Soldier of Rome: The Legionary (The Artorian Chronicles)

by James Mace

  The gods have a sick sense of humor, he thought to himself.

  At the same time the flying column returned from destroying the Angrivarii, reconnaissance cavalry also returned from the east. They had a full report to give to the commanding general. Germanicus had, therefore, called for a meeting of all his senior leaders within the army. Everyone from the rank of centurion pilus prior and above sat, or stood, in a circle as the lead scout drew out the known locations of the enemy onto the ground.

  “You were correct, sir,” the scout began, “Arminius does intend to finally face us in open battle. Our operations against the Angrivarii have given him time to muster his minions.”

  “How many does he have?” Gaius Caetronius, Legate of the First Legion asked.

  “It is impossible to tell for sure. Suffice it to say, with what we were able to discover, they outnumber us significantly. Though the Cherusci themselves have amassed the largest number of warriors, there are at least twelve tribes who have joined forces with Arminius. And it looks like each has committed every warrior they have.”

  “Where have they hidden their troops?” Gaius Silius, newly appointed Legate of the Fifth Legion asked.

  “They’re gathering at a place called Idistaviso. It is on the eastern side of the Weser River.”

  “That place is very sacred to the Cherusci,” an auxiliary commander named Chariovalda said. “It is next to a grove they have dedicated to a god not unlike your Hercules.”

  “So they feel they will have their gods to support them,” Severus scoffed.

  “The Weser is a wide, turbulent river,” the scout continued. “There are several places where cavalry will be able to cross fairly easily. However, we will need bridges for the infantry to cross en masse.”

  “That can be done easily enough,” Severus said, “provided we can keep the bastards from attacking our working parties.”

  “Is the river too wide for artillery to be effective?” Germanicus asked.

  “I’m no expert, sir,” the scout said. “However, I can surmise that at maximum elevation, artillery should at least be able to have some impact on whatever forces may oppose us on the opposite bank.”

  “Pilate, it sounds like you have your work cut out for you,” Severus said.

  The young tribune nodded confidently. “We’ll make it happen, sir.”

  “We have nearly four hundred pieces of artillery to include scorpions and onager catapults,” Germanicus observed. “I intend to use all of them to suppress the enemy. In addition, I intend to send a cavalry contingent across to harass and create a diversion.” He looked over at Chariovalda, who, in addition to being an auxiliary commander, was war leader of the allied Batavi. With him was a Roman cavalry officer named Stertinius, and a centurion primus ordo named Aemilius.

  “You, my friend, will lead your cavalry across the fording site and start harassing the nearest enemy flank,” Germanicus said.

  The war leader stood with his arms folded across his chest and nodded.

  “Two wings of our own cavalry led by Commander Stertinius and Centurion Aemilius will cross behind you, swinging out in a wide arc and penetrating deeply into the enemy flanks. They will act, initially, as a diversion, as well as your reserve, should you get into trouble. While this is going on, Tribune Pilate will oversee placing our artillery along the western side of the river. We will keep up a sustained rate of fire with the onagers, using fire on their formations and suspected hiding places in the woods. Scorpions will be used for clear shots and will suppress the enemy archers and slingers.

  “This will all provide cover for our working parties who will build eight bridges across the Weser, one for each legion. I want each one wide enough for a section to walk abreast. Once the infantry is across, artillery will form up on the bridges and cross in turn. From there we will establish a new camp and prepare for battle.”

  As the meeting broke up, Germanicus motioned for Chariovalda. The Batavi leader came forward. He was a strongly built German, still maintaining his long hair, yet his face was clean shaven. He was a master horseman and was greatly respected by both his own warriors and his Roman allies. The Batavi that he led were an offshoot of the Chatti tribe. While their cousins, the Chatti, had sided with Arminius, the Batavi had remained intensely loyal to Rome. Were Germania a unified country, the conflict would have resembled a civil war as much as anything. Stertinius and Aemilius had grown rather fond of their auxiliary counterpart, and a strong bond of friendship had grown between the three men. Germanicus placed his hands on the war leader’s shoulders.

  “This is a difficult and dangerous mission I am assigning to you,” he said.

  Chariovalda nodded. “The honor is mine to serve underneath a leader such as yourself, Germanicus Caesar!”

  “Your men are brave, but I do not want you to be careless with your lives. I know the hatred that exists between your people and the other tribes of Germania, particularly your cousins the Chatti. I only need you to engage and keep them distracted for a short time. I’m sending what cavalry we have to support you in case you run into trouble. Be careful, old friend.”

  With that, Germanicus clasped the Batavi leader’s hand and then, in what many would consider a severe breach of conduct, raised his hand in salute. Chariovalda proudly returned the salute and mounted his horse, smiling all the while.

  “Rome has been good to me and to my people,” he said as he turned to ride away. “I am honored to do my duty to protect her.”

  Chapter XVIII: The Weser River

  ***

  Centurions and options mounted their horses and surveyed their troops. Legionaries hoisted their packs and hefted their javelins and shields. Macro and Vitruvius looked on, pleased at the sight of their soldiers.

  “These are good men,” the newly promoted optio said. “They will do well.”

  “They should. You trained almost all of them,” Centurion Macro replied.

  “Cohort!” Centurion Proculus shouted.

  “Century!” Macro and the other centurions sounded off.

  “Advance!”

  As one, the men of the Third Cohort, along with the entire army, started their march towards the Weser River. As they marched, Artorius surveyed the sea of armored men surrounding him. The army marched in step, the ground practically shaking with the force of their march. Shields and sword belts bumped leisurely against their armor, sounding almost like a cadence of its own. By Mars, how could Arminius even hope to achieve victory against such a force? Artorius had full confidence in his own ability to fight. Yet here were tens-of-thousands with similar skills and abilities. Moreover, they were tens-of-thousands that were working together as one. Praxus had been right; the strength of the Roman army lay not in the skill of its soldiers as individuals. Their strength lay in their ability to work together, to fight as one man. The Germans may have had them outnumbered, but Artorius never once doubted the final outcome of the pending battle. Just getting to battle, however, was a maddeningly slow process.

  Artorius had not fought a German since their successful ambush against the raiding party the winter before. His sword arm twitched, almost as if it were suffering from a hunger that could only be satisfied by slaying as many barbarians as it could. He then looked at the meadows and woods they passed. The serenity contrasted sharply with the army of men and metal that bore their way through her.

  Arminius sat on his horse, hidden in the woods, yet able to survey the river below. In spite of his warnings, warriors stood in large numbers at the edge of the water, shouting insults and waving their weapons at the Romans who were massing on the opposite bank. The enemy was lined up in neat rows, shields together, javelin butts resting in the ground.

  “So they have come at last,” he muttered to himself.

  “A blessing to finally be able to vanquish the Romans once and for all,” Haraxus said as he rode up beside him.

  Ingiomerus was with him. They watched as the Romans started to unload wagons they had parked near
the edge of the water. Arminius’ eyes grew wide. An artillery barrage would be devastating to the warriors on the bank below. Why did they never listen? To them it was like a sport to try and dodge the Roman missiles.

  “Some lessons the stubborn will only learn through pain and hardship,” he said quietly.

  “What was that?” Ingiomerus asked.

  “Nothing,” Arminius replied. “Give it few minutes and we’ll see if we cannot get those fools to pull back from the river bank.”

  “Scorpion crews, ready!” a centurion reported to Pilate.

  “Onager crews, ready!” another shouted.

  “Make any last minute adjustments to tension and elevation!” Pilate answered.

  “Already been done,” Dionysus said as he walked back from the line of artillery weapons.

  Pilate smiled. He drew his gladius and raised it in the air. Onager crews ignited their balls of fiery death. As Pilate brought his gladius down in an arc, almost simultaneously the command was shouted by all section leaders.

  “Fire!”

  A wave of fireballs sailed towards the opposite bank. Most crashed into the trees, starting small fires. A few landed in amongst the barbarians on the opposite bank. Pilate watched one burning pot hit a warrior directly on top of the head and explode. The man screamed as he was covered in burning oil. His companions nearby were also doused in fire. Pilate nodded to Dionysus.

  “Scorpions…fire!” the centurion shouted.

  A volley of scorpion bolts flew in a low arc at their enemies. A few landed short or sailed too high, though most managed to strike home amongst their intended targets. Screams could be heard as men fell, some on fire and dying. Another volley from each weapon system and the barbarians were running towards the tree lines behind them. The beach on the German side of the river was littered with corpses, some of which still burned. The smell of burning flesh and hair assailed Pilate’s nostrils. It was repugnant and exhilarating at the same time.

  “Onagers, maintain harassing fire on the wood lines! Scorpions, clear shots only! Watch your sectors and keep your eyes open for any threats to our working parties!”

  “Sir!” the section leaders replied in unison.

  Pilate nodded to Severus, who in turn nodded his approval. The legate then pointed towards the riverbank.

  “Working parties forward!” a centurion shouted.

  Soldiers immediately came forward bearing lumber and tools and started to work on the legion’s bridge. Up and down the river Artorius was certain that similar episodes were being played out by the other legions. The Third Cohort had not been assigned to a working party. Instead, they would provide close security and be among the first across the river once the bridge was complete.

  On another section of the river, one that was too wide for the Roman artillery to be effective, two brothers stood on opposite banks, facing each other. Chief Tribune Strabo and Master Centurion Flavius were among those sent to accompany their ally, Flavus, to his meeting with his detested brother. They sat back and watched the spectacle, while an auxiliary from Flavus’ unit translated the dialog for them.

  “So my brother has come home at last!” Arminius shouted. “It is too bad that he has returned as nothing more than a whipped lapdog of Rome!”

  “At least I maintained my oath, brother!” Flavus answered. “You speak of being whipped, yet it is you who are whipped. You claim to be a great war chief, yet you are the one who is a slave. You are a slave to your warriors and their lust! You are nothing but a figurehead, you have no real power!”

  “I am loyal to my tribe and my family! You, my brother, are loyal only to how much the Romans pay you!”

  All the while, Arminius could not help but stare at the scar on his brother’s face, and the fact that he was missing an eye.

  “Do tell, brother,” he said at length, his voice softening slightly, “when was it you received such a fearful wound to your face?”

  “Several years ago, while serving under Tiberius. I took a spear to the face while saving the life of one of my wounded troopers.”

  “And how did the Romans compensate you for such disfigurement?” Arminius found himself intrigued to hear the story of his brother’s plight.

  “I have since been promoted to command of an ala of cavalry, with a significant increase in pay. I received the Silver Torque for Valor for my actions that day. And for saving the trooper’s life, I was awarded the Civic Crown.”

  “A crown of oak leaves?” Arminius scoffed. “That was your reward for being permanently disfigured? What a paltry recompense for having enslaved yourself! You are certainly one to be envied!” 1 The sarcasm and disdain ran deep in his voice.

  “As is your wife,” Flavus retorted. “She has been treated fittingly by the Romans as a guest rather than a conquest.”

  He watched as Arminius’ face twitched and his complexion reddened at the mention of Thusnelda.

  “Rome is the light in the darkness of this world!” Flavus continued. “Mercy and a return to friendship await those who surrender and repent of their crimes. Only death will you bring to those who stand by you in defiance of the Empire! The Romans seek neither plunder nor slaves, only revenge. You know this. They will spare no one. All will be burned in their wake… every last person slain. Such is the punishment of vanquished traitors!”

  “You dare speak of traitors?” Arminius retorted. “You betrayed our fatherland, our very ancestral freedom, and the gods of the homes of Germania! Our mother has shared my prayers that you might not choose to be the deserter and betrayer. Rather that you would become ruler of our kinsfolk and relatives, and indeed of our own people. 2 I see that such prayers were in vain! Rome has corrupted your soul. This is your home no longer, and these are no longer your fellow tribesmen. You are no longer Cherusci, you are Roman!” He spat on the ground to emphasize his point.

  A thin smile crossed Flavus’ face. “Do you want to know who else in your family is now a Roman? Your son! Oh, yes, Thusnelda bore you a son, a son that will never know his lineage to you! And unlike his father, he will have a future, one with promise and hope. You my brother, and whatever other bastards you may spawn, will have nothing!” Flavus knew he exaggerated when speaking of Arminius’ son. Indeed, he knew the boy would be lucky if he were even allowed to live.

  Arminius choked and sputtered as spittle flew from his lips. “How dare you call me your brother! You are no kin to me! I have no brother!”

  “And you no longer have a son!” Flavus called out as he drew his sword.

  Arminius sneered at this gesture.

  “Come to me, Flavus, and let us end this! The current here is not so swift, nor the river so deep that you cannot cross in safety. Safe passage I will give you to cross to this side, that I may slay you as a man does!” He brandished his own sword as he spoke.

  Flavus smiled wickedly.

  “I’m going to kill you, Arminius! I’m going to rip your guts out and feast on them!”

  He started to move towards the river, when Stertinius, who had also accompanied Flavus, seized the reins of his horse.

  “Not this way!” he shouted. “Listen to me, Flavus. He will only lure you across so that he can ambush you like he has so many others. Look and see for yourself!” He pointed across the river to where, indeed, a number of mounted barbarians were stirring anxiously amongst the trees.

  Flavus exhaled audibly through his nose, nodded, and sheathed his sword. Arminius gave a great cry, which was echoed by the warriors who had accompanied him. His face was red with rage. Flavus regained his composure and calmly turned his horse and rode away.

  “See, I told you he had proven his loyalty to us,” Flavius said to Strabo as they watched Arminius ride away in fury.

  The next morning Stertinius and Aemilius accompanied the Batavi to the Weser River. The water was cold and swift as Chariovalda swam his horse across. Like all great warrior leaders, he was always the first to cross into hostile territory. He also made it a point to be the firs
t to directly engage the enemy once in contact. The woods were dense on the other side. He could not tell if the Cherusci were waiting for them or not. He was certain they would be distracted by the Romans on the other bank. As he stepped onto the soft dirt of the river bank, he quickly mounted his horse, drew his long sword, and looked back to see how the rest of his warriors were faring. All were experienced at fording rivers, so it was not a great ordeal to them. The Roman cavalry, on the other hand, were struggling in the current. As soon as the last of his warriors had crossed, he signaled for them to move out.

  As they made their way through the dense woods, he saw a party of enemy warriors running their way. They were confused and looked as if they were running from something. Since they were still fairly close to the river bank, Chariovalda assumed they had just felt the wrath of the Roman artillery.

  “Yah!” he shouted as he kicked his horse into a full gallop. His warriors were close behind him, all shouting and waving their swords. As they came upon the surprised mob, Chariovalda swung his sword in an underhand movement. The sharp blade made contact with one warrior’s neck, severing his head from his shoulders. The rest of his cavalry crashed into the ranks of the Cherusci, causing those they did not kill outright to scatter. One barbarian made a half-hearted attempt to attack Chariovalda with his spear. Chariovalda grabbed the spear with his left hand and then plunged his sword deep into the man’s chest, right below the throat. Blood erupted in a geyser from the barbarian’s mouth as it spurted from the wound.

  The Batavi warriors shouted and raised their weapons in triumph. Most cared little about the conflict between Arminius and Rome. The Batavi were involved in an inter-tribal war, and Rome was their means to winning that war. Now they had spilled first blood against their hated neighboring tribes. Chariovalda looked around. It seemed that a number of Cherusci were running away from the battle together, a perfect target.