The Sands of Britannia
“Leap, fellow soldiers, unless you wish to betray your eagle to the enemy. I, for my part, will perform my duty to the Republic and to my general.”
- The aquilifer of the Tenth Legion, Caesar: Commentarii de Bello Gallico, IV, XXV.
The water lapped the long sandy beach, its serene sound drowned out by the whistle of projectiles, the thunder of chariots and the shout of our aquilifer. He had leapt from the bireme, bearing the golden eagle glinting in the sunlight into the deep waters which threatened to swallow him up; the first Roman to land upon this foreign soil, Britannia they called it, an isle of pearly white cliffs and hostile natives.
It had begun before those mountains of chalk, where they had risen sheer from a short beachhead before the sea. Standing atop, the foe was innumerable; their dark silhouettes swarming like ants upon the clifftops, the terrain presenting them the chance to decimate our force of two legions before we even landed. Anchored offshore, we ultimately withdrew, navigating several miles along the coast to a place where the sands were flat and welcoming, the cliffs sufficiently distant to deprive the enemy of high ground to utilise against us. Nevertheless, as the great fleet of biremes approached the long stretch of beach, shapes loomed upon the horizon as the Briton chariots and horsemen descended upon the cold shores.
‘The barbarians want this godforsaken isle, why not leave them to it?’ Optio Flavius grumbled sourly by my side. Our feet were damp, our bodies cold and neither of us were willing to fight the foe on such unfavourable land; not only could I forgive him his misgivings, I shared them.
‘Caesar will set us right, he always has and he always will,’ I replied yet my words were half-hearted. Gaius Julius Caesar, ex-Consul of Rome, now Governor of Gaul, a man whose ambition seemed to exceed that of Pompey the Great, and soon too would his name. Gaul was subjugated, Britannia was next and it was with little doubt that I expected him to safely guide the Legions through this invasion. Yet regardless I prayed to Mars that our campaign here would be brief, for greatly did I desire to return to the peace of home, and hopefully settle down with a plot of land to make my own.
Such a land of solitude seemed leagues away, indeed leagues of marching had led us to the northern shores of Gaul, and now a small fleet bore the Tenth and Seventh Legions across this narrow sea, to an isle supposedly allied to the Gallic Tribes that Rome had conquered. It was some relief that the Briton infantry were absent for they had sent only their swiftest forces, the cavalry and charioteers, to chase us along the shore; however they had speed where we had neither manoeuvrability nor horsemen – the biremes bearing them delayed. As our vessels drew closer to the shore, it became clear to us that our ships were as ill suited to naval landings as we ourselves were, their deep hulls preventing us stationing in the shallows. Anchored where the water still seemed treacherously deep I bore little willingness to order my men out of the ships, and then one of them cried out.
The Briton charioteers were armed with javelins, though these were ones neither as neatly fashioned nor as expertly designed as the pila we bore; they killed, and that was all that mattered. In the initial volley many penetrated the bitter waters with a resounding splash, yet one arced down against the ship under my command, missing a soldier’s torso, instead slashing across his throat, severing the artery and sending a warm rush of blood over his armour.
‘Shields up!’ I ordered half-heartedly, though many were doing so instinctively.
‘It’s too deep, sir,’ my Optio warned yet even if he spoke the truth, even shallow water would hinder our advance up the beach, promising death to a unit unable to form up on such impossible terrain. I scanned the fleet, spying several of our heavier armed vessels advancing along the shore, oars swiftly slicing at the water sending up a great spray of water. On board, a garrison of slingers and archers were already returning fire upon the enemy cavalry and charioteers and as their projectiles rained down, in some places striking the Britons from their sturdy engines or unhorsing others as they galloped along the beach, I spied the heavier catapultae being turned and prepared for assault.
‘Men, ready!’ I ordered as I recognised the effects of these warships upon the Britons. The barbarians had never seen a ship so formidably armed, let alone experienced the wrath of these vessels. First Caesar would order these warships to flank them and the landing of the infantry would then drive them to a rout.
Even so, it was with no eagerness that I considered the order of disembark – and then our eagle-bearer took it upon himself, leaping from the boat with far less protection from the Briton’s javelins than our standard legionary, his head bare to the elements and only a parma – a small shield – bound to his arm to keep his hands free to bear the standard. The icy sea caressed his torso and he seemed to be regretting his hastiness. Regardless he cried out at us to follow, muttering few grand words, instead gesturing to the shore. Nonetheless I was relieved to see him stand firm in the water and with that I leapt overboard.
The water reached little over my waist, yet the shiver engulfed my entire body. Where a glancing blow would fail, the northern seas penetrated deep, caressing my flesh with a bitter embrace, instinctively I huddled close, left arm pressed close to my breast, holding the shield firmly before me whilst I used my free right hand to assist my wading through the depths. Glancing back I saw that the boats were emptying, men gasping audibly with shock as they splashed into these northern seas. If ever this barbaric land tasted Roman civilisation, I vowed to avoid the frigidarium of the local baths.
A sudden spray of water from the landing of Optio Flavius beside me brought me back to the present. After awkwardly rubbing salt spray from my eyes – the action hindered by my heavy helm – I scanned the terrain ahead: though the heavy warships had initially appeared to demoralise the foe, they were escalating their assault upon our men, using the agility of their steeds and speed of their chariots to evade our catapultae. I pressed forward with the ocean’s current behind me, cautiously hiding behind my shield and all the while confirming the progress of my men in my wake.
It seemed to take an age to reach the end of the water, all the while, the javelins sliced down, glancing off scuta or slashing through the water. Peering around my own shield, I saw comrades struck down where the missiles found gaps in their defence, but mercifully this was seldom seen. Our aquilifer advanced by my side throughout, Optio Flavius just behind me and, as the water grew swallower, I signalled for those at the front to slow, to wait for the remainder and so allow us to form up and advance in numbers. As men came into position, I checked the progress of the other cohorts, sighting few ahead of us and many lagging behind. Regardless I seized the moment when all my men were in formation, I raised my voice over the din of the dying and the death dealing to bellow:
‘Pila!’
Where the Britons assaulted without coherence or grace, the javelins of my men were hurled and arced with a motion guided by Mars himself. In one swift movement did the arms draw back those carefully crafted pila, their long tips supple – allowing them to slam into shields and there bend, locking them in position, rendering the shields unwieldy – their shafts strong, expertly balanced. In unison did they ascend into the sky, like a flock of geese did they move, seemingly in formation but clearly in elegance did they rise and fall. As one stabbed into the sand, another struck a charioteer, hurling him from his carriage and into the sand, whilst his companion lunged for the reins. Too slow, the unguided horses acted with instinct, their turn sharp, so sharp that the chariot behind was dragged rapidly into the path of another and with an explosion of wood and scream of horses, two chariots met their end.
I watched as another pilum missed a chariot yet glided gracefully between the spokes of one of its wheels, striking ground and in an instant hurled the chariot beyond control. The wood snapped free from the horses, the carriage slamming into the sand, trapping one rider beneath its weight, another being hurled into the water. I quickened my pace, the disciplined legionaries following my example, and I was the first to reach the fallen Briton.
It is a Centurion’s right, a mark of distinction, to sheath his sword on the opposite side and from there, I slid the weapon free. Finely crafted silver steel glinted in the sunlight before I drove the full foot of metal into the Briton’s breast. The gladius was designed to stab and the weapon drove in easily, I twisted it as I pulled it free, pulling with it a fountain of vivid crimson blood. The rumble of a chariot’s wheels was growing louder, preceded by the thunder of hooves, and I pulled back into formation ere another chariot rushed past. As this one came, the passenger disembarked, reinforced by more dismounted charioteers and a surge of cavalry. As the footmen confronted us, the horsemen charged past, their longswords swinging down. As I brought my shield up to block such a blow, my sword thrust from the protection of the shield wall, stabbing into the horse’s flank as it galloped by, ripping open its belly, causing it to rear and fall, hurling the rider to the ground atop another Briton. One legionary acted upon instinct, lunging forward, too quickly leaving the formation, and though his sword finished one Briton, another leapt upon him before he could return to safety. ‘Hold ranks!’ I bellowed, my voice resounding over these barbarians’ fair white cliffs, overpowering the cries of death, stemming the chaos.
Regardless, one foe into the broken formation threatened pandemonium, as I blocked the assault of a Briton before me, two made their attempt on those who had flanked the fallen legionary, exploiting the hole in the line. Desperately I thrust forth my gladius and, with Fortuna’s grace, tore open my opponent’s abdomen and though the blow was weak, I deemed it sufficient, and signalled a retreat by one pace. In unison, the front line withdrew, gaps reinforced by those in the rank behind, and then I signalled a charge.
The weight of a fully trained soldier, a veteran of innumerable battles, pressed behind those towering shields can be an almighty force in numbers. The impact against the native infantry staggered the disorganised force, and then a ballista bolt struck the Briton flank, skewering not one but two warriors, its force hurling back those struck. I signalled the advance and as one we thrust ourselves forwards, gladii peeking out from between our own and our neighbour’s shield. One by one they flashed forwards, meeting resistance, then shields bashed forwards, unsettling the opponent’s defence, and it was then that they struck again, blades driving forward, opening fleshing, sending warm rushes of blood down their skin.
It was then that the Briton infantry broke.
As their horsemen swooped down upon us, I urgently halted any impetuous charge. Another ballista bolt slammed into the sand a few feet ahead of us, missing all but what beasts may have dwelt within; a moment later the cavalry surged past. ‘Pila!’ I shouted and the spare javelins rose over the legionaries’ heads. I watched the cavalry’s movements carefully, ‘Release!’ They rushed through the sky, plunging down upon the horsemen, steeds screamed, more animals wounded than the men who rode them. Those that evaded the javelins urged haste to their horses and galloped away, leaving the field ahead a waste of broken chariots and dying beasts. There would be no pursuit, our cavalry as distant as theirs were becoming.
I turned around, eyes scanning my men, noting those present, and those not. Dead or, more optimistically, wounded. I noted no glint of gold in the sunlight, no elegance of the eagle. Then I cast my eyes down.
An augur would observe that the fall of this bird spelled doom to the campaign or perhaps the death of he who led us, yet there were no men here to read omens, just a Centurion who knew how his men thought. From the ground I took the eagle, the first eagle ashore, prying it from the cold hand of the Aquilifer who had bore it. Considering some of the patriotic remarks I could make of the slain man, I raised the standard above the heads of my companions, the gold glimmering in their eyes alongside their optimism and audacity.
‘For Caesar!’ I shouted, ‘for Rome!’ and I plunged the Eagle into the sands of Britannia.
Historical Note.
In 55 A.D., Roman Soldiers first set foot on British soil, yet the invasion failed when the fleet was wrecked by the unruly tides of the Northern Seas of which Caesar knew little. Winter on the horizon and food dwindling, Caesar returned to Gaul. The following year, a second invasion was launched with more suitable ships inspired by those of the Gallic Tribe of the Venetii, and with five legions rather than two. Caesar won several victories over the tribes, establishing the first of many client kingdoms in Britannia. Caesar withdrew to Gaul, without leaving behind a Legion to enforce his conquests. Two years later, the Gallic Tribes revolted, led by Vercingetorix, culminating in the Battle of Alesia, perhaps Caesar’s finest military victory. On the 10th of January 49BC, he crossed the Rubicon to seize Rome, ultimately ruling as dictator perpetuo. He was assassinated in 44 B.C. The distant isle was never forgotten and when Emperor Claudius needed a victory to help Rome recover from the tyranny of Caligula and support his leadership, Britannia was ripe for the taking. Caesar’s invasion may have been initially inconsequential, yet it brought Britannia into the sphere of influence of Rome, whose impact upon this Sceptred Isle would resonate through the centuries to come. |
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