Note from Kanuro5: Hey guys, thanks for getting this far. This chapter has been emotionally tough for me to write, so I'm particularly fond of this chapter. For the last segment, I got my inspiration from Johnny Cash - "Hurt". It's a real powerful song that I implore everyone to listen to. Enjoy!
XXVI
The Beast Attacks
The Briton warriors came charging out of the woods from both sides of the road, totaling 4,000 in number; against the fatigued and alarmed Twenty-Eighth Legion which numbered to 4,500 men. The Romans formed their shield walls facing both directions and braced for the worse. Only the experienced centurions informed their men of the incoming targets.
Cossutius stood brazenly in the outside of the First Century's formation, and through the clamor of screeching barbarian cries; he made his commands heard. "Lock shields! Pila at the ready!" Down the column, the First and Second Cohort heard his command. They tightened their ranks and the legionaries turned to the sides of the road that they were closer to. They leveled their pila at the charging barbarians and at the commands of "Loose!" flung their missiles at the barbarian horde.
The pila ran through the thinly cladded bodies of the Britons, causing many to fly back in recoil. The javelins slammed against the shields of the Britons, rendering them useless, so the Britons discarded them. But no matter how many fell to the volley, the barbarians still charged.
Cossutius called for a second volley of pila, and the Romans loosed another wave of spears on the horde, and yet the charge continued. The Romans drew their swords and solidified their stances in the rough snow. Cossutius fell back in the ranks and held his guard high, the Mighty Three jumped to his side.
"Alright lads!" he panted, "Here they come! Shields up and swords at the ready!"
"They trapped us down this road, they killed our brothers, make sure they do not escape with their lives!" Aelianus encouraged.
"Let's show them they cannot fuck with the Twenty-Eighth!" Metellus yelled.
"Twenty-Eighth!" Arminius shouted.
Though they were drained of strength, the experienced men in the first half of the column still found it in themselves to chant with pride, "Twenty-Eighth! Twenty-Eighth! Twenty-Eighth!"
The screeching barbarians collided with the thousands of Roman shields, producing a terrible crackling of bones and wood clashing with steel. The momentum from being charged from both sides slammed the Romans into one another, their backs pressing against each other as half of a unit defended the right side while the other half defended the left.
Though the Romans were squeezed in the vise by thousands of Britons, they fought back with the tenacity of Mars. The Romans deepened their stances and thrusted their swords into the bellies of the unarmored Britons; tearing through their torsos with fatal efficiency. The Mighty Three had no problems picking targets to thrust into; Metellus would instinctively hide behind his shield during an attack and counter-thrust outward, his sword eviscerating a barbarian's organs. Arminius and Aelianus would thrust outward and pierce the Britons' chest, ensuring an instant kill as their blades met the heart.
But the peril was more evident with the inexperienced second column of the Legion hanging near the back. The surprise charge by the Britons caught them completely unware to the point where they barely formed up in time to brace against the charge. Loganus was relieved that his runner came back with the message of Lucius' plans, but his mind was pressed towards more dire concerns. The charge itself constricted the men and the axes and swords of the Britons entered the flesh of the legionaries' necks, arms, and face with fatal effect. The inexperienced men fought back with courage, but they were taking more casualties than they gave.
Though the Romans had the advantage of experience, discipline, armor, and superior weapons, the Britons did hold a complete advantage over the Romans which evened the battle for them: they were fresh.
The Britons had calmly been lying in wait for the Romans to arrive, watching with prideful glee as the Romans were beginning to tire as they reached the ambush spot. With the might of the Britons upon them, the impeccable form that the Twenty-Eighth once showed in battle grew sloppy. Their lungs were on fire, their swords felt as if they weighed twice as much, and what little remainder of strength that they had, they used to raise their shields over their heads to protect themselves.
The clash continued on for about 20 minutes with casualties rising on both sides. Roman bodies were collapsing in the snow, many suffering axe blows to the skull and torso. The Britons fell just as fast as the Romans who still held on to their formation and relied on their extensive training. The ambush quickly deadlocked into an even stalemate, with the outcome slowly being decided in who would stand tall after the butchery ended.
Lugotorix stared at the even battle from the safety of the woods, his blue eyes peering through every detail through the mass of bodies, blood, snow, and the chaos of curses, clanging steel, and screaming. He stood silent and simply watched. He judged the outcome of this lingering fight, and it was not in his favor.
Damn you, Lugotorix thought of Lucius, he tried to spot him in the battle, but he could not distinguish him from the rest of the legionaries. Your men are weary, their morale should have broken by now, and yet they still fight. Why? What have you taught your men to endure? At this rate…my warriors shall…
"Ermanar, how far out is the remainder of our army?" the king asked, his eyes glued upon the battle.
"A runner informed me that they are almost here. Ten minutes, my king."
Ten minutes. Within ten minutes, the legionaries would be winning. Yes, the legion would have lost half their numbers by then, but Lugotorix would have lost more. He knew the quality of the Twenty-Eighth surpassed his army, but at the moment, all he could rely on was for the ambush to hold the Twenty-Eighth in place so his main forces of 5,000 strong could overwhelm the Romans. But still he pondered if time was on his side, and if Lucius or whoever was in command had a plan to escape this entrapment of his.
The wounded Lucius found the strength within himself to rise to his knees, yet to stand was too excruciating for him. Each time he moved it felt that the wound in his side was being torn asunder by the monstrous strength of Hercules. He gnashed his teeth and tried to contain his screams of agony, yet his voice forced its way through his teeth. The men had managed to stuff some cloth underneath his armor and into the wound to mitigate the bleeding, yet the cloth was only a small deterrent and his blood continued to flow.
Lucius kneeled in the snow, his blood dyeing the snow around him as legionaries surrounded him to stray off the ruthless Britons from reaching him. He could see Antonius fighting bravely in front of him, blocking incoming attacks and returning them with his own brutal blows. A spearman lunged at the Tribune, but Antonius swatted the spear away and stabbed the man in abdomen, he retracted the blade and stabbed him in the chest, then retracted it once more and finished him off with a stab in the throat.
Antonius returned to his General's side and told him, "General, how does your wound fare?"
His response was weak and graveled, "Fuck the wound…we need to…escape…"
"Yet we are surrounded on both sides, we have little room to maneuver!"
"The quarry, we must reach the quarry. Send for—" A shot of pain coursed through his body. Suddenly, images of his sons flashed in his mind, he remembered how he played hide-and-seek with his sons when they were 10 and 5 respectively. He found Proculus easily, but could not find Vitus who actually hid in the hay of the stables. Why was he remembering his sons' youths at a time like this? He continued, "Send for all, Cohort Commanders, we escape now!"
Antonius found reluctant runners to deliver the message across the surrounded legion, and with the graces of the gods, the runners contacted the Cohort Commanders and brought them back through the thick of the fight. The ten Centurions made a small circle around Lucius, desperate to hear his plan.
"Quickly, give report!" he wheezed. "How do your cohorts fare?"
"The First Cohort has received steady casualties, but we are giving them more than we are taking," Cossutius told him.
"The Third Cohort fares the same as well!"
"As does the Second Cohort!"
"Me and the Seventh Cohort are receiving substantial casualties, we are fighting on top of our dead and the barbarians are pressing hard," said Centurion Salnus.
"The savages are killing us at great rate in the Tenth Cohort! I know not how much longer we can last," Centurion Galerius exclaimed, blood exiting from his nose and mouth.
"We need to escape, General!"
"He is aware of that!" Antonius said, speaking on behalf of Lucius. "To the left of this road, through the woods is an open quarry. We had plans to escape through there before we were surrounded."
"How far is the quarry from here?" Cossutius asked.
"We do not know, but if we are to survive, we must push through the ambush and head to the quarry to escape."
"Push through the throngs of barbarians?" a centurion asked in disbelief. "Such a plan is—"
"Possible," Cossutius stated. "I noticed we have delivered more casualties unto the barbarians on the left side of the road. If we push with the remainder of the legion to the left, we can breakthrough their lines."
"Such is a bold plan," Salnus spoke up, "But we still have the barbarians on the right side to contend with, and they will still give chase if we escape."
"The answer is clear," Lucius grunted, his wound beginning to throb more violently. "A co—cohort must stay behind…to buy us precious time to escape…the cohort must completely engage the barbarians on the right and keep them at bay so the legion can breakthrough on the left."
The ten centurions fell deathly silent. They knew what their general was asking them to do with them and their men.
"General…" Galerius started, "You are asking us…"
Lucius remorsefully bowed his head. "I am…Apologies to you all, but if we are to save the Legion—the Twenty-Eighth—such a sacrifice must be made."
"I volunteer the First Cohort," Cossutius said, his voice was mixed of pride and a twinge of fear.
"Cossutius," a centurion began, "Why must you—"
"The First Cohort is twice the size of a standard cohort and we are the most experienced. Logically it is the reason we must remain to bide time for you all to escape."
"No, the reasons you give…are the exact reasons you must survive!" Lucius growled. "Your men are the legacy of the Twenty-Eighth, one of the first men that were in the Twenty-Eighth from the beginning. If we encounter future dangers, I need the First Cohort…by my side…"
"Then I volunteer the Sixth Cohort," Loganus spoke up. All eyes turned to him; he could feel his stomach rising to his throat. "We are not as experienced as the First Cohort, yet we have more experience than other inexperienced cohorts. We shall be the perfect candidate to buy you time."
Lucius peered into his eyes, seeing the utter sincerity in his words, "Titus…you ask to—"
A Briton axeman burrowed his axe into a legionary's skull, making his way to the center of the circle. Before he could attack the lying Lucius, Cossutius spun out to the Briton and decapitated the man in one neat swing.
"General, there is no time!" Loganus ushered. "The Sixth Cohort will allow you to escape!"
Lucius stood to his feet with the assistance of the centurions, his face twisted with remorseful pride. "Titus Loganus, you and the sacrifice of the Sixth Cohort shall not be forgotten, it is the highest honor that you were of the Twenty-Eighth Legion."
The rest of the Cohort Commanders expressed similar sentiment before they all broke off to their separate units. Throughout the chaos of battle, the plan spread from man-to-man. The men of the Sixth Cohort were initially shaken by their offering as fodder for the Britons, but it was quickly eclipsed with pride that they should have the prestigious honor of saving the Legion.
It was in this great moment, that Loganus ordered the Sixth Cohort to push out forward on both sides, making a hollow rectangle formation to back off the Britons. With a sharp whistle, Loganus changed the formation into the V-Formation, and with him at the center, the Sixth Cohort broke out of their encirclement to the right of the road. As they broke out on the right, the Sixth flanked down the road and got behind the Britons.
The stronger Britons who were on the right of the road were attacked by the Sixth Cohort, who in part turned their attention on the flanking Cohort. The diversion worked. With the Britons on the right focused on the Sixth, the Twenty-Eighth Legion turned around to face the weaker left side of the road. Digging deep within themselves and at the signal from the Cohort Commanders, the Legion pushed forward on the left with everything they had; pushing back the Britons, rushing through their ranks, even running over them. The Legion ran with strength of rhinos and broke out of the ambush, running through the woods on the left and heading for the quarry. Lugotorix was speechless.
His perfect plan of trapping the Romans in a narrow road and destroying them had failed. They had broken out of the ambush…how was such a thing possible? But the king found some solace in knowing that not all of them escaped. Because of the reckless charge to enter the woods, scores of legionaries were slain. And apparently an entire cohort was left behind to die.
"How? How did they do this?!" Ermanar gnashed his teeth. "They fucking broke out of the ambush!"
"It pains me to say, but I told you Lucius is no fool. Even with victory assured, we should not have underestimated him," Cassius muttered disdainfully.
Both men looked at their silent king, wondering what was going on in his crafty mind. "My king," Cassius said, "What should we do?"
Lugotorix was silent for a quick moment, "There must be something on the left, something he is reaching for…why would he recklessly charge in that direction?"
"Wait, I believe there is an abandoned quarry in that direction," Ermanar remarked.
A spark went off within Lugotorix, "Of course, he is trying to reach open ground to fight." He grew a smile, "Ermanar, ride ahead with me so we can reach the remainder of our army. I shall lead them to this quarry."
"My king, apologies that Lucius broke through your plan…if I—"
"Do not apologize, Cassius. No plan goes perfectly the way it's planned, we shall simply adapt to this Roman's scheme. Let us be off."
"What about the isolated cohort?"
"It does not matter, they have met their end."
The Briton was right. After the Legion escaped the ambush, the Britons within the ambush turned their sole attention to the Sixth Cohort, utterly surrounding them. Songs would be said about the courage of the Sixth Cohort, many praising the sacrifice of Titus Loganus and all his men, for not a single man from the Sixth Cohort survived that day.
Auxilia Ambush
To say that the men of the Auxilia fought valiantly against their Germanian enemies would be a dire understatement. Outnumbered and surrounded, the Thracians endured the savage charges of the Cherusci. The Cherusci came down on them with axes and warhammers, but the Thracians countered with swords and spears. The Thracians had held their formation as long as they could, but the number of Cherusci was too great and the formation fell apart, forcing the Thracians to separate and fight on their own in a disorganized brawl.
In any barbarian culture, individual fighting prowess was prized over the cohesion with a comrade in battle. For a Roman facing a barbarian in single combat was to be his worst nightmare. But these were Thracians who the Cherusci fought, Thracians who had come from the tribe of the Getae who still retained their individual fighting style, before they were forced to adopt Roman ways. Though the Thracians were scattered amongst the snowy battlefield, they fought with the fury of the gods.
It was on that field that Oroles fought gloriously, his body count well in the double digits. He had run two men through with his sword at once, goring them through the chest. An axeman came behind him, but he spun around and lopped off the man's leg and sending him in the air because of the momentum, and sliced the man's head off before his body hit the snow. What was also impressive was the teamwork between Oroles and Ardunas. Once the archer was separated from his men, Ardunas began to lurk behind the wall of Oroles' giant shield. As Oroles raised his shield in defense, the archer would mark a target, shoot through the clustered mayhem of Thracian and Britons—the barbarian he hit dropped dead on the spot—and just as quick as a mischievous boy who ducked behind his mother, Ardunas would duck behind Oroles and his shield.
Yet the biggest surprise that emerged from the ambush was the Julius Brothers, fighting together, back-to-back, against the Cherusci warriors. They had each scored their fair share of kills, their sword hands twitched violently, their blood was burning wild inside their bodies, and the pure adrenaline had heightened their senses.
Several Cherusci sprinted at them with their weapons raised. The brothers deepened their stances and patiently allowed the Cherusci to approach. They had learned the secret to surviving a fight, they remembered their training. They fought dirty.
A swordsman brought his sword down on Proculus' head, but he blocked the strike and kicked the swordsman in the groin. As the poor swordsman bent over, Proculus drove his sword through the man's skull. A second Cherusci came at him from the left and swung his mighty axe, but the strong Proculus stepped into the strike and used his sword to block the axe in the middle of the shaft. As Proculus was close in to the barbarian, he elbowed the barbarian in the eye and watched as he reeled backwards, Proculus moved forth and slashed the man's throat and observed him drowning in his blood. A third man lunged at Proculus from the side, Proculus sidestepped away and wrapped his arms around the barbarian's sword arm and broke it at the elbow, before driving his sword through the Germanian's heart.
A towering axeman came for Vitus, swinging his axe downward to cleave the young man in twain. At the apex of the barbarian's windup, Vitus jumped up and delivered a forceful jab in the man's throat. The barbarian dropped his axe and began gasping for precious air, giving the nimble Vitus time to run him through with his sword. A Cherusci came with the greyest sword that Vitus had seen and the two exchanged sword blows with one another until Vitus found an opening. Vitus deflected the blade away and kicked the man's knee backwards, sending the barbarian into the snow clutching his knee, screaming. Vitus silenced the man, driving his sword through his heart. A third man came at him, in which Vitus blocked his strike, he them slammed the pummel of his Gladius into the nose of the barbarian. Blood poured out of the broken nose as the man screeched in pain, Vitus drove his sword through the man's throat.
Oroles had taught them well. He taught them that in a life-or-death battle against someone who harbors only hate for you, fighting with honor would get you killed. He taught them to strike the exposed parts of the body to create a large opening to kill, to break bones to further disable an opponent, and to use the entirety of the sword to attack and not just the steel. It wasn't the most honorable way to fight, but the brothers were still breathing because of it.
"Get down!" The cry came from two of Ardunas' archers who pointed their arrows at the brothers. Proculus forced Vitus to the snow, as the two arrows soared above the brother's heads. They heard the quick yelps of death behind them, and saw the archers killed two barbarians behind them that were moments away from killing them. Vitus nodded thanks to the archers, but Proculus was focused on the chaotic melee behind him.
"Gods below!" he cursed at the sight. Thracians were mixed in with Cherusci, bodies on both sides littered the pinkish snow around them, and it seemed that more barbarians were coming out of nowhere. "This is absurd! Where did all these barbarians come from?! By the Gods, where is Cassius with Father?!"
Vitus did not answer. Proculus looked at him, his younger's brothers eyes were fixated on something. His eyes were wide and his jaw was hanging down in disbelief. Vitus uttered the name softly, "Biua…"
Proculus traced the path of Vitus' eyes, and saw the vindictive woman. She emerged from the midst of the fighting and slowly walked towards the brothers, a sword in her right hand and a dagger in her left. Vitus' dagger. Though she was a considerable distance away, Vitus could see that she held poison in her eyes and vengeance on her thoughts. Biua began to pick up the pace; she sneered hard and made a beeline dash to Vitus.
"That bitch…" Proculus spat. "If she is here—"
"She wants my head," Vitus stated, his sword hand was beginning to tremble.
"I do not believe she is inclined to listen to your pleas of innocence. Brother, we can take her togeth—"
A wounded Cherusci, lying in the snow with a severe gut wound, still found the strength to grab Proculus' legs and brought him to the ground. The Cherusci climbed on top of Proculus and began choking him with bloody hands. Vitus turned to the Cherusci and raised his sword high to slay the man who attacked his brother. Biua, as swift as a falcon, reached Vitus before he could strike, and she unleashed a quick fury of attacks against him, driving him back and separating the brothers.
Proculus watched on helplessly as he tried to break the grip of the barbarian above him. Proculus jammed his thumb into the man's eye, forcing him to relinquish the grip. Proculus seized his sword and drove it deep into the barbarian's heart. The concerned brother ran to assist Vitus, yet was stopped by two Cherusci who charged at him with spears.
Biua screamed with the volume of a harpy each time she swung her sword. Vitus finally locked swords with her and leaned into her face. "Vitus! You traitorous bastard!" she snarled in her native tongue, the red of her eyes eclipsed the white. "You Romans took my entire family from me! I shall have your fucking head!"
She broke the deadlock and hammered the dagger on top of Vitus, but Vitus caught the hand with his offhand. She lunged her sword at him, yet he evaded the strike and countered with a strike of his own. She deflected the sword and spat in his face. Using her dexterous fingers, she spun the dagger into a reverse grip and sliced the back of Vitus' offhand. The young Roman reeled backwards and she went back on the offensive. The two warriors' sword clang off one another with terrific rings until Biua spun out of the way of Vitus' strikes, her counter-swing slicing through the back of Vitus' shoulder, cutting through his armor.
Vitus grunted but kept fighting. Biua ran towards him and tackled him in the snow, knocking away his sword. She propped herself on top of his chest and drove the dagger down on his heart, yet once again Vitus caught the dagger, seizing her wrist inches before the dagger met his breastplate. Vitus unleashed a strong grunt and punched Biua off of him.
And for a bizarre moment, instead of both rising up from the snow to continue their assault, both of them lied on the ground starring into one another's eyes. With blood dripping from her nose, Biua was panting wildly as she bared her teeth like a raging she-wolf. Yet her golden eyes resembled that of a cobra, lying in wait to strike, to engulf those that trespass on their sacred home. Vitus could see the pain in her eyes from losing everything dear to her, the eyes that showed that she accepted her fate. Whether she lived or died did not matter to her, as long as she could kill as many of her enemies that have wronged her. He felt…pity for her, he felt as if he should tell her his innocence to put her at peace. But what did it matter?
A declaration of innocence could not bring back a loved father or cherished siblings. It did not matter whether he could even convey the truth to her, after her brothers died at Praxus Hill; she was looking for any excuse to kill Romans. As sad as it was, she was too far gone to reason with. Hate had filled the emptiness in her soul. His old self would have tried to use reason before he even fought her, but now, he realized the moment he laid eyes on her from across the battlefield where she first appeared, that diplomacy could not cure bloodlust and vengeance. She was going to kill him, it was that simple.
"I…shall…have…your head!" she snarled in broken Latin as she stood to her feet.
Vitus stood tall, picking up his sword and pointed it at her. She could see that his eyes suddenly changed, he glared at her with the eyes of a seasoned warrior. Biua felt a quick shudder, yet she did not know why. With fire in his eyes, Vitus spat back at her "Then come and seize it."
Vitus kicked off the balls of his feet and tore through the snow at frightening speed. The nimbleness of the small Roman caught Biua off-guard. She jumped back and narrowly dodged his strike, but he quickly followed through delivering a heavy uppercut with the pommel of his sword slamming against Biua's jaw. Her head snap back, her teeth rattled within her mouth; she could feel several of her teeth split in two and the lukewarm taste of blood. Vitus swung his sword in a flat arc at her neck, but Biua recovered quicker than he expected and blocked his sword with hers. The Cherusci heir spat the thick blood out from her mouth in Vitus' face, blinding him, as she lunged forward with the dagger. She aimed for his exposed jugular. Though blinded, with good instincts Vitus jumped back, but the blade still nicked his jugular.
He groaned through his teeth and quickly wiped the blood from his eyes. He could feel his precious crimson life flow out of his neck, yet the blow wasn't fatal enough to kill him within seconds. Vitus and Biua continued to exchange blows until Vitus backhanded her away, then came down on her, his sword meeting her flesh and slicing away a piece of her chest.
Biua fell to her knee screaming, she yet stared back with defiance. The blood poured from the wound, yet she would not allow a grave wound such as this to stop her. She stood back up as if she was never wounded and glared at her equal; before charging forth again at Vitus. And once more, the two furiously clashed.
The Quarry
The Legion had exited the dense forest and finally arrived in the abandoned quarry. The field itself was open and large and surrounded on all sides by woods. The pure snow blanketed the ground in a soft caress. It was beautiful. It was sanctuary.
And it was in this quarry that the men of the Twenty-Eighth virtually fell out from exhaustion. They continuously ran for five minutes just to reach the outskirts of the quarry. Most of the men who sprinted through the ambush dropped their shields from exhaustion and collapsed on their knees in the snow; even several of the centurions who were meant to be the example to their men also fell out. A lot of them kissed the snow in thanks for escaping the ambush, others praised the gods for escape, and others cursed in anger and sorrow for their slain comrades. No one knew how many they lost, but the best guess was around 1,400 men, including the entire Sixth Cohort. The Legion currently stood around 3,100 men, almost half of their original strength at the start of the campaign.
Antonius jumped from his horse, rallying all men to return to formation, but the fatigue was too great for them, and they slowly stumbled to their feet; their legs were numb and felt like bricks, their arms burned every time they moved, and their chest felt like they were prodded with daggers with each inhale.
Antonius turned to the General, but nearly recoiled at the sight of him. His once tanned skin was now paler than the snow below his horse. Blood ran down his right side and down his leg, looking as if someone painted his entire side with red. He was trembling hard from the frost. His eyes were glazed and his jaw hung loosely, his head beginning to droop.
The Tribune called for assistance and pulled Lucius off of his horse and began to treat his wound, yet the stubborn Heir of the Julii would not have his armor removed until the Legion's safety was guaranteed. They tore his cape off and wrapped it around him to keep him warm, they found whatever cloth that they could and stuffed it in his wound. But these remedies did little for the wounded man.
"Antonius…" he said, his voice was hoarse and his teeth were coated in blood. "Continue to move…legion forward…we must…reach safety…"
"With respect, General, no we cannot. The men are too exhausted…as we ran, I saw several brave men die from overexertion, they just…fell in the snow and did not stand up. They need rest."
"We cannot, allow…Loganus' and the Sixth's sacrifice…be in vain…" Lucius suddenly found the strength to growl, "I shall not!"
"General, if we push them harder…we shall kill them…save your strength, the Legion needs to recover theirs."
Lucius coughed hard and rested his head back in the snow. He eyed the sun above him, hiding behind the grey clouds that blanketed the sky. His mind drifted back to Proculus' wedding three years ago, he remembered before the wedding that the sun was hiding behind grey storm clouds, a bad omen. But, as soon as the bride revealed herself and stood next to Proculus, the clouds parted. Lucius remembered his wife shedding tears of joy at their eldest son, Vitus blushing hard at the beautiful bride, and the goofy smile of Proculus after he exchanged his vows with his new wife, Appia. Proculus…Vitus…would he ever see them again…
"Rest, General," Antonius whispered to him, "Regain your strength."
The Twenty-Eighth only received five luxurious minutes of rest…before a ram's horn thundered loudly, shattering the silence.
The Romans turned to the origin of the horn; it came from the opposite end of the quarry. Exiting the woods was the remainder of Brittonic army; 5,000 strong, fresh, and impetuous warriors, marching in unison with dreadful chants. The drained legionaries stared at the frightening sight, the remaining color escaped from their faces; their nightmare was not over.
Lucius demanded his men to place him on his horse to see what he had to face. His heart wrenched in his chest at the approaching army, but it nearly shattered at what he saw next. Emerging from the middle of the army was the King of the Britons, Lugotorix, coming on the field in a war chariot.
From across the quarry, Lugotorix knew that Legion could not escape, the only options for them were battle or death, and he solemnly knew their outcome was death. Lugotorix raised his sword and bellowed an unintelligible war cry. The tight formation of the Britons began to loosen, the individual warriors stepped to the side, allowing the cavalry to pass through their ranks. Sheer terror grew in Lucius' heart, for 200 hundred Briton war chariots lined up by their king.
The Brittonic war chariot was an innovation that had not been seen by the western world. Pulled by two massive horses, the chariot cab was large enough to contain three riders: the driver, the archer or spear thrower, and the warrior who would leap out and defend the chariot. To ride in the chariot was a great honor and was awarded to the best warriors in the tribe and the most accurate missile men. The axle to the wheels was made of a thick lumber and the six-spoke wheels set in the middle of the chariot instead of the end had its advantages and disadvantages. The disadvantage was that it was slower that the traditional chariot as seen in Egypt, but its advantage was that it allowed easier mobility on rougher terrain; sand, mountains, and snow. But the most deadly part of the chariot were the 24 inch scythes attached to wheels, sharp enough to slice through bones at ease and used to lop the legs off of those who were unfortunate to stand in its path.
The Romans that saw these machines of war instantly feared these foreign contraptions. They knew what chariots were and how they could wreak havoc on the battlefield, but their problem was that they never trained to face chariots. The last reported usage of chariots against Rome was from the Gauls a hundred years ago, soon after, the Gauls and Germanians began to phase out the chariots, rendering it ineffective in forest warfare. For the first time in the longest time, the Twenty-Eighth was completely unprepared for battle.
Ermanar's chariot rode up beside Lugotorix's chariot, he laughed at the "pathetic" Romans, "Look at them, my king! Even from here, I know that they shit themselves at the sight of our chariots!"
Lugotorix cracked a grand smirk, "Indeed they do." He turned to Ermanar and nodded to him, "Come my Captain, let us end this!" Lugotorix told his driver to drive back and forth in front of his army, roaring in exhilaration, "What is Step Six?" he asked them.
The army thundered in unison, "Isolate the beast!"
"Exactly, look at the Romans. They have nowhere to flee! They are weak and tired, this is our triumph. Come with me and secure our glory, come with me and secure our future, come with me and secure our victory!"
The Britons banged on their shields and thumped their chest, the urge for violence swept their systems and they ushered death chants to the Romans. Lugotorix raised his sword high and finally pointed it at the Romans. The chariots sped off towards the Romans with the entire army sprinting behind them.
"Formation! Fall to formation!" Cossutius urged, he blew on his whistle and screamed for the Legion to hustle back to fighting formation. The men scrambled to their feet and rushed towards their correct formation, bumping and colliding with one another in great confusion.
"General, what formation shall we take?" Antonius desperately asked.
"I…I…We should…no…we…" Lucius could not think of the best formation for his men. He gradually decided on the traditional Roman Line formation with infantry at the center and the remaining cavalry he had on both wings to prevent flanking from the chariots. The least experienced men were in the first line, while the experienced men were held in reserve in the second line. But without the trumpeters, the order stalled. The centurions blew on their whistles, they shouted and signed with their hands, but the formation change was not quick enough.
"Fucking move! Fall to formation," Cossutius shouted.
"Cossutius! How are we going to stop those chariots?!" a legionary pleaded.
"Just get into formation! Move with haste!"
"Archers! Open fire on the chariots!" Antonius ordered.
The Roman line was halfway assembled by the time the chariots were within 100 yards of the legion. Lugotorix slowed down his chariot and shouted the order, "First wave, speed up and destroy the flanks!"
100 chariots broke off, half of them aiming for the cavalry on the left and the other half aiming for the right. The Roman cavalry commander charged forth to meet the chariots, warning his men to steer clear of the scythed wheels. He told the men on the right to throw their spears when they got close, yet he did not have enough time to shout orders to the cavalry on the left. As he faced his men, an arrow pierced his forehead, jerking his body off of his horse. Unknown to the Romans were the accurate archers inside the chariots, taking precious aim at the Roman cavalry, picking riders off their horses. The Roman cavalry couldn't even come close to the chariots before they were all killed. With the flank protections gone, the chariots began to pick up speed.
The line had finally assembled completely, the shields of the legionaries were positioned in front of them and they gripped their swords tightly, each man feeling his heart in his throat at the sight of the heavy cavalry. Cossutius ran to the first line to raise morale and gave the order, "Pila at the ready! We must stop the chariots!" But the men around him gave the Primus Pilus blank expressions; the centurions gave Cossutius an ill-fated reply.
"We already used both sets of pila during the ambush!"
Cossutius unleashed a plethora of curses. The chariots began heading for the wings of the line on both sides, ready to completely flank the first line. As the chariots were within meters of the colliding with the Romans, the brave men of the Twenty-Eighth held their position. Many ordinary men would have ran at the sight of a chariot, but though they were fatigued and held fear in their hearts, their discipline overcame their fear. But it did not save them.
The chariots easily cracked through the Roman flanks, bursting through the shield walls of those men who had lost most of their strength, like water through a dam. Once the chariots paved through the ranks, the horror began. The unforgiving scythed wheels carved through the shins of the legionaries, sending the legless legionaries to the snow screaming. Once inside the formation, the archers and spear throwers singled out the centurions and optios, and loosed their missiles at them, destroying the Romans' leadership and cohesion. The chariot defenders, who were shirtless but covered in the menacing blue woad, jumped out of the cab, their greatswords, battleaxes, and warhammers in hand, and proceed to slay the Romans around them. The chariots on the flanks broke through the muddled first line and sped on to the second line.
Lugotorix grinned hard, seeing the effectiveness of the first wave of chariots. He called in the second wave to drive straight through the first Roman line. The remainder of the chariots raced with one another towards the disorganized front line and slammed their way through the ranks. The chariots paved their way through the first line with bloody efficiency, but several legionaries were able to fight back.
Those that were able to push back off their shields were able to disable the chariots from moving, allowing the Romans to seize the chariot cab and kill those that occupied it. Some of the men had the idea to lower their shields against the way of the wheel before impact, which caused the axles to come undone, flipping the chariot (and its occupants) high in the air, unfortunately the chariot itself would crash on top of the Romans.
"Stop the chariot! Kill all abroad!" Cossutius encouraged the men nearby who captured a chariot. A dreaded war cry erupted, a cry that could shatter nerves and loosen bowels. Cossutius turned and saw that the Brittonic army was right on top of the first line. He looked to his sides, shock had swept over him when he saw: the large open gaps in the formation that the chariots had caused, how most of the Romans in the first rank were too preoccupied with the chariots to notice the Briton warriors upon them, and how he knew what horror would follow once the Britons hit his line.
Cossutius blew on his whistle, ordering the men, "Here they come! Fill the gaps! Now! The gaps are open! Fill t—"
The Britons crashed into the disorganized shield wall, pushing the front line back through the snow. "Hold! Hold! Do not give ground!" Cossutius shouted. But out of the corner of his eye, he saw four Britons run past him on the right, and they didn't stop. He turned and saw ten more Britons running through the enlarged gaps until they were stopped by legionaries, six ranks back. The Britons began hammering his shield with their swords, pushing him and many other Romans back. To his immediate left, a young Roman solider took an axe to the skull, and instead of the man behind him taking his place in the rank, the barbarian that killed the soldier jumped in instead and began attacking Cossutius.
The Primus Pilus found himself fighting three men at once, to the center, the left, and the right. He looked down the line and bore witness to several Britons fighting their way through the Roman formation, some barbarians even ran past the entire rank and broke through the first line all together. Lucius watched on, a clear grimace fell on his face as he bore witness to something tragic, the complete shattering of the Twenty-Eighth's formation.
The chariots running through the ranks and crippling men in their wake and enlarging gaps, the fatigue of the Romans, and the tidal wave of Briton warriors crashing against them; all culminated in the Britons swarming the Romans, like ravenous locust with no thought but to their own appetite.
Mass unorganized fighting began within the first line as the Britons ran through the formation and spread unholy chaos through the ranks. Romans, who believed their fellow kinsmen were guarding their backs, were stabbed from behind by the Britons. Cohesion broke down rapidly as the Romans turned to individual fighting to survive.
Seeing his brothers' fall due to this onslaught of pandemonium, Cossutius screeched and blew on his whistle, "In formation! Return to formation! Everyone, for the love of the Gods, fall to formation!" But his cries fell on preoccupied ears. The men were surrounded on all sides, fighting to the death, friends mixed along with enemies, always worrying about receiving a sword to their backside.
Cossutius himself took a step backwards and bumped into the back of another man behind him, "Why is your back turned?" Cossutius asked, "Fall to proper formation!" Cossutius recoiled when he discovered that the man was a Briton, who recoiled as well when he saw Cossutius right behind him. Cossutius made the first move and drove his sword into the barbarian's skull.
Seeing that the first line was in peril, Lucius sent in his experienced second line into the fray. The chaos only expanded. To the Legion's credit, no Roman fled. They were exhausted but fought on to save themselves and their brothers. The cohorts that still had any semblance of a formation were the 1st – 4th Cohorts, whose years of discipline did not shatter their morale.
The hectic battle went on and it gradually began to resemble a street brawl. Men on both sides who lost their swords and shields turned to their fists and teeth. Many eyes were gouged out by ruthless fingers and many a men were strangled by blood-coated hands. Men wrestled with one another on top of the blankets of bodies, both friends and enemy alike; fighting for control of weapons. Profanity, shouts, and screams from both languages muddled together to create an unintelligible din of noise that to men in the battle, sounded as if they were in the middle of a tempest. The once pristine snow that encased the quarry was now a deep crimson, resulting from the gallons of blood and bile spilled. And Antonius was in the middle of this bedlam.
Sent to reorganize the first line, Antonius was knocked from his horse and forced to fight the Britons who streamed in from the first line. Antonius fought with his heart, counter-killing all those who opposed him, becoming swept up in the fight and failing to notice that he was enclosed on all sides by Romans and Britons. He remembered Lucius and turned back and tried to make his way back to his General's side. After passing through a handful of fighting men, Antonius spotted Lucius on his horse, weakly waving his sword in the air as he gave orders.
A spear was thrown at Lucius, but it killed his horse instead. The towering stallion fell to its side, neighing its last as it plummeted hard to the ground, breaking Lucius' right leg. Antonius cried out Lucius' name and rushed to him, but was interrupted by a Briton dagger that fell into his back, between the shoulder-blades, which narrowly missed his spine.
Antonius collapsed on several bodies, he didn't scream; the sudden impact took the air from his lungs. He tried to claw his way back to his feet, but the spreading pain prevented him to stand. The man that stabbed him walked behind Antonius, raised his body up and removed his helmet for a trophy. The bearded barbarian grabbed another dagger and rested the blade against the Tribune's throat, but in one swift moment, Antonius saw a pair of Roman swords swing together in unison like a pair of a scissors and decapitated the barbarian.
The man who saved him was Aelianus, wielding two swords and using them efficiently like a gladiator. After slaying two more Britons, Aelianus pulled Antonius to his feet, telling him, "Come and fight, Tribune! You shall not die this day!" Antonius looked beyond Aelianus' shoulder and saw that Arminius and Metellus of the Mighty Three were fighting side-by-side, slaying a multitude of Britons with one or two strokes of their swords. Bless the Gods! Antonius thought, Bless the Gods the men who killed Berserkers are in our Legion!
"What shall we do, Tribune?" Aelianus asked as he fought with a Briton. He blocked an overhead slash with one sword and stuck the Briton with the second.
"Have you seen Cossutius?" Antonius yelled back.
"No! I last laid eyes on him when he was in the first line. I know not his fate! Many centurions are dead and our flanks are exposed!"
"Follow me! You, Metellus, and Arminius, follow me now! We must reach the General! He is not far from us; I have laid eyes on him! Let's go!" Unbeknownst to Antonius, another man had also seen Lucius.
Lugotorix was standing tall in his chariot; the warm blood of the Romans he personally killed was splattered on his face and armor. Scanning the battlefield, his eyes laid on Lucius, pulling himself out from under the horse. The Brittonic King's eyes widen. Lucius was wearing the same helmet as his sons did, but his armor looked much more prestigious than any other Roman in the battle. He told his driver to move the chariot closer so he could strike Lucius down, but the field was so thick with dead that the chariot's wheel was stuck among the corpses, and Lugotorix did not want to risk himself and the battle by leaving his chariot and venture through thick combat just to kill Lucius.
But not too far from Lucius was Ermanar's chariot. The Brittonic Captain was the only man in his chariot; the driver and chariot defender were both killed. Ermanar had just gored a Roman off the chariot's cab with the Roman's own sword, when Lugotorix called out to him.
Ermanar saw his king pointing his finger at the kneeling Roman, proclaiming him to be Lucius. Lucius was only 25 meters away from him. Ermanar understood what was asked of him. Ermanar seized the reins of his chariot and turned it around, facing Lucius.
Seeing this, Lugotorix could barely contain his euphoric grin, blessing Woden that he allowed this moment to happen. The King called out to his captain, "Ermanar! What is step seven?"
"Aim for the heart!" Ermanar answered in exhilaration. He whipped the reins and his chariot sped off.
On his broken and bloody knees, Lucius watched as his life's legacy was crumbling around him. He witnessed his men fight on with the last reserve of strength they had before they were cut down by the barbarian multitude. He was kneeling on the bloody bodies of his men, their stiff faces forever frozen in horror, the white of their eyes staring into the sky above. Lucius could feel his wound throb once more; he coughed up a fit of blood. His vision was hazy, he could not control the shakes in his arm, he could not speak above a whisper, and now his leg was broken. But in his darkest moment, Lucius bowed his head and whispered a prayer, not hearing the Briton chariot coming behind him.
Ermanar whipped the horses faster to pick up speed. He had lost his sword in the initial charge, but he didn't need a sword to end a life, he had the chariot itself. He moved the chariot a bit to the left, calculating and angling the scythe towards Lucius.
Antonius and the Mighty Three had made their way to Lucius' vicinity, each of the four men looking around the chaotic field to spot the general. It was Metellus who spotted him kneeling in the distance. Antonius called out to Lucius, but it seemed that the he could not hear him. The Tribune could then see a chariot coming from behind Lucius. The driver, a man with a crescent moon scar over his face, and an insane smile that welcomed Lucius' death was racing towards the general. Antonius rushed forward alone, calling for Lucius, but Lucius did not stir. He just sat there, mumbling something that Antonius could not guess.
Antonius yelled out in distress, shoving Britons and Romans alike out of his way. He finally got close to Lucius to be heard, but his cries fell flat as he witnessed the scythed wheels slicing through Lucius' torso.
Antonius ran forth screaming, until he reached Lucius. He knelt down and held Lucius' quaking upper body, and observed in horror how it was separated from Lucius lower body. He only imagined what the bisected man was feeling. But at this point, Lucius felt nothing. He couldn't feel his legs, his sword wound, the frozen snow, or even Antonius' touch. The color had left his eyes; the world around him was drenched in a bleak monochrome. And for the first time in his life, the world was completely silent around him. The only thing he felt was his beating heart, once pounding at great frequency, but now it was so gentle, so fragile, each beat began pounding slower…and softer.
"No! Lucius!" Antonius blubbered as he clutched the severed man tighter. He wanted to say more, but no words came to him. Lucius' lips began to mutter, bubbles of crimson blood popping and spilling down the side of his cheeks.
And through the chaos of battle that furiously raged around them, Antonius could hear it clearly. The words of a quaking man, blood pouring from his mouths as his intestines and organs began sliding out of his upper body. Antonius leaned in close and heard the words of Lucius Julius, his fragile voice trembling with fear as he eyed the grey clouds above, "…My…My…sons…my sons…Proculus…Vitus…my sons…my s—"
Rome had birthed one of its most glorious sons in 138 BC. Lucius was forever destined for greatness at an early age, seemingly blessed by Mars for understanding the art of warfare. He started with a simple cavalry unit at the age of 19 and worked his way up in experience with a century, than a maniple, and then a cohort. He married his wife, Octavia, at the age of 24 and fell in love with her at 28. The love had born his firstborn son, Proculus, when he was 32 and it was at that age where he financed and created his own legion, completely independent from the Senate, the Legio XXVIII.
He fought and slayed many enemies of Rome ranging from lowly peasants to barbarian kings, all bending their knee in submission, or falling to the earth in death against him and his legion. It was upon the birth of his second son, Vitus, that Lucius turned his attention to expanding Rome's borders and seizing untouched glories for the Julii and for himself. He fought hard against the Spanish and Gallic barbarian tribes, winning himself many victories. Yet his crowning moment was yet upon him, where he became known as the Hero of Lucretian Bridge; defending against a Gallic King and his 30,000 barbarians with his legion of 5,000 experienced legionaries from invading Italia for 3 continuous days. Upon his victory, he was awarded a Triumph and the title of Heir to Julii Clan.
It was then at the age of 39, Lucius waged a nine year war against Gaul in which he conquered nearly all of Gallia until he was ordered to cease by the Senate. He then turned his sights to Hispania and conquered it completely for the Republic and the Julii. And in the winter of 85 BC, Lucius finally ended his war with the Gauls after conquering the Candevaci, forever etching himself in the annals of Roman history. Heralded as the son of Mars and Venus, it was said there was nobody that Lucius couldn't conquer, just give him his Twenty-Eighth, and maybe an extra legion for good measure and he could conquer Elysium itself.
But on this day, in this quarry of snow. At the age of 53, the Conqueror of the North and the West, the Destroyer of Hispania and Gallia, the Hero of Lucretian Bridge, the General of the Twenty-Eighth Legion, and the Heir of the Julii, Lucius Julius the Mighty had died.