by James Mace
“Any survivors?” Alessio asked softly. The legionary shook his head in reply. He then removed his helmet and wiped his forearm across his brow.
“Seems the Frisians got to them after all,” the soldier said quietly.
“Idiot!” Alessio barked. “All the entrances were barred; I scarcely think the Frisians would have sealed the place up again! And look around. Do you really think the enemy would have just left their weapons and armor on them? Use some common sense, man!”
Agricola placed a hand on his shoulder, silencing him. Alessio turned to see that the Pilus Prior had not moved. His eyes were still fixed on the dead legionary, whose lifeless eyes stared piteously up at him.
“I did not mean that the Frisians killed them directly,” the legionary on the stairs explained, his eyes cast downward. He then looked into the face of his Master Centurion. “But they got to them, sir. Something scared these men into committing mutual suicide.”
“This can’t be possible,” Alessio said with a shake of his head.
“The bodies tell a different story,” Agricola replied quietly. “Look at them; all slashed through the jugular. They figured it would be a quick and reasonably painless way to die. Did you find the officers?” As he asked the question, he at last looked up at the legionary, who nodded somberly in reply.
“Yes, sir. All Centurions and Options are in the same room upstairs.”
“How is it that every last man in this cohort was convinced that this was right?” Alessio asked. “More than four hundred men and not one of them elected to fight for a chance to live! If they were going to die, they should have died fighting the enemy, not slaughtering each other!”
“What would you have us do, sir?” an Optio asked.
“Surround the house,” Alessio replied. “We need to figure out what to do with the bodies. And send for carts to come pick up their weapons and armor. No sense leaving them to the Frisians. Once we get disposition orders on the bodies, we’ll torch this damn place!”
As Agricola walked outside, he felt as if he were stepping out of a nightmare. Suddenly, he was very tired, and he longed to be away from this awful place. He stumbled through the broken gate where a squad of legionaries from the Fifth Legion stood guard. As soon as he felt he was out of sight, he fell against a tree and allowed himself to collapse to the earth. He dropped his helmet beside him and buried his face in his hands. After a few minutes he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked over through tear-stained eyes to see Master Centurion Alessio kneeling beside him.
“I’m sorry.” It was all he could say.
Though they were not his men or his friends, Alessio’s face was ashen. “I sent word to your Commanding Legate. My lads will stay here and watch over the place.”
Agricola nodded in reply. “Thank you,” he said. “I just wish I knew what could possibly have terrified an entire cohort into doing what they did.” He wrung his hands in frustration as he spoke.
“I don’t think we’ll ever know,” Alessio replied. “Regardless of what did it, I say these woods are cursed, and the sooner we leave here the better!”
Word from Legate Apronius returned with the carts, giving permission to do what they thought was best.
The weapons and armor were quickly removed from the dwelling, piled in a jumbled mess as they were loaded onto the carts.
As the dwelling was emptied of all except the grisly contents, Agricola ordered, “Fire this damned building, now!” and stepped back.
The flames, encouraged by oil brought with the carts, eagerly began to climb the walls.
Agricola looked up and saw the horrible wreath crumbling in the rising flames as they consumed the dwelling. That last look would haunt him for the rest of his life.
Amke winced as Tabbo applied a bandage to her hip. The new King of Frisia had many such injured warriors to attend to, but he wanted to make certain that the last of the Segons would live before moving on. Once satisfied, he stood and gazed at the ghastly sight that surrounded him.
Families had gathered at the grove to assist in the caring of their loved ones. Cries of mourning echoed in the night as the dead were laid out in rows. Mothers, wives, and children sought in vain for many who were still unaccounted for. Tabbo had no way of knowing how many dead still lay on the field, though he knew the number was far greater than what they had recovered. And how many of their wounded were now prisoners of war?
“It’s a terrible sight,” a voice said behind him. He turned to see is old friend Olbert. A gash ran across the warrior’s cheek and he walked with a limp. Tabbo allowed himself a sad smile and embraced his friend.
“It gladdens me that you live,” he said quietly.
“And to you, sire,” Olbert replied, acknowledging Tabbo as his sovereign.
“It is with a heavy heart that I take that responsibility,” the King replied. “Much have our people suffered, and now I must find them victory within the sorrow.”
“How can you possibly find victory in this?” Olbert asked, exasperated. “The Romans have beaten us, like they did under Drusus Nero!”
“No,” Tabbo replied. “They have won this battle, but our people are not broken. Look upon them, and you will see strength in their faces, despite the pain. They knew that this was the alternative to starvation, and they chose this path willingly. Do not forget that the Romans suffered greatly, as well. Exhaustion and casualties have prevented them from launching any kind of a pursuit. The legions should have been on our heels coming to this place, but look behind us. There are no soldiers, no clashing of metal coming for us in the night. We must strengthen our resolve, old friend. I do not think the Romans wish to fight us any more unless they have no other option. Unlike the time of Drusus Nero, this time we will lay out the terms and see if Rome accepts.”
Chapter XXII: Battles Won and a War Lost
***
There was a universal feeling of exhaustion amongst the Roman ranks. This was not the mere fatigue one felt after marching for a day in full kit and then building camp, nor was it like they felt after a day of drill or even actual battle. No, what the survivors felt was something beyond human endurance or comprehension. None of them knew their bodies could even withstand such punishment. The auxiliary infantry, who had flanked the enemy and were now trying to set up a screen line, found for the most part they were unable to even stand. The wounded were in even more dire straits due to their injuries and loss of blood. Some men fell to their knees and vomited uncontrollably; others fell down from dizziness. Even those who could stand wore vacant expressions and stared aimlessly at nothing.
As he lay against a tree, Artorius could not help but admire these men who had saved them. Forty miles they had marched in a single day and night. He knew such feats were possible, yet to do so and then charge into battle was something he would never fully understand. He turned and looked to his left. Bodies were everywhere, both Frisian and Roman. While the auxilia had been on their forced march, he and his legionaries had been in a murderous fight for their lives; a fight that, in essence, they had lost. Even the reserves that Magnus brought from the Fourth Century and led in a counterattack had bought them but temporary reprieve. Were it not for Tribune Cursor and his ten thousand strong, he knew all would have perished.
He then wondered how many had perished, and how many more had succumbed to wounds and exhaustion and could neither move nor call out for aid. His own injuries had gotten the best of him, though he still did not know how bad they were. His side did not hurt, yet his armor was split. It had taken a razor sharp sword with a man forcing all his weight onto it to burst through, and Artorius cursed that Centurions never kept their issued segmentata armor. The blows that wounded him would have never penetrated through the plate armor worn by legionaries. Though heavy and cumbersome, many more would have died were it not for their protective armor. The legionaries who had been slain had mostly died due to blows rendered in unprotected places like the neck, groin, or femoral artery. Only a handful, such a
s Legionary Carbo, had been killed by Frisians who actually were able to penetrate the segmentata.
Artorius looked to his right when he heard a loud groaning. It was the auxiliary trooper who had saved his life. The young man was crawling on his hands and knees towards him. His helmet was gone, his forehead split open and bleeding profusely. His leg bore a nasty gash, impeding his ability to walk. Injuries and utter exhaustion limited his movements to little more than a crawl.
“Sir,” the lad said as he collapsed next to the Centurion.
“You saved my life,” Artorius replied. The trooper could only nod, his eyes shut from the blood and sweat running into them.
“I had to make certain you lived,” he said at last.
“What do you mean?” Artorius asked, the man’s emphasis puzzling him. Why did he have to live above all others?
The trooper could not answer. At first Artorius thought he was dead, but then he saw the slight rising and falling of the man’s chest as his breath refused to leave him. Artorius winced as he reached over and placed a hand on the trooper’s shoulder.
A short way down the line, Sergeant Valens was on his knees, sobbing uncontrollably over the bodies of his beloved friends, Decimus and Carbo. Magnus was on a knee next to him, holding his friend close, tears flowing freely down his blood-stained cheeks. Those few from the Second Century still able to stand, desperately checked their fallen companions, tears of joy or sorrow following as they sorted the wounded from the dead.
At the end of the line, Optio Praxus took charge of setting up a casualty collection point for the wounded. In reality, every soldier in the Second Century had suffered numerous injuries; it was only a matter of who could still walk and those who could no longer. The soldiers Magnus had led from the rest of the Cohort assisted him.
“Sir, what do you want us to do with the enemy wounded?” one asked. “There are a lot of them mixed in amongst our lads.”
“Disarm them and bring them to the casualty collection point,” Praxus replied. “Bind their hands if they still pose a threat.”
“There’s no way we have the resources to take care of their wounded,” a legionary protested, “not with the number of losses we’ve sustained!”
“Shut the fuck up and do what you’re told!” a Decanus from the detachment barked at him.
As the legionaries went about their task, he walked over to Praxus and said quietly, “The lad’s right you know. We can’t possibly take care of all of their wounded and our own.”
“I know,” the Optio replied in an equally low voice, though his was borne out of fatigue rather than a desire to be quiet. “My instincts tell me they will serve us better alive than dead. They are brave men and shouldn’t be left to die in the mud. At least we can gather them with their comrades, to die together.”
Apronius was perplexed that he was still alive. His entire legion had been cut off and almost annihilated. He had personally taken a stand beside Camillus in order to protect the Legion’s precious Eagle from being captured. The quick reactions of Master Centurion Calvinus had saved both the Eagle as well as the Legate’s life. In the hours since the battle, he had managed to catch a little sleep and to wash and have a shave. Scouts reported that the Frisian’s were sending a deputation to parley with them, and he, at least, needed to make himself look like a noble Roman. He was anxious for this meeting, though not just to negotiate a cessation of hostilities. Rumor had it from several eyewitnesses, including Tribune Cursor, that the Frisian King himself had been killed during the battle, along with his only son.
His headquarters tent had been hastily erected with all the formal trappings. Appearance was important, not just his own person, but the camp and what the Frisians would see of his army. With him were all the senior officers in the Legion still able to stand on their own. Only two of the Tribunes were present. One had been killed, and the other three were badly injured. The Laticlavian Tribune had also been killed. In addition to Master Centurion Calvinus, only Centurion Primus Ordo Draco was on hand, the other First Cohort Centurions amongst the wounded, including Centurions Macro and Proculus. Tribune Cursor, the man who had saved all of their lives, was given a seat next to the Legate. This esteemed honor was not lost upon anyone, least of all Cursor himself. At length a legionary stepped in and saluted.
“Sir, the Frisian deputation has arrived.” Apronius nodded and returned the salute.
“How many?”
“Only four. They came to us unarmed, stating that their small escort of cavalry would wait a mile from our camp. They assured us there are no other forces with them.”
“Very well,” Apronius replied. He and the other officers stood as the Frisians entered the tent. Their faces were cleaned of any war paint they had worn before, and they, too, had taken the time to wash and make themselves presentable. A taller, better dressed man in the front of the small group spoke first. His right shoulder was bandaged and his arm in a sling.
“I am Tabbo, King of the Frisians.”
“No,” Apronius interrupted with a shake of his head. “Your King is Dibbald Segon. Where is he?”
Tabbo’s presence alone gave him the answer he sought, though he wanted to hear it directly from them. Two of the Frisians looked away, another bit the inside of his cheek, forcing himself to keep silent. Tabbo’s eyes bored into the Roman.
“Our beloved King has gone to join his ancestors, in a place where all the valiant pass into. It is by his own words that I am now King of Frisia.”
“Then you are welcome here, sire,” Apronius said. “May the gods of both our peoples bless this gathering.”
“Aye, may Freyja and Mars both find favor in our meeting,” Tabbo remarked in an extension to the courtesy given to him.
Both men knew the battle, though brutal as it was, had decided nothing. Now diplomacy would do what it could.
“I submit that we declare an immediate cessation of hostilities and allow both sides to bury and honor their dead.”
“Granted,” Apronius replied. He then nodded to Calvinus who handed a scroll to a legionary messenger.
The Legate quickly explained, “Those are directives ordering my men not to assault, either physically or verbally, any of your peoples while they collect your dead. I expect the same will be shown from your warriors towards my legionaries. You also have permission to retrieve your wounded from our custody.”
“Of course, honorable Legate of Rome.” Tabbo knew the real reason behind this show of clemency. The Romans’ resources were stretched dangerously thin just trying to care for their own wounded. He also knew that the Frisian wounded numbered in the thousands, and removing and caring for them would tax his own forces heavily. Still, he was grateful. It was fairly common practice when a smaller force defeated a much larger one; they would kill any wounded left on the field. The Romans’ magnanimity was not lost on him.
“I must also inform you that I have been given authority by the Emperor himself to negotiate on his behalf,” Apronius continued. “Any treaties or agreements made between us carry the full weight of his divine authority.”
Tabbo once more nodded in acknowledgment of the Legate’s statement. He then produced some documents from beneath the folds of his cloak.
“It is with a heavy heart that we have not been able to produce these for you before so much needless bloodshed,” the Frisian King said as he laid them on the table. “These are edicts, signed by the Magistrate Olennius. They are the reason our peoples went to war.” He continued to speak as Calvinus and Cursor each looked through the documents.
Apronius kept his eyes fixed on Tabbo, both men with their hands folded on the table.
“Our people were taxed to the point where we were starving to death, and still he demanded more. And when we were no longer able to pay, our lands, livestock, even our women and children were taken from us in payment.”
“Why were we not told of this before?” Cursor asked, looking up from his reading. The seals on the documents were all official
, written in legal language that the Frisians would not be able to duplicate through forgery.
“We tried,” Tabbo replied, somberly. He then told of the messengers that Dibbald had sent, of their brutal fate and the ignominious flogging their King had received as a warning. “Frisia was once a loyal province of the Empire. As such, we were entitled to protection from threats both beyond our borders, as well as from within. Rome betrayed that trust. For our loyalty we were punished.” He paused to let the words sink in.
Though Apronius had yet to look at the documents validating his claims, he knew that Tabbo spoke the truth.
“Know that while I bear no ill will towards the people of Rome or the Emperor himself,” Tabbo continued, “my people will not return to the way things were. Our warriors are all gathered at a sacred grove, barely a day’s march from here. If you wish to return us to subjugation by force then meet us there, for you will have to destroy us to the last. Just remember the loss you have suffered here and how much more Rome will lose before it is done. How many more of your men are you willing to send to the afterlife in order to exterminate our race? And is death how the Emperor rewards previous loyalties?”
Apronius stole a quick glance to each side, catching the barely noticeable nods from both Calvinus and Cursor. Even Draco hung his head slightly.
“You give us much to discuss,” Apronius replied. “Return tomorrow and you will have the Emperor’s answer.”
Tabbo stood and bowed deeply before exiting the tent. Once they were gone, the Legate slumped his shoulders and let out a deep breath. He looked over at Cursor, who was still pouring through the documents.
“The Frisians have been a peaceful province for many years,” the Tribune said when he felt his Legate’s gaze bearing down on him. He then looked up and handed the edicts to Apronius. “They gave us their loyalty…and we fucked them.”
Artorius wondered if he would ever feel clean again. His body was sticky with dried sweat and flakes of blood, his hair matted to the point he could not run his fingers through it. The blood and grime came off his hands and body in clumps. He had removed his armor and tunic while a surgeon tried to clean his wound and stitch it up. He reckoned the gash in his side was probably the cleanest part of his entire body. Though he felt it would be best to put his tunic back on, the stench embedded into the garment was repugnant. A makeshift bandage was wrapped around his waist, and his body had numerous other injuries. A superficial gash marked his left thigh, and his right leg bore a nasty bruise that caused his muscles to knot up and make him walk with a limp. His left eye was swollen shut, and he struggled in vain to open it.