“Yes, sir.”
The advance up the steep slope in testudo formation had been slow, arduous, and particularly tedious for Metellus and the men of the Fifth Cohort. Given the large frontage they had to cover, as well as how compact the testudo formation was, Tyranus had ordered his centuries to advance individually, rather than trying to form a cumbersome single formation with his entire cohort. Further along the north face of the hill several cohorts of the Second Legion were also making their trek up the slope while being harried by enemy skirmishers.
Men in the front rank stood shoulder-to-shoulder with their shields linked together. Men in the subsequent ranks held their shields overhead, providing protection for both themselves and those in front of them. A small handful of skirmishers looked to be their only immediate threat, though if their diversion was successful, they would draw away more warriors from the east gate, where Artorius and his men were locked in brutal combat with the defenders. Behind Metellus’ century, Achillia and half a dozen of her archers advanced, ready to provide support to the legionaries. Groups of her skirmishers walked just behind the other centuries of the cohort.
A throwing spear smacked into Metellus’ shield, causing him to jolt. Rocks and similar missiles pelted their formation; most of their foes’ archers being committed to defending the east gate. Achillia walked beside Metellus, hunkered down so as to use the legionary testudo for protection. She quickly leaned to the side and loosed an arrow, which caught the warrior who’d thrown the spear at Metellus in the chest.
As they came within twenty meters of the top, the Durotriges defenders abandoned the rampart and sprinted away. Achillia’s archers rushed forward and unleashed several volleys of arrows on them as they sprinted up the steep incline of the second rampart. Several cried out as they were mortally stricken or badly injured, tumbling down the hill into the defilade below.
“To hell with this,” Metellus grunted as he reached the top.
His men in the subsequent ranks lowered their shields and stretched out their arms. The centurion surveyed the defilade and the next rampart. He shouted to his cohort commander, whose century had also just reached the top, “Sir, the next climb is too steep to scale in testudo formation!”
Centurion Tyranus gave a nod of agreement. “Battle formation!” he shouted. Instinctively, the men of the Fifth Cohort spread out into four ranks. Tyranus had been smart enough to leave enough space between each century testudo so that they could readily shift into battle lines. Only a handful of paces separated Metellus from Tyranus’ optio, who positioned himself on the far left of their formation.
Metellus looked over his shoulder at Achillia. “You have us covered?”
It was a rhetorical question, but one that reassured him as she nodded in reply and nocked another arrow, her face in a devious grin that echoed from a time when she fought as a volunteer gladiator in the east.
“Move out!” Tyranus shouted.
Metellus waved his men forward with his gladius and they quickly descended into the low ground where a handful of dead and wounded warriors lay. The next incline was incredibly steep, with legionaries using their shields to help pull them up the grass-covered slope.
Achillia’s detachment formed a long skirmish line along the first rampart, waiting for enemy combatants to show themselves once more. They did not have long to wait. The supplemental assault was having its intended effect, and the far rampart was now swarming with Durotriges warriors. Along with archers and skirmishers there were large numbers of fighting men with spears, swords, and axes. Achillia’s archers started shooting rapidly, and though they were inflicting casualties, their numbers were too few to drive the defenders to ground. Their archers and missile troops, knowing they were useless against the armored legionaries and their shield wall, instead focused their attention on the archers who harassed them from the outer ridge.
Achillia had just let loose an arrow that struck an enemy axman in the neck, when a heavy thrown spear sailed in a high arc and slammed into her abdomen, bursting through her mail shirt and plunging deep into her stomach. Her bow dropped from her hands, and she fell to her knees, clutching the spear in agony. She rolled to her back, unable to cry out despite the immeasurable pain. Her body was twitching and going into shock, and as gouts of blood spewed from her mouth, she knew her life was rapidly coming to an end. Her last thoughts were on that which she carried within her. Lost amongst the blood and sweat that covered her face, several tears fell from Achillia’s eyes.
From his vantage looking down upon the battle that raged near the east gate, King Donan was not as concerned about the assaults on the north and south ramparts. He’d kept a number of his warriors in reserve, and these men would drive the Romans back. What worried him were the machines that his enemy used to hurl waves of large stones that smashed men and barricade alike. The tall gatehouse lay in ruins, and warriors were now fleeing back towards the town in an attempt to escape the hammering storm of death.
“If the Romans want to fight us in the open, then a fight we shall give them!” he growled as he drew his great sword.
Along with his warriors were a number of women, the elderly, and young boys who were still big enough to carry a weapon. They were determined to fight the Romans to the very last and would not simply lie down and let them destroy the seat of their kingdom.
“They’re reforming at the top of the rise,” Praxus observed as Artorius and his First Century made their way to the front of the cohort.
His Fourth and Fifth Centuries had conducted their assault of the main gatehouse valiantly, though to their credit, the Durotriges had not given ground without a fight.
Artorius scanned the top of the hill that led into the town. He recognized the enemy king by his flowing robes and the metal circlet upon his head that gleamed in the midafternoon sun. The Durotriges who massed behind him numbered several thousand. And with his other two cohorts held up on the flanks, along with the entire Second Legion, it would fall upon the First Cohort alone to break their enemy into submission.
“Javelins and scorpion bolts are expended, and we cannot bring the siege engines any closer,” Artorius noted, shaking his head. “Looks like cold steel will have to finish this job.”
“The plain at the top of this hill is enormous,” Magnus noted. “The frontage is too large for us to fight as a cohort.”
Artorius signaled for all of his centurions to join him, figuring the Durotriges would wait for them to attack, lest they fall pretty to the storm of boulders the siege engines had been unmercifully hammering them with. For all Artorius knew, the onagers and ballistae could very well have expended their ammunition stores.
“We’ll attack by centuries,” Artorius said. “Place your men into three ranks, this will allow us to maintain a larger front against the enemy, hopefully without spreading ourselves too thin. Unless our other cohorts and the Second Legion can take the heights, it falls upon us to finish this thing. Should we fail, then the entire assault will be undone, and Mai Dun will have proven impenetrable.”
“As you said, nothing is impenetrable!” The voice of their commanding legate surprised the assembled centurions.
“General, sir,” Artorius said. He noted the legionary shield Vespasian now carried. “Intending to join us in the final assault?”