Arthur Invictus (17 page)

3.

It was Caesar’s turn to look troubled and pained as he stood upon the prow of his trireme again and assessed the situation. The bulk of the barbarian force, led by its cavalry, had tracked his fleet along the coast and was marshalling itself upon and around the beach where he was intending to land his own army. Caesar had given the orders for his ships containing his archers and artillery to anchor at both ends of the beach, in order to flank the enemy and provide covering fire. Word was passed around that the legions should ready themselves for the attack. Yet whereas upon land the soldiers would have commenced to snarl, jeer and thump their shields Caesar witnessed a sea of hesitant faces. He was worried too, about the depth of the water and the strength of his enemy. He could lose as many men to drowning as he could to British spears. Yet the time to attack was now. Caesar would not be Caesar if he suffered defeat or a retreat, the proconsul judged.

Oppius winced slightly at the brightness of the searing blue sky. Perhaps the Gods had dispelled the clouds in order to get a better view of the imminent, bloody spectacle he fancied. The legionaries looked at each other, with blank rather than eager expressions. Even Fabius’ glowing olive skin had lost a little of its colour. The boats had still to brush against the seabed beneath them. Enemy archers had assembled towards the rear of the beach. The shields of the soldiers in the transport vessels nearest to them began to look like pin cushions. The sea breeze whistled around their ears. Although the sun blazed down upon them the wailing sound still sent chills down spines. Even Roscius appeared apprehensive.

Caesar had crossed the channel. The die was cast. He could not go back. His pride would not allow him to. Caesar could not suffer the ignominy of failure. Even in victory Cato and other backward-looking members of the Senate had criticised him. Yet he could not move forward without his legions. If he was on land he could give a rousing speech and direct his officers and troops with purpose. Battles often rage like fires but every fire needs a spark, Caesar thought. He drew his sword, hoping that the action would somehow serve as an inspiration or signal. 

The light reflected off the commander’s sword, into the standard bearer’s eyes. Lucius Oppius was the son of a soldier. His father had intended to work out his service in the army and gain a plot of land that he could call his own. The veteran legionary ultimately craved peace. Yet the son craved promotion over peace. Perhaps it was the voice of his dead father, Gnaeus Oppius, whispering in his ear now. Lucius had heard stories from veterans about how his father would lead from the front when he had served under Marius, Caesar’s uncle. Or were the Gods now whispering in his ears? As when a barbarian would look to capture a Roman eagle, were madness and vain-glory taking possession of his soul?

“Once we’re on that beach, we’ll soon bring peace to this barbarous land,” Roscius exclaimed, trying to convince himself of his argument as much as others.

“If you want peace, prepare for war,” Fabius replied, almost in a whisper, perhaps quoting one of the writers that the would-be poet was so fond of.

Yet Oppius barely heard the youth’s words, as he prepared to make his leap of faith.    

4.

Brine rather than sweat drenched his entire body as Oppius rose up from out of the sea, having leapt over the rail of the transport vessel. The silver eagle of the standard broke forth first from out of the foaming water, the sunlight glinting off its head and reflecting into the eyes of Caesar.

Before he had jumped into the water Oppius had offered up the legionary’s prayer,

“Jupiter Greatest and Best, protect this legion, soldiers every one. May my act bring good fortune to us all.”

Witnessing the act of a madman - and eyeing the prize - a brace of enemy cavalry broke off and charged towards the isolated standard bearer. The first horseman screamed wildly and raised his axe, ready to bring its flesh-stained head down upon the Roman’s shoulder and chest – yet instinct and timing kicked in as Oppius drove the standard upwards and into the torso of his enemy, knocking him off his coal-black mare. But where was the second horseman? Spray misted up in front of Oppius and stung his eyes. The second Briton was less obliging in offering up a war cry up to reveal his position, as he came at the Roman from the side. His sword edge was a foot or so from his enemy’s head – but it travelled no further as a Roman pilum sang through the air and skewered his stomach. Blood turned the blue dye purple.

“And there you were thinking that you could defeat the bastards all by yourself,” Roscius shouted and grinned. The brutal looking legionary had jumped into the water shortly after the standard bearer. He would have followed his friend into Hades, for he knew Oppius would do the same for him. Teucer and – more hesitantly – Marcus Fabius followed their comrades into the sea. The legion was shocked and irate at witnessing such a suicidal act. But as they witnessed another dozen or so horsemen ride towards the eagle they scrambled into the sea too and rallied around the valiant, or unhinged, standard bearer. The loss of the eagle would mean a loss of honour for all and the stain could never be washed away. Far more than Rome, the Tenth Legion fought for the Tenth Legion.

At first Caesar cursed his aquilifer for such a rash act but his mouth, twisted in rage, soon formed itself into a smile. He had his spark. Now he needed to fuel the flames. Caesar immediately gave the order for his archers and artillery to provide covering fire. He also called for the captain of his own ship to close in on the beach. Caesar was keen to wash his sword in the blood of the irksome barbarians too.

Individual splashes swiftly turned into one long whooshing tumult as the Seventh, not wishing for the Tenth to shame them or take all the glory, disembarked from their transports too. The legions formed themselves into make-shift shield walls and moved forward, some chest deep in the sea, their pilums held aloft to defend against the enemy’s cavalry. For all of their bravery and numbers the barbarian army could not prevent the Romans from driving forward and making it onto the beach.

Rome had landed upon Britain.

5.

The tang of blood and brine filled the air. The turquoise sea was streaked with gore. The clash of arms and blood-curdling screams drowned out the sound of the sea breeze. The Tenth had landed upon the beach, but it had not captured it.

“Teucer, climb upon that rock there and start loosening some arrows into some of these bastards,” Oppius exclaimed whilst surveying the field of battle. The Tenth had landed upon the right side of the beach and upon the left the Seventh were taking casualties, but advancing nevertheless. Their enemy was fighting ferociously, but they were ill disciplined. Their light armour and weaponry made them agile but the legions were used to fighting against similar foes in Gaul (albeit the Britons seemed to have more spirit, perhaps fuelled by more wine). The standard bearer noticed an island of resistance forming at the back of the beach - centred around a giant Briton who appeared to be wielding a huge hammer. He was swotting away legionaries like flies, with shields buckling under the weight of his heavy blows.

“Roscius, bring down that fat bastard with the hammer. He’s boring me.”

Roscius made his way towards the heart of the fighting, whilst Oppius was heartened to see how a group of Roman infantry had formed a square at the other end of the beach. A line of shields surrounded a group of legionaries, who were unleashing their pilums into a mass of enemy cavalry.

“What would you like me to do sir?” Fabius asked, trying to dispel the fear from his voice and features.

“Just stay close to me lad and try not to get yourself killed.”

Roscius assessed his enemy as he marched purposefully towards him. The savage brute was strong, but overweight and predictable. A half a dozen men from the Seventh formed a semi-circle around the barbarian, but they were wary of closing in having witnessed their comrades fail to bring the giant down.

“Hey, shithead, why don’t you pick on somebody your own size?” Roscius announced, whilst throwing down his shield. The scutum would be an encumbrance for what the legionary had planned.

The wild-eyed Briton stood even taller and wider than Roscius, a mix of flab and muscle. Blood – that of his foes rather than his own – flecked his face. He growled and ran towards the Roman, lifting the fearsome hammer above his head. Roscius moved just in time however and the large iron head of the mallet thudded into the sand, at which point the legionary swiftly lifted his foot up and brought it down upon the shaft of the weapon, splitting it in two. The Briton, his face twisted in even greater rage, swung what was left of the shaft at Roscius’ head but the Roman swung his sword in return and the gladius truncated the oak shaft even further. The blade of the sword met the barbarian’s fist too when he then swung a punch. His blood flecked the legionary’s face and he howled in pain – before the savage fell to his knees and Roscius buried the gladius in his chest.

“Never send the Seventh in to do a job that only the Tenth can do,” Roscius declared with relish at the end.

Oppius glanced across the beach and nodded in approval at Rocius having defeated the troublesome barbarian. He was also pleased to see that his friend had come through the fight uninjured. The standard bearer again surveyed the battlefield. The tide was turning Rome’s way. The Britons were retreating as reinforcements now landed upon the beach without opposition. Caesar himself was leading a cohort from the front and spurring his men on. The standard bearer ordered Teucer to try to bring down a couple of the cavalry horses who were escaping up a narrow track that led up to the top of the cliffs. Should he fell the animals then they would hinder the retreat of the rest of the cavalry and infantry retreating up the path. A number of enemy archers and peltists still lined the tops of the cliffs and covered the retreating forces however.

One such archer drew back his bow, with the standard bearer in his sights. The Briton had watched both his courageous leap into the water and his marshalling of legionaries as they arrived upon the beach. Both had been crucial to the imminent victory. At least he would stop the standard bearer invading Briton. His arms bulged with muscle as he drew the bow back, yet despite the tension in the string his body remained calm, composed. He took a deep breath and then released the arrow. His skill and technique as an archer were not dissimilar to Teucer’s.

Oppius remained blindsided and did not notice the missile whistling down from above, aiming straight for his chest. The force of the arrow was such that it would pierce through his breast plate – but yet it only went so far as to pierce through Marcus Fabius’ shield. The youth had seen the arrow and, positioned just next to Oppius, had reacted with speed and bravery to move his scutum aloft and across in time.

Both Oppius and Fabius looked up at the cliffs to see where the missile had come from. The would-be assassin wore a scowl upon his face and pointed down at the standard bearer – and then drew a line across his neck. The Briton also wore a number of bronze bangles and an elaborate necklace to signify his importance. Before Oppius could scrutinize the savage more he spat out an indecipherable curse, turned away and disappeared.

“It seems that that you’ve made an enemy already. At least it’s unlikely that you slept with his wife. But he was keen on killing you it seemed,” Roscius exclaimed, walking towards his friend.

“If that’s the case then the bastard can get in the queue. Now I suppose I better thank you lad for saving my life. I owe you one. Let this be a lesson to you though. The shield is mightier than the pen. I for one am glad your father wants you to be a soldier rather than poet.”

Marcus Fabius smiled, but blushed too. He was pleased that he had earned the standard bearer’s respect.

“I’m wondering if I should join that queue,” a stern voice issued from behind the standard bearer. Oppius turned to see Caesar standing before him, his face unreadable. Lucius had hoped that Caesar would have witnessed his bravery earlier, but his actions in putting the eagle at risk could as easily meet with punishment, as opposed to a reward. The legionary stood to attention before his commander, unable to look him in the eye, awaiting his fate.

“After your actions today I cannot now have you serve as a standard bearer to the legion.”

Oppius’ heart sank, in unison with his face dropping. He felt too sorrowful, ashamed, to feel anger.

“No, your actions today have left me with no other choice but to promote you to the rank of centurion,” Caesar exclaimed, his marble features breaking out into a smile. Caesar then approached Oppius and warmly clasped him upon the shoulder.

“Now stand at ease. I should be saluting you. I’m still undecided as to whether you’re mad, or just lucky, but I’d like you to join me for dinner this evening so I can finally make up my mind.”