Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles)

by James Mace

  “Midnight is approaching,” Rodolfo observed. “We should allow the men and horses to rest once we cross.”

  “I agree,” Cursor replied. “Twenty miles through this shitty terrain without rest would take its toll on the best conditioned of men and beasts. We will rest after we have crossed the ford and again when we have traveled another ten miles, and then one last time at five miles. We must make certain we save our strength or else we do the Valeria Legion no good.”

  “Nor ourselves,” a cavalryman nearby added. Cursor looked back at the man, who quickly lowered his head. “My apologies, sir.”

  “Nothing to apologize for,” the Tribune replied with a shake of his head. He let out a quiet sigh as the magnitude of the trooper’s statement struck him. Was he bringing salvation to his brothers in the Twentieth, or was he simply leading his ten thousand in a mass suicide?

  A faint glint interrupted his thoughts. The four men he had sent forward to scout the route were waving their spears towards the river. They had found the ford, much to Cursor’s relief. He turned to the trooper behind him, “pass the word that we’ve found the crossing. All cavalry units will mount up and cross in force and clear the far side of any potential threats.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man responded. Rodolfo was already back on his horse and barking orders to his men. It had been deathly quiet since the sun had set, and the sound of commotion in the darkness was the first real sign the Tribune had of the rest of his men with him. He had ordered them to maintain silence as they had trekked along the river, lest the enemy have scouts watching for them. Now silence was impossible to maintain, and as he rode up to the shallow crossing he was soon joined by Centurion Rodolfo and a large number of horsemen. The four scouts had somehow managed to light torches and would stay on the near side guiding all units across. Cursor then looked over to Rodolfo, who nodded that they were set. Without a word the Tribune spurred his horse to a quick gallop as he was splashed repeatedly in the darkness. The cavalry quickly fanned out in a large semicircle as soon as they were to the far side. The enemy was nowhere to be found.

  This is it, Cursor thought. Either I bring salvation or death. Gods have mercy if we are too late!

  The area by the Fifth Legion’s bridge was lit by numerous torches as legionaries worked at a furious pace to make it serviceable enough for men to cross with all their weapons and armor. In the distance, the sounds of axes felling trees and men shouting orders echoed through the blackness. Though the planks had all been burned and crashed into the river, the main support posts remained intact. Off to the left a pair of sentries alternated between watching their companions work and their sector along the river, which was devoid of movement. Only the sound of the raging river greeted their senses. The night was chilly, and the men wrapped their cloaks tight around themselves. One ate a balled up chunk of bread that had been left over from his supper. The other sentry looked over his shoulder and nudged his companion as their Tesserarius walked over to their position. The officer was making his rounds of the guard posts and work parties.

  “How are you men holding up?” he asked. He had been rushing from one position to another since the afternoon, and though he wore his cloak, he let it hang loose as his face was damp with sweat. There was little perceived threat on their side of the river, and only those on sentry duty wore their body armor and helmets.

  “We’re doing okay, sir,” one of the men answered as his friend’s mouth was full of food. “It’s bloody cold tonight, though.” He shuddered under his cloak in emphasis and was shocked that he could see his breath.

  “It is unusually cold for this time of year,” the Tesserarius concurred.

  “This bread’s a bit doughy, too,” the other soldier added as he took a drink from his water bladder to wash it down.

  The Tesserarius snorted, “Be glad you’re not with the Twentieth.”

  The soldier looked down briefly and then swallowed. The first legionary shook his head, slightly ashamed.

  “Those poor bastards,” he said quietly, to which the officer nodded in reply.

  “They’ve been fighting all evening,” he added. “Gods only know how many of them were killed, or how many wounded they have, with no way of treating their injuries. To say nothing of the fact that not one of them has cloak or food.”

  “I have some friends in the Twentieth,” the soldier still eating said. He then looked up at his companions.

  The Tesserarius’ face was stern. “We’d better hope the bridge is complete by morning then,” he observed. “Otherwise there won’t be a Twentieth Legion when we cross.”

  Tabbo ate heartily as he tried to work the soreness out of his arm and shoulder. He knew he had to rest at some point, though he was afraid that too much inactivity would leave his injured arm stiff and useless come morning. Still, he was grateful for the warm fire and fresh boar that his men had brought to him. There was no laughter or songs around the fires this night. His men were hopeful, yet still somber at the loss of many of their friends. He knew not how many of his own men had fallen that day. He only knew that whatever losses the Romans had suffered, they had visited back on the Frisians several times over. There was no sign of his friend, Olbert, and the war chief wondered if the brave man had fallen in battle. His heart was hardened for the time being; he could not allow himself to worry about friends who were simply missing when hundreds, if not thousands, of warriors had already fallen.

  “You were reluctant to leave the field today, no?” Sjoerd asked as he joined him, a jug of mead in his hand. The war chief grunted as he continued to eat.

  “I admit I did not like leaving even such a small sliver of our land in the hands of the Romans,” he replied. “However, the King was right to recall us. If we had persisted we may still have been fighting with them even now. And how many more of us would have fallen? No, we have done the right thing, painful as it was to withdraw. While we warm ourselves by the fire and eat mightily, the Romans are freezing in the night while hunger takes its toll.”

  Sjoerd grinned in reply. “Should make their demise all the more easy tomorrow,” he observed as he took a long quaff of mead.

  “It will ease our struggle, yes. But that does not mean it will be easy. I have seen the way the Romans fight. We must never underestimate them.” He then took another bite of meat before speaking again. “I take it the prince fought well?” Sjoerd shrugged.

  “Well enough,” he replied. “As well as any of us, I guess. The King ordered Eitel and me to stay by the prince’s side. We only managed to directly engage the Romans a few times, and that was doing little more than banging our weapons randomly against their shield wall. You are right, though, they are a fearsome enemy. Their javelins slew many of our comrades before we even got close to them.” He took another long pull off the mead jug, which was nearing empty.

  “Not too much, old friend,” Tabbo chided. “You will still need all your strength in the morning.”

  Both men laughed as Lourens walked into the light.

  “Tabbo, the King has called for you.”

  The war chief nodded and followed the master of the household cavalry away from the fire. Lourens then pointed to where the King paced quietly in a small grove, well away from the crowded fires. Tabbo nodded and Lourens left him to his business. As Tabbo limped into the grove, he saw Dibbald with his hands clasped behind his back, his head bowed as he paced slowly in contemplation.

  “You sent for me, sire?” Tabbo said at last.

  “I feel I must apologize to one of my greatest war chiefs,” the King said, his back still to him.

  “Sire?”

  “I wronged you earlier today when I berated you in front of my son and the other warriors,” Dibbald said as he turned to face him. “This war weighs heavily on me, and your actions today were not a failure on your part, but rather another example of the fortitude of our enemy.” He then sighed deeply, and Tabbo could see the melancholy in the King’s eyes. “It breaks my heart to call Rome my enemy
.”

  “Sire, Rome nearly starved us out of existence,” Tabbo conjectured.

  Dibbald raised a hand, silencing him.

  “One man,” he retorted, “one man alone did the unspeakable to our people.” Dibbald made no mention of the personal insults he had borne, to say nothing of the flogging received in front of his household.

  Tabbo knew better than to mention this to the King.

  “We have been on peaceful terms with Rome for many years. It saddens me deeply because I viewed the Emperor Tiberius as a personal friend…but then Tiberius no longer rules in Rome. I have word that he now lives in seclusion on some remote isle while one of his Praetorian thugs rules Rome with the same fear and terror that Olennius brought on us.”

  “That terror ends tomorrow, sire.” There was a fierce determination in Tabbo’s voice.

  The King looked over at him and smiled.

  “Indeed it will. I will order our men to show clemency if the Romans choose to surrender; but I know it will be for naught. This army will not surrender. They will fight to the very last, bringing more death to both our peoples. But when it is done, I will send word to the Roman governor, if he be still alive. We will negotiate an end to this war quickly, while demanding no more than the return of our sovereignty. The Romans will be in such a shock after their army’s defeat and the destruction of an entire legion that they will cede to our…requests.”

  Tabbo marveled at his King’s simple yet effective strategy. After defeating the Romans in battle, they would be diplomatic to them. Unlike the Germanic tribes who brought on the wrath of the entire Empire, Frisia would ask for so little, and offer to return to friendship with Rome that the Emperor, or whoever actually ruled the Empire now, would feel compelled to agree. Tabbo felt in his heart as if the King had already led his people into a new age of freedom.

  Gaius stumbled in the dark as his squad provided security for the archers who were retrieving as many usable arrows as they could manage. Each of them had started off with sixty, and their section leader stated that if he could get even half that number back he would be satisfied. The Roman javelins, being a much shorter range weapon, were mostly recovered within full view of the line.

  “Look at all the drag marks,” one of his companions said quietly.

  In numerous places the bush was laid flat and streaked with blood from where the Frisians had drug away many of their wounded and dead. Most of the bodies were close to the line, where they had fallen either during the storm of javelins or in close combat with the Century and their auxilia attachment. Still, there was the occasional dead warrior to be found out a ways from the line. These had either been felled by arrows or had succumbed to their injuries after crawling away from the main battle.

  In the faint torchlight, Gaius saw one such warrior with his back against a tree. At first he thought it was another corpse, but then he thought he saw the man’s head twitch. Curious, he walked over to the warrior, just to see if his eyes were playing tricks on him, what with the poor visibility, his utter exhaustion, plus the ever present pangs of hunger that now tormented him. He was surprised to see that the Frisian was still alive. His chest rose and fell, and his eyes opened as the young legionary knelt next to him and removed his helmet after first checking that the warrior had no weapons within reach. Gaius noticed the man had been wounded by arrows in both legs, which he assumed had happened as the Frisians retreated given that the man also bore a stab wound to his side brought on by a gladius. None of his injuries looked fatal, though he looked unable to move on his own. The warrior looked Gaius in the face.

  “Water,” he said in almost a whisper. “Water…please.”

  Without a second thought Gaius pulled the stopper out of his water bladder and poured into the man’s parched mouth. The warrior gulped down as much as he could and Gaius stopped for a moment when he saw most of it running down the sides of the warrior’s face. The Frisian swallowed hard and took a few quick breaths before Gaius gave him some more to drink. He then put the stopper back into his water bladder and stood.

  “Thank you,” the warrior whispered with a trace of a smile on his face.

  The young legionary then turned and found himself face to face with Sergeant Valens.

  “What the hell, Gaius?” the Decanus asked, a trace of irritation in his voice.

  “Valens, the man has been badly hurt and is of no threat,” Gaius answered, temporarily forgetting that Valens was no longer a fellow legionary but now his superior.

  The Decanus seemed not to notice the slip in protocol. The archers were heading back to the line, and Valens’ squad was withdrawing. As they walked back, Gaius felt the eyes of the Decanus on him.

  “Don’t ask me why I did it,” he said at last. “To tell you the truth I have no idea. It’s just, when I saw that man stricken and helpless, I thought of what I would want someone to do were I in his position.”

  “Well, at least water is the one thing we have plenty of,” Valens added, stepping into a puddle as if to emphasize. “Still, if you didn’t like watching him suffer you could have just killed him.”

  “I could have,” Gaius agreed. “But I cannot kill someone who poses no threat to us.”

  As Valens walked back to the lines he thought to himself, what have we done that takes the humanity out of our young men? Was I ever that young and innocent? He trudged on, not liking his thoughts.

  Chapter XIX: When the Heroes Fall

  ***

  Dawn brought a thinning of the fog, allowing a red glow from the rising sun to bathe the battlefield in a bloody light. Skirmishing and testing of the lines had begun in the false dawn during the previous hour. The Legion and the Frisian army were at a standoff. Vitruvius was worried about the extreme toll the frenetic pace of the battle was having on his men. Even when they were in the back of the formation, they still had to exert themselves trying to push back against the ever-pressing mass of Frisian warriors. They were mostly fresh, while his legionaries were hungry and exhausted.

  “Hold this position!” he ordered his Signifier. The Pilus Prior then moved to behind the formation and sought out Centurion Dominus who was somewhere on his right. Vitruvius waved him over and told him his plan. “We need to break these bastards, and we need to do it now. At my command the First and Fourth Centuries will compress into a tight wedge formation on me. I will lead us out of this gods be damned nightmare.”

  Dominus’ eyes grew wide.

  “Vitruvius, such a plan will be suicidal for you!” he protested. “The Frisians are deliberately targeting Centurions and Options, knowing their importance. I beg you not to place yourself at the apex of the wedge.”

  Vitruvius smiled and shook his head.

  “What kind of leader would I be if I placed one of my men in the most precarious position?” he replied calmly. “My life is of no more importance than my most junior legionary. Just make certain you stay alert for word from Artorius and the Second. With as bad as we’re taking it, his men have to be going through hell.”

  Dominus grimaced and nodded. He then quickly stepped back to his place on the line.

  “Fourth Century, make ready to advance!”

  Vitruvius wiped a rag across his brow and made his way back to the First Century. There was a sense of calm about the Centurion. The Frisians had backed off slightly and were goading the Romans to come at them. Every last man in the Third Cohort was breathing heavily and completely spent. Vitruvius knew this was his last chance to save them. The fog was clearing from the morning sun, but brought the sight of packed enemy warriors in all directions.

  “First and Fourth Centuries!” he shouted with a voice that pierced the remaining rags of fog and was heard throughout the battlefield. “Wedge formation…on me!”

  The command was echoed to his left and right. Quickly the legionaries collapsed towards the center, linking their shields together. Those in the subsequent ranks closed up, pressing their shields against their brothers in the front rank. A loud shout came
from one of the Frisian leaders, and they immediately started to back up. Vitruvius’ eyes narrowed as he set into his fighting stance, ready to spring.

  Prince Klaes was inspired by the Romans’ tenacity. He was certain that after the sleepless night and the loss of an entire cohort to mutual slaughter, those who remained would be easily dealt with. It was not to be. He knew his enemy had to be close to the breaking point, though with nowhere for them to run, they would fight to the very last. The Frisian prince almost felt a sense of camaraderie for his foe, given their tenacity and bravery. In spite of the terror that that bastard Olennius had visited on his people, he could not find it in him to hate the Romans he now faced. He would kill them, yes, but without malice or wrath.

  The burly Centurion who the legionaries now clustered on particularly impressed the prince. The man was a killing machine, and Klaes knew who he was. It was the legendary Centurion Marcus Vitruvius, thought by many to be an invincible demigod. Klaes decided to put the Roman’s reputation to the ultimate test. Sjoerd and Eitel were with him, with Sjoerd carrying a large two-handed war hammer. He then motioned for two burly warriors to join him. Klaes pointed his weapon towards the Centurion, who was barking subsequent orders to his legionaries.

  “Let that one through,” the prince ordered his men, who nodded in reply. A number of them swallowed hard as they braced for the impact of the Romans’ charge. Klaes let out a loud war cry, which his warriors quickly echoed as they charged in turn.

  Vitruvius gritted his teeth as every muscle in his body tensed for the pending impact. Instead, he flew right through the Frisian line, which parted before him. He went another few meters before stopping. The enemy had smashed into his men, but not him. There was an empty circle in the mass of warriors. Within it were five men. He then realized what they had done, and he could not help but smile at their ingenuity. He limbered up his sword arm and let out a sigh.