Chapter 12

Northern Italy, Just East of the Border of Gaul

Aelius sat tall upon his horse, surveying the small village as his century approached. Scattered huts and simple stone buildings dotted the landscape, smoke rising lazily from a few chimneys, with people moving about the fields outside of town. There had been a lot of talk of these villages being empty as the main body of the legions passed through, but it seemed as if some of the people had returned, now that the armies had passed.

Considering the villagers’ obvious distrust of Britannians and their willingness to abandon their villages, Aelius would have bypassed it entirely if given his druthers. Unfortunately, he wasn’t given that choice. His orders were clear: stop and negotiate with any locals they encountered along the way, breaking off elements of his cohorts to keep up appearances as peacekeepers at the larger villages.

To try and lessen any fear that they might cause the locals, as soon as the scouts told him they were approaching a village, he’d come ahead with a single century. Entering the village, he could feel the eyes of the people, most of whom had disappeared as soon as his small column approached. Even with people hiding, word must have spread fast, because an older man, flanked by a large number of younger ones, waited in the center of the village as they approached.

Raising his fist, he signaled his men to halt. Good soldiers, they spread out into even lines, weapons held at the ready position, butts against the ground. This was a friendly visit, and they were trying not to be overly aggressive, but reports coming back through the telegraph, when it worked, spoke of ambushes and assaults on isolated groups of legionnaires. That’s why Aelius had brought an entire century with him, instead of a single squad.

Aelius dismounted and approached the old man, removing his helmet and tucking it under his arm, the dozen or so men around him tensing as Aelius approached.

“Are you the headman of this village?” Aelius asked politely with a slight bow.

The old man drew himself up, rheumy eyes peering at Aelius from beneath bushy white eyebrows. “I am Maurus, and I speak for this village. What do you want with us, foreigner?”

The man’s voice had an edge to it, and Aelius couldn’t help but notice the use of “foreigner.” Carthaginians had continued referring to Romans as Romans, both after they were forced off the continent and when they’d voluntarily changed their own country’s name to Britannia. It was telling that someone here in Italy would hesitate to use that description and chose “foreigner” instead. As if to make it clear that, even if they came from here and still used the name from their homeland, they considered his people neither Italian nor Roman. Only foreign.

“I understand your hesitation, Maurus. We seek no quarrel here,” he gestured to his century of soldiers. “We’ve been tasked with establishing relationships in this region, to foster goodwill and cooperation, and to help with providing security from bandits and other threats.”

The headman snorted derisively at Aelius’ words. “And how do you plan to do that? By telling us where we can go? What we can do?”

“No. We have no desire to control you or your people. We only want to offer our help. Is there a well here? Is there anything Britannia can do for you?”

Maurus was unmoved by the legate’s words.

“The best thing you can do for us is leave,” he growled, crossing his arms over his chest stubbornly. “My people don’t want you here.”

“I understand your feelings,” Aelius said, trying to keep his face and voice neutral. “Truly, I do. But right now, we can’t leave this area completely unsupervised as we push the Carthaginians further south and work towards ending this war once and for all. As soon as our war is over and the area can be left safely on its own, we plan to leave and let everyone here manage their own affairs as they see fit. Our only goal is to contain the chaos caused by removing the Carthaginians.”

A shout came from the crowd behind Maurus. “We’re Carthaginians too! This is our land!”

Maurus nodded, adding, “My people have been part of Carthage for generations now. We see ourselves as Carthaginians as much as anyone born in the city itself. To say you’re not invaders while removing the people protecting our homes and providing us security and prosperity, shows us exactly who you are.”

Aelius frowned. He hadn’t expected that. In his mind, the people of Italy were still Romans at heart even after all these years under the Carthaginian yoke. The idea that some truly saw themselves as Carthaginians was troubling.

“You were not always so,” he countered. “We come from the same ancestors, citizens of a proud republic before Carthage conquered these lands by force. Given the chance, would you not wish to rule yourselves again instead of bending the knee to foreign masters?”

“You are no longer from here. Your fathers’ fathers were not from here. You are as foreign as anyone else.”

He’d hoped to deescalate things, but the more Maurus countered him, defending the Carthaginians and calling Britannians invaders, the more it egged on the crowd, which had started to build and grow increasingly belligerent.

Cries of “Lies!” and “Invaders!” erupted from the crowd as Maurus spat at his feet.

“Leave our village and our lands, Britannian,” the headman said. “Leave us in peace.”

Peace was the last thing his people had in mind, however, as several stones and a large number of vegetables and other debris sailed in Aelius’ direction. Aelius threw up an arm to shield his face as he backed up to his men to put some distance between the missiles and himself.

The angry shouts from the swelling crowd grew louder as more villagers poured from the buildings and fields to join the confrontation. What had started as a few dozen people was now nearly a hundred, and Aelius could see even more emerging from alleys and doorways. His men were quickly becoming outnumbered.

He held up his hands pleadingly. “Please, let’s not let this come to violence! We only wish to help provide order and security until the war is over!”

But his words fell on increasingly deaf ears. The mob pressed closer, emboldened by their growing numbers. Farm implements and tools became makeshift weapons in their hands.

“Get out while you still can, invader!” Maurus yelled over the din. “You’ve worn out your welcome!”

A young man darted from the crowd, a woodcutting ax raised over his head as he charged straight for Aelius, giving a feral scream. Before Aelius could pull a weapon or respond, one of the men closest to him lifted his rifle with well-practiced precision and fired, knocking the boy off his feet.

For a moment, everyone froze. The villagers had probably heard of firearms by now, as word had traveled pretty far and wide, but hearing about it and seeing it in person was a very different thing.

And then the dam broke. With a collective roar, the mob surged forward, brandishing their makeshift weapons. Young men came at them wielding wood axes, scythes, and staves. Women flung stones and old men shook fists. Aelius didn’t attempt to reason with them a second time, leaping onto his horse as the wave of bodies crashed toward his now outnumbered men.

“Ready arms!” he shouted as he rode his horse down the rank and out of the line of fire.

In unison, his legionnaires hefted their rifles, the years of combat and hours of drilling making the action pure muscle memory.

“By rank,” he commanded, a hand going up over his head.

As the legionnaires sighted along their rifles, a few of the villagers in the lead faltered slightly, maybe guessing what was coming next from the stories they must have heard, but fury and numbers carried the rest forward.

“Fire!” he roared, chopping his hand down.

The sound of gunshots tore through the mob’s war cries. Villagers in the front dropped, some wounded, some dead. But the mass of humanity behind them barely slowed, trampling the fallen as they pressed toward the thin Roman line.

“Retreat by rank. Second rank. Ready! Fire!”

Row by row, his men filtered back, as the next rank in line lifted their rifles and fired. In the standard three-rank fighting formation, this would have held for only three ranks, and then required switching to bayonet without another formation to swap positions, but the village streets were narrow, and he’d been forced to switch to a wide marching column, even after his men had fanned out.

Step by step, his men retreated while firing into the crowd, villagers falling in fives and tens. They didn’t stop coming, though. They were wild with fury, throwing stones and axes as they tried to close the gap with the Britannians.

A well-thrown axe flew from the surging crowd, catching a legionnaire, who was grabbed by the retreating rank and pulled to the rear.

“At the double step,” he called, as the villagers began to fade, their fury finally giving way to the growing carnage around them.

Wails and cries of dying men and widowed women were already heard above the sound of the rifles and the shouting. Aelius spotted a young man clambering onto a rooftop, arming an arcuballista, maybe one of Carthaginian creation using the Roman pattern, or maybe one sold by Britannian allies. The iron bolt streaked through the air and punched through a legionnaire’s calf in a spray of blood. Before Aelius could react, two more men grabbed their comrade’s arms and hauled him away from the pressing horde.