The Length of the Contus is Ultimately Relative
The length of a contus is ultimately relative. There are more things cavalry shouldn't do than you'd think, but some are especially critical. First lesson: don't charge into an already formed enemy infantry line. That said, it can vary by situation. For instance, if the enemy infantry has just fought a major battle and marched straight here to face me without rest, then smashing into them with cavalry to settle it in one clash might work. Or if their infantry lacks proper armor or helmets, mostly clad in ragged sacks and barely able to form a line, a swift charge to smash their heads could do the trick. The barbarians I faced now—around five or six hundred strong—seemed a mix of those two cases. Their front line at least had leather armor reinforced with iron plates and helmets, but they'd come by sea over a long journey, so even after a day or two of rest, they weren't in peak condition. When the situation's ambiguous like this? You just go for it.
[Rattle-rattle-rattle—] With the clamor of wheels, I raced along the road stretching to that fortress at the edge of the land. We'd made no secret of it, blaring horns and kicking up noise, so not only the barbarians but our Romano-British soldiers firing bolts from the fortress walls spotted my arrival.
[!!@%*&@(#)]
[Yaaah!]
The unintelligible howls came from the barbarians encircling the fortress's left flank, while the massive cheers erupted from our Britons' hill position a bit inland from the coast. Looking closer, the barbarians had floated boats on the moat connected to the sea, lashed them together into a sturdy platform, and propped up ladders. How long would it take to scale those towering walls like that? Impressive siege tactic, though—I filed it away in my mind. Sure, they were dropping like flies under the mechanical crossbows firing three or four bolts a minute, pierced through before they could scream. But if I climbed those ladders...
'Barbarians. Not a bad idea.'
!! No, no. What kind of blasphemous thought was that? Barbarians are all idiots. They must've half-assed some idea they picked up somewhere.
"Tch! Caius! Give me a spear!"
"Yes, sir!"
To wash away the impure notion, I feigned anger and gripped the contus Caius handed me tight. The range of this 5th-century railgun, hurled by my arm, reached wherever my eyes could see.
"You filthy barbarians! Taste the wrath of Mars!"
[Thwang—boom!]
I twisted and squeezed my muscles to build tension like a bowstring, then hurled it forward like a pitcher releasing a ball. A balloon-pop burst from the release point. The cavalry contus flew so fast it was nearly invisible, delivering thunderous impact and penetration in one go.
[Thud! Crunch!]
[Aaaagh!]
[Urk!]
The faint cries from afar needed no translation. Aaaagh!—a barbarian dying in agony from a non-vital hit. Urk!—one lucky enough to take it straight to a vitals and drop instantly. A master rider could skewer two at once with the Roman cavalry contus, long enough to grip two-handed. Yeeted like that, it naturally turned them into human kebabs on a single spit.
"Yaaah!"
"Artoriiiuius Invictaa!!!"
"Mars Artorio!"
"Wooooh!"
"Wotan! Wotan sees this place!!"
My warriors, treating war like a sport as usual, roared cheers and pumped fists. Mixed in were unfamiliar names and rougher shouts. Glancing back, I saw Wolfmaer, the red-faced Angle recruit-turned-Romano-barbarian, roaring like a bear alongside his guards, swinging hand axes wildly.
"Ha! Bet that shocked 'em!"
Caius beside me, nose in the air like he'd thrown it, brimmed with pride. He looked just like a fox riding a tiger's coattails—I nearly chuckled on the battlefield but snorted it away and grabbed the next contus from him.
[Thump]
Britain may lack legions, but we have endless wood and iron. My massive chariot still had over ten spare contus left.
"Skilt! Shkilt!!"
"Ha-al!! Halt! You-who-staaand!!"
Their voices carried clearly now over the shortened distance, as vivid as if spoken beside me. No need to understand the words to sense their panic from one spear toss. They hastily cleared the dead or dying, angling crude shields forward. Fear flickered in the blue eyes of the armored ones, but their unbreakable fighting spirit held. They'd crossed that distant sea for plunder, after all—call it adventuring spirit? Like weeds surviving winter snow. And that unyielding raider grit ignited my own challenge: I'd crush and kill them all.
"How's Mars's lightning taste, barbarians? Take this! The Lord's firebolt next!"
[Thwang—boom!]
[Creak!]
[Neighhh!]
Whoops, got too excited and overpowered it—the chariot wobbled. Quick check: axle fine, but dial it back next time.
[Whooosh—crack! Crunch! Crash! Thud!]
"Hup!?"
"Ugh—"
"Ack?"
"Aaaah!"
"Guh—"
If Mars kills indirectly, the Lord slays directly. More proactive, you might say? Mars favors all brave warriors on both sides, but the Lord? He's the type who says kill everyone not on our side. Something like that. I half-dozed through church back in Camulodunum before the priest emigrated, but I recall him saying the Lord once wiped out firstborns in that southern Egypt with his power at full tilt. Impressive—explains topping Rome's pantheon.
Anyway, the Lord's fiercer firebolt pierced six more barbarians before embedding in the ground beyond.
"Yaaah!"
"Uwooooh!"
Louder cheers erupted behind me, matched by desperate cries from the barbarians. Watching closely, I saw them waver but hold position. No fleeing to the sea or fortress—they had nowhere to go. Impressive. Purely on soldier quality right now, Romano-Britain vs. barbarians...
"Caius! Time to bait them."
"Yes, Magister Militum!"
Caius, veteran of these tactics, got my abrupt order instantly and shook his cornu signals.
[Toot-toooo— toot-toooo—]
"Prepare charge! Prepare charge!"
"Form up! Horses form up! Minds form up! Snap to it!"
"Don't lose the banners!"
Avalonia's cavalry formed ranks swiftly. Shield-and-short-spear men up front, heavy-armored long-contus riders behind. For Wolfmaer and his bewildered Romano-British barbarians, I pointed at my chariot: follow me.
"Wolfmaer! Stick to my back! Stray and you die!"
"Y-yes, Artorius!"
Wolfmaer nodded frantically, his guards bobbing heads like crazy. Good—they knew some of our tongue. Once his tribe migrates post-battle, they'd be useful. But first, the fight at hand.
"Rome! Advance!"
Raising my contus for the order, Caius blared his cornu again, echoed by horn-bearers signaling charge.
[Bwaaaaam—]
[Toooooot—]
[Toot-toot—]
Horses snorted roughly first; cooler-headed riders clamped thighs to hold them back.
[Thud-thud-thud— rattle-rattle—]
Our elite cavalry shone behind my lead chariot as barbarians yelled desperately toward us.
"Where are you. Show yourself."
Cavalry taboo number two: don't waste your first strike chance. Also, check your horse's stamina. Whether hurling javelins, thrusting on charge, or trampling—horse endurance is finite despite superiority. Attacks must be decisive. This was baiting, pure and simple.
"Sto-dit! Pa-hurst! Woden werad! Woden heilad!"
"There."
[Boom!]
[Whoooosh—]
Another contus sliced the sky.
[Splat!]
"Wo—urk!"
It pierced a bold barbarian stepping forward.
"Urk—gurgle—"
The spear left a gaping hole, skewered a few more, then stopped. Call this Artorius's judgment—no Mars or Lord this time. The barbarian stared blankly at his chest wound, coughed blood, tried to look up at me, then toppled.
His comrades wailed, faces flushing red as they pointed and jabbered in their tongue.
"Wolfmaer! What're they saying!?"
"Dominus Artorius! All threats to kill you!"
Wolfmaer stiffened in the chaos, but I ignored it. Foreign tongues are hard; our Latin's grammar and dialects make it worse. His blunt summary—all "kill you"—nearly made me laugh.
"Obviously! I'll give 'em the chance! Let's go! Maverick!"
[Neighhh!]
Loosening Maverick's bit, my lead horse surged forward, nearly slipping. Numbers two through four panted at their limits beside it. A few barbarian javelins flew, missing wide. My throws must've messed their range; or killing their brave leader hit harder than expected.
Deeper in would've risked my horses, Caius, and followers, so I wheeled slowly, looking down on them from the right.
[Snort! Snort!]
[Rattle-rattle—]
Maybe a third of the front line looked ready to burst out, faces red-purple. The rest: panicked or terrified. Sturdy infantry phalanx beyond, with maybe ten or twenty barbarian cavalry who wouldn't budge. Baited out a leader-type successfully, but no berserk rush breaking their line—half success. Good enough.
"Caius, withdraw. When Beduerus arrives, we'll sweep 'em. Sound retreat."
"Yes, Magister Militum!"
Two long, resounding cornu blasts followed, Avalonia's blue droplet banner flapping proudly on red Roman field. Then only cheers from the fortress walls—no more barbarian cries.