Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles) (27 page)

As one leapt over the body of his friend, Gaius gave a deep howl of unholy rage and sprung forward, his gladius
thrusting deep into the man’s side, and the two fell over onto another pile of bodies. His shield was caught on the corpse of a Frisian, and he lost his grip. He quickly pulled his weapon from the warrior who was coughing up gouts of blood and crying in anguish. Frisians were now intermixed with their lines. Gaius realized with horror that the formation had gaping holes and had collapsed. The Second Century was now overrun. The auxilia step was now swarming with warriors, and the troopers were in a savage fight for their lives. To his left, he saw Sergeant Valens trying to rally survivors into some semblance of a formation. Gaius then yanked his shield free and fought his way towards the Decanus and the dozen or so legionaries with him.

As he stumbled
towards the small formation which was now fighting off a horde of warriors, Gaius watched an older soldier helping his badly wounded friend to safety. He fell to his side, looked back, and recognized Legionary Carbo. The man he was desperately trying to save was his close friend, Legionary Decimus.

“Come on
, dumbass, don’t die on me now!” Carbo pleaded.

Decimus was bleeding fro
m the mouth, his legs wobbly, eyes wide and vacant. Both men were helmet-less and had lost their shields, as well. Decimus had his right arm around Carbo’s shoulder, his left hanging useless and soaked in blood.

Suddenly Carbo gave a cry of pain, dropping his friend as he fell forward. A Frisian stood behind him, driving his spear into the small of the legionary’s back.

“No!”
screamed Valens.

Gaius knew the three men had been best of friends for many years
, and the Decanus lost all sanity as he watched the other two crumple, slowly dying. He broke away from his tiny formation, which was now on the verge of collapse in the relentless push of the Frisian mass. Valens tilted his shield upright and slammed the bottom edge into the face of the warrior, smashing his face in with a satisfying crunch. Gaius got to his feet and fought beside the valiant Decanus who, with every fiber of his being, fought to save his friends. Gaius jumped over a body and punched a warrior on Valens’ left with the boss of his shield. The two men stood shoulder to shoulder, fighting with strength beyond their reckoning.

Blinding fury consumed Gaius as he swung his shield and
stabbed his gladius with reckless abandon. Together they both stabbed one warrior in the chest. As Gaius withdrew his weapon, a Frisian swung his axe, catching him on the side of the neck. Though the blow staggered him, he quickly regained his footing and in a wild thrust, slammed his gladius through his teeth and out the back of his neck. As the warrior stumbled backwards, eyes wide in terror and excruciating pain, the legionary let loose a howl of rage.

A broad grin crossed his face as he turned to face Sergeant Valens. The Decanus’ eyes grew wide with the same expression as the Frisian’s when he caught sight of Gaius. The legionary could not figure out what could have startled Valens about his appearance.
The cries and din of battle were becoming muffled in his ears, though he guessed he had just lost some hearing from the constant noise. He was breathing heavily and felt dizzy. His shield slipped from his grip. As he looked down to see what was wrong, he was horrified at the sight of his armor covered in dripping dark crimson. He did not need to reach up to his neck to realize the axe blow he thought had only knocked him off balance had, in fact, slain him. He slowly blinked his eyes and looked at the ground at his feet. It was covered in bodies, both friend and foe. His smile faded as his gaze locked with Valens. The Decanus’ face was one of compassion for the young legionary.

“Oh
, Gaius,” he thought he heard him say from a distance.

The entire time from when the blow had struck his neck was no more than a handful of seconds, yet for Legionary Gaius Longinus
, the last moments of his young life moved at a crawl. His gladius fell useless from his grip, and he felt himself falling forward. His soul left his body before it landed face first in the churned up mud, his blood mingling grotesquely with the mud and water, as well as the blood and flesh of the killed and maimed. His last thoughts brought some comfort. He had done his best and died  a true Roman soldier. He hoped his father would be proud of him as his mind faded into darkness.

“Sir, our left flank is collapsing!”
Rufio shouted to Artorius as they desperately tried to hold their position.

The
Centurion turned back to the Cornicen and nodded. Just as the man started to blow into his horn a Frisian spear punctured his windpipe, bursting out the back of his neck in a spray of blood and bone. The man fell back, his horn dropping to the earth as his eyes clouded over. The horn landed amongst the tightly packed ranks of legionaries, several of whom inadvertently stepped on the instrument, smashing it.

“Son of a bitch!” Artorius swore as he pushed back once more with his shield, stabbing over the top with his gladius.

The Frisians were now pushing hard against them, and his weapon went right into his enemy’s mouth. The blade severed tongue and mouth, while shattering teeth as it plunged upward into the man’s brain. As Artorius wrenched his gladius free, he stepped back and caught sight of his Nordic friend on his left.

“Magnus!”
he shouted. “The Cornicen is dead! Get your ass over to Vitruvius and tell him we’ve been overrun!”

The Norseman nodded, shouted some quick orders to his section
, and then withdrew through the auxiliaries, who were struggling to maintain their position. The legionaries were being pushed back up their short step, and now they, too, were face-to-face with their foe. One poor trooper was grabbed on the shoulder by a towering barbarian and dragged over the top of the legionaries, where he was hacked to pieces by the rampaging Frisians.

Artorius’ shield arm was almost completely numb
, and he fought hard to keep control as he felt the impact of Frisian axes and swords again and again. His sword arm had been cut numerous times and was crusted in blood; his, as well as his enemies’.  He threw a left cross with his shield, the boss catching a Frisian on the side of the head, bones crunching underneath. He was so exhausted, his movements slowed, he failed to pull his shield back before a Frisian sword stabbed him in the upper arm. A shock went down his arm, and his shield fell useless from his grasp. In a rage, he lunged forward and wrapped his injured arm around the man’s head, where his arm was subsequently smashed by the flat of an axe. Three men grabbed hold of him, one yanking his head down by the crest of his helmet. Instinctively, he cut the chin straps with his gladius and his helmet was ripped away. The three warriors fell on him, knocking him to the ground. Two held his arms while the third tried to eviscerate him. In the fray of bodies, the Frisian could not get at his face or neck, so he repeatedly stabbed the Centurion in the side with his sword. His armor could withstand much, but this man was bearing down on him with all of his weight behind each blow. Links soon began to snap. In desperation, Artorius reached up with his right hand and grabbed the Frisian on his arm by the hair. He pulled the man’s head down and bit him savagely on the neck. The warrior gave a roar of pain, which Artorius echoed through his clenched teeth as his armor finally burst, and the Frisian sword bit into his side. He bit harder, tearing through flesh, foul blood spurting into his mouth as the warrior’s artery was torn in two.

His dying foe fell off him,
feebly clawing at his neck in agony as his companion pulled his sword out for another blow. Artorius still held his gladius and swung as hard he could, smashing the pommel into the head of the man who held his other arm. It crushed deep into his temple. As he rolled to his side and shoved his assailant off, he was slashed across the leg by the swordsman. Then, over the deafening sounds of battle, came a war cry louder than anything Artorius had ever heard. One of the auxiliaries leaped over the top of him, driving his spear into the chest of the swordsman. His weapon became stuck, and he quickly drew his gladius as he stepped back and stood protectively over the Centurion. He then screamed in rage as another warrior came at them, driving his shield into the man’s neck. As the warrior fell to the ground, the trooper pinned the bottom of his shield against his neck and violently ran his gladius across his throat. In his now blurred and reddened vision, Artorius thought he must have decapitated the man.

“Dominus!”
Magnus shouted as he ran up the slope.

The Fourth Century had just pulled back and were now trying to repel the Frisian counterattack. The
Centurion shouted a quick order to his Signifier and rushed back to where Magnus stood next to the rear of his formation.

“We’ve been overrun, the entire flank has fallen!”

“Shit,” Dominus swore under his breath. He then nodded and turned back to his Century.

They had just executed a passage-of-lines and his fourth rank was completely spent.

“Third rank…action right!”
the Centurion shouted. The legionaries in his third line immediately pivoted and started to step off towards them. Dominus nodded to Magnus. Magnus nodded in reply before turning his attention to the legionaries who now followed him. There were only sixteen of them, which meant the Fourth had been taking casualties as well.

“Let’s go!” the Tesserarius shoute
d as he raced back down the slope.

It was an unholy sight that greeted them, the legionaries with him gasping in horror. The gap was filled with Frisian warriors, with only a sliver of a Roman line remaining.
The auxilia had been overrun as well, and formations had all but completely collapsed. Pockets of men fought together, but there was no line anymore. Magnus steeled himself and braced hard against his shield.

“Online!” he shouted as the legionaries followed suit. He took a deep breath, adrenaline
and a lust for vengeance giving him renewed strength. He would save his friends or die in the attempt.
“Charge!”

The war cries of the Frisians had drowned out Magnus’ order
, and they seemed oblivious to him and his men as they smashed into the Frisian flank. Shields sent warriors reeling, gladii finishing the job. They rushed past where Optio Praxus and a single legionary still stood fighting. Then they found Sergeant Valens and three others with him. Gradually, they made their small formation bigger as surviving legionaries fell in on them. They were now at an angle to their original formation, with Magnus on the extreme right. It was he who had to step over the bodies of his fallen companions as they fought to push the Frisians back. The right of the Second Century’s line was mostly gone, with just a few auxiliaries left, and these were now in a fight for their own survival. In his peripheral vision, Magnus saw his best friend and Centurion. He was down on one knee and looked to be badly wounded, with blood streaming down his side and leg. A lone auxiliary was fighting in a berserker rage to protect him. The Norseman knew there was nothing he could do to help Artorius. As that realization came to him, their attack stalled. Even with the legionaries they had picked up from the remnants of the Second, his total force was, at most, twenty-five men. The ground was littered with corpses and wounded men, the whole area slick with bloody mud and gore.

This is it,
Magnus thought to himself.
We’ve done all we could. Now we must fight until the bitter end.
As axes hammered his shield, he gave a great cry and fought with renewed vengeance as he accepted his fate.

Odin, let me be
worthy of entering Valhalla.  Today is a good day…

Chapter
XX: Ten Thousand Strong

***

“Where the hell are those men going?” Tribune Cursor swore as he watched small groups of auxiliary infantrymen retreating.

Cavalrymen, individually or in small groups, were also
lost in the scene of battle. There was no organization to be had in the dense woods. The fog was still so thick that the Tribune had no sense of direction, whatsoever. Only the sounds of battle oriented him to where he needed to be.

“The units are all scattered,
sir,” a nearby Decanus shouted. “Individual companies have charged on their own. By the gods, the Frisian army is enormous!” The man was sweating profusely and trembling badly on his mount.

“It would seem that way when only a hundred men attack their entire
gods’ damned army!” Cursor was beside himself, his anger washing away his fatigue, pumping much needed adrenaline through his veins. He then saw a trumpeter riding aimlessly towards the river.
“Hey…you, Trumpeter!”

The soldier looked glad to have finally found an officer
, and he quickly rode over to the Tribune. Cursor then reached over, grabbed him by the collar, and gestured towards an imaginary line that ran perpendicular to the river.

“Ride up and down this line, sounding recall,” he ordered. “Don’t stop until every last one of our men has reformed and we’ve gotten some fucking order restored!”

“Yes, sir.” The notes from the trumpet began echoing in the fog.

For those who were completely lost
, it was something for them to orient on. Cursor knew even those who had panicked in the face of the Frisian hordes would heed its call. After all, there was nothing else for them on this side of the river. They had travelled forty miles in a single day and night, and the only way any of them were leaving this cursed place alive was to go the last few hundred meters and charge into the Frisian army together.

“Tribune Cursor!” a voice called.

Cursor looked to his left and smiled when he recognized Centurion Rodolfo, his horse at a full gallop, coming his way. The Centurion’s horse reared up as he pulled the reigns in abruptly.

“The infantry is reorganizing. They are forming up along the river in columns by cohort.”

“About damn time,” Cursor replied. “What of the cavalry?”

“They are far more scattered, but they seem to be heeding your trumpet’s call.”

Cursor galloped over to the front of the reforming auxiliary troops, holding his sword high to focus their attention on him.

“Auxilia of the Army of the Rhine!
We have travelled far and hard together. Already you have accomplished far more than the best of men could hope, but it does not end now. Our way home is
forward
, straight into the bloody hearts of our enemy! Keep in formation…wait for my signal. We will charge together, and not only will we save the legions from destruction, we will snatch those rebel bastards’ victory right out of their grasp and send those whores’ sons to hell!
Primo Victoria!”

A loud cry erupted from the souls of every last one of his men, piercing through the fog like the crystal rays of the sun. The Tribune centered himself on the cavalry,
his trumpeter next to him. Cursor eased his horse forward, making certain he was at least a dozen feet in front of his men. They had followed him this far, and they would follow him the rest of the way. He turned and nodded to the trumpeter and then addressed his men one last time.

“
Make ready to assault the gates of hell…charge of the ten thousand!”

A renewed battle cry was joined by the trumpeter sounding the advance.
To their right, columns of infantry moved at a quick jog and the cavalry kept pace with them for the first two hundred meters. Once Cursor knew they were close, he signaled with his sword, and the entire wall of cavalry broke into a gallop, swords held aloft in anticipation of the necks that would slake their thirst with the blood and souls of the enemy. Instinctively, the formation moved into a giant wedge at the orders barked from the remaining Centurions.

His horse smashed into the packed Frisian ranks before Cursor even saw them. Luckily
, the enemy was infinitely more surprised by the shock of an entire cavalry army smashing into their flank, and Cursor’s regiments had penetrated deep into the Frisian ranks before they could react. All around him he could see nothing but the enemy. To his right, he knew were the imperiled legions, though they were still masked by the fog. Quickly, he brought his spatha down in a hard backhand slash that cleaved through the spine of a bewildered Frisian warrior. The man fell forward, his head nearly severed as his neck was split from behind. The Tribune thrust his weapon forward, catching another enemy on the shoulder who had been too slow blocking with his shield. His sword seemed to sing in its lust for more destruction of the throng of terrified faces before him.

“The bridge is complete,
sir!” a First Cohort Centurion shouted back to Legate Labeo. The northern bridge by his Fifth Legion had taken the least amount of time to repair, though it was only now, when the situation for the Roman forces on the far side had become untenable, that at least one of them was stable enough to handle the weight of legionaries in full armor. Sensing the completion of repairs, the entire Legion had been in a state of heightened readiness, armor and helmets donned with weapons at the ready.

“First, Second, and Third Cohorts will push out to the right and link up with the Valeria Legion!” Labeo ordered. “The rest of the Legion will
deploy to the left and execute a right wheel into the Frisian flank!”

“Sir!”
Master Centurion Alessio acknowledged as cohort commanders rushed back to their units and made ready to cross in force.

T
he men of the First Cohort double-timed across the rickety bridge, taking care as to not fall over the sides into the raging waters below. All remembered the disaster from the previous day as numerous auxiliary troopers had fallen into the torrential current, never to rise again. It would take some time for the entire legion to cross using a single bridge, and time was something the Romans did not have. Once his First Cohort was across, the Master Centurion ordered his men to follow him along the river bank. He directed the commanders of the Second and Third Cohorts to catch up as soon as their elements were across.

The fog was starting to dissipate
, and the men of the Fifth Legion were anxious to get into the battle. The Master Centurion’s body was already soaked from the dampness in the air and the sweat of exertion. They could hear the sounds of battle ahead; war cries, screams of pain, and the clash of weapons all melded together in a symphony of horror.

“There it is!” a man on his left shouted, while pointing with his javelin.

Auxiliary infantry were pulling back, having been savaged by the Frisians when they attacked in too small of a force. The Master Centurion could just make out a handful of legionaries from the Twentieth. They had held!

His eyes narrowed, his breathing coming slow and deep as he turned and barked his next order.

“Battle formation! Javelins ready!”

The retreating auxiliaries were s
tunned to see legionaries approaching them. Exhaustion, and the brutality they had faced, struck most of them numb, and they hesitated, not knowing what to do. The Master Centurion made the decision for them.

“You!”
he bellowed while pointing his gladius at them.
“Reform, fall in on my right, and get your fucking asses back in the fight!”

Though still
in a state of shock, at least one of the auxiliary Centurions managed to rouse his men, and they followed him onto the First Cohort’s right flank. At the subsequent order, the legionaries advanced. They no longer jogged, but rather moved at the disciplined march that came just before fury was unleashed. As they closed on the Frisians, they knew their Second and Third Cohorts would be joining them soon enough.

“Front rank…throw!”

For the Frisians who had just repelled the auxiliary assault on their flank, this latest blow proved to be too much for even the hardest of them. Javelins ripped into bodies of unsuspecting warriors, blood and
filth spraying their companions in the wake of the screams of horror and pain. They had spent the better part of two days trying to destroy the legion in front of them, and now, before they could finish the task, fresh Roman troops were driving into their flank with disciplined ferocity. A wall of shields drove into them, toppling warriors in the onslaught. Their victory, once so close, was rapidly vanishing in the flash of legionary blades and the screams of the dying.

“The gods have abandoned us,” Olbert said through clenched teeth.
He had survived the previous day and had hoped to reunite with his friends Tabbo and Prince Klaes when this day was done. Instead, his doom bore down on him behind a wall of brightly painted shields. He gritted his teeth, limbered up his shoulders, and turned to meet his fate.

Dibbald could see little beyond the horde of men to his front. The fog was
still thick, and although this impeded his situational awareness, he knew it hindered the Romans even more so. At least one entire legion was trapped on this side of the river. His men had been hammering the enemy lines for more than a day now. Cold, hunger, and extreme fatigue were breaking them, and the Frisian King knew it would be over soon enough. He dared to think, perhaps, it would not be in vain, that his nation just might achieve a real victory against the Roman army! As he pondered this, a messenger rode quickly towards him, shouting words in a panic that Dibbald could not understand over the noise of the battle.

“My
King, we are undone!” the man shouted as he halted his horse next to him. The messenger was panting, sweat rolling down his face, eyes wide with terror.

“Calm yourself,” Dibbald replied. “What do you mean
undone?”
The messenger pointed over his shoulder towards the Frisian right flank, but all the King could see was fog and the massed formation of his advancing warriors.

“The Romans
...I don’t know how, but they’ve flanked us…infantry and cavalry have smashed our right flank!”

“Impossible!” Lourens shouted. “It’s twenty miles upriver to the nearest ford. They can’t possibly have gone around in a day!”

“They have, and they attack us now,” the messenger said between gasps of breath.

As the
King quickly tried to assess the situation, another messenger ran up on foot.

“Sire, the Romans have repaired one of the bridges! An entire legion has also assaulted the flank!”

Lourens looked to Dibbald
, his face grim. Amke rushed to his side and grasped the bridle of his horse.

“Uncle
, now is the time!” she pleaded. “Send the Daughters of Freyja into the fight! It is time we earned our right as protectors of the Segon Kings!”

Dibbald
closed his eyes and swallowed. Without looking at his niece, he gave a slow nod. Amke gave an almost euphoric smile, released the reins, and rushed to her warriors.

“Daughters of Freyja!”
she shouted, her hand axe raised high. “The time has come for us to earn our place in the history of our people! Now we must save our King and our nation. We can turn the tide of this battle by fighting beside our brothers in this, our people’s most desperate hour!
With me!”