John Salter - Caratacus

He heard a trumpet echo as the troops closed in on the battle and changed their stance slightly as they walked. The front rank he saw, were preparing to throw their first pilums. These spears were much heavier weapons than those used by the Cavalry and wooden pegs secured the spear head so they would break off on impact, stopping the spear from being thrown back. The metal head would break free of the body and pierce even shields as well as flesh and bone. The killing head of the weapon could be up to twelve inches long and so would kill or cripple anything it came into contact with. Veranius had seen the damage these spears could do to the body and ducked lower as he ran thinking of the irony of being killed by his own side.

The first of the retreating soldiers met the advancing column and were allowed to melt into their straight lines as small gaps were made for their injured, retreating and stunned comrades. A quick glance to the rear showed that his reason to run was justified. Those that had survived the initial onslaught but had tried to stand their ground were now being cut down and the fortunate amongst them, hacked to death. Some were dragged screaming from the battlefield to a more uncertain and no doubt worse fate. Some screamed, the men even hardened campaigners, would take the sound to their graves in the years and decades to come. He looked to his fellow soldiers just as the front row of the advancing lines released their javelins with a great sigh of effort. They rose high, silently climbing into the misty Germanic skies above.

Large ballista bolts were launched from somewhere behind the column, the speed of them was almost supernatural as they flew only a matter of feet above his head, hissing through the air. In one instant he heard the bolts being fired and then within the blink of an eye they were over his head and within a second they were embedded into lines of the enemy, four or five men deep, impaled on the enormous spiked heads of the bolts. He ducked instinctively and stumbled falling to the ground and tumbled forward into the mud with his momentum. He briefly caught sight of a few ballista units mounted on the rear of horse drawn wagons behind the marching death machine of soldiers as their crews worked furiously to load more of their deadly accurate life taking machines.

Veranius almost immediately felt slightly stupid and foolish for ducking and falling deliberately because he knew the weapons were deadly accurate, up to three hundred yards away and these were half that distance. He didn’t dare to look behind him again because every second counted now, knowing what was to come however, he almost pitied the enemy. They were going to realise that victory didn’t mean brute strength and ignorance and they were about to be annihilated to a man.

Panting he reached the column as they parted to let him through their lines, he smiled briefly and was happy to see the fresh uniforms of troops not yet covered in gore and blood from battle. One of the men shouted an acknowledgement as they went to their knees as the second row launched their own pila. He struggled through to the rear line and collapsed on the muddy surface beyond, turning almost straight away to watch the carnage that was about to unfold.

A loud shrill trumpet blast sounded from a cornicularis trumpeter, who blew for all he was worth from somewhere in the distance ordering the centuries into a testudo tortoise formation. He saw the men behind the front row bring their shields up instinctively covering their heads and those in front of them, this after days, weeks and months of drilling with their left arms holding their shields up sometimes for hours at a time. The testudo was primarily used as a defensive formation but in situations like this, a legion would use it to get into fighting range comparatively safely. Those at the front turned their bodies slightly to the left with their large rectangular shields still facing the enemy, eyes peering through the gap between the scutums and helmets. The enemy were now advancing rapidly, running towards them screaming like maniacs. In the same motion the soldiers grasped the hilts of their short swords on their right sides. A loud rasp that sent a shiver even through him, indicated they had removed their gladius swords, the blade of which would protrude from their collective shields, to stab at the advancing, screaming hordes.

An almighty clash of men, metal, swords, axes, shields and screams ripped through the air like thunder, consuming all other noise as the opposing forces came together. The Romans dug their sandaled hobnailed boots into the earth barely pausing as they began to cut the enemy down as if they were one giant animal, its teeth wounding and killing. It was now that the angled stance of the soldiers paid off as their right boots bit into the earth behind them and they leaned forward against their shields pushing forwards with their left legs slightly angled to gain purchase against the weight of the enemy whilst all the time stabbing at them beyond the wall of shields. After a short time they rotated, the front row coming to the rear, some bloodied and injured, as the second row met the barbarians as they became the front line and so it continued, second after second, minute after minute with fresh men moving to the front rank until what was left of the enemy, who realising it was hopeless, fled the battlefield and began to retreat.

Cavalry arched galloping around the legionnaires on the flanks and pursued the running men, cutting them down with their swords. Those lying injured in the mud were killed where they lay by the infantry as they broke the testudo and despatched those who had attacked their countrymen, for them there was and could be no mercy. Horse’s charged, knocking men over, whilst their riders slashed at them with their long swords. It turned into a massacre.

Months later, now in the present and in the large tranquil clearing he looked at the dagger again. It had saved his life on that occasion, the image of its blade deep inside the barbarian’s skull vivid and visceral. He examined it admiring its lines turning it over and examining it’s shape of ruthless efficiency. It was truly a weapon capable of causing great injury and one he was glad to have. Thinking about that day, it was a vile and disgusting experience but he reminded himself, one that would have been reversed, had he been the one killed and not the other way round, as it was it was the barbarian whose remains had surely rotted where he had died.

The memories of previous battles didn’t disturb his sleep anymore as they had in his first few months of service but once in a while something would remind him of the shear barbarity of his chosen profession and the brutality that went with it. He was brought out of his contemplative state by the sound of his approaching comrades riding clear of the tall trees.

“Veranius, stop playing with that dagger,” Shouted a grinning Varro as he brought Staro to a halt, “anyone would think it was your manhood the way you were gazing and fondling it.” He smirked.

A chorus of laughter started from the others as they came to a halt and Lucius said, “Don’t worry you’d never see that boy sized peanut from there anyway, so it couldn’t have been his cock.”

More laughter rippled through the group, as Veranius just grinned in response. Trying to change the subject he said, “Nice country this my friends and its nowhere near as barren and hostile as we were led to believe” he began, “I think I’ll build a villa here, right here in this very wood when I retire and find a girl to keep me warm at night. It’s much more pleasant than Germania don’t you think?”

Varro jumped from his horse feigning a smile. He walked Staro to the small stream making sure he had a drink.

“I think that you had better wait and see how the locals greet us before you think of setting up home with one of them don’t you think?” The other men dismounted and watered their animals, Lucius walked into the stream, knee deep.