Stories Thread

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The Frontline: Tribune Cotta at the assault of Rhegion

Still in working progress-this is just to prove I've been doing something

“For the glory of Rome, my soldiers! Charge home, and secure our victory!” A great shout arose from the throats of those amassed, as they hefted shields and drew swords, leaping over the shattered remains of the city walls and the broken bodies spread-eagled across the earth. Javelins thudded into tall shields or punctured exposed flesh with sickening squelches. As the mass of legionaries let out another tremendous roar, they burst over the remains of the wall, and smashed mercilessly into the wavering lines of the enemy skirmishes stationed on the other side. Bodies fell under the ferocious onslaught of the assault, punctured with sword thrusts or limbs separating from their owners. Blood spewed out over the cobbled streets, the fallen masonry, the crushed timbers of the wall, as wave upon wave of battle frenzied legionaries poured into the city of Rhegion.

Horns blared and trumpets blasted from the barracks of the city. The enemy troops rushed to defend the breach wrought by the sudden attack of the Romans. The gates hung from their hinges, swinging precariously as the press of bodies pushed against them. Through these gates and ruptures in the walls on either side of the gate house, Roman soldiers pushed through the lightly armed defenders, with the sole intention of punishing the traitor, Avlvs Decivs, the leader of the Campanian mercenaries that seized the undefended Rhegion following the withdrawal of the Epirite garrison, who abandoned the city upon hearing of the defeat of Pyrrhus. Unaware of their defection from the Roman army, the citizens of Rhegion threw open their gates, cheering as the men marched inside. The mercenaries couldn’t believe their luck. After having been allowed entrance into the city walls, they immediately set about rounding up the inhabitants, at the time some ten thousand or so men, women and children, before slaughtering as many as they could. They barred the gates and burned the houses, before setting to work with their swords and spears.

We had marched from Tarentum to avenge Roman honour and to extract justice upon those who deliberately broke away from their masters to create a world of havoc, pain and suffering. Now, several weeks into the siege, the time for our final assault had come.
As our infantry poured through the breeches created by our rams, we could see through the swirling dust and bobbing weapons that the enemy was getting pushed back. There was little organised defence, but we could hear the trumpets and horns calling the heavy infantry of the garrison to the breaches. It was only a matter of time before the dent our infantry had made would be stopped; our men halted in their tracks, and great swathes of soldiers killed or injured; an unacceptable eventuality.

The men and horses snorted clouds of steam into the cold air, as we waiting for the signal to attack. The Second, Third and Fourth Cohorts had manned the rams and burst through the breaches they had created. The runners that constantly moved between those engaged cohorts and the rest of the army waiting some four hundred paces away brought us news of the progression of the battle; the walls were held by skirmishes and one cohort of light infantry. The call-to-arms from the barracks would bring a further four cohorts of battle hardened mercenaries to the defence of the walls. It was imperative as much ground as possible be made in the next few minutes.

A signal on the wind; the trumpets blared. The breaches in the wall have been cleared of enemies are now unhindered by rubble and bodies. The time had come. I raised my arm, and threw it forward. With a blare from our own trumpets and horns, my cavalry began to canter towards the walls. As we drew closer, we could see through the gaps and breaches in the wall; the fallen bodies and the desperate struggle still ongoing around the gate and the streets beyond. Young boys, perhaps the mercenaries’ sons or those pressed into service, crouched over the rooftops, breaking off the sharp roof tiles with hammers before chucking them down along with heavy rocks upon the heads of the legionaries below. The problem they caused was obvious; one strike from those missiles upon an unprotected limb, foot, or even a helmeted head could kill or maim a man; yet they were nearly impossible to stop or protect against it. Shields could be raised, but they were heavy and cumbersome, and would leave the men unprotected to sword and spear thrusts. A volley of javelins could be ordered against the assailants, but even the most veteran of legionaries would wince at the order to kill such young boys.

Our horses had almost reached the wall when the first of the enemy reinforcements appeared at the end of the street. The enemy skirmishes that had been protecting, or rather falling, around the walls and the gate fell back, few in number as they were now. Our cohorts let out a ragged cheer, interrupted by the masonry still being hurled from the roofs. Some of the more blood thirsty chased them down the street, until they caught site of the massed legionaries trotting grimly towards them. Faltering, they slowed, and I could imagine the pure terror that must have ran through those few who had ventured out thus far, as the mercenaries let out a tremendous roar, rushing down the street.

As the cohorts that only minutes ago captured the gate formed up once again-this time to meet a much more determined and vicious opponent-our horses pushed themselves over the rubble that was once the wall, and I could see other wing doing the same at the next breach. The First Cohort had marched up to the gate as reinforcements for the three cohorts already engaged in the fight. As I watched from down the street, our men were being violently pushed backwards, feet tripping over or stepping on their comrades’ behind in their haste to back paddle away from the onslaught. The mercenary legionaries pushed forward with the ominous aim of forcing our men straight back against the gatehouse; the gate allowed no more than three men at a time to pass through, and only as a last resort would this happen-all the men knew what would happen if they were caught running away from the enemy. And yet many fell beneath the stabbing spears, the hacking swords and the improvised missiles from the rooftops. Those who went t ground were trampled mercilessly under the mailed boots of those above, or crushed under the sharp shield rims as the mercenaries and our own legionaries pounded each other to pieces. There was no room for the First Cohort to join the fight, and no room to retreat. It was a slaughter house.

However, this is exactly what the Legatus had grimly predicted would happen this morning when he had laid out the plans for the final assault. Through our various feints, failed attacks and skirmishes with the enemy thus far, he knew he would have to commit the entire army on one gate in order to force the enemy commander to commit his entire garrison. Only then could he ensure a decisive and clean victory.
Despite this, I could see our lines were wavering. The enemy had advanced a plenty. It was time.

“Prepare to charge,” I called to my officers, standard bearers and trumpeters. Wheeling my mount around to face my men, I trotted up and down the line of assembled horsemen, stretching across the entire street from the wall to the edge of the buildings. “Soldiers of Rome!” I cried. “Arise, all who ride with me. Here is where we make history, or die with honour. Our swords and spears will drip with blood; our armour will be dented beyond repair. A poor day it is, a great day it will be.” I drew my sword, the blade shining powerfully in the sunlight, reflecting the rays, so it that I seemed to be holding a sword of pure light. “Ride with me now, glorious Romans! Charge, and may your cries shake the foundations of the earth!”