Adventures of the Ninth Legion of Rome

“Veni, Vidi, Vici,” Marcus Artorius Agricola, the commander of the Ninth Legion thought with a strange sense of bemusement as he sat slouched forward in his chair inside his tent as he slid his dirty fingers under his helmet forcing the helmet off his head and landing with a simple thud on the ground. “I came, I saw, I conquered.“ He started to rub his temples with those fingers. “Right! Veni, Vidi, Vici!” Julius Ceasar’s immortal words after one particularly successful battle. This day had been anything but successful. A rout by the Picts was more like it.

And now here they were in the Caledonian Forest, trying to regroup in order to fight their way back south, south to calmer, more controlled lands.

Veni, Vidi, Vici—the words haunted him—poked at his heart and soul. He was commander of the Spanish 9th Legion. No Legion had earned greater honors than the 9th. The” Triumphant” Legion. The men were tough and battle hardened—victors of campaigns in Gaul, Africa, Sicily, Macedonia, Hispania and even Germania. And now they were in Britannia. The agonized moans of dying men just outside his tent stopped his thoughts for several seconds. There was no order outside his tent. The Roman way of strict tent placement with the hospital tent strategically placed away from the uninjured men to minimize the risk that the soldiers could be undone, unnerved or unhinged by the sounds of dying friends and dying fellow soldiers had been hopelessly abandoned from necessity.

This had been the third day of fighting, each day more disastrous than the day before it until the retreat this day into the edge of the forest. Marcus questioned whether the retreat was the proper course to undertake. It was not in the nature of Roman Legions and especially the Ninth to retreat, but his officers had begged for him to give the order, having realized that over a thousand, more than 20 percent, of the Ninth’s infantry alone had been killed in the last 3 days, not including half of the 300 hundred cavalry. The baggage train had been captured, all except the commander’s personal supplies secured by the quick thinking of his loyal head slave Petra. As the Ninth pulled back into the forest at the end of the day, they tried to build the campaign fortifications standard for Roman Legions, but with no open ground, with the tall pine trees everywhere, there was no way to do so effectively. They had been able to secure the highest hill in the area for their encampment. “At least Julius Ceasar would have approved of that,” Marcus wryly muttered to himself.

Petra, along with another of his slaves, Allred, a recent acquisition since coming to Britannia, a member of a civilized Pict tribe came quietly but quickly into the tent and began unlashing the Commander’s boots, the lacing starting just below the knee cap and extending to the ankles. Marcus though back to the discussion held between him and the Roman Governor, Sentorius, and the Governor’s lackeys, just four days before. The Governor was sure that now was time to attack the uncivilized Pictland tribes north of York. The Caledonian Tribes were the considered the prize to take, the taking of which would bring the Ninth and its commander the greatest glory. Sentorius had been quite sure that the Caledonian Tribes would not be expecting so bold a move as a late season attack, being already November, no one campaigned past September when the rains and cold sprang up seemingly daily and yet they had started out in November. The Caledonians had already harvested their fields and were settling in for winter. The Governor’s men spoke of spies saying the Caledonians were dispirited and their long-time main leader was rumored to have gone on to his fathers. There were reports of disaffection among the tribes and an inability to come together. Now was the time to attack they had said.

Marcus had bought into the plan. After all, he had thought, it was his own grandfather, Gnaeus Julius Agricola, who had laid waste to the biggest and most ferocious tribe of the Picts in a much earlier time in the Battle of Mons Graupius. His grandfather had waited until the harvest of grain had been stored and the Ninth along with other Legions and auxiliaries had attacked the Picts who were forced to fight to protect the winter food supply or risk starvation. It had been a route for his grandfather, bringing him and the Empire great glory. Marcus’ father had told Marcus the tales of his grandfather for as much of Marcus’ 27 years as he could remember. His grandfather had been called back to Rome shortly after the Battle so his grandfather had not had the ability to follow up with the overwhelming victory. It was said that over 10,000 Picts had been dispatched to the underworld and less than a thousand Romans had met their ends in the battle. Upon his return to Rome his grandfather had undergone great public adulation, the guest of honor at many dinners. Even the emperor, Emperor Domitian, had given him an audience and presented him with a medal in recognition of his service to the Roman Empire. The medal Marcus now carried with him, a constant reminder of his expected service to be performed for the Roman Empire.

Marcus shook his head trying to erase the images of great accolades and triumphs—today was a day unlike any other the Ninth had witnessed in its 182 yearlong history. The new emperor would not be pleased. The emperor until a few months ago had been Trajan, an emperor who courted war and conquest to expand the Roman Empire. His death had led to the Empire now being ruled by Hadrian, an as yet untested Emperor. There were many stories of Barbarians and even Romans being tortured and killed by wild animals in the Roman Coliseum if they displeased an emperor. It was mostly slaves and Romans of the lower classes, not the nobility so far. But one never knows how far an emperor may go. His slave Petra having removed the boots and his breast plate then addressed his master asking if he could bring him his nightly meal. It brought Marcus back to his senses. He simply nodded his head to Petra and Allred. While Petra hunted fervently for some bit of food to prepare for the Commander, a feat given their current circumstances, Marcus began again to focus on the present perilous situation and consider the following day. Marcus had reviewed several reports on the condition of the cohorts in the Legion and came to the realization that he had lost too many Centurions to be able to properly command them all, even though each was reduced in size by casualties.

He had begun writing out a new command structure, merging cohorts and better using their leaders when suddenly bright light shone from outside his tent, right through the south tent wall illuminating the inside. The commander charged outside sword in hand, barefooted, but at least grasping his helmet and slamming it down onto his head. He quickly scanned the scene as legionnaires scrambled to react, some attacking the fires started by flaming arrows shot from the Pict lines, some angrily heading to the front south line of the camp where the arrows were originating intending to charge further into out and into the Pict line. Marcus called a halt to the risky charge his voice carrying far enough that even with the clamor and din it could be heard by enough to be repeated to others, his orders being followed obediently but not without grumbles. He called for the battle lines to be formed up for a proper advance at the Pict line returning to his tent where faithful Petra was already waiting with boots in hand to place them on his master’s feet. Once done he followed up by placing the commander’s metal breast plate on his chest and back and attaching the two sides, the family crest including a two headed dragon sparkling in the flickers of flames.