Recorded by Simonus Carsonius, Praeses of the Legion Ploughmanorum, in the Year of the Consuls MMXXVI

It came to pass that the Legion Ploughmanorum marched south across the River Tamesis to engage the tribe known as the Iron Men of Battersea, a people whose camp occupies ground long contested not merely by cricketers, but by warriors of the oval ball and men who spend winter afternoons kicking inflated bladders about muddy fields. The outfield looked like something the Visigoths had camped on and would be a cause of concern throughout the afternoon.

The sacred strip had survived only through the determined efforts of the groundskeepers and, perhaps, the indulgence of Jupiter himself. One could never entirely trust the bounce. Some deliveries reared with murderous intent toward the face, while others died pitifully in the dust, barely reaching the defenders.

The Iron Men are named thusly because they trace their lineage to an armoured regiment raised during the last great war of the previous age. Any club founded by men whose ordinary pastime involved driving tanks at the enemy is unlikely to be intimidated by a leather ball. Their hospitality, however, must be said to have proved every bit as impressive as their history, and mid-bellum refreshments proved beyond satisfactory.

Our commander, George Tunnacliffus, having won favour with Fortuna in the tossing of the sacred coin, declared immediately that we should bat first. History would later confirm this to be correct.

To open the campaign strode Yannius Baveas and Grantus Wolledgius.

It was Wolledgius who revealed himself immediately favoured by the gods. He began with proper Roman discipline, surveying the enemy artillery with the quiet patience of a man who has done this before and intends to do it again, then gradually shifted from careful legionary to conquering general. Drives thundered through the gaps, cuts pierced defensive lines with surgical precision, and every over that passed deepened the enemy's confusion. Wolledgius's authority at the crease heightened as observers began whispering that they might be witnessing the birth of a new centurion.

Alas, the gods delight in reminding mortals that perfection belongs only to Olympus, and on eighty seven they made their point with characteristic brutality. A delivery so laughably poor it barely deserved acknowledgement was met with the casual contempt it warranted, except contempt occasionally produces a top edge that balloons absurdly into the heavens and descends into the hands of Primus Slipus.
Neither defeated by skill, nor overcome by superior tactics, the legion mourned and agreed Wolledgius had been stitched up by Fortuna. He deserved better.

Yannius Baveas had earlier fallen for a spirited twenty-two, and his replacement was Tommus Lonnenius, a man who, if Wolledgius resembled Alexander, resembled more an experienced Roman engineer. Lonnenius did what he has been doing since the occupation of Britannia. He batted properly. The scoreboard quietly ticked over another half-century, his twenty seventh for the Republic. Rome wasn't built in a day, but Lonnenius could have also calmly knocked together a decent aqueduct before tea, if required.

At the fall of Lonnenius, Commander Tunnacliffus entered. Historians will continue to debate precisely what happened next, long into future centuries. Having watched the previous pair spend thirty overs carefully constructing the fortress, our leader decided enough architecture had taken place and immediately started lobbing flaming projectiles over the walls. Bowlers who had looked composed moments earlier found themselves staring into the middle distance, questioning the existence of benevolent gods. Five times the ball raced to the boundary, and four times it departed entirely, introduced at considerable velocity to the neighbouring hamlets. Sixty runs at a strike rate of 222 leads one to conclude that the tabularius was considerably troubled.

When finally dismissed for sixty, the work was already done. The Iron Men’s fortress had been breached, the legion’s treasury overflowed, and Tunnacliffus returned to accept the legion's salute in front of his proud parents and friends.

Hishamus Khanus contributed a brisk thirteen from six deliveries, and Nirajus Tailorius remained undefeated upon one.

The Republic's finest concluded upon 264 for four.

The Iron Men replied with genuine determination. Foremost among them stood Kingstonius, who batted magnificently throughout, composed where others lost discipline, resolute where others perished. He finished undefeated on one hundred and seven in an innings that deserved considerably richer reward than history ultimately granted him. Individual brilliance, however glorious, cannot always save an army from arithmetic.

Damonus Greenius proved the legion’s most efficient enforcer. Seven overs that resembled less a military engagement than an organised tax collection; just sixteen runs conceded in total with two prisoners taken. The Iron Men increasingly discovered that mathematics had become their principal enemy.

Among our newer recruits, James Lowrius began his first over in a manner that briefly suggested a young auxiliary beset by nervousness, but thereafter he settled magnificently; disciplined, wicket-taking, reliable in the field, and conducting himself with the confidence of a man who has been doing this for years and simply forgot to mention it. The Senate approves his continued service.

Dineshus Kingerus, who commenced bowling hostilities for the legion with the flames of Vulcan, was unlucky not to be smiled upon. Hishamus Khanus, apparently unwilling to restrict himself to batting alone, claimed an enemy scalp, and Tommus Winterius likewise joined the roll of honour.

As for Simonus Carsonius, Fortuna eventually smiled, in the specific form of a batsman who struck the ball directly back at him. The ball adhered to his hands in a manner that would not particularly please the gods of artistry, but the record shall state, caught and bowled, and they all count. Earlier in the afternoon, Carsonius had launched an appeal of considerable volume and conviction for a delivery he was absolutely certain had struck the enemy's boot plumb in front, only to discover, upon surveying the scene, that not a single other soul had felt moved to join him. Tommus Lonnenius at slip offered the definitive assessment: "he fucking smashed that". Carsonius apologised to the enemy batter, and the walk back to his mark was, by common agreement, a long one.

What most distinguished the legion this day was certainly some spectacular batting, but also disciplined competence in the field. Unglamorous but reliable, match-winning competence. Every catch offered was accepted, and every opportunity seized. The Iron Men, by contrast, put down several opportunities that proved their undoing, as dropped catches invariably do.

During the final ten overs, Commander Tunnacliffus resisted every temptation toward unnecessary heroics. Setting intelligent fields and conceding occasional singles without worry, he watched the mathematics tighten around the enemy like a Roman siege. Not dramatic, merely effective. Often the finest kind of leadership.

When the final ball was delivered, the Iron Men stood upon 230 for five. Brave, competitive, but thirty four runs short.

Following the campaign, the customary rites commenced. Beer flowed on the terrace, stories improved with each retelling, and the weather, a civilised twenty five degrees, mercifully reduced from the previous week's furnace, permitted the legion’s recovery with appropriate dignity.
Only the bathhouse disappointed, its waters beginning lukewarm before descending rapidly toward temperatures normally associated with mountain streams in Germania.

Thus concluded another successful expedition of the Legion Ploughmanorum.

Glory to Wolledgius, denied his century only by the malicious laughter of Fortuna. Glory to Tunnacliffus, whose assault broke the enemy's resolve and whose captaincy thereafter closed the game with quiet authority; and glory to Lonnenius, who built the platform, as well as delivering the most authoritative judgement of the afternoon.

A fine afternoon, and a good victory.

The Senate may record that the legion acquitted itself with distinction.

Carsonius
Praeses, Legion Ploughmanorum no.175
Batting average: Still Infinite