Roman - The Fall of Britannia (21 page)

Intending to
creep up on the archer, he took a step forward but a resounding
crack echoed through the trees as a dead branch gave way beneath
his feet. Having no other option, Prydain charged down the slope,
and without thinking, hurled his Gladius at the archer. Prydain
smashed into the man and they both rolled down the slope onto the
track, wrestling with each other, nothing less than their very
lives at stake.

The archer was
strong, especially in the arms, and he gathered Prydain in a bear
hug forcing the breath from the Roman’s lungs, his garlic-laden
breath overpowering in Prydain’s face. With his arms tightly
pinned, Prydain realised his options were limited and he had to act
quickly. Drawing back his head, he drove his forehead forward into
the grinning German’s nose, breaking the bone and causing him to
loosen his grip. Prydain followed up with a knee to his groin and
the warrior fell to his knees in excruciating pain. Prydain took
advantage and slammed his foot into his enemy’s face before diving
onto the prone body in a frenzied follow up. He clamped his arms
around the German’s body from behind, and holding the German’s head
tight against his own chest, forced it around until it was almost
facing backwards, and he was staring in the man’s terrified
eyes.

‘
No,
please, no!’ gasped the terrified man in accented Latin as the
realization of imminent death kicked in.

Gritting his
teeth and expending every last ounce of energy, Prydain forced the
archer’s head past the point of its natural limits, and the
terrified scream that had started a few seconds earlier, was
instantly silenced by a sickening crunch of vertebrae crushing
spinal cord. The archer’s body fell limp in Prydain’s
arms.

Both men fell to
the floor, one lifeless, and one gasping for breath. After a few
seconds, Prydain became aware of a severe pain and looking down,
saw the remains of an arrow shaft sticking out of his shoulder. The
archer had managed to get an arrow off before Prydain’s assault,
but his aim had been affected just enough to miss the killing spot.
The shaft had been snapped in the struggle but the arrowhead
remained deep inside and though Prydain knew he had to get it out
as soon as possible, he couldn’t do it on his own. Staggering down
to the horse, and despite the pain he managed to wrap Montellus in
his cape and lay him across the horse’s neck. He pulled himself
onto the horses back and taking the captured standard from beneath
the saddle, folded it into a pad and placed it against his arrow
wound to staunch the bleeding. He leaned forward and patted the
horse on the neck.

‘
Come on, boy,’ he said and kicked the horse with his heels to
start him going. Prydain knew his life now lay in the ability of
the tired horse to get him back to the legion’s fort, and gritted
his teeth in pain as the horse stumbled down the slope to the
plains below.

----

Two days later,
eleven thousand men formed up on the training grounds outside the
fort. Across the river, many from the township lined up to see the
spectacle of an entire legion on parade.

The legionaries
were lined up ten deep, forming two sides of a square, while the
other two sides were taken up with the Cohorts of the auxiliary
units. To one end, the six trainee centuries stood in isolation,
their armour gleaming in the morning sun. One Century stood
slightly apart from the rest, the gleam of their armour slightly
duller, the odd soldier not standing quite as straight as the
others, and the ranks not as full as those to either side.
Eventually, trumpeters blasted a fanfare from the ramparts of the
fort and an honour guard marched out of the gates, closely followed
by the standards of the legion.

First, were the
Vexillum bearers. Each two-foot square embroidered cloth was
suspended from a cross bar fixed atop an eight-foot pole, and
carried proudly by a legionary wearing a wolf fur over his armour.
Most took up position in front of the Century, whose number was
depicted on their Vexillum, but five halted in the centre of the
parade.

Then came the
Signum bearers. Each had similar sized poles, but this time topped
with a clenched fist, and adorned with discs along its length,
indicating the names and battle honours of their respective
cohorts. When they had taken their place, a solitary figure emerged
from the gates carrying the Imaginifer, the sculptured image of
Emperor Claudius as a reminder to all, exactly who they served.
Finally, to a tumultuous fanfare, came the Aquilifer, a fully
armoured legionary, draped in a lion’s fur and bearing every
legion’s sacred standard, the Aquila.

Every pair of
eyes stared at the sculptured golden eagle perched on its golden
laurel wreath, wings outstretched and grasping a thunderbolt in its
talons. It was a potent symbol of power, and every man present
would lay down his life to protect it.

The Aquilifer
marched to the centre of the parade square and drove the silver
staff deep into the ground. A murmur of approval rippled around the
gathered legion as it held firm. It would have been a disastrous
omen had the Aquila fallen over, especially this close to a
campaign.

Finally, a file
of six horses rode out; their riders dressed in full ceremonial
armour, and formed up behind the Aquila. As one, they dismounted
and Caesius Nasica, the Legatus Legionis and overall commander of
the legion, stepped forward and waited for the fanfare to end,
before addressing the parade.

‘
Soldiers of Rome,’ he called out, his voice resounding around
the gathered ranks, ‘in a few weeks’ time we assault the shores of
Britannia. Today we move out into the field for battle training. We
will shake out the cobwebs from our armour, sharpen our blunted
blades and harden our lazy bodies. When the time comes, we will be
ready for the fight and will do justice to our legion’s name, the
name your predecessors fought and died for, but before we march
out, there are honours to bestow.’

One of the five
legionaries holding a Vexillum stepped forward and gave his
standard to Nasica. He took the standard, marched over to one of
the five trainee centuries, and presented it to the Centurion
standing to its front.

‘
Centurion Leonis,’ he called out formally, ‘take your
standard and join your cohort.’

The Centurion
saluted Nasica with clenched fist against his chest, and
accompanied by huge cheering from the gathered legion, marched his
proud trainees to join the Cohort depicted on the Vexillum. Nasica
carried out the same ceremony five times until only the Century led
by Severus was left on the field.

Centurion
Severus and his mauled trainees had arrived back from the final
task two days earlier, a full twenty-four hours after their
competitors and without one of the prized standards. They had
buried their dead and nursed their wounded, but had had little time
to rest before the parade. The fact that they had defeated a strong
enemy was widely acknowledged and a source of great pride, but
tradition dictated that there were only five standards to award.
His men were to be dispersed amongst the legion, a shameful outcome
for everyone. Nasica approached Severus.

‘
I
feel your pain, Severus,’ he said quietly. ‘Your action was heroic
and your men are a tribute to this legion, but my hands are
tied.’

‘
I
understand, Sire,’ answered Severus.

‘
Therefore,’ added Nasica, ‘I have no option but to disband
your Century.’ He returned to his position to make the
announcement, but before he could bark his commands, his eye was
caught by a commotion at the far end of the parade.

‘
What is going on?’ he asked one of the officers at his
side.

‘
A
rider approaches, Sire,’ said Tribune Mateus.

The horse came
into view at the far end of the parade and a nearby Centurion
stepped out to grab the horse’s reins.

‘
I’ll have him taken away,’ said the Tribune.

‘
No,
let him come, I am intrigued. What man rides into the centre of an
entire legion with such impunity?’

‘
Release him!’ shouted the Tribune and the Centurion dropped
the reins, allowing the horse and its rider to continue its steady
journey. Slowly, the lame horse limped closer and Cassus recognised
Prydain under the coating of dust and blood. As the horse stopped
before the Aquila, Prydain lost consciousness and fell to one side,
but before he hit the ground, Severus caught him and lowered him to
the floor.

Nasica joined
Severus.

‘
One
of your missing men, I assume?’ he asked.

‘
Yes, Sire,’ answered Severus.

‘
And
the body?’

‘
Montellus,’ said Cassus, ‘our other missing comrade.’ Cassus
trickled some water between Prydain’s cracked lips, causing him to
splutter as he regained consciousness.

‘
How
ironic,’ said Mateus at Nasica’s side. ‘Just as your Century is
once again complete, it will be disbanded.’

‘
He
is wounded!’ said Severus, and removed the blood soaked bandage
from Prydain’s arrow wound, replacing it with his scarf. ‘Two men,
take him to the Medicus, quickly!’

Cassus and
another soldier carried Prydain through the gates of the fort as
Nasica’s bent down to pick up the blood sodden bandage from the
dirt. He unfolded the scarlet cloth, and looked around at his
fellow officers, astonished at how strong an omen he was holding in
his hands.

‘
Have you given tribute to your Gods yet, Severus?’ he asked,
as the Centurion turned his attention from the disappearing
men.

‘
Not
yet, Sire, I haven’t had time.’

‘
Then I suggest you make the time,’ he said and gave the
fabric to the Centurion. ‘I think this belongs to you.’

After a moment,
Severus realized the implications. He retrieved his dropped Pila
from the floor, and after piercing one corner of the Germanic
standard with the point, marched over to his Century and drove the
spear into the ground before his men. As it caught the breeze, the
fabric unfurled to reveal a blood-stained Raven, the captured
standard of Hanzer.

----

Prydain spent
the next few weeks in the hospital while the legion undertook
battle training in the surrounding mountains. At first, he had
suffered with an infection, but the application of selected herbs
by the Medicus meant that the wound soon healed. He was impatient
to join the rest of the legion but the weakness in his shoulder
meant he was unable to wield a Gladius with any great effect.
Finally, he was released from the hospital and put on latrine duty
until his shoulder had healed enough for him to re-join the legion.
At last, he was given the all clear and sat on his bunk in the
quiet bunkhouse, packing his kit. The sound of hobnailed Caligae
echoed along the timber decking and he turned to see that a
Centurion stood in the doorway. Prydain sprang to
attention.

‘
Are
you Prydain Maecilius?’ asked the Centurion.

‘
I
am, Sir,’ he answered.

‘
Stand easy,’ said the Centurion, and entered the
room.

Prydain relaxed
slightly but remained wary. The brutality of the Centurions was
well known.

‘
I
am Scipio,’ said the Centurion, ‘and I have been hearing a lot
about you, Maecilius.’

‘
Oh?’ said Prydain simply.

‘
You
are the talk of the legion, he said. ‘That little escapade with
Hanzer’s warriors seems to have made you a bit of a hero amongst
the ranks.’

‘
I
only did what any other legionary would have done, Sir.’

‘
Ah,
but that’s the point,’ said Scipio, ‘you didn’t. Any other
legionary wouldn’t have left the ranks in the first place. They
would have stayed in place, following their training to the letter,
fighting as one. But not you, Maecilius,’ he continued, ‘You had to
be different. And I hear it’s not the first time. It seems you are
always leaning against authority and questioning
orders.’

‘
I
escaped an enemy camp and captured a standard,’ said Prydain
defensively.

‘
And
caused the death of a comrade in the process,’ shouted the
Centurion, smacking his Vitis down hard on the table.

Prydain stared
at the Centurion in shock.

‘
But, Sir,’ he started.

‘
Shut up!’ ordered the Centurion. ‘I am talking.’ He walked
around the bunk room, hitting his Vitis into the palm of his
hand.

‘
You
are an opinionated, arrogant, individual who, despite all the
training invested in you by our glorious Emperor, refuses to
conform.’ He stopped in front of Prydain, staring into his face. ‘I
don’t know what to make of you Maecilius,’ he said. ‘Some say you
are a hero; others say you are a liability. However, there is no
mistaking what you did was quite extraordinary. You spotted the
enemy before anyone else did, held your own in a swordfight with
Hanzer, which is no mean feat in itself. Captured a standard,
killed a man with your bare hands and brought your comrade back to
the fort, even though you were wounded. You have the skills of an
excellent soldier Maecilius, yet continue to be an individual. And
therein lies the problem. Rome doesn’t like individuals and the
legion has no place for people like you.’