Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles) (25 page)

This is it,
Cursor thought.
Either I bring salvation or death. Gods have mercy if we are too late!

The area by the Fifth Legion’s bridge was lit by numerous torches as legionaries worked at a furious pace to make it serviceable enough for men to cross with all their weapons and armor. In the distance
, the sounds of axes felling trees and men shouting orders echoed through the blackness. Though the planks had all been burned and crashed into the river, the main support posts remained intact. Off to the left a pair of sentries alternated between watching their companions work and their sector along the river, which was devoid of movement. Only the sound of the raging river greeted their senses. The night was chilly, and the men wrapped their cloaks tight around themselves. One ate a balled up chunk of bread that had been left over from his supper. The other sentry looked over his shoulder and nudged his companion as their Tesserarius walked over to their position. The officer was making his rounds of the guard posts and work parties.

“How are you men holding up?” he asked. He had been rushing from one position to another since the afternoon, and though he wore his cloak
, he let it hang loose as his face was damp with sweat. There was little perceived threat on their side of the river, and only those on sentry duty wore their body armor and helmets.

“We’re doing okay, sir,” one of the men answered as his friend’s mouth was full of food. “It’s bloody cold tonight, though.” He shuddered under his cloak in emphasis and was shocked that he could see his breath.

“It is unusually cold for this time of year,” the Tesserarius concurred.

“This bread’s a bit doughy
, too,” the other soldier added as he took a drink from his water bladder to wash it down.

The Tesserarius snorted
, “Be glad you’re not with the Twentieth.”

The soldier looked down briefly and then swallowed. The first legionary shook his head, slightly ashamed.

“Those poor bastards,” he said quietly, to which the officer nodded in reply.

“They’ve been fighting all
evening,” he added. “Gods only know how many of them were killed, or how many wounded they have, with no way of treating their injuries. To say nothing of the fact that not one of them has cloak or food.”

“I have some friends in the Twentieth,” the soldier still eating said. He th
en looked up at his companions.

The Tesserarius’ face was stern.
“We’d better hope the bridge is complete by morning then,” he observed. “Otherwise there won’t be a Twentieth Legion when we cross.”

Tabbo ate heartily as he tried to work the soreness out of his arm and shoulder. He knew he had to rest at some point, though he was afraid that too much inactivity would leave his injured arm stiff and useless come morning. Still
, he was grateful for the warm fire and fresh boar that his men had brought to him. There was no laughter or songs around the fires this night. His men were hopeful, yet still somber at the loss of many of their friends. He knew not how many of his own men had fallen that day. He only knew that whatever losses the Romans had suffered, they had visited back on the Frisians several times over. There was no sign of his friend, Olbert, and the war chief wondered if the brave man had fallen in battle. His heart was hardened for the time being; he could not allow himself to worry about friends who were simply missing when hundreds, if not thousands, of warriors had already fallen.

“You were reluctant to leave the field today, no?” Sjoerd asked as he joined him, a jug of mead in his hand. The war chief grunted as he continued to eat.

“I admit I did not like leaving even such a small sliver of our land in the hands of the Romans,” he replied. “However, the King was right to recall us. If we had persisted we may still have been fighting with them even now. And how many more of us would have fallen? No, we have done the right thing, painful as it was to withdraw. While we warm ourselves by the fire and eat mightily, the Romans are freezing in the night while hunger takes its toll.”

Sjoerd grinned in reply.
“Should make their demise all the more easy tomorrow,” he observed as he took a long quaff of mead.

“It will ease our struggle, yes. But that does not mean it will be easy. I have seen the way the Romans fight
. We must never underestimate them.” He then took another bite of meat before speaking again. “I take it the prince fought well?” Sjoerd shrugged.

“Well enough,” he replied. “As well as any of us
, I guess. The King ordered Eitel and me to stay by the prince’s side. We only managed to directly engage the Romans a few times, and that was doing little more than banging our weapons randomly against their shield wall. You are right, though, they are a fearsome enemy. Their javelins slew many of our comrades before we even got close to them.” He took another long pull off the mead jug, which was nearing empty.

“Not too much, old friend,” Tabbo chided. “You will still need all your strength in the morning.”

Both men laughed as Lourens walked into the light.

“Tabbo, the
King has called for you.”

The war chief nodded and followed the master of the household cavalry away from the fire.
Lourens then pointed to where the King paced quietly in a small grove, well away from the crowded fires. Tabbo nodded and Lourens left him to his business. As Tabbo limped into the grove, he saw Dibbald with his hands clasped behind his back, his head bowed as he paced slowly in contemplation.

“You sent for me, s
ire?” Tabbo said at last.

“I feel I must apologize to one of my greatest war chiefs,” the
King said, his back still to him.

“Sire?”

“I wronged you earlier today when I berated you in front of my son and the other warriors,” Dibbald said as he turned to face him. “This war weighs heavily on me, and your actions today were not a failure on your part, but rather another example of the fortitude of our enemy.” He then sighed deeply, and Tabbo could see the melancholy in the King’s eyes. “It breaks my heart to call Rome my enemy.”

“Sire, Rome nearly starved us out of existence,” Tabbo conjectured.

Dibbald raised a hand, silencing him.

“One man,” he retorted
, “one man alone did the unspeakable to our people.” Dibbald made no mention of the personal insults he had borne, to say nothing of the flogging received in front of his household.

Tabbo knew better than to mention this to the
King.

“We have been on
peaceful terms with Rome for many years. It saddens me deeply because I viewed the Emperor Tiberius as a personal friend…but then Tiberius no longer rules in Rome. I have word that he now lives in seclusion on some remote isle while one of his Praetorian thugs rules Rome with the same fear and terror that Olennius brought on us.”

“That terror ends tomorrow, s
ire.” There was a fierce determination in Tabbo’s voice.

The
King looked over at him and smiled.

“Indeed it will. I will order our men to show clemency if the Romans choose to surrender; but I know it will be for naught. This army will not surrender. They will fight to the very last, bringing more death to both our peoples. But when it is done
, I will send word to the Roman governor, if he be still alive. We will negotiate an end to this war quickly, while demanding no more than the return of our sovereignty. The Romans will be in such a shock after their army’s defeat and the destruction of an entire legion that they will cede to our…
requests.”

Tabbo marveled at his
King’s simple yet effective strategy. After defeating the Romans in battle, they would be diplomatic to them. Unlike the Germanic tribes who brought on the wrath of the entire Empire, Frisia would ask for so little, and offer to return to friendship with Rome that the Emperor, or whoever actually ruled the Empire now, would feel compelled to agree. Tabbo felt in his heart as if the King had already led his people into a new age of freedom.

Gaius stu
mbled in the dark as his squad provided security for the archers who were retrieving as many usable arrows as they could manage. Each of them had started off with sixty, and their section leader stated that if he could get even half that number back he would be satisfied. The Roman javelins, being a much shorter range weapon, were mostly recovered within full view of the line.

“Look at all the drag marks,” one of his companions said quietly.

In numerous places the bush was laid flat and streaked with blood from where the Frisians had drug away many of their wounded and dead. Most of the bodies were close to the line, where they had fallen either during the storm of javelins or in close combat with the Century and their auxilia attachment. Still, there was the occasional dead warrior to be found out a ways from the line. These had either been felled by arrows or had succumbed to their injuries after crawling away from the main battle.

In the faint torchlight
, Gaius saw one such warrior with his back against a tree. At first he thought it was another corpse, but then he thought he saw the man’s head twitch. Curious, he walked over to the warrior, just to see if his eyes were playing tricks on him, what with the poor visibility, his utter exhaustion, plus the ever present pangs of hunger that now tormented him. He was surprised to see that the Frisian was still alive. His chest rose and fell, and his eyes opened as the young legionary knelt next to him and removed his helmet after first checking that the warrior had no weapons within reach. Gaius noticed the man had been wounded by arrows in both legs, which he assumed had happened as the Frisians retreated given that the man also bore a stab wound to his side brought on by a gladius. None of his injuries looked fatal, though he looked unable to move on his own. The warrior looked Gaius in the face.

“Water,” he said in almost a whisper. “Water…please.”

Without a second thought Gaius pulled the stopper out of his water bladder and poured into the man’s parched mouth. The warrior gulped down as much as he could and Gaius stopped for a moment when he saw most of it running down the sides of the warrior’s face. The Frisian swallowed hard and took a few quick breaths before Gaius gave him some more to drink. He then put the stopper back into his water bladder and stood.

“Thank you,” the warrior whispered with a trace of a smile on his face.