By The Rising Morning Light

“Today, we die! So, curtail any ambition of living – if you want to survive!”

That inspirational declaration by the imposing battle-hardened centurion, caused several groans to escape amongst my line of cohorts.

We had been roused just before the break of dawn to prepare to attack our enemy’s position. Word around camp was that the General had been visited by the gods, informing him the rising sun behind us would gain him a heavenly advantage – as the enemy shielded their eyes from its burning glare.

“The general knows what he is doing, doesn’t he?” I accidentally asked out loud.

“He has consulted with the gods,” the centurion sullenly replied. “So, what else does a soldier need than the Elysium blessing of Mars before battle, hey?”

Call me cynical, but when the strategy of war is put into the hands of the gods, should we not question those in charge of leading us toward the messengers of death, while we are bound by dutiful, unquestioning obeyance?

Who decides our fate matters little to the boys in the front line of attack. For if we are to believe those in charge, there is a great expectation of us never returning to camp once this day has passed. We are new, so we are expendable. How long it will take to graduate to the back line is of little importance today. The goal is to survive the fight, live for the morrow, then do it all over again.

“Beats digging roads, hey Tiberius?”

The booming voice of Centurion Lucius Ectorius shook me awake from my mind’s drift. His quick response made me aware that I was no longer anonymous in a sea of Roman armour. However, whether it was because we were on the cusp of battle or Lucius was just softening in his advancing age, no strict retort made its way back to me. The surprising restraint was gladly welcomed, because going into a fight after a centurion’s punishing wooden staff has been broken across your back, bodes badly for any chance of an outcome other than your own demise.

On road building and battle preparation, Lucius was as strict as he was kind. Both a disciplinarian and a shoulder to rest on, he oozed confidence, experience, and demanded loyalty from those he commanded. At some point in his military service, he too had stood where I now perch questioning the voracity of the enemy’s anticipated furore. He is a living testament on how to survive endless campaigns and rise through the ranks.

“May I reserve that judgement for after the battle, sir?” My response bordered on impertinence; however, the bellowing laugh that Lucius reacted with, gave me license to recognise the weight of what we were about to face.

“Remember, men,” Lucius continued his instructions. “You are the Hastasi, the most forward of the legion. So, make sure your helmet feathers are preened to make you look tall and intimidating, and aim your pilums true. Fight like lions, kill as many of the enemy as you can, and do so for the glory of Rome.”

I checked my two pilums to make sure their metal spikes were ready for throwing. They were. Since making camp, I had not done much else - other than sharpen my weapons, dig ditches for latrines, and complain about the heat in this forsaken land.

Our pilums are made up of a soft iron spearhead attached to a wooden shaft. When thrown, the spearhead breaks away from the shaft – allowing later retrieval for attaching another spear to it, so keeping them in perfect working order is not only one way to pass the time, it gives us all pause for thought on what battle will be like.

“If you miss your target, make sure the metal embeds in their shields. Make them lower their defences.”

The advantage to sticking an enemy shield with iron, is that it adds weight to it. Eventually, the added weight causes those that tire from fighting to abandon their shields - and when that happens, we put our gladius to good use with quick and deep stabbing thrusts. That’s the theory, anyway. Hopefully, our scutums will deflect anything they launch at us in return. I have to admire the curved design that wraps around our bodies like a tube cut in half lengthways. It gives me a sense of invincibility to know that I will be advancing into hellfire with a shield approved by the gods.

“Do not forget that you are all career soldiers,” Lucius pointed out. “For each campaign you survive, you move one line back. Then, before you know it, you will find yourselves commanding your own century.”

“Sir?” Came a young voice several shoulders to my left.

“What is it, Legionnaire?”

“How long does that take?”

“Ask me again ten years from now,” Lucius dismissively replied. “If you have defied fate enough times with a spotless record – you may apply to command young boys like yourself.”

The centurion’s answer was not the awe-inspiring motivation that the young soldier was looking for. Like me, he was about to go into his first battle. To look into the future and dream of becoming above your current station was a dangerous distraction. I was about to remind myself to maintain focus, when Lucius – always in tune with the mood of his men - settled my nerves.

“Do not be preoccupied with visions of grandness,” he warned. “Concentrate on what you need to survive this day and you will sleep well tonight with food in your bellies and wine swilling around your head so fast, you will swoon from the pleasure. Those on the field of conflict that only dream of tomorrow, will surely be yesterday’s gravestone memory. Remember that!”

“YESSIR!” The chorus of those within earshot rang through the dry morning air.

“Remember your training and by the gods, listen to my voice.”

“YESSIR!”

“FORMATION! FORMATION!” Repeated the screams of all the centurions in the field - as the first glimmer of morning sun rose above the hill we were strategically backed onto. Its brightening glow began to reflect star flashes of light off the shiny helmets behind us - all stood in perfect lines of ten-deep in Quincunx formation – a checkerboard-looking manoeuvre stretching across the expanse of the sandy knoll.

On our flanks, cavalry horses whinnied and snorted in anticipation of the upcoming charge. The fight was on. Stress levels began to heighten among the rows of countless legionnaires, uncomfortably announced by a rising putrid stench of legionnaire stomach gases loudly releasing the growing tension within their bodies. My mind flashed forward to the type of smells we were about to encounter down on the battle plain. Blood, guts, and the detritus of the dead awaited to assault our virgin noses - forever embedding death’s vile smell into nasal memory.

“Keep rank and file!” A cacophony of synchronised centurion voices echoed through the ranks. “MARCH ON!” They ordered.

In unison, we advanced in formation down the hill toward the enemy – who were rapidly being unveiled by the rising morning light. Our scutums held tightly in front of us, we stepped in cadent stride to the close quarter drumbeats emanating from the rear of our lines. Horns blared coded musical messages to each group of cohorts. Two groups became one, then one group became part of another. This was a hammerhead assault, intended on smashing through the opposing force’s first line of defence.

“Steady men!” Lucius’s voice could be heard above the din. “May the gods be grateful for your souls!”

As we edged closer to battle, the sun lit up the theatre of war awaiting its players to perform their deadly roles - causing beads of nervous sweat to cascade down my back. For the first time, the enemy was revealed to us, looking equal in numbers, organised into defensive formations, and by all appearances, looking very capable of a fight.

Suddenly – as if the gods themselves had changed loyalties and decided that we were no longer the chosen ones, the sky above darkened with a heavy cloud of a thousand flying shards of death, descending swiftly upon our position, temporarily blotting out the sun’s glare.

“Oh, goddess Victoria,” I inwardly prayed. “Give me strength to safely see this morning out and I will repay you with a thousand gratitudes.”

“TESTUDO!” Commanded the trumpeting horns. In poetic synchronisation, we immediately adopted the unified shape of a tortoise shell surrounding us and covering us overhead.

“For the glory of Rome,” we defiantly shouted in a sanitising attempt to drown out the cries of the wounded and dying. “For the glory of Rome…!”