by James Mace
The war cries of the Frisians had drowned out Magnus’ order, and they seemed oblivious to him and his men as they smashed into the Frisian flank. Shields sent warriors reeling, gladii finishing the job. They rushed past where Optio Praxus and a single legionary still stood fighting. Then they found Sergeant Valens and three others with him. Gradually, they made their small formation bigger as surviving legionaries fell in on them. They were now at an angle to their original formation, with Magnus on the extreme right. It was he who had to step over the bodies of his fallen companions as they fought to push the Frisians back. The right of the Second Century’s line was mostly gone, with just a few auxiliaries left, and these were now in a fight for their own survival. In his peripheral vision, Magnus saw his best friend and Centurion. He was down on one knee and looked to be badly wounded, with blood streaming down his side and leg. A lone auxiliary was fighting in a berserker rage to protect him. The Norseman knew there was nothing he could do to help Artorius. As that realization came to him, their attack stalled. Even with the legionaries they had picked up from the remnants of the Second, his total force was, at most, twenty-five men. The ground was littered with corpses and wounded men, the whole area slick with bloody mud and gore.
This is it, Magnus thought to himself. We’ve done all we could. Now we must fight until the bitter end. As axes hammered his shield, he gave a great cry and fought with renewed vengeance as he accepted his fate.
Odin, let me be worthy of entering Valhalla. Today is a good day…
Chapter XX: Ten Thousand Strong
***
“Where the hell are those men going?” Tribune Cursor swore as he watched small groups of auxiliary infantrymen retreating.
Cavalrymen, individually or in small groups, were also lost in the scene of battle. There was no organization to be had in the dense woods. The fog was still so thick that the Tribune had no sense of direction, whatsoever. Only the sounds of battle oriented him to where he needed to be.
“The units are all scattered, sir,” a nearby Decanus shouted. “Individual companies have charged on their own. By the gods, the Frisian army is enormous!” The man was sweating profusely and trembling badly on his mount.
“It would seem that way when only a hundred men attack their entire gods’ damned army!” Cursor was beside himself, his anger washing away his fatigue, pumping much needed adrenaline through his veins. He then saw a trumpeter riding aimlessly towards the river. “Hey…you, Trumpeter!”
The soldier looked glad to have finally found an officer, and he quickly rode over to the Tribune. Cursor then reached over, grabbed him by the collar, and gestured towards an imaginary line that ran perpendicular to the river.
“Ride up and down this line, sounding recall,” he ordered. “Don’t stop until every last one of our men has reformed and we’ve gotten some fucking order restored!”
“Yes, sir.” The notes from the trumpet began echoing in the fog.
For those who were completely lost, it was something for them to orient on. Cursor knew even those who had panicked in the face of the Frisian hordes would heed its call. After all, there was nothing else for them on this side of the river. They had travelled forty miles in a single day and night, and the only way any of them were leaving this cursed place alive was to go the last few hundred meters and charge into the Frisian army together.
“Tribune Cursor!” a voice called.
Cursor looked to his left and smiled when he recognized Centurion Rodolfo, his horse at a full gallop, coming his way. The Centurion’s horse reared up as he pulled the reigns in abruptly.
“The infantry is reorganizing. They are forming up along the river in columns by cohort.”
“About damn time,” Cursor replied. “What of the cavalry?”
“They are far more scattered, but they seem to be heeding your trumpet’s call.”
Cursor galloped over to the front of the reforming auxiliary troops, holding his sword high to focus their attention on him.
“Auxilia of the Army of the Rhine! We have travelled far and hard together. Already you have accomplished far more than the best of men could hope, but it does not end now. Our way home is forward, straight into the bloody hearts of our enemy! Keep in formation…wait for my signal. We will charge together, and not only will we save the legions from destruction, we will snatch those rebel bastards’ victory right out of their grasp and send those whores’ sons to hell! Primo Victoria!”
A loud cry erupted from the souls of every last one of his men, piercing through the fog like the crystal rays of the sun. The Tribune centered himself on the cavalry, his trumpeter next to him. Cursor eased his horse forward, making certain he was at least a dozen feet in front of his men. They had followed him this far, and they would follow him the rest of the way. He turned and nodded to the trumpeter and then addressed his men one last time.
“Make ready to assault the gates of hell…charge of the ten thousand!”
A renewed battle cry was joined by the trumpeter sounding the advance. To their right, columns of infantry moved at a quick jog and the cavalry kept pace with them for the first two hundred meters. Once Cursor knew they were close, he signaled with his sword, and the entire wall of cavalry broke into a gallop, swords held aloft in anticipation of the necks that would slake their thirst with the blood and souls of the enemy. Instinctively, the formation moved into a giant wedge at the orders barked from the remaining Centurions.
His horse smashed into the packed Frisian ranks before Cursor even saw them. Luckily, the enemy was infinitely more surprised by the shock of an entire cavalry army smashing into their flank, and Cursor’s regiments had penetrated deep into the Frisian ranks before they could react. All around him he could see nothing but the enemy. To his right, he knew were the imperiled legions, though they were still masked by the fog. Quickly, he brought his spatha down in a hard backhand slash that cleaved through the spine of a bewildered Frisian warrior. The man fell forward, his head nearly severed as his neck was split from behind. The Tribune thrust his weapon forward, catching another enemy on the shoulder who had been too slow blocking with his shield. His sword seemed to sing in its lust for more destruction of the throng of terrified faces before him.
“The bridge is complete, sir!” a First Cohort Centurion shouted back to Legate Labeo. The northern bridge by his Fifth Legion had taken the least amount of time to repair, though it was only now, when the situation for the Roman forces on the far side had become untenable, that at least one of them was stable enough to handle the weight of legionaries in full armor. Sensing the completion of repairs, the entire Legion had been in a state of heightened readiness, armor and helmets donned with weapons at the ready.
“First, Second, and Third Cohorts will push out to the right and link up with the Valeria Legion!” Labeo ordered. “The rest of the Legion will deploy to the left and execute a right wheel into the Frisian flank!”
“Sir!” Master Centurion Alessio acknowledged as cohort commanders rushed back to their units and made ready to cross in force.
The men of the First Cohort double-timed across the rickety bridge, taking care as to not fall over the sides into the raging waters below. All remembered the disaster from the previous day as numerous auxiliary troopers had fallen into the torrential current, never to rise again. It would take some time for the entire legion to cross using a single bridge, and time was something the Romans did not have. Once his First Cohort was across, the Master Centurion ordered his men to follow him along the river bank. He directed the commanders of the Second and Third Cohorts to catch up as soon as their elements were across.
The fog was starting to dissipate, and the men of the Fifth Legion were anxious to get into the battle. The Master Centurion’s body was already soaked from the dampness in the air and the sweat of exertion. They could hear the sounds of battle ahead; war cries, screams of pain, and the clash of weapons all melded together in a symphony of horror.
“There it is!” a m
an on his left shouted, while pointing with his javelin.
Auxiliary infantry were pulling back, having been savaged by the Frisians when they attacked in too small of a force. The Master Centurion could just make out a handful of legionaries from the Twentieth. They had held!
His eyes narrowed, his breathing coming slow and deep as he turned and barked his next order.
“Battle formation! Javelins ready!”
The retreating auxiliaries were stunned to see legionaries approaching them. Exhaustion, and the brutality they had faced, struck most of them numb, and they hesitated, not knowing what to do. The Master Centurion made the decision for them.
“You!” he bellowed while pointing his gladius at them. “Reform, fall in on my right, and get your fucking asses back in the fight!”
Though still in a state of shock, at least one of the auxiliary Centurions managed to rouse his men, and they followed him onto the First Cohort’s right flank. At the subsequent order, the legionaries advanced. They no longer jogged, but rather moved at the disciplined march that came just before fury was unleashed. As they closed on the Frisians, they knew their Second and Third Cohorts would be joining them soon enough.
“Front rank…throw!”
For the Frisians who had just repelled the auxiliary assault on their flank, this latest blow proved to be too much for even the hardest of them. Javelins ripped into bodies of unsuspecting warriors, blood and filth spraying their companions in the wake of the screams of horror and pain. They had spent the better part of two days trying to destroy the legion in front of them, and now, before they could finish the task, fresh Roman troops were driving into their flank with disciplined ferocity. A wall of shields drove into them, toppling warriors in the onslaught. Their victory, once so close, was rapidly vanishing in the flash of legionary blades and the screams of the dying.
“The gods have abandoned us,” Olbert said through clenched teeth. He had survived the previous day and had hoped to reunite with his friends Tabbo and Prince Klaes when this day was done. Instead, his doom bore down on him behind a wall of brightly painted shields. He gritted his teeth, limbered up his shoulders, and turned to meet his fate.
Dibbald could see little beyond the horde of men to his front. The fog was still thick, and although this impeded his situational awareness, he knew it hindered the Romans even more so. At least one entire legion was trapped on this side of the river. His men had been hammering the enemy lines for more than a day now. Cold, hunger, and extreme fatigue were breaking them, and the Frisian King knew it would be over soon enough. He dared to think, perhaps, it would not be in vain, that his nation just might achieve a real victory against the Roman army! As he pondered this, a messenger rode quickly towards him, shouting words in a panic that Dibbald could not understand over the noise of the battle.
“My King, we are undone!” the man shouted as he halted his horse next to him. The messenger was panting, sweat rolling down his face, eyes wide with terror.
“Calm yourself,” Dibbald replied. “What do you mean undone?” The messenger pointed over his shoulder towards the Frisian right flank, but all the King could see was fog and the massed formation of his advancing warriors.
“The Romans...I don’t know how, but they’ve flanked us…infantry and cavalry have smashed our right flank!”
“Impossible!” Lourens shouted. “It’s twenty miles upriver to the nearest ford. They can’t possibly have gone around in a day!”
“They have, and they attack us now,” the messenger said between gasps of breath.
As the King quickly tried to assess the situation, another messenger ran up on foot.
“Sire, the Romans have repaired one of the bridges! An entire legion has also assaulted the flank!”
Lourens looked to Dibbald, his face grim. Amke rushed to his side and grasped the bridle of his horse.
“Uncle, now is the time!” she pleaded. “Send the Daughters of Freyja into the fight! It is time we earned our right as protectors of the Segon Kings!”
Dibbald closed his eyes and swallowed. Without looking at his niece, he gave a slow nod. Amke gave an almost euphoric smile, released the reins, and rushed to her warriors.
“Daughters of Freyja!” she shouted, her hand axe raised high. “The time has come for us to earn our place in the history of our people! Now we must save our King and our nation. We can turn the tide of this battle by fighting beside our brothers in this, our people’s most desperate hour! With me!”
A cry like a host of screaming Medusas filled the air. Amke pointed her axe towards a cohort of legionaries that were bearing down on them. At last it was time; time for her to unleash all the pent up hurt, frustration, and fury that had been building up inside ever since the arrival of that abominable creature, Olennius. She cursed that he was not there to suffer what was coming to him; but then, soft magistrates hid behind the walls of the iron men that faced her now. She gave another cry and rushed towards her foe.
“Holy shit, they’ve got girls fighting for them!” a legionary shouted as he hefted his javelin to throwing position. These men were of the Fifth Legion’s Sixth Cohort, and they had yet to engage the enemy.
“A woman with an axe can kill you just as effectively as a man,” his Decanus warned him. “Stand ready to skewer these harlots!”
“Javelins ready!” the Centurion Pilus Prior shouted. The young soldier did not like the idea of killing women, but the faces of the howling mob racing towards him with weapons ready to strike unnerved him, enough that his morals would have to understand as he focused on a rather fetching young woman. The veins in her neck pulsed, her eyes filled with hatred.
So young, so beautiful, the soldier thought to himself. Such a waste!
“Front rank…throw!”
A terrible storm of javelins slammed into the ranks of Amke’s warriors. Girls and young women fell screaming in pain as their guts were torn through. She held her shield up high to deflect a javelin, only to have it puncture through. The weight knocked her shield into her face, the javelin stabbing her in the upper arm. She dropped her now useless shield and clutched her arm. The puncture was painful but not serious. Next to her, one of her sister’s head snapped back as a javelin ruptured her throat and tore out the back of her neck. Amke fought back a sob as the girl thrashed on the ground, clutching at her throat. Feeling terribly guilty, but knowing there was nothing else she could do; she reached down and wrenched the dying warrior’s shield from her twitching fingers.
“Forgive me, sister,” she pleaded quietly as she turned and faced her enemy once more, “but the living need the protection more than the dead.”
Volleys of javelins tore into her sisters as they continued to rush towards the Roman shield wall. Though less than a minute had passed since she first gave the order to charge, it felt like ages. The Daughters of Freyja were earning their place, though at a terrible price. Amke moved at a controlled jog, no longer running blindly.
“Rah!”
The battle cry shouted by the Romans as they unsheathed their gladii caused Amke to gulp. She now understood why King Adel had sued for peace against Drusus Nero! Sadly, her generation did not have the luxury of dealing with an amicable Roman at the head of this metal juggernaut. When she was but ten feet away, she hunkered down behind her shield and ran full tilt into the Roman line.
The legionary whose shield she collided with was much larger and stronger than she. Though he gave a short step back as they hit, Amke was knocked back several feet by the shock. Her warriors on either side were also trying to smash through the Roman shield wall. Most bounced harmlessly off, the shock and casualties they had suffered under the javelin storm had thinned their ranks and left them temporarily unable to mass their numbers against the Roman line. She swung her axe in frustration, banging against the bright red and yellow shield, whose metal boss was constantly punched in her face. Her attack was doing little more than aggravate the legionary she faced, still she tried to find an opening. Unawar
es, she was being forced back, as were her fellow warrior maidens. One lost her footing and fell onto her back. With lightening speed a legionary lunged down and stabbed her beneath the heart.
Her sorrow turning to rage, Amke lunged forward again, ramming her shield and shoulder into the legionary she sparred with. A gladius was thrust at her face, and it was only at the last second that she managed to avoid taking a sword through the eye. She stepped back and swung her axe again, where it deflected off the brass strip on the side. As she glanced behind her to make sure of her footing, she saw a knot in the ground, jutting up about two feet. A grin came to her face as she bounced back onto it. The legionaries then stopped, and the front rank suddenly tilted their shields parallel to their bodies and stepped back past the rank behind them. These men rushed forward, taking their place. A Roman cohort executing a passage-of-lines was an awesome, and yet terrible, sight. The legionaries they now faced were completely fresh.
Amke growled, and as the Romans continued their advance she gave a cry of rage and leapt high into the air, coming down on the inside edge of a legionary’s shield. The soldier was taken by surprise long enough for Amke to follow through with a hard downward smash of her axe. It was the perfect strike, placed right where the shoulder muscles ran into the neck. To Amke’s surprise, her ever-sharp axe simply bounced off the segmentata plates that protected his shoulders. The soldier then shoved her back with his shield, smashing her in the face with the metal boss. Her vision clouded, and she did not even feel the stabbing of his sword as it punctured her hip, gouging the muscles and bone.
She fell onto her side, her face half buried in the muck. Advancing legionaries stepped on or over her, their hobnailed caligae tearing into her flesh in places they stomped. She was unaware of the last legionary to step over her. He was the first one she had faced, and he noticed she was still alive. She never knew that he raised his gladius to finish her, only to shake his head and continue his march without driving his weapon home.