Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles)

by James Mace

  He then made his way back to his men and started shoving his way towards the front. Only his warriors directly engaging the Romans, and those a few ranks back, were making any kind of noise. With their momentum halted, the rest simply stood shaking their weapons in the air in restless anticipation. Those on the right kept their shields overhead as they continued to take fire from the archers on the rocks. As he got closer to the actual battle, the crowd of warriors became more spread out until he was within about a dozen meters of the Roman line. There, a force of his men, perhaps twice the number of legionaries, was furiously engaging their hated foe. The rest stayed back, knowing that bunching too close together would do them no good. Instead, they shouted words of encouragement, with small groups charging into the fray as battered and wounded warriors struggled out.

  Tabbo saw three of his men engaging the enemy Centurion. Another lay dead at the Roman’s feet, his eyes open, yet unseeing. He gave a loud bark, and the three men stepped back, eyes on their war chief.

  “The Centurion is mine!” he bellowed. His warriors all nodded and turned to help their friends fighting the rest of the Roman force. Tabbo was impressed at the sight of his adversary. Though shorter than himself, this Roman was big. Granted, in their heavy armor all Romans looked much larger than they were, but this man was huge. Tabbo was glad, because he did not want to slay an inadequate foe. He limbered up his right arm, in which he carried a hand axe that bore a spike on the end, as well as on the back side. As a war chief he possessed much wealth and could have easily afforded a good sword. Instead, he found his trusted axe much more to his liking. His lips were drawn back in an evil grin as he raised his weapon high, and then pointed it at the Centurion, giving a nod. The Roman returned the grin and the gesture, then settling into his fighting stance. Devoid of war cry or any other sound, Tabbo rushed forward, his axe swinging freely by his side, ready to strike.

  Artorius was impressed by the ferocity and fighting skill of his enemy. He knew the man to be a war chief, or at least a leader of sorts amongst the Frisians. He was not only powerful, but very quick with his weapons. He struck hard and fast with his axe, and he also knew how to effectively use his smaller oblong shield as a weapon, much in the same manner as a legionary. Their shields came together time and again, with the Frisian following up with short, rapid slashes with his weapon. He was able to keep his shield at the ready, thereby deflecting most of Artorius’ counterstrikes with his gladius. No other warriors came at him; they were letting the two men engage in single combat. At one point, when the Frisian knocked Artorius back with a short charge and shield collision, Rufio looked to step in and assist.

  “Rufio, stay out of this!” the Centurion barked. “Take control of the line!”

  “Sir!” the Signifier acknowledged as he then gave the order for the next passage-of-lines.

  Artorius took in a deep breath as he squared off against his opponent once more. He could not help but wonder how Vitruvius would fare in this situation. Of course, he had been fighting for some time before even facing this man, and he was already exhausted. Still, he had much respect for his enemy, and he surmised the feeling was mutual. The warrior came at him once more, this time attacking low with a hard backhand swing with the spiked back of his axe. As Artorius dropped his shield to deflect the blow, the Frisian brought the bottom edge of his own shield up in a hard swing that caught him just above the right eye and the bridge of his nose. Artorius stumbled back, but managed to catch the Frisian hard on the shin with the bottom edge of his shield. The man lost his balance and as he started to fall sideways Artorius lunged forward, catching him in the upper arm with a stab of his gladius. His weapon did not penetrate as deeply as he hoped, for the Frisian retaliated with another backhand swing with his injured arm as he rolled to his side and immediately back to his feet. The Centurion stepped back and caught his breath. Both men were grinning at each other, and in a strange and macabre sense, both men were, at least in part, enjoying themselves. The battle that raged beside them seemed forgotten, and each man was exhilarated by the purity of the challenge his opponent presented.

  As they made ready to come at each other again, loud war horns echoed in the distance behind the Frisians. His opponent looked disgusted as he backed away and looked down at the ground and sighed. He then shouted orders to his men, who were backpedaling away from the Century. They moved slowly and deliberately, warriors in the mass behind them rushing forward to assist any wounded away. It was then that Artorius realized the sun was setting behind them, though the fog to their front was still very thick. He surmised he must have injured his foe much more than he had realized, for the man’s weapon arm was now soaked in blood. The Frisian gave a half smile, let out a bellowing war cry as he raised his weapon high. He then held the axe in front of his chest in a type of salute and gave a short bow. Artorius raised his own weapon, and saluted his adversary in return. The man then turned and joined his warriors as they left the field. A loud triumphant cry erupted from the Roman lines as the legionaries and their auxiliary allies felt they had defeated the Frisians. Artorius was suddenly aware of his Signifier now standing next to him.

  “They’ll be back,” he said in a low voice to Rufio, who could only nod in reply. He then turned to his men. “At fucking ease, all of you! This battle has not ended, but only just begun!”

  Tabbo collapsed as soon as he reached the roaring fire where sat King Dibbald and the other Frisian warrior nobility. His arm had stiffened up on him, and he quickly got out of his tunic to see just how bad his injury was. His shin was bleeding and throbbing in pain from the blow of the Centurion’s shield. Prince Klaes was at his side with a pouch full of herbs and a bandage.

  “Here, you will want some of this,” he said as he offered to tend to the war chief’s wounds. “It will help speed the healing.”

  “Thank you, sire,” Tabbo replied. His mouth was dry and he was craving some water.

  Sensing this, Klaes snapped his fingers, and a warrior quickly brought a water skin over to them, which Tabbo greedily drank while Klaes bandaged his wound.

  “My prince, it really isn’t necessary…”

  “Nonsense, man,” Klaes replied with a grin. His father was much grimmer. King Dibbald sat on a makeshift throne and stared into the fire, his hands resting on his knees.

  “You failed to break the Roman flank today,” he said quietly, though his voice naturally carried far.

  The rebuke struck Tabbo far worse than the Roman’s blade.

  “The Romans are a formidable enemy, sire,” Tabbo replied, staring at the ground.

  Prince Klaes was quick to jump to his defense. “Father, the bulk of our men had the Roman main line just as badly outnumbered as Tabbo did the enemy on the flank, and yet they did not achieve victory today either.”

  “We will finish them tomorrow,” Tabbo spoke with determination, looking into Dibbald’s face. The King continued to stare into the fire, lost as he was in thought. “They think they have been given a reprieve. They may even think they defeated us today. But no, while our warriors eat and rest, they hunger in the shivering night. No rest will come to them tonight, no respite from the terrors of the darkness.”

  Chapter XVIII: Eye of the Nightmare

  ***

  Several torches were placed at intervals approximately thirty meters in front of the Roman lines. Artorius was amazed that they had gotten the torches to light, given that it seemed like everything was soaked from the thick fog that clung to whatever it touched. They cast an eerie glow about the battlefield, which was strewn with few corpses. The Frisians had been able to retrieve their wounded, as well as a number of their dead.

  A legionary from the First Century had been dispatched to bring Artorius to the meeting of the Cohort’s leadership. He left Rufio in charge of the Century as he and Praxus followed the legionary up the sharp slope. In the dark he kept tripping over rocks and tree roots. A single torch lit the spot where the Centurions and Options were meeting. Artorius a
nd Praxus removed their helmets as they walked into the soft glow of the light. Vitruvius and Dominus were off to the side, arguing about what sounded like a plan Vitruvius had for a breakout of the Cohort. Centurion Statorius arrived from the other end of the line, where his Fifth Century was linked to the next Cohort on the line.

  “Enough!” Vitruvius said in exasperation, holding his hand up, silencing Dominus. “We’ll talk about it later.” Both men then turned and faced their fellow Centurions. “How is the Second surviving?”

  “We’re still here,” Artorius replied with a nod. “Those auxiliaries helped us hold.”

  “Good,” Vitruvius said before addressing the entire group. “As you know, I just came from meeting with Legate Apronius and the other Cohort Commanders. It seems we’ve lost the entire Fourth Cohort.”

  “They were wiped out?” Statorius asked, flabbergasted.

  Vitruvius shook his head. “Not yet,” he replied. “They’ve just disappeared. The Frisians launched a sortie as the cohorts on the left were getting set, and it seems that in the confusion they ended up separated from the rest of the Legion. There’s a dwelling on this side of the river that used to belong to one of our allies. We think they may be hold up there…at least that is what we hope. All we know is the Seventh is on the extreme left and the Fourth was supposed to be next to them on the right; but when the Frisians withdrew, the Sixth was on their right with no sign of the Fourth.”

  “Fuck!” the Centurion from the Sixth Century swore. “It’s as if we have all crossed into Hades when an entire Cohort just disappears.”

  “How are the rest surviving?” Artorius asked.

  “They’re pretty banged up, but holding,” the Cohort Commander replied. “They hit the center hard, trying to take out the leadership of the Legion. They almost succeeded, too, if not for the quick thinking of Master Centurion Calvinus. He and Draco pushed the Frisians back with a storm of javelins followed by a hasty charge from the wedge. Still, the Chief Tribune was killed in the exchange. Camillus and about a dozen men held off the enemies’ attempts to take the Eagle.”

  “I can’t believe they even got that close to it,” Dominus remarked.

  “Today was a rough one,” Vitruvius concurred. “And if we’re being honest with ourselves, tomorrow will be much worse. But before we let the hand of doom take us, let your men know that there is hope. One of the unsteady old bridges on the far left of the line, past where the Legion crossed, was not completely destroyed. The Fifth Legion is working through the night to repair it. Gods willing, they will be able to cross sometime tomorrow. Failing that, Tribune Cursor has taken all of the cavalry and a large number of the auxiliary infantry and headed north to the ford twenty miles upriver. If he force marches his men through the night, they could be here by midmorning.”

  “Let’s hope they have the strength to fight after that,” Statorius remarked as all of the men huddled in close.

  The lone torch was the only source of heat, and the dozen men tried to get as close as they could. An Optio blew into his hands, trying to keep them warm.

  “It’s not just fatigue and hunger that are hurting our men,” Artorius observed.

  “I know,” Statorius replied. “I’ve got my soldiers who are not on watch sitting back-to-back against each other. That will at least keep them from having to lie down in the mud. They might at least be able to save some body heat.”

  Vitruvius took a deep breath and looked into the faces of his Cohort’s leadership once more.

  “I need to get a total count of your dead and wounded once you return to your centuries,” he stated. “I know you didn’t have time to accomplish this before I summoned you. Take heart, men. Between the Fifth Legion and Cursor’s ten thousand auxiliaries, there is hope for us yet.”

  As soon as he returned, Artorius walked down the line getting accountability of his men. Four were dead, including two of his Decanii, which was a terrible stroke of bad luck. Though the line had held, two of the auxilia were dead as well. Another twelve legionaries and four auxiliaries were wounded, though three of the legionaries would still be able to fight once their wounds were bound. Material for bandages was in short supply, with soldiers using their rags that they kept in their belts for wiping down their weapons, as well as parts of tunics. None had worn their cloaks, nor had any brought any food with them. The only items of sustainment they had brought were their water bladders. With the river behind them, water was in ample supply and legionaries were drinking as much as they could to try to fill their stomachs and at least partially quell their hunger. Artorius noted the rumbling in his own stomach as he called for a meeting of the Century’s leadership. As he was short two squad leaders he took a glance at his legionaries on the line and made a quick decision.

  “Valens, Felix!” he called.

  The two soldiers quickly rushed over to their Centurion and stood at attention.

  “Sorry, I don’t have time for formalities, but you are both hereby promoted to Decanus, Sergeants of Legionaries. We’ll take care of the orders when we get back.”

  “Provided any of us survive tomorrow,” an eavesdropping legionary mumbled nearby.

  “Yes, sir,” both men answered together with a nod.

  Congratulatory voices were heard from the line as a number of men had also heard the Centurion’s order. In any other circumstance, Felix would have been ecstatic by the promotion. Valens had been avoiding promotion for years, though he said no words of protest. As it was, both men were very somber and determined to do what was necessary to see that their men survived the onslaught they knew would come with the dawn.

  “How is the rest of the Legion holding, sir?” one of the Decanii asked.

  “They held,” Praxus answered, “though they are in just as bad shape as we are.”

  “The entire Fourth Cohort has gone missing,” Artorius added, leading to some audible gasps and confusion from his section leaders.

  “How the hell did we lose an entire cohort?” another Decanus asked, flabbergasted. Artorius could only shake his head.

  “Damned if I know.” He then explained the situation as Vitruvius had relayed it to him. “But we cannot worry about them just yet. Right now we must look to our own survival, and the survival of the rest of the Third Cohort which is depending on us.”

  Just then they were joined by the section leader of the archers from the rocks.

  “Sir, I should tell you our arrows are completely expended,” he stated. “We need to try to retrieve what we can tonight, or we won’t be of any use come morning.”

  “We should also recover as many of our javelins as we can,” Sergeant Felix added.

  The Centurion nodded in reply.

  “I agree,” he acknowledged. “I doubt we’ll get any sleep tonight so straightening javelins will at least give the men something to keep themselves occupied. Plus it will give our enemies a bit of a shock when we throw them into their faces once again.”

  This got a smile and chuckle from the assembly, then Artorius was serious once more.

  “Keep an eye on your men tonight. Place them in shifts, and see if we can at least try to get some rest tonight. The Frisians will undoubtedly be well rested for tomorrow’s battle, and we need to salvage as much of our strength as we can.”

  “Sir, what about a relief?” Sergeant Valens asked. “Is there help coming?”

  “The cavalry and rest of the auxiliary infantry headed north for the ford as soon as the bridges were torched,” Artorius replied. “The other legions are trying to get the northernmost bridge repaired so that they can relieve us, though given the conditions I think we have a better chance of the cavalry reaching us first. Make no mistake, Tribune Cursor has forty miles to cover before he reaches us; and he cannot overly rush his advance lest his forces be too exhausted to carry the fight. Just know that they will come. All we have to do is stay alive until they get here.”

  The fog was thick and the terrain uneven as Cursor led his men on their desperat
e mission. Not once did he stop thinking about the gravity of the situation and the need for his men to be able to carry their attack with shock and surprise. With but a single legion and the few hundred auxiliaries who had managed to cross before the bridges collapsed, Cursor knew that he had nearly twice as many men under his command than those under Legate Apronius, who had been fighting all evening until dark. As he guided his horse over some slippery rocks he then wondered if any of their friends were even still alive.

  There was no path running parallel to the river on this side and with their vision severely hampered, his men moved at a virtual crawl. The moon broke through the mist just enough to cast an eerie glow about them. All Cursor could see was his horse, the few feet of moss covered rocks and trees to his front, and maybe three or four of his men that were closest to him. It was hard to believe that he had ten thousand with him; at least he hoped they were all still with him. The sound of their march was muffled by the fog and slowness of their advance.

  “All these men under my command, and yet I cannot see, much less control, any of them,” he grumbled as his foot slipped on a rock and nearly caused him to fall into the small stream that jutted out from the river.

  “We’re all with you, sir,” Centurion Rodolfo replied through the darkness. His words at least gave Cursor some comfort. To his front he saw one of the auxiliary infantrymen he had sent forward ahead of him. There were three others with the man, and they were acting as the guides and pace counters to see how far their force had traveled.

  “Nineteen miles, sir,” the trooper said as Cursor came within a few feet of him.

  The Tribune nodded and the man jogged forward to catch up with his companions.

  Can’t see a bloody thing, he swore quietly to himself. Let’s just hope we don’t march right past it!