Fallout:Blood and the Bull

The disorganization of this garrison was intolerable. Watching the men move without coordination, the peasants barely able to hold a spear, and my father's militiamen acting as if their mere presence was enough to ensure security… all of it was yet another display of the weakness that kept these lands mired in chaos. Internal divisions, lack of discipline, and adherence to broken systems were the real enemies. This had to change. And I would be the one to change it.

I recalled the campaigns in Gaul. There, the legions weren't just armies; they were instruments of absolute power. Every soldier was a cog in a flawless machine, trained not only to fight but to function as part of a whole. There was no room for individuality, insubordination, or incompetence. That structure, that order, was what made the legions invincible. Now, here, in this forgotten corner of the front, that order would be reborn.

Although we had enough space to accommodate the thousands of extras who had arrived with the reinforcements, I ensured that those who joined the militias did not live in a disorganized or scattered manner. Chaotic coexistence only perpetuated the lack of discipline and fueled the divisions that caused so much harm. For this reason, I implemented a clear and radical change: the men would be organized into contubernia, small groups of eight, and they would share the same tent.

This decision was not arbitrary. I remembered the teachings of the legion: the contubernium wasn't just a combat unit but a family, a nucleus of mutual trust. Men who slept under the same roof learned to rely on one another, resolve their differences, and act as a whole rather than as scattered individuals.

"You are no longer mere peasants or isolated men seeking refuge," I told them as I supervised the distribution. "Here, each of you depends on the other. If one fails, all eight will bear the consequences. If one excels, all will share the reward. Learn to live together, to fight together, and this place will be more than a fortress—it will be your home."

The transition was anything but smooth. Many of these men had never shared their space so intimately with others. Their differences, customs, and backgrounds clashed in every interaction. Disputes arose constantly over things as simple as sleeping arrangements or how to divide chores. But I couldn't allow these divisions to persist. On the battlefield, any crack in unity meant death.

The tensions were resolved in the only way that worked: with severe punishments. When a contubernium failed, all paid the price. Group floggings were brutal but effective. Those who tried to shirk responsibilities quickly learned there was no escape. If one failed, the others forced them to comply. If anyone rebelled, their own comrades subdued them before it escalated. Collective pressure turned even the most reluctant into useful parts of the whole.

"Shared pain binds more than hollow words," I once said as I watched one of the groups scrub blood from the ground after one of these "corrections." Some avoided my gaze; others met it with resentment. But the results were all that mattered. The tents transformed from spaces filled with murmurs and resentment into small, cohesive units.

I wasn't seeking their love or admiration. What I needed was obedience and discipline. Over time, the friction diminished—not because they grew fond of one another, but because they understood the cost of failure was too high. They learned to work together, to support one another, to correct each other. To survive, they had no choice but to become a functional unit.

The floggings became a constant reminder that this system tolerated neither weakness nor disobedience. And as the men began to form genuine bonds within their contubernia, fear of punishment ceased to be the only motivator. They began to truly depend on one another, building camaraderie forged through pain and necessity.

As the weeks passed, the initial chaos began to dissipate, replaced by a harsh, methodical order. The draconian training programs I implemented left no room for laziness or weakness. Each day began before dawn and ended long after the sun had set. My goal wasn't just to turn these men into soldiers—I wanted to eradicate any trace of the fragility that had brought them here.

Forced marches began as a simple test. Men carried half their body weight in sacks filled with stones, wood, or anything useful to harden their bodies and minds. I made them traverse the terrain surrounding the castle, climbing hills and crossing rivers. Those who fell behind received no words of encouragement, only punishments. If one contubernium failed, all shared the pain, and over time, they learned not to leave anyone behind.

Weapons training was equally brutal. They were given wooden swords and spears, much heavier than their real counterparts. Their movements were clumsy at first, but constant repetition, exhaustion, and relentless corrections began to refine them. Every poorly executed strike brought consequences, not just for the individual but for their companions. As their bodies grew stronger, so did their movements. Real weapons would feel like a relief after weeks of wielding those heavy wooden ones.

The training arena was my final touch. A confined space, surrounded by sharpened stakes, where the men faced not just fatigue but real danger. When they least expected it, I would gather them in the arena and release a captured orc or a group of goblins. It wasn't a fair or orderly fight; I didn't give them time to form ranks or strategies. Their lives depended on their reflexes, their ability to use their weapons, and their teamwork. Those who survived and learned to fight under such pressure emerged transformed.

At first, screams of panic and pleas were common. But there was no room for compassion in this system. "Fight or die," I told them the first time I locked the arena doors behind them. Over time, they stopped screaming. They stopped begging. Instead, they began to face the monsters with a ferocity they hadn't possessed before, knowing the only way out was through victory.

Some died. That was inevitable. But those who emerged from the arena, covered in blood and with fear replaced by determination, were different. Tougher. More disciplined. More lethal.

After two months of hell, I finally decided they were ready. The men who had endured forced marches, heavy weapons training, and brutal arena trials were no longer frightened peasants. They had learned to move in formation, hold their lines, and face danger without succumbing to panic. The screams of terror had been replaced by firm commands, and the initial despair had transformed into something closer to resolve.

It was time for them to join the routine patrols alongside the rest of my men. Goblin presence was returning, as it always did—a relentless plague that never stopped trying to infiltrate the lands we had secured. Worse still, sightings of orcs had begun to increase in recent days. Reports from scouts spoke of small hunting parties advancing from the north, probing our defenses, searching for weaknesses.

Each century, formed by ten contubernia, needed strong, disciplined leaders. I chose the best men among those who had demonstrated loyalty and skill during training. These would be the decanus, directly responsible for their eight men and two slaves in each contubernium. Their duties extended beyond combat; they were also tasked with ensuring their men completed daily tasks, maintained their weapons and equipment, and obeyed without question.

Over them, I assigned optios, who would act as second-in-command for each centuria. These men served as my eyes and ears, reporting directly to me about the state of their units and resolving problems before they reached my attention. The rank of optio wasn't a reward but a responsibility. If a cohort failed, the optio bore the consequences as much as his men.

Finally, I placed centurions in command of each complete century. These were the absolute leaders within their units, responsible for directing them in combat and ensuring discipline remained unbroken. Centurions were chosen not just for their skill in battle but for their ability to maintain order under pressure and inspire their men to keep moving forward, even in the worst circumstances.

Although this initial force didn't have the equipment worthy of a full legion, its organization was beginning to take the necessary shape. We now had a cohort—just over five hundred men—divided into functional centuries, each consisting of 80 men plus their commanding officer. This system not only gave the force structure but also provided essential flexibility to adapt to the terrain and circumstances.

Though we were still far from achieving the splendor and efficiency of a Roman legion, every battle, every patrol, and every engagement against goblins and orcs proved that the system worked. The discipline we had instilled, combined with relentless training and a hierarchical structure, was transforming us from a disorganized group into a force capable of holding the lines and expanding our control.

During a reconnaissance mission to the northeast, accompanied by two centurions, we ventured into orc territory. The objective was clear: to observe their movements and better understand their patterns. We advanced cautiously but prepared for confrontation. What we encountered wasn't an ambush but an opportunity to test the discipline and training that had reshaped these men.

When we came across an orc hunting party, something became immediately clear: fear no longer had the same hold over them. The legionaries knew exactly what to do. The formation was established quickly, and weeks of intensive training revealed their full effect.

The first two lines advanced in perfect synchrony, their scuta raised to form a barrier as solid as a wall. When the orcs began their charge, the men hurled their iron-tipped spears with lethal precision. Several of the beasts fell to the ground, impaled by the weapons. The usual chaos that preceded hand-to-hand combat had no place here—everything was methodical, everything calculated.

As soon as the spears left their hands, the first two lines stepped back, exchanging positions with the third and fourth lines. These men advanced with their scuta raised, forming a new barrier while their reserve spears were raised, ready to meet the enemy. Forced to charge into this formation, the orcs collided with an impenetrable defense. Their blows were absorbed by the scuta, and every attempt to break the formation was met with the iron tips of the spears.

As the orcs tried to regroup, our archers, positioned behind the lines, began raining arrows over the shields. Each projectile found its mark among the enemy ranks, further breaking their morale. The creatures, used to brutality and the absence of organized resistance, seemed to hesitate in the face of our precise tactics.

One of the centurions seized the moment. "Advance!" he commanded, and the third and fourth lines moved forward with short, controlled steps, pushing the orcs back with their spears and maintaining formation. The first two lines quickly reorganized behind them, ready to reinforce the front if necessary. The orcs attempted to flank us, but the men at the formation's edges pivoted their shields and spears to hold the line intact.

The engagement ended swiftly. The orcs, decimated by the spears, arrows, and unyielding formation, began to flee, but they weren't given a chance to escape. The men maintained pressure, advancing like an unstoppable wall until the last of the enemies fell.

In the aftermath, as I watched my legionaries recover their spears and regroup, a sense of pride overtook me. They didn't wield steel, only iron weapons and reinforced wooden shields, but what they possessed was far more important: discipline, cohesion, and growing confidence in their abilities.

Venturing further into the woods, we encountered less resistance than expected. Small groups of orcs, both adults and juveniles, quickly fell under our spears and arrows. Each engagement was a swift, bloodless victory on our side. But as we delved deeper, the air began to carry a familiar, dense scent: black smoke. A dark column rose among the trees, an unmistakable sign of conflict.

We approached cautiously, maintaining formation. When we finally reached the source of the smoke, we came upon an unexpected scene. In a blood-soaked clearing, dozens of orcs were locked in brutal combat against an enemy I had only heard of in rumors and tales: elves. Tall, slender, and with their characteristic pointed ears, they fought with a grace that contrasted with the chaotic violence of the orcs. Their arrows struck with precision, and their curved blades flashed as they repelled their foes' attacks.

For a moment, my men stood silently, surprised by the sight. But for me, the decision was immediate. Neither the orcs nor the elves had a place in these lands. Both represented threats and disorder. There was no room for neutrality or tolerance. Both sides were enemies.

"Formation," I ordered, my voice sharp as a spear. "We attack everyone."

Without hesitation, the centurions echoed my command, and my men moved with precision. The formation was established quickly. The first two lines advanced, raising their scuta and readying their spears. Meanwhile, the archers in the rear drew their bows, aiming at both the orcs and the elves.

"Spears!" I ordered, and the first ranks hurled their projectiles at both factions. The orcs, taken by surprise, roared as the spears impaled them, while several elves fell to the ground before realizing what was happening. Chaos erupted. Both sides, already weakened from their fight, were forced to contend with a new enemy.

The first lines stepped back with precision, allowing the third and fourth rows to advance. The scuta rose, forming a wall that repelled any counterattacks. The archers behind the formation began raining arrows on both sides, forcing the enemies into a defensive position.

The orcs, true to their brutality, attempted to charge the formation, but every attempt was met with spears piercing flesh and bone. The elves, though more organized, couldn't hold their positions. Their arrows, fired in desperation, struck harmlessly against our shields. Realizing they couldn't withstand the assault, they began to scatter, leaving their wounded and dead behind.

In minutes, the battlefield was strewn with bodies. The few remaining orcs tried to flee, but my men gave them no quarter. The lines advanced methodically, eliminating stragglers with terrifying efficiency. The elves, however, began raising their hands in surrender.

"Mercy!" cried one of them, a dark-haired elf who, though injured, remained standing. He threw his sword to the ground and spoke in perfect human tongue. "Stop the attack! We are not your enemies."

My men, still in formation, awaited my orders. I looked at the elf, his face marked with blood and exhaustion, and then at the few left standing beside him, unarmed and clearly defeated.