“I am indeed,” the legate said with a nod. “I’ll be on your immediate left. And don’t worry, I’ll not interfere in the running of your cohort just think of me as another legionary.”
“With respect, sir,” Artorius said, “this attack runs a high risk of failure, and if it does the army cannot afford to lose you.”
“It wasn’t a request, Master Centurion,” Vespasian replied sharply. “I am not asking you if I can fight on your battle line, I am telling you where I will be. With all units committed, there is nothing left for me to do except provide an additional blade, and it is plain to me that you need every one you can get!”
“Yes, sir.” Despite Vespasian’s rebuke, Artorius found himself grinning.
Clearly the man who’d orchestrated this assault was a different type of leader. Though he’d proven himself to be a military genius throughout the campaign, at the end of the day, Flavius Vespasian viewed his own life as no more valuable than that of even the lowest legionary from the ranks.
“Once I take my place on the line, you will then give the orders,” the legate stated.
Artorius simply nodded and addressed his centurions once more. “Any questions?”
When there were none he dismissed the men who, with a quick series of orders, formed their men into three ranks. They allowed a small gap of a few meters between each century, in order to allow for easier maneuvering over the uneven ground.
“As of now, I’m just another legionary,” Vespasian said as he took his place next to Artorius on the line.
“A legionary wearing a rather distinctive crest on his head,” Artorius noted with a dark laugh.
“Eh, so I am.” The legate then shrugged. “Fuck it.”
This last rare profanity caused Artorius to raise an eyebrow. Their brief moment of levity ended as he took a deep breath and steeled himself for the final assault. On the top of the hill, the Durotriges were all shouting war chants and battle cries as they beat their weapons against their shields and whatever else they managed to find to defend themselves with. There was no doubting their bravery, especially in the face of annihilation. The next hour or so would be a bloody spectacle of death.
“Cohort!” Artorius shouted.
“Century!” his centurions sounded off in unison.
“Advance!”
Shields braced against their bodies, gladii protruding forward in a wall of bloodied blades, the legionaries stepped off as one. They advanced at a fluid, yet measured pace, as they did not want to expend what was left of their energy before they closed with their enemy. Secretly, Artorius hoped that progress was being made on the attacks on the flanks.
As he struggled to make his way to the top, Metellus slammed the bottom edge of his shield into the shin of an enemy attacker, snapping the bone and sending the man sprawling backwards down the other side of the embankment. He and his men were pressing forward on sheer determination alone. A number had been killed or injured, with others struggling to maintain their footing on the steep face while battling their resolute enemy. Metellus’ body ached all over, particularly the chest and shoulders from where he’d been struck by numerous enemy weapons. He wore a centurion’s hamata chainmail, which simply did not provide nearly the amount of blunt-force trauma protection that a legionary’s segmentata plate did. His only surprise was that none of his enemies’ weapons had penetrated. As he pulled himself upright, he turned and plunged his gladius deep into the side of another warrior, allowing the legionary next to him to finish scaling the heights.
A quick glance down the line revealed that Tyranus and his century were similarly able to brawl their way to the top, though Metellus lamented to the sight of dead and wounded legionaries that lay strewn about the slope. Regardless of their superior training and equipment, no armor could be all-encompassing, and even legionaries had weaknesses that could be exploited, particularly around the neck and lower abdomen. Still, they fared far better than their adversaries, who had no armor and little training to speak of. As more and more legionaries successfully made it to the top, the Durotriges began to panic and flee towards the third rampart, which was mercifully lower and less steep than the one they had just assaulted up. The centurion surmised that the will of their foe was breaking, and that there would not be nearly as much resistance on the final rampart.
“Metellus!” Tyranus shouted, alerting the young centurion as his cohort commander walked over to him. “I’m sending three centuries to the right to clear the rampart and allow the Second Legion to advance. The rest of us will assault the final embankment and move to assist Artorius and the First Cohort. No doubt they’ve been up to their knees in shit this whole time.”
It was then Metellus was first concerned for his adoptive father. Despite the harsh difficulties he and his men had just surmounted, he knew the First Cohort was bearing the brunt of the enemies’ resistance. His mouth parched and face covered in sweat, the centurion removed his helmet and took a long drink off his water bladder, splashing some more on his face.
“Get some water,” he ordered his soldiers. Despite the sense of urgency, he knew his soldiers needed a minute to rest and rehydrate before they continued in their assault. As his own breathing slowed, he donned his helmet once more.
Rage and adrenaline consumed Artorius as they closed within a few meters of the massed horde of Durotriges. Though not all were warriors, their numbers were so vast that he feared his men would simply wear out in the pending bloody grind. Though the Roman Army outnumbered the defenders, if they could not get over the ramparts, this counted for little. With nothing else to do but fight, the soldiers of the First Cohort instinctively increased their stride to almost a jog.
Blood rushed through the master centurion’s veins, and he gritted his teeth and gave a howl of rage. “Charge!”
His men, to include General Vespasian, gave a unified cry of wrath as they sprinted headlong into their enemy with a loud crash of shields and bristling swords. The poor man who happened to be in the master centurion’s path was a lad who looked like he was scarcely into his teens. Artorius bowled him over with a shoulder tackle from his shield. He thrust his gladius at an angle to his right in order to fend off a potential assailant, his face grimacing when he saw it was a young woman who he had just gutted with his blade.
The Durotriges were brave, but they were not being reckless with their lives. While they hammered the legionary shield wall with their weapons, they slowly moved backwards, giving ground. As Artorius feared, they were simply trying to wear the legionaries down until exhaustion overtook them. Given that Mai Dun was large enough to house an entire town, it was a viable strategy. And as they moved into the mass of huts and other structures, this would break up the legionary formations, forcing them to fight in smaller groups where the Durotriges could mass their numbers against them. Artorius knew he was out of options and had no choice but to try and grind the defenders down before his already tired soldiers wore out.
“Set for passage-of-lines!” he shouted, the command being echoed down the line.
His men in the front rank bore expressions of relief at getting even a few moments of reprieve.
“Execute passage-of-lines!”
In a fluid movement that took but a second or two, the soldiers of the second rank lunged forward, slamming hard into the defenders as the front rank withdrew to the rear. It was during this interlude that Artorius stepped to the side of the formation, trying to assess how the battle progressed. Casualties had been mercifully low, at least amongst his century. As they were on the extreme right, he was not in any position to observe how the rest of the cohort was faring. He was filled with dread as they approached the scattered huts on the outskirts of the town. Who knew what foes lay hidden within, waiting for the legionaries to pass by them before they struck? And as he had no torches, they could not simply ignite the buildings as they passed. Even as he made ready to issue his next order, he noted a definite slowing of their advance. The initial assault, the series of bloody brawls at the east gate that had taken the better part of several hours to conclude was now taking its toll.