Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles)

by James Mace

  Up on the wall, Frisian warriors fought savagely to try and mass their numbers and allow more of their companions to climb to the top. Knowing their predicament, the legionaries were fighting with equal ferocity. They understood that if the Frisians were able to gain any kind of a foothold on the wall, it would spell their doom. A stalemate had ensued with neither side gaining a decisive advantage.

  Tabbo’s face twitched in a quick grin as he watched a hapless legionary get pulled over the wall and fall screaming to his death. His joy was short-lived as another Roman smashed the bottom edge of his shield into the face of a warrior who was upended over the wall. Both sides excelled at close quarters combat, though the Romans’ superior armor and weapons gave them the advantage. Legionaries from other parts of the fort were rushing quickly to support their companions and relieve them before fatigue overtook.

  “Send one of the reserve regiments to the right and take them in the flank,” Tabbo ordered a nearby warrior.

  The man nodded and rushed off, shouting orders to one of the two regiments that waited impatiently in reserve. Tabbo was impatient himself, wishing desperately that he was with his brave men storming the wall. It was not to be. King Dibbald had placed him in charge of the attack, and therefore, his place was to coordinate the assault, not lead it. He reasoned that once a breach was made, he could then take part in the battle.

  The Romans had left the minimal amount of legionaries on each of the remaining walls, and these quickly shouted back to their leaders that the Frisians were moving on one of the other walls. Tabbo noticed a Centurion shouting orders and pointing with his gladius. The archers who had fallen back now reestablished themselves on the right flank and started shooting at the Frisians who were coming at them. This group had only half as many ladders as the main effort, and Tabbo hoped they would be enough. The Romans were scrambling to place another pair of scorpions on the corners of the right wall while a handful of legionaries stood ready to repel this latest threat. The number of casualties they had sustained upset Tabbo deeply, though he knew they were necessary if the fort was going to fall.

  Overall, the assault was not going badly. The Romans were losing men too, and they did not have the numbers to spare. His men were feverishly building more ladders, and he knew if they were able to assault one more side of the fort the Romans would not have the numbers to repel them. He doubted they would even be able to hold for much longer under the onslaught against just two of the walls.

  Frisian warriors were now over the second wall, and it looked as if the Romans had committed the last of their reserves against them. Scorpions continued to fire at both assault groups, though their reload times were mercifully slow. Tabbo then saw the same Centurion who had been shouting orders earlier, run over to the wall with a bucket. The contents he threw at one of the ladders. It looked like oil, and Tabbo’s fears were confirmed when a legionary came forward with a lit torch and ignited the ladder. Warriors screamed in panic as the flames swept over them, most jumping or falling off. One poor bastard had taken a splash of oil to the face, which was now consumed in flames. He screamed as he fell head first from the ladder. It was a merciful end when he snapped his neck on a large boulder below.

  “How many more ladders do we have?” Tabbo impatiently asked a nearby messenger.

  “Three, my chief,” the man replied. “They are working on five more as we speak.”

  “It will have to do,” Tabbo said. “I will take the last reserve regiment to the left. Once the other ladders are complete, have the remainder of our men assault the fort from behind.” He then cursed himself under his breath. He had not waited until all the ladders were complete and attacked all four sides of the fort at once. He was certain that it would have already fallen. Just then a scout rode up, frantically, on his horse.

  “The Romans are coming!” he shouted with an air of desperation in his voice. “The Army of the Rhine approaches, my chief!”

  “How far are they?” Tabbo asked, even more aggravated at this point.

  “About two hours’ march,” the scout replied. “They have a regiment of cavalry screening their front; Indus’ Horse from the looks of them. Behind that are three legions plus an equal number of auxiliaries.”

  Tabbo scowled but knew there was nothing more that could be done. Julius Indus was the greatest cavalry officer of the age, and this regiment had become legendary both during the Germanic Wars, as well as the Sacrovir Revolt in Gaul. Part of Tabbo’s plan was to avoid facing the auxilia cavalry, in particular Indus’ Horse.

  “I doubt that the fort will fall within that time,” he sighed, admitting defeat.

  “Our warriors are making progress,” a nearby sub-chief stated, “but you are right. They will not have the fort completely taken before the rest of the Roman army arrives.”

  Tabbo then turned to a horn blower who had remained by his side the entire time.

  “Sound the order to retreat,” he told the man. “Get our warriors off the wall.”

  “Some of our men will be captured,” the sub-chief said as the ominous tone of the war horn echoed through the valley.

  “A risk they all knew they were taking,” Tabbo replied coldly as he watched his men scramble down the ladders. The archers and skirmishers stayed by the wall, attempting to cover those who still fought on the ramparts as they withdrew.

  It took some time to get the survivors who were able to escape away from the fort, and Tabbo refused to leave until the last man had been saved. The ladders were abandoned, their usefulness gone. As the archers rushed back towards the woods Tabbo could just make out the standards of the legions approaching from the west across the open plain. The red shields and gleaming armor stood in stark contrast to the lush green fields they trampled through. They were advancing quickly, and he knew they would be upon him within minutes.

  Up in the fort a loud cheer erupted. Tabbo looked up and scowled at the sight of legionaries holding their weapons high in triumph, as if they had withheld the siege on their own. Their vexilation flag was waved back and forth from one of the corners where the man stood atop one of the scorpions, supported by his comrades.

  Gaius was disappointed when he heard that they were going to push past the fort at Flevum. Even if he had not taken part in the battle, he still wished to see some dead warriors. He had never seen a Frisian before and had little idea as to what they looked like. He reasoned it would be just as good to get a view of a dead one as a live one.

  The path went right by the fort, and the young legionary tried his best to catch a quick glimpse of the battle’s aftermath without falling out of formation. There was little to see. The First Legion had been the first to arrive, and the Frisians had already retreated before them. Gaius could just make out in the distance what he surmised was a pile of dead Frisian warriors. Legionaries were stacking timber on and around them, attempting to burn the bodies before they started to stink and draw more flies to the gaping wounds. Everything was damp from the recent rainfall, though Gaius reasoned, nothing a bit of oil and Roman ingenuity could not resolve.

  “The Romans have overtaken Flevum,” Tabbo reported to the King. Dibbald nodded. He was not surprised and had figured that his warriors would not be able to take the fort before the Rhine Army arrived.

  “You came closer to taking the Roman fort than I expected,” the King said. “Normally I would never order our men to conduct an assault unless I knew they could take it. However, our warriors needed to bloody themselves against the Romans. Their anger is now at its peak. It is on the wings of rage that we will drive the legions from our lands forever.”

  “Century…halt!” Artorius shouted, with a raise of his hand. He was at the southernmost bridge, the far half of which was partially shrouded in fog. The sky was cloudy, and the cold air had trapped the haze on the ground even through the afternoon. Instinctively, his Principal Officers and Decanii merged on where he and Rufio stood.

  “Well, would you look at that,” a Decanus said.


  “At what?” another questioned. There was a break in the clouds, and the sun cast a soft glow where the men stood. Across the river was a contrast of darkness in the thick woods.

  “Exactly,” Artorius replied with a nod. “What fate awaits us beyond the mist?”

  Chapter XVII: Wings of Rage

  At the Bridge over the Rhine, Braduhenna Wood, Frisia

  June, 28 A.D.

  ***

  The Frisians knew it was all about timing, knowing the Romans would have to cross here. The only other choices were a ford twenty miles upstream and another bridge even further. The Roman army was staged on the far side overlooking the long bridge; three legions, plus massive numbers of auxilia and cavalry. It had already been a long day when they arrived. The deep fog and mist making the opposite shoreline seem to disappear. Tribunes and Centurions were debating whether to cross before it got too late or encamp on their side of the river.

  Unbeknownst to the Romans, the undersides of the bridges were treated with straw and pitch and their support ropes weakened. A simple but brilliant trick: allow the legions to start their crossing and then destroy the bridges out from under them.

  The Frisians knew they could not torch the bridges too soon because the Romans would still have the bulk of their forces intact and would simply march twenty miles north to the ford and cross there. And yet if they waited too long …well, the legions were a fearsome enemy and if allowed to mass their numbers they would smash through the Frisians and trample them into dust. One legion was maneuvering for the crossing, followed by their auxiliaries. It appeared the Romans were going to cross this afternoon, rather than waiting until the next morning. These particular troops looked to be strictly infantry, the Germanic auxiliary cavalry was somewhere in the distance.

  Hidden in a thicket, a Frisian archer waited impatiently. It had rained recently, and he prayed the tinder and kindling he brought wrapped in many layers of cloth was still dry. His companion knelt next to him, flint and steel in hand. There were many such pairings in the thick undergrowth along the river bank. They would let the first wave of legionaries cross, and then hit the bridges with flaming arrows while the auxilia crossed. That would trap a significant portion of their force, an entire legion at that, on the Frisian side of the river. The archer licked his lips in nervous anticipation.

  There was a deepening fog on the far side of the river, which made Centurion Artorius apprehensive. Scouts had reported that the rebel army was huge, far larger than anticipated. One report had the enemy strength in the tens-of-thousands, though between the fog and dense woods this was impossible to verify. If it was true, Artorius had doubts as to whether or not their force would be large enough to defeat the Frisians even under ideal conditions. He also knew that whether they crossed here or at the ford to the north meant little. They would still be stretched thin and could only cross so many soldiers at a time. Speed would be the key; get enough men across to hold the far bank and allow the rest of the army to deploy.

  With the possibility of battle being joined as soon as they crossed, all Centurions and Options had been ordered to leave their horses with the baggage trains. The Frisians had to know the legions would pursue them after breaking the siege around Flevum, and what better place to set up an ambush!

  “I don’t like this,” he said as he was joined by Centurion Vitruvius.

  His superior made an assessment of the situation and shook his head. “Neither do I,” he replied. “These people aren’t stupid. They knew better than to engage us in force when we liberated Flevum. No matter where we cross it’s going to be a real bitch if they are waiting for us on the other side.”

  “My thoughts exactly,” Artorius added. “And with this damn fog we can hardly see each other, let alone what may be on the far side.”

  “I suspect they’ll hit us with everything they’ve got as soon as we’re across,” Vitruvius continued. “It’s like we are at the River Styx assaulting Hades itself.”

  The air was damp, and Artorius felt his skin crawl as a feeling of unease came over him. He then took a deep breath.

  “Well, if we’re going to die storming the pits of hell, we might as well get it over with,” he said with a grin.

  Vitruvius returned the grin and grunted in acknowledgment.

  “Vitruvius!” shouted Master Centurion Calvinus, who was still on his horse, coordinating final movement orders. “The Third will cross here and anchor the right flank. Make sure you leave enough room for everyone else to fall in on your left. And be sure you get across as quickly as you can; this place gives me the fucking creeps!”

  “Yes, sir,” Vitruvius nodded before turning back to Artorius, his grin returning. “Well, old friend, since I’ve already got you here, why don’t you do the honor of leading us to the other side.”

  “It would be an honor,” Artorius replied as he clasped his Cohort Commander’s forearm.

  Vitruvius became somber once more.

  “Get over that damn bridge as fast as possible and start pushing out to the right,” he ordered as he clutched Artorius’ arm harder. “Dominus will follow you with the Fourth; I will take the center, all other centuries on my left.”

  He then released his junior Centurion’s hand and rendered a salute, which Artorius returned. Vitruvius then nodded to his Signifier, who waved the Signum to let the rest of the legion know they were set. In the distance, the Legion’s Eagle was tilted forward, the signal to advance.

  Artorius stepped onto the bridge, drew his gladius, and swept it in a high arc towards the far side. He turned back to see Rufio directly behind him with the Century’s Signum, the rest of his men but a few paces behind, anxiously eyeing their Centurion. He cocked a half smile to reassure them before sounding the order in his loudest command voice.

  “Second Century… follow me!”

  The Frisian watched in apprehension as he saw the first of the Roman troops moving across the bridge. At the head of the formation was a rather large Centurion, his crested helmet distinguishing him from his men. The archer swallowed hard and kept his head down as more legionaries crossed at the run behind their Centurion. It was nerve racking, knowing that the Romans would soon be behind him and have him trapped between them and the river. Too late to wish he had chosen a larger bush to hide in! Still, he reminded himself again that once the bridges were burning it would be utter chaos. The legion on this side of the river would immediately be facing the onslaught of the entire Frisian nation.

  Still more soldiers crossed, and yet he waited. They were told to allow this particular legion to cross in its entirety, along with some of their auxiliaries. Once he saw the Germanic and Gallic infantry on the bridge he knew it was time. Huddled over his precious tinder, his companion frantically struck the flint with his knife and prayed it would ignite.

  Artorius expected to be beset by enemies at any moment, yet all was silent, too silent. The fog and the silence grated on him. It was cool, and he could almost see his breath in the air. And yet his body remained warm through the heat of exertion and anticipation. Everything was drenched that he could see. He almost tripped over a fallen log and raised his weapon up to signal the obstacle to his men. The only sounds he heard were his own breathing and the footfalls of his legionaries. He could hear Rufio clearly as the Signifier hefted the Signum while keeping up with the Centurion. He then skirted to the right of a high rock outcropping, about twenty meters high and wide, that jutted straight up from the ground. From there the ground sloped and led to a large sandy bar by the river.

  Just then he heard a loud commotion to his rear. He turned back to see dozens of flaming arrows shooting forth from the bushes along the riverbank towards the bridge. Though he could not see very well through the thick undergrowth, the loud clambering and disorder told him what affect they were having.

  “They’ve torched the bridge!” Optio Praxus shouted as he raced towards his Centurion. “Just as the first wave of auxiliaries got across those bastards started firing into th
e bridges. The underside must have been treated with pitch, because even in this fucking damp it immediately ignited.”

  A loud snapping sounded as the weakened ropes holding the supports of the nearest bridge gave way, accompanied by the crash of timbers, echoing the Optio’s assessment.

  On the bridge, auxiliary troops were rushing forward or back, trying to reach safety as the structure keeled over onto its side as the support ropes snapped. Numerous troopers fell into the raging current, their heavy armor pulling them under to a watery grave. Legionaries on the far side of the river desperately looked back to see what was causing such havoc.

  “Eyes front damn it!” Magnus shouted. Legionaries quickly refocused their attention to the front where they knew the bulk of the Frisians would come. Artorius stole a glance through the bushes and saw several dozen Frisian archers jump into the current, allowing it to carry them downstream and away from the Romans. Lightly equipped and as good swimmers as most of them were assured them a far greater chance of survival. Auxiliary archers on the other side of the river took sporadic shots at them, trying to exact at least some retribution for the loss of their friends. Though several were struck down this way, the majority soon floated out of range to safety.

  “Damn, this sucks,” Artorius growled.

  “That it does, sir,” Rufio concurred quietly.

  Artorius looked back to see the Signifier had never left his side. “Where would you like me to post?”

  “Good question,” the Centurion replied. He then shouted to Praxus, “The rest of the Cohort cross okay?”

  “Looks like it,” the Optio called back from his end of the line. “They’re forming up just to our left.”

  “Cohort…halt!” The order had originated from Vitruvius and was echoed up to the front of the column by the senior officers of each century.