Sons of Rome

by Karrie Roman

  Drusus pressed a kiss to every inch of Caius’s face and then trailed kisses down his throat, across his firm chest, and down to his navel. In some places, he sucked at the warm skin as though his lips were unwilling to release their hold on this man he adored.

  His actions were slow and sensual, and by the time he finally sank inside Caius, tears were pricking at his eyes for what he shared with this man.

  THE RAIN HAD fallen all night and continued to fall as Varus’s legions packed away their campsite the next morning. They were later leaving than usual because of the weather and the number of civilians following them slowing them down. Drusus had pressed his lips gently to Caius’s and held him tight before they’d left their tent this morning. He’d cradled Caius’s face and committed it to his memory.

  The Eighteenth Legion, Drusus’s legion, was at the head of the column today behind the cavalry and some of the auxiliary. Several hours into their march, the ground remained sodden, though thankfully, the rain had eased. The sky was dark grey and foreboding. Never had Drusus wished more for sunlight and blue sky.

  On their left was a hill and to their right a giant bog. The track here was even narrower than previous days, made worse by sections of ground that fell away on either side, creating pools of water. They were walking four abreast now, but even so, Drusus, on the outer left, and Ovidius on the outer right, struggled to keep their feet out of the puddled water and mud. They pressed closer to the men between them, Calpurnius and Caius. Their passage was awkward and difficult. All around him, Drusus heard tempers flaring as the men struggled along the track.

  By the time the wagons of the rearguard came through here the wet earth would be churned up by the feet of the marching men and the hooves of horse and mule. Drusus would not be surprised if many of the wagons became bogged. He did not think they would march far this day.

  The column bore left around the base of the hill. The men were so tightly packed together now that moving freely was impossible. Drusus felt Cal’s arm brushing against his, the baggage pole of the man in front of him virtually at his throat. They were too close, too vulnerable.

  The sky rumbled as though the gods were angry, and it grew darker. Rain would fall again soon. Wind whipped amongst the soldiers, making marching more difficult as they fought against it. Their woollen cloaks were soddening, even with the coating of lanolin to help prevent the water from seeping into the wool. To Drusus, it seemed as though everything conspired against them. His skin prickled, and he was more on edge than he remembered at the time of his first battle. He desperately wanted this day ended.

  In between the rumblings of the thunderous sky, Drusus heard a familiar whistling sound and hastily flicked his gaze up and to the left. The sky was almost blotted out by the spears raining down on them. Quickly drowning out the noise as the spears flew toward them were the screams of their attackers.

  Arminius’s trap had been sprung.

  “Shields!” Drusus roared as he struggled to raise his own in the cramped space, there was no room for them to drop their equipment, so Drusus took a blow from the palisade stake of the man in front of him to his shoulder.

  The leather covers of their shields were soaked from the earlier rain, making them heavier than usual. They were so tightly packed together that Drusus doubted many men would be able to get their shields into any sort of defensive position. Calpurnius’s shield cracked against his back as his brother tried to raise it. He winced but absorbed the blow, happy to take it if it meant Cal had some protection from the spears.

  The sharp clank of spear glancing off armour and the thud of them digging into the wood of their shields roared in his ears. Worse than those sounds, the sickening din of spears piercing flesh, and the unbearable screams of the victims grew into a chorus.

  He knew there was simply no way they would be able to get their javelins out to attempt any sort of counter-attack this tightly packed together. Arminius’s trap had been well devised.

  Drusus hunched behind his shield, desperately hoping Calpurnius and Caius had been able to effectively hide beneath theirs. He prayed to the gods the enemy did not have a limitless supply of spears, either, or there was no hope for them. Already with one spear splintered through his shield Drusus felt the added weight of it, cursing because he’d be unable to remove the spear easily or manoeuvre his shield well with the weapon embedded.

  He’d known some men terrified by confined spaces, but this was the first time he’d experienced such a terror. He barely had room to move his arms at all, and somehow that thought hampered his breathing.

  The noise was overwhelming, the screams of both the dying and the triumphant roars of the attackers was deafening. Drusus’s own heart thudded too loudly in his ears. “Cal! Cai!” he roared, hoping to hear that they were still with him. He dared not turn his head to look behind.

  “We’re here,” Caius yelled back. The sound of his lover’s voice the only comfort he hoped for at this point.

  Drusus looked to his left and right, his view hampered by the side plates of his helmet and saw men dead, dying, or trying to stand and fight. Many others were trying to flee.

  “Hold!” he roared at the fleeing men. They would be easy targets while the spears flew. Some immediately crouched behind any cover they could find, even the bodies of their fallen comrades. One man leapt the bodies, running in the direction of where the enemy must be. Where the hell is that damn fool going?

  From his left, towards the rear of the column, he heard utter confusion. Men were screaming at others to halt, and the thunderous noise of impact told him the column had continued marching, not quick enough to realise what had happened farther along the line. Men were likely being trampled, and those trying to avoid collision would soon find themselves an easy target for the Germans or flailing in the bog.

  The stench of blood assaulted his nostrils, making Drusus feel even sicker with dread. They were trapped; they had no advantage whatsoever. Worse still, panic was beginning to set in all around him as the legion found themselves in this unfamiliar situation.

  “Drusus, get back,” Calpurnius roared in is ear. Cal was immediately behind him now they had turned to the enemy, so he had no idea how he’d be able to manoeuvre backwards. There was no room. He trusted his brother, though, so he shuffled his way as far as manageable. Calpurnius’s shield was at his back but it was moving with him, so Drusus knew Cal was shifting to give him room.

  Suddenly, a great horse ran past, virtually over the spot he was in only moments ago; one of the cavalry’s stallions, with a spear in its neck and its rider long gone. The poor beast was screaming, a sound worse than one could imagine.

  “Stay low and get to the bog,” Drusus called over his shoulder. He thought he heard Marcus calling out commands over the noise, but in the confusion, he couldn’t be sure. He turned and shouted to his century—or what was left of them—“Get to the bog.”

  For the briefest of moments, his eyes caught with Marcus’s and locked. He’d fought many battles with Marcus and never had he seen such observable fear in the man’s eyes, even from this distance. He turned away and followed the retreating backs of Calpurnius and Caius.

  They were soon knee-deep in the bog, the surface of which was churning with the movement of men desperately trying to flee certain death. Mutilated bodies already floated in the waters while the living struggled to get around them in their flight to safety.

  “Drop your gear. Keep only your gladius and shield if you can,” he ordered. Drusus moved to the head of his men and kept his javelin. He poked at the bog with it to feel for the bottom. He didn’t want to go deeper than a little over his knees into the muddy bog if possible, but they must get to the other side.

  A new sound assailed him, and he turned to see that some Germans had left the safety of the dirt wall they’d hidden behind and were heading for the chaotic remains of the column, roaring as they ran. A quick glance around also told him that Germans had taken position on the far side of the bog a
nd were easily dispatching any legionary who made it across. When they were not dispatching the hapless men, the Germans were thumping their spears against shields or tree trunks, the constant thump! thump! adding to the terrifying atmosphere.

  “Steady, men,” he bellowed. He glanced quickly around him and saw faces filled with naked terror.

  The vanguard was all but lost—it must be, from what Drusus could tell. The only chance he and his remaining men had now was to rejoin the line farther down the column where, hopefully, they had not been struck with sheets of spears.

  “Turn. Head towards the middle of the column,” he shouted. Marcus, now head of the line, turned and immediately began to lead the men back the way they had marched only minutes ago, towards the rest of their army. The column would have been spread out over a considerable distance usually, but even more so because they’d been forced to march only four abreast rather than ten. Surely Arminius’s numbers were not so vast that they could have attacked the entire column at once.

  Drusus lifted his legs high with each step, knowing that a fall could mean his death. His gaze was alternately pinned to the backs of Calpurnius and Caius’s heads or flicking right to check on the progress of his enemies. His mind raced with options. Should they get out of the bog and risk fighting their way through the tribesmen to get to the rear of the column? Or should they keep plodding through and hope the barbarians would struggle to reach them over the mass of bodies and equipment already piling up?

  As he was now bringing up the rear, he would have to trust his optio to take the right action. Marcus was a strategic thinker, so with luck, he was already several moves ahead of what they would need to do to survive. Drusus tried not to think that it would be good fortune if there were thirty men left in his century. All those brave men, his brothers, lost—so fast and easily.

  They were coming to the end of the bog, back the way they had already travelled, and the men here seemed to have fared better, yet were losing badly. Drusus knew he must order his men to join the fight. They had been trained to stay with their legion, fight and never flee. They were muddy and exhausted, with nothing but their gladius as a weapon, and only a few still held their shields, but they would fight.

  “Romans,” he called. “Our brothers need us. Form up and fight.” Drusus knew this was all he had to say; as afraid as they were, his men were good and honourable. They would not flee. He hurried with his men as they sought out a German to fight. Underfoot were countless bodies strewn about, many torn apart by the Germanic spears and projectiles, some possibly not yet dead, but Drusus tried not to think of that as he scrambled over them.

  He found his first opponent quickly. Though the barbarians had easily slaughtered so many of them, now that the fighting was hand-to-hand, they at least had a chance. But the legions were exhausted already from the difficulties of their march through this treacherous terrain, so it would be a hard day.

  Drusus ordered himself not to worry about Cal or Caius, but even as a Germanic sword swept toward him he turned to them as he blocked the stroke. They were fighting hard, but exhaustion was etched on their faces. He had to get them out of there. He ducked beneath the next blow of his opponent’s sword, and his hand found one of the barbarian spears. He grabbed it, tearing it from a body, then turned it and lunged at his assailant. The spear was heavy, but it did its job, easily dispatching his enemy to whatever afterlife these barbarians believed in.

  “Keep moving down the column,” he yelled. Their only chance was to meet up with the rest of the, hopefully intact, legions.

  He heard the thud of another startled, rampaging horse but had no time to get out of this one’s way. The huge beast clipped him as it bolted past, and Drusus landed heavily on the muddy ground. His face was pressed to the dirt, the open wound of a fallen soldier right at his eye. Blood oozed, mixing with the mud. Drusus tried to lift himself, but a heavy body thudded down on top of him, pressing his face deeper into the bloodied mud. Drusus swivelled his head to keep his nose and mouth clear of the filth. One side of his face was below the surface. Drusus kept that eye closed as he fought to topple whoever lay on top of him.

  Something—someone—else landed on him and pressed him even farther down. He tried not to imagine the fallen men whose bodies now held him pressed into the ground. Blood and mud filled his nose and swamped his helmet. Only by tipping the top of his head into the muck could he keep his mouth clear. He was dying—of that he was certain. The weight on him restricted his movements, so he was unable to get clear. He would either drown in gore, or a German would come across him and easily dispatch him to Pluto.

  Images danced across his closed lids: his mother, Cal as a babe and now as a full-grown man, their farm, men he’d served with, Marcus, and finally, Caius with his beautiful face, his adorable smiles shared with him so freely, and the expression he made when he spilled his passion. Caius who was master of every part of him.

  Even now, he thought he heard Caius’s voice calling his name. Perhaps Caius was already dead and was calling Drusus to join him in the afterlife. If Elysium was where Caius was, Drusus would happily follow.

  As suddenly as it had come, the weight on his back was gone, replaced by strong hands pulling Drusus’s arms, desperately trying to get him to his feet. He managed to push himself up because if Caius was gone he was going to take many barbarians with him before joining him, but if he was alive, he’d fight like Mars to stay with him and get them out of here.

  “Dru, Dru, come on,” Calpurnius shouted over and over. Drusus hardly heard him over the racket of battle and the mud in his ears.

  Drusus heaved his helmet off, thick sludge cascading over him as it emptied. He wiped at his eyes, trying to get the gore out of them, but his own hands were a soiled mess. Other hands wiped at his eyes, finally clearing them enough that he was able to see the chaos around him. Cal was standing before him, his face bloodied and ashen but even now with a ridiculous grin.

  “Cal, get him out of here,” Caius shouted from somewhere nearby. Rain began falling again, heavy enough to add noise to the cacophony of sounds already assaulting his ears. Drusus tipped his face to the sky, allowing the drops to clear his vision.

  Drusus turned to see Caius engaged in battle with two Germans, Marcus fighting beside him. Drusus was relieved to see that Caius had his opponents weakened and bleeding. He was glorious in battle—much more like the powerful tiger he’d once accused Drusus of being. His speed was mesmerising as he stabbed over and over into his prey. Another stroke and he’d finish them off.

  “Come on.” Cal pulled Drusus’s arm but he wasn’t leaving Caius behind. He pushed his helmet back on, bent to pick up a gladius from the hand of a dead Roman, and turned to fight. The stench was unbelievable: blood, piss, men soiling themselves in terror. Drusus gagged as a strong breeze blew, swirling the odour around him. He took a breath through his mouth and pressed on. They stood at the very gates of Tartarus, but they were damned Romans, and they would not be defeated.

  Chapter Twelve

  SOMEHOW, DRUSUS AND his dwindling century managed to fight their way to the curve of the hill. More room opened up the farther down the line they got, the trees not so dense, the bog gone, so they no longer had to struggle over the bodies of the dead and dying. Drusus didn’t think there was even a tiny piece of his body that didn’t ache and throb with exhaustion.

  More men joined his ragtag group as they tried to make their way back to where—hopefully—things weren’t so dire.

  Drusus took his fighting stance when he spotted a Germanic foe racing toward him with a bloodcurdling scream and a face filled with hatred. The tribesman carried a spear, so his reach was far longer than Drusus’s, but fortunately, years of war had taught him how to survive that. He watched the charging man’s body for any sign he was going to change direction, and when he was close enough, Drusus ducked away from the thrusting spear. The Germanic man’s momentum carried him forward past Drusus, who lunged with his gladius, felling the man wi
th ease from behind.

  Several more tribesmen approached, mercifully carrying only swords. Caius and Calpurnius drew alongside of Drusus to fight, both of their faces bloodstained masks of fury.

  The Germanic men preferred to slash with their swords in opposition to the stabbing motions the Romans favoured. The Romans’ shorter swords also allowed them greater manoeuvrability. Metal clanged, and the swords whistled through the air as slashes went wild. Drusus had long ago lost his shield, so he used speed and agility to duck and weave past another opponents blows. No matter how many they felled, there always seemed to be more and more of their enemy coming.

  He grunted with his efforts, his sounds mixing with the groans of other combatants. He tried desperately to keep an eye on Caius and Calpurnius, but he daren’t look away from his opponent for even a fraction of a second. He watched the latest tribesman as he slashed at Drusus, looking for a weakness. The man wore no armour and had little skill in wielding a sword. His hair was long and straggly, his eyes terrified. He looked more young boy than soldier. But most importantly his arms were weakening from the constant fruitless blows. When his sword drooped, Drusus attacked. He came in close, grabbed a fistful of hair, pulling it back harshly to expose the vulnerable throat. He sliced quickly and deeply. He released his hold and let his enemy flop to the ground, dead before he hit it.

  Maybe a stadium length from them, Varus’s flag fluttered in the strong gusts. This meant they were a little more than a third of the way down the column. The men farther down the column were engaged in their own fight. They’d also been struck by a volley of spears first. The landscape was littered with them. Though they’d obviously had more room to move and defend themselves here, the damage would still be immeasurable.