Soldier of Rome: The Last Campaign (The Artorian Chronicles) (25 page)

And while the Romans
gave a loud cheer, thinking for the moment that they had won a victory of sorts, it was Togodumnus who had made good on his objective. The unconscious officer was tied by his wrist to the back of the king’s chariot. They had not far to go, for a sacred grove existed but a few miles away. And as the Romans had not mounted any sort of a pursuit, Togodumnus knew they could take their time and conduct the sacrifice to the gods properly.

The horde of warriors who had accompanied him had scattered in multiple directions in order to throw off the Romans. The king regretted the dead he had left behind, and he knew that any warriors captured would likely be tortured and killed. Still, it was a risk they all accepted when they joined Togodumnus on this mission.
Perhaps their deaths would appease the gods even more, knowing that they had died bringing them their sacrifice.

The rains had ceased, though the sky was still dark. In the west one could just see the falling sun and a few patches of blue sky.
The entire battle had lasted only a few minutes, and the soldiers now had to deal with its grim aftermath. There were five dead, including the hapless tribune who’d taken an arrow through the neck. And twenty had various injuries, though most of these were, thankfully, minor. What troubled Artorius most was the one soldier who was unaccounted for.

“Sir,” the pilus prior of the Third Cohort said
, as he walked over to the master centurion and saluted. “It’s about Chief Tribune Sempronius.”

“Have you found him?”

“Not exactly,” the centurion replied, shaking his head. He then led Artorius through the grove their enemy had attacked from, which was now occupied with legionaries who were establishing their camp for the evening. As there was not a scrap of dry wood to be found, they would have to settle for burying their dead. Enemy corpses would be left to rot. A group of legionaries stood over what looked like drag marks and chariot wheel tracks in the flattened grass. A soldier held up a smashed tribune’s helmet and torn cloak.

“Bastards drug him away,” the legionary spoke. “But I don’t think it was as a prisoner to be ransomed.”

“Explain,” Artorius said.

“Well
, sir, I am originally from northern Belgica. My father was a merchant, and so I have dealt with the Britons, mainly traders, many times before I ever joined the legions. They would tell us stories about the druids and their penchant for human sacrifice. As I was a young lad, I thought they were just fables meant to scare children.”

“The druidic practice of slaughtering people to appease their vile gods is well-known,” the man’s centurion added. “We found a pile of human skulls two days ago, arrayed on a makeshift burnt altar. Apologies for not mentioning it sooner, sir, but as our mission is taxing enough as it is, I kn
ew you had better things to concern yourself with than a pile of charred skulls on a block of stone.”

“Then I fear the worst for our chief tribune,” Artorius said, shaking his head. His eyes burned with anger. “I want him found!”

“Sir,” the centurion said, pulling Artorius off to the side, out of earshot from his legionaries. “It will be dark soon, and if they were dragging him behind a chariot, they are long gone. And if we are being honest with ourselves, he is likely already dead. We can mount a pursuit, but I strongly advise we not leave until morning, lest we risk even more lives.”

“Understood,” the master centurion replied glumly. He hated the thought of abandoning one of their own to a hideous fa
te, but there was little else they could do. Their cavalry might be able to make an effective chase, but they were too few in number and the risk was unacceptable under the circumstances. “Did we take any prisoners?”

“We captured ten of the bastards,” Tyranus answered as he walked over to the master centurion. “These are mostly badly injured
, and I figured we would just cut their throats and let them bleed out.”

“And I have no interpreter, so I cannot even get any useful information out of them,” Artorius grumbled. “I don’t suppose any of them speak our tongue?”

“I doubt it, but we’ll find out,” Tyranus replied.

“What about you, soldier?” Artorius asked the legionary from Belgica. “Can you speak to them?”

“I only know a few words, sir,” the man replied. “And with a dozen dialects in this land, gods only know if what I say will make any sense. But I will try.”

In addition to the rage that burned inside him, Artorius came to the stark realization that he was now in command of the legion. With his senior officers in the First Cohort still back down the column, he sought out Camillus, the surviving equite tribunes, as well as those pilus priors available.

“It will be dark by the time the rest of the legion arrives,” he told the gathered men. “Is the open terrain passable or is it boggy?”

“In places, sir,” Tyranus replied.
“The men can march through it readily enough, but the wagons will have to remain on the road.”

“Very well,” Artorius remarked. “We will push forward towards the open ground beyond these trees and establish our camp there, placing the road in the very center. Vespasian and the Second Legion are about two days march from here. We will wait for them here while we send out search parties to find our chief tribune.”

“Beg your pardon, sir,” the legionary from Belgica said as he walked over and saluted. “My centurion ordered me to come inform you at once.”

“What of?”

“Well, I was able to catch just a word here and there, as most of their babble was gibberish to me. But I did make out the words
sacrifice
and
sacred grove
.”

Artorius gave a nod and waved the soldier off, who saluted and left. “I want the prisoners scourged and crucified,” he said with ice in his voice.

“Yes,” Archantael said as he eyed Togodumnus’ prize. “The gods will be most pleased!”

The grove was dedicated to the deity
Anextiomarus, who was also known as the
Great Protector
. This made it an ideal location for Archantael to perform the ghastly ritual that the Catuvellauni king hoped would bring them divine powers and ultimate victory. If nothing else, it would serve to inspire the more superstitious amongst his people and compel them to bring everything to bear against the invaders.

The battered body of the Roman chief tribune was hung upside down; arms and legs splayed out and tied to crossed poles. His armor was stripped away, and his body was badly beaten from the pelting of sling stones and the rough dragging behind a chariot. He was
bleeding from multiple places, unconscious, and scarcely clinging to life. Togodumnus and his chief warriors gathered around as Archantael placed a wicker basket beneath the Roman, while uttering ancient chants in a language so old that none of the non-druids could understand him. There were several of Archantael’s hooded peers circled around the sacrifice, holding torches and echoing their leader’s chants.

The chief druid spoke faster and louder, looking up to the blackness of the heavens in the night sky briefly
, before plunging a long blade into the lower abdomen of the unconscious Roman. The unfortunate young man twitched violently, but mercifully did not regain consciousness as the druid sliced him open, disemboweling him as his guts and copious amounts of blood splashed into the wicker basket. The druid then reached in and removed the still twitching heart, which he dropped amongst the guts with a sickening slap. Streams of foul liquid ran out the bottom as Archantael carried it over to a stone alter. It was partially hollowed out, creating a large bowl in the top, which was covered in burning timbers.

The druid gave one last unholy chant before dumping the contents of the basket onto the flames that spattered and sizzled with wafts of black smoke and the putrid smell of burning human organs. All the while the Catuvellauni king stood motionless, watching the sacrifice intently.
The gathered druids continued to chant over the sound of hissing flames and wafts of black smoke.

“The gods have given us their blessing,” Archantael s
aid at last, turning to face his king. “On the field of battle, between the two rivers, you will have victory.”

Chapter XV: Faceless Gods

***

The arrival of Vespasian at the Twentieth Legion’s camp early the next morning
, a full day ahead of schedule, delayed their pursuit of the captors of their chief tribune. The legate became rather vexed when Artorius told him of their skirmish the day before and the disappearance of Sempronius.

“Take three cohorts and one regiment of cavalry to find him,” Vespasian directed. “
I’ll go with you. Have the rest of your men remain in camp. I came to inform you that the Second Legion is but half a day’s march from here. We will combine both legions into one division and continue our trek north to link up with Plautius.”

“Yes, sir,” Artorius replied before turning to address Centurion Magnus. “Any
other word yet out of the prisoners?”

“Not yet,” the Norseman replied. “The interrogators
are working on them as we speak.”

“My interpreter is also back with the column,” Vespasian added. “I doubt you will get anything of use out of those vermin.”

“Scourge and crucify them,” Artorius said coldly. “I want them strung up as a feast to the vultures and crying to their foul gods before we return.” He then donned his helmet as his servant walked over with his horse. The master centurion quickly mounted and nodded to Vespasian.

It was fairly easy, following the ruts created by the numerous chariots that had been hidden behind the grove where the ambush took place. Artorius and Vespasian rode at the head of the cavalry, which kept a slow enough pace to keep the infantry cohorts close, should they run into more trouble. They were regrettably denied the chance of retribution as they came to a small glade. Here most of the chariot tracks broke away in various directions, though a couple made straight for the clearing. They did not have to go far.

Artorius’ stomach lurched as they came to the macabre scene. The stench of burned flesh still permeated, and the corpse of Sempronius hung grotesquely from the crossed poles. Flies covered much of his splayed insides, and crows were already pecking at his flesh.
His finger, that had borne his signet ring, had also been removed.

“Cut him down,” Artorius ordered the nearest cavalrymen, who reluctantly dismounted and walked over to the maimed body. Some of the men held their hands over their mouths as one drew his spatha and cut the ropes holding the remains of their chief tribune.

“Rome can tolerate many things,” Vespasian observed, his eyes fixed on the men as they laid out the tribune’s body. Two others began the task of digging him a makeshift grave. “We even respect death at the hands of worthy adversaries. But something we will never accept is the wicked practice of human sacrifice. I want the druids exterminated! All within these isles will soon learn that anyone caught practicing their repugnant religion will be flogged and crucified!”

“These lands belong to our enemies,” Artorius stated. “I think we should send a harsh lesson to them.”

“Sir, there is a settlement not far from here,” a trooper spoke up. “Should we start there?”

“Yes,” Vespasian replied.
He turned to Artorius. “As soon as the Second Legion arrives we will wipe them out!”

“Sir,
” Artorius nodded. He was unsettled, not by the legate’s orders, but by the long dormant feelings of hatred tearing up inside him.

Though he had fought in numerous campaigns and participated in the utmost horrors of war, he had not felt this type of burning rage in many years.
His quiescent sense of bloodlust, which had been brought on by the death of his brother and his quest for revenge during the Germanic wars, now reared its hideous head once more. To Artorius, those who would gut a human being as a sacrifice to their unholy gods were not men, but monstrous beasts that needed to be exterminated.

“Rome will fight horror with horror,” he said darkly.

Though the sun had come out on this day, there was a blackened mood that dominated the Roman camp, especially when Sempronius’ ghastly fate was confirmed to them. Two of the prisoners had died of their injuries while under torture, though the remainder now lined either side of the road on hastily erected crucifixes. A legionary paced the road in between them, carrying a corded whip. Occasionally he would lash one of the prisoners, who would cry out in pain momentarily before falling silent once more.

“We did get some more information out of them, thanks to your interpreter,” Magnus said to Vespasian as they met within the principia tent.

“And?” the legate asked.

“A lot of it was nonsense about the gods of their underworld swallowing us up. The one part that did make sense was
two rivers
.”

“There are two great rivers that run through the Catuvellauni lands,” Artorius said.

“The southern one is the River Medway, which is near the rally point Plautius has established for the army,” Vespasian added.

“Our assessment is that that is where Togodumnus intends to finally face us,” Magnus conjectured. “The terrain is likely to be most advantageous to them there, and I would guess that what they did to Sempronius was to appease their vulgar gods before they face us.”

“Plautius wants a battle,” the legate said, folding his arms across his chest. “And a battle we shall have! But first, there is some unfinished business we must see to here.”

The settlement was
, in fact, a small hill fort that overlooked a number of farm fields. Vespasian had tasked the Second Legion with surrounding the oppida, and left the honor of conducting the assault to the Twentieth. Their rage burned fiercely at the ghastly way in which their chief tribune was butchered, and they were eager for revenge.

“That
‘fort’ is little more than a stockade,” a scout reported as Artorius met with the cohort commanders. “A few shots from the onagers will bring it right down.”

“Any idea as to their overall strength?” Centurion Tyranus asked.

“Judging by the number of farms, as well as the size of the oppida itself, I would say no more than a thousand total persons,” the scout replied.

“Of whom maybe a couple hundred are warriors,” Magnus remarked. “This is going to be easy.”

“Perhaps,” Artorius agreed. “But I do not want the men acting carelessly with their lives. Their anger needs to be focused, not reckless. They need to look at this as a ‘bloody drill’, and I want this done with discipline as well as extreme aggression. Once our siege engines smash through their walls, we will conduct a broad assault on all sides simultaneously. If possible, take their leaders and holy men alive; our orders are to kill all the others.”

“Sir, what of the women and children?” a centurion asked.

Artorius’ cold stare was all the answer the man needed, and he simply nodded in reply. The master centurion dismissed the pilus priors and made his way to where the First Cohort was assembled.

The area around the oppida was mostly wooded, with a number of wheat fields encircling the hill fort. The fields, as well as most of the structures, appeared to be deserted as their denizens fled for the safety of the stockade.

“Fear,” Artorius said as he was joined by Magnus. “They know their fate and even now they pray to their false gods for salvation.” He exhaled audibly, removed his helmet, and wiped a rag across his sweaty brow.

“Are you feeling alright?” the Norseman asked, his eyebrows raised and hands clasped behind his back. “It’s a bit brisk out today, and yet you’re sweating like you just came out of the bathhouse.”

Artorius ignored him for the moment
, as he watched onagers and scorpions being sent forward under the escort of several auxiliary infantry companies. They had orders to start the bombardment once in position; Centurion Praxus was overseeing the operation and would report once completed.

Knowing that they had some time, Artorius pulled Magnus off to the side, out of earshot of their men.
“Do you remember the first time we ever sacked a barbarian village?”

“It’s been many years but, yes, of course I do.”

“And do you remember what I did?” Artorius persisted, his expression wrought with concern and uneasiness at the memory.

“You went a touch insane, but what of it?” Magnus asked. “You were avenging your brother; none of us really faulted you, despite your periodic acts of barbarism. I will say, you’ve calmed down considerably over the years.”

The loud slap of throwing arms from the onagers unleashing their heavy stones interrupted them momentarily.

“Those feelings that I’ve suppressed for so long are returning,” Artorius stated as the first salvo of catapult shot smashed into and around the barricades in the distance. He thought for a moment he heard screams of terror coming from within the pitiful fort.

“Because of what happened to Sempronius?” Magnus knew the answer, but felt the need to prompt his friend. Whatever
issues Artorius was having, he needed to at least address them before the assault commenced.

“It’s not the same level of hatred that stemmed from my brother’s murder,” Artorius said. “But the similar feelings of loathing are there; that these aren’t really men we face, but animals. It’s one thing for me to lose my head a bit back when I was but a legionary in the ranks. However, I now have to command the entire legion, and it would not set a good example if I go off like a damned heathen berserker.”

“Just give the orders and let the men handle it,” Magnus replied.

In the background they could hear the commands being shouted by the section leaders of the siege engines. Soon another wave of heavy stones was launched against the ramparts.
Some onagers had shot over or landed short on the previous volley. Adjustments were made  ensuring even more shots hammered the stockade, which was bursting apart.

“The most complicated issues in my head, and yet you have a way of making them so damn simple,” Artorius chuckled as Magnus smacked him reassuringly on the shoulder.

“After all these years, it’s what we do,” he said before nodding his head back towards where their cohort waited in anticipation for the order to advance.

Though still burning with anger, and his stomach turning in knots like
it always did before any engagement, the master centurion and acting commander of the Twentieth Legion strode confidently to the front of the First Cohort to observe the work of his siege engines. It was not taking very long. The stockade to their front had mostly collapsed, and onagers were now firing both heavy stones as well as fire pots in hopes of catching some of the thatched roofs ablaze. As the recent rains had kept both timber and thatch perpetually soaked, there was a lot of thick smoke but little fire.

“Advance the scorpions,” Artorius ordered.

As each century had a scorpion attached to it, there were fifty-nine of these within the legion. Given their much lighter weight and ease of maneuverability, it took little effort to carry the bolt-firing ballistae forward to where the hapless defenders of the oppida were in easy range. Though resistance would be minimal, Artorius was taking no risk of unnecessary casualties amongst his infantry.

With their barricades smashed, the people clustered on the small hilltop were exposed to the merciless barrage of scorpion bolts and onager shot. Artorius’ face twitched as he watched a small group huddled together take the brunt of a large catapult stone. Their bodies were smashed to pieces, with limbs severed and one young man’s head burst like a melon.

“Sound ceasefire,” the master centurion calmly said to his cornicen. As the notes resounded on the trumpet, he drew his gladius and took a deep breath. “Sound the advance!”

The call to advance on the town was echoed by the cornicens of the various cohorts, and as one
unit the soldiers of the Twentieth Legion converged on the hilltop, their measured footfalls resonating with an ominous cadence upon the ground. Legionaries trampled through the fields of crops, driving the scattered livestock before them. As they made their way up the short slope, Artorius noted a number of bodies strewn about victims of the scorpions and onagers. Many of those who lay broken on the ground were still alive. Some had smashed limbs with bones protruding through the skin, others had arms and legs completely missing and were bleeding out, waiting for death to come.