by James Mace
He sighed and grabbed his Centurion’s vine stick from where his kit was piled together and used it as a walking stick. Dominus and the other Centurions from the Cohort had assembled in this area at the center of the line. No one spoke, and though he was beyond exhausted, Artorius knew he could not sleep. He instinctively went to strap on his gladius, but his shoulder where the strap rested was scoured badly and rubbed raw, so he left his weapon as he hobbled down to the river in an attempt to wash his tunic. He came to a small eddy where medics were retrieving water as quickly as possible with which to treat the wounded.
Artorius groaned as he knelt down painfully and rinsed off his tunic. He soaked it in the circulating waters and wrung it out a few times before he figured it was as clean as it was going to get, given the circumstances. As he made his way up the gentle slope, it dawned on him that in the fog and incessant dampness his tunic would never dry properly. He sighed as he returned to where the Centurions were now joined by their Options. He stopped and took a few deep breaths, suddenly light-headed. The surgeons had told him he’d lost a lot of blood and was severely weakened. He knew he had to lie down soon or else he would simply pass out. Artorius hung his tunic off a tree, hoping it would drip dry to the point that it would be wearable. Romans did not have modesty issues, and it would not have bothered him to walk around in nothing but his sandals, loin cloth, and the bandage around his waist, were it not for the fact that the damp air chilled him. He desperately wished for his cloak, which was across the river along with his spare tunics and the rest of his and his men’s personal baggage. A sentry’s alert made him immediately forget his personal discomfort.
“Frisian contingent approaching!” a Decanus shouted from the skirmish line.
With no tools or palisade stakes it was impossible to set up a proper defense and this deeply concerned the Centurions, even though they knew their commanding general was in meetings with the Frisian King himself.
“How many?” Dominus asked, rising to his feet.
“About two score,” the Decanus of the watch replied over his shoulder. “Half of them are carrying torches…it looks like…I can’t tell what it is they are carrying.”
Artorius, Dominus, and the other Centurions walked over to where the Decanus stood. The Frisians with the torches marched alongside others who carried what looked like a wooden bier on their shoulders. The Romans then noticed the body that lay reverently on top.
“Come to bring us one of their dead?” the Decanus asked.
Artorius slowly shook his head as a chill went up his spine.
“That is no Frisian they carry,” he replied.
Indeed, it was not one of their warriors that the Frisians bore. As they approached and silently lowered their burden, the Romans stood wide-eyed, they saw the body of their lost friend and fellow Centurion, Marcus Vitruvius. The blood had been washed away from his wounds, his hands folded reverently across his chest, holding his gladius against his body. His Centurion’s helm smashed and with a broken crest, lay next to him.
“We return this bravest of warriors to his people,” the lead Frisian said in thickly accented Latin. “Prince Klaes, heir to the throne of Frisia, fell by his hand, along with four of our best warriors. It is in keeping with our customs that we honor such heroic valor.” With a bow the Frisians turned and slowly walked away.
Artorius had both of his eyes shut, fighting against his tears.
“Sir,” a soldier said behind him. “The list of our dead.”
He turned to see one of his legionaries holding a scrap of paper. Artorius’ soul ruptured as he read the names of all of his men who were killed during the battle, and now he sunk further into despair, seeing for himself the body of his fallen friend and mentor.
He fell to a knee and lowered his head, placing a trembling hand on Vitruvius’ now cold hands. Artorius had always believed that the man who had taught him everything he knew about close combat was invincible. For all his years in the army, numerous campaigns, and countless foes bested, Vitruvius had never been so much as scratched. Now he lay cold and lifeless, his body battered and scored, his neck slashed with the same type of wound that had killed poor Gaius Longinus. Artorius stayed there for some time, head down, and senses numb. As badly as he wanted to cry for his friends, no tears would come, though his heart was torn apart by their loss.
Valens walked the field in a daze, his eyes swollen and red. Large numbers of Frisian warriors walked around him, intermixed with legionaries and auxiliary troopers, though their purpose now was to retrieve their fallen brothers rather than fight each other anymore. He saw many expressions on their faces that told stories of shared sorrows. The warriors who had died on legionary blades had meant just as much to these men as Carbo and Decimus had meant to Valens. He glanced over to his left and saw two warriors bending down to help up one of their wounded who lay against a tree. The Decanus immediately recognized the man as the very one who Gaius had given water to the night before. He was amazed that the Frisian had not only lived through the night, but survived the battle. Valens walked over to the man, who was now standing upright, though propped up by his friends. The warrior recognized him and nodded, to which Valens did in return.
“Your…warrior,” the Frisian said. He knew little Latin, his fatigue and injuries making it difficult for him to find the right words. “One who…gave water.”
“He’s gone,” Valens replied. When the man did not seem to understand, he swallowed and uttered the word he knew the Frisian would understand. “Dead. Legionary Gaius Longinus is with the gods now.”
The warrior closed his eyes tightly, almost as if he were sorry for Gaius’ loss.
“I…,” he started to say. “I will…honor him.” The warrior looked up, gritted his teeth, and nodded in determination. His body sagged as weariness and pain overtook him.
His companions picked him up and carried him from the scene of death. Valens stood and watched until the men were lost amongst the crowds who came to claim their fallen.
“Are you alright, Sergeant?” the voice startled Valens, and he looked to see one of his legionaries standing behind him. Beneath the grime, caked-on blood, and sweat was the face of a boy. So young; as young as poor Gaius had been, but no longer an innocent.
Evening was closing fast and the remnants of the Twentieth Legion, at least those able to still stand, stood in formation outside of Legate Apronius’ tent. They were a fearful sight. Though most had made an attempt to clean themselves, their armor was battered and still showed streaks of blood that had failed to come off. The men leaned on their shields, which were scored and no longer gave the appearance of gleaming in the remaining sunlight. Their faces carried the look of complete exhaustion that a few hours rest and some hasty rations brought across the Rhine could not alleviate. Still, there was a sense of pride in that they could stand at all. They had not suffered the fate of the legions in Teutoburger Wald nineteen years before. The Frisians had pushed them to the breaking point, and yet they had held the line.
Standing humbly before the assembled host of legionaries was the man who had saved them from annihilation. Though many accolades and thanks were given to the Fifth Legion, it was Tribune Aulus Nautius Cursor and his ten thousand that had traveled forty miles in a single day, saved the Twentieth Legion, and killed the Frisian King. Cursor stood rigid, his eyes cast slightly downwards. His own fatigue was extreme, and in light of everything that had transpired both during and after the battle, he did not feel like a hero. Still, it was the right of the men of the Twentieth Legion to bestow Cursor with Rome’s most sacred honor.
A lone legionary faced the Tribune. As was custom in these circumstances, where an award was bestowed by the men rather than the generals, one of the youngest and lowest ranking legionaries was chosen to represent the legion. That was why, in an unusual change of protocol, the senior officers stood behind the formation, rather than in front of it. This showed that the honor came from the ranks and not from the Commanding Legate
. The soldier held a crown in his hands, though unlike the Civic Crown, which was made up of oak leaves, this one was woven of weeds and grasses.
“The crown of grass,” the legionary spoke. Even though his face was that of a boy, his booming voice carried throughout the field. “It is never conferred except in times of extreme desperation, by acclamation of the entire army, to its savior. While the most hallowed Civic Crown is presented for saving a single life, the Grass Crown, made from materials taken from the field of battle, is given in recognition of the valor of one who saves an entire army.”
Cursor stood silent as the legionary spoke of Rome’s most hallowed recognition for valor. Indeed, it was the rarest of awards, with but a handful of Roman soldiers ever receiving it, and none had been awarded in battle for nearly one hundred years. Though the Emperor Augustus had been presented the Grass Crown by the Senate, it was in homage, rather than for military achievement.
“We remember the few who have been given this esteemed honor,” the soldier continued. “From Rome’s glorious history we remember the Tribune Lucius Siccius Dentatus, the Consul Publius Decius Mus; three heroes of the Punic Wars, the Dictator Fabius Maximus, the Tribune Marcus Calpurnius Flamma, and the great Scipio Aemilianus. We also remember two of the last to have saved entire armies; Centurion Primus Pilus Petreius Atinas, and the Legate Quintus Sertorius.”
Conspicuously absent from the list was the Dictator Lucius Cornelius Sulla, who though awarded the Grass Crown during the Social War one hundred years before, the scourge later placed on his name made listing him amongst Rome’s historic heroes in very poor taste. The legionary at last addressed Cursor directly.
“Tribune Aulus Nautius Cursor, it is by your actions in leading your ten thousand forty miles in a single day, flanking the Frisian army, and killing the enemy King that you have saved the Twentieth Legion from being wiped out of existence. It is by universal acclamation of the men of the Twentieth that we present you Rome’s most sacred honor, the Grass Crown.”
The Tribune removed his helmet, tucking it under his left arm, and bowed his head slightly as the legionary placed the crown on his bald head. The soldier then drew his gladius and turned to face the legion.
“Twentieth Legion!” he shouted. “Gladius…draw!”
“Rah!” responded the host of legionaries, who had been deathly silent to this point.
“Salute!”
“Ave Cursor, savior of Valeria!” the Legion cried while holding their weapons high in salute to the Tribune.
Cursor drew his own weapon and returned the salute. He then briskly turned and left the field. He removed the crown as soon as he was out of sight of the legion.
As he made his way back to where his tent had been erected he saw an old friend, Centurion Artorius, sitting on a tree stump. Though he was still without a tunic, he did manage to get his cloak to try to keep off the biting chill of the coming night.
“You know, that actually looked good on you,” the Centurion said with a smile. “Makes one forget that you’re bald.”
“Believe it or not, the ladies like my smooth head,” Cursor replied, running his hand over his dome and wiping away a few bits of grass. He then stood and stared at the crown of grass that the legionaries of the Twentieth had just presented him. Part of him wished to throw it into the river, the other part to hold it close, lest it ever get away from him.
“How many men in our history have ever been awarded that?” Artorius asked, nodding towards the crown in the Tribune’s trembling hands. “A dozen, maybe?”
“I don’t deserve this honor, Artorius,” Cursor replied quietly. “The Fifth Legion is who turned the tide of the battle. My auxiliaries were spent and ready to break. Hell, numerous companies had already started to retreat when the Fifth made its crossing! This is a sham, I am no hero.”
“Yes, you are,” Artorius replied, using his vine stick to stand up. “You gave the Fifth the breathing space they needed in order to cross. Had you not hit the enemy in the flank so hard, the Fifth would have never gotten across that bridge. I know. I overheard their Master Centurion talking to Calvinus. They came upon a number of Frisian corpses just on the far side of the bridge, well past the end of our line. There were also a handful of dead and wounded auxiliaries. That means the Frisians were waiting for the Fifth. They would have ambushed them and kept them from coming to our aid. Were it not for you and your ten thousand, the Twentieth would have been ignominiously annihilated, and the Fifth would have been stuck on the far side of the river. Whether you wish to accept it or not, you are a hero, Cursor. You have earned your place in the annals of Rome’s most valiant.”
“And yet,” the Tribune said after a moment’s pause, “this crown feels like it is made of lead, rather than grass.”
Artorius gave a sad nod, understanding what the Tribune meant.
“It is a heavy burden you now bear,” he answered. “But know that your place in history is well earned.”
What Artorius could not know was that the actions of the Senate would undo the ultimate honor bestowed upon his friend. Were Cursor to know that his deeds of valor would be forgotten almost immediately, he would have been relieved. As it was, he accepted that no matter what posterity said about his actions, as long as the Twentieth Legion, Valeria, breathed life, he would remain immortal in the eyes of its men.
The following day was set aside to send the fallen to Elysium. Massive funeral pyres were assembled in a clearing near the fort. Nine hundred of their comrades were to be consigned to the gods; the other four hundred of the Fourth Cohort ignominiously burned within the house, they had sacrificed each other. Several smaller pyres were arranged around the perimeter to honor those of higher rank, with fallen Tribunes and Centurions placed on individual pyres. Sergeant Valens had requested one to honor his friends, Carbo and Decimus, even though they were but legionaries. He had gathered the wood for this himself, his simple explanation of why he wanted the pyre was readily accepted. He would see them off to the Elysium Fields together; friends in death as they had been in life.
Artorius also stood by one of those pyres, while several officers and men that knew Vitruvius best, gathered near. To Artorius was given the dubious honor of torching the stacked logs holding the body of his friend. A lighted torch was placed in his hands as he stared at the last remains of his beloved mentor. He refused to tear his eyes away as he thrust the burning pitch into the oil soaked logs. Flames arose with a roar, causing those nearest to back away. Artorius remained motionless while the flames carried Vitruvius away. As he stared into the fire, the men drew their gladii in a final silent salute.
Several hours passed, and when the coals were settling into ash, he scooped them into a small urn. He then sealed it with a cork and wax. Closing his eyes, he sent a last farewell to his dearest friend and turned away.
Chapter XXIII: Souls Broken
***
Even from a great distance, the flames of the burning manor house crept high enough to cast an eerie red glow upon the camp. Four hundred and twenty-seven men had been assigned to the Fourth Cohort, and every last one had been accounted for. Agricola had ordered their weapons and armor stripped from the bodies and the house burned over their heads. No pyres of honor amongst the other fallen of the Twentieth for them. As he watched the glow in the distance, Cursor knew it was because of the shame brought on by the disgraceful and eerie manner in which they had died, and they did not warrant any sort of honors.
The Tribune lay on his cot, thankful that he had not witnessed the macabre sight that Centurion Agricola and the men of the Fifth Legion had dealt with. He had his own issues to worry about. Hundreds of auxiliary troopers had been killed or wounded during the battle. The few who had been missing had been found; two who had been wounded had, in fact, been treated and brought back to camp by the Frisians. Cursor marveled that men, who had but a few hours previously been in murderous combat, were now taking care of each others’ injured.
“Tribune, sir,” a Dec
anus said as he stuck his head into Cursor’s tent. “Beg your pardon, sir, but Centurion Rodolfo has gone missing.”
“What in Hades do you mean, missing?” Cursor asked as he followed the auxiliary towards the edge of their camp.
Torches lit the damp earth at intervals leading down the makeshift path that led to the east entrance. Once the rest of the army had crossed with all the baggage trains, the Romans had been able to set up a proper marching camp, complete with trenches and palisade stakes. They exited the camp where a squad of auxiliary infantrymen stood guard. Though there had been a cessation of hostilities, it was an uncomfortable feeling being on the Frisian side of the river. The Decanus carried a torch and led the Tribune to the tree line a few dozen meters beyond their camp.
“Me and some of the lads were conducting a sweep of the woods,” he explained.
Cursor saw more torches as they walked a few meters into the trees. A squad of auxiliary infantry stood around a tree stump. A battered suit of Centurion’s scale armor lay across it, the scored helm set on top. Another stump jutted from the ground a couple feet away, and in it a gladius had been thrust.
“This is exactly how we found it, sir,” a trooper said with a salute.