by James Mace
“Five against one…not bad odds,” the Centurion observed loudly. The enemy leader grinned, for he spoke perfect Latin. The men started to circle him like a pack of wolves stalking a stricken calf. But Vitruvius was no calf. He took the initiative and bounded forward, catching one of the warriors with his shield. Instead of following up on the man he just knocked down, he sidestepped and thrust his gladius hard, catching another one of the men in the stomach that gushed blood and bile as he withdrew his sword with a twist. He then stepped away as a large man with a hammer swung his weapon hard, catching Vitruvius’ shield and knocked him back a pace with a grunt.
Klaes flinched as he watched one of his men fall to the Centurion’s sword thrust. Though he made not a sound, he was stabbed through the stomach and would die slowly, in extreme pain. Eitel lumbered to his feet, having been knocked down by the Roman’s initial shield charge.
“Attack together,” the prince ordered calmly. “He cannot possibly hold us all off.” He then moved forward, swinging hard with his war axe as Sjoerd gave another mighty swing with his hammer.
In a surprise move, the Roman fell flat onto his stomach, the unstoppable hammer slamming into the chest of another warrior with an audible crunch, his chest crushed and bone splinters piercing the heart. Eitel brought his sword down hard, catching the Roman on the back of the thigh as he stumbled to his feet. Nonplused, Sjoerd back swung the hammer, impacting hard onto the Centurion’s helmet, tearing it from his head and leaving a bloody gash. Part of his scalp had ripped and blood flowed freely from the wound.
Soldiers of the Third Cohort fought desperately to break out against the pressing mass of Frisian warriors. Those closest to the center could catch glimpses of their revered Cohort Commander fighting for his life against a group of Frisians.
“We’ve stalled!” shouted the Signifier of the First Century. “Our charge has failed, we must withdraw!”
“Sir, we cannot leave Vitruvius!” a nearby Decanus shouted back as he thrust his gladius into the throat of a warrior to his front, abruptly cutting off the man’s war scream.
In such cramped quarters the Romans had a distinct advantage, and the Frisians were paying heavily for their stubborn determination. Still, the already spent legionaries were expending what was left of their energy at an alarming rate, and the Signifier knew they could not last much longer. It was then that he saw his Centurion’s helmet fly from his head as a hammer blow sent Vitruvius to his knees.
“No!” the man screamed as they desperately tried to break through.
A warrior was pressed up against his shield. The two men were face to face, and the Signifier could smell his enemy’s rank breath as they struggled. The Frisian carried a spear and was unable to get his weapon free as the Signifier brought his gladius up and quickly ran it across the man’s neck, severing the artery and windpipe in a red, frothy mist. Even as the body fell he still gained no reprieve, as many more enemies were bearing down on them. One caught the Signifier in the thigh with a spear thrust, sending him limping backwards as he fought to suppress a groan of pain. Fatigue was taking its toll on the legionaries and with their reflexes considerably slowed, the Frisians were able to exploit and inflict casualties. The carnage on both sides was horrific, along with the screams and groans of the wounded and dying.
Vitruvius tried to clear the cobwebs from his head as he guided his shield protectively back and forth while he was down on one knee. As he stood his back leg started to cramp on him. Blood was also running down the side of his head from where his helmet had crumpled. At least it wasn’t running into his eyes, and he could still see. Two of his adversaries lay dead, but he was visibly shaken and hobbled by the wound to his leg. The leader with the hand axe came at him again, while the warrior with the short sword attacked him from his right. Vitruvius blocked both blows with his shield and gladius, immediately smashing the leader in the shin with the bottom of his shield, then swinging it in a hard arc, catching the swordsman on the temple. As the warrior fell onto his face, Vitruvius stabbed him through the neck with a satisfying crunch as the razor sharp blade severed his vertebrae. He then felt the wind taken from him as a giant hammer slammed into his back, knocking him down and over the warrior he had just slain. His shield fell from his hand, which was now numb, though thankfully he still held his sword.
The Centurion rolled onto his side as both men rushed towards him. He released his gladius and quickly drew his dagger, which he flung with deadly accuracy into the hairy belly of the huge warrior with the hammer, who had his weapon high and was ready to smash once more. A hair raising scream erupted as his war hammer dropped from his fingers as a glance down showed his doom. Before he could react further, an axe caught him on his sword arm, opening a terrible gash. Amazingly, it still functioned, and he lifted and swung his gladius in a hard backslash to keep his opponent away as he labored to his feet once more. Blood now covered the back of Vitruvius’ leg and his sword arm was dripping blood freely as well, his back a flame of agony. As he faced the Frisian leader, he marveled in the fact that during his entire tenure in the legions he had never so much as been scratched in combat. Now he was bleeding from multiple wounds, his left arm was broken and useless, and he wondered just how much longer before his sword arm gave out on him. He could no longer see his men and knew that even if he did slay his final foe, the rest of the Frisian horde would only swarm in and finish him off. As if on cue, about a dozen men were now standing behind their leader. Vitruvius smiled and dropped to his knees, slamming the point of his gladius into the mud.
“Alright,” he gasped. “You win.” The enemy leader smiled and nodded. Klaes then came forward and stood in front of the Centurion, a sneer crossing his lips as he raised his axe to deliver the killing blow. Vitruvius grimaced as he pulled his weapon from the mud with all his remaining strength, and with superhuman effort, rammed his weapon underneath the ribcage of his opponent up to the hilt. The falling axe still managed to slash the side of his neck, which for Vitruvius was perfect timing. He wanted this man to be the one who killed him. With his strength fading fast, he reached up with his left hand, which somehow managed to function at the last, grabbed the stricken Frisian by the shoulder as he was collapsing, and pulled him down to his knees in front of him. The man’s eyes were wide with shock and the stark realization that he was a dead man. His gaze was locked on the face of the man that had slain him, blood streaming from a corner of his gapping mouth.
“No,” Vitruvius whispered as he dragged his victim’s head closer and his breath became ragged gasps and bloody spittle escaped from his lips. “We’ll call it a draw.”
Thus did Centurion Pilus Prior Marcus Vitruvius pass into the afterlife; never having been defeated in single combat. His men, who witnessed this passing, bemoaned his loss. Yet they were unable to come to his aid, even in death. The Optio of the Fourth Century finally gave the order to pull back. The Cohort had paid dearly for their bravado, though they withdrew slowly, recovering their dead and wounded lest another one of them be left behind. A few managed to catch a brief glimpse of the Frisians carrying away the body of their commander. It baffled them that Vitruvius was not left where he fell, or worse, defiled and mutilated. It almost seemed as if their enemy was showing great reverence to the slain Centurion. Six Frisian warriors carried Vitruvius’ shattered body high on their shoulders in an unmistakable sign of respect.
Vitruvius had been right. On the flank, the Second Century was indeed going through a brutal hell. A hand axe caught Gaius flush on the side of his helmet, sending him to his knees. The Frisian paid with his life as one of his fellow legionaries struck the man down with a stab to the throat. The blow left a bad cramp in his neck, and his helmet was creased and cutting into his scalp. He quickly undid the leather cords under his chin and tore the helmet off. The legionary to his right fell to the ground, screaming and clutching his face as blood and grey matter gushed from an axe wound. The one who had just saved him was knocked back as he fought the onslaught
of several attackers. Still on his knees with his shield protecting his front, Gaius glanced to his right and saw the stricken legionary’s legs twitch and then stop. Enemy warriors were stomping and climbing past him to continue their attack.
As one leapt over the body of his friend, Gaius gave a deep howl of unholy rage and sprung forward, his gladius thrusting deep into the man’s side, and the two fell over onto another pile of bodies. His shield was caught on the corpse of a Frisian, and he lost his grip. He quickly pulled his weapon from the warrior who was coughing up gouts of blood and crying in anguish. Frisians were now intermixed with their lines. Gaius realized with horror that the formation had gaping holes and had collapsed. The Second Century was now overrun. The auxilia step was now swarming with warriors, and the troopers were in a savage fight for their lives. To his left, he saw Sergeant Valens trying to rally survivors into some semblance of a formation. Gaius then yanked his shield free and fought his way towards the Decanus and the dozen or so legionaries with him.
As he stumbled towards the small formation which was now fighting off a horde of warriors, Gaius watched an older soldier helping his badly wounded friend to safety. He fell to his side, looked back, and recognized Legionary Carbo. The man he was desperately trying to save was his close friend, Legionary Decimus.
“Come on, dumbass, don’t die on me now!” Carbo pleaded.
Decimus was bleeding from the mouth, his legs wobbly, eyes wide and vacant. Both men were helmet-less and had lost their shields, as well. Decimus had his right arm around Carbo’s shoulder, his left hanging useless and soaked in blood.
Suddenly Carbo gave a cry of pain, dropping his friend as he fell forward. A Frisian stood behind him, driving his spear into the small of the legionary’s back.
“No!” screamed Valens.
Gaius knew the three men had been best of friends for many years, and the Decanus lost all sanity as he watched the other two crumple, slowly dying. He broke away from his tiny formation, which was now on the verge of collapse in the relentless push of the Frisian mass. Valens tilted his shield upright and slammed the bottom edge into the face of the warrior, smashing his face in with a satisfying crunch. Gaius got to his feet and fought beside the valiant Decanus who, with every fiber of his being, fought to save his friends. Gaius jumped over a body and punched a warrior on Valens’ left with the boss of his shield. The two men stood shoulder to shoulder, fighting with strength beyond their reckoning.
Blinding fury consumed Gaius as he swung his shield and stabbed his gladius with reckless abandon. Together they both stabbed one warrior in the chest. As Gaius withdrew his weapon, a Frisian swung his axe, catching him on the side of the neck. Though the blow staggered him, he quickly regained his footing and in a wild thrust, slammed his gladius through his teeth and out the back of his neck. As the warrior stumbled backwards, eyes wide in terror and excruciating pain, the legionary let loose a howl of rage.
A broad grin crossed his face as he turned to face Sergeant Valens. The Decanus’ eyes grew wide with the same expression as the Frisian’s when he caught sight of Gaius. The legionary could not figure out what could have startled Valens about his appearance. The cries and din of battle were becoming muffled in his ears, though he guessed he had just lost some hearing from the constant noise. He was breathing heavily and felt dizzy. His shield slipped from his grip. As he looked down to see what was wrong, he was horrified at the sight of his armor covered in dripping dark crimson. He did not need to reach up to his neck to realize the axe blow he thought had only knocked him off balance had, in fact, slain him. He slowly blinked his eyes and looked at the ground at his feet. It was covered in bodies, both friend and foe. His smile faded as his gaze locked with Valens. The Decanus’ face was one of compassion for the young legionary.
“Oh, Gaius,” he thought he heard him say from a distance.
The entire time from when the blow had struck his neck was no more than a handful of seconds, yet for Legionary Gaius Longinus, the last moments of his young life moved at a crawl. His gladius fell useless from his grip, and he felt himself falling forward. His soul left his body before it landed face first in the churned up mud, his blood mingling grotesquely with the mud and water, as well as the blood and flesh of the killed and maimed. His last thoughts brought some comfort. He had done his best and died a true Roman soldier. He hoped his father would be proud of him as his mind faded into darkness.
“Sir, our left flank is collapsing!” Rufio shouted to Artorius as they desperately tried to hold their position.
The Centurion turned back to the Cornicen and nodded. Just as the man started to blow into his horn a Frisian spear punctured his windpipe, bursting out the back of his neck in a spray of blood and bone. The man fell back, his horn dropping to the earth as his eyes clouded over. The horn landed amongst the tightly packed ranks of legionaries, several of whom inadvertently stepped on the instrument, smashing it.
“Son of a bitch!” Artorius swore as he pushed back once more with his shield, stabbing over the top with his gladius.
The Frisians were now pushing hard against them, and his weapon went right into his enemy’s mouth. The blade severed tongue and mouth, while shattering teeth as it plunged upward into the man’s brain. As Artorius wrenched his gladius free, he stepped back and caught sight of his Nordic friend on his left.
“Magnus!” he shouted. “The Cornicen is dead! Get your ass over to Vitruvius and tell him we’ve been overrun!”
The Norseman nodded, shouted some quick orders to his section, and then withdrew through the auxiliaries, who were struggling to maintain their position. The legionaries were being pushed back up their short step, and now they, too, were face-to-face with their foe. One poor trooper was grabbed on the shoulder by a towering barbarian and dragged over the top of the legionaries, where he was hacked to pieces by the rampaging Frisians.
Artorius’ shield arm was almost completely numb, and he fought hard to keep control as he felt the impact of Frisian axes and swords again and again. His sword arm had been cut numerous times and was crusted in blood; his, as well as his enemies’. He threw a left cross with his shield, the boss catching a Frisian on the side of the head, bones crunching underneath. He was so exhausted, his movements slowed, he failed to pull his shield back before a Frisian sword stabbed him in the upper arm. A shock went down his arm, and his shield fell useless from his grasp. In a rage, he lunged forward and wrapped his injured arm around the man’s head, where his arm was subsequently smashed by the flat of an axe. Three men grabbed hold of him, one yanking his head down by the crest of his helmet. Instinctively, he cut the chin straps with his gladius and his helmet was ripped away. The three warriors fell on him, knocking him to the ground. Two held his arms while the third tried to eviscerate him. In the fray of bodies, the Frisian could not get at his face or neck, so he repeatedly stabbed the Centurion in the side with his sword. His armor could withstand much, but this man was bearing down on him with all of his weight behind each blow. Links soon began to snap. In desperation, Artorius reached up with his right hand and grabbed the Frisian on his arm by the hair. He pulled the man’s head down and bit him savagely on the neck. The warrior gave a roar of pain, which Artorius echoed through his clenched teeth as his armor finally burst, and the Frisian sword bit into his side. He bit harder, tearing through flesh, foul blood spurting into his mouth as the warrior’s artery was torn in two.
His dying foe fell off him, feebly clawing at his neck in agony as his companion pulled his sword out for another blow. Artorius still held his gladius and swung as hard he could, smashing the pommel into the head of the man who held his other arm. It crushed deep into his temple. As he rolled to his side and shoved his assailant off, he was slashed across the leg by the swordsman. Then, over the deafening sounds of battle, came a war cry louder than anything Artorius had ever heard. One of the auxiliaries leaped over the top of him, driving his spear into the chest of the swordsman. His weapon became stuck, and he quickly dr
ew his gladius as he stepped back and stood protectively over the Centurion. He then screamed in rage as another warrior came at them, driving his shield into the man’s neck. As the warrior fell to the ground, the trooper pinned the bottom of his shield against his neck and violently ran his gladius across his throat. In his now blurred and reddened vision, Artorius thought he must have decapitated the man.
“Dominus!” Magnus shouted as he ran up the slope.
The Fourth Century had just pulled back and were now trying to repel the Frisian counterattack. The Centurion shouted a quick order to his Signifier and rushed back to where Magnus stood next to the rear of his formation.
“We’ve been overrun, the entire flank has fallen!”
“Shit,” Dominus swore under his breath. He then nodded and turned back to his Century.
They had just executed a passage-of-lines and his fourth rank was completely spent.
“Third rank…action right!” the Centurion shouted. The legionaries in his third line immediately pivoted and started to step off towards them. Dominus nodded to Magnus. Magnus nodded in reply before turning his attention to the legionaries who now followed him. There were only sixteen of them, which meant the Fourth had been taking casualties as well.
“Let’s go!” the Tesserarius shouted as he raced back down the slope.
It was an unholy sight that greeted them, the legionaries with him gasping in horror. The gap was filled with Frisian warriors, with only a sliver of a Roman line remaining. The auxilia had been overrun as well, and formations had all but completely collapsed. Pockets of men fought together, but there was no line anymore. Magnus steeled himself and braced hard against his shield.
“Online!” he shouted as the legionaries followed suit. He took a deep breath, adrenaline and a lust for vengeance giving him renewed strength. He would save his friends or die in the attempt. “Charge!”