Sword of Rome: Standard Bearer
Read Sword of Rome: Standard Bearer Online
Authors: Richard Foreman
Sword of Rome: Standard Bearer
Richard Foreman
©
Richard Foreman 2012
Richard
Foreman has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act,
1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2012 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
Contents
The boats drew closer to the white cliffs.
Sunlight glinted off a myriad of swords, breastplates and helmets. Spray from
the turquoise channel blew up into his face, but sweat more than seawater
moistened Lucius
Oppius
’ palms as he gripped the
Tenth Legion’s eagle. His eyes were as blue and cold as the Mediterranean. His
friend
Roscius
had commented,
half
jokingly
and half in earnest, how
Oppius
would
have been considered handsome – if he ever bothered to smile. A grim expression
again carved itself into the soldier’s face as he gazed up at the jeering
barbarians, their bodies smeared with
woad
, upon the
cliff tops. Even the most cowardly of tribes in Gaul would fancy its chances
from such advantageous ground,
Oppius
mused. The
sound of their jeers was occasionally accompanied by the high pitched swish of
an arrow, as the odd archer tried his luck. Invariably the missile would zip
harmlessly into the sea, or at best a thud could be heard as it struck a Roman
scutum
or the hull of a ship.
Oppius
turned his gaze towards the lead trireme where his General, Caesar,
stood at the prow. Did the standard bearer notice the hint of a wry smile upon
his commander’s face? Caesar had encountered such defiance before. Many had
rolled the dice against Caesar and the Tenth, but in the end the Venus throw
always came up and Rome was victorious. His red cloak blew in the wind. Caesar
was still handsome, whether he smiled or not. His hairline had been retreating
of late more than the armies of Gaul but his body was still taut with muscle,
his face clean-shaven. His eyes took in everything, yet often remained
unreadable. Although brave, Caesar was not foolhardy,
Oppius
thought. Should he choose to attack now then the legions – the Seventh and
Tenth – would be slain from a barrage of missiles before the boats could even
reach the beach.
“If their blood lust is anything like their
lust for alcohol then we could be in trouble,” the standard bearer heard a
legionary mutter behind him, only partly as a joke.
“The one often fuels the other.” The knowing
reply came from a man that the legion nicknamed
Teucer
,
for his skill with a bow. The wiry, pale-faced soldier was a Briton, who had
left his homeland and travelled to Gaul. Most Britons were recruited by Rome’s
enemies on the continent but
Teucer
had chosen to
fight for the Republic. Caesar himself had witnessed his abilities with a bow
and bent the rules to promote him to the Tenth.
Oppius
liked the Briton – and not just because he had saved his life in battle on more
than one occasion. He was amiable and intelligent, picking up Latin as quickly
as he picked up the legionary’s black sense of
humour
.
Oppius
briefly wondered how his comrade was now
feeling, as he journeyed towards invading his homeland. What was it like, to
view your countryman as your enemy?
Oppius
hoped that
he would never have to find out.
The standard bearer was far from the only
Roman to focus his attention upon the figure of Caesar as the trireme’s captain
approached his commander. Many of the newer recruits thought, hoped, that
Caesar would point to the captain to sail back to Gaul. Yet
Oppius
had faith in his General that he would give the order for the fleet to sail
onwards, along the coast, and discover another landing site. Indeed
Oppius
had more faith in Caesar than he did the Gods – and
sure enough he observed his commander nod his head in the direction of Britain
rather than Gaul.
Onwards.
Not even the Gods could stop Caesar.
The previous night.
Through the flames and smoke of the campfire,
through the blackest of evenings, through a sea of bobbing heads,
Oppius
could still see the precious, gleaming head of the
legion’s silver eagle. The eagle nested in the
sacellum
,
a sacred shrine dedicated to the standard. Even in the safety of the Roman
encampment the standard bearer tried to keep an eye on the semi-divine totem.
Oppius
was one of the youngest ever legionaries to be
awarded the
honour
of serving as an
aquilifer
– a standard bearer. Lucius sometimes missed
being in the thick of the fighting however, owing his duty to protecting the
standard rather than fighting alongside his friends and comrades. Although the
eagle had tasted blood a couple of times recently when an enemy had been a glory-hunter,
or just plain mad. Gore had smeared the eagle’s beak and talons as the
aquilifer
had fought off the barbarians.
Oppius
was
honour
bound to
sacrifice his life rather than the standard.
His attention was taken away from the shrine
when
Teucer
handed him a plate, with a charred piece
of venison on it.
Oppius
drained half his cup of wine
and poured the remainder over his plate, to soften and moisten the meat. At the
same time however he watched
Roscius
down his cup in
one and quickly
refill
it.
“You should pace yourself
Roscius
.
We have a long day ahead tomorrow. You don’t want to spend the voyage forever
emptying your guts over the side of the boat,”
Teucer
remarked, full-knowing how his warning would probably fall on deaf ears. As
their General often exclaimed that “Caesar must be Caesar”, so too
Roscius
was
Roscius
, a drinking
and killing machine.
“If I am ill tomorrow or go weak at the knees,
it’ll be due to sick sickness rather than any hangover,” the hulking legionary
replied, wine dribbling down his
stubbled
chin. “If
man was meant for the sea, the Gods would have given us gills.”
“I remember the last time when you went weak
at the knees, when you fell for that whore in
Massilia
,”
the Briton remarked, smiling and taking a swig of watered down acetum from his
own cup.
“Aye, I nearly lost my heart to that girl. I
also nearly lost a more important part of my body, due to the itch she gave
me,”
Roscius
replied, laughing at his own joke.
“So what is Britain like
Teucer
?”
Marcus
Fabius
asked,
when the
laughter had died down. Marcus
Fabius
was a teenager,
a new recruit. He was the son of a merchant who had once been
Oppius
’ centurion, when the standard bearer was a raw
recruit himself. The elder
Fabius
had asked Lucius to
keep an eye on Marcus. The youth’s ambition was to be a poet, but the father
had entered the son into military service. “I want to put some steel into his
soul. I just don’t want some Gaul putting some steel between his ribs.” Combat
had yet to scar his body or war ravage his features and innocence. “The enemy
won’t know whether to fuck you or fight you lad,”
Roscius
had commented upon first being introduced to the sensitive looking
adolescent.
“There are parts of my homeland that are green
and lush but that’s partly because it rains so much. The people can be
friendly, especially when they’ve had a drink or two. Yet my people can also be
violent, especially when they’ve drunk too much. The tribes are forever
squabbling between themselves, although our imminent invasion might just unite
the usually fractious tribal leaders. Caesar must aim to divide and conquer. He
also needs to avoid a pitched battle on open ground, as the enemy archers and
charioteers might pick us off in a piecemeal fashion,”
Teucer
posited, picking at his venison in an equally piecemeal fashion.
“And what of your people?
What are they like?”
Fabius
asked, his
eyes filled with curiosity, although his heart was somewhat filled with fear in
regards to the strange barbarian race.
“My people can be proud, rapacious, ignorant,
brave and noble – in short, they are much like everyone else Marcus.”
“But will you consider them just like everyone
else when you pull back your bowstring tomorrow and they’re in your line of
sight?”
Roscius
gruffly asked.
“No, but I’ll still know which side I’m on,
don’t worry about that
Roscius
. A Briton will still
receive an arrow in his front, as opposed to a Roman receiving one in his back.
In fighting for Rome though, I believe I will also be fighting for my homeland
and its people still. I have little doubt that Rome will subdue Britain
eventually – and unfortunately that subjugation may well be bloody, as our
experiences in Gaul have proved. But it also may be a price worth paying. Rome
will tax Britain and mine it for its tin and take a share of the harvest, but
in return we will receive laws, security, increased commerce and advances in
the arts and sciences. Tin and corn are a fair trade for a more
civilised
society.”
His voice was clear and confident, but
Oppius
couldn’t help but notice how the Briton appeared
troubled, or pained, as he spoke.
3.
It was Caesar’s turn to look troubled and
pained as he stood upon the prow of his trireme again and assessed the
situation. The bulk of the barbarian force, led by its cavalry, had tracked his
fleet along the coast and was marshaling itself upon and around the beach where
he was intending to land his own army. Caesar had given the orders for his
ships containing his archers and artillery to anchor at both ends of the beach,
in order to flank the enemy and provide covering fire. Word was passed around
that the legions should ready themselves for the attack. Yet whereas upon land
the so0ldiers would have commenced to snarl, jeer and thump their shields
Caesar witnessed a sea of hesitant faces. He was worried too, about the depth
of the water and the strength of his enemy. He could lose as many men to
drowning as he could to British spears. Yet the time to attack was now. Caesar
would not be Caesar if he suffered defeat or a retreat, the proconsul judged.
Oppius
winced slightly at the brightness of the searing blue sky. Perhaps
the Gods had dispelled the clouds in order to get a better view of the
imminent, bloody spectacle he fancied. The legionaries looked at each other,
with blank rather than eager expressions. Even
Fabius
’
glowing olive skin had lost a little of its
colour
.
The boats had still to brush against the seabed beneath them. Enemy archers had
assembled towards the rear of the beach. The shields of the soldiers in the
transport vessels nearest to them began to look like pin cushions. The sea
breeze whistled around their ears. Although the sun blazed down upon them the
wailing sound still sent chills down spines. Even
Roscius
appeared apprehensive.