Fall of a Centurion

“Rome is not simply a nation.

Rome is a People.

Rome is an idea.

The most honorable boast is the simplest: to be a Roman citizen.

It is the source of Pride that swells in every Roman breast.

And you... you are men of the Roman Army.

You protect her borders; expand her influence.

Therefore, know this, and keep it always as truth:

Rome is always with you, and wherever you go?

There too is Rome.”

–Decimus Drusus, Centurion, 1st Century / 1st Cohort / 3rd Legion

A speech to his men, immediately before their first engagement of the Balkan Campaign, 598 CE.

===X===X===X===

Wednesday, January 13th, 600 CE

The Balkans

1200 Hours.

Nobody had seen signs that the enemy lay in wait for their column. The advance scouts had all reported back that things were fine up ahead. No signs of enemy activity. Clear near to the horizon. Someone had missed something. Who it had been that messed up was unknown, and right now, it didn't matter. Decimus, the Century's 'Old Man' – old meaning he was simply middle-aged, and could still beat any of these young men bloody if they failed to follow his orders – knew that his unit was in a dire predicament.

They'd been traveling uphill, through forested terrain, on a narrow, rocky road. Not a good, smooth, well-finished Roman road... but some well-worn footpath, and that was being generous to whatever barbarian heathens had weathered it before their arrival. Probably the same bastards assailing them now, or perhaps their forefathers. He looked left and right immediately after he felled another Slav in front of him, checking his boys. That's really all they were, too. Boys. Romulus. James. Peter. Julius. All there in the front, just as they should be. Gaius and Marius were already dead. Others had taken their place.

After the campaigns in Persia, he had never thought he'd end up in a situation like this. Sure, anything was possible, but this was a perfect trap. And they were losing ground – sure, that was his intention right now, but even so... it was never what any military man wanted to be forced to do. Then he heard it, something he had hoped would be avoided, but he knew it was only a matter of time. Someone behind the forward lines slipped as they were falling back. The damned snow and ice on the rocks – more of the latter than the former, truthfully – made moving difficult to do safely. And along with the first, more followed as the one that slipped fell into others and made them lose their footing.

Still, despite this, others rallied to keep up the fight, and the unit continued to back down the slope. They'd almost made it. Only half the century had been on the patrol in the first place. The rest were back at camp. If they could just get there, this might not be how things ended. Another Slav came at him, and Decimus cut him down, kicking him back into another man that was coming as the remaining Romans of the patrol finally met flat ground. He hoped the runner he had sent when combat first broke out had managed to get word to the rest of his men to be ready.

They knew the shortcut back to their lines, and were just waiting for their Centurion's order now. And soon enough, it came, “VOLLEY!”

A mass of Roman spears hurled through the air, falling upon the Slavs that had been charging down the hill, but as they flew, a second command was bellowed, “BREAK! To camp, quickly!” The Centurion's whistle sounded, and the unit, once organized, immediately seemed to fall apart as the lines broke completely. Yet, despite the seeming chaos, it was part of the Centurion's plan. His men were not running from the enemy, nor had their discipline broken down. A formation could not stay properly formed while in the trees, so rather than trying, they broke so that they could move as fast as individually possible while the Slavs were caught by surprise and still trying to work their way down the hillside.

Another ten minutes passed, totaling over half an hour since the initial contact between the opposing forces, and the Romans reached their camp. The Centurion's whistle cut sharply through the air and brought the men quickly into formation. Most of the unit, what was left of it, was assembled - with only a couple tent crews farther back than this to keep horses and supply wagons away from the absolute forward line, and closer to the main cavalry unit that was meant to back them up if needed.

The camp wasn't taken down. It was burned instead, and the Romans moved as a unit along the road, double timing. A barrel of burning pine tar was carried near the rear, and archers dipped their arrows into it, just before firing them into the trees. Despite the bitter cold, the burning pitch caught the bark, and trees began to burn. After a few minutes, the soldiers chucked the barrel of burning pitch into the tree line and continued on, the forest starting to burn. They didn't give a damn at this point if they started a wildfire in the middle of winter – the only ones that would be hurt by it would be their enemies.

Little did they know that a trap had been lain for them. Midway between where their camp had been and the horses were being kept, there was an open field. And another ambush had been setup. A hail of arrows was let fly from the tree line on the far side, and Decimus ordered the unit to form Testudo. The shield wall came up, and the arrows were blocked, but the unit slowed – and that was what their enemies had been waiting for. Three captured ballistas had been hidden in the tree line, and once the shield wall was formed, and the unit was moving slowly, they were let loose.

Three iron bolts flew through the air, and went through the shields and men as if moving through water. Shouts and screams, sprays of blood and gore, and the unit broke so that it could continue to move. More arrows came, and those that were out of formation found themselves the worse for wear. Some were pinned in place, others were outright killed. More screamed. Thankfully the ballistas took a decent amount of time to reload, and they were soon out of the artillery's sight line. However, the arrows didn't stop.

It wasn't until they were beyond the range of the archers that the shield wall was let down and the unit began to double time once more, reforming into proper rank and file. One of the youngest men in the unit spared a glance back, only to see the pinned bodies of fellow Romans as they were suspended by ballista bolts firmly planted into the ground. Crimson coated snow reflected the fiery oranges and yellows of the burning forest behind, and smoke began to fill the sky. It was a winter hellscape, and it was only going to get worse.

The field became wide and vast, but by this point the barbarian hordes were beginning to catch up to their Roman quarry. Decimus knew that they were only a short distance from the smaller camp, could see the men tending the horses, trying to keep them calm, and getting ready to join their brothers in battle. He cast his gaze then upon one of his young men, Bastian Falkenrath, the second son of a patrician family in Constantinople. He'd fought well so far, had not shied from his duty, but there was a wild look in his eye. He had joined this unit when he was merely seventeen years old, and while he had seen battle, he had never been in a situation like this: a situation where eventual defeat was obvious.

Decimus halted the unit, faced them about, and repositioned his men. Rather than a block of them, he opened the center and formed a pentagon. He had just enough men to create it, and he grabbed young Bastian and pulled him into the center as the Slavs charged toward them. The young man resisted at first, not out of disobedience, but because he had simply been grabbed and pulled.

“Get on one of those horses, and go!” Decimus commanded, but Bastian stared at him, as if he couldn't believe the order, “Damn you, boy, you're the best rider in this unit! Go get the gods-damned cavalry!” He spun the young patrician then, and pointed toward a hill to their rear, “Bring them to that hill, and have them charge down across the plain. One good charge and these bastards are sure to run. Now, GO!” he grabbed the young man and shoved him then out through the rear line of the unit. Bastian looked back, but Decimus had already gone back the way he'd come.

Still slightly confused, not sure why he had really been chosen, Bastian had his orders, and his legs began to move faster than his mind. Before he knew it, he had mounted a horse, and without realizing it, had apparently repeated his orders to the other men by the horses. They mounted as well, and they all rushed to get the cavalry unit. Ten minutes later they had returned, to the very hill that Decimus had pointed out to Bastian, but the battle was going far worse than the Centurion had made it sound it would. Hundred, if not well over a thousand, of those barbarians had come from the hills and woods to smash the lone century that had been ordered ahead into their territory.

Bastian rode over to the cavalry commander, eyes wide as he saw the man preparing his men for the charge, “Sir, we can't do this! If we go down into that, we're all going to die! We should go get the rest of the Legion, let them know-”

The cavalry commander looked to the boy that addressed him, still covered in Slavic (and, no doubt, good Roman blood) and spoke calmly, “It is our duty, young man, to do what we can in the moment. Romans do not give up, we do not surrender, and we do not leave our brothers behind. They will not die alone this day.” He then looked to his cavalrymen and the horsemen that had ridden with Bastian, forming them up, then looked at Bastian, “Get in formation, boy! Today, we do our duty, as all good Romans should.”

Bastian indeed got in formation, but his heart was beating out of his chest. He could see from the hilltop how many Slavs there were. How few of the century were left. This was suicide. The horns sounded, and the charge began, but as the cavalry unit charged down the hill... Bastian and his mount stayed where the were. He watched in awe as the charge swept through rank after rank of Slavs, and for a brief moment the century seemed to fight all the harder, cutting barbarians down left and right, putting steel to its crafted task. He could hear Centurion Drusus' whistle blare above the din of battle and watched as the century tightened formation and cut a swath through their enemies.

But the morale boost was short-lived. The cavalry charge began to lose steam before they ever reached the century. Horses were slain, or riders were pulled down. Some took arrows; others took spears. And as the cavalry was taken apart, the century, disheartened, began to be overwhelmed once more. It wasn't long before only a meager detachment still fought. Until the last left alive was Decimus Drusus himself – having taken up the unit's signifier in one hand, and his blade in the other. Injured badly, he dropped to one knee, the unit standard being used to prop him up as he plunged his sword one last time into an enemy. He looked around him, saw his men lay dead, knew that much the same was true of the cavalry, and that his time upon this world was soon at an end.

Just before he resigned himself to his fate, he looked toward the hill and saw a lone rider. And he could recognize the young man anywhere. Bastian. He hadn't charged. The boy hadn't been fool enough to do it. But... he also knew what would be in the boy's mind now. After bringing back reinforcements, and then not assisting. But there was nothing that his Centurion could do for him not. The boy would have to come to terms with it on his own, somehow.

Decimus faced the horde one last time, forced himself to his feet, gave a war cry that made Slavic blood turn to ice, and a moment later was gone from this world. Behind him, the boy on the hill turned his horse, snapped the reins, and urged the horse into full gallop. Tears fell from his eyes and stained his cheeks, but he couldn't stop to think about everything that had happened. Not now. Later, when he was safe, when he was gone from this terrible place, perhaps... but not now. Right now... he had to run.