Sons of Rome

by Karrie Roman

  “The nobles of Roma pay much coin for this delicacy, men,” Drusus said, doing his best not to laugh.

  Brutus had no such hesitation. He laughed so heartily that chewed-up moss and spittle flew from his mouth. He looked at Drusus and gave him a wink once he had better control of himself.

  No, not one of these men could be lost. Drusus would not allow it.

  They marched for the rest of the day until the sun was low in the sky. Drusus sent Marcus and Priscus to search for somewhere they could lay their heads for the night in whatever safety they could manage while Brutus collected more moss and Calpurnius and Quintus went in search of more substantial fare.

  Drusus again tended to Caius’s wounds. He was pleased to see the hand had not bled much during the day, and the edges of the wounds seemed to be clear of the red heat of infection. Caius flinched whenever the wound was touched, but the pain appeared to be somewhat lessening at least.

  “The gods smile on us, Drusus,” Marcus said as he approached with Priscus in tow. “There is a hollow in the bluff up ahead. It is large enough to allow us all inside so we will only need one on watch at the entrance.”

  “Perfect, Marcus. As soon as we eat, we’ll head to the hollow. We may be able to manage a small fire for warmth.” Without the woollen breeches he’d removed for Caius’s bandage, the cold bit at Drusus. His men would be cold also without the protection their tents gave them from the wind and the cold night air. A fire would be a luxury.

  “I will go to the hollow now and prepare a fire. Priscus will guide you when you are ready. With luck, the cave will be as warm as your hearth from home by then.”

  “Gratitude, Marcus. I will bring your meal for you.”

  They ate and washed as best they could before Priscus led them to the hollow. Cal and Quintus had little luck with their hunt, finding only a small bird whose meat would hardly feed two, much less seven, men. The catch was something, though, giving them another small drop of hope.

  That night they slept in warmth and reasonable comfort. With only one man needed to guard the entrance, they were all able to manage a good amount of rest after only having a short time on watch.

  As Drusus stood at the entrance for the final lookout of the night, watching the sun’s rays peek through the trees, he prayed to the gods the coming day would be another free from further hurts and free from their enemy.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “DRU?” CAIUS’S SOFT voice floated to him from a little way in the cave. Drusus turned to the sound as though compelled to by something beyond his control. “The sun is out today,” Caius said just as he reached Drusus and the mouth of the cave.

  “It will make for better travelling.” Drusus draped an arm over Caius’s shoulder, pulling him in closer to his body. “Are you well?” It was a foolish question. How could Caius possibly be well with his mangled hand and damaged arm?

  “Well enough,” Caius murmured.

  Drusus turned a little to face him. “What is it?” Drusus had been able to read Caius almost from their first meeting. He knew something was bothering him—more than just his wound.

  “I would ask you to leave me here. In the cave.” Drusus was already shaking his head. He would not leave anyone behind, least of all Caius.

  “Listen to me, Drusus. I slow you down. Leave me here. I would be safe enough in the cave. There is water nearby and plenty of moss.” Caius smiled, though it was the saddest smile Drusus had ever seen. “You could come back for me with more men and equipment. I cannot… I do not know if I have the strength to keep up, and I will not have you all meet your death because of me.”

  “Do not ask this of me, Caius.” Drusus grabbed Caius’s shoulders, turning him gently so he had no choice but to look at Drusus. “Do you think I wish to be in this world if you are not? Do you think I could walk away from you? I do not think you understand my love for you.”

  “I would have you live, Dru.” Caius’s good hand snaked up into his hair and then gently cupped his cheek, his thumb softly caressing his skin.

  “I would have us all live, Cai. And that is what we will do. No one left behind, no one else hurt or gone from this world. That is what we will do.” Drusus kissed him tenderly. Despite his wounds, Caius still felt strong beneath his touch. Caius could do this, he was capable of making it back to Vetera.

  “Drusus,” Calpurnius called. “What is this?”

  “Your friend asks to be left behind,” Drusus replied, never taking his gaze from Caius.

  “What? No. Did you tell him no?”

  “Of course, Cal. We stay together, our fates shared.”

  Cal came alongside Caius, his features more serious than Drusus had seen them outside of the battlefield. “You are as much my brother as Drusus, Cai. I would not leave him behind, and I will not leave you. It would be easier for Drusus to leave his heart behind than you.” The three men stood awkwardly together, unused to such sentiments being shared.

  “When you women have finished,” Brutus said in his booming voice, “we should be on our way.” He wore his usual smile.

  Drusus smiled back enjoying the camaraderie strengthening between the men. “You are correct, Brutus. Let us eat and be on our way.”

  They marched for as long as Caius could manage before resting for the night. They had not seen another living person after they left the trees, and Drusus wondered how much longer their good fortune could hold. Though they did not have the same luck as the night before in finding shelter, they still managed to find a copse of trees that offered them some protection from the elements and from discovery.

  Despite needing two men for the watch that night, they still managed to get a decent rest. The next morning found them well rested and ready for a full day’s march.

  “Marcus, how far to Vetera, would you guess?” Drusus asked while they ate another quick meal of moss much later in the day. They would need something more substantial before long.

  “At this pace, I would think at least two, closer to three more days. If we could find some horses, though, it would make the going easier for us all. Caius, especially. He manages well, Drusus, but he flags—as we all would with such a wound.”

  Drusus nodded at Marcus’s words. Caius’s wound was healing but he needed stitchery where his fingers once were. He was still weak from the blood slowly oozing from his wounds. Horses would make the travelling easier. “Maybe, if we came across a small tribe, we could avail ourselves of some of their horses. But we will need stealth. I would not trust anyone but a Roman until safely back at Vetera. I would not risk marching into a village parading as their Roman conquerors and demanding their livestock.”

  “Very well. We shall watch for tracks that may lead to a village. I will tell the others.”

  With something akin to a plan, they continued marching well into the afternoon. Marcus led them today, having a better sense of direction than Drusus, who brought up the rear.

  All the men had done well this long day. Caius was managing the march; he was far more solid on his feet than the previous day. There had been no complaints or requests to stop from any of them. The thrill of still living while so many lay dead must be keeping their mouths closed and their feet moving. Drusus still refused to allow the faces of his dead men behind his lids. Grief for their loss would come—when they were safe.

  The sun was low on the horizon when Drusus began thinking they would need to find shelter for the night before long. Suddenly, the men in front of him stopped. Drusus immediately felt ice creep along his spine, the fine hairs on his arms stood tall. His hand hovered over his gladius, and he watched as his men did the same. Priscus passed his shield—the only one they had—to Caius and they all moved closer to one another.

  Drusus still had neither heard nor seen anything to alarm him, but he trusted Marcus. He followed the trajectory of Marcus’s gaze and watched in terror as Germanic tribesmen ambled out from between trees to the right of their position. Drusus counted eight. Eight rested, uninjured tribesm
en against their weary seven.

  None of his men faltered, however, as they dropped into a fighting position. Drusus breathed deeply and evenly doing his best to control his panic and fear while drawing his sword. All would be well. The fates would be kind to them this time. Caius was beside him, shield raised, though it wobbled under the failing strength of his wounded arm. It was unbalanced as it rested on his forearm without a clenched fist to steady it. In his good hand, he held his gladius aloft. Drusus was proud that he stood so determined to fight beside him.

  “More cowards who ran from their legions,” one of the Germans spoke. He must have been a former ally to Roma as he spoke in her tongue. A filthy traitor, then.

  Drusus made no reply though he was sorely tempted to. Instead he focused on his enemy, his thoughts on nothing but defeating them.

  “Come, let us send these ones to their Tartarus also. Not the Centurion, though. Him we will keep for a time for our pleasure,” the traitor said, confirming his knowledge of Roma’s army by identifying him as centurion only by his gladius being worn on the left; his helmet had been left behind somewhere on the battlefield.

  Caius stiffened beside him and a growl fell from his lips. Drusus was glad of the words. If the gods were with them, he would attract a few of the tribesmen to his side in the fight to come, leaving fewer for his men to deal with. And he hoped the threat to him would inspire his men to victory.

  There was no more time for thought, though, as the tribesmen ran toward them. A terrifying roar flew from their throats, and a flat, lifeless look fell across their features as if it were armour to protect them in battle.

  Drusus’s heartbeat thundered in his ears as he felt the familiar surge of adrenaline. His senses heightened, and his focus sharpened on the two men headed directly toward him. He held his gladius tightly, his gaze shifting between the men and the sharpened tips of their swords. Thank the gods they held no spears.

  The shorter of his two opponents reached him first and swung wildly. Drusus parried his strike easily, aware the entire time of the second man sweeping behind him. He pulled his body out of the momentum from his defensive move and flung around so he had a man either side of him rather than behind and in front.

  He swept low toward the taller man, slashing across his knees with his sword. His reach wasn’t enough to do adequate damage to take him from the fight, but it sent the man back a few paces and gave Drusus the chance to attack the other man.

  Drusus used his height, looming over the man in hopes of frightening him into a mistake. The man lunged with his sword, and Drusus dodged to the side before hastily pivoting and stabbing the man through his back. Drusus knew enough of a body to know the blow would be fatal, though one that would take its time in killing the man.

  Drusus didn’t even feel a pang of sorrow for the dying man as he stepped over his body and focused on his remaining assailant. A quick glance showed his other men still engaged in battle. A couple of tribesmen lay unmoving on the ground, Quintus had moved beside Caius, aiding him now that he’d dispatched his foe.

  He’d glanced away for too long when sharp metal scored the skin on his arm. It was a shallow gash, but it stung enough to bring his attention back to the tall tribesman before him. He was the one who had spoken—the traitor. Drusus would enjoy ending his life.

  Drusus raised his sword high, pulling it back over his shoulders with both hands. It was a distraction technique that often worked well if the enemy thought to attack his exposed chest and stomach. The tribesman did just that, lunging at Drusus with a roar, and it was simple enough to twist away, swinging his gladius down with enough power to unarm the barbarian. Drusus turned swiftly, hoping to press his advantage, but the German was quicker. He stayed low and lunged with all his strength into Drusus’s legs, taking them both to the ground.

  The tribesman wasted no time covering Drusus’s body and wresting the gladius from his hand. He bucked beneath the weight of the man, desperately trying to dislodge him. He gripped the thick wrist of the barbarian who now held his gladius, holding the man’s arm to the side so the weapon could not pierce Drusus’s body. He would not die by his own sword. In a moment of pure rage, he gathered his strength and flung his torso upwards, his skull connecting with the tender nose of his attacker with a satisfying crunch.

  Blood flowed freely from the barbarian, but he bore the blow with little effect. All the while, his enemy fought to free his arm from Drusus’s grip so he could deliver the deadly blow. Drusus held on with a tenacity born of eighteen years combat in the mighty Roman Legions. A barbarian would not end him—not now that he had so much to live for.

  Above him, his foe favoured him with a bloody smile, and Drusus braced for a renewed and more vigorous attack. He considered another attempt to crack the man’s skull with his own, but before the thought had fully formed, the tip of a gladius broke through the barbarian’s throat. The man’s eyes boggled wide as he faced his own mortality. Drusus’s gladius dropped from his grasp when he clutched at his neck. Bloody bubbles escaped the jagged flesh of his wound, splattering down on Drusus’s face.

  The man gurgled once before collapsing on top of Drusus.

  Drusus wasted no time with shock or pity for his enemy. He thrashed until he had moved from under the fallen man, then jumped to his feet. Cal stood just beyond him, his gladius drenched in blood and gore, as he stared at the German. A quick glance around told Drusus this battle, though won, was not quite over.

  Drusus marched to the nearest enemy. He was only young, younger even than Caius, but Drusus did not hesitate to thrust his gladius through his back as he fought with Brutus. For his trouble, Drusus received a glare from the Roman.

  “He was mine, Centurion,” Brutus shouted, the exhilaration of battle raising his voice.

  “I would have this done, Brutus,” Drusus replied as he continued past the fallen man and made for Marcus who was fighting the last remaining German a short distance away, though the tribesman looked more like he was trying to hand his sword to Marcus than slay him with it. A glance had told him Caius was safe, and though his body screamed to go to him, Drusus had work to do first.

  His men fell in behind him as he drew nearer to Marcus. The young German he fought turned to see his fate in the guise of six Roman legionaries approaching, a formidable sight, regardless of their bedraggled state. The man suddenly gave up all pretext of fighting, threw down his weapon and fell to his knees.

  Nobody escaped eighteen years in the army without developing a certain amount of bloodlust, and Drusus was no different. He itched to drive his sword through the throat of this man who had dared attack them, but he stayed his hand. This man could be of use to them.

  “You toy with him, Marcus.” He winked at his optio, who smirked in reply.

  Drusus gave his attention to the kneeling German. “Give me your name.”

  Wide, green eyes stared up at him. Drusus wondered if the man, boy really, understood him. His frightened gaze flicked to the circle of men who stood over him before he finally answered, “Thumelicus.”

  It was not a Roman name, which suggested the boy had never served in the auxiliary, but he’d understood Drusus’s question, so he knew Latin.

  “Are there any more of your tribesmen around, Thumelicus?”

  “No. We were…” The boys gaze flicked to his fallen comrades, but Drusus didn’t see anger or a need to avenge them in the young face. “We were sent out ahead to scout for any Romans. The rest of our tribesmen are a half day’s march from here.”

  “You speak Latin well. How is that so?”

  “My father is an ally to Roma. He taught us your language.” Thumelicus’s body relaxed a fraction as the immediate threat to his life appeared to have passed. Drusus hoped the youth was aware his life might still be forfeit at any time.

  “Yet you fought for Arminius.” Drusus stated. He was curious to hear the boy’s answer.

  “I was given no choice. Arminius rounded up our tribe, killed my father. Any man w
ho refused to fight for him was put to the spear as a traitor—or their family was.”

  “Roma does not need to threaten her men or their family to get them to fight,” Brutus spat. His disgust was obvious on his scowling face.

  “I say we keep the boy,” Priscus added. “He may be of use getting us out of this forsaken place, and the boy’s far too pretty to kill—just yet.” Priscus winked at the young man, and Drusus watched him blanch at the Roman.

  Drusus glanced around at his men. Every one of them was weary on their feet, but he knew they’d march all the way to Roma if he asked it of them. Could he ask them to guard a prisoner while they were doing it?

  Thumelicus seemed sincere about his loyalty to Roma, but he might be saying whatever he needed to say to keep himself alive. Either way, there was only one of him and seven Romans. It should not prove difficult to watch the boy for treachery.

  “He stays alive,” Drusus stated. “We need horses, food. Where is the nearest tribe?”

  It was possible the boy wouldn’t know. Germanic tribes were often drifters, too barbaric to have permanent cities. It was one of the benefits the Empire could have brought to these people had they been willing to ally with Roma. Now, they would be lucky if Augustus did not crush them under his boot.

  “Where are you from?” Drusus asked when the barbarian remained silent.

  “I am of the Chatti, from Mattium to the east.” This man might be willing to align himself with Roma, but his bearing when he spoke of his homeland was still proud.

  “You do not know this area well?”

  “Only a little. I will help you, Roman. And you will tell your king not all of the Chatti are against him.”

  A brave move from one so young, and though Thumelicus might know their language, he did not know their culture. No Roman would stand for a king to be their ruler. The horrors of King Tarquin were still whispered about throughout the empire. Never again would Roma have a king.

  “We have no king, barbarian,” Brutus thundered. He stepped closer to their prisoner, crowding him, using his bulk to frighten the tribesman, who looked fragile beside Brutus.