Sounds of fighting soon filled the air. The auxiliaries were in contact. They would be withdrawing soon, hopefully drawing all of the Marsi warriors behind them. Artorius rehearsed in his head how it was supposed to work. The first rank would throw their javelins, followed by the second and third. The first rank would stay out front and be the first to engage.
At last, a real battle, he thought to himself. They had crossed into the woods and just made it to the top of the slope when they saw the auxiliaries withdrawing towards them. Behind them were thousands of Marsi warriors.
“Javelins… ready!” Proculus called out.
Everyone hefted their javelins to the throwing position; hand up by the shoulder, placed just behind the weight at the end of the meter-long metal tip.
“Quick step…march!”
The pace quickened as the legionaries closed the distance with their enemy. While there were many Marsi warriors, it was obvious they were outnumbered.
“Just save some for me,” Artorius muttered under his breath.
Magnus and Decimus were on either side of him. He felt reassured, knowing he was fighting alongside these men. The auxiliaries passed through their lines between the cohorts. It was time, the gap was closing fast. The Marsi were a teeming swarm of men, with no semblance of order apparent. They would fight valiantly, but as individuals. None wore any protective body armor. Most had shields, though these were little more than wicker or flat round boards. The majority carried either spears or fire-hardened clubs, though some did carry swords. The scream of their battle cries was deafening. The Romans made not a sound, not until the very last.
“Front rank…throw!” Proculus shouted.
As one, the men in the front rank sprinted a few paces and, with a shout, threw their javelins.
“Second rank…throw!” shouted Centurion Macro.
Artorius ran forward, staying on line with the rest of his century. He ran through the narrow gap between soldiers in the first rank. As he passed through, he got a good look at the enemy for the first time. They were still coming at them in force, though it looked like they were starting to waver under the storm of javelins. With no time to think, Artorius picked a target and threw his javelin as hard as he could. He watched a young Marsi warrior raise his shield to block, only to have the javelin pass through his shield and forearm. The soft metal tip then bent, sticking the butt of the javelin into the ground, pulling the young man down, where he lay screaming in pain.
“Third rank…throw!” Centurion Justinian of the Third Century shouted.
They ran through the second and first ranks and immediately unleashed their javelins. Artorius was unable to see how many hit their targets, but from the screams coming from the Marsi, he knew they were having the intended effect. He tensed up, ready for the next order.
“Gladius…draw!” Proculus ordered.
With a shout, the entire cohort drew their swords. The Marsi were now completely unnerved. Many slowed to a halt, wondering what devil they had unleashed.
“Advance!”
The Roman auxiliaries had broken off almost as soon as they made contact. Filled with blood lust, the Marsi pursued them. Barholden knew this was the Romans’ intent. They would pull their auxiliaries back, and the Marsi would have to face the legions head on. He gave a shout of encouragement to his warriors and then joined them in the chase. As the legions came into sight, he saw the men in their first rank rush forward as one and unleash their heavy javelins. The most overly zealous of his warriors were the first to fall. As he ran towards the front of his clan, he saw a second rank of Romans run past the first before throwing their javelins. Even more warriors were skewered and ran through. Those that managed to raise their shields either ended up with their shields pinned to their bodies, or at best their shields would be stripped from their hands when the soft metal shafts bent, making it impossible to withdraw them. The Marsi were rattled, their losses already starting to mount, and they hadn’t even closed with the Romans yet. Suddenly, a third rank loosed its javelins on them. The Romans, who had been unnervingly silent up to this point, gave a loud shout as they unsheathed their swords. The Marsi were now ready to break and run. Barholden knew he had to do something.
“Brothers, clansmen, listen to me! Take courage now! We fight for our families, for our tribe, for each other! The Romans have come to take these things from us. Do not let them take away our pride and dignity. Who will follow me?” With that he raised his sword and charged the Roman line.
It was difficult to pick out individual soldiers. They all moved together as one well-disciplined killing machine.
Within seconds he closed the gap. He did not know how he could cut through that wall of shields and swords, but he had to try. He brought his sword down in a powerful slash. It impacted on the brass strip on the edge of one shield. He swung again, trying to break through, and again. As he raised his sword once more, the Roman suddenly stepped in, blocking and thrusting with his shield, and stabbed him in the belly. Just as quickly he pulled his gladius out and smashed Barholden again with his shield. The force of the blow knocked him down. He was in sudden blinding pain, his bowels ran through by the Roman’s blade. Helpless and injured, he crawled away and sat back against a tree, watching as his warriors smashed into the Roman line. His intestines oozed through his fingers from the rendered guts. He was suddenly proud of them, his brave warriors. They would fight to the last to protect their homes and families. He watched in sorrow as they were cut down in rapid succession. He saw a couple of Roman soldiers fall as some of his warriors actually managed to penetrate their shield line. This gave him some hope. But then the Roman line suddenly held fast, and the rank behind them rushed through, fresh troops smashing into the Marsi with a vengeance. Within minutes it was over. Barholden gritted his teeth in pain, blood and intestinal fluid dripping from around his fingers, as he tried to hold in his stomach. He took pride when he saw that not one of his warriors had run. All had stayed and fought till the end.
He winced again as pain overtook him. He wished to die, but did not have the strength to raise his sword and finish himself off. He saw other warriors similarly stricken. Some sought to crawl back the way they’d come. Others shrieked in agony, a great many lay unmoving. While the Romans’ expertise with their weapons ensured a high percentage of fatalities, not everyone died right away. Those ran through the guts took the longest to die. In spite of the horrifying pain most of the dying felt, few made a sound. Others unleashed an unholy wail. Barholden knew the Romans would slaughter any warriors still alive. He hoped it would not take them long to find him.
Artorius stood and caught his breath as the reserve cohorts passed through their lines. They would be the ones to sack and destroy the settlements. The cohorts that had fought the battle would pick up their dead and wounded and finish off any of the enemy still alive. He’d managed to slay one barbarian with a rapid stab underneath the ribcage. It had been all too easy. The man, slow and unwieldy, had probably had no real training in close quarters combat. The ferocity of the Marsi warriors’ charge caused several gaps in the line, which they had been able to exploit, inflicting many casualties. He did not yet know how many in the Second Century had been killed or wounded. Details were sent out to dispatch the Marsi wounded while others were tasked with setting up a casualty collection point, where they would bring all their dead and wounded. The centuries that had not taken part in the direct fighting were given these tasks. As these were being accomplished, centurions and options were walking up and down the lines, getting accountability of all their soldiers.