Soldier of Rome: The Legionary (The Artorian Chronicles) (35 page)

“Decimus, no more getting knocked on your ass
, either,” Artorius muttered, keeping his eyes front. He heard Decimus snort as he stabbed one of the wounded enemies at his feet.

The battle to their front gave no indications of slowing down. The Germans were suffering fearful losses, yet still they came. Roman losses
were starting to increase in number as well.

“A few more goes and
we should be committing our reserves,” Decimus observed.

Artorius blew out a sigh of relief. He had completely forgotten nearly half the army was behind them in reserve and hadn’t even engaged yet. While the battle
ground to a standoff, he was certain that once the reserves were committed, the Germans would break.

“Execute passage
-of-lines!”
The order given, they gave another shout and passed into the fray once more.

Arminius galloped into the woods and soon fell from his horse. He lay on the ground in pain and grief. His mind was becoming cloudy, and he was dizzy. His armies, his tribesmen, were being utterly crushed by the Romans. Truly, they were getting their revenge for Teutoburger Wald. He now cursed that day. The day he thought had brought about Cherusci independence and freedom, had instead brought about their destruction. He saw other riders coming away from the battle. He was thankful they were Cherusci and not Roman. One dismounted and helped Arminius to his feet.

“The battle will be lost, my
war chief,” the man said, hanging his head in shame.

“I know,” Arminius replied. “And yet our warriors still fight.”

“At least they will die bringing honor to the Cherusci.”

“No, all they bring is death and
destruction. Damn the gods, have you not seen what is happening out there? Our warriors are not being slain in battle, they are being executed!” He clutched at his side in pain.

“What must we do?” the warrior asked.

“The stronghold,” he gasped, as he fought to suppress a groan of pain, “We have to get to the stronghold. There we can make another stand. Many of our women and children have fled there, and we must protect them.”

Artorius’ lungs burned and his arms ached, the muscles knotted in the agony of extreme exertion. It was the fourth time they had executed a passage-of-lines, and he was completely exhausted. Sweat stung his eyes, and he struggled to keep them open. He found himself battling by instinct more than anything else. In his peripheral vision, he could see the soldiers on either side of him fighting for their lives. He was certain that everyone in the cohort was as exhausted as he. He was thankful the Germans had not mounted a full-scale charge to try and break their lines, for at that moment he had doubts as to whether or not they could hold.

He plunged his gladius into a
nother assailant’s belly. The German fell to the ground in a heap, twitching uncontrollably in the throes of death. By this time Artorius was covered once more in fresh blood and sweat, as were the rest of the soldiers in the century. Thankfully, the barbarian attack seemed to be losing momentum. He now had time to look around and assess the situation briefly between engagements. His breathing was coming in heaving gasps as he fought the pain in his lungs and in his muscles. As one barbarian lunged at him, he slammed his shield into the man automatically. The German fell to his side, dazed. A sword thrust to the side of the neck quickly ended his life in a fountain of blood. As Artorius readied himself to face yet another opponent, he heard the Cornicens in the distance sounding the advance. At last, the legions in reserve were being committed to battle.

Though he dared not look back behind him, Artorius swo
re he could hear the legions coming, thousands of men, jogging in step with one another, javelins ready. The century attacked with renewed vigor. He glanced over to see Vitruvius, in what looked like some sort of grotesque
dance, cut down three barbarians in rapid succession. He had stabbed one in the throat, and then with the same motion, stabbed the other two with thrusts to the chest. It was as if they were intentionally running into his blade. Gavius slammed his gladius into one man’s groin as Magnus and Carbo smashed their shields into another German before both stabbed him in the chest. Artorius felt a hand grab at his ankle. He saw a stricken barbarian, completely covered in blood and sweat, crawling towards him. The man was trying half-heartedly to grab his sandaled feet. His eyes looked hollow, and he groaned in pain. In revulsion, Artorius slammed his shield edge repeatedly onto the German’s head. The metal strip on the bottom, combined with the weight of the shield and the force of his blows soon split the barbarian’s head, crushing his skull.

The tide of the battle had turned. One barbarian ran right into Artorius, as if trying to rush past him. He was panicked and seemed not to know which way to run. Artorius ran him through the heart with his gladius. Another was on his knees, weapons gone, pulling on his hair and howling in despair. Valens kicked the pathetic creature in the head, knocking him down, before slicing his throat open.

“Cohort…stand fast!”
Proculus shouted.

Orders were shouted from behind them
, and soon volleys of javelins were sailing over their heads and down upon the barbarians who still lived and tried to fight. They could not see where this new wave of death was coming from, and it instilled panic. Their attack completely ceased for the moment.

Warriors desperately lifted their shields over their heads as a torrent of javelins rained down on them. Ingiomerus watched as one warrior next to him took two javelins through the top of his chest. The warrior’s eyes were wide, his mouth open in disbelief. The shafts on the javelins bent, and he was pulled to the ground. Another barbarian screamed in pain as he was skewered through the hip. The force knocked him down, the javelin sticking in the ground beneath him. As another wave of javelins struck down even more, uncertainty and panic became paramount. The Romans seemed to have ceased in their advance for a moment. As soon as the javelin storm stopped, entire legions passed through the ranks of those they had been fighting. Warriors in the rear started to step back, uncertain as what to do. The ones in front, realizing that they had no choice but to fight, charged forward yet again.

Artorius set in place. He knew his fight was over. Immediately, an entire
cohort passed through their ranks, driving hard into the Germans. The Third Cohort, in addition to
the rest of the legion, quickly and deliberately withdrew to the rear. They would now become the reserve. Again, it seemed remarkable that only a few in the century had sustained serious injury during the engagement. Artorius witnessed several soldiers from within the cohort fall, but none from the Second Century. The barbarians dead and dying, on the other hand, stretched for hundreds of meters.  The stench of blood, sweat, and shit filled his nostrils as the flies and insects swarmed over the bodies. Carrion birds were already circling to join the feast.

Slowly they
marched
back to where the battle had started and reformed their lines. Artorius knew right where it was, because that was where the piles of barbarian corpses ended. He looked to where doctors were working frantically on the wounded. Again, the numbers were surprisingly few compared to what they had inflicted. He also saw, off to the side, the bodies of the dead laid out in a row and covered with their cloaks. The dead certainly deserved to be mourned and given proper respect. However, the sight bore nothing in comparison to the spectacle of death he had just walked through.

He turned back to the scene of the battle. The
legions to their front were rapidly gaining ground. Within minutes the enemy ranks had completely broken. They were being destroyed from the front, on the flanks, and at the rear by the Roman cavalry. Artorius looked down at his gladius. It was covered in blood.

“You served me well today
.”

Chapter XXII: The Rout and the Aftermath

***

The barbarians were in disarray. They were fleeing in every direction. Germanicus spurred his horse and followed.

“
With me!” he shouted to the cavalry troopers with him. “This is not over yet!” He rode towards a slow-moving German who was limping from a wound. With a shout he slashed his sword across the man’s neck, violently tearing his weapon loose as he rode by.

Cavalrymen continued to slaughter the barbarians as they ran. Most would probably escape, though. The cavalry were too few, and the reserve
legions had already been committed to battle. Those who now occupied the reserve were in no condition to conduct a full-blown pursuit in their state of battered exhaustion. Still Germanicus insisted on pressing the issue.

Ingiomerus ran as hard as he could. His mind raced wildly, unable to control it anymore. Memories of the past flooded into his conscious as he fled through the trees. He was suddenly taken back to when he was a young man and had suffered a similar defeat at the hands of Tiberius. Ingiomerus had watched helpless as one of his brothers was butchered by the very man who was now Emperor of Rome. Tiberius had ridden through the ranks of the vanquished, running Ingiomerus’ brother through from behind. Now the Emperor’s nephew could be seen riding in similar fashion, slaying all in his wake. Ingiomerus had no doubts as to which one was Germanicus. With his dazzling armor and purple crest on his helm, the young General purposely drew attention to himself. The shine on his armor had dulled as he was awash in blood and sweat,
Cherusci
blood.

Ingiomerus remembered seven years before
, to the destruction of the Rhine Army in Teutoburger Wald. That had been a different army altogether. He personally had killed five Romans during that battle, one of whom was a young tribune. He had taken distinct pleasure in gouging out the man’s eyes before beheading him. Never once did he imagine the Romans would lash out against them like this.

As he continued
his stumbling
run, the sounds of battle slowly faded into the distance. Still he forced his legs to work beyond the limits of his physical stamina and age. His legs ached, the veins in his head pulsed as sweat ran over his face, and his lungs screamed in agony.

Better this kind of pain than that of a Roman
blade.
He thought to himself.

Germanicus stopped his horse and surveyed the scene around him. Every German that had not fled the battle lay dead or dying on the field. Only his small contingent of cavalry was with him. All were breathing hard, covered in sweat, grime, and blood. Though the Germans had been routed, there were still enough of them to conduct a counterattack against his small force should they press out too far ahead of the main body. Germanicus gave an audible sigh. His men had pushed themselves so hard during the pursuit that they started to scatter.

“Sound recall,” he told the
cornicen riding next to him. Reluctantly, he turned around and rode back to his legions as the cornicen sounded the notes on his horn, ordering the rest of the cavalry to do the same.

Germanicus smiled with pride as his army came into sight. All eight
legions, along with their auxiliary counterparts, were arrayed in parade formation. He rode by their ranks, surveying his men. All stood solemnly, each man covered in crusted blood from the enemies they had slain. Yet every last one stood as noble and dignified as if they had just polished their armor and looked their parade best. To Germanicus, they looked magnificent! He rode to where a group of officers stood together at the center of the impressive
formation. A centurion walked forward and handed Germanicus the spear of a slain Cherusci.

He gazed at the weapon, reveling in its significance. It was not well-crafted by any means. Really
, it was little more than a six-foot wooden shaft with a sharpened stone tip strapped to the end. It was sturdy, though unbalanced. The lack of blood on the tip told Germanicus it had not served its owner well that day. He smiled at the thought as he turned the weapon over in his hands. This simple spear, devoid as it was of having killed a single Roman that day, was to Germanicus the ultimate symbol of their enemy’s defeat. He held the spear aloft and gazed upon his men.

“My friends…
brothers in arms,” he began. “Today we have won a great victory. Today we can truly say the blood spilled by our comrades in Teutoburger Wald has been avenged. This weapon is a symbol of our vanquished enemy. We will take one from each of the tribes we fought and destroyed today. We will erect a trophy in honor of our victory, in the name of the Senate and the people of Rome, and in the name of the Emperor.
Hail Caesar! Hail Tiberius!”

“Hail Caesar! Hail Tiberius!”
The soldiers sounded off in return.

Twelve spears were separately inscribed with the names of the tribes they had fought. They were then stood up
right and bound together. The trophy was paraded in front of the army, soldiers cheering loudly as it passed by them.

Haraxus watched from
the
cover of woods at the hated spectacle. The Romans were making a mockery of the bravery of their warriors! He turned and limped back through the woods.

Ingiomerus placed a damp cloth over the gash on Arminius’ face.
Scattered warriors had started to return. They were occupying the stronghold that marked the border between Cherusci and Angrivarii territory. Many warriors bore injuries from the previous day’s fighting. All were somber. There was no drinking, no revelry. So many had died fighting the Romans, and so few could claim the honor of having killed even a single legionary.

“You have nothing to be ashamed of,” Ingiomerus said as he tended to his nephew. “Your warriors fought bravely. This just was not their day. Their day of glory will come.”

Arminius sat in silence. At least his wounds did not hurt as they had the day before, and a skin of wine helped. However, the loss of blood left him dizzy and weak. He felt beaten. Haraxus ran up to where Arminius lay. He was out of breath, having run a great distance. He dropped to one knee before speaking.

“Oh
, Arminius, War Chief of the Cherusci, I bear news from Idistaviso. The accursed Romans have made a spectacle of our dead and have erected a trophy made from the weapons of our slain.” Arminius rose up on one elbow, listening intently.

“A trophy you say?” Ingiomerus asked.

“Yes,” Haraxus answered. “It is inscribed with the names of every tribe that fought against them. They were parading it in front of their army when I left.”

“This is intolerable!” Ingiomerus shouted.

“Where are they moving to now?” Arminius asked.

“They are coming this way,” Haraxus answered. “It would seem they are goading us into fighting them again.”

“Then we shall oblige them,” Arminius said quietly. “We will defend the stronghold with our infantry. Cavalry will occupy the woods to the east and attack the Romans from behind. The west is a swampy marshland; they will not dare use that. Many of our women and children have come to this stronghold in order to seek protection. We need to offer them that.”

Haraxus smiled. “
This will be the day of
our
victory. There are still many warriors who survived the battle. From a defensive position, there is hope.”

“Are
you certain?” Germanicus asked the scout.

“
Yes, sir, without a doubt,” the man answered. “From what we were able to see, it looks like Arminius has rallied all of the warriors he still has under his control. They are occupying this stronghold here.” He pointed to a section of map. “They also have many families – women, children, and elderly - located in this stronghold. Doubtless they will try and evacuate it while their warriors defend against us.”

Germanicus sighed and looked over at Severus. “Do you feel up to another major battle?” he asked. The older
general shrugged.

“Giving Arminius another
kick in the balls can certainly do no harm,” Severus answered. “We can bombard the stronghold with artillery and storm it easily enough.”

“I’ll lead the attack myself,” Germanicus stated. “We will send another contingent to rout whatever they may have massed against us in the woods here. Shall we go and have a look?”

Later that day they rode forward to where the stronghold was just coming into view. There was a deep, swampy marsh on the left and a thick forest on the right. It only left one avenue of approach available. Germanicus knew Arminius would keep a large force within the trees, hoping to draw him into a fight there. Artillery was already being set up in a long line, facing the stronghold.

“Severus, you will take half the army and assault the wood lines,” Germanicus ordered as they surveyed the scene in front of them. “Use your infantry. I want the cavalry kept in reserve. Once you break them, go ahead and use the cavalry to conduct the pursuit.”

“Yes, sir,” Severus replied calmly. The woods were thick, but this would work to their advantage. The barbarians, with their spears and war
clubs, would have less maneuverability. Their cavalry would also be greatly restricted by the terrain. Severus turned to the legates of the legions who would take part in the attack.

“
Men, you need to reassure your legionaries before tomorrow’s battle. I know they do not like to fight in restrictive terrain. They feel it breaks up their formations too much. What they need to do is stay online with each other and make sure each of them uses the trees for flank protection, like they would each other. The barbarians will be even less maneuverable with their longer weapons. By utilizing the terrain, the enemy will not be able to coordinate
their warriors
against our soldiers. Make certain they understand this.”

While Severus discussed these things with the
legates participating in the woodline attack, Germanicus surveyed the stronghold. The rampart was rather long, though it was no more than eight meters
high. Thankfully the enemy had absolutely no concept of siege warfare whatsoever. If they
did, the next day’s fighting would be desperate and difficult. Enemy archers were few and far between. The Germans could do little more than hurl spears and stones down upon the legionaries when they scaled the wall. Germanicus looked over to where Tribune Pilate was supervising the setup of artillery. The scorpions would then suppress whatever numbers the enemy managed to rally along the walls. Onagers would rain fire down upon the inside of the stronghold. Germanicus could only speculate as to the burning chaos that would cause. He saw Pilate inspecting one of the onagers while the weapon’s section leader looked on nervously.

“Everything alright,
tribune?” he asked.

The section leader snapped a sharp, if rather nervous salute. Pilate, though not intimidated by the presence of his
commander, still looked worried.

“To be honest
, sir, I’m not sure,” Pilate replied as he continued to pull and inspect the catapult’s tension ropes. “The scorpions all checked out fine, but these onagers I’m a little nervous about. They have never been the most stable type of siege weapons, and I worry about these tension ropes.”