Soldier of Rome: The Last Campaign (The Artorian Chronicles) (21 page)

Stoppello’s flagship fired one more flaming catapult shot as it backed away from the beach. This one landed amongst a large mass of Britannic warriors with a splash of fire dousing a number of them. The barbarians had never witnessed such fearsome weapons such as ships that could ‘breathe fire’. The effects terrified a number of them. Their stricken companions crying out in agony as their flesh was devoured by the flames. Several staggered into the surf, where they were immediately cut down or drowned by the approaching legionaries.

The ship bearing Magnus’ century was approaching rapidly from their left, and Artorius’ signifier quickly raised and swung the signum, letting them know their orders. The signifier aboard ship sent an acknowledgement back as the vessel fired a shot from its catapult towards the tree line the Britons had come from.
The master centurion was relieved that at least his centuries were where they were supposed to be. He just hoped the same was true for the remainder of the legion!

The stab of an enemy spear glanced off Artorius’ shield and grazed his right shoulder. It was utter madness for the master centurion, for he had to not only coordinate the landing and formations of the entire First Cohort, but he had enemy warriors in his face, attempting to spill his guts. Another stab went inside his shield, deflecting off his segmentata armor. Artorius managed to catch the man with a punch from the pommel of his gladius before subsequently plunging the blade home, beneath the ribs. It was a repugnant, yet all too familiar
, experience for him as the warrior cried in pain during his final moments while his life’s blood gushed onto the master centurion’s hand. Artorius kicked him hard in the guts, knocking the dying man onto his back as he wrenched his weapon free.

With the Roman warships covering the landing troops with their catapults, the Britons started to withdraw in face of the
unholy onslaught of fire. Magnus’ Third Century met only light resistance as they assaulted up through a large outcropping of rocks, bypassing the path and heading straight to the wood line.

“First Century, guide to right, link up with Praxus!” Artorius ordered.

His men quickly complied, with Optio Parthicus taking his position on the far end and their battle line joining with their companions, who were still meeting stubborn resistance from the Britons.

“Fourth Cen
tury is up!” one of his centurions said as he quickly approached Artorius.

“Very good,” Artorius acknowledged. “You’ll follow me in reserve. Praxus is still engaged
. We’ll use the Fifth Century to reinforce them.”

It was a remarkable feat of coordination that the First Cohort was able to maneuver so fluidly in spite of the utter chaos around them.
The resistance from individual enemy warriors was brave and determined, but it was also sporadic and haphazard. If they did in fact outnumber the Romans, they made no effort to fight as a single cohesive unit.

Artorius and his legionaries
continued to make their way up towards the grassy slope, which the druids had since abandoned, but left their pyres burning, adding an ethereal feel to the ongoing battle. A volley of javelins from the Fifth Century, combined with continuous fire from the warships, soon broke the enemy resistance on their right.

“Sir, we need to
continue the advance,” the Fourth Century’s commander emphasized, looking back over his shoulder, where the next wave of warships were reversing their oars, with legionaries jumping over the sides. “It looks like the Second and Fifth Cohorts are starting their landing.”

“Would love to stay with you,” Camillus said as he smacked Artorius on the shoulder, “but I’d best head back down to the beach. Everyone’s going to make straight for the eagle, and I need to direct the cohorts where they need to be.”

“Alright, go,” Artorius said, nodding his head towards the beach. He noticed the aquilifer’s gladius was stained with crimson, and he figured Camillus had decided he needed to spill a few splashes of enemy blood to start off the invasion.

He then
signaled for his cornicen to sound the command to double-time. Upon the rapid notes of his horn, the First Cohort, minus Magnus’ men, who were assaulting the tree line on their left, advanced at a quick jog up the slope. They veered past the burning pyres and made their way to the top, anticipating an enemy horde awaiting them. Artorius was surprised to see it vacant. The sun was now coming through the dispersing clouds as if in a sign that their enemy, along with his dark magic, had simply vanished.

“Artorius!” Magnus shouted as he quickly made his way over. “That wood is a more than just a grove, it’s an entire damned forest.
We can see movement, so we know they’re in there, but I cannot clear it with just my century.”

“Understood,” the master centurion replied. He then looked down at the beach below, where he saw Sempronius linking up with Camillus, who was directing the landing cohorts. Artorius quickly assessed the situation and then addressed his friend. “I’ll have the Second Cohort reinforce you.
”

“Alright, but know that we cannot land any more troops on the left,” Magnus noted. “There’s nothing but jagged rocks and a short cliff beneath the trees.”

“Well, then the rest of the legion will have to swing out to our right,” Artorius concluded. “The Second Cohort will anchor the left with you tying in off their right. I had hoped to have the First Cohort in the center, but it looks like that plan is completely fucked.”

“Hey, at least we all landed together,” Magnus remarked with a grin and a wink before turning to rush back to his men.

Artorius gave a brief smile and nodded. Whatever the situation, his Nordic friend would always make the most of it and adapt. Seeing Magnus was secure in his position for the moment with the rest of the cohort established in its battle lines. Artorius quickly ran back down the slope and waved to Sempronius.

“Rome has returned!
” the chief tribune said excitedly, in an echo of Camillus’ earlier statement.

“Sir, the woods on our left are thick and cannot be cleared with just one of my centuries,” Artorius quickly explained. “I’m going to send the Second Cohort to reinforce them. The rest of the legion can assemble and start its advance inland off to my extreme r
ight.”

“I’ll pass the word,” Sempronius concurred. “I watched your men battle
their way up the beach but cannot figure where the enemy has run off to. I thought for certain we would meet stiffer resistance on the beach.”

“They left a number of wounded behind,” Artorius observed. “Perhaps we can gather some information from them.”

“They’ll talk or die,” the chief tribune asserted. He then directed Artorius, “Return to your men. Once the rest of the legion is ashore, we’ll assess our movement inland.”

“Yes, sir.” Though the chief tribune lacked experience and was relying on him far more so than he would have liked, Artorius still knew it was preferable to having their invalid of a legate trying to lead them.
At least Sempronius was showing that he was not afraid to make a decision.

As he climbed his way back up the slope, his legs already stiffening
from the exertion of the day, Artorius saw off to his left the Second Cohort marching up the wide dirt path that led to the grove, where they would coordinate with Magnus. He was startled when he returned to the First Cohort and found they had pushed forward to the edge of a nearby forest. With his own century on the left, there was a noticeable gap between him and Magnus.

“What is happening?” he asked his optio, who was coordinating the removal of several wounded legionaries.

“Archers and slingers,” Parthicus replied, “lots of them. Not two minutes after you left, they opened up on us. Fucking cowards scattered as soon as we assaulted the tree line. We pushed into the trees to, at least, provide some cover and not allow them easy targets.”

“Pull three squads and have them reform at an angle on our left,” Artorius directed.
“We cannot even see Magnus, and I don’t want our flank exposed.”

“Yes, sir.”

“There you are!” Praxus said as he approached from just behind Artorius’ men. “This landing’s been a giant cluster-fuck, what with the lads freaking out about druids and all, but I think we’re finally getting some semblance of order.”

“That’s a relief,” Artorius replied dryly. “My horse hasn’t come ashore yet and trying to coordinate the entire damn legion is impossible on foot.”

“Let Sempronius handle that,” his friend replied. “The cohort commanders know their orders; they won’t go wandering off on their own.”

“We were supposed to be the center of the assault,” Artorius reminded him. “But instead we are now on the extreme left.”

His friend simply shrugged. Praxus was just as difficult to rattle as Magnus, and Artorius was glad to have their levelheadedness in what otherwise appeared to be random mayhem.

“
No operations plan, regardless of how well thought out, ever survives beyond first contact with the enemy,” Praxus thought aloud. “Reconnaissance was shit leading up to the invasion, and the terrain on the left was far more treacherous than was originally thought. Either that or we just landed in the wrong damn spot, which is entirely plausible. We saw a number of assault ships veer to the right before unloading their troops. I’m guessing they also found the terrain impassible.”

“Well
, at least we’ve secured this beachhead,” the master centurion said as he looked back towards the sea. Dozens of ships were still anchored out amongst the rolling waves, awaiting orders to offload their troops and various cargoes. Artorius then made his decision. “Time to bring the cavalry ashore. We’ll use them to root out those fucking cowards who hide from us amongst the trees.”

He made his way back down the slope once more to find Camillus.

“There’s the signal!” a sailor on the prow of the large Quinquereme said.

Tribune Cursor gave a sigh of relief before turning to Centurion Taurus. “I will accompany Indus’ Horse
ashore. The auxiliary infantry will assist with the offloading of supplies.”

“Understood,” Taurus replied.

The tribune then walked over to where his mount was already hanging from a large sling off a specially-made crane that used a series of pulleys for handling crates and livestock. He gently rubbed the horse’s muzzle before signaling to the sailors to drop him over the side. There were two cranes on each side of the ship, and with several horses already spooked by the chaos of activity on the ship’s deck, it was a struggle for their riders, and the sailors, to keep them still long enough to get the slings beneath them without getting kicked for their efforts.

Cursor was grateful that his own beast was surprisingly calm, and as the animal was hoisted over the side of the ship, he climbed over the railing and dropped himself into the surging waters. As the legionaries had secured the beach, he had left his armor strapped to his horse in hopes of keeping it dry until he got ashore.
The water was freezing, and Cursor struggled to keep his shivering under control as he took the bridle of his horse and led it through the choppy seas. A gust of wind caught him as he stepped onto the sandy bar, waves lapping beneath his sandaled feet. As he unstrapped his armor, he saw that it was soaking wet. All he could figure was that his horse must have stumbled into the surf at some point, thereby drenching his armor.

“Damn it all,” he swore under his breath, then deciding he wouldn’t even bother to don a dry tunic.

Twenty or so troopers were also coming ashore, some had attempted, like the tribune, to keep their armor dry, others had not bothered and made their way through the seas fully kitted. The men were all from the legendary regiment,
Indus’ Horse
, which had gained its formidable reputation during the Rebellion of Sacrovir and Florus in Gaul more than twenty years prior.

“Inform your commander that I want the
regiment formed up in columns on the beach,” Cursor directed a nearby squad leader, who helped him finish putting on his armor. “I’m going forward to ascertain the situation before we advance further.”

“Yes, sir.”

The tribune then donned his helmet, with its black accents, lion’s head on the crown, and magnificent red plume. From a tactical standpoint, he hated wearing such ostentatious garb, which like his muscled cuirass armor, would distinguish him as an officer even from a great distance. By the same token, he knew that his men needed to be able to identify him quickly during battle, and like all leaders he accepted the risk involved with being so readily noticeable.