“Even now, you would let our past differences risk us both losing everything against the Romans,” Togodumnus growled at the man. “You are a vile coward and no warrior!”
“Go fuck yourself!” Banning retorted. “You dare call us cowards, yet where were the Catuvellauni when my warriors were spilling their blood on the shores of this isle? We implored you to join us on the beaches, and you did nothing! You are not my king, Togodumnus, so do not ever try and order my men again! Consider yourself fortunate to have us here, lest we abandon you to deal with the Romans, like you did us.”
The king knew further arguments were pointless, and so he rode away towards the fighting in the west. False friends like Banning were a greater threat to him than even the Romans. Once the invaders were dealt with, he would teach those impudent bastards a harsh lesson!
As he approached the western wing of the battle, where the Romans had landed another legion, his men had been driven further inland by the fire from the enemy warships, yet their numbers were still proving sufficient to withstand the onslaught of legionaries. Once out of range of the catapults, the battle became one of attrition, and Togodumnus guessed that the issue would not be decided before the day was finished.
“Sir, there they are!” a soldier cried out from off to Artorius’ left.
The additional Durotriges bands had, indeed, spotted and attempted to take the supply wagons of the Twentieth Legion, who had found the same fording point used earlier by Taurus and his cavalry. The master centurion was thankful that he’d detached two cohorts to protect them, as he’d originally only intended to send one. The legionaries had formed a protective square around the supply train with the wagons formed into a crude circle. The Durotriges were taunting them and attacking with small groups of warriors, who were attempting to achieve a break in the Roman line. Outnumbered nearly ten-to-one, it seemed like only a matter of time before the cohorts were overwhelmed and slaughtered to a man.
“Battle formation!” Artorius shouted, the cornicen echoing the order with blasts from his trumpet. The Durotriges were, at first, shocked to see most of a legion now bearing down on them with cohorts fanning out into battle lines. Many of them abandoned the attack on the supply trains and, instead, moved in a confused mass towards the advancing legionaries.
Despite the fairly open terrain, Artorius found it impractical to place his entire legion on line, even with just eight cohorts at his disposal. Instead, he positioned five cohorts in front with about ten to twenty meters spacing between. The remaining three formed up behind these, staggered between the gaps. This gave a large enough frontage, while also allowing for greater control and situational awareness, as well as maintaining a needed reserve. Camillus instinctively fell in just behind Artorius and off to his right. Though his purpose was to carry the eagle and use it to relay any visual signals, as well as watching for any indications sent back from the other cohorts, his sword arm twitched, anxious as always to take part in the fighting.
The warriors coming at them were at first sprinting, but as the more fleet-footed grew closer to the advancing wall of shields, they suddenly slowed their pace, allowing their friends to catch up before advancing again. These particular fighters had never faced Roman soldiers before, and to see thousands of men marching together with such discipline, while also encased in heavy armor behind a wall of brightly-painted shields was, in the very least, unnerving.
“Fight with courage,” Magnus said, beginning a Nordic battle chant he had heard from the time he was a child. “Fight with honor, and if you must die, then do so with the gratitude that you died in battle. Today is a good day!”
“Steady lads!” Artorius said, as much for his own benefit as his men.
The centuries behind him slowed their pace slightly, allowing for a greater distance between ranks. The barbarians to their immediate front, though at first slowed by indecision, were soon carried forward by their comrades on a wave of fury.
“Javelins ready!” Artorius shouted, drawing his gladius as his men hefted their heavy pila to throwing position. The subsequent centuries had not readied their javelins yet; the First Cohort having adopted the practice of each rank unleashing its pila just prior to executing its first passage-of-lines.
Their enemy was getting closer. Even moving at a dead run, it was still an anxious few moments before they closed. Artorius’ eyes were fixed on one younger man with a filthy red beard who carried a woodsman’s axe. It served as a reminder that these were not professional soldiers, but simply men who became warriors when the need rose to defend their homes or when summoned by their king. As they drew closer, Artorius could hear the man’s battle cry over the wall of sound coming from his companions as he raised his axe over his shoulder.
“Javelins…throw!”
The Durotriges were caught off guard by the storm of javelins suddenly unleashed upon them. Many, who thought the Romans may use them as stabbing spears, were suddenly impaled or had their shields punctured and ripped from their arms. Warriors suddenly found themselves stumbling over their stricken companions, many of whom cried out in pain as their guts were punctured through. One poor man had taken a pilum through the bowels and was pinned to the ground as a result. He gasped for air as the agony overwhelmed him. The hideous entrance and exit wounds seeping both blood and excrement. Another javelin slammed clean through a warrior’s heart, bursting out his back. Though he was killed instantly, his body continued to stumble forward a few feet, eyes glassy and vacant, mouth open as he collapsed just in front of the legionary who slew him.
Artorius braced himself behind his shield, his gladius protruding forward at hip level. With his head being the only viable target for his opponent, he quickly ducked down as the barbarian’s blow came crashing down, driving forward and knocking the man off balance with his shield. He rotated his hips and thrust his gladius deep into the warrior’s stomach while still keeping low. The entire struggle had lasted maybe a couple seconds, and Artorius was immediately back behind his shield. As instinct took over, he was relieved to note that age had not slowed down his reflexes.
There had been no order for his men to draw their gladii; each soldier unsheathing his weapon as soon as he let his pilum fly. Despite the losses they had already incurred, the Durotriges came at the Romans with brutal tenacity. Spears, clubs, axes, and the occasional sword smashed into the shield wall as the Romans continued to press forward, their gladii stabbing forward repeatedly. The barbarians were valiant, though lacking the reckless abandon with which many of their Germanic adversaries had fought with in past campaigns.
“Set for passage-of-lines!” Artorius shouted, the command being echoed down the line. Upon hearing his, Magnus shouted a subsequent order, directing his men to unleash their pila. The following storm of javelins went over the heads of or, in some cases, between the soldiers in the front rank. The Durotriges warriors fell back in disarray as they were mauled once again.
“Execute passage-of-lines!”
The javelins giving them a split second of breathing space, the soldiers in the front rank turned sideways, holding their shields against their bodies, as those in the second rank rushed past them, smashing their shields into their reeling enemy once more. Artorius and his men passed through Praxus’ and the remaining two centuries, all of whom had their javelins ready to fly.
As he reached the rear of the formation, Artorius took a drink off his water bladder and wiped a rag over his forehead. He then looked around to try and get a sense of situational awareness. As best he could tell, the remaining cohorts were pressing forward with no noticeable breaches in the lines by the Durotriges. Behind him, he could see two of his reserve cohorts, each marching slowly while following the main battle line. The master centurion reasoned that if he could break their enemy before deploying his reserves, he would use them to conduct the pursuit. He noticed that from a distance the terrain looked relatively flat. It was, in fact, full of small defilades and rolling mounds. The left wing of the First Cohort was moving laterally along a short rise, while the right was stuck in a saddle with no real ability to get a larger look at the overall battle.