by James Mace
Milla clutched her son tightly, shivering. She shivered not from the cold of the waters they had just crossed, but from the stabbing pain and sorrow that crippled her heart. She watched, tears flowing freely, as her village was plundered and destroyed. Somehow she could not bring herself to turn away, not yet. She watched as her friends and family were viciously cut down. The Romans were not taking any prisoners.
She nearly smothered the young boy as she watched her aged father wielding his old rusted sword. He gave a great cry and lunged towards one of the soldiers. He was brave, but grossly outmatched. The legionary knocked him up against the side of a building, pinning him with his shield. He then repeatedly smashed the old man in the face and head with the boss of the shield. The sword fell from his hand as he slid down the wall, his face a crumpled and bloody pulp. In total contempt, the soldier slammed his gladius into his neck and then spat on him.
Milla continued to watch in horror as her sister ran towards the river, her own infant in her arms. She had given birth just days before, and Milla knew that even if she escaped the Romans, she had no chance of surviving the torrential current. As the young woman started to splash through the water, a legionary gladius was thrust violently into her back. She gasped, her arms flinging apart uncontrollably, the child flying into the river.
There were others who had taken their chances in the river. Almost all had been swept away and sucked under the current. Milla thanked her gods her father had taught her to swim from the time she was a babe. The thought made her sob again as she saw the old man lying bloodied and lifeless. The young men, the warriors of her tribe, might have been able to make it. Most were decent swimmers. But the warriors were all dead or soon to be.
“Where’s Papa?” her son asked as he clung to her.
A sharp pain pierced Milla as she thought of her husband. As much as she hoped, she knew Barholden was dead. He would not have run. As Marsi war chief, he would have fought till the bitter end.
“Papa’s gone to a better place,” she replied through her tears.
“Can we go see him?” the boy asked again, eyes full of hope as he smiled up at her face.
Milla fought back another sob. “Yes, we can go see him, just not yet. I promise, you will see your father again, but not for a long time. Don’t worry, he will wait for you. He will see how strong you’ve grown, and he’ll be proud.”
The village, and all in it, was burning. She knew the Romans would not have started the fires until they had taken all they wanted, and every villager was dead. Slowly, she turned away from the scene of death that had been her home and her life. There was nothing for it. She would leave these lands forever and start a new life for her son. She would tell him tales of his father’s bravery, and how he had died to protect them. She would find passage to the Isle of Britain. There she could raise him, away from the influence and threat of Rome.
It seemed like it took a long time for the assault cohorts to finish their work and join up with the rest of the legion. Calvinus walked through the carnage as his men started to set fire to the buildings. Near the edge of the village was a long line of small piles containing gold, trinkets, weapons, fancy goblets, anything the soldiers deemed worth plundering. Calvinus smiled and shook his head slightly. As a senior centurion, his salary allowed him much in the way of material comforts, negating any need or desire to plunder from the conquered. However, he knew how important it was to the men, and so he allowed them the extra time necessary to gather whatever they were willing to haul back to the fort.
He almost felt a pang of remorse when he came upon the bodies of an entire family slain. A mother lay protectively over her children, but it had been in vain. Her bowels were run through, and all three of her children had been stabbed through the heart. Calvinus then watched as a young woman was stabbed from behind as she tried to make her way to the river. The infant she was carrying flew from her arms and into the sweeping current. The centurion’s face twitched as he watched.
Uncontrollably, his mind flashed back to six years earlier. He’d seen similar sights, only then it had been Roman citizens who had been barbarically slaughtered. He remembered seeing women who had been brutally raped and mutilated, all while their stricken husbands were forced to watch before they, too, were killed. At least here all the men of fighting age were already dead. The Marsi warriors had been spared the torment of having to watch their loved ones perish in a hell of fire and steel. They had gotten off easy in the centurion’s mind. Calvinus also noted how the Romans were merciful enough to slay their victims expediently. Of course, this had little to do with compassion. They were in a rush to finish the job and get back to the fort before night fell. There simply was no time for rape and torture. Being denied the opportunity to deflower the Marsi women enraged some of the legionaries. These, in turn, unleashed their hate on the people they killed; electing to bludgeon to death many of the villagers, in particular the women, with rocks and clubs rather than killing expediently with their gladii.
“The village is cleared, Calvinus,” one of the younger centurions reported.
Calvinus nodded to the man. “Good work. Once every building is alight, conduct one last sweep through the village as we head back to our lines.”
“Yes, sir,” the centurion nodded as he turned back to finish his task.
Calvinus looked into the faces of some of the men under his command as they executed their grisly task. Many were young, no more than overgrown boys, forced to accelerate the ascension into manhood through brutality and war. He saw one young legionary, his face twisted in blinding rage, splattered with blood and brain from a villager whose head he had smashed in with a rock. The man, like many of his companions, looked as if he were demon-possessed; though within minutes his composure returned, once the last of the barbarians were slain. Though he never spoke of it, the men of the Fifth Cohort knew their centurion had survived Teutoburger Wald, and for them vengeance was personal.
Calvinus remembered the other young faces he had once commanded. Seventy-two of his men had died in that horrible battle six years before. Besides Calvinus, only two others survived from his century. Of the men he lost, he remembered in particular, Metellus, the young soldier who had saved his life. Rumor had reached Calvinus that Metellus’ younger brother was now a legionary, serving with the Third Cohort. The centurion instinctively turned back and looked towards the glade they had passed through, which, ironically, was now occupied by the Third Cohort.
Calvinus never fully understood why the army had allowed him to retain his rank, moreover why they later promoted him to the command of an entire cohort. He closed his eyes as he remembered his fallen soldiers, his boys whom he had loved like his own sons. In that moment, any sense of remorse for the butchery his men were committing evaporated. The Marsi had taken part in the treachery of Teutoburger Wald. They had murdered his boys, and now they were paying their debts in full.
The Second Century marched back towards their camp in silence. As they passed through the woods where the battle had taken place, Artorius saw that the stricken barbarian still lay against the tree. His breathing was shallow, his complexion pale. His body and the ground around him drenched in blood and body fluids, but he was still alive. Artorius wondered just how long it would take for the man to expire completely and hoped it would be a long time. He saw that all Roman casualties and equipment had been removed from the site. Javelins would be redistributed later. The barbarian corpses would be left to rot. He saw that a pack of wild dogs were already fighting over one body. Artorius gave a nervous start when he heard a shriek come from the center of the swarm. The man the dogs were viciously devouring was still alive.
Decimus let out a short, mirthless laugh as he watched the man being savagely ripped apart. “Not exactly what he thought a warrior’s death would be.”
“Such is the fate of traitors and cowards,” Magnus added with contempt.
Artorius remained silent, surprised by his own lack of venom at the sight.
His thoughts turned elsewhere as they reached the clearing where they first came into the woods. There he saw Severus and a contingent of cavalry riding out from another part of the woods. Severus had his sword drawn, and it was covered in blood. Artorius smiled. Even though he had never met his commanding general, he admired him. Severus was an extremely competent general, and unlike many of the soft types that infected the ranks of Senatorial legates, he always led from the front. Germanicus had the same reputation. If his men were in danger, so was he. The Emperor himself had been notorious for his apparently reckless lack of self preservation in battle. Such men inspired aggression and valor from even the meekest. Yes, these were definitely the sort of men Artorius wanted leading him.
Germanicus was growing frustrated, as he was sure his men were. While the Marsi had been ravaged and were out of the war completely, his primary target, the Bructeri, had evaded him since the campaign began. Every time he thought he had them pinned down, they would vanish into the forests and swamps. His legions had smashed a few settlements, but these were rather small. As he sat at a table with the legates and auxiliary commanders, he knew further pursuit of the Bructeri would be in vain. The Chatti on the other hand, he had caught off guard and devastated, though most of their warriors escaped being killed or captured.
“What are your orders, sir?” one of the legates asked.
“We will reunite with Severus,” Germanicus answered. “As you know, we are not very far from Teutoburger Wald. Therefore, I feel it is imperative we go there and bury our dead.” He paused to let the words sink in.
There was some uneasy fidgeting from the legates, but nobody said a word.
“I also feel it is important for us to demonstrate to the Germans that we can and will go wherever we wish,” he continued. “The men also need to be taken to Teutoburger. Take them there; show them what happened to their brothers, and I guarantee it will renew their fighting spirit.”
“And what of the Bructeri?” another legate asked.
“They will have to wait till another day. Further pursuit of them is completely futile at this point. Our task now is to take care of our fallen brothers. We will then turn our attention towards Arminius himself.”
Just then a soldier came running into the tent. “Beg your pardon, sir, but you may want to come outside quick.”
It was already dark, the sun having set an hour before. Germanicus and the legates burst from the tent to see a group of soldiers shouting and cheering, clustered around something in the center of their group.
“What is the meaning of this?” he shouted as soldiers snapped to attention and parted out of his way.
“Only this, sir,” one legionary answered as he produced a battered but magnificent standard. It was adorned with a silver eagle on top, and the plaque underneath read: Legio XVII.
Germanicus gasped. How was it possible? The Eagle of the Seventeenth Legion had been found.
“We found it in a ravine, sir. Looks like it escaped capture and was simply lost. We were out on patrol when one of the men saw a glint of something shiny. So he jumped in to fetch it out, and here it is.”
“Who was it that found this?” Germanicus asked.
“I did,” answered a young legionary who stepped forward. “Legionary Gaius Clovius, sir.”
Germanicus put his hands on the soldier’s shoulders. “By Jupiter, you are now Sergeant Gaius Clovius, and you shall be handsomely decorated for this.”
Germanicus was suddenly filled with euphoria. It was an omen, it must be. A simple legionary just happens to stumble upon this sacred icon in the middle of this vast wilderness? Impossible! The gods must have decreed it. Germanicus was known to be highly superstitious and was overwhelmed by what he thought was sure sign of the gods’ favor. He looked to their foray into Teutoburger Wald with renewed assurance from what he perceived as divine sources.
Chapter X: Return to Teutoburger Wald
***
“Teutoburger Wald? Have they gone mad?” Gavius was beside himself. He had finally killed his first enemy during the last battle, a perfect throw with his javelin through the heart of a Marsi warrior. His confidence was later shaken by the news they would be heading back to Teutoburger Wald.
“Oh, come off it, man,” Carbo retorted. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid. It’s a forest just like the rest of this cursed land, with some added swamps for decoration.”
“And ghosts. Don’t forget, it’s the forest where the greatest disaster in our time took place,” Gavius replied.
“All the more reason for us to go there,” Artorius said, “to prove there is nothing for us to be afraid of. Besides, I think it only right we give some dignity and respect to our fallen, and that everyone sees just what barbarous people we are dealing with.” His face was tense. He was obviously trying to quell his burning anger.
That night Artorius found he could not sleep once again. His bouts of insomnia were becoming more frequent. He looked over at his tentmates. The rookie legionaries, namely Magnus and Gavius, tossed and turned fitfully, yet they slept. The veterans were all lost in deep, peaceful sleep.
Unable to find peace within his mind, Artorius got up and went for a walk. For reasons he could not explain, he found himself purposely walking towards Macro’s tent at the end of their line. The moon was full, and there was plenty of light to see by. As he expected, the centurion was standing outside his tent. This time he was not wrapped in a cloak, trembling. He was simply standing there, his back to Artorius. He was staring off into the distance, his hand resting on the century’s standard. Artorius was getting ready to turn and leave when Macro spoke.
“What is a legionary doing up this late at night if he is not on watch duty?” He spoke without turning around.
Artorius was surprised Macro knew he was there. He was suddenly afraid.
“I couldn’t sleep, sir,” he said, trying to not stutter or stammer.
“Then come speak with me…let me know what ails you.”
Artorius walked up to where his centurion was, not sure what else to do.
“You’ve been having quite a few sleepless nights,” Macro observed.
Artorius gasped. Did he know? Know that he’d been watching his centurion tremble and nearly fall apart on nights where it seemed the very darkness would consume him?
“You’ve probably noticed that my nights have been less than restful as well,” Macro continued.
Artorius tried to think of how to best say what was on his mind to his centurion. What he really wanted to know was; did Centurion Platorius Macro actually survive Teutoburger Wald? And if so, could he possibly have known Metellus? It was a long shot, and Artorius knew it.
Finally he spoke. “I think there is something about this place, this campaign, that troubles us both,” he said slowly. “Though I think it is for different reasons. I know there are those in this legion who are haunted by the events of six years ago, having seen it first hand. Am I right to assume you are one of those?”
Macro continued to look straight ahead, never turning his head towards his young legionary. He gave a great sigh before continuing. “Most of us do our best to hide our little secrets about where we came from before serving with the Twentieth. I guess my secret is out. I was once a legionary with the Nineteenth.”
Artorius closed his eyes, partially disappointed. Metellus had served with the Seventeenth, so there was practically no chance they would have known each other.
Macro continued, “I was one of those captured by the Germans during the battle. We watched as they sacrificed our officers on their foul altars. We had to watch as our brothers were slowly tortured, begging for death. All we could do was watch and await our turn. Three of us were placed in a wicker cage to be burned alive. As the Germans started the fire, a fight broke out amongst them concerning some stolen weapons and armor. They drifted away from us as they fought.
“Fortunately for us, the wood was damp, and the fire did not keep. It did manage to burn most
of the way through some of the rope holding the cage together. We forced our way out, managing to free five others who were awaiting a similar fate. We hid in the forests, ever aware of the roving bands of warriors. It was still rainy, and the sky was constantly black. It was a couple of days before we could even catch enough of a glimpse of the sun in order to find out what direction we were traveling. We immediately started moving west. It took us nearly two weeks to get to the Rhine. Two of our companions succumbed to their wounds and died along the way. The rest of us did as best we could, subsisting off berries and tree bark. I was nearly mad with hunger when the Rhine bridges came into sight. It was then that a roving patrol found us. They almost killed us, except one fellow, who somehow managed to keep his wits about him, started yelling that he was from the Eighteenth Legion, and that we had survived the disaster. We were brought to the fortress of the Twentieth Legion. Two of the men were so badly injured with festering wounds from their ordeal, the patrol made makeshift litters to carry them in on.
“We were placed on extended leave; afterwards, we were given the option of rejoining the ranks. All of us gladly accepted. And now you know.”
“My brother, Metellus, was killed in Teutoburger Wald,” Artorius said. “Forgive me, sir, but I hoped that perhaps you might have known him. He was with the Seventeenth Legion, Seventh Cohort.”
Macro finally turned and looked at Artorius. “No, I did not know him,” he said. “But there is somebody who might have or at least might have known who he was. Are you on any duties tomorrow?”
“I’ve got sentry duty from first light till noon,” Artorius answered.
“Not anymore,” Macro said. “Tomorrow after breakfast I’ll take you over to meet someone. Something to remember, you are not the only one who suffered loss here. While actual survivors of the disaster are few, there are others still who lost brothers or fathers.”