Джерейнт Джонс - Legion

‘Eighth Legion!’ a voice had finally boomed from the head of the First Cohort. ‘By the centre, in column of route, quick – march!’

And so we had stepped off to die.

It took less than two hours to reach the valley and to draw up across its narrow width. From my place in the front rank it was impossible for me to see the exact disposition of our force, but from my century’s position, I could make an assumption. The First Cohort, double the strength of the others in the legion, held the position of highest honour and danger on the right flank. We were to their left, and by leaning forwards and risking a swipe of Justus’s cane, I could make a guess that the Third and Fourth were to our left. The Fifth, I imagined, were held as a reserve.

I cursed myself then as I saw my centurion look in my direction. He was standing out in front of our formation – no reason yet for him to be within the ranks. I looked at the cane in his hand as he walked over to me. It seemed as though I was about to get my first action of the day.

Instead, Justus stopped within half a foot of me, and kept his voice low. So low, I doubt that even the men beside me could have heard him.

‘If I and the optio go down, it’s Priscus, then you.’ Justus spoke simply, before half stepping back and looking into my eyes to see if I understood and acknowledged the order. I gave him a curt nod. I had no desire to lead, but then I supposed Justus knew as much. If the century was down to its fourth commander, then what better way to lead than to kill?

He was about to say something more, but suddenly a shudder of awed comment ran through the ranks like wind. The air was suddenly thick with an invisible presence, like the smell before a thunderstorm. Justus turned, and cleared my view of the hills beyond us.

The enemy had arrived.

They spilled into the end of the valley like tar, a writhing mass of twenty thousand light infantry and cavalry. Still too distant to make out individuals amongst the body, it appeared as some ghastly phenomenon almost incomprehensible to the mind.

I had never seen so many people in one place. If it weren’t for the knowledge that we had the seemingly impossible task of killing them all, then perhaps I would have been driven by awe to my knees. Instead, my hand gripped my javelin so tightly that I worried the shaft would snap.

Justus turned to look over the faces of his century. He must have seen fear looking back at him, because he gave an over-casual shrug, turned his back on the enemy and began to clean the dirt from beneath his nails as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

He was a good leader.

I felt the sudden need to piss, but was desperate not to be seen as weak by my comrades. I resolved to hold it until the enemy had been in our sight for some time. Already I could see that their approach to us would be that of a creeping tide, rather than a wave, at least until they were within striking distance. I turned my gaze up to the flanks of the valley’s steep sides, and expected to see more of the enemy there, but there was nothing, and I thought back to what Justus had told us that morning: ‘There’s nothing but shepherd tracks on the high ground. They can bypass us in the valley, but they’ll not get ahead of Tiberius and his army at that rate. Their one chance is to break through us, and to take the road. If we stand, Italy is safe.’

So all we had to do was to stand.

Looking back at the rolling mass of men approaching us, I fought back a shudder. I turned my eyes upwards and saw the sun at its zenith.

I knew in my guts that I would not see it set.

The enemy came up the valley like the dirty waters of a tidal river. I could see individuals now – not their faces, but the shape of their bodies. They carried oval shields and javelins. They wore light armour, or none at all. The metal of their mail, helmets and shield bosses were dull. I wondered what they saw looking at us? I wondered if Priscus’s faith in spit and polish was proving true?

Then, as the enemy army drew to a halt, and four horsemen rode forwards from its body, I had the first indication that it was.

‘They want to talk,’ someone in our ranks commented.

‘Keep your mouths shut,’ another snapped.

The four riders closed half the distance to our force. Their horses were fine, their armour polished. Here was the enemy’s leadership, or at least a section of it. They stopped and waited. I expected that at any moment a deputation of our own officers would ride forwards, but there was no movement from our own ranks except for the shrugging of nervous shoulders, or the quick swipe of the hand to clear sweat from a man’s eyes – the day was becoming hot, and long. We had been in position since dawn. I wondered at how long and far the enemy had marched. A fair distance, I imagined. Little wonder they wanted to catch their breath. Had the odds been more even, I imagine we would have charged them immediately, but every moment we stood bought time for Tiberius to manoeuvre behind us and block the path to Italy. If the enemy were inclined to wait, I expected our commanders would have us stand until the end of days. They made no move to advance and parley, and so the four horsemen waited, their beasts chewing happily on the lush grass of the valley. The animals pricked up their ears as one of their commanders called to our army, his words lost to me. There was no reply. Then, a lone enemy rider began to walk his horse forwards. He had only gone ten paces when a javelin arced out from the ranks at our army’s centre. It was beautifully thrown, and ploughed with clear and deadly intent into the ground before the rider.

The message was clear: there would be no talking.

As the rider trotted with his companions back towards his ranks, I wondered if the decision of our commander was wise. Talking took time, and we seemed to have little of that on our side.

The decision was born of pride, I realized. No matter the odds, no matter the situation, a Roman commander would act with dignity. To consort with rebels would be as unwelcome an outcome as the sacking of Italian towns.

Pride was Rome, and Rome was pride.

I shifted. The four horsemen had reached the swollen ranks of rebels that awaited their commands.

Within a moment, they got them.

The roar of the twenty thousand voices crashed through the valley like a ship run on to rocks, deafening and terrifying. It was like nothing I had ever experienced, and I did not know whether to feel awe, or dread. I suppose that, in the end, I felt both.

Not once did Justus ever turn to look at the enemy as they screamed and hollered. Not once did he break from the task of cleaning his nails. Then, when the enemy had finally cheered themselves hoarse and fallen silent, our centurion chanced to look up at the faces of his men.

‘Did somebody fart?’

Laughter ripped through our century like a chariot. All of the tension the enemy had driven into us was expelled through that most natural answer to fear – laughter.

‘Don’t look behind you, boss,’ one of the veterans in the front rank quipped, ‘but I reckon those whores we short-changed have gone and fetched their brothers.’

We laughed some more, and men stamped their feet in anxious agitation, loosening muscles for what was soon to come.

Justus looked over his shoulder, then back to his men.

‘Oh yeah.’ He grinned wolfishly. ‘Here they come.’

The enemy stepped forth with another roar of challenge, but that step was short, and their pace was slow.

They’re scared , I realized, flexing my fingers against shield and javelin. They’re fucking scared.

They came on at a child’s pace, pushed no doubt by the ranks behind them. I reminded myself in that moment that these men had been conscripted into service only weeks before. They had never seen combat. They had hardly seen training. Priscus was right. There was only one set of professional killers on this battlefield, and it was us.