Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles) (29 page)

“
Centurion Agricola, commander of the Sixth Cohort,” the man said with a salute as he got closer.

“Thank the gods!
” The Master Centurion replied with a nod.

Agricola was a fearful sight. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale and clammy.
He was trying to control his rapid breathing; swallowing in spite of the fact his mouth was parched. The front of his armor looked as if it had been through a slaughterhouse. In his dark humor, Alessio surmised that, in a way, he had.

“You
r men have been through hell itself,” Alessio said with an air of reverence in his voice.

Agricola took a knee and removed his helmet. His hair was matted with sweat and grime, his face cut in numerous places.

“Sir, we need your help finding our lost cohort,” he said after catching his breath.

“You
what?”

As Cursor continued to ride forward, the last of their foes disappeared from his view. The sight that greeted him wrenched at his heart. He was at the end of the Twentieth Legion’s line, and all he could see were bodies, both Roman and Frisian. He recognized the Signum that still stood upright amongst the carnage. It was the Third Cohort’s Second Century. He gasped in realization as he saw, on the far left, his old friend, Centurion Artorius, slumped against a tree. Cursor quickly rode forward, practically leaping off his horse once he was upon his friend.

One could not even see the ground around the
Centurion. Even the places that weren’t piled with bodies were still covered in pools of blood, gray matter, and bits of entrails. Cursor removed his helmet and knelt down next to Artorius, who partially opened his remaining good eye. The other had since swollen shut.

“Still alive, are we?” the
Centurion said through parched lips.

“The gods obviously have a sense of humor,” Cursor replied, taking his hand.
“How are you, old friend?”

Artorius was covered in blood
, and his side bore a nasty gash. Cursor did not see any wounds that looked fatal. Still, Artorius was a frightful sight.

“I’m certai
n I look exactly how I feel,” the Centurion replied with a weak smile. His face immediately became somber, a tear forming in his right eye. “My men…you must take care of my men!”

Cursor
swallowed hard and nodded.

“Trooper!”
he shouted to the nearest horseman. “Take a dozen men and get all the bandages and medical supplies you can muster!”

“Yes
, sir,” the man replied. The trooper’s face betrayed the sense of shock he felt at the frightful sight of the Second Century. It was amazing that anyone was left alive in the carnage.

The clash between the royal household regiment and the famed Indus’ Horse had lasted but a few minutes. Dibbald had been struck from his horse almost immediately by a Roman lance, his body tramp
led in the onslaught. He felt little pain in his lower body and knew that could only mean his spine was crushed when his horse stumbled and fell on top of him. Lourens lay nearby, his eyes open and lifeless, throat torn out. His body covered in blood. Almost every member of his household cavalry had fallen. Bodies were piled around him as his men had refused to abandon their King, even though he lay dying. The Roman cavalry, having disposed of the King, now pushed to the far flank in order to envelope the now routed Frisian army. As his army retreated, one man made his way deliberately for him. It was Tabbo, his most beloved war chief.

“My
King!”
Tabbo cried as he dropped his weapons and knelt beside him. “By Freyja, what have they done to you?” He seemed desperate to put his hands on Dibbald, to offer some comfort to his master.

Yet his entire body was
broken. Both arms and legs were shattered, splinters of bone jutting through the skin. His guts were splayed open and everything was covered in blood. How he still lived he did not know, but he knew it would not be for long.

“Tabbo,” he
whispered. “My son is gone, and I go to join him. It is you who must lead our people now.”

“Please
, sire…” the war chief started to plead but was quickly silenced as Dibbald painfully shook his head.

“You are the greatest of my war chiefs. They
will
follow you…I am honored to name you King of Frisia.” Dibbald took a few shallow breaths, his eyes clouding as they rolled into his head. He then refocused on Tabbo and gave his final words. “Do not let our sacrifice be in vain.”

Tabbo hung his head, his body trembling in sorrow as he felt his
King breathe his last.

“Sire, the Romans are upon us, we must flee!” a voice shouted to him.

Tabbo nodded in his first acknowledgment that he was now King of his people. He then lifted Dibbald’s shattered body onto the King’s horse. The prize stallion had somehow survived the onslaught and had stayed loyally by his master.

“We will rally at the sacred groves of Freyja,” he ordered
the few remaining men of the Household cavalry. “The Romans do not have the strength for a long pursuit. I promise you this, we may have lost the battle, but in this defeat we shall find final victory!”

As he turned to leave
, his eyes fell upon one of the many wounded. It was Amke, niece of Dibbald Segon. She lay on her back in the mud, unable to turn over and crawl away. Her left arm lay crumpled across her chest, a horrifying gash running from the outside of her shoulder down to the inside of the elbow joint. Blood flowed from the wound. Tabbo rushed to her side and knelt beside her. Her right eye was swollen shut, the entire side of her face scored and a sickly hue of purple and yellow beneath the skin. A deep gash in her left hip was covered in clotted crimson.

“Oh
, daughter,” Tabbo mourned as he lifted the young woman into his arms.

She winced as pain overtook her
, and the King reckoned that several of her ribs were broken. Bodies of her slain sisters lay around her. The Daughters of Freyja had made a valiant, albeit futile, stand.

“We tried…” she gasped, fighting for breath through the blinding pain. “We tried to save the
King…we failed…we failed.” The pain was too much, and Amke swooned in Tabbo’s arms.

He carried the girl from the field
. She was the only surviving member of the Segon line, and he would not leave her to die in that pit of suffering.

Chapter XXI: Horror and Madness

***

The house looked deserted to the legionaries who approached it with caution. The stone wall surrounding the villa was just over waist high, and it was overgrown with moss and weeds. Where there had once been a gate, was now just a pair of rusted hinges which some rotting boards still clung to.

“I know thi
s place,” Agricola said as he led a group of men from the Fifth Legion through the opening. In spite of his extreme exhaustion, he had insisted upon accompanying Alessio and his legionaries. The Pilus Prior of the Fourth Cohort was a friend of his, and he had to know his fate. Others were circling the outside of the wall and looking for clues that could lead them to the lost cohort.

“How do you know it, s
ir?” one of the soldiers asked as he pushed a cluster of weeds aside with his gladius.

The entire area between the wall and the house proper was an
overgrown mess.

“It once belonged to a retired auxilia, who was also a Gallic noble, named
Cruptorix,” the Centurion replied as he eyed the front of the house with suspicion.

The scant openings in the boarded up
windows on both floors were pitch black and unnerving.

“Most of the weeds are trampled leading up to the door,” another legionary observed. “Someone’s been here.”

“Sir, we’ve got a number of drag marks and blood trails over here!” a Decanus shouted from off to the left.

Agricola had been in
a stupor from lack of sleep, but now he was suddenly awake once more. He rushed over to where the Decanus was pointing towards the trees that paralleled the house about twenty meters away.

“Found a Frisian shield,” Master
Centurion Alessio said, as he picked up the scoured shield. “Your lads made a stand here alright.”

The sound of
loud banging on the door startled them. They looked over to see a legionary hammering on the door with the butt of his gladius while shouting to anyone who may be inside.

“I don’t get it,” he said, turning to the
Centurions after his shouts went unheeded. “If they are here, why don’t they answer? The barricades on all the doors are still in place, so if they are here, they must still be inside.”

An icy chill ran up Agricola’s spine. He looked over at Alessio, whose ashen face told him that he
, too, had the same sense of dread.

“It’s going to take a fucking battering ram to break in here,” a nearby soldier said in frustration.

“Then get one!”
Agricola barked. “I don’t care if you have to cut down the nearest fucking tree, get inside that gods damned house!”

Alessio shouted concurring orders to his Optio, who headed into the woods
with twenty men to see if they could find a fallen tree.

“My apologies, sir,” Agricola said once they were alone.

Soldiers’ voices were heard in the background, calling out to the lost cohort.

Alessio shook his head.
“Were they of my Legion, I would do the same,” he replied calmly.

Agricola shuddered once more. Though it was now midmorning
, and the fog had since dissipated, he still felt cold.

Alessio started as a legionary grasped his arm. The soldier was visibly shaking in his boots. With a trembling hand he pointed to something hanging over the doorway. 
Alessio pulled his arm way and looked askance of the legionary. In a whisper, the soldier started to speak, but a shudder of terror grasped his throat. 

“What is it
, man?” Agricola demanded. 

“It’s cursed
!” the man gasped. 

Hanging overhead was a wreath of human and animal bones, intertwined and tied together with l
ocks of long human hair.

“I have seen this before. It is used by the unholy barbarians to destroy
men’s minds, causing unimaginable agony as their most terrible fears consume their thoughts.” 

“Get a grip on yourself
, soldier!” Agricola snapped. 

The terrified legionary backed away, still trembling.

Within minutes, the Optio and his men returned, bearing a semi-rotting log that still looked heavy enough to break through the barricaded doors. The men made their way up the short steps to the front door. A quick series of commands and the sound of the makeshift ram slamming into the door echoed in the otherwise silent woods. Chunks of rotten wood flew off the ram with each blow, but soon the braces on the other side of the door snapped and gave way. Agricola and Alessio quickly ran to the door as the soldiers tossed the log aside. Agricola gave a sharp kick, opening the doors just enough to allow a man to pass inside. There were no torches available, and he stumbled over upturned furniture that had been stacked against the door. He stopped just inside, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dark. Alessio and several men came in behind him.

“Can’t see a bloody thing,” one of them whispered
, as he groped his way along the wall to the nearest boarded up window. “Here! Someone give me a hand with this!”

Two of his companions fumbled their way through the dark and with their gladii proceeded to pry out one of the boards. With a grinding snap the board crashed to the floor; the sight that greeted the men
, as a dim light fell upon the room, caused them all to recoil in horror.

“What the…what the
fuck happened here?” Agricola stuttered, his face clammy with shock. A slain legionary lay but a foot from him, coagulated blood sticking to his sandals. Bodies littered the floor. Laid out in neat rows was the Fourth Cohort.

“Sir, it’s the same
all up there,” an ashen-faced legionary reported, coming down the stairs.

“Any survivors?” Alessio asked
softly. The legionary shook his head in reply. He then removed his helmet and wiped his forearm across his brow.

“Seems the Frisians got to them after all,” the soldier said quietly.

“Idiot!” Alessio barked. “All the entrances were barred; I scarcely think the Frisians would have sealed the place up again! And look around. Do you really think the enemy would have just left their weapons and armor on them? Use some common sense, man!”

Agricola placed a hand on his shoulder, silencing him. Alessio turned to see that the Pilus Prior had not moved. His eyes were still fixed on the dead legionary
, whose lifeless eyes stared piteously up at him.

“I did not mean that the Frisians killed them directly,” the legionary on the stairs explained, his eyes cast downward. He then looked into the face of his Master
Centurion. “But they got to them, sir. Something scared these men into committing mutual suicide.”

“This can’t be possible,” Alessio said with a shake of his head.

“The bodies tell a different story,” Agricola replied quietly. “Look at them; all slashed through the jugular. They figured it would be a quick and reasonably painless way to die. Did you find the officers?” As he asked the question, he at last looked up at the legionary, who nodded somberly in reply.

“Yes
, sir. All Centurions and Options are in the same room upstairs.”

“How is it that every last man in this cohort was convinced that this was right?” Alessio asked. “More than four hundred men and not one of them elected to fight for a chance to live! If they were going to die, they should have died fighting the enemy, not slaughtering each other!”

“What would you have us do, sir?” an Optio asked.

“Surround the house,” Alessio replied. “We need to figure out what to do with the bodies. And send for carts to come pick up their weapons and armor. No sense leaving them to the Frisians
. Once we get disposition orders on the bodies, we’ll torch this damn place!”

As Agricola walked outside
, he felt as if he were stepping out of a nightmare. Suddenly, he was very tired, and he longed to be away from this awful place. He stumbled through the broken gate where a squad of legionaries from the Fifth Legion stood guard. As soon as he felt he was out of sight, he fell against a tree and allowed himself to collapse to the earth. He dropped his helmet beside him and buried his face in his hands. After a few minutes he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked over through tear-stained eyes to see Master Centurion Alessio kneeling beside him.

“I’m sorry.” It was all he could say.

Though they were not his men or his friends, Alessio’s face was ashen. “I sent word to your Commanding Legate. My lads will stay here and watch over the place.”

Agricola nodded in reply.
“Thank you,” he said. “I just wish I knew what could possibly have terrified an entire cohort into doing what they did.” He wrung his hands in frustration as he spoke.

“
I don’t think we’ll ever know,” Alessio replied. “Regardless of what did it, I say these woods are cursed, and the sooner we leave here the better!”

Word from Legate Apronius returned with the carts, giving permission to do what they thought was best.

The weapons and armor were quickly removed from the dwelling
, piled in a jumbled mess as they were loaded onto the carts. 

As the dwelling was emptied of all except the grisly contents, Ag
ricola ordered, “Fire this damned building,
now!
” and stepped back.

The flames, encouraged by oil brought with the carts, eagerly began to climb the walls.

Agricola looked up and saw the horrible wreath crumbling in the rising flames as they consumed the dwelling. That last look would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Amke winced as Tabbo applied a bandage to her hip. The new King of Frisia had many such injured warriors to attend to, but he wanted to make certain that the last of the Segons would live before moving on. Once satisfied, he stood and gazed at the ghastly sight that surrounded him.

Families had gathered at the grove to assist in the caring of their loved ones. Cries of mourning echoed in the night as the dead were laid out in rows. Mothers, wives, and children sought in vain for many who were still unaccounted for. Tabbo had no way of knowing how many dead still lay on the field, though he knew the number was far greater than what they had recovered. And how many of their wounded were now prisoners of war?

“It’s a terrible sight,” a voice said behind him. He turned to see is old friend Olbert. A gash ran across the warrior’s cheek and he walked with a limp. Tabbo allowed himself a sad smile and embraced his friend.

“It gladdens me that you live,” he said quietly.

“And to you, sire,” Olbert replied, acknowledging Tabbo as his sovereign.

“It is with a heavy heart that I take that responsibility,” the
King replied. “Much have our people suffered, and now I must find them victory within the sorrow.”

“How can you possibly find victory in this?” Olbert asked, exasperated. “The Romans have beaten us, like they did under Drusus Nero!”

“No,” Tabbo replied. “They have won this battle, but our people are not broken. Look upon them, and you will see strength in their faces, despite the pain. They knew that this was the alternative to starvation, and they chose this path willingly. Do not forget that the Romans suffered greatly, as well. Exhaustion and casualties have prevented them from launching any kind of a pursuit. The legions should have been on our heels coming to this place, but look behind us. There are no soldiers, no clashing of metal coming for us in the night. We must strengthen our resolve, old friend. I do not think the Romans wish to fight us any more unless they have no other option. Unlike the time of Drusus Nero, this time
we
will lay out the terms and see if Rome accepts.”