Sons of Rome

by Karrie Roman

  As he and his men continued inching their way down the column, soldiers around the legate were doing their best to keep the enemy at bay while a marching camp was being thrown up on the spot. The terrain was in no way ideal for such an endeavour, but it would offer some protection while what was left of the legions rallied. Drusus and his men needed to get there so they could either help the legionaries dig the walls and fosse of the camp or help defend those that were.

  Drusus brought his thoughts back to the fight at hand. Another tribesman lunged at him. He stepped into his opponent’s attack and took him to the ground, landing heavily on the man. He heard the breath whoosh out of the man under him and wasted no time driving his gladius into his chest.

  He rapidly leapt back up prepared for more attacks. His muscles were alight with fire, his arms shook with the weight of his gladius; it seemed heavier than he imagined holding up the Temple of Jupiter would be. They couldn’t last much longer. Even though Drusus knew he’d been in longer fights before, they’d had to struggle through mud and over bodies all while ducking spears and fighting face-to-face with rested Germanic tribesmen. They had no room to use their usual tactics of throwing javelins and flinging slingshots. They were also panicked and shaken by the ambush.

  Yet, Drusus fought on as did the men around him because the alternative was unthinkable. Even if they fell this day, Drusus was so proud of his men. He’d already seen others attempting to run. He understood their fear and panic, but he would not bear the shame of abandoning his century. He suspected the time to run would come—and soon—but not before he reached Varus. Not until he received the order to do so.

  With every second, they were getting closer to Varus’s banner flag, and with every second they were getting weaker. Never had a battle seemed so unwinnable. The Germanic tribesmen had captured two of the three legionary eagles—an unbelievable occurrence. A group of barbarians held the standards high, mockingly waving them at the Romans, the bodies of the aquilifers, who had carried them so proudly, defiled and mutilated beneath their beloved cargo. One still had his hand clutched to the staff that held the eagle.

  He’d never placed much faith in the gods, but as with all in the legions he’d held a reverence toward their eagle and its bearer. Drusus was heartsick, but he fought on.

  Mud caked his legs, hindering his movements; sweat streaked his body, and every part of him hurt, but he kept heading toward Varus. Caius was behind him, followed by Calpurnius, and then Marcus and the remainder of his century along with others who followed Drusus’s centurion helmet, desperate for leadership.

  When they finally reached the heart of the Romans’ defence, Drusus found chaos around him. There were few officers, and no one taking charge. To his credit, Varus was at least trying to maintain control. He tossed out orders that the trumpeter relayed to those in hearing distance.

  Drusus knew the men he had fought his way here with were exhausted beyond being of much use in the battle, almost beyond human endurance. He knew many of these men well, though, and knew that they would endure, persevere through their fatigue and fight on.

  “Men,” he called, “join the dig.” Though all their own equipment was lost, they had only to rifle through the belongings abandoned by men still fighting or those of the dead to find a pick or shovel to make use of.

  The men quickly armed themselves with tools before joining the soldiers already desperately churning the earth to build fortification for them. They dug almost on the side of the hill, the slope making their work more difficult than usual. The earth was saturated from the rains making it easy to dig but near impossible to use as a wall. They would have to rely on deep trenches.

  The sound of the continuing battle drowned out the grunts of the men who toiled around him. Drusus’s arms throbbed as he worked, his thighs shaking with the effort of holding himself upright.

  Thank the gods night was falling. The tribesmen would soon retreat, leaving them to tally the cost of today’s ambush. Drusus could not even think Varus’s name without wanting to turn in search of the foolish man and dispatch him to Tartarus. The arrogant fool had much blood on his hands this day.

  They toiled for hours to get some likeness of a camp formed. Varus had ordered trees felled as an added barrier, and already, exhausted men set to the task of taking down as many as they could manage.

  When, finally, they had some semblance of a camp to offer, Drusus stood with his men and watched as the remnants of the army wearily made their way through the gates when it was clear the barbarians had retreated for the night. Many legionaries were wounded, some mortally so, though their bodies had yet to realise it. The medici would have their hands full this eve. Not one unbloodied, unwounded soldier passed him by.

  Drusus remained at the gate until he was certain all those who could make it to the safety of the camp had. How many more were still out there, left in blood and filth to die alone during the night?

  “See to the wounded, then find what food you can,” he ordered. He dared not spare a glance at Calpurnius or Caius. More work awaited him, and one look at them would have him instead glued to their side, unable to bear leaving them after the horrors of this day. “I go to the praetorium. Our legate will no doubt be holding a war council.” He turned and walked from his men, eager to hear what plan Varus would have for them. With bitterness and anger bristling under his skin, he also longed to see the shame that must be covering Varus’s countenance.

  But there was no shame upon Varus’s features when Drusus approached the praetorium. Indeed, the man appeared entirely unmoved by the day’s catastrophe. His head was held high, shoulders back, and he had a look in his eyes that dared any to challenge his authority. If Drusus had not seen their defeat with his own eyes, he might have thought the Romans stood victorious this day.

  Rather than the usual enormous tent that served as Varus’s office on campaign, he had commandeered an eight-man contubernium tent. Drusus seethed with rage as Varus stood before them and calmly addressed what was left of his officers and centurions from the flap of the tent.

  “It has been a hard day, men, but we must press on—” Varus held his hand up for silence as many of the men present shouted opposition to his words. Surely he did not think there still an uprising he must quell farther north? The uprising was upon them, sneakily laid out and no doubt headed by Varus’s good friend Arminius.

  “We are needed north. I have had no word from Arminius and suspect he has become trapped in the uprising, and we must see to his aid,” Varus continued.

  “Surely, Legate, this is the uprising. We have had many losses today. We must turn and make for the Rhine.” Claudius stood and valiantly argued, though Drusus knew as well as Claudius must have that his words would be useless.

  “We continue on, Claudius. Roma’s three greatest legions do not run.”

  “My lord, we would be lucky to count as two whole legions now. The cavalry is lost, the auxiliary all but gone. Word from the front of the column is grim.” Another centurion Drusus did not recognise spoke, his voice weary yet resigned.

  “Legate,” Drusus called, unable to sit in silence. “I am Drusus Tuscus, centurion of the Eighteenth Legion, Cohort Two, Century Three. There is no way through ahead of us. Most of the Eighteenth lay dead in the narrow path. A bog on one side, the Germans on the other. We cannot get through.”

  “Coward,” Varus hissed. “If we cannot go on the track we will march upon the hillside. We have men in the tribes we can call to our aid once we are clear.”

  More voices spoke up, many in disgust of Varus’s willing ignorance. Some supporting Claudius in his thought to turn for the Rhine, others pleading for at least the civilians who had been trailing them to be turned with a small guard and make for safety. Varus ignored them all.

  Drusus did not concern himself with the slight of being labelled coward by a man such as Varus; it was unimportant, especially now. His concern was that Varus was again planning to lead them to their deaths. The Roman soldi
ers Varus had days ago sent out to winter in the German tribes would already be dead—of that Drusus had little doubt. They were alone and being led by a fool deeper and deeper into a trap that would end them all.

  “We will leave before first light and burn all but the essential carts, leaving unnecessary equipment behind. We take weapons only. The tribesmen will be more interested in looting our camp than chasing us, and those who do, we will dispatch easily.” Varus calmly stated once the noise of unrest died down. The repugnant fool was completely unwilling to listen to anyone but his own reckless thoughts.

  Drusus took his leave, unable to bear being in the man’s presence a moment longer. Much better he spend what time was left to him with those he cared for.

  He found what was left of his century where their tents would usually have been pitched. Only Varus would be warm and dry this night. They sat in a huddle around a small fire. No one spoke. Drusus counted twenty-eight heads. Twenty-eight out of eighty. A quick glance around told him his century had fared much better than others of the Eighteenth. A handful of centuries had disappeared from this world entirely. Drusus would like nothing more than to drag Varus out here, so he would be forced to confront the consequences of his actions.

  Marcus stood as he approached, the first to spot his centurion. Drusus gestured for him to resume his seat; then he dropped to the ground in the space made between Calpurnius and Caius. He rested a hand on the knee of both men.

  “What news, Centurion?” Marcus asked.

  Drusus huffed a sigh. He hardly had the energy, much less the will, to speak the words. “We march on,” he murmured. Both Calpurnius and Caius tensed under his hands resting on their knees, but concealing the truth would benefit no one. “Varus believes, even now, we are needed to the north. We leave before the sun’s first rays, and we burn everything to the ground when we go.”

  His men sat quietly, resigned to their fate. They were Roman legionaries. Their legate’s word would be obeyed, no matter the folly of them.

  “Quintus, Priscus, take the watch,” Marcus murmured. Drusus had never heard his optio sound so defeated. Quintus and Priscus stood with commendable obedience and moved away to the wall. The remainder of the men moved to huddle down to get what rest they could.

  Calpurnius turned to him and pressed his forehead against Drusus’s. “Goodnight, brother,” he whispered.

  “Goodnight,” Drusus replied. “You did yourself proud today, Cal. You are a mighty warrior.” Cal nodded against Drusus’s head before silently pulling away and lying in a ball. It seemed nobody had the taste for words this eve.

  Drusus pulled Caius to him and kissed him softly. Caius felt strong in his arms, but there was a chill in his lover. The scent of blood and death was so strong that Drusus could not trace Caius’s usual fragrance.

  “I thought I lost you this day,” Caius whispered when Drusus pulled his lips away.

  “You will not be rid of me so easily, Cai.”

  Caius kissed him again and held him painfully tight against him as though afraid he would lose him still—and well he might. They were surrounded by much danger. “I never wish to be rid of you.”

  Exhausted in both mind and body, Drusus lay on his side and pulled Caius down with him. He curled his bigger body around his lover and held him close. Despite everything, Caius felt so good in his arms. Drusus almost wept at the thought it may be for the last time.

  “Nor I you,” he breathed into Caius’s hair and pulled him tighter. “I will see us through this. I will see you safe at Vetera.”

  “Fortuna can be truly cruel, Drusus. Even if we live through this disaster, the day comes too soon when we will part. I wish…” Caius shuffled in his arms and turned to face him. Even covered in the filth of the day, he looked beautiful.

  “For what do you wish, beloved?”

  Caius watched him intently, his gaze tracing all over Drusus. His tongue peeked out to lick at his lips. He was taking so long to answer that Drusus wondered if he was wishing they had never met. As Caius remained silent and continued to watch him everything hurt—his heart most of all.

  “I wish for that farm life you told me of. I wish for a world free of war. I wish to never leave your arms.”

  “For a moment, I thought you wished never to have laid eyes on me,” Drusus mumbled. He should not have spoken the words, but his mind was in flux and he could not gather his wits.

  Caius raised himself on his elbow and peered down at him. His gaze was as fierce as it was loving. “There is no world in which I would not want to have laid eyes upon you, Drusus. If we are taken from each other this moment, loving you was worth the agony of that separation.”

  “Apologies, Caius.”

  Caius kissed him then, hard and forceful. If they had the energy and the privacy, Drusus would have them naked already to experience the intense pleasure of being inside Caius once more. This impassioned kiss must see them through until the time they could be alone once more. Drusus had to believe such a time would come because to think otherwise would be the ruin of him.

  Chapter Thirteen

  DRUSUS WOKE FROM what little sleep he’d had, with a headache and a dark temper. Long into the night, he’d thought of Varus and the disaster he’d brought down upon them. He had scarcely closed his eyes. When the order came to break camp, Caius was wrapped in his arms, as he had been throughout the night, and he lazily shifted at the growing noise around them. Drusus would have paid any price to leisurely awaken Caius with nothing but a day of toil and companionship on their farm together to look forward to.

  “Wake, beloved,” he whispered when Caius snuggled back down into his arms as though he would take more rest. He pressed a kiss to Caius’s lips, wishing he were able to see his lovely face better. A handful of torches had been lit for them to see what they were doing as they prepared to sack their own camp and flee under cover of darkness, but it was still quite dark.

  “Is it time? So quickly?” Caius murmured, rubbing his body against Drusus’s.

  Drusus moaned at the contact and pushed himself away. Now was not the time to be so obviously aroused by his lover. “It is time. Come, we must prepare.”

  They reluctantly moved then, away from the closeness of each other but always within reach, as they pulled their armour back on and assembled their weapons. A few carts were being spared to carry essentials but the rest were being piled up to be burned.

  The feeling of despair Drusus had carried with him these last months had clearly infected those around him now that Arminius’s trap had been sprung. They were in a hopeless situation, and Varus’s obstinate refusal to safely retreat had placed yet another boulder onto the gloom they now carried on their backs. Drusus had not spoken the words aloud, but he sensed many around him suspected their coming doom as well as he did.

  “Who leads?” Calpurnius asked when he sidled up beside Drusus once he was dressed.

  “The Seventeenth leads today. What is left of the Eighteenth marches behind them with Varus and his guard.”

  Calpurnius merely nodded and moved to stand beside Caius. Drusus formed his century with the wretchedly small number left to him. He noticed the gaps in the lines—the missing faces. He pushed aside his anguish and tried to lift himself by remembering his duty to those who still lived.

  It did not take long for the camp to be emptied, leaving behind the rearguard to set what was left ablaze. They marched in silence; even the bells around the necks of the mules had been filled with straw to prevent them from ringing. This was a childish tactic that Arminius would easily see through as soon as the fires were lit. Thousands of men made noise regardless of their attempts to be silent. Arminius was highly likely already alert to movement in their camp. Varus must be aware the barbarians would have men on watch, and even as dark as it was, they would be spotted before long.

  Everything within him screamed at Drusus to turn with those he loved and run, but eighteen years of indoctrination to always follow orders overrode all else. Memories of
the vile practice of decimation for those who disobeyed orders gnawed at his mind. The cruelty of selecting one out of every ten men from a century to be beaten to death by their fellow legionaries was a brutal lesson, but one well learned once witnessed. Drusus lived in fear of the seldom used custom after a single time witnessing such a horror.

  The fire roared in the quiet of the predawn, the smoky odour wafting to them before they had even reached the curve of the hill. It would not be long before the Germanic men came. Some would plunder what they’d left behind but many would rather the pride of defeating Varus’s legions.

  The response from Arminius’s men came soon after the first rays of light. They bellowed and advanced on the fleeing legions, their path lit by the flames.

  Drusus was close enough to hear Varus give the command to turn to fight, and then he heard the trumpet sound. They had little equipment to drop, but they turned to the sound of the approaching horde of tribesmen and prepared to battle once more.

  The barbarians ran at them, with what Drusus imagined was something like glee on their faces. The silhouette created by the flame light showed their numbers were vast, their energy much greater than what the weary Romans possessed. Drusus’s spirits were lifted slightly when they did not use their spears today—not where he was anyway.

  The first clash of sword on shield and grunt of effort pulled Drusus’s thoughts from all but those of fighting. He had Caius and Calpurnius once again alongside him, and he put every effort into keeping them all alive.

  Drusus threw himself into the fight. He stabbed and ducked and dodged to the point of exhaustion. Even as he fell foe after foe, it was as if there were a never-ceasing stream of them that would eventually crash over what remained of the Romans like an ocean wave on the sands. He ignored the ache in his arm where a barbarian blade had sliced through his tender skin; he pushed down the bile that rose with each fatigued strike he made.