In response to the raid, Centurion Pilus Prior Dominus, Commander of the Twentieth Legion’s Third Cohort, dispatched one of his centuries to the settlement. A routine patrol would normally consist of an eight-man squad of legionaries or auxiliaries. However, given the size of the raid and the losses already suffered, a stronger show of force was needed. The Roman governor had been harried with numerous complaints from locals, demanding that Rome make good on its promise of protection. The Third and Fourth Cohorts had been tasked with dealing with the situation, and Dominus knew the magnitude of what was at stake. He wanted the raiders destroyed! His remaining centuries, as well as those of the Fourth Cohort, were dispatched to various settlements and small farming villages in the region.
Soon after receiving their orders, the Second Century, under the command of Centurion Titus Artorius Justus, left the fortress under the cover of night. They had made the final mile of their trek off the main road, keeping to the trees, lest unfriendly eyes spot them. The embankment sloped down from the far side of the farming settlement, where a small stream trickled. It was here that Artorius had his men bivouac for the remainder of the night.
Dawn had come, and while most of the century lay hidden behind the embankment, a single squad walked about the settlement, coming upon the spot where the auxiliaries had been beaten back. Enemy spies would not be alarmed by the presence of a few Roman soldiers; in fact, it was to be expected following a raid from across the Rhine.
“These people never learn,” a legionary reiterated as he gazed at the body of a slain auxiliary. “The locals could have at least had the decency to bury him.”
The man’s corpse had been stripped of armor, weapons, and anything of value. His body was sprawled on its back, head turned to the side, tongue sticking grotesquely between his teeth, eyes open and vacant. Flies had started to gather in the pool of dried blood that saturated his slashed throat. The bodies of the other three had been taken away to be burned; however, this poor fellow had been left to rot in the dense undergrowth along the river. It was only when the corpse started to stink that he’d been found.
“They’ll learn a permanent lesson soon enough,” his decanus replied. The two men immediately snapped to attention as they saw their commanding officer, Centurion Artorius, approaching.
“Pickets are positioned within the tree line, sir,” the decanus said. Artorius nodded in reply. “There’s a narrow ford that makes for a perfect crossing point. Though they got the jump on our auxiliaries, they were spooked enough that they left without taking hardly a thing from the settlement.”
“A scouting mission,” Artorius grumbled.
“Then you think they’ll attack again, sir?” the legionary asked.
“I hope so,” the centurion said as he turned and walked away.
Though their commander’s face was stone serious, the decanus could not help but grin at the remark. Like his cohort commander, Artorius understood the need to teach the raiding barbarians, as well as the indigenous peoples, a lesson in Roman power.
“Then centurion enjoys killing, does he?” the legionary asked once he felt Artorius was out of earshot. The young man had only been in the legions for six months and was barely out of recruit training. Like most, he’d stumbled many times when learning weapons drill and marching; as a result suffering centurion’s wrath, along with that of his training officers. It was something every young man who joined the Roman army went through, but the legionary still caught himself cringing when his centurion approached.
“No,” his squad leader replied, shaking his head. “He hates it. Many days he curses the gods that he is so damned efficient at it.”
Though the legionary only saw his commanding officer perhaps twice a week during battle drills, his reputation was legendary. Despite being the youngest centurion within the Twentieth Legion, Artorius had held his command for six years. Given how quickly he accelerated through the ranks, it surprised many of his men that he was not on the short list for promotion to cohort commander.
Artorius reckoned he would get the chance soon to prove his killing efficiency, as well as testing that of his men. It was their second night at this settlement, and he knew that sooner or later the raiders would strike.
“They have to return,” he told his optio, Gaius Praxus. “That last raid was just a reconnaissance mission. Were it not, I doubt they would have fled in the face of less than a dozen auxiliaries.”
Praxus remained silent. The two senior leaders of the Second Century were feeling the same agitation as their men.
“With such a large supply of grain,” Praxus at last replied, “to say nothing of the handful of cattle and goats, it is too ripe of a target to be ignored. I wonder how Magnus and the Fourth Cohort are faring.”
“His men are still fairly raw and inexperienced,” Artorius noted. “I think a clash with the chance to bloody their weapons will do them some good.”
Centurion Magnus Flavianus was a close friend of both men. He’d come up through the ranks with Artorius. After the legion’s Fourth Cohort met disaster at the Battle of Braduhenna, Magnus had been selected as one of the centurions to lead the reconstituted unit.
“The pickets have been instructed not to engage the enemy directly,” the decanus from the patrol squad said as he joined the two senior leaders.
The men assigned this duty had the most difficult task of all, particularly regarding their need to remain hidden in the dense undergrowth along the river, unable to move about freely. Artorius made certain only the best disciplined men were posted here, with the previous pickets being relieved just before the predawn cast its glow through the dense mass of trees.
“Have designated runners been assigned to notify us when the enemy is spotted?” the centurion asked.
“Yes, sir,” the decanus confirmed. “They also know they are to provide the blocking force to prevent any raiders from escaping back across the river.”
Aside from the pickets he posted to watch for movement on the far side of the river, his men had remained mostly hidden, encamped in the small defilade just on the other side of the road that ran past the settlement. Though the farmers had wished to send their wives and children away, Artorius had forbidden it, as he wanted everything to have the appearance of normality. The Roman governor made it clear to the legions that he wanted the raiders wiped out, not scared away. Artorius’ men mostly slept during the day, and their chief enemy proved to be boredom. Two of his men had already felt the lash of his vine stick for fighting amongst themselves. The sooner they had an actual enemy to battle, the better.
As the day wore on, Artorius elected to take another walk through the settlement. As he reasoned that a raid during the daytime was highly unlikely, he allowed his men not on picket duty to remove their armor. He strolled along the dirt path between thatched houses, the ground still damp as the sun did not penetrate through the tall trees until near midday. He’d left his armor with his century, his centurion’s belt and his sword hanging from his left hip being the only indicators of his rank. The smell of livestock was strong, and he caught the aroma of the grain silo as he walked past. The Gallic farmers went about their business, most paying him no attention. Though he hoped the presence of Roman soldiers so close would instill feelings of safety, there was an air of overwhelming fear amongst the populace.