Auxilia et Portis

The Auxilia at the Gate

In honor of Optio Flavius Crispus and his troops of the Batavi,

Castra Lafe 2008

In a foreign land, Batavian born, stands a young auxila on a fogged British morn.  Great is his pride in his bronze Roman helm, his gladii is sharpened, his shield by his side, his spear glitters bright in the early morning dawn.  His optio inspects him, and a soldier is born.

The order is given: Patrol to the right, scout the woods, look for Celts, above all, avoid a big fight.  The Legion will find them and draw them all out, if you hit the flank there may be a route.

Ave Dominus, the optio cried, Ad Signa Batavi, We search the right side.

A slow and wet march through the woods on the right, the gray British morn looks more like twilight.  The sounds of conflict soon drift from the north, the legion engaged, we must move in support!  Run to the swords! We must find the fight, curse this foggy weather, it is like moving at night!

Arriving too late, the Romans have fallen, gone on to their gods, the great men of Rome, but where are the Celts who call this place home?  “Return to the fort”, the recall has sounded, before we are discovered, and by rearguard fight hounded. 

Within site of the fort now, finally safe, when screams from the brush herald their fate.  The fools seem quite content to attack our whole camp.  Only barbarians would fight in this muck and damp.  We’ll get to the gate, behind the strong wall, then turn and fight.   The Celts will die, they will bleed on our pikes.

Run for the gate, there is safety on the walls, from there we will fight, many Celts will fall.  The Celts close behind see their chance at the gates.  They are light and unarmored and close distance fast, the Auxila are caught in a noose that will last.

“Jupiter” cries the watch, “Testis” responds the optio, but the Celts are to close, and the risks are too great, the Stern Roman guard cannot open the gate.  We’ll support you they yell, as the Batavians pant, form your shields, stand to, we’ll keep them back! 

The lone Roman Scorpio cranks in the dawn.   The pila stand ready, the alert horn has blown, to the walls come the legion, prepared to throw, but it is little comfort to the Auxila below.  The patrol closes in not believing a wait, “hurry now” they cry “you must not leave us this fate!”, but the stern Roman guard will not open the gate.

Spears fly from the fort, impaling the Celts, optio of the auxila curses the guards: “Open the gate” he cries, “our patrol has returned, we skirted the wood line, we crested the berm, we know where they sleep, their village will burn, and we’ve lost not a man, you must let us in!  They are close, time is now, we cannot win or wait…” but the stern Roman guard will not open the gate..

"Testudo" he cries, the Celts are now close, he can smell their wet skins, hear their pants and groans, as the volley of pila kills many in woad, he tries once again an appeal to the guards.  “We’re holding them off!  Let us in or we’ll break!!” But the stern Roman guard will not open the gate.

Sensing the kill the Celts close in tight, the auxila shields close the spears penetrate, and Batavians fall.  The end of the shield wall will kill them all.  He offers them gold, jewels, and cash.  “Just open the fort, I’m a prince in my land, your reward will be great!”  But the stern Roman guard will not open the gate.

One last appeal, as his men start to fall, Flavius begs Roman mercy, then curses them all.  You’ve killed us you Romans, brought us to this wretched land.  You needed our help, you asked for our hand.  We did our job, we survived the patrol, now in front of the fort we fall for Rome, while you stand in safety, we lie here alone.

The optio falls, a spear in the gut, the sweat drops off his brow as he bleeds in the moat, a young Celtic chieftain slits his tired throat.  One by one they die, near the gate and the moat.  Their blood stains the ground as they fall in the dirt.  Greeting their gods, they feel no more hurt

  They beg for mercy, for help from the wall, but the Romans have orders, the fort must not fall. 

“We will honor you in prose” yells the head of the guard, “your citizenship is assured, and you die not in vain.  Hail mighty Romans, we call you  our name!”

The smell of wet mud, blood and spoil, the last Auxila fails in his toil.  He falls at the gate, he does not suffer long, his life extinguished on that cold misty morn, for the glory of Rome, on a field far from home, fell the last of the Batavi, completely alone.

The Celts have their blood now, they begin to fall back, their spirit broken by the cost of the attack.  Their people lie bleeding dead in the mud, they killed the auxila, but the Castra still stands, the Romans have held it, despite their best blow, tomorrow the legions will strike back, they know.  Their village will burn, their women will fry.  For the price of eight soldiers, a people will die. 

The attack was well planned, the execution was great, they chased the auxila right up to the gate.  The guards should have wavered, allowed in their men, but it was not to be, they allowed them to end. 

“These men are hard” the chieftain said, “the attack cost us too much, too many are dead.  We expected compassion, camaraderie, concern.  These Romans are new, something we have not seen, their wrath will burn, In matters of war we have much to learn”.

  “They are determined, these Romans, and we know now they are great,

Because the stern Roman guard would not open the gate.”

Arthur W. (Rusty) Myers III

Leg VI FFC

Cornicen of the Gate Guard, Lafe 2008