Britannia, 85 AD
The air in the command tent was so stifling, I was glad when a messenger finally opened the flap.
“Legatus, Praefectus, Tribuni, the enemy are fleeing in disarray, back into the hills. We are victorious.” The legionnaire reported, without a hint of joy on his tired, mud stained face.
“Thank you, soldier. We all did well today.” A tribune remarked.
The legionnaire simply grunted and exited the tent. I pounded my fist on the table in frustration. “Victory?” I spat. “We have suffered over a thousand dead since we set foot on this accursed island. Fleeing in disarray? It’s more likely that they’re regrouping for another assault. Legatus, I must protest again the purpose of our mission. We shouldn’t be here.”
Complete silence enveloped the tent for a few seconds. Then, the Legatus spoke. “Tribunes, please leave us for now.”
I knew a serious earful was headed my way even before the last of the tribunes exited the tent. Once the flap was closed, Legate Quintus wheeled to face me and unleashed his torrent of verbal abuse. And all I could do was take it.
His tirade lasted for a good ten minutes, but I wasn’t paying attention. This wasn’t the first time he had called me out for my insubordination. If I had a gold coin for every “direct order”, “do not question” and “Rome has seen fit to” I’ve heard in the past three months, I would have retired by now.
“Sir, believe me, I understand your concerns, and I understand the chain of command.” I was repeating the same things, listing the same points, over and over again. “But we are more than a thousand kilometres away from Rome. The mountains here impede our movement, while the infernal fog masks that of our enemies. The terrain is mostly made up of forested valleys or marshy swamps, unsuitable for our fighting tactics. The men are desperate and homesick, sir. There seems to be no end to the barbarian raids, no promise of loot, no clear victory within sight. If we keep this up –”
A long, drawn out blast from a war horn echoed throughout the valley.
Then another. And another.
“Legatus!” A soldier rushed in, panic written all over his face. “The barbarians, they –”
Legate Quintus and I could see for ourselves. The barbarians were swarming all over the hills into the valley, overwhelming the Roman patrols and slaughtering them. Soon, they would be pouring into the war camp itself.
“By the gods, you were right.” Legate Quintus muttered, the terror in his voice clearly audible. “Centurions, to me!”
I didn’t hear whatever he said next. It could have been orders to me, or some form of defensive battle plan to be carried out by everyone. It didn’t matter. Our enemies had surprise on their side, as well as the numbers, the morale, and the terrain. The terrible truth had made itself abundantly clear to me.
Today, the Ninth Legion would fall.