by James Mace
As the Daughters of Freyja fought valiantly in a battle they now knew they could not win, King Dibbald watched in sorrow. He could not see his niece amongst the fray and feared she had already fallen. Lourens scanned the battlefield for her as well, but now was seeing nothing but Roman shields and the few survivors of Amke’s regiment breaking and running with the rest of the Frisian army.
“My King, you must vacate the field,” Lourens advised the King. “I will take half of the household cavalry and counterattack the Romans. At least then we can ensure your safety.” He then turned and addressed horsemen behind him. “Half the men will escort the King to safety; the rest will fall in on me.” The warrior turned his horse about when he was stopped by the words of his King.
“No,” Dibbald spoke deliberately, and yet seemingly calm. “If I do not make my stand here, then I am no King worthy of the Segon line. The entire regiment will fall in on me. Lourens, you and I will lead the charge together. My son is gone, our line broken. If I am to follow him this day, then at least we will make a stand that will ensure our immortality!”
The warrior nodded with deep sadness in his eyes. “We will follow you to the halls of our valiant ancestors, sire.”As the finest horsemen in all of Frisia formed up around their King, Dibbald caught sight of the Roman cavalry. One of their regiments had wheeled around behind his army and was now bearing down on them. He recognized the standards of the elite Indus’ Horse.
“At least I will die at the hands of brave men,” he said quietly before nodding to one of his men, who raised his horn and sounded the charge.
Cursor and his group of picked cavalrymen were sweeping around the Frisian flank in an attempt to get behind the mob. The warriors, who had been to their left, once they charged into the fray, had been mostly killed or fled from the battle. His horse suddenly reared up in the face of a Frisian spear, only to have the warrior wielding it, cut down by a Roman lance. Cursor kept control of his mount and continued to move, hoping to find the rear flank of the enemy. At last, they turned the corner of the formation and pressed forward so they could get directly behind their enemy. Through the thinning mist he saw Indus’ Horse charging at a full gallop to their left. Meeting them, also at a full charge, was the Frisian cavalry. The sounds of men, horses, shields, and spears crashing together were muffled by the clinging fog. Though a brave and worthy foe, Cursor knew the outcome of this engagement before the first blow was struck. Julius Indus commanded the finest cavalry regiment in the whole of the Empire. The Tribune then realized why he had not been able to find Indus and rally his men. They were perhaps the only ones in their entire force who had not been lost and had, in fact, been right where they were supposed to be! In the absence of orders, he had taken it upon himself to go after the Frisian King.
“Sir, the enemy is reforming!” a trooper shouted while pointing to their front.
Cursor swore under his breath as the enemy, who moments before looked as if they were fleeing, was quickly reforming their ranks.
His feelings of euphoria at the sight of the Frisian King’s bodyguard cavalry being mauled by Indus’ Horse was short lived, for it looked like his ten thousand had expended their charge. Auxiliary infantry units were withdrawing as the Frisians counterattacked the flanking force. The bulk of his cavalry was completely spent as well, with men and horses now falling to Frisian spears.
“Damn it!” he swore as he and Centurion Rodolfo apprised their, now desperate, situation. “Even if Indus does kill the Frisian King, we are fucked!”
“No,” Rodolfo replied, pointing over the Tribune’s shoulder. “Look, the Fifth Legion has crossed over the bridge!”
Cursor’s face broke into a wide grin as he saw the standards of the Fifth gleaming through the fast thinning fog.
“Thank the gods,” the Tribune said, closing his eyes for a second. “Five thousand legionaries…and they are fresh, too.”
“What say we finish this then?” Rodolfo said, nodding with his head towards the rear of the Frisian army.
Cursor nodded slowly, his face contorting into a determined scowl.
“Form it up, online!” he shouted as the hundred or so horsemen he had with him fell into a long, thin line parallel to the Frisian army.
Cohorts of the Fifth Legion had unleashed a torrent of javelins into the enemy, who were now wavering in the renewed Roman onslaught. Cursor hoped that by hitting them directly from behind, he would break them. His men were beyond exhausted, and he knew they could only carry their assault so far before extreme fatigue brought on by forty miles of hard marching, combined with little food and no sleep over the past two days would become too much for them. Their tasking suddenly changed as Frisian war horns sounded in desperation, and the entire mass of warriors suddenly turned and began to flee in all directions.
Cursor grinned sinisterly as he shouted his next order. “Charge!”
The Frisians were now scattered and leaderless, the will to fight taken from them as the Tribune led the remnants of his cavalry into their fleeing ranks. He swung his sword in an underhand motion, catching a warrior underneath the chin. His spatha was almost wrenched from his hand as the weapon caught in the man’s neck while blood gushed onto the blade. Cursor jerked his weapon free, wrenching his shoulder. The enemy was escaping, some even jumping into the river in order to save themselves.
The Frisian flank had collapsed under the onslaught of the Fifth Legion and Cursor’s ten thousand. The Master Centurion rammed his shield into a warrior, knocking the man onto his back. He then brought the bottom edge of his shield down in a horrific smash onto his neck. The Frisian thrashed around violently, grasping at his crushed windpipe as he fought in vain for breath. The Master Centurion brought his shield down again, breaking the man’s skull with a loud crack. As they drew closer to the left flank of the Twentieth Legion, the Frisian army turned about and was now on the run. The trees were thick, and Alessio could just make out the end of the line of legionaries. He took a deep breath and slowly walked towards their position. As he did so, a Centurion from the Twentieth approached him. Alessio recognized the man, though could not remember his name.
“Centurion Agricola, commander of the Sixth Cohort,” the man said with a salute as he got closer.
“Thank the gods!” The Master Centurion replied with a nod.
Agricola was a fearful sight. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale and clammy. He was trying to control his rapid breathing; swallowing in spite of the fact his mouth was parched. The front of his armor looked as if it had been through a slaughterhouse. In his dark humor, Alessio surmised that, in a way, he had.
“Your men have been through hell itself,” Alessio said with an air of reverence in his voice.
Agricola took a knee and removed his helmet. His hair was matted with sweat and grime, his face cut in numerous places.
“Sir, we need your help finding our lost cohort,” he said after catching his breath.
“You what?”
As Cursor continued to ride forward, the last of their foes disappeared from his view. The sight that greeted him wrenched at his heart. He was at the end of the Twentieth Legion’s line, and all he could see were bodies, both Roman and Frisian. He recognized the Signum that still stood upright amongst the carnage. It was the Third Cohort’s Second Century. He gasped in realization as he saw, on the far left, his old friend, Centurion Artorius, slumped against a tree. Cursor quickly rode forward, practically leaping off his horse once he was upon his friend.
One could not even see the ground around the Centurion. Even the places that weren’t piled with bodies were still covered in pools of blood, gray matter, and bits of entrails. Cursor removed his helmet and knelt down next to Artorius, who partially opened his remaining good eye. The other had since swollen shut.
“Still alive, are we?” the Centurion said through parched lips.
“The gods obviously have a sense of humor,” Cursor replied, taking his hand. “How are you, old friend?”
Artorius was covered in blood, and his side bore a nasty gash. Cursor did not see any wounds that looked fatal. Still, Artorius was a frightful sight.
“I’m certain I look exactly how I feel,” the Centurion replied with a weak smile. His face immediately became somber, a tear forming in his right eye. “My men…you must take care of my men!”
Cursor swallowed hard and nodded.
“Trooper!” he shouted to the nearest horseman. “Take a dozen men and get all the bandages and medical supplies you can muster!”
“Yes, sir,” the man replied. The trooper’s face betrayed the sense of shock he felt at the frightful sight of the Second Century. It was amazing that anyone was left alive in the carnage.
The clash between the royal household regiment and the famed Indus’ Horse had lasted but a few minutes. Dibbald had been struck from his horse almost immediately by a Roman lance, his body trampled in the onslaught. He felt little pain in his lower body and knew that could only mean his spine was crushed when his horse stumbled and fell on top of him. Lourens lay nearby, his eyes open and lifeless, throat torn out. His body covered in blood. Almost every member of his household cavalry had fallen. Bodies were piled around him as his men had refused to abandon their King, even though he lay dying. The Roman cavalry, having disposed of the King, now pushed to the far flank in order to envelope the now routed Frisian army. As his army retreated, one man made his way deliberately for him. It was Tabbo, his most beloved war chief.
“My King!” Tabbo cried as he dropped his weapons and knelt beside him. “By Freyja, what have they done to you?” He seemed desperate to put his hands on Dibbald, to offer some comfort to his master.
Yet his entire body was broken. Both arms and legs were shattered, splinters of bone jutting through the skin. His guts were splayed open and everything was covered in blood. How he still lived he did not know, but he knew it would not be for long.
“Tabbo,” he whispered. “My son is gone, and I go to join him. It is you who must lead our people now.”
“Please, sire…” the war chief started to plead but was quickly silenced as Dibbald painfully shook his head.
“You are the greatest of my war chiefs. They will follow you…I am honored to name you King of Frisia.” Dibbald took a few shallow breaths, his eyes clouding as they rolled into his head. He then refocused on Tabbo and gave his final words. “Do not let our sacrifice be in vain.”
Tabbo hung his head, his body trembling in sorrow as he felt his King breathe his last.
“Sire, the Romans are upon us, we must flee!” a voice shouted to him.
Tabbo nodded in his first acknowledgment that he was now King of his people. He then lifted Dibbald’s shattered body onto the King’s horse. The prize stallion had somehow survived the onslaught and had stayed loyally by his master.
“We will rally at the sacred groves of Freyja,” he ordered the few remaining men of the Household cavalry. “The Romans do not have the strength for a long pursuit. I promise you this, we may have lost the battle, but in this defeat we shall find final victory!”
As he turned to leave, his eyes fell upon one of the many wounded. It was Amke, niece of Dibbald Segon. She lay on her back in the mud, unable to turn over and crawl away. Her left arm lay crumpled across her chest, a horrifying gash running from the outside of her shoulder down to the inside of the elbow joint. Blood flowed from the wound. Tabbo rushed to her side and knelt beside her. Her right eye was swollen shut, the entire side of her face scored and a sickly hue of purple and yellow beneath the skin. A deep gash in her left hip was covered in clotted crimson.
“Oh, daughter,” Tabbo mourned as he lifted the young woman into his arms.
She winced as pain overtook her, and the King reckoned that several of her ribs were broken. Bodies of her slain sisters lay around her. The Daughters of Freyja had made a valiant, albeit futile, stand.
“We tried…” she gasped, fighting for breath through the blinding pain. “We tried to save the King…we failed…we failed.” The pain was too much, and Amke swooned in Tabbo’s arms.
He carried the girl from the field. She was the only surviving member of the Segon line, and he would not leave her to die in that pit of suffering.
Chapter XXI: Horror and Madness
***
The house looked deserted to the legionaries who approached it with caution. The stone wall surrounding the villa was just over waist high, and it was overgrown with moss and weeds. Where there had once been a gate, was now just a pair of rusted hinges which some rotting boards still clung to.
“I know this place,” Agricola said as he led a group of men from the Fifth Legion through the opening. In spite of his extreme exhaustion, he had insisted upon accompanying Alessio and his legionaries. The Pilus Prior of the Fourth Cohort was a friend of his, and he had to know his fate. Others were circling the outside of the wall and looking for clues that could lead them to the lost cohort.
“How do you know it, sir?” one of the soldiers asked as he pushed a cluster of weeds aside with his gladius.
The entire area between the wall and the house proper was an overgrown mess.
“It once belonged to a retired auxilia, who was also a Gallic noble, named Cruptorix,” the Centurion replied as he eyed the front of the house with suspicion.
The scant openings in the boarded up windows on both floors were pitch black and unnerving.
“Most of the weeds are trampled leading up to the door,” another legionary observed. “Someone’s been here.”
“Sir, we’ve got a number of drag marks and blood trails over here!” a Decanus shouted from off to the left.
Agricola had been in a stupor from lack of sleep, but now he was suddenly awake once more. He rushed over to where the Decanus was pointing towards the trees that paralleled the house about twenty meters away.
“Found a Frisian shield,” Master Centurion Alessio said, as he picked up the scoured shield. “Your lads made a stand here alright.”
The sound of loud banging on the door startled them. They looked over to see a legionary hammering on the door with the butt of his gladius while shouting to anyone who may be inside.
“I don’t get it,” he said, turning to the Centurions after his shouts went unheeded. “If they are here, why don’t they answer? The barricades on all the doors are still in place, so if they are here, they must still be inside.”
An icy chill ran up Agricola’s spine. He looked over at Alessio, whose ashen face told him that he, too, had the same sense of dread.
“It’s going to take a fucking battering ram to break in here,” a nearby soldier said in frustration.
“Then get one!” Agricola barked. “I don’t care if you have to cut down the nearest fucking tree, get inside that gods damned house!”
Alessio shouted concurring orders to his Optio, who headed into the woods with twenty men to see if they could find a fallen tree.
“My apologies, sir,” Agricola said once they were alone.
Soldiers’ voices were heard in the background, calling out to the lost cohort.
Alessio shook his head. “Were they of my Legion, I would do the same,” he replied calmly.
Agricola shuddered once more. Though it was now midmorning, and the fog had since dissipated, he still felt cold.
Alessio started as a legionary grasped his arm. The soldier was visibly shaking in his boots. With a trembling hand he pointed to something hanging over the doorway.
Alessio pulled his arm way and looked askance of the legionary. In a whisper, the soldier started to speak, but a shudder of terror grasped his throat.
“What is it, man?” Agricola demanded.
“It’s cursed!” the man gasped.
Hanging overhead was a wreath of human and animal bones, intertwined and tied together with locks of long human hair.
“I have seen this before. It is used by the unholy barbarians to destroy men’s minds, causing unimaginable agony as their most terrible fears cons
ume their thoughts.”
“Get a grip on yourself, soldier!” Agricola snapped.
The terrified legionary backed away, still trembling.
Within minutes, the Optio and his men returned, bearing a semi-rotting log that still looked heavy enough to break through the barricaded doors. The men made their way up the short steps to the front door. A quick series of commands and the sound of the makeshift ram slamming into the door echoed in the otherwise silent woods. Chunks of rotten wood flew off the ram with each blow, but soon the braces on the other side of the door snapped and gave way. Agricola and Alessio quickly ran to the door as the soldiers tossed the log aside. Agricola gave a sharp kick, opening the doors just enough to allow a man to pass inside. There were no torches available, and he stumbled over upturned furniture that had been stacked against the door. He stopped just inside, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark. Alessio and several men came in behind him.
“Can’t see a bloody thing,” one of them whispered, as he groped his way along the wall to the nearest boarded up window. “Here! Someone give me a hand with this!”
Two of his companions fumbled their way through the dark and with their gladii proceeded to pry out one of the boards. With a grinding snap the board crashed to the floor; the sight that greeted the men, as a dim light fell upon the room, caused them all to recoil in horror.
“What the…what the fuck happened here?” Agricola stuttered, his face clammy with shock. A slain legionary lay but a foot from him, coagulated blood sticking to his sandals. Bodies littered the floor. Laid out in neat rows was the Fourth Cohort.
“Sir, it’s the same all up there,” an ashen-faced legionary reported, coming down the stairs.