“What the hell’s gotten into them?” Artorius growled as he turned his gaze front once more.
“You have to admit it is a rather riveting performance,” Camillus stated with his usual good nature. “Face it, the lads are superstitious. Even the most battle-hardened veteran still fears the gods of darkness and those who can harness their unholy power.”
“And you don’t?” Artorius asked.
Camillus simply shrugged. “I’ve had a good life. What’s the worst they can do to me?”
Behind them they could hear mutterings from the men laced with words of druids, magic, and curses. Artorius knew they had to move immediately, lest irrational fear upset the entire operation. If his own men were being so adversely affected by the druids’ spectacle, he knew it had to be playing havoc on the men aboard the other assault ships.
“They’d better follow us when we go over,” he grunted.
Camillus simply grinned. “They’ll follow this,” he emphasized, holding up the legion’s eagle. The aquilifer then turned and addressed the legionaries.
“Soldiers of the Twentieth Legion!” he shouted, holding the eagle high. “You cower like old women before a handful of barbarians in ratted cloaks! Their gods do not hold power over the eagle! Will you let this sacred standard fall into their hands?”
“No!” a legionary shouted, eliciting similar affirmations from the other soldiers.
Camillus gave a sinister grin. “The eagle advances!” he shouted. “Will you follow it to glory or allow it to fall into their vile clutches and damn yourselves for eternity?”
He then turned about, and holding the eagle aloft, threw it over the front of the ship into the foaming sea. The standard tumbled end over end before slamming into the sand in the shallow surf. He looked back briefly and saw the looks of horror on the faces of the legionaries before jumping over the side.
“The eagle stands, and it faces the enemy!” Artorius shouted, pointing towards the standard.
He watched as the aquilifer surged through the crashing waves, retrieved the standard, and started to advance towards the beach alone.
“Fearless bastard,” Artorius grinned. He turned towards his men with a look of fierce determination.
“To the eagle!” he shouted as he jumped over the side of the ship and to his fate.
He landed with a hard splash, plunging briefly beneath the waves before leaping to the surface. The water was bitingly cold, and Artorius stifled a shout as the frigid surf shocked through his body, chest-high waves knocking him about. The current of the tide was deceptively rougher than it appeared, and he struggled to maintain his balance as he drew his gladius and slogged his way towards the beach, holding his shield over his head, lest it become waterlogged. The sight to his front was surreal; the dark skies accented by the fires of druidic pyres. About a hundred meters away his friend, Camillus was casually making his way through the rolling waves, the eagle standard draped over his left shoulder, with his weapon drawn.
For the aquilifer, marching towards certain death with the legion’s sacred standard in tow seemed like the most random, yet natural thing to do. His rationale had always been that if he was going to die, then he’d best make a good show of it. How he’d survived three decades in the legions was anybody’s guess. The sandy beach itself was empty; it was the grassy slope that led up towards the over-watching cliffs that the druids burned their pyres and cast their dark magic. The gusts of wind felt surprisingly warm as Camillus made his way out of the surf, the water squishing out of his sandals and running off his legs, belt, and armor. He almost nonchalantly planted the eagle into the sand.
“Rome has returned!” he said as he glanced around, looking for enemy warriors. The druids, who were perhaps a hundred meters up the slope, continued their unholy chants, shrouded in their grayish cloaks. The aquilifer unslung his small round shield. “Well, bugger me, where are they?”
His question was quickly answered by the sounding of a war horn, followed by unholy battle cries from a grove of trees off to his left, where he now saw there was a large earthen path. Dozens of warriors soon appeared, running at a dead sprint for the lone Roman who had dared to defile their lands with the imperial standard. Camillus grinned and turned to face them, quickly limbering up his sword arm. In his peripheral vision, he could just make out the streak of a high-sailing javelin that slammed into the side of an enemy warrior, who was rushing so fast that the force of the pilum impaling his side knocked him clean off his feet. Subsequent javelins followed sporadically as legionaries quickly slogged their way through the rolling waves. Many carried their shields high across their backs in order to keep from having to drag them through the surf.
“That’s more like it,” Camillus said quietly as he saw his master centurion bound through the last few feet of tide, accompanied by about twenty legionaries. The rest were scattered out in the sea, trying to get onto the beach and support their friends. Leaving the standard where it was, serving as a rallying point for the rest of the cohort, Camillus raced over to join Artorius and do his part to begin the conquest of Britannia.
It was haphazard for the master centurion as he and his men tried to form some semblance of a battle line in the face of their onrushing assailants. The melee was very chaotic, and several of his men were cut down as they were swarmed by numerous warriors. Still they kept driving forward as more of their mates splashed through the rolling waters and quickly moved in to reinforce them.
Artorius knocked down one attacker with a shoulder tackle with his shield, a nearby legionary finishing the man with a stab to the throat. He then looked back over his shoulder and watched as Praxus and the Second Century formed up on their right, encountering similar resistance from a band of enemy warriors who sought to drive them back into the sea. Behind the assault force, the central catapult on Stoppello’s large ship unleashed a large flaming pot of Greek fire over their heads, smashing amongst the rocks where their foes were bounding over. Though it had missed them directly, it was enough to startle the Britons into pausing their attack momentarily.
“Praxus!” Artorius shouted. “Secure the right flank, I’ll take the center. Magnus will take the left, as soon as he lands, with the remaining two centuries following me in reserve!”
“Sir!” Praxus acknowledged before shouting subsequent orders to his men.
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.