled himself upright, he turned and plunged his gladius deep into the side of another warrior, allowing the legionary next to him to finish scaling the heights.

A quick glance down the line revealed that Tyranus and his century were similarly able to brawl their way to the top, though Metellus lamented to
the sight of dead and wounded legionaries that lay strewn about the slope. Regardless of their superior training and equipment, no armor could be all-encompassing, and even legionaries had weaknesses that could be exploited, particularly around the neck and lower abdomen. Still, they fared far better than their adversaries, who had no armor and little training to speak of. As more and more legionaries successfully made it to the top, the Durotriges began to panic and flee towards the third rampart, which was mercifully lower and less steep than the one they had just assaulted up. The centurion surmised that the will of their foe was breaking, and that there would not be nearly as much resistance on the final rampart.

“Metellus!” Tyranus shouted, alerting the young centurion as his cohort commander walked over to him. “I’m sending three centuries to the right to clear the rampart and allow the Second Legion to advance. The rest of us will assault the final embankment and move to assist Artorius and the First Cohort. No doubt they’ve been up to their knees in shit this whole time.”

It was then Metellus was first concerned for his adoptive father. Despite the harsh difficulties he and his men had just surmounted, he knew the First Cohort was bearing the brunt of the enemies’ resistance. His mouth parched and face covered in sweat, the centurion removed his helmet and took a long drink off his water bladder, splashing some more on his face.

“Get some water,” he ordered his soldiers. Despite the sense of urgency, he knew his soldiers needed a minute to rest and rehydrate before they continued in their assault. As his own breathing slowed, he donned his helmet once more.

Rage and adrenaline consumed Artorius as they closed within a few meters of the massed horde of Durotriges. Though not all were warriors, their numbers were so vast that he feared his men would simply wear out in the pending bloody grind. Though the Roman Army outnumbered the defenders, if they could not get over the ramparts, this counted for little. With nothing else to do but fight, the soldiers of the First Cohort instinctively increased their stride to almost a jog.

Blood rushed through the master centurion’s veins
, and he gritted his teeth and gave a howl of rage.
“Charge!”