“See you in Elysium then, eh?”
Lucretius nodded.
“Hopefully a few years away, yet, sir.”
Fronto gritted his teeth and raised the shield, drawing his sword.
“Open ranks!” he called to the Tenth and the lines of men pulled aside like a tide retreating over wet sand, leaving a space for the column to march through. As the two officers led the column into the lines of legionaries, the discipline of the Roman military once more impressed itself on him. Row after row of densely-packed legionaries stepped aside and opened a path as they advanced forward through the ranks of the Tenth.
After what seemed like an eternity of marching, Fronto saw the fighting ahead, the front ranks of his men lunging, stabbing and shield-barging; even head-butting where the opportunity presented itself. As he watched, lucky barbarian blows landed between the shields and figures fell, only to be replaced by a legionary from the rank behind, causing a line of men of that cohort to step one rank forward.
And then there were so few men in front of him that he could see the contorted, hungry faces of the enemy as wool-clad or naked warriors swung with swords or stabbed with spears.
“Testudo!”
With a crash of shield upon shield, the century fell into formation, four shields forming a front wall, with each man along the side creating a solid shield wall down the side. Unusually for a testudo, there were not enough shields to create a complete roof, but this particular manoeuvre was unlikely to come under arrow fire. Fronto held his sword up and ready to shove through the narrow gaps afforded by the curvature of the shields.
Suddenly the front ranks of the Tenth opened and Fronto found himself face to face with a screaming, naked, blue-painted Celt.
“Charge!”
The century, still in formation, picked up to a fast pace and slammed into the enemy who were trying desperately to make use of the sudden opening to break the shield wall.
The sheer momentum of seventy heavily-armoured men running with shields to the front carried them into and through the first few ranks of the enemy, Belgic warriors staring in surprise and panic as they were quite literally battered to one side and ploughed out of the way.
After a moment’s initial push, however, the pace of the testudo began to slow, as the momentum waned and the mass of enemy bodies around them increased. Now began the work that was the forte of the legion. As the testudo moved forward at a slow, heavy plod, Fronto began to lash out with his blade through the available narrow openings. He could barely see what he was attacking, his view was so restricted by the protective shields, but he felt the blade bite into flesh time and again.
Slowly, pace by pace, the century moved on, deeper into the mass. Legionaries would be dying, he knew. They’d be lucky if they lived long enough to reach the standard, let alone kill the men around it. Of course, the discipline and training of the Roman military meant that each time a soldier fell, he would be replaced by his nearest compatriot. The testudo would gradually shrink as their numbers fell, but the wall of shields would close after each death.
Fronto felt something clatter off his helmet. Damn, that was close.
Behind him to the left there was a shriek and for just a moment he felt the ominous expanse of air where a man had been, and then a moment later another man was in that place and there was the reassuring ‘clunk’ of a replacement shield slotting into the gap.
How long would this take? He couldn’t spare the time to look around and see how far they’d come and, even if he could, he wouldn’t have been able to see past the rows of legionaries with shields and the press of barbarian warriors beyond.
He would…
Suddenly the world next to him opened up to chaos. A well aimed blow had landed between the curved shields and had carved a great gouge in Lucretius’ face. The centurion was dead before his knees buckled and he hit the ground. Fronto and the other front man to his right swung their weapons like madmen to prevent the assailant from managing to pull apart their formation and then thankfully, suddenly, the soldier from the second row managed to step forward over the fallen officer’s body and slot his shield into place.
Fronto grimaced. The loss of any man was always unfortunate, but the loss of a good veteran centurion was particularly lamentable, though common, given the impressive mortality rate among the centurionate.
Suddenly, through the narrow gap between shields and over the heads of wild, screaming barbarians, Fronto saw a golden boar on a pole waving back and forth. They were almost there.
“I see it lads! Push!”
With renewed vigour, the depleted century barged and heaved their way forward through the enemies and suddenly Fronto found himself face-to-face with a man in a bronze breastplate and a strangely-horned helmet, screaming wilding and gesturing with his sword. The area around the leaders of the Atrebates was relatively open, giving them enough space to deal with the job of commanding their army, such as it was.
“Now, lads!” he cried. “We’ve got ‘em. Open up and form a protective circle.”
As Fronto moved his own shield to the side and prepared for straight combat, the remaining men of the century opened up behind him in a crescent, pushing their way in among the Atrebates’ command party while maintaining a curved line of shields against the rest of the enemy.
Fronto kept his eyes on the nobleman or bodyguard or whatever he was, but cast a quick, satisfied glance past him to see that other men were already engaging another well-dressed man and the standard-bearer.
The warrior, a bulging-eyed man with red cheeks and an impressive moustache, screamed violently and lunged with his sword, too restricted by the sudden press of Romans to make a good swing with it. Fronto threw the shield in the way and such was the power of the man’s blow that the blade tore through the shield and wedged in among the fractured wood and leather. Almost contemptuously, Fronto twisted the shield and ripped the sword from the surprised barbarian’s hand.
As the man stared and then reached in a panic for the smaller blade at his belt, Fronto took the opportunity of an undefended opponent and lashed out twice, quickly, with his gladius. The first blow caught the man in the belly, the second in the arm as he spun. The chief or guard was as good as dead now. He’d certainly be dead within the hour at the latest, but this whole push was all about the look of things. The Belgae had to see their leaders die, ignominiously and in pain.
Fronto stepped forward and towered over the slowly-collapsing man, raising his sword for a killing blow when a sudden explosion of white-hot pain in his left arm spun him around. A well-thrown spear had ripped through the protective layers at the top of his shield and had gone straight through his arm, breaking the bone in the process, and into his shoulder next to the armpit.
It was a lucky blow for the victorious Celt but, really, luckier for Fronto. Three inches higher and it would have gone straight through his neck. Fronto winced and gritted his teeth, trying not to shout in pain. The command group of the Atrebates was gone, and the legionaries had formed into a protective circle around him and the three other soldiers that had dispatched the leaders and their companions.
As he spun around in pain, he noted, even in his predicament, that the circle was tightening as the men created a solid shield wall against the enemy. Somewhere back at the Roman lines, the cornicens called the advance and a roar went up.
Fronto dropped his gladius to the floor and reached round to grasp the spear just below the head. His mind was beginning to feel a little fuzzy. He made an unsuccessful attempt to pull out the spear and grunted in pain, collapsing to his knees. Suddenly, hands were helping him up.
“Gettoff! Just get this bloody thing out of me.”