by James Mace
“Let’s go!” he shouted to his section as they ran after the man they knew to be Julius Florus.
Shields were grounded and gladii sheathed, as they knew they would need both hands and feet to climb the steep slope.
Florus watched from the woods in despair as his men were crushed by the Romans. He spat in disgust as he watched a number of them surrender without as much as a fight. He trembled in anxiety as he saw legionaries gathered around his wagons. His precious money was lost. Lost! He was almost sobbing in frustration when he looked to his left and saw several Roman soldiers running his way. He then looked down and saw that the sun had cast its light through the trees and was gleaming off his breastplate. He cursed himself for his vanity as he turned and started to flee up the hill. His army was routed, his fortune gone, and if he failed to get away, his life would become forfeit as well. He grabbed at tree branches and roots as he pulled himself up the side of the hill. Roman soldiers were phenomenally conditioned, however Florus hoped the head start he had would be enough to save his life.
A glare caught Indus on the side of his face. He turned to see where it came from and saw a glimpse of a man in brass armor fleeing up the side of the mountain. He could also just make out a small group of legionaries pursuing the rebel leader. Indus scowled as he realized just who the Roman soldiers were pursuing. He turned back towards his men, who were helping legionaries round up prisoners. Florus could not be allowed any chance at escape!
“Stay here and help with the prisoners,” he told his deputy. He then signaled for two of his men to follow him.
There was a small path that led up the hill, arching off to their left. He hoped it would allow them to get far enough ahead of Florus to cut off his escape.
Florus’ chances of outrunning his pursuers were quickly vanishing as his lungs burned, unable to suck in enough air. His legs were cramping up in knots, his feet numb from the climb. He had become so accustomed to riding that even walking great distances had become arduous, let alone running. He threw off his helmet and struggled to work out of his cuirass. As his armor dropped, he found himself using his gilded sword as a crutch to help pull him up the steep hill. Florus could hear the sounds of the Romans struggling up the hill behind him. He was even able to make out their heavy breathing and the curses they muttered. They were getting closer. As he struggled to pull himself over a massive fallen tree, he could make out a trio of horsemen moving across his front. He then watched, horrified as they wheeled around and came at him. He lowered his eyes when he saw that Indus was one of them. With a sigh of resignation, Florus drew his sword and leaned back against a tree.
Artorius and the rest of the section slowed their pursuit when they saw Florus back against a tree with his sword out. He, too, was able to make out the riders approaching from higher up on the hill. Though the shadows of the trees prevented him from making out their faces, he was able to recognize Indus’ voice as he spoke.
“It’s over, Florus,” he stated as he rode up.
Florus could only nod his head. Indus slowed his horse and moved ever so slowly towards him. Florus gulped hard, his mind working desperately to find a way out of the situation. In the end, there was only one way out.
“Stay where you are, Indus!” he barked as he turned his sword on himself, resting the point against his abdomen.
Indus halted his horse and signaled his men to stay where they were.
“I am not carrying him back if he offs himself!” Magnus whispered into Artorius’ ear.
The decanus raised his hand to silence him. He then pointed for Valens and Gavius to start moving around the far side of the tree. With Magnus, Decimus, and Carbo he started to slowly advance towards Florus.
“I said stay away!” Florus cried out in desperation.
“Don’t do it, Florus. Don’t let it end this way.” There was genuine concern in Indus’ voice. Though they had been political rivals, and were now enemies in a war of rebellion, Indus could not help but feel sorry for him. If he could convince his fellow tribesman to see reason, perhaps he could help end this disgusting rebellion.
“What do you care how this ends?” Florus despaired.
“We are both of the Treveri,” Indus replied, “fellow countrymen, kinfolk through our tribe . . .”
“You are no kin of mine!” Florus snapped, suddenly angry. “You betrayed your people so that they could remain slaves of Rome!”
Artorius quietly drew his gladius as he continued to slowly advance. Indus raised a hand, ordering him to stop. He wished to take Florus alive, if possible. He had already spoken with Silius about sparing Florus’ life, should he surrender peacefully. The Roman legate had been noncommittal, but had, at least, not rejected his request outright.
“You can help us end this thing, if you just surrender peacefully,” he pleaded. “Countless lives have been needlessly lost already. Do not let more die in vain. Put down your sword.”
“I will do no such thing! Surrender will only mean delaying the inevitable. The Romans will have me publicly strangled like a common criminal! No Indus, it ends now.” With final resolve, Florus fumbled with his sword and fell upon it. In his despair, he neglected to angle his sword upwards so that it would penetrate his heart and kill him quickly. Instead, he ran himself through the stomach, the blade exiting out his back as he collapsed onto the ground. A horrifying realization came over him as quickly as the insurmountable pain. He tried to cry out, but found he was unable. He clawed at the sword as his body started to tremble uncontrollably; his skin became clammy with sweat. Blood and intestinal fluid seeped from his self-inflicted wound as he lost all control over his bowels.
Indus lowered and shook his head, removing his helmet. Artorius let out a sigh and signaled for his men to finish advancing to Florus. Valens and Gavius came walking around the far side of the tree.
“Hey, this bastard is still alive!” Valens shouted. “Bloody fool couldn’t even kill himself properly!” With that he kicked Florus hard in the head.
“Take it easy, Valens!” Magnus remarked as he walked over to where Florus lay dying. He then turned to Artorius. “Finish him.” Artorius nodded affirmatively. He looked at Indus who nodded the same.
Florus was awash in feelings of desperation, overwhelming fear, deepening sorrow, and horrifying pain. He no longer had any control over his bodily functions; his spasms continued to worsen, and his bowels unloosed themselves again. He could just make out a burly legionary kneeling over him, his gladius drawn. The young soldier removed his helmet and lifted up on Florus’ head, exposing his neck. His terror increased as he felt the cold blade push against the side of his throat.
Florus was aware of nothing but the agonizing mortal wound in his belly. When Magnus knelt beside him, he looked at him with mute anguish and despair. Another person would have felt pity for the wretch, but there was none to be had from the young legionary. His passage to death was quickened by the cold steel of Magnus’ gladius.
The six legionaries stood over the corpse of Julius Florus. Indus signaled for his men to take the body and throw it over his horse.
“Sergeant Artorius, we meet again,” he said. His tone was pleasant, though his face bore no emotion.
Artorius knew that Indus had borne a much greater share of the responsibility regarding the outcome of this battle than any. The stressful and harrowing ordeal left him tired and worn. He wondered how many days it had been since the cavalry commander had had any sleep.
“Commander Indus,” he acknowledged. He and Decimus then helped the two cavalrymen carry the body over to Indus’ horse.
“You and your men have brought us one step closer to ending this sickening rebellion,” Indus said. “If not for you, Florus may well have escaped to sow the seeds of dissent elsewhere. I will personally make note of your actions to Legate Silius.”
“We did our duty,” Artorius replied. He was beat, and his legs ached from the climb up the rugged hillside. He dreaded the walk back down to the camp. With his
adrenaline surge wearing off, the pain in his muscles and joints would become that much more acute.
Indus pressed his lips together in a tight line and nodded. He understood the legionaries’ sense of duty, and that they felt they had only accomplished what they had to. All the same, the removal of Florus not only crushed one aspect of the rebellion, it solidified his personal standing both amongst the Treveri and the Romans. The least he could do was make note of the men who helped him dispatch Florus to their commanding legate.
“I will want to get the names of all your men for my report,” he said politely, as he and his troopers rode back down the hill.
“Yes, sir,” Artorius said under his breath. He then started down the hill with his section. Though he said little, he was very proud of them. Something inside told him they had personally taken part in a historically significant event. He wondered if posterity would even remember their names.
“Hey, look at what I found!” Decimus exclaimed. He reached down and picked up a magnificent helmet, complete with purple plume on top.
“Well, there is a nice trophy for you,” Gavius said with a laugh.
The rest of the legionaries stopped to admire Decimus’ new prize as another figure quietly slinked off with Florus’ breastplate in tow.
“Think Macro will let me keep it?” Decimus asked.
Artorius shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t see why not. After all, you found it.”
Camillus had planted the century’s signum over by Florus’ wagons. While most of the men were busying themselves taking care of the prisoners, he decided to see for himself what was in these precious crates. There were two large ones, each bearing a hasp and heavy lock.
“Hey, Praxus!” he called to the nearest section leader. “Find something that will bust open these locks.”
“An entrenching pickaxe should do the trick,” the decanus replied. “Hold on a minute, I’ll go grab one.” With that, he raced back down the hill to where the cohort had grounded its gear. He grabbed a pickaxe from one of his legionary’s packs and headed back to where Camillus was hammering away on one of the locks with the butt of an enemy sword.
“Here, let me at that,” Praxus said, hefting the pickaxe. He then proceeded to smash away at the lock until finally it broke. He and Camillus then opened the heavy lid on the crate. Both men stood in complete awe.
“Well, there is something you don’t find every day,” Camillus remarked.
As Artorius and the rest of the section came stumbling down the last stretch of the hill, they could hear excited shouts coming from the direction of the main entrance to the camp. Men from the Second Century could be seen gathered around the wagons by the entrance, shouting and dancing about excitedly. Macro was beating some of the men back.
“That’s enough already!” he shouted. “We are legionaries, not a fucking barbarian rabble! At ease, all of you!”
Artorius walked over to see what the excitement was about. His heart felt like it skipped a beat when he saw the gleam of gold and silver coins in one of the crates. Camillus was sitting on a crate, his face beaming. Just then, Centurion Proculus walked over to Macro.
“Macro, what the bloody hell has gotten into you guys . . . oh my,” he came to a quick halt when he saw the treasure. “Well, fancy that. I guess that’s what Florus intended to use to bribe Indus’ cavalry. Speaking of Florus, does anyone know what happened to him?”
“He’s dead, by his own hand,” Indus answered, riding up on his horse. He gestured towards Artorius and his section. “If not for these men, he may very well have escaped.”
“Well done,” Proculus nodded towards Artorius. “You men have brought about the end of one half of this rebellion.” He then turned back towards Indus. “I need to know how bad our losses are and how many wounded we need to transport.”
“Proculus, we have no real facilities with which to treat the wounded,” Macro conjectured. “Not only that, we need to get back as quickly as possible, and these wagons will slow our pace to a crawl.”
“Augusta Raurica is close, and it has good hospital facilities,” Camillus interjected. “If we can detach a handful of escorts to take the wounded, then the rest of us can head back to link up with Calvinus.”
“What about the gold?” Statorius asked. “These crates are taking up a lot of space.”
“Camillus, grab the other signifiers and get a total count on everything here,” Macro ordered.
Camillus nodded and hurried off to find the signifiers of the other centuries.
“I suggest we divvy it up now. I also recommend that the cavalry get a slightly larger portion as a token to their discipline and valor; that they remained loyal in spite of such a lavish offer.”
Indus gave small smile in appreciation of Macro’s gesture.
“Very well,” Proculus replied. “Indus, I need you to detach about a hundred men to escort the wounded and prisoners to Augusta Raurica. How bad are your losses?”
“We lost sixty-five and about twice that many wounded.” Proculus grimaced at the numbers.
“Our legionary losses are twelve dead with another thirty-five wounded.” He then gave an audible sigh. “While regrettable, we have to accept the losses we have borne, and be thankful that it was not worse. We all know just how bad it could have been. I’ll get word on how many prisoners and enemy wounded we have, once my pursuit centuries return.”
About a half hour later, legionaries from the Third and Fifth Centuries were seen making their way back through the tree lines. They had only a handful of prisoners with them.
“Any losses?” Proculus asked.
“None,” Vitruvius replied, shaking his head. “Those bastards got a good head start on us, and we were only able to capture a few. Still, we did see weapons and shields strewn all over the ground. My guess is we won’t be seeing those traitors again.”
Centurion Dominus walked over at that moment, scribbling on a wax tablet. “Best we can tell, we have a total of approximately six hundred prisoners to move; about half of whom are wounded to one degree or another. We also counted over five hundred rebel corpses.”
Proculus was pleased when he heard that. What should have been a suicide mission had turned into a complete triumph.
“So how are we looking?” Macro asked.
Camillus and the other signifiers had divided the gold and silver into piles, and each had been taking notes as to the complete count.
“Given the total number of men we have, divided into the total haul . . . it looks like we should have about seventy-five denarii per man; eighty for the cavalry.”
“That’s a third of a year’s legionary pay,” one of the signifier’s remarked. “I bet they won’t mind carrying the extra weight back!”
“Alright,” Macro acknowledged, “once we have all of the wounded and prisoners on the move, we will line up by centuries and divide out the treasure before we start moving back.”
“We are ready anytime,” Camillus replied. “And just so you know, we have already separated out the shares for the wounded, as well as the escort cavalry. We left it in one of the crates.”
Seventy-five denarii in gold and silver added some weight to their packs, but Artorius did not mind. They started their march back about two hours before the sun set. He laughed when he looked back and could clearly see the plume of Florus’ helmet protruding from Decimus’ pack. Macro had allowed the legionary to keep the helmet, provided he agreed not to sell it. It would remain as a trophy of the Second Century, until a time came that Decimus was either transferred or retired. Artorius then considered the other trophies that his section had collected over the years. There were a few weapons, mostly daggers; their previous enemies being short on swords. Magnus had purchased a Batavi shield from one of their allies. Artorius’ only contributions were a copper chalice and a rather ornate dagger that he had acquired while plundering a Marsi village at the end of the Germanic wars. Florus’ helmet would make a fine addition to their collection!
/> At around midnight, Proculus gave the order to halt. They were still deep in the woods, and there was no room for them to set up a proper marching camp. Most of the legionaries elected to either sleep on the road, or just off to the side on the grass. Sentries paced up and down the lines, making certain no one intruded upon them. Indus’ cavalry had stayed with the Third Cohort to provide extra security, though Indus himself had ridden back with a handful of men to report back to Calvinus.
Artorius had just sat down on a patch of trampled grass when he noticed Centurion Macro standing over him. Immediately he came to his feet. “Sir,” he said, standing rigid.
“At ease, sergeant. Let’s take a walk.” Without waiting for a reply, Macro started walking down the road.
Artorius was quickly at his side. When they were out of earshot of the sentries, Macro stopped and turned to face the young decanus.
“You did well today,” he said. Artorius saw the consternation on his face; almost as if Macro were uncomfortable talking with him.
“We all did well today, sir,” he said.
The centurion shook his head. “Not all of us,” he said. “Instead of reforming the century after we secured the wagons, I became fixated on them. Thoughts of plunder became my focus; so relieved I was that we had succeeded in driving the rebels out of their encampment. Had it not been for your actions and ability to make decisions in the heat of the moment, those rebels could have caught our entire century off guard and inflicted many needless casualties. You saved many lives today; to say nothing of you and your men putting an end to that vile bastard Florus.” “Well, actually he put an end to himself,” Artorius corrected, a wry smile on his face. He became sober when he saw Macro’s expression unchanged. “Sir, I reacted the way any soldier of Rome would have. The enemy was coming at us, I grabbed whoever was available and held them long enough for you to bring up the rest of the century.”