Sword of Rome: Standard Bearer (2 page)

Caesar had crossed the channel. The die was
cast. He could not go back. His pride would not allow him to. Caesar could not
suffer the ignominy of failure. Even in victory Cato and other backward-looking
members of the Senate had
criticised
him. Yet he
could not move forward without his legions. If he was on land he could give a
rousing speech and direct his officers and troops with purpose. Battles often
rage like fires but every fire needs a spark, Caesar thought. He drew his
sword, hoping that the action would somehow serve as an inspiration or signal.
 

The light reflected off the commander’s sword,
into the standard bearer’s eyes. Lucius
Oppius
was
the son of a soldier. His father had intended to work out his service in the
army and gain a plot of land that he could call his own. The veteran legionary
ultimately craved peace. Yet the son craved promotion over peace. Perhaps it
was the voice of his dead father,
Gnaeus
Oppius
, whispering in his ear now. Lucius had heard stories
from veterans how his father would lead from the front when he had served under
Marius, Caesar’s uncle. Or were the Gods now whispering in his ears? As when a
barbarian would look to capture a Roman eagle, were madness and vain-glory
taking possession of his soul?

“Once we’re on that beach, we’ll soon bring
peace to this barbarous land,”
Roscius
exclaimed,
trying to convince himself of his argument as much as others.

“If you want peace, prepare for war,”
Fabius
replied, almost in a whisper, perhaps quoting one of
the writers that the would-be poet was so fond of.

Yet
Oppius
barely
heard the youth’s words, as he prepared to make his leap of faith.
    

4.

Brine rather than sweat drenched his entire
body as
Oppius
rose up from out of the sea, having
leapt over the rail of the transport vessel. The silver eagle of the standard
broke forth first from out of the foaming water, the sunlight glinting off its
head and reflecting into the eyes of Caesar.

Before he had jumped into the water
Oppius
had offered up the legionary’s prayer,

“Jupiter Greatest and Best, protect this
legion, soldiers every one. May my act bring good fortune to us
all.
”

Witnessing the act of a madman - and eyeing
the prize - a brace of enemy cavalry broke off and charged towards the isolated
standard bearer. The first horseman screamed wildly and raised his axe, ready
to bring its flesh-stained head down upon the Roman’s shoulder and chest – yet
instinct and timing kicked in as
Oppius
drove the
standard upwards and into the torso of his enemy, knocking him off his
coal-black mare. But where was the second horseman? Spray misted up in front of
Oppius
and stung his eyes. The second Briton was less
obliging in offering up a war cry up to reveal his position, as he came at the
Roman from the side. His sword edge was a foot or so from his enemy’s head –
but it travelled no further as a Roman
pilum
sang
through the air and skewered his stomach. Blood turned the blue dye purple.

“And there you was thinking that you could
defeat the bastards all by yourself,”
Roscius
shouted
and grinned. The brutal looking legionary had jumped into the water shortly
after the standard bearer. He would have followed his friend into Hades, for he
knew
Oppius
would do the same for him.
Teucer
and – more hesitantly – Marcus
Fabius
followed their comrades into the sea. The legion was shocked and irate at
witnessing such a suicidal act. But as they witnessed another dozen or so
horsemen ride towards the eagle they scrambled into the sea too and rallied
around the valiant, or unhinged, standard bearer. The loss of the eagle would
mean a loss of
honour
for all and the stain could
never be washed away. Far more than Rome, the Tenth Legion fought for the Tenth
Legion.

At first Caesar cursed his
aquilifer
for such a rash act but his mouth, twisted in rage, soon formed itself into a
smile. He had his spark. Now he needed to fuel the flames. Caesar immediately
gave the order for his archers and artillery to provide covering fire. He also
called for the captain of his own ship to close in on the beach. Caesar was
keen to wash his sword in the blood of the irksome barbarians too.

Individual splashes swiftly turned into one
long whooshing tumult as the Seventh, not wishing for the Tenth to shame them
or take all the glory, disembarked from their transports too. The legions
formed themselves into make-shift shield walls and moved forward, some chest
deep in the sea, their
pilums
held aloft to defend
against the enemy’s cavalry. For all of their bravery and numbers the barbarian
army could not prevent the Romans from driving forward and making it onto the
beach.

Rome had landed upon Britain.

5.

The tang of blood and brine filled the air.
The turquoise sea was streaked with gore. The clash of arms and blood-curdling
screams drowned out the sound of the sea breeze. The Tenth had landed upon the
beach, but it not captured it.

“
Teucer
, climb upon
that rock there and start loosening some arrows into some of these bastards,”
Oppius
exclaimed whilst surveying the field of battle. The
Tenth had landed upon the right side of the beach and upon the left the Seventh
were taking casualties, but advancing nevertheless. Their enemy was fighting
ferociously, but they were ill disciplined. Their light
armour
and weaponry made them agile but the legions were used to fighting against
similar foes in Gaul (albeit the Britons seemed to have more spirit, perhaps
fuelled by more wine). The standard bearer noticed an island of resistance
forming at the back of the beach -
centred
around
a giant Briton who appeared to be wielding a huge
hammer. He was
swotting
away legionaries like flies,
with shields buckling under the weight of his heavy blows.

“
Roscius
, bring down
that fat bastard with the hammer. He’s boring me.”

Roscius
made his way towards the heart of the fighting, whilst
Oppius
was heartened to see how a group of Roman infantry
had formed a square at the other end of the beach. A line of shields surrounded
a group of legionaries, who were unleashing their
pilums
into a mass of enemy cavalry.

“What would you like me to do sir?”
Fabius
asked, trying to dispel the fear from his voice and
features.

“Just stay close to me lad and try not to get
yourself killed.”

Roscius
assessed his enemy as he marched purposefully towards him. The
savage brute was strong, but overweight and predictable. A half a dozen men
from the Seventh formed a semi-circle around the barbarian, but they were wary
of closing in having witnessed their comrades fail to bring the giant down.

“Hey, shithead, why don’t
you pick on somebody your own size?”
Roscius
announced, whilst throwing down his shield. The
scutum
would be an encumbrance for what the legionary had
planned.

The wild-eyed Briton stood even taller and
wider than
Roscius
, a mix of flab and muscle.
Blood – that of his foes rather than his own – flecked his face.
He growled and ran towards the Roman, lifting the fearsome hammer above his
head.
Roscius
moved just in time however and the
large iron head of the mallet thudded into the sand, at which point the
legionary swiftly lifted his foot up and brought it down upon the shaft of the
weapon, splitting it in two. The Briton, his face twisted in even greater rage,
swung what was left of the shaft at
Roscius
’ head but
the Roman swung his sword in return and the
gladius
truncated the oak shaft even further. The blade of the sword met the
barbarian’s fist too when he then swung a punch. His blood flecked the
legionary’s face and he howled in pain – before the savage fell to his knees
and
Roscius
buried the
gladius
in his chest.

“Never send the Seventh in to do a job that
only the Tenth can do,”
Roscius
declared with relish
at the end.

Oppius
glanced across the beach and nodded in approval at
Rocius
having defeated the troublesome barbarian. He was
also pleased to see that his friend had come through the fight uninjured. The
standard bearer again surveyed the battlefield. The tide was turning Rome’s
way. The Britons were retreating as reinforcements now landed upon the beach
without opposition. Caesar himself was leading a cohort from the front and
spurring his men on. The standard bearer ordered
Teucer
to try to bring down a couple of the cavalry horses who were escaping up a
narrow track that led up to the top of the cliffs. Should he fell the animals
then they would hinder the retreat of the rest of the cavalry and infantry
retreating up the path. A number of enemy archers and
peltists
still lined the tops of the cliffs and covered the retreating forces however.

One such archer drew back his bow, with the
standard bearer in his sights. The Briton had watched both his courageous leap
into the water and his
marshalling
of legionaries as
they arrived upon the beach. Both had been crucial to the imminent victory. At
least he would stop the standard bearer invading Briton. His arms bulged with
muscle as he drew the bow back, yet despite the tension in the string his body
remained calm, composed. He took a deep breath and then released the arrow. His
skill and technique as an archer were not dissimilar to
Teucer’s
.

Oppius
remained blindsided and did not notice the missile whistling down
from above, aiming straight for his chest. The force of the arrow was such that
it would piece through his breast plate – but yet it only went so far as to
pierce through Marcus
Fabius
’ shield. The youth had
seen the arrow and, positioned just next to
Oppius
,
had reacted with speed and bravery to move his
scutum
aloft and across in time.

Both
Oppius
and
Fabius
looked up at the cliffs to see where the missile had
come from. The would-be assassin wore a scowl upon his face and pointed down at
the standard bearer – and then drew a line across his neck. The Briton also
wore a number of bronze bangles and an elaborate necklace to signify his
importance. Before
Oppius
could scrutinize the savage
more he spat out an indecipherable curse, turned away and disappeared.

“It seems that that you’ve made an enemy
already. At least it’s unlikely that you slept with his wife. But he was keen
on killing you it seemed,”
Roscius
exclaimed, walking
towards his friend.

“If that’s the case then the bastard can get
in the queue. Now I suppose I better thank you lad for saving my life. I owe
you one. Let this be a lesson to you though. The shield is mightier than the
pen. I for one am glad your father wants you to be a soldier rather than poet.”

Marcus
Fabius
smiled, but blushed too. He was pleased that he had earned the standard
bearer’s respect.

“I’m wondering if I should join that queue,” a
stern voice issued from behind the standard bearer.
Oppius
turned to see Caesar standing before him, his face unreadable. Lucius had hoped
that Caesar would have witnessed his bravery earlier, but his actions in
putting the eagle at risk could as easily meet with punishment, as opposed to a
reward. The legionary stood to attention before his commander, unable to look
him in the eye, awaiting his fate.

“After your actions today I cannot now have
you serve as a standard bearer to the legion.”

Oppius
’ heart sank, in unison with his face dropping. He felt too sorrowful,
ashamed, to feel anger.

“No, your actions today have left me with no
other choice but to promote you to the rank of centurion,” Caesar exclaimed,
his marble features breaking out into a smile. Caesar then approached
Oppius
and warmly clasped him upon the shoulder.

“Now stand at ease. I should be saluting you.
I’m still undecided as to whether you’re mad, or just lucky, but I’d like you
to join me for dinner this evening so I can finally make up my mind.”

 
6.

Oppius
dressed himself, to the sound in the background of the legions
felling trees and constructing the walls of the army’s camp. Caesar had
defeated the enemy, but due to the absence of cavalry he could not rout them
after forcing them off the beach. The legions would need to fortify themselves
against a counter-attack. The newly promoted officer had ordered
Fabius
to wash his best tunic – and he permitted himself a
smile upon thinking that it was the first order he had ever given to someone as
a centurion.
Oppius
had also shaved and polished every
piece of metal he had on display. He was perhaps more nervous about meeting
Caesar for dinner than had been before any battle.