The legionary saluted, almost concussing himself with the hilt of his gladius. Furius rolled his eyes as he turned back to his companion.
“This legion is a shambles. At least if Caesar had left it as he found it, they’d have been a proper unit, and not just a patchwork collection of misfits. Half the bloody centurions don’t seem to have a clue. Did you know that Lutorius has half of his men loading the grain into the wagons without wearing their armour or helmets? The prat’s even got their swords lying in a heap while they work. I swear I had to clench my fists to prevent myself beating the idiot.”
“Similar story all round. Look at the amount of tunics you can see without armour. Pompey would have had half of them strung up by now. This army’s soft.”
“This legion’s soft. Since the beach escapade I’ve been keeping an eye on Fronto’s Tenth. They’re actually pretty well organised and drilled. And Brutus’ Eighth when we were back in Gaul were in top condition. It’s just this legion, mate. I tell you, by next spring I’m going to have the top spot — be primus pilus — and I’ll spend the winter kicking this shower of shit into shape.”
“With any luck we’ll both be able to move up and sort this lot out. Fronto’s a good enough lad, but he’s still a bit lax and disorganised. It irks me that his legion should be so much better than ours.”
“Here’s to that. And to the Seventh being the best in the army by next spring.”
The pair fell silent, taking in the scene around them. Existing rations had run out in the morning, after breaking their fast, and replenishing the stocks had been the first priority of the day. Early in the day, the Seventh had split into four groups of fifteen centuries apiece who had left the camp all with the same assignment: Find food. It didn’t matter what it was — animal, wheat, vegetables. So long as it would go in a pot or bake loaves, it was required. It had taken only two hours for the first section to come across a nicely hidden wide bowl of a valley, surrounded by woodland and filled with ripening white-gold wheat waiting for the harvest, which would be due at any time.
Lutorius, the primus pilus of the legion and the senior centurion of their party had almost rubbed his hands with glee at the sight of enough grain to keep the two legions for the best part of a month. Another hour of searching the tracks that radiated into the woods had turned up the farms that cultivated the area, which supplied them with plenty of commandeered carts along with what could have been termed ‘nags’ if the speaker were being kind, as well as a few mangy oxen.
Now, after four hours of cutting, binding, stacking and loading, the carts were laden with towering piles of wheat. The sun was already hovering over the tops of the trees in its ever swiftening descent to evening, and though much of the wheat had been harvested, still almost a quarter of the fields remained intact.
The two centurions’ gaze both fell on Lutorius, standing among a collection of sheaves, snapping out orders. Each of the four legion vexillations had its nominal command. Cicero and one of the tribunes had taken their group north, the senior tribune Terrasidius and one of the others had taken a group south. The three remaining junior tribunes had gone northwest — and were probably hopelessly lost, given the general abilities of their kind — while Lutorius had brought his command southwest.
“Who’s going to persuade ‘blue eyes’ to stay after dark?”
“I’ll do it. You’ve been pissing him off all day, so he won’t listen to you.”
Furius nodded and Fabius turned to make his way over to the primus pilus, just in time to see an arrow whip out from the woodland that surrounded the golden field-bowl, smashing into Lutorius’ eye and driving into his brain, killing him instantly.
The air suddenly filled with the thrum of arrows as men screamed and fell all around the clearing. Even as Furius turned to address the cornicen standing close by with his horn on his arm, Fabius bellowed “Shields! To Arms!”
“Cornicen: Sound the alarm!”
The musician put the horn to his lips, but all that came out of his mouth was a gobbet of blood as a thrown spear suddenly burst through his neck. His eyes went wide and he clutched at the crimson spear head sticking a foot from his front before toppling over forward, making a bubbling noise. Furius cursed.
“Testudo! Form testudos!”
The field was alive now with desperate legionaries. Furius and Fabius’ two centuries were already falling into formation, their shields coming up to form the missile-proof tortoise. The two centurions jogged across to their men, well aware that most of the centuries in the clearing were doomed, having dropped their shields and weapons and some even their armour while they worked. Men were being scythed down like the wheat they’d been harvesting.
“Get to the centre! Collect your gear and get out of missile range!”
It was all he could really do, and he hoped the other soldiers’ centurions would follow the lead and try to protect their commands. In the meantime, he and Fabius moved outside missile range, behind their centuries.
“Prepare yourselves for the next move!”
They didn’t have long to wait. Having lost, at Fabius’ estimation, some two hundred men just to an initial volley, the remaining legionaries had pulled back to the centre of the clearing, out of the reach of the arrows and spears, where many were hurriedly arming themselves and jamming on helmets. Only half of them wore their mail shirts, though, and a number were missing shields. Furius and Fabius shook their heads in disbelief as their two centuries, the only two in the Seventh to be fully equipped and fighting fit, backed up to join their comrades.
“Drop testudo. Form a defensive circle!” Furius shouted. “Everyone! Form a circle. Three lines deep, those with armour and shields on the outer line!”
Warriors were now beginning to step out of the woods, spears, axes and swords raised, some with shields or helmets, even some with mail shirts. Many of them were decorated with blue designs, and their hair was spiked long and white with dried mud. It hardly came as a surprise to note that the legion was completely surrounded, though it was with some dismay that the centurions recognised the shape and sound of both cavalry and chariots thundering down the numerous pathways and tracks into the wide bowl-shaped clearing.
They were trapped.
Having secured their prey and being wary of the shieldwall that had caused so much havoc at the beach, the native warriors advanced slowly, moving cautiously out into the open.
“Why didn’t they just keep peppering us with arrows?” shouted an optio nearby. Furius ground his teeth angrily. The men were nervous enough without officers giving them extra reasons to panic.
“Because, shit-streak, they’ve got us where they want us now. Their ‘noble’ warriors want a chance to carve us up themselves. It’s only noble to a Celt if they can look into your eyes when you die.”
Fabius forced a grin. “But that’s not going to happen. We’re going to give these native piss stains something to think about. For Rome!” he bellowed and started to smack his gladius blade against the shield edge of the man next to him, lacking one himself.
The battle cry had the desired effect, building the courage of the trapped men rapidly, and the crash of swords on shield rims slowly rose to a deafening crescendo.
Fabius was focusing on the warriors opposite him who blocked the track that led back toward the camp where the Tenth would be busy cutting timber and constructing buildings and palisades around the new annexe for the storehouses.
“Silence!” he bellowed, as he squinted at the mass of warriors. A slow, grim smile spread across his face. In the wide, grassy, rutted track, stood one of the carts of wheat, already fully laden. Two legionaries were waving from the top of the cart, as yet unseen by the Briton army that lay between them and their fellow legionaries.