Soldier of Rome: The Centurion (The Artorian Chronicles) (33 page)

Tabbo helped to
redress Amke’s wounds. The young warrior maiden was awake, though in terrible pain. The gash on her arm he stitched up with some thread that he found among the supplies, as well as the wound on her hip. A bandage was wrapped around the young woman’s head, as well. Spouses and loved ones returned to the grove to aid the wounded. Even Queen Femke assisted in bandaging and treating the more serious injuries. She had yet to let the impact of losing her husband and her son break her, not when so many were suffering and in need of aid. It had barely sunk into Tabbo’s mind that he was now King of Frisia, even after his negotiations with the Romans. While he was consciously aware of it, he was still the warrior at heart, and right now his fellow warriors needed him.

“I had one,” Amke said weakly. “
My sisters were falling all around me, but I got through their shield line, and I had one of them. My axe failed me…it bounced off his armor, as if the gods were mocking me. It was then that he did this to me.” With her good arm she pointed to her face. “I bested a legionary, and it was only his armor that saved him.”

“You fought well, sister,” Tabbo said, the sibling term showing he viewed Amke as an equal. “Do not think that because the Roman survived that you are any less worthy as a warrior. Our war with Rome was short and terrible, but now it is over. A legionary may not have fallen by your hand, but you did help make our people free.” Amke tried to force a smile, though the pain made her gr
oan once more.

“I guess one more dead legionary would have made little difference,” she reasoned. “Still, it sickens me that more than half of the Daughters of Freyja died out there, and I could not avenge them with even a single Roman.”

“Most of our greatest warriors did not get the chance to kill a Roman either,” Tabbo replied. “Many of those who did are now on funeral pyres themselves.”

“I just hope the bastard who caused all this suffering pays for his crimes
!”

“I have the personal reassurance of the Roman Governor General that he will,” the
King said. Amke looked at him in disbelief.

“And you trust this Roman?” she asked. Tabbo nodded in reply. “Why?”

“Because he has kept his word to our people,” he answered. “The Romans are preparing for their withdrawal across the Rhine even as we speak. He paroled every last one of our wounded who had been taken prisoner, even going so far as to have his men tend to their wounds first. I think it will be a long time before a Roman crosses into Frisia again.”

For the King of Frisia there was no rest. No sooner had Tabbo left Amke’s side than he felt he needed to seek out Queen Femke. He had yet to see his own wife, Edeline, and wondered if she even knew that she was now Queen of Frisia? Thousands had gathered in and around the grove, and it was no wonder he could not find his wife. Families of the dead were carrying off the bodies under a cloud of mournful wails. Those who tended to the wounded did so with a feverish desperation to save those who were on the doorsteps of the afterlife. Frisian medicine paled in comparison to Roman, and Tabbo felt their wounded would have been better left as prisoners of war.

It was only by a stroke of luck that Tabbo found both Femke and Edeline together as they tended to a badly injured young Frisian warrior who looked to be little more than an overgrown boy. The lad was covered in sweat
, and he was convulsing violently as he spewed bile and blood from his lips. Then, suddenly, he was still, his eyes staring lifelessly into the night. A shriek from his mother, who held his hand during the ordeal, caused the two women to cringe and back away slowly. Tears were in their eyes as they felt the mother’s pain of loss. They stood and both caught sight of Tabbo at the same time. Edeline gave a sigh of relief upon seeing her husband.

“My
King,” Femke said with a deep bow. Edeline’s mouth was agape, and Tabbo surmised that she did not know what had transpired in Braduhenna.

“King?” she asked.

Tabbo nodded sadly. “By the last words of Dibbald Segon before he passed into eternity,” he replied. Edeline then turned and placed her arms around Femke, who finally let loose the tears she had been holding back for her husband and son. Tabbo embraced both women, his wife clinging to him as she tried to comfort Femke.

“I’m so sorry,” she said repeatedly.

Femke was unable to speak and could barely gasp for breath as the weight of her loss consumed her. Tabbo guided them away and onto a patch of grass just outside of the light of a nearby fire. Edeline sat and leaned against a tree, holding the queen dowager close to her. The King was suddenly very tired. His wife sensed this and held an arm out for him. He sat down next to her and laid his head on her shoulder. He had not slept since before the Romans drove them from Flevum. Edeline laid Femke’s head in her lap and wrapped both arms around her husband, who was already fast asleep.

For the Romans
returning from Frisia, theirs was also a time of mourning rather than celebration. Diana stood with many of the officers’ spouses, common law wives of the men of the ranks, as well as other family members as the Third Cohort slowly made its way through Cologne towards the fortress. Unlike previous campaigns, there was no music, no celebrations, and no laurels of victory. Their brave legionaries and their auxiliaries had triumphed, yes, but at such a terrible price that there was no mood for celebration, only sorrow.  It had been a slow week of travel to bring them back to Cologne.

As bad as she had been told it was, nothing prepared Diana for the sight of the Second Century. Only
sixteen men marched behind the Signum, which was now carried by a Decanus. Signifier Rufio was amongst the wounded, along with the rest of the Century that had not made their final journey into the hereafter. Diana’s heart broke at the sight of her husband. Artorius was slumped in the saddle of his horse, the weight of his helmet threatening to send him careening forward off his mount.

There was no massed formation of the Legion, or even the individual Cohorts.
Centurions halted their centuries wherever they saw fit, briefed and then dismissed their men. Artorius’ injuries had been severe enough that he should have been with the hospital train, but he had insisted in coming home at the head of his men, even if there were only sixteen left fit for duty. Diana watched Praxus and Magnus ease him down from his horse. She was glad to see that they had survived relatively unscathed, although Praxus’ arm was in a sling, and the side of Magnus’ face looked swollen and purple. Both men had numerous scars and bruises all over their bodies. The Centurion then took off his helmet and a few words were spoken amongst the men. Diana smiled sadly as she watched her husband, helped by his friends, walk up to each one of his men, clasping their forearms and grabbing each by the shoulder. He said a few words to each that she could not hear.

He then seemed to notice her for the first time. She could tell he wanted to smile, but all he could do was let out
a sigh. Praxus and Magnus attempted to help him steady himself as he walked towards the woman he loved, but he waved them off. He let out another sigh as he stood face to face with her. It was as if his mind was unable to comprehend that he was really there. His face was pale, his one open eye vacant and red. Diana put her arms around him and guided his head onto her shoulder. He closed his eyes and slowly wrapped his arms around her waist; hesitant, as if he were afraid that maybe it was only a dream and in an instant she would be gone. His armor felt rough against her, and she knew the sooner she got him out of it the better. He smelled rank of sweat, dirt, blood, and even death. Though he had hoped she would not notice, one of the first things Diana saw was the terrible gash in the side of his chain mail where the links had been split. She shuddered at the pain such a fearsome blow must have caused him.

Servants opened the doors to their manor house as she helped
him up the few steps that led inside. His arm was across her shoulders, hers gently locked around his waist to help support him. A pair of maidservants helped Diana get Artorius out of his armor. They also took his weapons and helmet and then Diana signaled for them to leave. She had already arranged for a hot bath to be drawn for her husband. She helped him out of his tunic and removed the crusted bandage from his side. She cringed at the sight of the stitched up gash. It was her turn to sigh as he suddenly looked down at the floor as if he were now ashamed.

Diana removed her stola
and guided Artorius into the steaming hot water. He sat on a submerged bench, the water coming up to the middle of his chest. Even though he winced when the hot water touched his healing wounds, he gave no resistance as he let his wife bathe him. They spent some time in the bath, for Diana knew that not only did he desperately need to be cleaned, but the heat would help sooth his devastated body. After helping him from the bath and drying him off, she redressed his wound and guided him to their bedchamber. Though it was but a couple hours past midday, she knew that what her husband needed most was rest. She was completely exhausted herself, both physically and emotionally. Not a word had been said by either of them since his return and Diana knew not what the right words could possibly be. Artorius’ body was broken, his very soul devastated, and her heart completely broke for him.

She guided him to their bed, only a hint of light coming in through the heavy curtains she had had installed recently. It was a warm day, though a cool
and gentle breeze blew in through an open side window. As Artorius lay down on his side Diana pulled a thin sheet over them and placed herself behind him on her side. She tucked one arm underneath his neck, while the other she carefully placed over his torso. He took that hand and pulled her as close to him as he could. It was then Diana finally broke the silence. There was really only one thing she could say to him, and it was all that mattered.

“I love you,” she whispered into his ear
, the tears she would not show to his face sliding down her cheeks. She held him tighter as she felt his body start to tremble violently. His own tears, that he had been denied in Frisia, now bursting forth as he was finally able to release all the pent up emotions and sorrow tormenting him since the loss of his friends. Diana clung to him until his body’s shaking subsided. She then kissed him gently on the neck, pulled her arm off his waist and gently caressed his back until they both drifted off to sleep.

As he lay there taking in Diana’s gentle caress, Artorius’ breathing relaxed and came easily to him. Her simplest touch did so much for him, for he knew that she alone was able to heal his tortured soul. Comforted by this, he allowed himself to fall into a deep sleep for the first time in weeks. Afterwards, they would never again speak of the day he returned from Frisia.

Chapter
XXIV: Call to the Fallen

***

This would be the most difficult thing Artorius had ever done. By Roman tradition, the names of the slain were to be called out three times; a final call to the fallen. Each cohort held its own separate vigil, with a day to themselves to honor their brothers. Each Centurion would call out the names of his soldiers, or in the case of the First Century, Optio Macer had taken the place of Vitruvius. It would be his last official duty for his century, as he was being moved to take command of the Fourth, while Centurion Dominus was selected to take over the First Century, as well as the entire cohort.

Master
Centurion Calvinus was there, along with the Primi Ordinones of the Legion. Proculus had been the Pilus Prior for the Third Cohort before Vitruvius, and he still knew most of the men well. He had to be carried in on a stretcher, as he was still in terrible shape. Centurion Macro had commanded the Second Century. It pained him deeply to know his former Optio, who many had thought to be invincible, was amongst the slain. It was incomprehensible that Vitruvius should die in battle.

It had only been two
weeks since Braduhenna Wood, and Artorius was still weakened by his injuries suffered in battle. Still, he had insisted on being dressed in full armor like the rest of his men. He used his vine stick like a cane to keep himself upright. As commander of the Second Century, he would be the second to call out the names of his men. He breathed deeply, trying to fight back the tears as Macer called out the very first name for the Third Cohort.

“
Centurion Pilus Prior Marcus Vitruvius…Centurion Pilus Prior Marcus Vitruvius…Centurion Pilus Prior Marcus Vitruvius!”

Each call of the name stabbed Artorius in the heart. He allowed the tears to flow, knowing that even the strongest would be unable to stop them. He focused only on keeping his voice from breaking as he listened to Macer call out the names of the First Century’s dead. There were eight of them.
As the last was spoken for the third time, Artorius took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He had thirteen names to speak, more than any of the other centuries in the Third Cohort. Eight of these had been new recruits from the previous fall.

His voice held as he shouted the first two names. They were the Decanii, the Sergeants of Legionaries that he had hastily replaced with Valens and Felix. Though he could not see his men behind him, he knew the two Sergeants felt both the sorrow of loss, as well as the guilt associated with having earned their promotions on the bodies of their friends. He continued down the list, the three names that he kept for last he knew would be the hardest.

“Legionary Tiberius Carbo…Legionary Tiberius Carbo…Legionary Tiberius Carbo!”
He swallowed hard as he continued,
“Legionary Decimus Lucilius…Legionary Decimus Lucilius…Legionary Decimus Lucilius!”
He tried in vain to fight back against the memories of his two friends, who had been inseparable since before he met them. Decimus had always preferred being known by his first name, rather than his family name, as was tradition. Artorius looked to the sky as he made ready to say the last name.

“Justus
, my friend, forgive me,” he said in a whisper before returning his gaze front.
“Legionary Gaius Longinus…Legionary Gaius Longinus…Legionary Gaius Longinus!”

“A terrible disaster!” Tiberius shouted as he read the report. “How was this allowed to happen?”

“It would seem that Gallus’ pet, Olennius, decided to set up his own system of taxation amongst the Frisians,” the Tribune explained.

Apronius had selected Cursor
, personally, to be his messenger to the Emperor. The Governor General had enough to deal with in rebuilding the Army of the Rhine, and he knew that Cursor would not hold back when telling Tiberius what had transpired in Frisia.

“You disrespect your betters!” a senator, who had been sent as part of a delegation from Rome, snapped. “Senator Gallus…”

“…is a fool and a scourge to the Empire!” Tiberius interrupted. “Apronius sent the good Tribune to me because he knew this man would not try to make this tragedy to be anything less than what it really is. Tell me more about this taxation.” It was all in the report, but Tiberius wished to hear it from Cursor.

“Olennius took it upon himself to modify the tribute set forth by
the great Drusus Nero, the gods rest him,” Cursor began.

The Emperor gave a quick smile at the courtesy shown to his brother.

“But the official reports show no such change!” another senator protested, holding up a document that showed the transactions Olennius had sent to Rome over the previous three years.

The Tribune responded by producing a pile of documents for a satchel that he had carried in with him.

“These are the real collection reports,” he responded, eyes fixed on the Emperor. “The signatures and seals all match the documents you have. What Olennius procured from the Frisians was many times what was required, and yet only the small tribute that Rome established all those years ago was ever sent.”

“And the rest?” the Emperor prodded, knowing the answer.

“I’m sure that some of it went to the building and furbishing of a new estate in the province,” Cursor answered. “The magistrate’s villa that came with the region was not good enough for him. I’m certain if you were to audit Olennius’ personal finances, the costs of the new estate did not come from his own coffers. As for the rest, we can speculate on that. The only facts we know are that, as the good senators have been quick to point out, the additional tributes taken by Olennius did not make their way to Rome.”

The two senators scowled at having helped make a case against the magistrate appointed by their friend, Senator Gallus.

“I think I know what needs to be done with Magistrate Olennius,” the Emperor said after a brief pause.

The senators both swallowed hard, but knew better than to go against Tiberius when he made his mind up about something. They just hoped that his vengeance would not be deflected towards Senator Gallus
, as well. It was no secret that Tiberius and Gallus hated each other. One senator quickly spoke up, hoping to change the way the conversation was going.

“We must now decide what to do about Frisia itself,” he said quickly. “The Army of the Rhine is still in a position to finish the rebellion.”

“Apronius has already negotiated a truce,” Cursor countered, “on the Emperor’s authority.”

“Then there is nothing more to be done,” the other senator added. “Frisia was but a sliver of a province and its tribute will not be missed. Quite frankly this entire incident in Braduhenna reeks of embarrassment should it go public. Thirteen hundred soldiers dead, another five thousand wounded, and yet the Frisians still hold their lands east of the Rhine.”

“The Frisians are not mindless barbarians!” Cursor snapped. “They are well trained and highly disciplined. They torched the bridges across the Rhine and cut off the Twentieth Legion, who fought with tenacity beyond comprehension, outnumbered at least five to one!”

“Yes,
yes…we’ve read the report,” the senator said dismissively. “We also read that an entire cohort of the Twentieth panicked and committed mutual suicide within the residence of one of our former allies. Nine hundred men were killed by the Frisian, but another four hundred died by their own hands. Not exactly acts of valor worth recognizing, now are they?” There was a defiant sneer on the man’s face and he was daring Cursor to challenge him.

The Tribune
turned and went to do so, when he was cut off by the Emperor, who he would not dare to try to speak over.

“The senator makes a valid point,” Tiberius conceded. “Such a disgrace will bring shame to the entire Rhine Army. While we cannot fully prevent word of this from getting out, we will take no public stance on the issue. The only official statements we will make are that the Rhine Army did defeat the Frisians at both Flevum and Braduhenna, and that following negotiations between their King Tabbo and our Legate Apronius, it was decided that in the best interest of both nations
, Frisia should retain its autonomy and be a neutral territory. I will leave it up to the Senate to decide what should be done regarding the performance of the Rhine army.” He then waved for the senators to go, but bade Cursor to stay.

“It displeases you that I left the fate of the army in their hands,” Tiberius said once the senators had departed.

“It is not my place to question your judgment, Caesar,” Cursor replied, his jaw tense.

“Come off it, man,” the Emperor protested. “Apronius sent you as his messenger because of your candor. Do not let your frankness fail you now!”
“Then if I may be blunt,” the Tribune replied. “Caesar, the Senate will betray the Rhine Army and the memory of those who fell at Braduhenna. They will publicly disavow any responsibility for the battle and pretend the deaths of thirteen hundred soldiers of Rome do not matter.”

“Because they don’t,” Tiberius replied, causing Cur
sor to stare at him, his teeth grinding in anger. “The lives of individual soldiers, be they legionary or auxilia, mean nothing to the Senate, or to most of the people for that matter. The Roman Army avoided defeat, and that will be enough for them. The details matter not. No accolades will be awarded, since that will only draw attention to the war, and to be honest, this war is something that Rome would do best to forget.”

“So our men died for nothing at Braduhenna,” Cursor said through clenched teeth.

The Emperor gave a sad smile and nodded. “It saddens me to say this, but yes,” he replied. “There was no ultimate victory against Frisia, so to the Senate there is nothing to celebrate. The individual awards for valor will still be approved, but no awards to the Legion standards. Believe me, I find this as painful as you. I once commanded the Twentieth, and I know that at Braduhenna they certainly lived up their name,
Valeria
.”

“Apronius asked me to give you this in private,” Cursor said, pulling out a sealed letter. “It involves one unit that he wishes you to make an exception for.”

Tiberius read the note and furrowed his brow.

“
He wants to award a single century with the Crown of Valor?” he asked. “That one century must have been through hell!”

“They were,
Caesar,” the Tribune replied. “Only sixteen of the original seventy-six were able to stand and fight by the time it was over, but they still held. They kept the Frisians from flanking the entire Legion.”

Tiberius paused, deep in thought
.

“I will grant this award personally,”
the Emperor finally replied. He then stood and placed a hand on Cursor’s shoulder. “I also heard about you being awarded the Grass Crown. Only a handful of men in Rome’s glorious history have ever won this. It is the deepest honor that we can bestow; one that is often forgotten because of the extreme rarity of its awarding. Indeed, one hesitates to mention the Grass Crown, because it involves a Roman army being cut off and facing annihilation, something we like to pretend never happens.”

“Yes
, Caesar, the men of the Twentieth Legion did present me with the Grass Crown,” Cursor admitted, a great weight suddenly crushing his spirit. “It is something that I bear with a heavy heart, for there was no joy in what I had to do.”

“There never is,” Tiberius replied. “Every man who has ever been presented with the Grass Crown has felt the same as you. It is something that cannot be awarded without much
sacrifice. But in that pain and suffering there is also honor. Within the disgrace involved in what happened at Braduhenna you have deeply honored all soldiers of Rome.”